A Rogue's Proposal (52 page)

Demon looked at her face, at her stubbornly set chin, and sighed. Placing his ear to the panel, he listened, then glanced down at the bottom of the door; no telltale strip of light showed. “There’s no one in there.”

“Let’s look,” Flick urged. “Can you unlock it?”

Demon considered reiterating that Stratton was not a good candidate for race-fixer, but her sudden excitement was infectious. He drew out the small tool he carried everywhere—a multi-pronged pick and knife useful for destoning horses’ hooves. In less than a minute, he had the door open. The room within was empty; standing back, he let Flick in. Glancing back up the corridor, he confirmed it was empty, then shut the door behind them.

A warm glow suffused the room. Flick adjusted the wick on a lamp set on a wide desk, then reset the glass. They both looked around.

“An office.” Demon glanced at ledgers and books of accounts filling one bookshelf. It wasn’t a large room. A padded leather chair stood behind the desk; a wooden chair faced it. One wall was filled with windows looking out over the river—they presently displayed a landscape of driving rain and thick grey clouds backlit by sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled, drawing nearer.

“Half a library, too.” Flick considered the wall of bookshelves opposite the windows. “I wonder why he keeps them up here. The library was barely half full.”

Demon turned from the elemental rage outside and sauntered to the shelves. Scanning the titles, he found familiar volumes on various games of chance, and a few not so familiar on card-sharping techniques and ways of weighting the odds in some forms of wagering. Frowning, he looked more closely, eventually hunkering down to read the titles of the volumes on the lowest shelf. “Interesting.”

His voice had changed—he read the titles again, then rose and turned to the desk, his frame radiating purpose.

Flick looked at him questioningly. He met her gaze as he joined her behind the desk, shrugging off his domino, slipping off his mask.

“Those”—with his head he indicated the bottom shelf of books—“are the full race records for the past two years.”

Flick blinked. “The
full
records?”

Demon nodded and pulled open the top desk drawer. “Not something one finds in your usual library.
I
don’t even have a set.”

“How? . . .” Without finishing her question, Flick drew out the top drawer on her side of the desk.

“A set went missing last year—never to be found. But he’s also added the most recent volumes—those from last season.”

“A most useful tool for fixing races.”

“Indeed. Look for anything that even mentions horses.”

They were the ideal team for the task—they both knew the names of all recent winners, as well as those expected to win in the upcoming season. They sifted through every drawer, examined every single piece of paper.

“Nothing.” Blowing an errant curl from her forehead, Flick turned and sat on the desk.

Grimacing, Demon dropped into the padded chair. Without enthusiasm, he lifted the last item from the bottom drawer, a leather-bound ledger. Propping it on the desk, he opened it and scanned the entries. After a moment, he snorted. “That phaeton is new, and he paid a pretty penny for it. As for the horses, he definitely paid too much.”

“Anything else?”

“Caviar’s gone up two pounds an ounce in the last year—his account-keeping habits are as stultifyingly rigid as he is. He enters every single transaction—even the lost wagers he’s paid.”

Studying the grim set of his face, Flick grimaced. “No entries under race-fixing, I take it?”

Demon started to shake his head, but he froze as one particular figure danced before his eyes. Slowly straightening, he flicked back a page, then another . . .

“What is it?”

“Remind me we owe Montague an enormous bonus.” If it hadn’t been for the agent’s accuracy, he’d never have seen it. “Those amounts we were looking for—the sums cleared from each fixed race?”

“Yes?”

“They show up here. According to this, they’re his main source of income.”

“I thought you said he was rich.”

Flicking back through the ledger, Demon bit back a curse. “He was—he must have lost it.” He tapped an entry. “His income from the Funds was miniscule last year, then it ends. There’ve been huge debts paid—Hazard, at a guess.” He looked up. “He never went to the wall—no one realized he’d been rolled up because he substituted income from race-fixing to cover his lost investment income. He’s always been a lavish spender—nothing appeared to have changed. He simply carried on as he always had.”

“Except he corrupted and blackmailed Dillon, and jockeys, and goodness knows what happened to Ickley.”

“Or any others.” Demon studied the ledger. “This is too wieldy to smuggle out.” He flicked through the pages, then laid the book on the desk and ripped out five pages.

“Will that do?”

“I think so—they show the amounts from three fixed races going in, and five major purchases that can be traced to Stratton, as well as four very large debts paid to members of the ton who I’m sure will verify from whom they received those sums. On top of that, his writing’s distinctive.” He scanned the pages, then folded them and stowed them in the inner pocket of his coat. He returned the ledger to the bottom drawer. “We’ll take the pages to Newmarket tomorrow—with any luck, he won’t notice they’re missing.”

He shut the drawer and looked at Flick.

A board creaked in the corridor—footsteps paused, some way away—then quickly, purposefully, strode toward the office.

W
hat occurred next happened so quickly that to Flick it was just a blur. Demon stood, shifted her to the desk’s center, her back to the door, yanked the neck ties of her domino free, and flung the garment off so it pooled about her. He tugged—a button on her bodice popped, then he hauled her gown and chemise down, dragging her sleeves down her arms, fully exposing her shoulders and breasts.

“Free your arms—lean back on them.”

His words were a sibilant hiss—instinctively, she obeyed. He sat before her, throwing her skirts up, pushing her knees wide.

The door opened. He clamped his mouth over one nipple; Flick gasped—his mouth was hot!

He licked, and suckled, and slid his hand between her thighs, slid his long fingers into her soft flesh, stroking, then probing . . .

Flick moaned; her arms locked. She let her head roll back, helplessly arching as he suckled and probed simultaneously.

Then he lifted his head, looking beyond her. She forced her lids up—in the glow from the lamp bathing her bare breasts, sheening the skin showing above her garters, his eyes were glazed, dazed, as he blinked at the door.

“Problem, Stratton?”

Flick didn’t look around—Demon’s fingers were still playing teasingly between her thighs. It wasn’t hard to imagine the tableau their host was seeing as he stood in the doorway. From her quivering back it must be clear she was bare to the waist, and that, with her skirts rucked up so, she must, to Demon, be exposed below as well. The only thing she was still truly wearing was her feathered mask.

She could barely breathe, all too conscious of the slick wetness Demon’s long fingers were reveling in. Her heart thudded in her throat; excitement sizzled in her veins.

Sir Percival’s hesitation was palpable. In the stillness, she heard the rain pelting the windows, heard her own ragged breathing. Then he shifted, and drawled, “No, no. Do carry on.”

The door clicked softly shut; Flick hauled in a relieved breath—and promptly lost it as Demon’s mouth closed over her nipple again. He suckled strongly—she barely restrained her shriek. “Demon?” Her voice shook.

He suckled more fiercely.

“
Harry
!”

Two fingers slid deep, probing evocatively.

She arched—on a long, shuddering gasp, she managed, “
Here
?”

“Hmm.” He stood, easing her back to lie across the desk.

“But . . .” Flat on her back, she licked her dry lips. “Stratton might come back.”

“All the more reason,” he whispered, leaning over her, cupping her breasts as he kissed her. She parted her lips and he surged within; he kneaded her aching flesh, fingers tightening momentarily about her ruched nipples before his hands drifted away.

Clinging to her senses, her tongue sliding about his, she felt him unbutton his trousers, then his hands closed about her hips, anchoring her as he stepped closer, between her widespread thighs. She felt the pressure as his rigid flesh parted her swollen folds, then found her entrance.

“All the more convincing,” he purred against her lips. Straightening, he looked down at her, the wicked curve to his lips elementally male.

Dazed, she stared up at him. “Stratton might be dangerous!”

Curtailing his perusal of her quivering body held taut between his hands, he met her gaze and lifted a brow. “Adds a certain recklessness to the situation, don’t you think?”

Think? She couldn’t think.

He grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re not game?”

“Game?” She could barely gasp the word. With him poised just inside her, she was frantic. One step away from spontaneous combustion. But game? Lips and chin firming, she dragged in a breath, lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She pulled him to her—then gasped, arched—frantically gripped his forearms as he pushed steadily, inexorably, all the way in until he filled her.

That sense of incredible fullness was still new, still startling. She caught her breath and clamped down, feeling him hot and hard, buried deep within her. His lids fell, his jaw locked, then, fingers tightening about her hips, he eased back, then surged anew.

As usual, he was in no hurry—he teased her, tormented her—tortured her. Held before him, virtually naked but for her mask, she squirmed, panted, moaned, then screamed as the world fell away and she was consumed by glory. The storm beyond the windows swallowed her wild cries as he flicked a sensual whip and drove her on, into a landscape of illicit delight, of pleasures honed to excruciating sharpness by the very real presence of danger.

His hands roamed, hard and demanding; she writhed and begged, wanton in her pleading.

And when she came apart for the last time, senses fragmenting beneath his onslaught, he followed swiftly, joining her in that delicious void—only, too quickly, to draw her back. He drew away from her; chest still heaving, he straightened his clothes, then hers.

Struggling to coordinate her wits, let alone her limbs, she helped as best she could. If they didn’t reappear in the ballroom soon, Stratton would notice—and start to wonder.

They returned downstairs, Demon holding her close against him. They reentered the ballroom, but didn’t go far—propping his shoulders against the wall, Demon cradled her against him, her cheek against his chest, then bent his head and kissed her. Soothingly, calmingly.

Distractingly. Despite that, as her senses returned, Flick heard catcalls, whistles, suggestions called out—clearly to some exhibition at the room’s center. From the associated sounds, and some of the suggestions, it wasn’t hard to imagine what that exhibition entailed. With Demon’s arms around her, she couldn’t see—she didn’t try to look.

After fifteen or so minutes, when their hearts had slowed to their normal pace, Demon glanced around the room, then looked down at her. “We’ve been seen and duly noted,” he murmured. “Now we can leave.”

They did in short order, their bodies still thrumming, their spirits soaring, the evidence they’d sought for weeks at long last in their possession.

Demon called in Berkeley Square at eight the next morning; Flick was waiting in the front hall, her packed bags at her feet, a glorious smile on her face. Within minutes, they were away, the bays pacing swiftly, Gillies up behind.

“You were right about your mother stopping her scolding when I told her we’d rely on her and Helena to make all the wedding arrangements.”

Demon snorted. “That was a foregone conclusion—she could hardly scold while in alt. It’s her dream come true—to organize a wedding.”

“I’m only glad, after all her worrying, that we could leave her so happy.”

Demon merely snorted—distinctly unfilially—again.

Two minutes later, in a quiet street, he drew in to the curb, tossed the reins to Gillies, and jumped down. Flick looked around. “What? . . .

Demon impatiently waved her to him; she shuffled along the seat and he lifted her down. “I want to show you something.” Taking her hand, he led her up the steps of the nearest house—a gentleman’s residence with a portico held aloft by two columns. In the portico, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, selected one, opened the front door, and pushed it wide. With an elegant bow, he waved her in, merely lifting his brows at her questioning look.

Wondering, Flick entered a pleasant rectangular hall—from the echoes and absence of furniture it was apparent the house stood empty. Pausing in the middle of the hall, she turned and raised her brows.

Demon waved her on. “Look around.”