Within two minutes of haughtily sweeping into Stratton Hall, Flick realized that no amount of tonnish balls and parties could ever have prepared her for Sir Percival’s masquerade.
Two giant blackamoors wearing only loincloths, turbans, and a quantity of gold, each carrying a wicked-looking cutlass, stood guard, arms akimbo, in the front hall, flanking the main doors to the ballroom. Inside the enormous room running the length of the house the scene was similarly exotic. Blue silk flecked with gold stars draped the ceiling; the walls were an Arabian Nights’ dream of silks, brocades and brass ornaments.
Mindful of her disguise, she didn’t pause on the threshold and stare—spine straight, chin tilted at an imperious angle, she stepped straight into the crowd.
In the room’s center, an elaborate fountain splashed; Flick saw guests filling glasses with the water—then realized it was champagne. The fountain was ringed with tables displaying delicacies galore; other tables elsewhere were similarly loaded with the most expensive fare—seafood, pheasant, caviar, quails’ eggs—she even saw a roast peacock stuffed with truffles.
Wine was flowing freely, as were other spirits—the spirits of the guests were rising in response. Nearing the room’s end, she heard a violin, and glimpsed a string quartet playing in the conservatory beyond the ballroom.
There were guests everywhere. Even behind their masks and cloaked in dominos, the women were remarkable—she’d yet to see one who was less than stunning. The men were gentlemen all—she heard it in their accents, invariably refined, and saw it in their clothes—many wore their dominos loose, more like a cloak, in some cases thrown rakishly back over one shoulder.
From the end of the room, Flick circled, searching for Stratton. The long windows giving onto the terrace had been left open to the sultry night. Black clouds raced, roiling across the sky. Thunder rumbled intermittently, but the storm was still some distance away.
“Well, well . . . and what do we have here?”
Flick whirled—and found herself pinned by Stratton’s cold eyes.
“Hmm . . . a woodland sprite, perhaps, come to enliven the evening?” His thin lips curved but there was no warmth in his smile.
His gaze left her face to openly rove over her; Flick quelled a shiver. “I’m searching for a friend.”
A calculating gleam entered Stratton’s eyes. “I’ll be happy to oblige, my dear, once the festivities begin.” He lifted a hand. Flick instinctively recoiled but he was too fast. He caught her chin and tilted her face this way, then that, as if he could see through her mask. He was certainly aware of her resistance; it seemed to please him. Then he released her. “Yes—I’ll keep an eye out for you later.”
Flick didn’t even attempt a smile. Luckily, Stratton’s attention was claimed by some other lady; Flick seized the moment and slipped away.
The swelling crowd was growing restive. Flick plunged into it, purposefully crossing the room, leaving Stratton before the windows. In addition to the main ballroom door, there were three other doors leading into the house. Guests were arriving via the main door; thus far, she’d seen only footmen using the other doors. The masquerade was getting underway—while the noise exceeded that of the usual ton ball, it had yet to reach raucous.
Flick halted midway down the inner wall, with the fountain and its surrounding melee directly between herself and Stratton. He was reasonably tall—she could see him. She hoped he couldn’t see her. From where she stood, she could keep watch on the doors leading into the house—if any meeting was to be held, she doubted it would be convened in the increasingly crowded ballroom.
Until Demon joined her, watching for any sign of a suspicious gathering was the best she could do. Her heart slowing, she relieved the urge to scrub at where Stratton had touched her chin. Settling against the wall, she kept a wary eye on him.
The gathering before her grew increasingly licentious—the guests might be wealthy and well-born, but she was quick to see why masquerades no longer found favor with the grandes dames. Even after spending two nights in Demon’s arms, some of what she saw still shocked her. Luckily, there were rules of some sort. Despite the way some other ladies were behaving, letting gentlemen freely grope beneath their dominos, all the gentlemen present were gentlemen—those who paused to speak with her as she stood quietly by the wall treated her with courtesy, albeit, like Stratton, with a certain predatory intent.
She recognized that intent well enough, but most moved on once she made it clear she was in immediate expectation of being joined by her particular gentleman.
Unfortunately, there were exceptions to every rule. “I say—your gentleman not here yet?” One predatory rogue lounged close. “Just realized you’re still waiting—a pity to waste time, such a pretty little thing like you.”
He reached out and flicked a feather on her mask; Flick swayed back, her frown concealed by the mask.
“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 pr
essing 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 telltale 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 enthusias
m, 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.”