A Rogue's Proposal (35 page)

Forcing himself to relax, he sank back against the seat and stared out of the window. The horses clopped on.

“What story did you concoct for the household to explain your trip to Bury?” He asked the question without looking at Flick; he felt her glance, then she answered.

“That I was going to see Melissa Blackthorn—her family lives just past Bury. We often visit on the spur of the moment.”

Demon considered. “Very well. You intended visiting Miss Blackthorn—Gillies offered to drive you in the hope of seeing the fight, but when you reached Bury, the street was blocked with incoming traffic and you got trapped in the melee. It got dark—you were still trapped. Not being
au fait
with prizefights, you sought refuge at The Angel.” He glanced at Flick. “Hopefully, no one will learn of your disguise or your story to gain a room.”

She shrugged. “Bury’s far enough away—none of the staff have family that far afield.”

Demon humphed. “We can but hope. So—you were at The Angel when I arrived, intending to stay for the fight. I saw you . . . and then Lord Selbourne saw us. Thus, this morning, I brought you straight home so we can deal with the current situation.” He glanced at Flick. “Can you see any holes?”

She shook her head, then grimaced. “I do hate misleading the General, though.”

Demon looked out of the window. “Given we’ve struggled to avoid all mention of Dillon and the syndicate thus far, I can’t see any point mentioning them now.” It would only upset the General more to know the current imbroglio was a result of Flick’s championing Dillon.

The shadows of the drive fell behind them; ahead, the manor basked in sunshine. The carriage rocked to a stop. Demon opened the door, stepped out, then handed Flick down. Jacobs opened the front door before they knocked; Demon led Flick into the cool hall, then released her.

Mrs. Fogarty came bustling up, fussing about Flick, who slid around her questions easily. Flick cast a watchful, questioning glance at Demon—he met it with his blandest expression. She frowned fleetingly, but had to reorganize her expression to deal with Mrs. Fogarty. With the housekeeper in close attendance, Flick headed to her room.

Demon watched her go, then his lips lifted, just a little at the ends. Challenges—more challenges. Swinging on his heel, he headed for the library.

“So—let me see if I’ve got this right.”

In the chair behind his desk, the General sat back and steepled his fingers. “You and Felicity were
again
caught in an apparently compromising situation, only this time by someone who will take great delight in ruining Felicity’s good name. You, however, are perfectly prepared to marry the chit, but she’s proving headstrong, and jibbing at the bit. So, instead of pressing marriage on her in such an abrupt manner, you suggest I agree to send her to your mother, Lady Horatia, to enjoy the delights of the Season in London. Under your mother’s wing, even without a formal declaration, it will be surmised that she’s your intended, but the interlude will give Felicity time to adjust to the position, and accept marriage to you as the sensible course.” He looked up at Demon. “Is that right?”

Standing before the windows, Demon nodded. “Naturally, if, in the course of her time in London, she meets any other gentleman and forms a lasting attachment that is returned, I give you my word to release her without complaint. It’s her happiness—her reputation—I’m interested in securing.”

“Indeed. Hmm.” The General’s eyes twinkled. “Well then, no reason whatever she should take exception to a sojourn in London. Do her good anyway, to see all she’s missed stuck up here with an old man.”

The lunch gong boomed; the General chuckled and rose. “Capital notion all around. Let’s go tell her, what?”

Demon smiled easily. Beside the General, he strolled toward the dining room.

“London?” Flick stared at Demon, sitting directly opposite across the luncheon table.

“Hmm—the capital. My mother would love to have you stay with her.”

It was all so transparent. Flick glanced to her right, to where the General, nodding mildly, was helping himself to more peas. He seemed serenely unconcerned about her reputation, for which she was honestly grateful to Demon; she couldn’t have borne it if the old dear had been distressed. Yet she was fairly certain the only reason he was in such fine fettle, knowing her reputation was, if not precisely in shreds, then certainly rather tattered, was because he believed a stay in London under Lady Horatia’s wing would make her change her mind and accept his protégé as her husband.

There was a good chance he was right—she certainly hoped so.

And there were a number of good reasons for falling in with Demon’s plan. Not least was the fact that Bletchley had gone to London. And while she’d never before felt any interest in tonnish affairs, if she was to marry Demon, then she would need to find her feet in that arena. She was also suddenly insatiably curious as to how, and with whom, he spent his days in London.

Quite aside from all else, if she was going to make him fall in love with her, she needed to be with him.

Her eyes locked on his, she nodded. “Yes—I think I’d like that.”

He smiled. “Good. I’ll drive you up tomorrow.”

“How on earth did that happen?”

Early the next morning, already on the road to London, drawn thence by Demon’s powerful bays, Flick swivelled on the curricle’s seat and glanced back at Gillies, perched behind. “I thought you were following him?”

Gillies looked pained; Demon answered. “We thought Bletchley was planning to take one of the special coaches back to London from Bury—Gillies heard him asking where to catch them. After watching Bletchley throughout the fight—and learning nothing—at the end, Gillies, quite reasonably, moved to the gate leading back to Bury and waited for Bletchley to pass him. He never did.”

“Oh?” Flick glanced back at Gillies.

He grimaced. “He must have caught a ride on some cart back to Newmarket.”

“And then hired a horse and, bold as you please, came cantering up the manor drive.” Demon set his teeth. That had been too close for his liking—luckily, Bletchley had not seen Flick, nor she, him.

Flick sat back. “I nearly dropped a vase when Jacobs mentioned he’d called, asking after Dillon.”

“Thankfully, Jacobs sent him on his way.” Demon eased the bays past a farm cart, then let the reins run free. “Bletchley returned to the Rutland Arms and caught the evening mail to London.”

“So we’ve lost him.”

He glanced at Flick, relieved to see nothing more than a frown on her face. “For the moment. But we’ll come up with him again, never fear.”

“London’s very big.”

“True, but it’s possible to keep watch on the likely places Bletchley might meet with a group of gentlemen. The classes don’t mix freely at all that many venues. Limmers, Tattersalls, and a few other, less savory haunts.”

“Still, isn’t it like looking for the proverbial needle?”

Demon hesitated, then grimaced. “There might be another way to identify likely members of the syndicate independent of any meeting, which should make it easier, if a meeting does occur, to track someone to it—and so identify all the syndicate.”

“Another way?”

Flick’s eyes were firmly fixed on his face. With his gaze on his speeding horses, he outlined his discussions with Heathcote Montague, and what they hoped to discover.

At the end of his explanation, Flick sat back. “Good. So we haven’t given up on helping Dillon—it’s just that our investigations have changed direction.”

“Speaking of Dillon, does he know you’ve left Newmarket?”

“I sent a message with Jiggs—I told him to tell Dillon that we had to follow up clues in London, that I didn’t know when we’d be back, but that he should stay in hiding until we returned. I promised I’d write and tell him what we discover. Jiggs will deliver my letters.”

Demon nodded. If nothing else, he’d distanced her from Dillon—while in London, she could concentrate on him, and herself. He was certain his mother would encourage her in that endeavor, while at the same time helpfully denying Flick—a young lady in her charge—the license she would need to pursue Bletchley, the syndicate, or any other villain. Despite the fact both Bletchley and the syndicate were in London, he felt perfectly sanguine about taking Flick there.

As for the danger posed by Lord Selbourne, that was, at least temporarily, in abeyance; his lordship had gone directly into Norfolk to visit with his sister.

The curricle sped south through the bright morning, wheels rolling smoothly along the macadam. Despite losing Bletchley, despite having to revise his plans to accommodate a certain angel’s stubbornness, Demon felt in remarkable charity with the world. Their current direction felt right—this was obviously the way to get Flick to say yes. She was, beyond question, already his, but if they had to go through a formal wooing, he was content to remove to London. It was, after all, his home ground. He was looking forward to showing her about—showing her off. Her bright-eyed innocence continued to delight him; through her eyes, he saw aspects of his world he’d long considered boring in an entirely new light.

He slanted a glance at her; the breeze was tugging at her curls, setting her bonnet ribbons twirling. Her eyes were wide, her gaze fixed ahead; her lips, delicate rose, were full, lush, lightly curved. She looked good enough to eat.

Abruptly, he looked ahead, the memory of the taste of her flooding him. Gritting his teeth, he willed the distraction away. He was going to have to keep his demons caged for the foreseeable future—there was no sense in teasing and taunting them. That was the one drawback in placing Flick under his mother’s wing—she would be safe from all others, but also safe from him.

Even should she wish otherwise, which was an intriguing, potentially helpful, notion. Mulling over the possibility, he sent his whip out to tickle his leader’s ear and urge his horses on.

Beside him, Flick watched the countryside roll past with a keen and eager eye. Anticipation grew with every mile—it was hard to preserve a proper calm. Soon they would reach London; soon, she would see Demon in his other milieu, his other guise. She knew he was considered a rake extraordinaire, yet, until now, her knowledge of him had been restricted to Demon in the country; she had a shrewd notion his tonnish persona would be different from the one she knew. As the miles sped past, she spent the time imagining, envisioning a more graceful, more elegant, more potent presence—the glittering glamor he would assume when in society, a cloak donned over his true character, all the traits so familiar to her.

She couldn’t wait to see it.

Despite losing Bletchley, it was impossible to remain sober. Her mood was buoyant, her heart light—she was looking forward to life in a completely new way—facing in a completely unlooked-for direction.

Marriage to Demon—it was a dizzying thought, a dream she had never dared dream. And now she was committed to the enterprise—totally and absolutely. Not that she entertained any doubts about success. In her present mood, that was impossible.

From all she’d heard of London, it would provide the setting—one with the best opportunities—for her to encourage Demon to give her his heart. Then all would be perfect, and her dream would come true.

She sat beside him with barely concealed impatience, waiting for London to appear.

When it did, she blinked. And wrinkled her nose. And winced at the raucous cries. The streets were packed with carriages of every description, the pavements teeming. She had never imagined such close-packed humanity—fresh from the broad plain of Newmarket Heath, she found it disturbing. She felt hemmed in on every side with the sheer weight of humankind. And the noise. And the squalor. And the urchins—everywhere.

She’d lived in London for only a short time before, with her aunt at her London house. She couldn’t remember any sights such as those she now saw, but it had, after all, been a long time ago. As Demon concentrated on his horses, deftly tacking through the traffic, she edged closer until she could feel the warmth of his body through her pelisse.

To her relief, the fashionable areas were more as she recalled—quiet streets lined with elegant houses, neat squares with fenced gardens at their centers. Indeed, this part of London was better, neater, more beautiful than her memories. Her aunt had lived in Bloomsbury, which was not nearly as fashionable as Berkeley Square, which was where Demon took her.

He reined in the bays before a large mansion, as imposing as the most imposing she’d seen. As Gillies took the reins and Demon stepped down, Flick stared up at the three-storeyed facade and suddenly knew what “being not quite up to snuff” felt like.

Then Demon took her hand; stilling her fears, she shuffled along the seat and let him hand her to the ground. Clutching her parasol’s handle tightly, she took his profferred arm, and climbed the steps beside him.

If the house was imposing, slightly scarifying, the butler, Highthorpe, was worse. He opened the door to Demon’s knock and looked down his beaked nose at her.

“Ah, Highthorpe—how’s the leg?” With an affectionate smile at the butler, Demon handed Flick over the threshold. “Is her ladyship in?”

“My leg is quite improved, thank you, sir.” Holding the door wider, Highthorpe bowed deferentially; he closed it after them, and turned, his starchy demeanor somewhat softer. “Her ladyship, I believe, is in her sanctuary.”

Demon’s smile deepened. “This is Miss Parteger, Highthorpe. She’ll be staying with Mama for the nonce. Gillies will bring her bags around.”

It might have been a trick of the light beaming through the fanlight, yet Flick could have sworn a gleam of interest flashed in Highthorpe’s eyes. He smiled as he bowed again to her. “Miss. I’ll mention to Mrs. Helmsley to prepare a room for you at once—I’ll have your bags taken there. No doubt you’ll wish to refresh yourself after your journey.”

“Thank you.” Flick smiled back—Highthorpe suddenly sounded much more comfortable. Demon drew her on.

“I’ll leave you in the drawing room while I fetch Mama.” He opened a door and ushered her inside.