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."
In the well-sprung manor carriage, the trip from Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds did not take long. They rolled into the town as the last traces of the day were fading from the western sky.
They joined the long queue of curricles, carriages, gigs and carts barely crawling along the main street.
Peering out the carriage window, Flick was amazed at the number of conveyances clogging the usually clear road. The clack of horses' hooves, the snap of whips and innumerable ripe curses filled the air. The pavements were awash with surging masses of men-laborers in drab, country squires in their tweeds, and gentlemen of every hue, from the nattily attired sportsman to the elegant rake, to the brash blades and bucks casting their eyes over any female unwise enough to appear in their sight.
Sitting back, Flick was glad of her thick veil. Not only would it hide her face but it would also hide her blushes. Glancing down, she wished she'd stopped to find a more "widowish" dress-one with a high neckline and voluminous skirts, preferably in dull black. In her haste, she'd donned one of her day gowns, a scooped-necked, high waisted gown in soft voile in her favorite shade of lavender-blue. In it, she didn't look the least like a widow-she suspected she looked very young.
She would have to remember to keep her cloak fully about her at all times whenever she was out of her room. The cloak, luckily, was perfect-voluminous, heavy and dark with a deep hood. An old trunk, in the attic recalled from childhood rummagings had yielded the heavy, black lace veil. Old-fashioned it might be, but it was precisely what she needed-it covered her whole head, her hair as well as her face, obscuring all identifiable features, yet it did not interfere too drastically with her vision.
She was going to need to see, and see well, to play the part she would need to play.
With the veil over her head, and her hood up, the whole secured with two pins, she was certain no one would recognize her. As long as she kept her cloak completely about her, all would be well.
Clutching her black reticule, also liberated from the old trunk, she waited impatiently for the sign of The Angel to appear. The carriage rocked, stopped, then rocked and stopped again. The sound of carriage wheels scraping came to her ears-she promptly shut them to the ensuing curses.
Fixing her gaze on the carriage's wall, she reviewed her plans. She had, she thought, managed well thus far. She'd told the General she'd taken a sudden notion to visit a friend, Melissa Blackthorn, who helpfully lived just beyond Bury St. Edmunds. Over the past ten years, she and Melissa had frequently simply visited, without formal arrangements. The General was always at home, and the Blackthorns were always in residence; there was never any danger of not finding a welcome. So she'd claimed she would visit Melissa and, as usual, stay overnight.
Both the General and Foggy had accepted her decision with a little too much readiness for her liking. The General's understanding smile, his gentle pat on her hand, had left her with the distinct-and she was sure not inaccurate-impression that he thought it was Demon's absence that had prompted her visit to Melissa. That his absence was the cause of her restlessness.
Flick wasn't at all sure how she felt about that-irritated, yes, but in a rather odd way. Frowning, she glanced out of the window and abruptly sat up. They were passing the main courtyard of The Angel, already a sea of men and boys all heading in one direction or another. The majority of visitors were still finding places to lay their heads; Flick prayed, very hard, that she'd be successful in carrying out the next phase of her plan. An instant later, the carriage lurched, then turned, and rumbled under the arch into the stable yard of The Angel.
Where pandemonium reigned.
Gillies hauled the horses to a stop, and two inn boys rushed to the carriage. One pulled open the door and let down the steps; the other ran to the boot. Flick allowed the first to take her hand and help her down; as the second, discovering the boot was empty, returned at a loss, she waved him to the carriage. "My bag is in there."
Her voice was steady; she'd deepened and strengthened her usual tones so that she sounded older, more commanding. It seemed to work; retrieving her one small bag, the inn boys stood respectfully as, having handed the horses over to the ostlers, Gillies came up.
Lifting her arms wide, palms up to encompass the scene, Flick turned dramatically and launched into her charade. "Good gracious, Giles! Just look at this crowd! Whatever's afoot?"
Gillies simply stared at her.
One of the inn boys shifted his weight. "It's a prizefight, m'lady. Over on Cobden's field t'morrow mornin'."
"A prizefight!" Pressing a hand to her cloaked breast, Flick fell back a step. "Oh, how distressing!" She glanced about, then looked at the inn. "I do hope the innkeeper has a room left-I could not possibly go another mile."
She stared-beneath her veil she glared-at Gillies.