A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

Flick nodded, her mind racing, her troubles forgotten. She began to ask Horatia where they were, but she stopped, unable to explain her sudden need of street names. She kept her eyes glued to the streets from then on, but didn't see any signs until they were nearly home. By then, she'd decided what to do. Masking her impatience, she waited. The carriage rocked to a halt outside the Cynster house; handed to the pavement, she matched her pace to Horatia's and unhurriedly ascended the steps. As they climbed the stairs, she smothered a yawn. With a sleepy goodnight, she parted from Horatia in the gallery and turned toward her room.

As soon as she'd turned the corner, she picked up her skirts and ran. Hers was the only occupied room in that wing, and she'd forbidden the little maid who helped her to wait up. So there was no one about to see her fly into her room. No one to see her tear to her wardrobe and delve into the cases on its floor. No one to see her shed her beautiful gown and leave it lying on th

e rug.

No one to see her climb into attire that would have made any lady blush.

Ten minutes later, once more Flick the lad, she crept downstairs. The door was left unlatched until Demon's father came in, usually close to dawn. Until then, Highthorpe polished silver in his pantry, just beyond the baise door. Flick inched down the hall. The front door opened noiselessly-she eased it back just far enough to squeeze through, worried that a draft might alert Highthorpe. Only after she'd closed it again and gently set the latch down did she breathe freely.

Then she darted down the steps and into the street.

She stopped in the shadow of an overhang. Her first impulse was to retrace the carriage's journey, find Bletchley, then follow him through the night. This, however, was London, not Newmarket-it was hardly wise, even dressed as she was, to slink through the streets in the dark.

Accepting reality she headed for Albemarle Street.

Chapter 2O

Luckily, Albemarle Street wasn't far. She found the narrow house easily enough-Horatia had pointed it out when they'd driven past. Demon lived alone with only Gillies as his general factotum, for which Flick was duly grateful-at least she wouldn't have to cope with strangers.

Slipping through the shadows to the front steps, she noted a lone carriage a few doors down the street. The coachman was shuffling on the box, settling under a blanket; thankfully, his back was to her.

Flick crept up the steps. She reached for the brass knocker, steeling herself to tap gently, but the door gave, just an inch. Catching her breath, she stared at the gap. Splaying her fingers, she gently pushed-the door swung enough for her to slip through.

In the dimness beyond, she looked around, then eased the door closed. She was in a narrow hall, a flight of stairs directly before her. The wall to her right was shared with the next house; to her left lay a closed door, presumably to the parlor. A narrow corridor ran back beside the stairs.

Demon might not be home-there was no light showing beneath the parlor door. Looking up, Flick discerned a faint light low on the landing above. The room upstairs was probably his bedroom.

She bit her lip and considered the narrow stairs.

And heard a sudden scuffle, then the scrape of chair legs on polished boards.

Followed, quite distinctly, by a purring, feminine, highly accented voice: "Harrrrry, my demon…"

Flick's feet were on the stairs before she knew it.

From above came a vibrant oath. Then, "What the devil are you doing here, Celeste?"

"Why, I've come to keep you company, Harrrry-it's cold tonight. I've come to keep you-all of you-warrrrrrm."

Another oath, as heated as the last, answered that. Then came, "This is ridiculous. How did you get in here?"

"Never mind that-here I am. You should, at the very least, reward me for my enterprise."

In the shadows on the landing, hard by the door, Flick heard a deep, aggravated, very masculine sigh.

"Celeste, I know English isn't your first language, but no is no in most tongues. I told you at least four times! It's over. Finis!"

It sounded as if the words were forced through gritted teeth.

"You don't mean that-how can you?"

Celeste's tone conveyed a purring pout. The soft shushing of silk reached Flick's straining ears-she pressed close, one ear to the panel.

An explosive expletive nearly rocked her on her heels.

"Dammit! Don't do that!"

A brief scuffle ensued. A confused medley of muttered oaths mixed with Celeste's increasingly explicit cajoling had Flick frowning-