"Indeed." The rogue's friend appeared on her other side, his gaze trailing speculatively down her length. "What say we retire to one of the rooms along the hall, and you can show me and my friend here just how pretty you are, hmm?" He looked up, cool eyes searching hers. "You can always come back and meet your gentleman later."
He moved closer, as did the first rogue, crowding her between them. "I don't think my particular gentleman would like that," Flick stated.
"We weren't suggesting you tell him, sweetheart," the first all but whispered in her ear.
Flick turned her head to him, then had to turn the other way as his friend did the same thing.
"We wouldn't want to cause any ructions-just a friendly bit of slap and tickle to keep my friend and me going until the orgy starts."
Orgy! Flick's jaw dropped.
"That's it-just think of it as a case of mutual tummy-rubbing. Here we are, with our peckers twitching but the action some way off-"
"And here you are, a plump little, pigeon just waiting to be plucked, but with your chosen plucker not yet in sight."
"Right-a bit of hot fumbling and a few good pokes would ease things all around. What do you say?"
They both leaned closer, voices low, increasingly hoarse as they whispered, in quick fire exchanges, a stream of suggestive suggestions directly into Flick's ears.
Behind her mask, her eyes grew rounder, and rounder. Toes? Tongues? Rods…
Flick had had enough. First Stratton, now these two. They'd pressed close; jerking both elbows outward, she jabbed them in the ribs. They fell back gasping-she whirled on them. "I have never met with such arrogant presumption in my life! You should be ashamed of yourselves-propositioning a lady in such terms! And without the slightest invitation! Just think how horrified your poor mamas would be if they ever heard you speaking like that." They stared at her as if she'd gone mad; Flick glared, then hissed, "And as for your twitching appendages, I suggest you take them for a long walk in the rain-that should cure them of their indisposition!"
She glared one last time, then swung on her heel-
And collided with another male.
Hers. His arms closed about her before she bounced off. Clutching his domino, she looked up into his masked face. For a moment, his gaze remained levelled over her head, then he glanced down.
Flick frowned. "How did you recognize me?"
She was the only woman there with hair like spun gold and she drew his senses like a lodestone. Demon narrowed his eyes. "What in heaven possessed you-"
"Ssh!" Her eyes darted about. "Here-kiss me." Stretching on her toes, she did the honors. As their lips parted, she whispered, "This appears to be a bacchanal-by-another-name-we have to do our best to fit in." Sliding her arms beneath his domino, she sank against him.
Demon gritted his teeth and backed her into the space she'd recently vacated.
"Those two gentlemen who were talking to me-you'll never guess what-" She broke off. "Where did they go?"
"They suddenly remembered pressing engagements elsewhere."
"Oh?"
She shot him a glance. Demon ignored it, and her distraction. "What I want to know is why you thought fit-" He broke off on a hiss, sucking in a breath as she twined her arms about his neck and shifted her hips against him.
He stared blankly down at her-she smiled, and laid her head on his chest.
"I found Bletchley. He's Sir Percival's groom."
He studied her eyes, lit with anticipation, with expectant excitement, and inwardly sighed. "So your note said." Gathering her more comfortably into his arms, he shifted so he could view the room. "I suppose you've decided the syndicate will meet tonight."
"It's the perfect occasion."
He could hardly disagree-looking over the sea of heads, he noted the spontaneous distractions arising here and there in the crowd. "Those attending wouldn't even risk being recognized." He looked down and met her gaze. "Let's take a look around-Stratton's occasions are always open house." Aside from anything else, he wanted her away from the center of activity, although, as things went, Sir Percival's masquerade had a long way yet to go.
Boldly curving a palm about her bottom, he steered her toward the nearest door. Glancing down, he met her shocked glance, and raised a far from innocent brow. "We have to do our best to fit in."
He flexed his fingers-behind her mask, her eyes flared, then a dangerous glint entered the soft blue. Before he could stop her, she swayed close, slipped one slim hand through the opening of his domino and stroked, tantalizingly, up his length.
Sucking in a breath, he froze; she chuckled wickedly. Catching his hand, she swung to the door. "Come along." The look she threw him as she led him out would have convinced the most suspicious observer that her fell aim was entirely in keeping with Sir Percival's masquerade.
Drawing a steadying breath, Demon went along with her charade while considering a few elaborations to her scheme. Once in the corridor, he drew her closer, settling her within his arm, his hand returning to its former, stridently possessive position. Any others coming upon them in the dimly lit corridors would simply see two revellers searching for a quiet nook.
Many others were doing the same. Pausing before every door, Demon urged Flick to kiss him, then opened the door and half stumbled in, scanning the room without releasing her, mumbling an incoherent apology and swinging straight back out again if it was already occupied. All the downstairs rooms were, some hosting groups; despite his best efforts, it was impossible to completely screen Flick from the frolics in progress. At first, she stiffened with shock-by the time they'd covered all the downstairs rooms, her reaction had changed to one of curiosity.
A fact he tried not to think about. Some of what she was seeing she was definitely not up to. Yet.
"No meetings," Flick murmured as they turned back to the front hall. "Couldn't we just watch Stratton, then follow when he leaves the ballroom?"
"That might not help us. Remember what I said about Bletchley's employer not necessarily being one of the syndicate?"
Flick frowned. "Stratton's phaeton is brand new-his horses would have done you credit."
"Maybe so, but while Stratton's a deuced cold fish, he's also exceedingly wealthy." Demon gestured to their surroundings. "He inherited a massive fortune."
Flick grimaced. "He seemed such a promising candidate."
"Yes, well-" Reaching the hall, Demon turned her up the stairs. "I think we should check all the rooms."
Other couples, flushed and subtly dishevelled, laughing breathlessly, were descending the stairs as they went up. Demon drew Flick suggestively close as they climbed-with her one step ahead of him, their bodies slid against each other as they ascended.
They reached the gallery. Flick paused and whispered breathlessly, "Shouldn't we be checking outside? If it's not Stratton but some of his guests come to meet with Bletchley, wouldn't they use the garden?"
"It's raining-it started as I arrived. I think we can assume no meeting had taken place earlier. Now, it'll have to be held indoors-in some area open to the guests."
They continued their search. Some of the bedrooms and suites were occupied, others were empty. While they stumbled upon meetings aplenty, none were of the type they sought. Flick's shoulders had slumped long before they reached the last door at the end of the last corridor.
Demon tested the handle, then carefully turned it fully and tried the door. "It's locked." He started to turn back; Flick stood in the way, frowning at the locked door.
"Why locked?" She glanced back up the corridor. "His bedroom wasn't locked." She looked at the door behind which two couples were engaged in an energetic romp on Stratton's huge bed. "Nor was his dressing room or study." She nodded at each of those doors, then turned to stare at the last door. "Why would he lock this room and not any other in the house?"
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 te
lltale 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.
Chapter 22
What 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.
A Rogues Proposal c-4 Page 38
