“That’s not the point!” Flick declared.
“Isn’t it?” Standing beside them, Cross squinted up at Flick. “I thought that was it—that we was to watch him in Newmarket and see who he talked to here.”
“Not just here.” Flick drew a calming breath. “We need to see who he talks to wherever he goes. He might be going to Bury to meet with his masters.”
Cross blinked. “Nah, he’ll be—”
Gillies coughed, succumbing to a veritable paroxysm that had both Flick and Cross looking at him in concern. Blinking, he shook his head, waving his hand back and forth in a negative gesture. “It’s all right,” he said to Flick, but his eyes, bright and sharp, were fixed on Cross.
Cross’s expression blanked. “Oh. Ah. Right—well.”
Flick frowned at him. “We must organize to pick up the watch on Bletchley when he gets to Bury. The mailcoach takes hours, so we have a little time.”
“Ah—it’s not that simple, miss.” Gillies exchanged a glance with Cross. “Both Cross here and Hills have duties on the farm—they can’t simply up and leave for Bury.”
“Oh.” Flick looked at Cross; he nodded.
“Aye—wouldn’t do for us to leave the youngsters unsupervised, like.”
Flick grimaced. It was spring, and the stud farm would be a hive of rather serious activity; taking two senior stablemen away at this time was impossible. Especially not from an enterprise as highly regarded as Demon’s. Absentmindedly, she settled Jessamy—tail swishing, the mare was growing increasingly restless.
Glancing up, Flick saw Gillies and Cross exchange a look she couldn’t interpret; they almost looked pleased. “Well,” she stated, “as we can’t afford to let Bletchley roam about unwatched, I’ll have to go to Bury myself.”
Gillies’s and Cross’s reactions to that were easy to read—their eyes went round and their mouths dropped open.
Gillies recovered first. “But . . . but . . . you can’t go alone.” His eyes looked slightly wild.
Flick frowned. “No, but I don’t want to take my maid.” She looked at Gillies. “You’ll have to come, too.”
The lugubrious Cross shook his head. “Nah, you don’t want to go to Bury just now.” He looked hopefully at Flick.
She looked steadily back. “As Bletchley has taken himself off, I expect you should get back to the stud.”
Ponderously, Cross nodded. “Aye, I’d better, at that. I’ll tell Hills we don’ have no pigeon to watch any more.”
Tight-lipped, Gillies nodded.
As Cross lumbered off, Flick turned back to Gillies. A militant light in her eye, she transfixed him with a glance. “We had better make some plans over how to watch Bletchley at Bury St. Edmunds.”
Gillies stiffened his spine. “Miss, I really don’t think—”
“Gillies.” Flick didn’t raise her voice, but her tone stopped Gillies in his tracks. “I am going to Bury to watch Bletchley. All you need to decide is whether you’ll accompany me or not.”
Gillies studied her face, then heaved a sigh. “Perhaps, we’d better have a word with Master Dillon. Seeing as it’s on his account, an’ all.”
Flick frowned harder; Gillies sucked in a quick breath. “Who knows? Maybe Master Dillon has some idea of what Bletchley’s doing at Bury?”
Flick blinked, then raised her brows. “You’re right. Dillon might know—or be able to guess.” She looked around. It was lunchtime; the Heath was empty. “I’ll need to go home for lunch or they’ll miss me. Meet me at the start of the track to the cottage at two.”
Resigned, Gillies nodded.
Flick returned the gesture curtly, then loosened her reins, tapped her heels to Jessamy’s sides, and raced home.
After polishing off a late lunch at White’s, Demon retired to the reading room with a cup of coffee and a large news sheet, behind which he could hide. That last was occasioned by his encounter with the Honorable Edward Ralstrup, an old friend who had joined him for lunch.
“There’s a gathering at Hillgarth’s tonight. All the usual crowd, of course.” Eyes bright, Edward had thrown him an engaging grin. “Nothing like a few highly bred challenges to tune one up for the Season, what?”
“Challenges?” He’d immediately thought of Flick.
Edward’s expression was one of blissful anticipation. “The ladies Onslow, Carmichael, Bristow—need I go on? Not, of course, that you’ll need to extend yourself—not with the countess champing at the bit.”
“The countess?” Reluctantly, he’d dragged his mind back from Newmarket and focused on the woman he’d shown to the door before he’d driven north. “I thought she’d returned to the Continent.”
“No, no.” Edward winked. “Seems she’s conceived an affection for things English, don’t you know. Colston had a touch at her—well, word was you’d gone north indefinitely—but it seems she’s determined to hold out for . . . well, her description was ‘something rather more.’ ”
“Oh.” He’d been conscious of a definite longing for Newmarket.
His less-than-enthusiastic response hadn’t registered with Edward. “After Hillgarth’s, if you’re still standing, so to speak, there’s Mrs. Melton’s rout. Quite sure it’ll be that, too—plenty of action there. And then tomorrow . . .”
He’d let Edward rattle on, while his mind slid back to Newmarket, to the golden-haired angel who was waiting for him, and who didn’t know the first thing about matters sensual, let alone “something rather more.”
“So—what do you say? Shall I pick you up at eight?”
It had taken all his persuasive talents to convince Edward that he wasn’t interested—not in the countess or the many other delights that would be offered him about town. In the end, he’d escaped only by assuring Edward that he had to hie north again at dawn and was not about to risk his horses by staying up all night. As his care for his equine beauties was a byword throughout the ton, Edward had finally accepted that he was serious.
“And,” Demon had added, struck by inspiration, “you might oblige me by letting it be known among the brotherhood that I’ve relinquished all claim on the countess.”
“Ooh!” Edward had brightened at that. “I’ll do that, yes. Nice bit of sport we should see over that.”
Demon certainly hoped so. The countess was a demanding and grasping woman. While her lush body had provided a temporary distraction, one he’d paid handsomely and generously for, he had no doubt that his interest in her had been just that—temporary. Indeed, it had waned on the day he’d headed north.
Sinking into a deep armchair and arranging the news sheet like a wall before him, he settled to sip his coffee and ponder the discovery that life as he had known it—the life of a rakehell in the glittering world of the ton—no longer held any allure. Somewhat to his surprise, he could still imagine attending balls and parties—just as long as he had a certain angel by his side. He would enjoy introducing her to the ton’s entertainments, just to see the expression in her wide eyes.
But the ton without Flick?
Anywhere without Flick?
He took a long sip of his coffee. This, he thought darkly, was what happened when fate caught a Cynster in her coils.
He was sitting in London, a town teeming with uncounted beauties, a surprising number of whom would be easily enough persuaded to reveal their charms to him—and he wasn’t interested. Not in the beauties—not in their charms, naked or otherwise.
The only woman he was interested in was Flick. He recalled imagining that it could never happen—that he’d never be satisfied with one woman. But it had. The only woman for him now was Flick.
And she was in Newmarket.
Hopefully behaving herself.
Doing the vases, reading her novels, and twiddling her thumbs.
Possibly thinking about desire.
He shifted in his seat, then frowned. No matter what setting he placed her in, his image of a patient Flick was not convincing.
Ten minutes later, he strode down
the steps of White’s, his goal the mews close by his lodgings where his bays were presently housed. There was no reason he couldn’t leave London immediately. He’d seen Montague that morning, and spent an hour explaining the details of the race-fixing. Montague had done a few quick calculations and concurred with his assessment. The amount of money taken was enormous—it should show up somewhere.
Montague had connections Demon didn’t want to know about. He’d left the hard-working agent, who thankfully thrived on financial challenges, with a gleam in his eye. If there was any way to track members of the syndicate through the money they’d taken, Montague would find it.
Which left him free to return to Newmarket, to the watch on Bletchley and his wooing of Flick.
Glancing down, he considered his attire—town rig of trousers, morning coat and shoes. There was no real reason to change. He doubted Flick would even notice, much less make anything of the fact that he hadn’t stopped to change before racing back to her side.
Lips twisting wryly, he lengthened his stride and headed straight for the mews.
“Bury St. Edmunds?” Dillon frowned at Flick, then slumped into the chair at the head of the old table. “Why there?”
Flick pulled up a stool, waving Gillies to the other, wishing he was his master instead. “We were hoping you might have some clue. Obviously not.”
Dillon shook his head, his expression one of patent bewilderment. “I wouldn’t have thought there was any possible attraction in Bury, not for the likes of Bletchley.”
“So,” Flick stated, her tone businesslike, “we’ll need to go to Bury and find out what ‘the attraction’ is. Like you, I can’t see any reason Bletchley would have gone there, other than to meet with his masters.”
Gillies, who’d been listening carefully, and even more carefully sizing up Dillon, cleared his throat. “There’s a prizefight on in Bury St. Edmunds tomorrow morning. That’s almost certainly why Bletchley’s hied off there. The reigning champion of all England is to take the ring against the latest challenger.”
“Really?” Dillon’s lassitude fell away—he was suddenly all eager youth.
“A prizefight,” Flick breathed, in the tone of one for whom a light has dawned.
Frowning, Gillies looked from one to the other. “Aye—so there’ll be all manner of bucks and bloods and dangerous blades up from London—the town’ll be fair crawling with them.”
“Damn!” Dillon sat back, a frown in his eyes.
Gillies heaved a sigh of relief.
“Fancy a prizefight so close and I daren’t show my face.” Dillon grimaced and looked at Flick, clearly inviting her sympathy.
She wasn’t looking at him. Grinning, her face alight, she slapped the table. “That’s it!”
Gillies jumped. “What’s it?”
“The prizefight, of course! It’s the perfect venue for Bletchley to meet with his masters.” Triumph in her eyes, she spread her hands. “It’s obvious—members of the syndicate can come up from London and meet with Bletchley without in any way stepping out of their normal roles, their normal pastimes, the places they would normally be found. A prizefight is perfect.”
Gillies paled. “No—I don’t—”
“You know,” Dillon cut in, “you just might be right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Flick set her riding gloves on the table. “Now we need to work out how to keep an eye on Bletchley at Bury, given there’s only me and Gillies to keep watch.”
Both Flick and Dillon frowned; Gillies stared at them in patent dismay. “The master won’t want you going to any prizefight.” He made the statement to Flick, then looked at Dillon.
Dillon wrinkled his nose. “It’ll be tricky, but the prizefight must be the venue for Bletchley to meet his masters. Someone’s got to watch him.”
Gillies dragged in a breath. “I’ll go.”
Dillon regarded Gillies, then grimaced. “Without belittling your skills, Gillies, it’s damned difficult for one person to keep a full-time watch on a target in a crowd.”
“Indeed.” Flick frowned. “And besides, what if the meeting is held upstairs at the inn, in a private room? I can go upstairs.” She turned to Gillies. “You can’t.”
“Well,” Dillon put in, “you won’t be able to either, not if you’re disguised as a stable lad.”
“I’m not going disguised as a lad.”
Dillon and Gillies stared at Flick—Dillon with interest, Gillies with trepidation. Flick smiled determinedly. “I’m going as a widow—I have to be able to get a room to stay the night.”
“The night?” Dillon queried. Gillies simply stared.
“Most spectators from London will arrive this evening, won’t they?” Flick glanced at Gillies.
“Aye.” His voice was weak.
“Well, then—if a meeting is to be held, it could be held either tonight or tomorrow—which would probably mean after the fight.” Flick frowned. “If I was doing the organizing, I’d hold the meeting tonight. There’s bound to be groups gathering to while away the evening—another group meeting in a private parlor would cause no comment. But if they meet tomorrow, after the fight, it’ll seem rather odd, won’t it?” She glanced at Gillies. “I imagine most of the Londoners will leave from the field?”
Woodenly, Gillies nodded.
“Right, then.” Flick nodded curtly. “The Angel’s the major inn at Bury—it’s likely everyone will gather there. So that’s where I’ll stay—we’ll make that our headquarters. Between us, Gillies and I should be able to keep Bletchley in sight.”
“The Angel will be booked out,” Gillies protested. “Won’t be any way you’ll get a room there.”
Flick’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get a room—don’t worry on that score.”
“You said you’d go as a widow,” Dillon looked at her. “Why a widow?”
Flick’s determined smile deepened. “One”—she ticked her points off on her fingers—“men always seem to consider young widows to be in especial need of protection, which will help me get a room. Two, widows can wear concealing veils without raising brows. Three, a widow can travel alone—or at least with only her coachman.” She looked at Gillies. “If you’d rather stay here and await your master, I can get Jonathon to drive me.” Jonathon was the Hillgate End coachman.
Very definitely, Gillies shook his head. “I’ll stick with you.” Under his breath, he grumbled, “Those were my orders. Necks are going to be wrung enough over this without me sticking mine out.”
Lifting his head, Gillies looked at Dillon and tried one last time. “The master’s not going to like this.”
Flick didn’t think Demon would approve either, but she wasn’t going to point out the obvious.
Dillon, however, did. “Pity Cynster’s not here.”
“But he’s not.” Flick swept up her gloves and stood.
“So it’s up to us to manage.” She looked at Gillies. “Come to the manor stable as soon as you can—I want to leave within the hour.”
In the well-sprung manor carriage, the trip from Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds did not take long. They rolled into the town as the last traces of the day were fading from the western sky.
They joined the long queue of curricles, carriages, gigs and carts barely crawling along the main street.
Peering out the carriage window, Flick was amazed at the number of conveyances clogging the usually clear road. The clack of horses’ hooves, the snap of whips and innumerable ripe curses filled the air. The pavements were awash with surging masses of men—laborers in drab, country squires in their tweeds, and gentlemen of every hue, from the nattily attired sportsman to the elegant rake, to the brash blades and bucks casting their eyes over any female unwise enough to appear in their sight.
Sitting back, Flick was glad of her thick veil. Not only would it hide her face but it would also hide her blushes. Glancing down, she wished she’d stopped to find a more “widowish” dress—one with a high neckline and voluminous skirts, preferably in dull bl
ack. In her haste, she’d donned one of her day gowns, a scooped-necked, high-waisted gown in soft voile in her favorite shade of lavender-blue. In it, she didn’t look the least like a widow—she suspected she looked very young.
She would have to remember to keep her cloak fully about her at all times whenever she was out of her room. The cloak, luckily, was perfect—voluminous, heavy and dark with a deep hood. An old trunk in the attic recalled from childhood rummagings had yielded the heavy, black lace veil. Old-fashioned it might be, but it was precisely what she needed—it covered her whole head, her hair as well as her face, obscuring all identifiable features, yet it did not interfere too drastically with her vision.
She was going to need to see, and see well, to play the part she would need to play.
With the veil over her head, and her hood up, the whole secured with two pins, she was certain no one would recognize her. As long as she kept her cloak completely about her, all would be well.
Clutching her black reticule, also liberated from the old trunk, she waited impatiently for the sign of The Angel to appear. The carriage rocked, stopped, then rocked and stopped again. The sound of carriage wheels scraping came to her ears—she promptly shut them to the ensuing curses.
Fixing her gaze on the carriage’s wall, she reviewed her plans. She had, she thought, managed well thus far. She’d told the General she’d taken a sudden notion to visit a friend, Melissa Blackthorn, who helpfully lived just beyond Bury St. Edmunds. Over the past ten years, she and Melissa had frequently simply visited, without formal arrangements. The General was always at home, and the Blackthorns were always in residence; there was never any danger of not finding a welcome. So she’d claimed she would visit Melissa and, as usual, stay overnight.
Both the General and Foggy had accepted her decision with a little too much readiness for her liking. The General’s understanding smile, his gentle pat on her hand, had left her with the distinct—and she was sure not inaccurate—impression that he thought it was Demon’s absence that had prompted her visit to Melissa. That his absence was the cause of her restlessness.
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