'Perfect-we can discuss how best to go on without any risk of being overheard.' Flick turned the cob and urged him back toward the cottage. 'I'll be ready at eleven.'
Her voice floated back to Demon., The reins lax in his hands, he sat in the strengthening sunshine, watching her bob away from him. His smile deepening, he flicked the reins and set his curricle slowly rolling in her wake.
As promised, she was ready and waiting, a vision in mull muslin, a parasol shading her complexion, when he drew his horses to a scrunching halt before the front steps of Hillgate End.
Tying off his reins, he stepped down from the curricle. Face alight, a soft smile on her lips, she eagerly approached. She was too slender to bustle-her movement was more a sweeping glide. Demon watched her advance, his every faculty riveted, effortlessly held in thrall.
Luckily, she didn't know it-she had no idea. Secure in that knowledge, he returned her smile. Taking her hand, he bowed elegantly and handed her up to the box seat. She shuffled across; as he turned to follow, Demon caught sight of a maid hovering by the steps. 'I'll return Miss Parteger later in the afternoon-you might mention that to Jacobs.'
'Yes, sir.' The maid bobbed a curtsy.
Climbing up, he took his seat and met Flick's questioning glance. 'Mrs. Shephard packed a hamper so we won't need to return for lunch.'
Her eyes widened, then she nodded. 'It's turning into a lovely day-a picnic is a very good idea.'
Clicking the reins, Demon set the bays pacing, omitting to mention just whose idea it had been.
As he turned out of the drive and the horses stepped out, Flick angled her parasol and glanced at him. 'I take it your men located our quarry?'
Demon nodded, taking the turn to Dullingham in style. 'He's staying at the Ox and Plough.'
'The Ox and Plough?' Flick frowned. 'I don't think I know it.'
'There's no reason you would. It's a seedy little inn off the main road north of Newmarket.'
'Did your man learn the contact's name?'
'He goes by the unenviable name of Bletchley.'
'And he's a Londoner?'
'From his accent, that much seems certain.' Demon slowed his horses as the hamlet of Dullingham came into view. 'Gillies is prepared to swear an oath that Bletchley was born within hearing of Bow bells.'
'Which suggests,' Flick said, turning impulsively to him, 'that the syndicate is London-based.'
'That was always on the cards. The most likely base for a group of rich and greedy gentlemen is London, after all.'
'Hmm.'
When Flick ventured nothing more, Demon glanced at her. She was frowning absentmindedly, her gaze unseeing. It wasn't hard to follow her thoughts. She was considering the syndicate, and the possible need to journey to London to unmask them.
He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.
The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. 'Good heavens. Where-
Demon smiled. 'It is a pretty spot.'
The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. 'We'll leave the carriage here.' He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. 'We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine.'
'Oh, yes! I didn't even know this place existed.'
Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.
Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean-all elegantly indolent-beside her.
She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She'd always thought the description a silly nonsense.
Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.
Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction-she knew she was safe with him-but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. 'Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?'
She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon's, burning blue.
Burning?
She blinked and looked again, but he'd looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.
'A leg will do for the moment.'
His voice sounded slightly… strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.
Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. 'Champagne?'
'Hmm.' Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. 'A suitable toast to Spring.'
Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. 'Nice.'
'Hmm.' Demon forced himself to look away from her lips-sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.
Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver-was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself-calmed herself-laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. 'How's Dillon faring?'
She shrugged. 'Well enough.' After a moment, she volunteered, 'I haven't really spoken to him since that evening we learned the truth.'
Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. 'Who else knows he's there?' He looked at Flick and frowned. 'How does he get food?'
She'd finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around-then she licked her lips. And looked at him.
He managed not to tremble-not to react at all.
'The only one other than us who knows Dillon's at the cottage is Jiggs. He's a footman-he's been at Hillgate End for… oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there's always leftover roast or a pie left wrapped in the larder.' She wrinkled her nose. 'I'm quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon's somewhere close.'
'Very likely.'
They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. 'Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?'
'I haven't told him anything at all.'
From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.
