A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

"Nah. He went back to the Ox and Plough this afternoon, seemingly to check the post. He got a letter. Looked like he was expecting it."

"Did he leave it there?"

Glancing at Bletchley, Gillies shook his head. "He's got it on him, in an inside waistcoat pocket. He's taking no chances of losing it."

Demon sipped his beer. "What did he do after he got it?"

"Perked up, he did, and bustled right out again, back to the Heath for afternoon stables."

Demon nodded. "I saw him there-it looked like he had Robinson's string in his sights."

"Aye-that's my thought, too." Gillies took another long pull from his pint. "Robinson's got at least two favored runners in the Spring Carnival."

"I didn't see Bletchley approach any of the riders."

"Nor did I."

"Did he make contact with any gentlemen?"

"Not that I saw. And I've had him in sight since he came down the stairs this morning."

Demon nodded, Flick's warning in mind. "Stay at the stud tomorrow. Cross can follow Bletchley to morning stables-I'll take over after that."

"Aye." Gillies drained his pint. "It wouldn't do for him to get too familiar with my face."

Over the next three days, together with Cross and Hills, two of his stablemen, Demon and Gillies kept an unwavering watch on Bletchley. With activity on the Heath increasing in preparation for the Craven meeting-the official Spring Carnival of the English racing calendar-there was reason aplenty for Demon to be about the tracks and stables, evaluating his string and those of his major rivals. From atop Ivan the Terrible, keeping Bletchley in view in the relatively flat, open areas surrounding the Heath was easy; increasingly, it was Demon who kept their quarry in sight for most of the day. Gillies, Cross and Hills took turns keeping an unrelenting but unobtrusive watch at all other times, from the instant Bletchley came down for breakfast, to the time he took his candle and climbed the stairs to bed.

Bletchley remained unaware of their surveillance, his obliviousness at least partly due to his concentration on the job in hand. He was careful not to be too overt in approaching the race jockeys, often spending hours simply watching and noting. Looking, Demon suspected, for any hint of a hold, any susceptibility with which to coerce the selected jockeys into doing his masters' bidding.

On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.

Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he'd made not the slightest attempt to see her-to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered-she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen's fence, he'd been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables' strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence's lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.

Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient-she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she'd dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn't do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon's side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. "Isn't it a lovely afternoon?"

"Indeed."

The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. "Where's Bletchley?"

Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. "Under the oak to the left. He's wearing a scarlet neckerchief."

She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.

All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat-which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he'd been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him-his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.

As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.

He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin.

"Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?"

Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. "It appears his task here-presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do-is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters' cause." After a moment, he added, "He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity."

"Orders?"

"Presumably. But I seriously doubt he'll report back to his masters in writing."