A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  As he left her room in a rush, flitting through the corridors like a thief to slip out of the side door before any maid caught sight of him, Demon swore on his soul that he’d never again underestimate an angel.

  His morning was busy, but he was back in Berkeley Square by eleven, confident that now the Season was in full swing, his mother would not yet be down. As he’d requested before he’d left, Flick was waiting—she came gliding down the stairs as Highthorpe opened the door.

  The light in her eyes, that glow in her face, took his breath away. As she crossed the hall toward him, the sun shone through the fanlight full upon her—it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. If Highthorpe hadn’t been standing in silent majesty beside him, he would have.

  Flick seemed to sense his thoughts; the glance she shot him as she glided straight past and out of the door was designed to torment.

  “We’ll be back late in the afternoon.” Demon threw the comment back at Highthorpe as he followed her down the steps. He caught her on the pavement and lifted her into his curricle.

  Flick glanced at the empty pillion. “No Gillies?”

  “He’s off visiting his peers all over town.” Retrieving the reins and rewarding the urchin who’d held them, Demon joined her; he set the bays pacing smartly. “I spoke to Montague—we’ve people everywhere. Now we know where to look, we’ll find Bletchley. And his masters.” He took a corner in style. “And not before time.”

  Flick glanced at him. “I had wondered . . .” The Spring Carnival was next week. Demon grimaced. “I should have gone back and seen the Committee this week, but . . . I kept hoping we’d find something—at least one link, one fact, to support Dillon’s story. As things stand, we should locate Bletchley by tomorrow evening at the latest—if he’s anywhere within the ton, he won’t be able to hide. As soon as we have any further information, I’ll go back to Newmarket—at the very latest, on Sunday.” He glanced at Flick. “Will you come with me?”

  She blinked and opened her eyes wide. “Of course.”

  Suppressing a grin, he looked to his horses. “We haven’t found any trace of the money—not anywhere—which is odd. We now think it has to be moving through the ton as wagers and overt expenditure. But no one’s been throwing large sums around unexpectedly.”

  He flicked the reins; the bays stretched their legs. As they passed the gates of the park, he added, “I’d assumed the syndicate was too clever to use their own servants, but it’s possible that, when both Dillon and Ickley declined to provide the necessary services so close to the Spring Carnival, they had no choice but to send someone already to hand—someone they trusted.”

  “So Bletchley’s gentleman might be a member of the syndicate?”

  “Possibly. Bletchley’s a pawn, but he may still be being used at a distance. As a gentleman’s groom, he’d have plenty of opportunity to meet with other gentlemen—just a word here and there wouldn’t register as odd. There’d be no need for formal meetings.”

  Flick nodded. “I’ll write to Dillon and tell him we’ll be back by Sunday.” Relief rang in her tone. A moment later, she realized her surroundings weren’t familiar. “Where are we going?”

  Demon glanced at her. “There’s a sale at Tattersalls—carriage horses mostly. A pair of high-steppers I wouldn’t mind picking up. I thought you might like to watch.”

  “Oh, yes! Tattersalls! I’ve heard so much about it, but I’ve never been there. Where is it?”

  Her continuing eager queries left Demon in no doubt that he’d discovered the one woman in all England who would rather watch a horse auction than stroll down Bond Street. When, incapable of hiding his appreciation, he said as much, Flick blinked at him in blank bemusement.

  “Well, of course—don’t be ridiculous. These are horses!”

  By mutual agreement, he bid on a pair of sweet-tempered, high-stepping greys, rather too finely boned for his taste—he didn’t tell Flick they were for her. When they were knocked down to him, she was absolutely thrilled—she spent the time while he arranged to have them delivered to Newmarket making their acquaintance. He all but had to drag her away.

  “Come on, or we’ll never make it to Richmond.”

  “Richmond?” Consenting at last to let him lead her from the yard, she stared at him. “Why there?”

  He looked down into her eyes. “So I can have you to myself.” He did, throughout a glorious day filled with simple pleasures, simple delights. They went first to the Star and Garter on the hill, to partake of a light luncheon. Settling her skirts at a table for two by a window overlooking the parklands, Flick noted that the other diners were definitely noticing them. She raised a brow at Demon. “Shouldn’t we have some sort of chaperon for this type of outing?” Her tone was merely curious, certainly not complaining.

  He met her gaze, then reached into his pocket. “I took this to the Gazette—it’ll be run tomorrow.” He handed her a slip of paper. “I didn’t think you’d object.”

  Flick smoothed out the slip, read the words upon it, then smiled. “No—of course not.” Refolding it, she handed the paper back—it contained a brief statement of their engagement. “So does that mean we can go about alone without trampling on society’s toes?”

  “Yes, thank heaven.” After a moment, he amended, “Well, within reason.”

  Reason included a long ramble in the park, under the huge oaks and beeches. They fed the deer, then, hands locked, ambled on through the sunshine. They walked and talked—not of Dillon and the syndicate, or society—but of their plans, their hopes, their aspirations for the shared life before them. They laughed and teased—and shared brief, stolen, tantalizing kisses, screened by the trees. Those kisses left them trembling, suddenly too aware; in unstated accord, they turned back to the carriage and their talk turned to their wedding, and when it was to be.

  As soon as possible was their unanimous decision.

  As Demon had expected, his mother was waiting when they returned to Berkeley Square.

  “Her ladyship is in the upstairs parlor,” Highthorpe intoned. “She wished to see you immediately you returned, sir.”

  “Thank you, Highthorpe.” Still smiling, Demon ignored Flick’s questioning look; taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.

  Reaching Horatia’s private parlor, he knocked, then opened the door and sauntered through, towing Flick behind him.

  Horatia, head already raised, fixed him with a look so severe—so filled with menacing portent—he should have been struck to stone.

  Demon grinned. “How long does it take to arrange a wedding?”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Flick went for a drive in the park with Horatia and Helena. The notice of her engagement to Demon had appeared that morning; Horatia was in alt. Indeed, she’d been so happy and excited on their behalf last night that they’d cancelled their evening’s plans and dined unfashionably en famille so they could discuss their impending nuptials. As Demon’s only stipulation was that it had to be soon, and she had nothing more to add, Horatia was beside herself with plans.

  Naturally, Helena had been immediately informed—she’d appeared in Berkeley Square for breakfast, ready to join in the fun. She was presently seated in the carriage beside Horatia; both were regally dispensing information to the senior matrons of the ton, all of whom made a point of stopping by the carriage to comment, and compliment, and graciously bestow their approval.

  Flick sat back, endeavored to look pretty, and smilingly accepted the ladies’ good wishes. According to Helena and Horatia, that was all she was required to do.

  Thus mildly occupied, Flick scanned the scene and wondered if Demon would appear. She doubted it—he didn’t seem enamored of this facet of the ton. Indeed, she’d got the distinct impression that as soon as they were wed, he intended to whisk her back to Newmarket, to his farmhouse, and keep her there for the foreseeable future.

  That plan met with her complete approval.

  Lips quirking, sh
e glanced at the carriageway, at the high-perch phaeton bowling smoothly toward them along the Avenue. The horses caught her eye; she viewed the high-stepping blacks with educated appreciation, then glanced at the carriage—spanking new, black picked out with gold—not showy but exceedingly elegant.

  Idly wondering, she lifted her gaze to the gentleman holding the reins, but she didn’t know him. He was older than Demon, brown hair curling tightly above a face that was startling in its cold handsomeness. His features were classical—a wide brow and patrician nose set between thin cheeks; his skin was very white. His eyes were cold under their heavy lids; his thin mouth was unsmiling. Overall, his expression was of overweening arrogance, as if even those blue bloods lining the Avenue were beneath his notice.

  Flick mentally raised her brows as the equipage swept past; she was about to look away when her gaze touched the liveried groom up behind. Bletchley!

  Flick turned to Horatia. “Who is that gentleman—the one who just drove past?”

  Horatia looked. “Sir Percival Stratton.” She waved dismissively. “Very definitely not one of our circle.” She returned to Lady Hastings.

  Flick smiled at her ladyship, but behind her demure facade, her mind raced. Sir Percival Stratton—she remembered the name. It took her a moment to recall from where—an invitation sent to Vane Cynster’s house, redirected to his parents as Vane and Patience were still in Kent.

  Sir Percival was giving a masquerade that evening.

  Flick could barely contain her impatience. The instant she and her two soon-to-be relatives regained the Cynster front hall, she excused herself and quickly climbed the stairs—then rushed to reach the parlor ahead of Horatia and Helena. Quickly shutting the door, she raced to the mantelpiece and rifled through the pile of cards set on its end. She’d been helping Horatia answer the invitations; she’d seen Sir Percival’s while sorting the cards one morning, and put it with the others for Vane and Patience. Finding it, she tucked it into the folds of her shawl, then sank down on a chair as the door opened and Helena and Horatia swept in. Flick smiled. “I thought, after all, that I might join you for tea.”

  She did, then excused herself, saying she would rest. Helena would soon leave, then Horatia would rest, too. They all had a full evening of engagements—a dinner and two balls.

  That gave her a few hours in which to think what to do.

  On the window seat in her bedchamber, she studied the heavy white card, inscribed with bold, black lettering. The invitation was addressed to Mr. Cynster, not Mr. and Mrs. Cynster; Sir Percival must not have realized that Vane had married. Sir Percival’s masquerade was to commence at eight o’clock. Unfortunately, it was to be held at Stratton Hall, at Twickenham.

  Twickenham was beyond Richmond, which meant it would take hours to get there.

  Jaw firming, Flick jumped up, crossed to the bellpull, and sent a footman in search of Demon.

  The footman returned, not with Demon but Gillies. He joined Flick in the back parlor.

  “Where’s Demon?” she asked baldly the instant the door shut behind the footman.

  Gillies shrugged. “He was meeting with Montague, and then had some business in the city—he didn’t say where.”

  Flick mentally cursed and fell to pacing. “We’re due at a dinner at eight.” Which meant there was no reason Demon would hurry home before six. She shot a glance at Gillies. “How long will it take for a carriage to travel from here to Twickenham?”

  “Two and a half, perhaps three hours.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She paced back, then forth, then halted and faced Gillies. “I’ve found Bletchley. But . . .” Quickly, she filled him in. “So you see, it’s absolutely imperative that one of us is there from the start, in case the syndicate decide to meet. Well”—she gestured—“a masquerade—what more perfect venue for a quiet meeting on the side? And even if the syndicate don’t meet, it’s vital we move quickly—we’ll need to search Stratton’s house for evidence and this is the perfect way to gain entry, the perfect opportunity to poke around.”

  When Gillies simply stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears, she folded her arms and fixed him with a stern look. “As there’s no way of knowing when Demon will return, we’ll have to leave a message and go on ahead. One of us must be there from the start.” She glanced at the mantel clock—it was already after four. “I wish to leave promptly at five. Can you arrange for a carriage?”

  Gillies looked pained. “You sure you wouldn’t like to reconsider? He’s not going to like you hying off on your own.”

  “Rubbish! It’s just a masquerade, and he’ll follow soon enough.”

  “But—”

  “If you won’t drive me, I’ll take a hackney.”

  Gillies heaved a put-upon sigh. “All right, all right.”

  “Can you get a carriage?”

  “I’ll borrow her ladyship’s second carriage—that’s easy enough.”

  “Good.” Flick considered, then added, “Leave a note saying where we’ve gone and why in Albemarle Street—I’ll leave one here, too. One for Demon, and another for Lady Horatia. That should make all smooth.”

  Gillies’s expression was the epitome of doubtful, but he bowed and left her.

  Gillies returned driving Lady Horatia’s second carriage, a small, black, restrained affair; he handed Flick into its dimness at just after five o’clock.

  Settling back, Flick mentally nodded. Everything was going according to plan. By the time she’d convinced Gillies and returned upstairs, her little maid had returned from the attics with a full black domino and a wonderful, fanciful, feathered black mask. Both were now lying on the seat beside her. The evening was warm, heavy clouds hanging oppressively low. She would don her disguise when they reached Stratton Hall; she was sure no one would see through it.

  Indeed, the mask looked quite nice on her, the black heightening the gold of her hair. She grinned. Despite the seriousness of what she was doing, of the syndicate and the danger, she felt a welling thrill of excitement—at last, they were close. At last, she was doing.

  With mounting anticipation, she considered what lay ahead. She’d never been to a masquerade before—while such entertainments had once been commonplace, they didn’t, it seemed, feature much these days. Idly, she wondered why, and put it down to changing fashions.

  Regardless, she was confident that she’d cope. She’d been to heaps of balls and parties; she knew the ropes. And Demon would follow as soon as he got home—there was very little chance of anything going wrong.

  Thunder rumbled, low, menacing, yet still distant. Closing her eyes, Flick smiled.

  Gillies had stated that Demon wouldn’t like her going into danger. Lady Osbaldestone had warned her that he was protective—she already knew that was true. She rather suspected she would be hearing a sound just like that thunder much nearer at hand once he caught up with her.

  Not that she was shaking in her slippers. She sincerely hoped he never realized that his reaction was no deterrent. If there was something she felt she needed to do, she would do it—and gladly pay his price later. Ease and soothe his possessiveness. Just as she had at The Angel.

  Swaying as the carriage rocked along, she wondered what his price would be tonight.

  Demon returned home just after six, with a silly grin on his face and the deed to 12 Clarges Street in his pocket.

  Only to find, stoically rigid on his doorstep, one of the footmen from Berkeley Square. The message the footman carried was almost hysterical.

  He strode into his mother’s parlor five minutes later. “What’s the matter?” She hadn’t said in her note—mostly a bleat about him never forgiving her, which was so out of character that he’d been seriously alarmed. The sight of her prostrate, sniffing what looked suspiciously like smelling salts, didn’t ease his mind. “What the devil’s going on?”

  “I don’t know!” Verging on the tearful, Horatia sat up. “Felicity’s gone off to Stratton’s masquerade. Here—read this.
” She waved a badly crushed note at him. “Oh—and there’s one for you, too.”

  Demon accepted both. He barely glanced at hers before setting it aside and opening the missive Flick had left for him. As he’d expected, it was much more informative.

  “She asked me who Stratton was this afternoon in the park, but I never dreamed—” Horatia lifted both hands in the air. “Well—who would have? If I’d known she’d take such a silly notion into her head, I would never have let her out of my sight!”

  Demon returned to the note Flick had left her. “What have you done about your evening’s entertainments?”

  “She suggested I excuse her on the grounds of her having a headache—I’ve excused us both on the grounds of me having a headache—which I have!”

  Demon glanced at her. “Stop worrying. She’ll be all right.”

  “How do you know?” Suddenly noticing his relative calm, Horatia narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing to get in a flap about.” Returning her note, Demon pocketed his. Flick had told Horatia she’d been seized by a desperate longing to attend a masquerade, so had gone to Stratton Hall, expecting him to join her there. “I know what Stratton’s masquerades are like.” The admission made Horatia narrow her eyes even more; imperturbably, he continued, “I’ll go after her immediately—she’ll only be there an hour or so before I catch up with her.”

  Although clearly relieved, Horatia continued to frown. “I thought you’d be ropeable.” She snorted. “All very well for me not to worry—why aren’t you worried?”

  He was, but . . . Demon raised his brows resignedly. “Let’s just say I’m growing accustomed to the sensation.”

  He left his mother with her brows flying, and returned to Albemarle Street. Gillies’s note gave him more details. Pausing only to extract his own invitation to Stratton’s masquerade from the edge of his mantelpiece mirror, and to unearth his old domino and a simple half-mask, he hailed a hackney, and, once again, set out in Flick’s wake.