"Bury," Dillon gasped. His chest heaved. "Bletchley went there-she followed. She was going to try to get a room at The Angel."
"Try to?" The Angel was a very large house.
Dillon licked his lips. "Prizefight."
Demon couldn't believe his ears. "Prizefight!"
Dillon tried to nod but couldn't. "Flick thought it was the obvious-the most likely place for the syndicate to meet with Bletchley. Heaps of bucks and blades up from London-all the riffraff and the Fancy, too. Well, you know-" He ran out of breath and wheezed, "It seemed like sound reasoning."
"What did Gillies say?"
Dillon glanced at Demon's eyes and paled even more. He dropped his gaze.
When he didn't answer, Demon tensed the muscles in his arms.
Dillon caught his breath in a rush. "He didn't want her to go-he said you wouldn't like it."
"And you? What did you say?"
Dillon tried to shrug. "Well, it seemed like a sensible idea-"
"You call letting a gently reared, twenty-year-old girl go waltzing out to spend the night in an inn filled to the rafters with a prizefight crowd sensible?"
A look of petulance passed over Dillon's face. "Well, someone had to go. We needed to learn-"
"You miserable coward!"
He didn't crush Dillon's windpipe-he hauled him up, shook him once, then slammed him back against the wall. Hard.
Then he released him.
Dillon collapsed in a coughing heap on the floor. Demon looked down at him, sprawled beside his boots. Disgusted and furious in equal measure, he shook his head. "When the devil are you going to grow up and stop hiding behind Flick's skirts?" Turning, he swiped up his gloves. "If I had the time, I'd give you the thrashing you deserve-" He glanced back; when Dillon groggily lifted his head, Demon caught his eye. His lip curled. "Consider it yet another piece of retribution from which Flick has saved you."
He stormed out into the night. Vaulting onto Ivan's back, he set course for The Angel.
Chapter 12
She'd never seen so many men crammed into one space in her life.
Flick stood at her room window and looked down on the sea of male humanity filling the courtyard of The Angel. She'd been right in guessing that the prizefight crowd would congregate at The Angel; the throng seethed as men entered from the street while others drifted into the bars, returning with jugs and glasses. The courtyard of The Angel was the place to be.
Pitch flares had been placed around the courtyard, their flickering light strong enough for her, up in her chamber at the front of the house, to see faces below clearly. She'd snuffed her candles before parting the curtains. Luckily, the windows were hung with lace as well as the heavier drapes; she could stand close to the glass and peer down without risking anyone seeing her.
The noise was amazing. A multilayered rumble, it rose like a cacophany of deep-toned bells struck and rung without order. The occasional gust of laughter erupted, now from one group, then another. From her vantage point, she viewed the scene like some godlike puppeteer.
She'd been watching for close to an hour. The inn's bars were doing a roaring trade; she was grateful the staff had found time to bring up her dinner on a tray. She'd eaten quickly, then the serving girl had returned and taken away the tray. Since then, she'd been watching Bletchley.
He was halfway down the courtyard out in full view, a heavy figure in an old frieze coat, his scarlet neckerchief a useful feature to distinguish him from the many other older men in unfashionable attire. The fashionable and unfashionable mingled freely, their shared interest transcending social bounds. Bletchley stood, feet wide, his bulk balanced, quaffing ale and nodding as those in his circle expounded their theories.
Gillies was watching him, too. Bletchley had gone into the inn twice-Gillies had followed, sliding away from the group he was part of to slip inside. Each time he'd returned to resume his position as Bletchley did the same, a fresh pint in his hand.
Flick shifted her weight, then folded her arms. She was tired of standing, but if she sat, she wouldn't be able to see into the courtyard. The discussions below were gaining in intensity; in a number of groups, she saw money being waved about. There were gentlemen aplenty, well dressed, with the long aristocratic features that screamed wealth and affluence. Flick studied various hard faces, and wondered if they were members of the syndicate. Perhaps it was a group of blades, the most dangerously irresponsible of the younger gentlemen. She'd heard tales of incredible wagers; such men might well need cash, and they didn't appear to possess overmany scruples. But who? Who?
Her gaze passed over the crowd, then returned to Bletchley to see him squinting at an old watch. Tucking it back into his pocket, he drained his pint, collared a harassed serving boy and handed it to him, then, with a nod, excused himself to his cronies and headed away through the crowd.
Flick straightened. Bletchley wasn't heading inside.
Lumbering through the throng, tacking around groups, he made his way toward the far end of the courtyard. Flick lifted her gaze past the masses and looked out beyond the flares at the dark expanse of Angel Hill.
She knew that the long, sloping hill led up to the abbey, although she couldn't see it. The light from the flares ended abruptly just beyond the courtyard; Angel Hill was cloaked in the deep dark of a country night.
"Damn!" Flick relocated Bletchley, still struggling through the crowd. She searched for Gillies and found him; he'd seen Bletchley move, and was on his trail.
Flick sighed with relief-then froze. Someone had grabbed Gillies. He struggled to free himself, only to have more men range about him, smiling and laughing. She caught sight of Gillies's face-he was smiling and laughing, too. He also looked desperate.
One man slung his arm about Gillies's shoulders; another grasped his coat in friendly fashion and started talking nonstop. Flick saw Gillies cast a quick look around-saw him try to turn, but his friends wouldn't let him.
"Oh, no!" Aghast, Flick glanced to where Bletchley was nearing the far end of the courtyard, bounded by a few scraggly bushes, then she looked at Gillies, trapped and helpless in the middle of the crowd.
From where Gillies was, he couldn't see Bletchley's direction. He also didn't know where she was-that she could, if he looked her way, direct him. Gillies had lost Bletchley, and there was no way she could set him right-she could hardly fling up the window and shout down.
Lifting her gaze, Flick saw Bletchley reach the courtyard's far boundary. He didn't halt; he didn't look around. Pushing through the low bushes, he stepped out purposefully, into the dark. Heading straight up Angel Hill.
To meet with his masters-she just knew it!
Smothering a scream, she whirled and grabbed her cloak. Her veil went flying, disappearing over the edge of the bed; the pins clattered on the floor.
She didn't have time to stop. Dragging the cloak about her, she hauled the deep hood over and down so her face was heavily shadowed. Fingers flicking frantically, she cinched the cloak's laces at her throat, checked to make sure that the cloak was fully about her, then threw the bolt on the door and slipped out, pausing only to lock the door behind her.
Hurrying down the dimly lit corridor, she dredged her memory for all knowledge of the inn. She was on the first floor; the long corridor that crossed hers ended in a side stair leading down to a door just around the corner from the courtyard. Reaching the intersection, she turned and hurried on. Most of the inn's patrons were downstairs; there was no one about. All but running down the narrow carpet, Flick prayed her luck would hold.
She reached the narrow side stair; clinging to the shadows, she descended. The small hall before the side door was empty. She stepped out to cross it-
A door in the wall to her left crashed open. Two maids hurried through, carrying trays of used pots and jugs. They glanced at Flick, plastered back against the wall, but they didn't stop-they rushed on, down the corridor.
Flick dragged in a breath, steadied her pounding heart, and determin
edly stepped to the door. It opened easily.
It gave onto a narrow cobbled area around the corner from the courtyard. From her left, noise rolled out and away, into the dark; the flickering flares made little impact on the night beyond.
Closing the door behind her, Flick faced Angel Hill.
Unfortunately, the cobbled area was used to house crates and barrels; it had been extended away from the inn, encroaching on the flank of the hill, where it ended in a high retaining wall. The only way she could gain the hillside and follow Bletchley was to skirt around to her left, cutting through the area dimly lit by the flares.
And risking someone-some man in the courtyard-seeing her.
Flick hesitated. Her back to the wall, safe in her dark cloak in the shadows, she thought of Demon, and Dillon, and the unknown syndicate.
Then she thought of the General.
Drawing a deep breath, she straightened and stepped away from the wall.
She didn't look back-didn't risk the light gleaming on her face or hands. She walked quickly and silently across, skirting the low bushes edging the courtyard and onto the lowest slope of Angel Hill.
Without pause, she walked on, even after the light of the flares had died behind her. Only when the night had swallowed her up and the noise of the courtyard was fading did she stop, draw a deep, reviving breath, and exhale with relief. Then, lifting her skirts, sending fervent thanks to her guardian angel, she hurried on. In Bletchley's wake.
After arranging stabling for Ivan with The Angel's harassed grooms, Demon strolled under the arch separating the courtyard from the stable yard. He stopped and scanned the scene just as Flick appeared briefly in the weak light of the flares on the rising ground on the far side of the courtyard. If he hadn't been looking for her, if she hadn't taken complete possession of his mind, he would have seen nothing more than the outline of a swinging cloak, a shadow against the deeper shadows of the night.
As matters stood, that was enough-he knew it was Flick.
He didn't know where she was going, but that wasn't hard to guess. Swallowing his curses-saving them for later-he stepped into the crowd.
And immediately, inwardly, cursed some more.
He couldn't race after her.
He had more than a few friends there-he'd known of the fight, and would probably have attended if he hadn't been so busy with Flick and her syndicate. His friends, of course, thought he'd come to join them.
"Demon!"
"You took your time. Where're you staying?"
"So-who've you got your money on?"
Adopting an expression of fashionable boredom on his face, Demon answered at random.
If his friends saw him striding into the night, they might follow out of idle curiosity. There was, however, an even greater danger. Many of the young bloods, bucks and blades considered him a man to emulate. If they saw him racing off up Angel Hill, they might send up a hue and cry, and then Flick would find herself enacting the role of fox pursued by a pack of slavering hounds.
Wonderful. This time, Demon vowed, he would strangle her.
After he rescued her from whatever danger she was so determinedly marching into.
Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled and joked; gradually, he made his way to the far side of the courtyard. Only by telling one friend that he was going to join another did he manage to progress at all.
He caught sight of Gillies in the throng; it was instantly apparent his henchman had problems of his own. Demon considered, but detaching Gillies from his mates without attracting attention would prove difficult, and he didn't have the time. Flick had long since disappeared.
Finally reaching the bushes bordering the cobbles, Demon paused to scan the throng. He shifted his weight, first this way, then that, then frowned, turned, surveyed the bushes, then stepped through them. Hopefully, anyone who'd seen him would imagine he was merely caught short and looking to relieve himself.
He walked, definitely but with no panic, out of the circle of the flares.
Then he strode out.
He stopped once the dark had closed around him. He looked back, but could detect no sign of pursuit or interest. Satisfied, he turned back to Angel Hill and the slumbering abbey on the ridge. Somewhere ahead of him Flick was climbing, and, he assumed, ahead of her was Bletchley.
And ahead of Bletchley…
Lips thinning, Demon set his jaw and climbed faster.
Higher up the slope, Flick had run out of curses. Which was just as well, because she needed to save her breath. She'd climbed Angel Hill numerous times through her childhood, but she'd never climbed it in the dark. What was in full light an easily conquered slope, at night took on the guise of an obstacle course. The overall slope was even, but the terrain was not-there were dips and ridges, foot-sized holes and sudden ledges, all of which seemed to appear beneath her stumbling feet at the moment she least expected them.
And, to top it all, there was the mist.
Before leaving the inn she'd noticed the night was dark-only when she'd left the comforting flares far behind did she realize that it was, in fact, pitch black. Heavy clouds blanketed the moon; there was not even starlight to light her way. Her only landmark was the abbey and the cathedral tower, denser silhouettes on the crown of the hill, outlined against the ink black sky.
Unfortunately, as she left the town and The Angel behind, she ran into more ribbons of mist wreathing the shoulders of the hill. The higher she went, the thicker the mist became, causing her to lose sight of her landmark. Luckily, the cloud cover was not absolute-the moon occasionally shone through, giving her a chance to get her bearings.
During one such fitful illumination, she saw Bletchley laboring up the slope at least two hundred yards ahead of her. Flick thanked her stars she hadn't lost him. She battled on, slogged on, slowing when the moon again disappeared. Another wide band of mist slowed her even more.
Again the moon sailed free; Flick frantically searched the slope ahead, breathing again only when she sighted Bletchley's lumbering form.
He was much higher now, approaching the abbey. Luckily, the mists thinned toward the crest; she could see him clearly. It rapidly became apparent his goal was not the abbey but a thick stand of bushes surounding three trees a little way below and to the west of the abbey wall.
Flick's urgency eased. Bletchley's meeting with his masters would take more than a few moments. There was no need to scramble and risk alerting them to her presence. Far better to take her time and approach silently.
The clouds cooperated enough for her to see Bletchley round the stand of bushes and disappear from sight. In the time before the clouds caught the moon again, she didn't see him reemerge. In the same interval, she scanned the slope all about the bushes, but saw no one else.
Telling herself that Bletchley would definitely be on the other side of the bushes, she forced herself to climb with care, then slipped silently into the bushes' shadow.
Ears straining, she listened. She heard a gruff word, then nothing more. The moon broke free of the clouds and shone down, lighting up the area. Flick took that as a sign. Metaphorically girding her loins-she'd come too far to retreat-she edged to where she would be able to see around the bushes, exercising supreme care to avoid stepping on twigs, or leaves, or doing anything to warn Bletchley and whoever he was meeting of her presence.
She was successful-Bletchley and his companion remained totally unaware of her.
Then again, they would probably have remained oblivious of anything short of a charge of Hussars.
They were decidedly engrossed.
From the corner of the stand of bushes, Flick looked down on the meeting in progress, first in stunned surprise, then with increasing distaste.
The female Bletchley had come to meet lay flat on her back, her skirts rucked up to her waist, exposing chubby, dimpled white thighs, currently clasped about Bletchley's equally chubby, equally dimpled bare buttocks. Said buttocks were rising and falling in a staccato rhythm, quivering and tensi
ng and shaking like jelly as Bletchley strained up and down, plunging himself into the woman's body.
Despite her carnal innocence, Flick knew what they were about. She knew how animals mated, but she'd never seen humans perform the same act. For one long instant, the sight transfixed her-in horrified fascination.
The sounds that reached her were not words about racing, or horses-certainly not the names she wanted to know. Grunts, gasps, pants and moans were the extent of the conversation.
Disgusted yet inhibited from even muttering an oath, she curled her lip, gritted her teeth on her temper, and swung away. Eyes on the ground, she strode back for the inn, heading downhill, directly away from the bushes.
After all her work-all the risks she'd taken! She had half a mind to scream with vexation and hope the sound gave Bletchley a turn. At precisely the wrong moment.
Men!
She strode into the first swath of mist-and ran right into one.
Her nose stubbed against his chest, burying itself in a soft cravat. She sucked in a breath to scream-and recognized his scent. His arms had locked, iron shackles about her, but as her instinctive rigidity eased, he relaxed his hold. She looked up at him.
He glared down at her. "Where-"
"Shssh!" Wriggling free, she tossed her head, indicating the bushes behind her. "Bletchley's back there."
Demon studied her face. "He is?"
Without meeting his eyes, Flick nodded, stepped about him and continued toward the inn. "He's with a woman."
Demon looked toward the bushes, then back at Flick, who was stalking down the slope. "Ah." His lips twitched, but only momentarily. The next instant, he caught up with her. "Actually," he drawled, steel rippling beneath his words, "I didn't come here to discover what Bletchley was about."
She didn't immediately reply, but just strode on. "I followed him here. You were in London. You weren't coming back until tomorrow."
"I changed my mind-a lucky circumstance. If I'd returned tomorrow, God only knows what trouble you might by then have succeeded in bringing down on your head." His clipped accents and the underlying force behind his words held a dire, not-at-all-subtle warning.
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