A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her eyes locked on his, she nodded. “Yes—I think I’d like that.”

  He smiled. “Good. I’ll drive you up tomorrow.”

  “How on earth did that happen?”

  Early the next morning, already on the road to London, drawn thence by Demon’s powerful bays, Flick swivelled on the curricle’s seat and glanced back at Gillies, perched behind. “I thought you were following him?”

  Gillies looked pained; Demon answered. “We thought Bletchley was planning to take one of the special coaches back to London from Bury—Gillies heard him asking where to catch them. After watching Bletchley throughout the fight—and learning nothing—at the end, Gillies, quite reasonably, moved to the gate leading back to Bury and waited for Bletchley to pass him. He never did.”

  “Oh?” Flick glanced back at Gillies.

  He grimaced. “He must have caught a ride on some cart back to Newmarket.”

  “And then hired a horse and, bold as you please, came cantering up the manor drive.” Demon set his teeth. That had been too close for his liking—luckily, Bletchley had not seen Flick, nor she, him.

  Flick sat back. “I nearly dropped a vase when Jacobs mentioned he’d called, asking after Dillon.”

  “Thankfully, Jacobs sent him on his way.” Demon eased the bays past a farm cart, then let the reins run free. “Bletchley returned to the Rutland Arms and caught the evening mail to London.”

  “So we’ve lost him.”

  He glanced at Flick, relieved to see nothing more than a frown on her face. “For the moment. But we’ll come up with him again, never fear.”

  “London’s very big.”

  “True, but it’s possible to keep watch on the likely places Bletchley might meet with a group of gentlemen. The classes don’t mix freely at all that many venues. Limmers, Tattersalls, and a few other, less savory haunts.”

  “Still, isn’t it like looking for the proverbial needle?”

  Demon hesitated, then grimaced. “There might be another way to identify likely members of the syndicate independent of any meeting, which should make it easier, if a meeting does occur, to track someone to it—and so identify all the syndicate.”

  “Another way?”

  Flick’s eyes were firmly fixed on his face. With his gaze on his speeding horses, he outlined his discussions with Heathcote Montague, and what they hoped to discover.

  At the end of his explanation, Flick sat back. “Good. So we haven’t given up on helping Dillon—it’s just that our investigations have changed direction.”

  “Speaking of Dillon, does he know you’ve left Newmarket?”

  “I sent a message with Jiggs—I told him to tell Dillon that we had to follow up clues in London, that I didn’t know when we’d be back, but that he should stay in hiding until we returned. I promised I’d write and tell him what we discover. Jiggs will deliver my letters.”

  Demon nodded. If nothing else, he’d distanced her from Dillon—while in London, she could concentrate on him, and herself. He was certain his mother would encourage her in that endeavor, while at the same time helpfully denying Flick—a young lady in her charge—the license she would need to pursue Bletchley, the syndicate, or any other villain. Despite the fact both Bletchley and the syndicate were in London, he felt perfectly sanguine about taking Flick there.

  As for the danger posed by Lord Selbourne, that was, at least temporarily, in abeyance; his lordship had gone directly into Norfolk to visit with his sister.

  The curricle sped south through the bright morning, wheels rolling smoothly along the macadam. Despite losing Bletchley, despite having to revise his plans to accommodate a certain angel’s stubbornness, Demon felt in remarkable charity with the world. Their current direction felt right—this was obviously the way to get Flick to say yes. She was, beyond question, already his, but if they had to go through a formal wooing, he was content to remove to London. It was, after all, his home ground. He was looking forward to showing her about—showing her off. Her bright-eyed innocence continued to delight him; through her eyes, he saw aspects of his world he’d long considered boring in an entirely new light.

  He slanted a glance at her; the breeze was tugging at her curls, setting her bonnet ribbons twirling. Her eyes were wide, her gaze fixed ahead; her lips, delicate rose, were full, lush, lightly curved. She looked good enough to eat.

  Abruptly, he looked ahead, the memory of the taste of her flooding him. Gritting his teeth, he willed the distraction away. He was going to have to keep his demons caged for the foreseeable future—there was no sense in teasing and taunting them. That was the one drawback in placing Flick under his mother’s wing—she would be safe from all others, but also safe from him.

  Even should she wish otherwise, which was an intriguing, potentially helpful, notion. Mulling over the possibility, he sent his whip out to tickle his leader’s ear and urge his horses on.

  Beside him, Flick watched the countryside roll past with a keen and eager eye. Anticipation grew with every mile—it was hard to preserve a proper calm. Soon they would reach London; soon, she would see Demon in his other milieu, his other guise. She knew he was considered a rake extraordinaire, yet, until now, her knowledge of him had been restricted to Demon in the country; she had a shrewd notion his tonnish persona would be different from the one she knew. As the miles sped past, she spent the time imagining, envisioning a more graceful, more elegant, more potent presence—the glittering glamor he would assume when in society, a cloak donned over his true character, all the traits so familiar to her.

  She couldn’t wait to see it.

  Despite losing Bletchley, it was impossible to remain sober. Her mood was buoyant, her heart light—she was looking forward to life in a completely new way—facing in a completely unlooked-for direction.

  Marriage to Demon—it was a dizzying thought, a dream she had never dared dream. And now she was committed to the enterprise—totally and absolutely. Not that she entertained any doubts about success. In her present mood, that was impossible.

  From all she’d heard of London, it would provide the setting—one with the best opportunities—for her to encourage Demon to give her his heart. Then all would be perfect, and her dream would come true.

  She sat beside him with barely concealed impatience, waiting for London to appear.

  When it did, she blinked. And wrinkled her nose. And winced at the raucous cries. The streets were packed with carriages of every description, the pavements teeming. She had never imagined such close-packed humanity—fresh from the broad plain of Newmarket Heath, she found it disturbing. She felt hemmed in on every side with the sheer weight of humankind. And the noise. And the squalor. And the urchins—everywhere.

  She’d lived in London for only a short time before, with her aunt at her London house. She couldn’t remember any sights such as those she now saw, but it had, after all, been a long time ago. As Demon concentrated on his horses, deftly tacking through the traffic, she edged closer until she could feel the warmth of his body through her pelisse.

  To her relief, the fashionable areas were more as she recalled—quiet streets lined with elegant houses, neat squares with fenced gardens at their centers. Indeed, this part of London was better, neater, more beautiful than her memories. Her aunt had lived in Bloomsbury, which was not nearly as fashionable as Berkeley Square, which was where Demon took her.

  He reined in the bays before a large mansion, as imposing as the most imposing she’d seen. As Gillies took the reins and Demon stepped down, Flick stared up at the three-storeyed facade and suddenly knew what “being not quite up to snuff” felt like.

  Then Demon took her hand; stilling her fears, she shuffled along the seat and let him hand her to the ground. Clutching her parasol’s handle tightly, she took his profferred arm, and climbed the steps beside him.

  If the house was imposing, slightly scarifying, the butler, Highthorpe, was worse. He opened the door to Demon’s knock and looked down his beaked nose at her.

&
nbsp; “Ah, Highthorpe—how’s the leg?” With an affectionate smile at the butler, Demon handed Flick over the threshold. “Is her ladyship in?”

  “My leg is quite improved, thank you, sir.” Holding the door wider, Highthorpe bowed deferentially; he closed it after them, and turned, his starchy demeanor somewhat softer. “Her ladyship, I believe, is in her sanctuary.”

  Demon’s smile deepened. “This is Miss Parteger, Highthorpe. She’ll be staying with Mama for the nonce. Gillies will bring her bags around.”

  It might have been a trick of the light beaming through the fanlight, yet Flick could have sworn a gleam of interest flashed in Highthorpe’s eyes. He smiled as he bowed again to her. “Miss. I’ll mention to Mrs. Helmsley to prepare a room for you at once—I’ll have your bags taken there. No doubt you’ll wish to refresh yourself after your journey.”

  “Thank you.” Flick smiled back—Highthorpe suddenly sounded much more comfortable. Demon drew her on.

  “I’ll leave you in the drawing room while I fetch Mama.” He opened a door and ushered her inside.

  One glance about the elegant blue-and-white room had her turning back to him. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I could always stay with my aunt—”

  “Mama will be delighted to meet you.” He made the statement as if she hadn’t spoken. “I won’t be above a few minutes.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him. Flick stared at the white painted panels—he didn’t come back in. Sighing, she looked around.

  She considered the white damask settee, then looked down at her plain, definitely old, outmoded pelisse. Putting one in contact with the other seemed like sacrilege. So she stayed on her feet and shook out her skirts, trying vainly to rearrange them to hide the creases. What would Lady Horatia—the lady who presided over such a well-appointed drawing room—think of her in her far-from-elegant attire?

  The point proved academic.

  The latch clicked, the door swung wide, and a tall, commandingly elegant lady swept in.

  And descended on her, a huge smile on her face, her eyes alight with a welcome Flick could not imagine what she’d done to deserve. But there was no mistaking the warmth with which Lady Horatia embraced her.

  “My dear!” Touching a scented cheek to hers, Lady Horatia straightened and held her at arms’ length, not to inspect her dowdy pelisse but to look into her face. “I’m so very delighted to meet you, and to welcome you to this house. Indeed”—she shot a glance at Demon—“I understand it will be my pleasure to introduce you to the ton.” Looking back at Flick, Lady Horatia beamed. “I couldn’t be more delighted!”

  Flick smiled warmly, gratefully.

  Lady Horatia’s smile deepened; her blue eyes, very like Demon’s, twinkled expressively. “Now we can send Harry away and get acquainted.”

  Flick blinked, then realized, as Lady Horatia turned to Demon, that she was referring to him.

  “You may come back for dinner.” Lady Horatia raised a brow—the gesture appeared haughtily teasing. “I presume you are free?”

  Demon—Harry—merely smiled. “Of course.” He looked at Flick. “I’ll see you at seven.” With a nod for her and another for his mother, he turned and strolled to the door; it shut softly behind him.

  “Well!” Lady Horatia turned to Flick, and smiled exultantly. “At last!”

  Chapter 15

  Despite their languid elegance, when Cynsters acted, things happened in a rush. After luncheon, Horatia whisked Flick into her carriage, off to a family afternoon tea.

  “Grosvenor Square’s not far,” Horatia assured her. “And Helena is going to be as delighted as I to meet you.”

  “Helena?” Flick sifted through the names Horatia had mentioned over luncheon.

  “My sister-in-law. Mother of Sylvester, better known as Devil, now Duke of St. Ives. Helena is the Dowager. She and I only had sons—she, Sylvester and Richard, me, Vane and Harry. Sylvester, Richard and Vane are all married—” Horatia glanced at Flick. “Didn’t Harry tell you?”

  Flick shook her head; Horatia grimaced. “He always was one to ignore details. So—” Horatia settled back; Flick dutifully paid attention. “Sylvester married Honoria Anstruther-Wetherby over a year ago. Sebastian, their son, is eight months old. Honoria’s increasing again, so while they’ll doubtless come to town for the Season proper, the ducal couple are presently in Cambridgeshire.

  “Which brings us to Vane. He married Patience Debbington last November. Patience is increasing, too, so we don’t expect to see them for a few weeks, either. As for Richard, he married quite unexpectedly in Scotland before Christmas. There was a spot of bother—Sylvester, Honoria, Vane, Patience and Helena—and a few others—went north, but all seems to have settled comfortably and Helena is in alt at the prospect of more grandchildren.

  “However,” Horatia declared, reaching her peroration, “as neither Honoria nor Patience, nor Richard’s Catriona, were young misses in need of help and guidance, neither Helena nor I have ever had a young lady to fuss over.” Eyes bright, she patted Flick’s hand. “So I’m afraid, my dear, that you’ll have to put up with the two of us fussing over you—you’re our last chance in that arena, you see.”

  Flick smiled spontaneously. “On the contrary, I would be glad of your help.” Her gaze drifted over the fashionable ladies and gentlemen strolling the pavements. “I’ve no real idea how one should go on in London.” She looked down at her pretty but definitely not chic gown, blushed slightly, and caught Horatia’s eye. “Please do hint me in the right direction—I would be very unhappy to be an embarrassment to you and D—Harry.”

  “Nonsense.” Horatia squeezed Flick’s hand fondly. “I doubt you could embarrass me if you tried.” Her eyes twinkled. “And certainly not my son.” Flick blushed; Horatia chuckled. “With a little guidance, a little experience, and a little town bronze, you’ll do very well.” Grateful for the reassurance, Flick sat back and wondered how to broach the question uppermost in her mind. Horatia clearly viewed her as a future daughter-in-law, which was what she hoped to be. But she hadn’t yet accepted Demon, and wouldn’t, not until Drawing a determined breath, she looked at Horatia. “Did D—Harry explain that I haven’t agreed . . .”

  “Oh, indeed. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you had the wit not to accept him straightaway.” Horatia frowned disapprovingly. “These things should take time—time enough to organize a proper wedding, at least. Unfortunately, that’s not the way they see it.” Her tone made it clear she was speaking of the males of the family. “If it’s left to them, they’ll sweep you past a cleric and into bed with the barest ‘by-your-leave!’ ”

  Flick choked; misinterpreting, Horatia patted her hand. “I know you won’t mind my plain speaking—you’re old enough to understand these things.” Flick went to nod and stopped herself; her blush was because she did know, and appreciated Horatia’s insight—that was certainly how Demon had imagined it. Only, being him, he’d transposed the cleric and the bed. “I think time—at least a little time—is a necessity in this case.”

  “Good!” The carriage rocked, then halted; Horatia looked up. “Ah—here we are.” The groom opened the door and let down the steps, then handed Flick, then his mistress, to the pavement. Horatia nodded at the magnificent mansion reached by a sweeping set of steps. “St. Ives House.”

  The afternoon had turned gloriously fine—tables, chairs and chaises were set out on the lawn of the enclosed gardens. At Lady Horatia’s side, Flick left the house, stepping past the deferential butler and onto the terrace. She saw a small host of well-dressed ladies, ranging in age from very old to a girl barely out of the schoolroom, congregating on the lawn.

  There was not a gentleman in sight.

  Parasols dipped and swayed above smart coiffures, protecting delicate complexions. Other ladies simply sat back, glorying in the weak sunshine, smiling, laughing and chatting. While substantial, the noise was not overpowering—indeed, it subtly beckoned. There was a gaiety, a relaxed sens
e of ease pervading the group, unexpected in conjunction with its blatantly tonnish air. This wasn’t fashion and brittle frivolity—this was a fashionable family gathering; the distinction was clear.

  The large number of guests was a surprise; Horatia had assured her she would meet only family members and a few close connections. Before she managed to fully grasp the reality, a beautiful older woman came sweeping up to meet them as they descended the steps to the lawn.

  “ ’Oratia!” The Dowager exchanged kisses with her sister-in-law, but her gaze had already moved on to Flick. “And who is this?” A glorious smile and bright eyes softened the abrupt query.

  “Allow me to present Miss Felicity Parteger—Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, my dear.”

  Flick curtsied deeply. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

  As she straightened, Helena took her hand, directing an arrested, inquiring glance at Horatia.

  “Felicity is Gordon Caxton’s ward.”

  With one blink, Helena had the reference pegged. “Ah—the good General.” She smiled at Flick. “Is he well?”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

  With the air of one who could contain herself no longer, Horatia broke in, “Harry brought Felicity up to town. She’ll be staying with us in Berkeley Square, and I’ll be taking her into society.”

  Helena’s gaze flew to Horatia’s face; her smile deepened, and deepened. Looking again at Flick, she positively beamed. “My dear, I am so very glad to meet you!”

  Before Flick could blink, the Dowager embraced her enthusiastically, then, one arm about her waist, bustled her down the lawn. With a Gallic charm impossible to resist, the Dowager introduced her to her sisters-in-law first, then the older ladies, and eventually the younger ones, two of whom, clearly twins, were adjured to ensure Flick wanted for nothing, including help with names and relationships.

  The pair were the most ravishing blonde beauties Flick had ever seen. They had skin like alabaster, eyes like cornflower pools and a wealth of ringlets almost as golden as her own. She expected them to hang back—they might be younger than she, but she was definitely not in their social league. To her surprise, they smiled at her delightedly—every bit as delightedly as their mother and aunts had—and swooped forward to link arms with her.