Flick wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that—irritated, yes, but in a rather odd way. Frowning, she glanced out of the window and abruptly sat up. They were passing the main courtyard of The Angel, already a sea of men and boys all heading in one direction or another. The majority of visitors were still finding places to lay their heads; Flick prayed, very hard, that she’d be successful in carrying out the next phase of her plan. An instant later, the carriage lurched, then turned, and rumbled under the arch into the stable yard of The Angel.
Where pandemonium reigned.
Gillies hauled the horses to a stop, and two inn boys rushed to the carriage. One pulled open the door and let down the steps; the other ran to the boot. Flick allowed the first to take her hand and help her down; as the second, discovering the boot was empty, returned at a loss, she waved him to the carriage. “My bag is in there.”
Her voice was steady; she’d deepened and strengthened her usual tones so that she sounded older, more commanding. It seemed to work; retrieving her one small bag, the inn boys stood respectfully as, having handed the horses over to the ostlers, Gillies came up.
Lifting her arms wide, palms up to encompass the scene, Flick turned dramatically and launched into her charade. “Good gracious, Giles! Just look at this crowd! Whatever’s afoot?”
Gillies simply stared at her.
One of the inn boys shifted his weight. “It’s a prizefight, m’lady. Over on Cobden’s field t’morrow mornin’.”
“A prizefight!” Pressing a hand to her cloaked breast, Flick fell back a step. “Oh, how distressing!” She glanced about, then looked at the inn. “I do hope the innkeeper has a room left—I could not possibly go another mile.”
She stared—beneath her veil she glared—at Gillies.
After a moment, he said rather woodenly, “Indeed not, ma’am.”
At least he’d remembered to address her as ma’am.
“Come, Giles—we must speak to the innkeeper immediately!” Gesturing dramatically toward the inn’s main doors, she picked up her skirts and led the way. Her feminine tones, carrying a hint of imminent distress, had caused more than a few heads to turn, but, as she’d anticipated, the inn boys, responding to her dramatic flair, bustled close, eager to be part of whatever scene was to follow; together with the recently christened Giles, they cleared a path for her to the inn door.
Beyond the door lay a wide reception area fronted by a long counter presently manned by three harassed individuals—the innkeeper, his wife, and his brother. The length of the counter was packed with men—Flick could only catch glimpses of those behind it. Between her and the counter ranged a wall of male shoulders.
It had been years since she’d visited The Angel, but Flick recognized the innkeeper and made a beeline for him, giving wordless thanks when his sharp-eyed wife was called to deal with a customer at the counter’s other end. The helpful inn boys, seeing that she’d be swamped, sent up a shout, waving her bag high. “Make way for the lady.”
Flick could have kissed them.
Gentlemen’s heads turned at the mention of a lady; as they took in her dark cloak and veil, those in her path politely stepped back. Between the inn boys and Gillies, she was conducted to the counter; as she fronted it, however, her escort deferentially stepped back, leaving her surrounded by gentlemen.
All of whom were studying her rather speculatively.
The innkeeper blinked at her; his expression one of concern, he asked, “Aye, ma’am?”
Flick took her courage in both hands.
“Kind sir”—her voice hinted at a quaver—“I have just arrived in your fair town only to discover this crowd before me.” Setting her big black reticule on the counter before her, she clasped her hands tight about it so the innkeeper could not miss the huge square-cut topaz she wore on one gloved finger. It was not an expensive stone, but it was impressive in size and style; the innkeeper’s eyes duly widened. Casting an agitated glance about her, she declared, “I have already travelled far this day—I cannot go further. My horses, too . . .” She let the words fade, as if the situation threatened to overwhelm her.
Turning back to the innkeeper, looking into his face, she imploringly put out a hand. “Oh, dear sir, please say you have one more room left for me?”
Her plea caused a hush.
The innkeeper pursed his lips. “Hmm.” Brow furrowing, he drew his ledger closer and made a great show of scanning his lists of rooms, all of which Flick knew must already be taken.
Tapping his pencil, he glanced up at her. “Just you, is it, ma’am?”
Flick drew a deep breath. “Yes.” She made the word sound very small, very weak. “I . . .” She drew in another breath and clasped her fingers more tightly on the reticule; the facets of the topaz flashed. “I was recently widowed—well, it’s been six months, now, I suppose—I’ve been travelling . . . for my health, you understand.”
She delivered the words in a slightly breathless rush, with what she hoped was just the right degree of feminine fragility. The innkeeper’s lips formed a silent Oh, then he nodded and looked down.
Exceedingly glad of her veil, Flick glanced about; the innkeeper’s eyes were not the only ones in which calculation gleamed.
“I say, Hodges,” one of her neighbors drawled, “you’ll have to find a room for the lady—can’t possibly send her out into the night.”
A deep rumble of assent rose on all sides.
“For the honor of Bury St. Edmunds, if nothing else,” some other helpful soul put in.
The innkeeper, who was now scrubbing out and rewriting names on his lists, threw them a distracted frown. That didn’t please some of his more arrogant customers. “Aside from the town’s honor, what about this house’s honor?” Directing a too-smooth smile her way, one rakish buck leaned on the counter. “Surely, Hodges, old chap,” he drawled, “you wouldn’t want it known that you’re the sort of innkeep who turns away helpless widows?”
Flick gritted her teeth and suppressed an impulse to deliver a swift kick to the buck’s nearby shin; Hodges was now scowling.
Luckily, he was scowling at the buck. “No need to take that tone, m’lord. I’ve found the lady a nice room—I hope I know my duty.”
He shut his ledger with a snap. Turning, he reached for a key hanging with a full score of others on a board behind the counter. To Flick’s consternation, all the gentlemen around her leaned forward, squinting at the board to read the number of her room!
She had, she realized, just saddled herself with a large number of champions, some of whom might be entertaining notions of a reward.
But as the innkeeper turned with a key dangling in his hand, she was too relieved to worry.
“If you’ll just come this way, ma’am?” He waved to the end of the counter, to where a wide staircase led upward. Then he turned to the waiting crowd. “You gentlemen won’t mind biding your time until I get the lady settled.”
It wasn’t a question. Grinning behind her veil, Flick glided to the staircase. Hodges, despite being a resident of Bury St. Edmunds, was clearly up to snuff.
Gillies returned to her side to briefly murmur, “I’ll go find Bletchley.” Then he melted into the ever-increasing crush as the innkeeper joined her.
“This way, ma’am.”
Five minutes later, with a great deal of graciousness and enough care to make her feel slightly guilty, she was installed in the very best chamber the inn possessed. Hodges admitted as much when she exclaimed over the size of the room and the superior quality of the furniture.
With a gruff suggestion that she might prefer to have her dinner on a tray to avoid the crowd downstairs—a suggestion with which she readily agreed—he left her.
Flick blew out a breath, then returned to the door and threw the bolt. Crossing to the bed, she sank down upon it; extracting her pins, she pushed back her hood and veil.
And grinned triumphantly.
She’d done it! On the eve of a prizefight, she’d secured a room
at the most prominent inn.
Now all she needed to do was find Bletchley—and follow him into his masters’ presence.
Leaving Newmarket, Demon headed south, past the racecourse and his stable and on across the empty Heath. As he tickled his leader’s ear, then sent the whip hissing back up its handle, the last glow in the west died. Night came slowly, approaching on silent wings, borne on the shadows that reached over the Heath to enfold the country in darkness. Before him lay his stud farm, with its comfortable parlor and one of Mrs. Shephard’s excellent country dinners.
Between him and supreme comfort lay Hillgate End.
It was awfully late to pay a social call, but even before he’d formulated an excuse, he checked the bays and turned them up the manor’s drive. Flick would be glad he was back early—she could tell him if anything had transpired in his absence. So could Gillies, of course, but he’d rather hear it from Flick. He’d only stay for a minute, just to assure himself all was well.
He brought the curricle to a scrunching halt in the gravel before the steps. A groom or stable lad—he couldn’t see in the gloom—came loping across from the stable.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he called as he strode up the steps. Just long enough to see Flick’s smile—to see her anticipation of tomorrow come alive.
Jacobs opened the door to his knock.
“Good evening, Jacobs.” Crossing the threshold, he drew off his gloves. “Is Miss Parteger about?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” Jacobs closed the door and turned. “She left this afternoon to visit with a friend. I believe she’s expected back tomorrow.”
Demon managed to keep the frown from his face—he knew it showed in his eyes. “A friend.”
“Miss Blackthorn, sir. She and Miss Parteger have been in the way of exchanging visits over the past years.”
“I . . . see.” The proposition that, with Bletchley on the Heath, Flick had abdicated her responsibilities—what she saw as her responsibilities—and had happily gone off to visit a friend, just like any other young lady, was simply too much to swallow. But Jacobs’s easy expression declared that he knew no more; with a curt nod, Demon stepped to the door. “Tell her I called when she returns.”
Jacobs hauled open the door. “And the General?”
Demon hesitated. “Don’t bother him—I’ll call and see him tomorrow.”
He went swiftly down the steps and strode to his curricle, every instinct he possessed flickering, every nerve jangling. Accepting the reins with a distracted nod, he stepped up to the box seat and sat. Raising his hands to give the bays the office, he glanced at the groom.
And froze.
He frowned. “You’re the coachman here, aren’t you?”
The man bobbed his head. “Aye, sir.” He jerked his head toward the stable. “The lads have gone home, so there’s just me and old Henderson.”
“But . . . if you’re here, who’s driving Miss Parteger?”
The man blinked. “Why, your man, sir. Gillies.”
Light dawned—Demon didn’t like what he saw. Jaw setting, he nodded to the coachman. “I see. Thank you.”
He sprang the bays; when he reached the road, he set them flying.
Demon found no joy—no news—waiting for him at the farmhouse. Which, he reasoned, meant Gillies imagined they’d be back before the following evening. That didn’t tell him where they were now—where they were spending this evening—and, more importantly, what they thought they were doing.
More specifically, what Flick thought she was doing—he doubted Gillies was behind this escapade. He had, however, given his henchman strict instructions not to let Flick out of his sight; it appeared Gillies was following those instructions to the letter.
Which was some small comfort.
After checking with the Shephards, who knew nothing, he paused only to consign the bays into the hands of his head stableman before swinging up to Ivan’s back and riding out into the night. Both Hills and Cross lived in cottages north of the Heath—if he had to, he’d track them down, but first he’d check with Dillon.
If something had happened in his absence, it was possible that Flick had sought counsel with Dillon. Whatever had happened might even involve Dillon—he might be the reason Flick had needed a carriage. A host of possible scenarios, none of which he liked, fought for prominence in his mind. He pressed Ivan as fast as he dared over the rough trail to the cottage.
He glimpsed a faint light as he entered the clearing; it disappeared by the time he dismounted.
“It’s me—Demon.”
The glow returned, guiding him through the derelict lean-to and into the cottage proper. Dillon was standing by the table, his hands on the lamp; he looked up, his expression open and eager.
Demon met his eyes. “Where’s Flick?”
Dillon grinned. “She’s off gallivanting after Bletchley.” Dropping into his chair, he waved to a stool. “She’s convinced, this time, that Bletchley’s going to meet with the syndicate.”
Icy fingers clutched Demon’s spine. Ignoring the stool, he halted by the table; blank-faced, he looked down at Dillon. “And what do you think?”
Dillon opened his eyes wide. “This time, she might be right.” He glanced up as Demon’s gloves hit the table; his engaging grin flashed. “A pity you weren’t here, but Flick’ll be there to see—”
A sound like a growl issued from Demon’s throat. He grabbed Dillon by his shirtfront, plucked him out of the chair, shook him like a rat, then took one step and slammed him back against the cottage wall.
The chair crashed, the sound echoing in the stillness. The wall shook.
Wide-eyed, unable to breathe, Dillon stared.
Into Demon’s slitted eyes.
Dillon was only a few inches shorter, but he was a great deal slighter. There was nine years between them, and it was measured in muscle. Demon knew he could crush Dillon’s windpipe with one forearm—from the look in Dillon’s eyes, Dillon knew that, too.
“Where is she?” His words were low, slow and very distinct. “Where is this supposed meeting to take place?”
“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 ca
ught 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.