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.
Struggling to coordinate her wits, let alone her limbs, she helped as best she could. If they didn’t reappear in the ballroom soon, Stratton would notice—and start to wonder.
They returned downstairs, Demon holding her close against him. They reentered the ballroom, but didn’t go far—propping his shoulders against the wall, Demon cradled her against him, her cheek against his chest, then bent his head and kissed her. Soothingly, calmingly.
Distractingly. Despite that, as her senses returned, Flick heard catcalls, whistles, suggestions called out—clearly to some exhibition at the room’s center. From the associated sounds, and some of the suggestions, it wasn’t hard to imagine what that exhibition entailed. With Demon’s arms around her, she couldn’t see—she didn’t try to look.
After fifteen or so minutes, when their hearts had slowed to their normal pace, Demon glanced around the room, then looked down at her. “We’ve been seen and duly noted,” he murmured. “Now we can leave.”
They did in short order, their bodies still thrumming, their spirits soaring, the evidence they’d sought for weeks at long last in their possession.
Demon called in Berkeley Square at eight the next morning; Flick was waiting in the front hall, her packed bags at her feet, a glorious smile on her face. Within minutes, they were away, the bays pacing swiftly, Gillies up behind.
“You were right about your mother stopping her scolding when I told her we’d rely on her and Helena to make all the wedding arrangements.”
Demon snorted. “That was a foregone conclusion—she could hardly scold while in alt. It’s her dream come true—to organize a wedding.”
“I’m only glad, after all her worrying, that we could leave her so happy.”
Demon merely snorted—distinctly unfilially—again.
Two minutes later, in a quiet street, he drew in to the curb, tossed the reins to Gillies, and jumped down. Flick looked around. “What? . . .
Demon impatiently waved her to him; she shuffled along the seat and he lifted her down. “I want to show you something.” Taking her hand, he led her up the steps of the nearest house—a gentleman’s residence with a portico held aloft by two columns. In the portico, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, selected one, opened the front door, and pushed it wide. With an elegant bow, he waved her in, merely lifting his brows at her questioning look.
Wondering, Flick entered a pleasant rectangular hall—from the echoes and absence of furniture it was apparent the house stood empty. Pausing in the middle of the hall, she turned and raised her brows.
Demon waved her on. “Look around.”
She did, starting with the reception rooms opening from the front hall, then on up the stairs, going faster and faster as excitement gripped her. The pleasant, welcoming aura that hung in the hall recurred throughout the rooms, all airy and gracious, the morning sun streaming in throug
h large windows. The master bedroom was large, the other bedrooms more than adequate; she eventually reached the nursery, under the eaves.
“Oh! This is wonderful!” She darted down the corridor that led to the small bedrooms, then crossed to peek into the nanny’s domain. Then, her heart swelling so much she thought it would burst, she turned and looked at Demon, lounging, all rakish elegance, in the doorway, watching her. She met his gaze, smiling but watchful.
He studied her face, then raised one brow. “Do you like it?”
Flick let her heart fill her eyes; her smile was ecstatic. “It’s wonderful—perfect!” Reining in her excitement, she asked, “How much is it? Could we possibly? . . .”
His slow smile warmed her. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he held up the keys. “It’s ours—we’ll live here while in town.”
“Oh!” Flick flew at him, hugged him wildly, kissed him soundly—then raced off again. She didn’t need further explanation—this would be their home—this the nursery they would fill with their children. After the last weeks, she knew family was a vital part of him, the central concept around which he was focused. Even if he didn’t know it, she did—this, from him, was the ultimate declaration—she needed no further vows. This—the home, the family—would be theirs.
Demon grinned and watched her. He still found her joy deeply refreshing, her open delight infectious. As he trailed her once more through the house, he wryly admitted he could now understand why so many generations of his forebears had found pleasure in indulging their wives.
That had been an abiding mystery before—it no longer was. He—Demon by name, demon by nature—had been vanquished by an angel. He no longer viewed her as innocent and youthful in the sense of being less able than he. After last night, he knew she could match him in any venture, any challenge. She was the wife for him.
And so here he was, trailing in her wake. She led—he followed, with his hand oh-so-lightly on her reins. What he’d found with her he’d found with no other—she was his and he was hers, and that was how it had to be. It was that simple. This was love—he was long past denying it.
Regaining the drawing room, she stopped at its center. “We’ll have to shop for furniture.”
Demon quelled a shudder. He followed her in, slid one arm around her waist, drew her against him, paused for one instant to watch the sudden flaring of awareness in her eyes, then kissed her.
She sank into his embrace; he tightened it about her. The kiss deepened—and they said all they needed with their lips, their bodies, their hearts. For one long moment, they clung, then he lifted his head.
The evidence he carried in his pocket crackled.
His chest swelled as he drew in a breath; she looked up—he met her eyes. “Let’s take these to Newmarket.” So they could get on with the rest of their lives.
She nodded briskly. They disengaged, straightened their clothes, then hurried out to the curricle.
By ten o’clock, they were bowling northward, the enclosed spaces of London far behind. Joyfully, Flick breathed deep, then turned her face to the sun. “We’ll have to go to Hillgate End first—to tell the General and Dillon.”
“I’ll drive to the farm. We can leave your things there for the moment, ride to the cottage and collect Dillon, ride on to the manor and tell the General, then go straight on to the Jockey Club. I want to get that information before the Committee as soon as possible.” His face hardened; he reached for the whip.
Flick wondered if his grim urgency stemmed from concern for the industry he’d so long been a part of, or from the nebulous feeling that they hadn’t, yet, defeated Stratton. That feeling hadn’t left her since Stratton had walked in on them last night—like a specter, it hovered at her shoulder, growing blacker, weightier. As they rounded a curve, she looked back, but there was no one there.
They drove through Newmarket in the early afternoon and headed straight for the farm. While Demon organized their horses, Flick hurried upstairs and changed into her riding habit. In less than half an hour, they were riding into the clearing behind the ruined cottage.
“It’s us, Dillon,” Flick called as she slid from the saddle. “Me and Demon. We’re back!”
Her excitement rang in her voice. Dillon appeared through the lean-to, struggling to contain the hope lightening his haggard features.
One glance was enough to tell Demon that Dillon had changed—somewhere, somehow, he’d found some backbone. He said nothing, however, but joined Flick as she headed for the cottage.
Even before she reached him, Dillon stiffened. Demon had never seen him stand so tall, so determined. Fists clenched at his sides, he met Flick’s gaze directly. “I’ve been to see the General.”
She blinked and stopped before him. “You have?”
“I told him all about it—the whole story—so you don’t need to lie for me—cover up for me—any more. I should have done that at the start.”
He looked Demon straight in the eyes. “Papa and I decided to wait until tomorrow in case you found anything, but we’ll be going to see the Committee regardless.”
Demon met his eyes and nodded, his approval sincere.
“But we have found something.” Flick gripped Dillon’s arm. “We’ve learned who the syndicate is and we’ve enough proof to show the Committee!”
One hand at her back, Demon urged her in. “Let’s take our revelations indoors.”
Neither Dillon nor Flick argued. If they had, Demon couldn’t have explained who he thought might overhear. But he was edgy, and had been since he’d looked into Stratton’s cold eyes the previous evening.
That Stratton had noticed them the instant they’d regained the ballroom had him worried. Stratton was known as cold and detached—he might well prove a formidable enemy. If there had been any way to safely leave Flick somewhere well out of the action, he’d have snatched the opportunity. But there wasn’t. That being so, the safest place for her was with him.
In the cottage, Dillon faced them. “I’ve written a detailed account of my involvement, first to last—just the bare facts.” He looked grim. “It’s hardly pleasant reading, but at least it’s honest.”
Flick smiled. Her inner happiness radiated from her, all but lighting up the cottage. She laid a hand on Dillon’s arm. “We’ve proof of the syndicate.”
Dillon looked at her, then at Demon; his expression said he hardly dared hope. “Who are they?”
“Not they—that was our error. It’s a syndicate of one.” Briefly, Demon explained. “I have to hand it to him—his execution was almost flawless. Only his greed—the fact he fixed too many races—brought the scheme to light. If he’d been content with the money from one or two major races a year . . .” He shrugged. “But Stratton’s lifestyle calls for rather more blunt than that.”
Reaching into his pocket, Demon drew out their evidence. “This was the key.” He smoothed out a sheet on the table. Flick hadn’t seen it before; together with Dillon, she crowded close.
“I gathered all the details I could about the betting on the fixed races, and my agent, Montague, worked out the amounts cleared from each one. He’s a wizard. If he hadn’t got it right—very close to exact—I would never have recognized the figures in Stratton’s ledger.”
Unfolding the sheets he’d torn from Stratton’s account book, Demon laid them alongside Montague’s sheet. “See?” Tapping various figures in Stratton’s income column, he pointed to similar figures on the other sheet. “The dates match, too.” Both Dillon and Flick glanced from one sheet to the others, nodding as they took it in.
“Can we prove these are Stratton’s accounts?” Dillon looked up.
Demon pointed to certain entries in the expenditure column. “These purchases of a phaeton, and here the pair to go with it—and even more these—lost wagers paid to gentlemen of the ton—can be proved to have been Stratton. With virtually the exact money from the races listed as income on the same pages, it’s hard to argue any case other than it was Stratton behind the r
ace-fixing. These”—he gestured to the papers—“are all the evidence we need.”
Heeeee—crash!
With a tearing scream, the main door flew in, kicked off its rusting hinges to slam down on the floor. The whole cottage shook. Demon grabbed Flick as they backed up, eyes watering, coughing as dust reared and washed over them.
“How exceedingly foolish of you.”
The words, clipped, precise and totally devoid of all feeling, came from the man silhouetted in the doorway. The bright sunlight outside haloed him; they couldn’t see his features. Flick and Demon recognized him instantly.
Eyes on the long barrelled pistol in Stratton’s right hand, Demon tried to push Flick behind him. Unfortunately, they’d backed up against the hearth with its low chimney coping.
“Just remain where you are.” Stratton stepped over the threshold. He barely glanced at the papers lying scattered on the table, evidence enough to put him in Newgate, a long way from the luxury to which he was accustomed.
Demon tensed, praying Stratton would look at the papers—take his eye off him just for an instant . . .
Stratton hesitated, but didn’t. “You’ve been far too clever. Much too clever for your own good. If I didn’t have such a suspicious nature, you might even have succeeded, but I checked my ledger at four o’clock this morning. By six, I was on the road to Newmarket. I knew you wouldn’t dally. It was just a matter of time before you appeared.”
“And if we’d gone directly to the Jockey Club?”
“That,” Stratton admitted, “would have been exceedingly messy. Luckily, you drove straight through. It was easy to follow you on horseback. Equally easy to guess that, if I was patient, you’d lead me to the one player still eluding me.” He inclined his head toward Dillon, but the pistol, aimed directly at Flick’s chest, didn’t waver. He studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Such a pity, but after that little exposition, I fear I’ll have to make away with you all.”