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
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, she 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.
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.
