A Rogue's Proposal (7 page)

Demon grinned. A gong sounded.

Both he and the General glanced at the door. “Time for lunch. Why not stay? You can meet Felicity and see if you agree with my assessment.”

Demon hesitated. The General frequently invited him to lunch, but in recent years, he hadn’t accepted, which was presumably why he’d missed seeing Felicity grow up.

He’d spent the previous evening dredging his memory for every recollection, no matter how minute, trying to find some balance in his unexpectedly tilting world. Trying to ascertain just what his role, his standing, with this new version of Felicity should be. Her age had been a pertinent consideration; physically, she could be anything from eighteen to twenty-four, but her self-confidence and maturity were telling. He’d pegged her at twenty-three.

The General had now told him Dillon was twenty-two, which meant if Flick was two years younger, then she was only twenty. He’d been three years out, but, given the General’s assessment, with which he concurred, she might as well be twenty-three.

Twenty-three made her easier to deal with, given he was thirty-one. Thinking of her as twenty made him feel too much like a cradle-snatcher.

But he still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t sighted her in the last five years. The last time he’d seen her was when, after importing his first Irish stallion, he’d come to give the General the relevant information for the stud records. She’d opened the door to him—a short, thin, gawky schoolgirl with long braids. He’d barely glanced at her, but he had remembered her. He’d been here countless times since, but hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t, however, stayed for a meal in all those years.

Demon turned from the window. “Yes, why not?” The General would attribute Demon’s break with long-standing habit to concern for him, and he would be half-right at that.

So he stayed.

And had the pleasure of seeing Felicity sweep imperiously into the dining parlor, then nearly trip over her toes, and her tongue, deciding how to react to him.

Which was only fair, because he had not a clue how to react to her. Or, more accurately, didn’t dare react to her as his instincts suggested. She was, after all—despite all—still the General’s ward.

Who had miraculously grown up.

In full light, dressed in ivory muslin sprigged with tiny green leaves, she looked like a nymph of spring come to steal mortals’ hearts. Her hair, brushed and neat, glowed like polished gold, a rich frame for the distinctive, eerily angelic beauty of her face.

It was her face that held him, compelled him. The soft blue of her eyes, like a misty sky, drew him, urging him to lose himself in their gentle depths. Her nose was straight, her brow wide, her complexion flawless. Her lips begged to be kissed—delicately bowed, soft pink, the lower lip full and sensual, they were made to be covered by a man’s.

By his.

The thought, so unequivocal, shocked him; he drew breath and shook free of the spell. A swift glance, a rake’s appraisal of her figure, nearly had him in thrall again.

He resisted. The realization that he’d been bowled over for the first time in his life was enough to shake him to his senses. With his usual grace and an easy smile, he strolled forward and took Flick’s hand.

She blinked and very nearly snatched it back.

Demon quashed the urge to raise her quivering fingers to his lips. He let his smile deepen instead. “Good afternoon, my dear. I do hope you don’t mind me joining you for lunch?”

She blinked again, and shot a quick glance at the General. “No, of course not.”

She blushed, very slightly; Demon forced himself to ignore the intriguing sight. Gracefully, he led her to the table. She claimed the chair by the General’s left; he held it for her, then strolled around the table to the place on the General’s right, directly opposite her.

The placement couldn’t have been more perfect; while chatting with the General, it was perfectly natural that his gaze should frequently pass over her.

She of the swanlike neck and sweetly rounded shoulders, of the pert breasts encased in skin like ivory silk, their upper swells revealed by the scooped neckline of her gown. She was perfectly prim, perfectly proper, and perfectly delectable.

Demon’s mouth watered every time he glanced her way.

Flick was very aware of his scrutiny; for some mystical reason, the touch of his gaze actually felt warm. Like a sun-kissed breeze touching her—lightly, enticingly. She tried not to let her awareness show; it was, after all, unsurprising that he found her appearance somewhat changed. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been fifteen, skinny, scrawny, with two long braids hanging down her back. He’d barely registered her existence—she’d stared at him and hadn’t been able to stop.

That was the last time she’d allowed herself the liberty; thereafter she made sure that whenever he called, she kept out of his sight. Even if she glimpsed him, she’d force herself to walk the other way—precisely because her impulse lay in the opposite direction. She had far too much pride to stare at him like some silly, lovestruck schoolgirl. Despite the fact that was how he made her feel—hardly surprising, as he’d been her ideal gentleman for so many years—she had a strong aversion to the notion of mooning over him. She was quite sure he got enough of that from other lovestruck girls and all the lovestruck ladies.

She had absolutely no ambition to join their ranks.

So she forced herself to contribute to the conversation about horses and the coming season. Having grown up at Hillgate End, she knew more than enough about both subjects to hold her own. Demon twice tripped over her name, catching himself just in time; she manfully—womanfully—resisted glaring at him the second time it happened. His eyes met hers; one brow quirked and his lips curved teasingly. She pressed her lips tight shut and looked down at her plate.

“Could you pass the vinegar, m’dear.”

She looked for the cruet set only to see Demon lift the bottle from the tray further down the table. He offered it to her; she took it—her fingers brushed his. A sharp shock lanced through her. Startled, she nearly dropped the bottle but managed to catch it in time. Carefully, she handed it to the General, then picked up her knife and fork and looked down at her plate. And breathed slowly in and out.

She felt Demon’s gaze on her face, on her shoulders, then he turned to the General. “The Mighty Flynn’s shaping well. I’m expecting to have another two wins at least from him this season.”

“Indeed?”

The General was instantly distracted; Flick breathed a touch easier.

Demon kept the conversation rolling, not a difficult task. Much more difficult was keeping his gaze from Flick; his attention, of course, remained riveted. Ridiculous, of course—she was twenty, for heaven’s sake.

But she was there, and utterly fascinating.

He told himself it was the contrast between Flick the righteous, who dressed as a stable lad and single-handedly set out to expose a race-fixing syndicate, and Felicity, the delicate and determinedly proper Botticelli angel.

It was a contrast designed to intrigue him.

“Perhaps,” he said as they all stood, the light luncheon disposed of, “Felicity would care to take a turn about the lawns?”

He deliberately phrased the question to give the General an opening to support him. He needn’t have bothered. Flick’s head came up; she met his gaze.

“That would be pleasant.” She glanced at the General. “If you don’t need me, sir?”

“No, no!” The General beamed. “I must get back to my books. You go along.”

He shooed them toward the open French doors; Demon caught his eye. “I’ll drop by if I have any news.”

The General’s eyes dimmed. “Yes, do.” Then he glanced at Flick and his smile returned. Nodding benignly, he headed for the door.

Leaving Flick by her chair, staring at Demon. He raised a brow, and gestured to the French doors. “Shall we?”

She came around the table but didn’t pause by his side, didn’t wait for him to offer his arm. Instead, she walked straight past, out of the open doors. Demon stared at her back, then shook his head and followed.

She’d paused on the terrace; as soon as he appeared, she led the way down the steps. With his longer stride, he easily caught up with her as she strolled the well-tended lawn. He fell in beside her, sauntering slowly, trying to decide what gambit would work best with an angel. Before he could decide, she spoke.

“
How
am I supposed to hear any comments or see anyone approaching the riders in your stables when I barely spend a moment
in
them?” She cast a darkling glance his way. “I arrived this morning to discover The Flynn already saddled. Carruthers sent me straight out to take The Flynn around for an extended warm-up”—her eyes narrowed—“so he wouldn’t still be restless at the end. And then
you
bundled me out of the stable as soon as I rode back in.”

“I assumed you would need to get back here.” He hadn’t, but it was a good excuse. He slanted her a mildly questioning glance. “How are you covering your absences early morning and afternoon?”

“I often go riding first thing in the morning, so that’s nothing unusual. If Jessamy’s missing from the stable, everyone assumes I’m somewhere about, enjoying the morning. Just as long as I’m back by lunchtime, no one would think to worry.”

Slowing as they passed into the shade of the old trees edging the lawn, Flick grimaced. “The afternoons are more difficult, but no one’s asked where I ride off to. I suspect Foggy and Jacobs know Dillon’s not off with friends, but somewhere close—but if they don’t ask, then they can’t say if questioned.”

“I see.” He hesitated, inwardly debating whether to take her hand and place it on his sleeve, forcing her to stroll with him rather than lead the way. But she’d tensed when he’d taken her hand before, and she’d nearly dropped the vinegar. Suppressing a grin, he opted for caution. “There’s no reason you can’t loiter around the stables after the morning gallops. Not having any chores should give you a freer rein.” He had no intention of rescinding the orders he’d given Carruthers. “However, there’s no sense in dallying after afternoon stables. At that time, most of the jockeys and hangers-on retire to the taverns.”

“There’s no reason I can’t slouch about the stables until they leave.”

Demon inwardly frowned. There was a mulishness in her tone, a sense of rigid purpose in her stance; both had been absent earlier. Earlier in the dining room, when she’d been Felicity, not Flick. Flick was the righteous crusader, Felicity the Botticelli angel.

Slowing, he considered a swath of daffodils nodding their trumpets in the breeze. The odd bluebell and harebell were interspersed, creating a spring carpet stretching under the trees and into the sunshine beyond. He nodded toward the show. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

An angel should respond to natural beauty.

Flick barely glanced at nature’s bounty. “Hmm. Have you learned, or heard, anything yet?” She looked into his face. “You did go into town this morning, didn’t you?”

He suppressed a frown. “Yes, yes and yes.”

She stopped and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

Frustrated, Demon halted and faced her. “The Committee is waiting for Dillon to return to have a quiet word with him over a number of races last season where the suspiciously priced crowd-favorite didn’t win.”

Her face blanked. “Oh.”

“Indeed. The slumgudgeon didn’t even realize that, as he hadn’t made a habit of hobnobbing with the riders before, people would notice when he suddenly did.”

“But . . .” Flick frowned. “The stewards haven’t come asking after him.”

“Not the stewards, no. In this instance, they weren’t required—any number of the Committee have probably called on the General in the last weeks. Easy enough to learn whether Dillon is here or not.”

“That’s true.” Then her eyes flew wide. “They haven’t said anything to the General, have they?”

Demon glanced away. “No, the Committee sees no reason to unnecessarily upset the General, and as yet, they have no proof—just suspicions.”

He looked back as Flick sighed with relief. “If they hold off until Dillon can return—”

“They’ll hold off as long as they can,” he cut in. “But they won’t—can’t—wait forever. Dillon will have to return as soon as possible—the instant we get enough information to prove the existence of the syndicate.”

“So we need to make headway in identifying Dillon’s contact. Are the rumors of race-fixing widespread?”

“No. Among the owners and trainers, yes, but amongst others, less so. Some jockeys and stable lads must have suspicions, but they’re unlikely to voice them, even to each other.”

Flick started to stroll again. “If there’s no open talk, no rumors abounding, it’s less likely someone will let something slip.”

Demon didn’t reply; Flick didn’t seem to notice. Which, to him, seemed all of a piece. Right now she didn’t seem aware of him at all—she seemed to regard him as a benevolent uncle, or some creature equally benign. Which was so far from the truth it was laughable.

It was also irritating.

The Botticelli angel of the dining room, the one who had delicately shivered at his touch, and trembled when his fingers brushed hers, had vanished.

She glanced at him. “Perhaps you could start with the jockeys whose mounts failed last season. I assume, if they’ve taken a bribe once, they’ll be more likely to be approached again?”

“Ordinarily, yes. However, if they’ve been questioned, however elliptically, by the stewards, one can guarantee their lips will be sealed. With a license in the balance, no jockey’s going to incriminate himself.”

“There must be some action you can take while I keep watch in your stables.”

Demon’s eyes widened; he only just stopped himself from replying caustically with rather more information than she needed. “Never mind about me. I’m sure I’ll find some useful avenue to explore.” He’d already thought of several, but he had no intention of sharing his views. “I’ll make a start before I look in on the afternoon’s work.”

“You could investigate any touts or hangers-on lurking about the other stables’ strings.”