A Rogues Proposal

He took a long sip of his coffee. This, he thought darkly, was what happened when fate caught a Cynster in her coils.

He was sitting in London, a town teeming with uncounted beauties, a surprising number of whom would be easily enough persuaded to reveal their charms to him-and he wasn't interested. Not in the beauties-not in their charms, naked or otherwise.

The only woman he was interested in was Flick.

He recalled imagining that it could never happen-that he'd never be satisfied with one woman. But it had. The only woman for him now was Flick.

And she was in Newmarket.

Hopefully behaving herself.

Doing the vases, reading her novels, and twiddling her thumbs.

Possibly thinking about desire.

He shifted in his seat, then frowned. No matter what setting he placed her in, his image of a patient Flick was not convincing.

Ten minutes later, he strode down the steps of White's, his goal the mews close by his lodgings where his bays were presently housed. There was no reason he couldn't leave London immediately. He'd seen Montague that morning, and spent an hour explaining the details of the race-fixing. Montague had done a few quick calculations and concurred with his assessment. The amount of money taken was enormous-it should show up somewhere.

Montague had connections Demon didn't want to know about. He'd left the hard-working agent, who thankfully thrived on financial challenges, with a gleam in his eye. If there was any way to track members of the syndicate through the money they'd taken, Montague would find it.

Which left him free to return to Newmarket, to the watch on Bletchley and his wooing of Flick.

Glancing down, he considered his attire-town rig of trousers, morning coat and shoes. There was no real reason to change. He doubted Flick would even notice, much less make anything of the fact that he hadn't stopped to change before racing back to her side.

Lips twisting wryly, he lengthened his stride and headed straight for the mews.

'Bury St. Edmunds?' Dillon frowned at Flick, then slumped into the chair at the head of the old table. 'Why there?'

Flick pulled up a stool, waving Gillies to the other, wishing he was his master instead. 'We were hoping you might have some clue. Obviously not.'

Dillon shook his head, his expression one of patent bewilderment. 'I wouldn't have thought there was any possible attraction in Bury, not for the likes of Bletchley.'

'So,' Flick stated, her tone businesslike, 'we'll need to go to Bury and find out what the attraction' is. Like you, I can't see any reason Bletchley would have gone there, other than to meet with his masters.'

Gillies, who'd been listening carefully, and even more carefully sizing up Dillon, cleared his throat. 'There's a prizefight on in Bury St. Edmunds tomorrow morning. That's almost certainly why Bletchley's hied off there. The reigning champion of all England is to take the ring against the latest challenger.'

'Really?' Dillon's lassitude fell away-he was suddenly all eager youth.

'A prizefight,' Flick breathed, in the tone of one for whom a light has dawned.

Frowning, Gillies looked from one to the other. 'Aye-so there'll be all manner of bucks and bloods and dangerous blades up from London-the town'll be fair crawling with them.'

'Damn!' Dillon sat back, a frown in his eyes.

Gillies heaved a sigh of relief.

'Fancy a prizefight so close and I daren't show my face.' Dillon grimaced and looked at Flick, clearly inviting her sympathy.

She wasn't looking at him. Grinning, her face alight, she slapped the table. 'That's it!'

Gillies jumped. 'What's it?'

'The prizefight, of course! It's the perfect venue for Bletchley to meet with his masters.' Triumph in her eyes, she spread her hands. 'It's obvious-members of the syndicate can come up from London and meet with Bletchley without in any way stepping out of their normal roles, their normal pastimes, the places they would normally be found. A prizefight is perfect.'

Gillies paled. 'No-I don't-

'You know,' Dillon cut in, 'you just might be right.'

'Of course I'm right.' Flick set her riding gloves on the table. 'Now we need to work out how to keep an eye on Bletchley at Bury, given there's only me and Gillies to keep watch.'

Both Flick and Dillon frowned; Gillies stared at them in patent dismay. 'The master won't want you going to any prizefight.' He made the statement to Flick, then looked at Dillon.

Dillon wrinkled his nose. 'It'll be tricky, but the prizefight must be the venue for Bletchley to meet his masters. Someone's got to watch him.'

Gillies dragged in a breath. 'I'll go.'

Dillon regarded Gillies, then grimaced. 'Without belittling your skills, Gillies, it's damned difficult for one person to keep a full-time watch on a target in a crowd.'

'Indeed.' Flick frowned. 'And besides, what if the meeting is held upstairs at the inn, in a private room? I can go upstairs.' She turned to Gillies. 'You can't.'

'Well,' Dillon put in, 'you won't be able to either, not if you're disguised as a stable lad.'

'I'm not going disguised as a lad.'

Dillon and Gillies stared at Flick-Dillon with interest, Gillies with trepidation. Flick smiled determinedly. 'I'm going as a widow-I have to be able to get a room to stay the night.',

'The night?' Dillon queried. Gillies simply stared.

'Most spectators from London will arrive this evening, won't they?' Flick glanced at Gillies.

'Aye.' His voice was weak.

'Well, then-if a meeting is to be held, it could be held either tonight or tomorrow-which would probably mean after the fight.' Flick frowned. 'If I was doing the organizing, I'd hold the meeting tonight. There's bound to be groups gathering to while away the evening-another group meeting in a private parlor would cause no comment. But if they meet tomorrow, after the fight, it'll seem rather odd, won't it?' She glanced at Gillies. 'I imagine most of the Londoners will leave from the field?'

Woodenly, Gillies nodded.

'Right, then.' Flick nodded curtly. 'The Angel's the major inn at Bury-it's likely everyone will gather there. So that's where I'll stay-we'll make that our headquarters. Between us, Gillies and I should be able to keep Bletchley in sight.'

'The Angel will be booked out,' Gillies protested. 'Won't be any way you'll get a room there.'

Flick's eyes narrowed. 'I'll get a room-don't worry on that score.'

'You said you'd go as a widow,' Dillon looked at her. 'Why a widow?'

Flick's determined smile deepened. 'One'-she ticked her points off on her fingers-'men always seem to consider young widows to be in especial need of protection, which will help me get a room. Two, widows can wear concealing veils without raising brows. Three, a widow can travel alone-or at least with only her coachman.' She looked at Gillies. 'If you'd rather stay here and await your master, I can get Jonathon to drive me.' Jonathon was the Hillgate End coachman.

Very definitely, Gillies shook his head. 'I'll stick with you.' Under his breath, he grumbled, 'Those were my orders. Necks are going to be wrung enough over this without me sticking mine out.'

Lifting his head, Gillies looked at Dillon and tried one last time. 'The master's not going to like this.'

Flick didn't think Demon would approve either, but she wasn't going to point out the obvious.

Dillon, however, did. 'Pity Cynster's not here.'

'But he's not.' Flick swept up her gloves and stood. 'So it's up to us to manage.' She looked at Gillies. 'Come to the manor stable as soon as you can-I want to leave within the hour.'