And froze.

He frowned. "You're the coachman here, aren't you?"

The man bobbed his head. "Aye, sir." He jerked his head toward the stable. "The lads have gone home, so there's just me and old Henderson."

"But… if you're here, who's driving Miss Parteger?"

The man blinked. "Why, your man, sir. Gillies."

Light dawned-Demon didn't like what he saw. Jaw setting, he nodded to the coachman. "I see. Thank you."

He sprang the bays; when he reached the road, he set them flying.

Demon found no joy-no news-waiting for him at the farmhouse. Which, he reasoned, meant Gillies imagined they'd be back before the following evening. That didn't tell him where they were now-where they were spending this evening-and, more importantly, what they thought they were doing.

More specifically, what Flick thought she was doing-he doubted Gillies was behind this escapade. He had, however, given his henchman strict instructions not to let Flick out of his sight; it appeared Gillies was following those instructions to the letter.

Which was some small comfort.

After checking with the Shephards, who knew nothing, he paused only to consign the bays into the hands of his head stableman before swinging up to Ivan's back and riding out into the night. Both Hills and Cross lived in cottages north of the Heath-if he had to, he'd track them down, but first he'd check with Dillon.

If something had happened in his absence, it was possible that Flick had sought counsel with Dillon. Whatever had happened might even involve Dillon-he might be the reason Flick had needed a carriage. A host of possible scenarios, none of which he liked, fought for prominence in his mind. He pressed Ivan as fast as he dared over the rough trail to the cottage.

He glimpsed a faint light as he entered the clearing; it disappeared by the time he dismounted.

"It's me-Demon."

The glow returned, guiding him through the derelict lean-to and into the cottage proper. Dillon was standing by the table, his hands on the lamp; he looked up, his expression open and eager.

Demon met his eyes. "Where's Flick?"

Dillon grinned. "She's off gallivanting after Bletchley." Dropping into his chair, he waved to a stool. "She's convinced, this time, that Bletchley's going to meet with the syndicate."

Icy fingers clutched Demon's spine. Ignoring the stool, he halted by the table; blank-faced, he looked down at Dillon. "And what do you think?"

Dillon opened his eyes wide. "This time, she might be right." He glanced up as Demon's gloves hit the table; his engaging grin flashed. "A pity you weren't here, but Flick'll be there to see-"

A sound like a growl issued from Demon's throat. He grabbed Dillon by his shirtfront, plucked him out of the chair, shook him like a rat, then took one step and slammed him back against the cottage wall.

The chair crashed, the sound echoing in the stillness. The wall shook.

Wide-eyed, unable to breathe, Dillon stared.

Into Demon's slitted eyes.

Dillon was only a few inches shorter, but he was a great deal slighter. There was nine years between them, and it was measured in muscle. Demon knew he could crush Dillon's windpipe with one forearm-from the look in Dillon's eyes, Dillon knew that, too.

"Where is she?" His words were low, slow and very distinct. "Where is this supposed meeting to take place?"

"Bury," Dillon gasped. His chest heaved. "Bletchley went there-she followed. She was going to try to get a room at The Angel."

"Try to?" The Angel was a very large house.

Dillon licked his lips. "Prizefight."

Demon couldn't believe his ears. "Prizefight!"

Dillon tried to nod but couldn't. "Flick thought it was the obvious-the most likely place for the syndicate to meet with Bletchley. Heaps of bucks and blades up from London-all the riffraff and the Fancy, too. Well, you know-" He ran out of breath and wheezed, "It seemed like sound reasoning."

"What did Gillies say?"

Dillon glanced at Demon's eyes and paled even more. He dropped his gaze.

When he didn't answer, Demon tensed the muscles in his arms.

Dillon caught his breath in a rush. "He didn't want her to go-he said you wouldn't like it."

"And you? What did you say?"

Dillon tried to shrug. "Well, it seemed like a sensible idea-"

"You call letting a gently reared, twenty-year-old girl go waltzing out to spend the night in an inn filled to the rafters with a prizefight crowd sensible?"

A look of petulance passed over Dillon's face. "Well, someone had to go. We needed to learn-"

"You miserable coward!"

He didn't crush Dillon's windpipe-he hauled him up, shook him once, then slammed him back against the wall. Hard.

Then he released him.

Dillon collapsed in a coughing heap on the floor. Demon looked down at him, sprawled beside his boots. Disgusted and furious in equal measure, he shook his head. "When the devil are you going to grow up and stop hiding behind Flick's skirts?" Turning, he swiped up his gloves. "If I had the time, I'd give you the thrashing you deserve-" He glanced back; when Dillon groggily lifted his head, Demon caught his eye. His lip curled. "Consider it yet another piece of retribution from which Flick has saved you."

He stormed out into the night. Vaulting onto Ivan's back, he set course for The Angel.

Chapter 12

She'd never seen so many men crammed into one space in her life.

Flick stood at her room window and looked down on the sea of male humanity filling the courtyard of The Angel. She'd been right in guessing that the prizefight crowd would congregate at The Angel; the throng seethed as men entered from the street while others drifted into the bars, returning with jugs and glasses. The courtyard of The Angel was the place to be.

Pitch flares had been placed around the courtyard, their flickering light strong enough for her, up in her chamber at the front of the house, to see faces below clearly. She'd snuffed her candles before parting the curtains. Luckily, the windows were hung with lace as well as the heavier drapes; she could stand close to the glass and peer down without risking anyone seeing her.

The noise was amazing. A multilayered rumble, it rose like a cacophany of deep-toned bells struck and rung without order. The occasional gust of laughter erupted, now from one group, then another. From her vantage point, she viewed the scene like some godlike puppeteer.

She'd been watching for close to an hour. The inn's bars were doing a roaring trade; she was grateful the staff had found time to bring up her dinner on a tray. She'd eaten quickly, then the serving girl had returned and taken away the tray. Since then, she'd been watching Bletchley.

He was halfway down the courtyard out in full view, a heavy figure in an old frieze coat, his scarlet neckerchief a useful feature to distinguish him from the many other older men in unfashionable attire. The fashionable and unfashionable mingled freely, their shared interest transcending social bounds. Bletchley stood, feet wide, his bulk balanced, quaffing ale and nodding as those in his circle expounded their theories.

Gillies was watching him, too. Bletchley had gone into the inn twice-Gillies had followed, sliding away from the group he was part of to slip inside. Each time he'd returned to resume his position as Bletchley did the same, a fresh pint in his hand.

Flick shifted her weight, then folded her arms. She was tired of standing, but if she sat, she wouldn't be able to see into the courtyard. The discussions below were gaining in intensity; in a number of groups, she saw money being waved about. There were gentlemen aplenty, well dressed, with the long aristocratic features that screamed wealth and affluence. Flick studied various hard faces, and wondered if they were members of the syndicate. Perhaps it was a group of blades, the most dangerously irresponsible of the younger gentlemen. She'd heard tales of incredible wagers; such men might well need cash, and they didn't appear to possess overmany scruples. But who? Who?

Her gaze passed over the crowd, then returned to Bletchley to see him squinting at an old watch. Tucking it back into his pocket, he drained his pint, collared a harassed serving boy and handed it to him, then, with a nod, excused himself to his cronies and headed away through the crowd.

Flick straightened. Bletchley wasn't heading inside.

Lumbering through the throng, tacking around groups, he made his way toward the far end of the courtyard. Flick lifted her gaze past the masses and looked out beyond the flares at the dark expanse of Angel Hill.

She knew that the long, sloping hill led up to the abbey, although she couldn't see it. The light from the flares ended abruptly just beyond the courtyard; Angel Hill was cloaked in the deep dark of a country night.

"Damn!" Flick relocated Bletchley, still struggling through the crowd. She searched for Gillies and found him; he'd seen Bletchley move, and was on his trail.

Flick sighed with relief-then froze. Someone had grabbed Gillies. He struggled to free himself, only to have more men range about him, smiling and laughing. She caught sight of Gillies's face-he was smiling and laughing, too. He also looked desperate.

One man slung his arm about Gillies's shoulders; another grasped his coat in friendly fashion and started talking nonstop. Flick saw Gillies cast a quick look around-saw him try to turn, but his friends wouldn't let him.