A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

He smiled. "Philip Remington, my dear, at your service. We met briefly at Lady Hawkridge's last week."

Flick placed him, and inclined her head. At Lady Hawkridge's ball, he'd merely noticed her, though he hadn't shown any particular interest. His gaze had been momentarily arrested by her face, before, with a polite nod, he'd moved on. Now his gaze was much more intent. Not frighteningly so, but she certainly wouldn't confuse him with the callow youths surrounding her.

"I've a question, my dear, if I might be so bold. I fear the ton too easily turns supposition into truth. Confusion is a byword, which makes life unnecessarily complicated."

He delivered the speech with a conspiratorial smile; Flick returned it readily. "Indeed, I often find tonnish ways confusing. What is it you wish to know?"

"A somewhat delicate matter, but… if I don't ask, how will we ever know?" His gaze caught hers. "I wish to know, my dear, whether rumor is correct, and you and Harry Cynster are engaged."

Flick drew in a breath and lifted her chin. "No. Mr. Cynster and I are not engaged."

Remington smiled and bowed. "Thank you, my dear. I must admit to being very glad to hear that."

His meaning glowed in his eyes. Flick inwardly cursed, even though her pride responded to the warmth; Remington was a distinctly handsome man.

Their words had riveted the attention of other gentlemen idling at the periphery of her circle; like Remington, they were older than her puppies. One pushed through to her side, displacing Lord Henderson. "Framlingham, Miss Parteger. Seeing you amidst the Cynster household, well-we simply assumed, don't you know?"

"I'm a friend of the family," Flick replied repressively. "Lady Horatia has been kind enough to take me around town."

"Ah!"

"Indeed?"

Other gentlemen closed in, relegating her fawning puppies to the outer ranks. Flick stiffened, but, flanked by the courteous and subtly protective Remington and the gruff Framlingham, she quickly realized that her new court was far more entertaining than the last.

Within minutes, she found herself laughing spontaneously. Two other young ladies joined the circle; the conversation shifted to a new level, one of more scintillating repartee.

Stifling a giggle at one of Remington's dry remarks, Flick threw a glance across the room-Demon, she knew, would have appreciated the joke.

He was looking down-into Celeste's face.

Flick caught her breath and swung her gaze back to Remington. After a moment, she exhaled, then drew in another breath, straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and smiled on her new cavaliers.

The next morning, the instant Lady Horatia's carriage halted by the verge of the Avenue, it was swamped.

"Your Grace. Lady Cynster." At the head of a group of six gentlemen and two ladies, Remington bowed to Helena and Horatia, then with a warm smile, bowed to Flick. Straightening, he addressed Horatia. "Could we persuade you, ma'am, to allow Miss Parteger to stroll the lawns in our company?" His gaze switched to Flick. "If, of course, we can tempt her to join us?"

If Demon had been anywhere in sight, Flick would have sat in the carriage and prayed he'd speak with her-but he wasn't. He hadn't appeared in the park in the last week. She'd sent another reassuring letter to Dillon that morning, increasingly worried that he would set out to chase Bletchley himself, and get caught. The General would be devastated. Unfortunately, it wasn't Demon standing before her, ready to reassure her. It was Remington, who knew nothing about her life. Nevertheless, if she walked with Remington, at least she would get to stretch her legs. Returning his smile, she glanced at Horatia. "If you don't mind, ma'am?"

Having shrewdly assessed the group on the lawn, Horatia nodded. "By all means, my dear. A walk will do you good."

"We'll keep within sight of the carriage," Remington assured her.

Horatia nodded, watching as Remington helped Flick to the ground. Flick turned and bobbed a curtsy, then put her hand on Remington's sleeve and joined the others waiting.

"Hmm." Beside Horatia, Helena watched the group as they moved off. "Is that wise, do you think?"

Her eyes on Flick's bright curls, Horatia smiled grimly. "As to that, I can't say, but it should get some action." Turning to Helena, she raised a brow. "Don't you think?"

As had been his habit for the past weeks, Demon spent his day at White's. Montague and the people he'd hired to watch for Bletchley called on him there-he acted as a general, coordinating their searches. For all their efforts, they'd precious little to show. Both the money and Bletchley had to be somewhere-they'd yet to discover where. And time was running out.

Worrying at the problem-not at all enamored of having to admit defeat and inform the Committee about the fixes planned for the Spring Carnival, simultaneously handing Dillon over without any evidence to support his tale-Demon dropped into an armchair in the reading room, picked up a news sheet and opened it in front of his face.

And tried to relax. At least one or two muscles.

He sighed, too aware that every nerve was taut, every muscle half-tensed. He had a serious illness, caused by a Botticelli angel. The cure was obvious, but, given their present state, he was likely to suffer for some weeks yet.

He still had no idea what had upset her; she seemed, however, to have recovered. Unfortunately, there was now a certain coolness in her attitude to him. She seemed to be watching him measuringly. Which made no sense at all. She'd known him for years-she even knew him in the biblical sense-what more did she think to discover?