A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  “I can’t see any options.” He continued to pace, his gaze on the floor. “That one of my horses is involved is irrelevant—it simply makes things worse. Having learned of an attempt to fix a race, my duty as a member of the Jockey Club is clear. I should inform the Committee.”

  “How absolute is that duty?”

  The glance he sent her was hard. “As absolute as such things can be. I could not, in all honor, let a fixed race run.”

  “Hmm. I agree it’s impossible to let a fixed race run—that’s quite out of the question. But . . .” She let her words trail away, her gaze, questioning, fixed on Demon.

  He halted, and looked her way. Then he raised a brow. “But can I—“ He broke off, his gaze on her, then briefly inclined his head. “Can we legitimately withhold the information until closer to the race, to give ourselves time to follow this contact back to the syndicate?”

  “Exactly. That race is next month—more than a couple of weeks away. And the stewards could stop it even if we told them just before the start.”

  “Not quite, but if we hold back the information until the week before the race, it would leave us five weeks in which to trace the syndicate.”

  “Five weeks? That’s plenty of time.”

  Demon suppressed a cynical humph. Flick’s face was triumphantly aglow; although it was partly at his expense, he had no wish to dim it. When she’d come through the window, he’d been thinking solely in the singular; he was now talking in the plural. Which was what she’d intended; that was why she’d come.

  Now she sat, perched victorious on the arm of his settee, one boot swinging, a satisfied smile in her eyes. Her understanding of the honor and responsibilities involved in his position intrigued him. She understood racing, the fraternity and its traditions—not something he’d encountered in a woman before.

  But discussing such matters with a sweet innocent felt odd. Especially late in the evening, in his front parlor.

  Entirely unchaperoned.

  He resumed his pacing—this time, in her direction.

  “So”—she almost bobbed in her eagerness—“how do we find the man we saw this evening? Shouldn’t we be trying to locate him?”

  He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. “We are. At this instant, three of my men are rolling around the town, searching the inns and taverns.”

  She beamed at him. “Excellent! And then?”

  “And then . . .” He reached for her hand; she surrendered it readily. Smoothly, he drew her to her feet. “Then we follow him”—holding her gaze, he lowered his voice to a deep purr—“until we learn all we need to know.”

  Trapped in his gaze, her hand in his, eyes widening, she mouthed an “Oh.”

  He smiled intently. Wrapping his fingers about her hand, he waited, just a heartbeat, until she trembled.

  “We’ll find the contact and follow him.” His lids veiling his eyes, he lowered his gaze to her lips, soft, sheening, succulent pink. “Until he leads us to the syndicate—and then we’ll tell the stewards all they need to know.”

  When he spoke of “we” he didn’t mean her—but he’d tell her that tomorrow; no need to mar the night.

  Raising his lids, he recaptured her gaze, marvelling at the softness of her clear blue eyes. The two of them stood, handfast, gazes locked, mere inches distant, with her trapped between the settee and him. Without conscious thought, he shifted his fingers, brushing the backs of hers.

  Her eyes widened even more; her lips parted slightly. Her breath hitched—

  Then she blinked, and narrowed her eyes. Frowning, she tugged her hand free. “I’ll leave you now.”

  Blinking himself, he released her.

  She stepped sideways, heading for the window.

  He followed. Close.

  She glanced back and up at his face, eyes very wide, her breathing too rapid. “I dare say I’ll see you tomorrow at the stables.”

  “You will.”

  With fluttering hands, she pushed at the curtains. He reached over her head and drew them wide.

  She tugged at the sash. To no avail.

  He stepped behind her and reached for the handles, one on either of the pane’s lower frame.

  Trapping her between his arms, between the window and him. His fingers brushed hers, clasped about the handles. She sucked in a breath and snatched her hands away. Then froze as she realized he surrounded her.

  Slowly, he raised the sash—all the way up.

  As he straightened, she straightened, too. Her spine stiff, she turned her head and looked him in the eye. “I’ll bid you a good night.”

  There was ice and frost in her words. Turning to the window, she sat on the sill; behind her, Demon smiled, slowly, intently.

  She swung her legs over and slipped into the darkness. “Good-bye.”

  Her voice floated back to him; in seconds, she’d become a shadow among many, and then she was gone.

  Demon’s smile deepened, his lips curving as triumphantly as hers had. She wasn’t averse to him—the signs had been there, clear for him to read. He didn’t know why she’d pulled back, why she’d shaken free of his hold, but it would be easy to draw her back to him.

  And then . . .

  He stood at the window for a full five minutes, a smile of anticipation on his lips, staring into the night and dreaming—before reality struck.

  Like a bolt.

  It transfixed him. Chilled him.

  It effectively doused his fire.

  Face hardening, he stood in the middle of his parlor and wondered what the hell had got into him.

  He rose before dawn and headed for the racecourse, for his stables and Carruthers, who was not at all pleased to learn that he’d lost the services of the best work rider he’d ever employed. For once declining to remain and watch his string exercise, Demon left Carruthers grumbling and set his horses ambling back down the road to his farm. The same road led to the cottage.

  Fine mist wreathed the hedgerows and blanketed the meadows; it turned golden as dawn tinged the sky. Flick appeared through the gilded haze, a sleepy stable lad atop the plodding cob, heading in for the start of a new day. Demon reined in his bays and waited for her to reach him.

  By the time she halted the cob beside his curricle, she was frowning; deep suspicion glowed in her eyes. He nodded, ineffably polite. “I’ve tendered your resignation to Carruthers—he doesn’t expect to see you again.”

  Her frown deepened; to her credit, she didn’t ask why. “But—”

  “The matter’s simple. If you hadn’t resigned, I would have had to dismiss you.” He trapped her gaze and raised a brow. “I thought you’d prefer to resign.”

  Flick studied his eyes, his face. “Put like that, I don’t have much choice.”

  The ends of his lips lifted fractionally. “None.”

  “What story did you tell Carruthers?”

  “That your ailing mother slipped away, and you’ll be joining your aunt’s household in London.”

  “So I’m not even supposed to be in the vicinity?”

  “Precisely.”

  She humphed, but without much heat; they’d found Dillon’s contact—she was already thinking ahead. “What about identifying the contact? Have your men turned up anything?”

  Because she was watching closely, she saw his hesitation—the swift weighing of his options.

  “We’ve located him, yes.” His gaze swept her consideringly. “Gillies is currently doing the honors, with strict instructions to miss nothing. If you’d consent to get properly dressed, perhaps we might confer in more conventional style?”

  She raised her brows in question.

  His smile—a teasing, alluring temptation to dalliance—flashed. “Go home and change. I’ll call at eleven and take you for a tool about the lanes.”

  “Perfect—we can discuss how best to go on without any risk of being overheard.” Flick turned the cob and urged him back toward the cottage. “I’ll be ready at eleven.”

  Her voice floa
ted back to Demon. The reins lax in his hands, he sat in the strengthening sunshine, watching her bob away from him. His smile deepening, he flicked the reins and set his curricle slowly rolling in her wake.

  As promised, she was ready and waiting, a vision in mull muslin, a parasol shading her complexion, when he drew his horses to a scrunching halt before the front steps of Hillgate End.

  Tying off his reins, he stepped down from the curricle. Face alight, a soft smile on her lips, she eagerly approached. She was too slender to bustle—her movement was more a sweeping glide. Demon watched her advance, his every faculty riveted, effortlessly held in thrall.

  Luckily, she didn’t know it—she had no idea. Secure in that knowledge, he returned her smile. Taking her hand, he bowed elegantly and handed her up to the box seat. She shuffled across; as he turned to follow, Demon caught sight of a maid hovering by the steps. “I’ll return Miss Parteger later in the afternoon—you might mention that to Jacobs.”

  “Yes, sir.” The maid bobbed a curtsy.

  Climbing up, he took his seat and met Flick’s questioning glance. “Mrs. Shephard packed a hamper so we won’t need to return for lunch.”

  Her eyes widened, then she nodded. “It’s turning into a lovely day—a picnic is a very good idea.”

  Clicking the reins, Demon set the bays pacing, omitting to mention just whose idea it had been.

  As he turned out of the drive and the horses stepped out, Flick angled her parasol and glanced at him. “I take it your men located our quarry?”

  Demon nodded, taking the turn to Dullingham in style. “He’s staying at the Ox and Plough.”

  “The Ox and Plough?” Flick frowned. “I don’t think I know it.”

  “There’s no reason you would. It’s a seedy little inn off the main road north of Newmarket.”

  “Did your man learn the contact’s name?”

  “He goes by the unenviable name of Bletchley.”

  “And he’s a Londoner?”

  “From his accent, that much seems certain.” Demon slowed his horses as the hamlet of Dullingham came into view. “Gillies is prepared to swear an oath that Bletchley was born within hearing of Bow bells.”

  “Which suggests,” Flick said, turning impulsively to him, “that the syndicate is London-based.”

  “That was always on the cards. The most likely base for a group of rich and greedy gentlemen is London, after all.”

  “Hmm.”

  When Flick ventured nothing more, Demon glanced at her. She was frowning absentmindedly, her gaze unseeing. It wasn’t hard to follow her thoughts. She was considering the syndicate, and the possible need to journey to London to unmask them.

  He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.

  The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. “Good heavens. Where—oh! How lovely!”

  Demon smiled. “It is a pretty spot.”

  The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. “We’ll leave the carriage here.” He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. “We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine.”

  “Oh, yes! I didn’t even know this place existed.”

  Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.

  Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean—all elegantly indolent—beside her.

  She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She’d always thought the description a silly nonsense.

  Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.

  Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction—she knew she was safe with him—but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. “Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?”

  She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon’s, burning blue.

  Burning?

  She blinked and looked again, but he’d looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.

  “A leg will do for the moment.”

  His voice sounded slightly . . . strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.

  Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. “Champagne?”

  “Hmm.” Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. “A suitable toast to Spring.”

  Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. “Nice.”

  “Hmm.” Demon forced himself to look away from her lips—sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.

  Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver—was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself—calmed herself—laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. “How’s Dillon faring?”

  She shrugged. “Well enough.” After a moment, she volunteered, “I haven’t really spoken to him since that evening we learned the truth.”

  Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. “Who else knows he’s there?” He looked at Flick and frowned. “How does he get food?”

  She’d finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around—then she licked her lips. And looked at him.

  He managed not to tremble—not to react at all.

  “The only one other than us who knows Dillon’s at the cottage is Jiggs. He’s a footman—he’s been at Hillgate End for . . . oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there’s always leftover roast or a pie left wrapped in the larder.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon’s somewhere close.”

  “Very likely.”

  They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. “Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?”

  “I haven’t told him anything at all.”

  From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.

  “I decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell him we’d found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash—like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn’t do for him t
o be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we’re making progress.”

  Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off—to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.

  Loyalty, devotion—and good bottom. Her hallmarks.

  The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.

  Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel—a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed—from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.

  His gaze dropped—to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn’t need the evidence to conjure the vision.

  His smile deepening, he let his lids fall, and he relaxed on the rug. He waited until the basket was neatly repacked and, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her half-filled glass in one hand, she settled to enjoy the view.

  “It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that now we’ve identified Bletchley and will be following him in earnest, and you no longer need to change clothes and horses morning and afternoon, it would be wise not to go to the cottage at all—just in case Bletchley, or one of his friends, turns the tables on us and follows us back to Dillon. As it’s central to our plan to keep Dillon safely hidden, the last thing we want is to lead the syndicate to him.”

  “Indeed not.” Flick considered. “I’ll send a message with Jiggs.” Staring at the stream, she narrowed her eyes. “I’ll say that there’s no longer any point in me working at the stables—that we think someone from the syndicate is about and don’t want to compromise his safety.” She nodded. “That should keep him at the cottage.”