"You will."

With fluttering hands, she pushed at the curtains. He reached over her head and drew them wide.

She tugged at the sash. To no avail.

He stepped behind her and reached for the handles, one on either of the pane's lower frame.

Trapping her between his arms, between the window and him. His fingers brushed hers, clasped about the handles. She sucked in a breath and snatched her hands away. Then froze as she realized he surrounded her.

Slowly, he raised the sash-all the way up.

As he straightened, she straightened, too. Her spine stiff, she turned her head and looked him in the eye. "I'll bid you a good night."

There was ice and frost in her words. Turning to the window, she sat on the sill; behind her, Demon smiled, slowly, intently.

She swung her legs over and slipped into the darkness. "Good-bye."

Her voice floated back to him; in seconds, she'd become a shadow among many, and then she was gone.

Demon's smile deepened, his lips curving as triumphantly as hers had. She wasn't averse to him-the signs had been there, clear for him to read. He didn't know why she'd pulled back, why she'd shaken free of his hold, but it would be easy to draw her back to him.

And then…

He stood at the window for a full five minutes, a smile of anticipation on his lips, staring into the night and dreaming-before reality struck.

Like a bolt.

It transfixed him. Chilled him.

It effectively doused his fire.

Face hardening, he stood in the middle of his parlor and wondered what the hell had got into him.

He rose before dawn and headed for the racecourse, for his stables and Carruthers, who was not at all pleased to learn that he'd lost the services of the best work rider he'd ever employed. For once declining to remain and watch his string exercise, Demon left Carruthers grumbling and set his horses ambling back down the road to his farm. The same road led to the cottage.

Fine mist wreathed the hedgerows and blanketed the meadows; it turned golden as dawn tinged the sky. Flick appeared through the gilded haze, a sleepy stable lad atop the plodding cob, heading in for the start of a new day. Demon reined in his bays and waited for her to reach him.

By the time she halted the cob beside his curricle, she was frowning; deep suspicion glowed in her eyes. He nodded, ineffably polite. "I've tendered your resignation to Carruthers-he doesn't expect to see you again."

Her frown deepened; to her credit, she didn't ask why. "But-"

"The matter's simple. If you hadn't resigned, I would have had to dismiss you." He trapped her gaze and raised a brow. "I thought you'd prefer to resign."

Flick studied his eyes, his face. "Put like that, I don't have much choice."

The ends of his lips lifted fractionally. "None."

"What story did you tell Carruthers?"

"That your ailing mother slipped away, and you'll be joining your aunt's household in London."

"So I'm not even supposed to be in the vicinity?"

"Precisely."

She humphed, but without much heat; they'd found Dillon's contact-she was already thinking ahead. "What about identifying the contact? Have your men turned up anything?"

Because she was watching closely, she saw his hesitation-the swift weighing of his options.

"We've located him, yes." His gaze swept her consideringly. "Gillies is currently doing the honors, with strict instructions to miss nothing. If you'd consent to get properly dressed, perhaps we might confer in more conventional style?"

She raised her brows in question.

His smile-a teasing, alluring temptation to dalliance- flashed. "Go home and change. I'll call at eleven and take you for a tool about the lanes."

"Perfect-we can discuss how best to go on without any risk of being overheard." Flick turned the cob and urged him back toward the cottage. "I'll be ready at eleven."

Her voice floated back to Demon., The reins lax in his hands, he sat in the strengthening sunshine, watching her bob away from him. His smile deepening, he flicked the reins and set his curricle slowly rolling in her wake.

As promised, she was ready and waiting, a vision in mull muslin, a parasol shading her complexion, when he drew his horses to a scrunching halt before the front steps of Hillgate End.

Tying off his reins, he stepped down from the curricle. Face alight, a soft smile on her lips, she eagerly approached. She was too slender to bustle-her movement was more a sweeping glide. Demon watched her advance, his every faculty riveted, effortlessly held in thrall.

Luckily, she didn't know it-she had no idea. Secure in that knowledge, he returned her smile. Taking her hand, he bowed elegantly and handed her up to the box seat. She shuffled across; as he turned to follow, Demon caught sight of a maid hovering by the steps. "I'll return Miss Parteger later in the afternoon-you might mention that to Jacobs."

"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a curtsy.

Climbing up, he took his seat and met Flick's questioning glance. "Mrs. Shephard packed a hamper so we won't need to return for lunch."

Her eyes widened, then she nodded. "It's turning into a lovely day-a picnic is a very good idea."

Clicking the reins, Demon set the bays pacing, omitting to mention just whose idea it had been.

As he turned out of the drive and the horses stepped out, Flick angled her parasol and glanced at him. "I take it your men located our quarry?"

Demon nodded, taking the turn to Dullingham in style. "He's staying at the Ox and Plough."

"The Ox and Plough?" Flick frowned. "I don't think I know it."

"There's no reason you would. It's a seedy little inn off the main road north of Newmarket."

"Did your man learn the contact's name?"

"He goes by the unenviable name of Bletchley."

"And he's a Londoner?"

"From his accent, that much seems certain." Demon slowed his horses as the hamlet of Dullingham came into view. "Gillies is prepared to swear an oath that Bletchley was born within hearing of Bow bells."

"Which suggests," Flick said, turning impulsively to him, "that the syndicate is London-based."

"That was always on the cards. The most likely base for a group of rich and greedy gentlemen is London, after all."

"Hmm."

When Flick ventured nothing more, Demon glanced at her. She was frowning absentmindedly, her gaze unseeing. It wasn't hard to follow her thoughts. She was considering the syndicate, and the possible need to journey to London to unmask them.

He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.

The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. "Good heavens. Where-oh! How lovely!"

Demon smiled. "It is a pretty spot."

The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. "We'll leave the carriage here." He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. "We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine."

"Oh, yes! I didn't even know this place existed."

Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.

Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean-all elegantly indolent-beside her.

She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She'd always thought the description a silly nonsense.

Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.

Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction-she knew she was safe with him-but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. "Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?"

She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon's, burning blue.

Burning?

She blinked and looked again, but he'd looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.

"A leg will do for the moment."

His voice sounded slightly… strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.

Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. "Champagne?"

"Hmm." Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. "A suitable toast to Spring."