"Where's Demon?" she asked baldly the instant the door shut behind the footman.

Gillies shrugged. "He was meeting with Montague, and then had some business in the city-he didn't say where."

Flick mentally cursed and fell to pacing. "We're due at a dinner at eight." Which meant there was no reason Demon would hurry home before six. She shot a glance at Gillies. "How long will it take for a carriage to travel from here to Twickenham?"

"Two and a half, perhaps three hours."

"That's what I thought." She paced back, then forth, then halted and faced Gillies. "I've found Bletchley. But…" Quickly, she filled him in. "So you see, it's absolutely imperative that one of us is there from the start, in case the syndicate decide to meet. Well"-she gestured-"a masquerade-what more perfect venue for a quiet meeting on the side? And even if the syndicate don't meet, it's vital we move quickly-we'll need to search Stratton's house for evidence and this is the perfect way to gain entry, the perfect opportunity to poke around."

When Gillies simply stared at her as if he couldn't believe his ears, she folded her arms and fixed him with a stern look. "As there's no way of knowing when Demon will return, we'll have to leave a message and go on ahead. One of us must be there from the start." She glanced at the mantel clock-it was already after four. "I wish to leave promptly at five. Can you arrange for a carriage?"

Gillies looked pained. "You sure you wouldn't like to reconsider? He's not going to like you hying off on your own."

"Rubbish! It's just a masquerade, and he'll follow soon enough.",

"But-"

"If you won't drive me, I'll take a hackney."

Gillies heaved a put-upon sigh. "All right, all right."

"Can you get a carriage?"

"I'll borrow her ladyship's second carriage-that's easy enough."

"Good." Flick considered, then added, "Leave a note saying where we've gone and why in Albemarle Street-I'll leave one here, too. One for Demon, and another for Lady Horatia. That should make all smooth."

Gillies's expression was the epitome of doubtful, but he bowed and left her.

Gillies returned driving Lady Horatia's second carriage, a small, black, restrained affair; he handed Flick into its dimness at just after five o'clock.

Settling back, Flick mentally nodded. Everything was going according to plan. By the time she'd convinced Gillies and returned upstairs, her little maid had returned from the attics with a full black domino and a wonderful, fanciful, feathered black mask. Both were now lying on the seat beside her. The evening was warm, heavy clouds hanging oppressively low. She would don her disguise when they reached Stratton Hall; she was sure no one would see through it.

Indeed, the mask looked quite nice on her, the black heightening the gold of her hair. She grinned. Despite the seriousness of what she was doing, of the syndicate and the danger, she felt a welling thrill of excitement-at last, they were close. At last, she was doing.

With mounting anticipation, she considered what lay ahead. She'd never been to a masquerade before-while such entertainments had once been commonplace, they didn't, it seemed, feature much these days. Idly, she wondered why, and put it down to changing fashions.

Regardless, she was confident that she'd cope. She'd been to heaps of balls and parties; she knew the ropes. And Demon would follow as soon as he got home-there was very little chance of anything going wrong.

Thunder rumbled, low, menacing, yet still distant. Closing her eyes, Flick smiled.

Gillies had stated that Demon wouldn't like her going into danger. Lady Osbaldestone had warned her that he was protective-she already knew that was true. She rather suspected she would be hearing a sound just like that thunder much nearer at hand once he caught up with her.

Not that she was shaking in her slippers. She sincerely hoped he never realized that his reaction was no deterrent. If there was something she felt she needed to do, she would do it-and gladly pay his price later. Ease and soothe his possessiveness. Just as she had at The Angel.

Swaying as the carriage rocked along, she wondered what his price would be tonight.

Demon returned home just after six, with a silly grin on his face and the deed to 12 Clarges Street in his pocket.

Only to find, stoically rigid on his doorstep, one of the footmen from Berkeley Square. The message the footman carried was almost hysterical.

He strode into his mother's parlor five minutes later. "What's the matter?" She hadn't said in her note-mostly a bleat about him never forgiving her, which was so out of character that he'd been seriously alarmed. The sight of her prostrate, sniffing what looked suspiciously like smelling salts, didn't ease his mind. "What the devil's going on?"

"I don't know!" Verging on the tearful, Horatia sat up. "Felicity's gone off to Stratton's masquerade. Here-read this." She waved a badly crushed note at him. "Oh-and there's one for you, too."

Demon accepted both. He barely glanced at hers before setting it aside and opening the missive Flick had left for him. As he'd expected, it was much more informative.

"She asked me who Stratton was this afternoon in the park, but I never dreamed-" Horatia gifted both hands in the air. "Well-who would have? If I'd known she'd take such a silly notion into her head, I would never have let her out of my sight!"

Demon returned to the note Flick had left her. "What have you done about your evening's entertainments?"

"She suggested I excuse her on the grounds of her having a headache-I've excused us both on the grounds of me having a headache-which I have!"

Demon glanced at her. "Stop worrying. She'll be all right."

"How do you know?" Suddenly noticing his relative calm, Horatia narrowed her eyes at him. "What's going on?"

"Nothing to get in a flap about." Returning her note, Demon pocketed his. Flick had told Horatia she'd been seized by a desperate longing to attend a masquerade, so had gone to Stratton Hall, expecting him to join her there. "I know what Stratton's masquerades are like." The admission made Horatia narrow her eyes even more; imperturbably, he continued, "I'll go after her immediately-she'll only be there an hour or so before I catch up with her."

Although clearly relieved, Horatia continued to frown. "I thought you'd be ropeable." She snorted. "All very well for me not to worry-why aren't you worried?"

He was, but… Demon raised his brows resignedly. "Let's just say I'm growing accustomed to the sensation."

He left his mother with her brows flying, and returned to Albemarle Street. Gillies's note gave him more details. Pausing only to extract his own invitation to Stratton's masquerade from the edge of his mantelpiece mirror, and to unearth his old domino and a simple half-mask, he hailed a hackney, and, once again, set out in Flick's wake.

Within two minutes of haughtily sweeping into Stratton Hall, Flick realized that no amount of tonnish balls and parties could ever have prepared her for Sir Percival's masquerade.

Two giant blackamoors wearing only loincloths, turbans, and a quantity of gold, each carrying a wicked-looking cutlass, stood guard, arms akimbo, in the front hall, flanking the main doors to the ballroom. Inside the enormous room running the length of the house the scene was similarly exotic. Blue silk flecked with gold stars draped the ceiling; the walls were an Arabian Nights' dream of silks, brocades and brass ornaments.

Mindful of her disguise, she didn't pause on the threshold and stare-spine straight, chin tilted at an imperious angle, she stepped straight into the crowd.

In the room's center, an elaborate fountain splashed; Flick saw guests filling glasses with the water-then realized it was champagne. The fountain was ringed with tables displaying delicacies galore; other tables elsewhere were similarly loaded with the most expensive fare-seafood, pheasant, caviar, quails' eggs-she even saw a roast peacock stuffed with truffles.

Wine was flowing freely, as were other spirits-the spirits of the guests were rising in response. Hearing the room's end, she heard a violin, and glimpsed a string quartet playing in the conservatory beyond the ballroom.

There were guests everywhere. Even behind their masks and cloaked in dominos, the women were remarkable-she'd yet to see one who was less than stunning. The men were gentlemen all-she heard it in their accents, invariably refined, and saw it in their clothes-many wore their dominos loose, more like a cloak, in some cases thrown rakishly back over one shoulder.

From the end of the room, Flick circled, searching for Stratton. The long windows giving onto the terrace had been left open to the sultry night. Black clouds raced, roiling across the sky. Thunder rumbled intermittently, but the storm was still some distance away.

"Well, well… and what do we have here?"

Flick whirled-and found herself pinned by Stratton's cold eyes.

"Hmm… a woodland sprite, perhaps, come to enliven the evening?" His thin lips curved but there was no warmth in his smile.

His gaze left her face to openly rove over her; Flick quelled a shiver. "I'm searching for a friend."

A calculating gleam entered Stratton's eyes. "I'll be happy to oblige, my dear, once the festivities begin." He lifted a hand. Flick instinctively recoiled but he was too fast. He caught her chin and tilted her face this way, then that, as if he could see through her mask. He was certainly aware of her resistance; it seemed to please him. Then he released her. "Yes-I'll keep an eye out for you later."