In the days since she’d first met them, they’d spoken at length on the watchful propensities of their male cousins, but Flick hadn’t entirely believed them. Now she did. They did watch—she could see how the twins would find it irksome.
While Gabriel and Lucifer had both taken to the floor, they could occasionally be glimpsed through the press, checking on the twins. As for Demon, he stood at the side of the floor, not even bothering with the guise of chatting, his gaze fixed, distinctly intimidating, on their set.
At first glance, it was a wonder any male with an ounce of self-preservatory instinct would dare invite them onto the floor. However, the younger gentlemen—those not much older than the twins themselves—seemed impervious to any threat. As they were truly innocent of entertaining any impure designs on the twins, they seemed to take it for granted they were safe.
Of course, such innocent young men fell far short of the twins’ requirements. Which was what was irritating them so. Flick understood; thus far, she’d danced only with the same sort of youthful gentleman—and was utterly bored.
When the dance ended, and they’d thanked and dismissed their too-youthful cavaliers, she linked arms, a twin on each side. “They’re only trying to protect you—they’ve met too many bounders, and so want to warn all such men away from you.”
Amelia sighed. “That’s all very well, but their definition of ‘bounder’ is rather wide.” Amanda snorted. “If they think a gentleman has had so much as a single impure thought—a single mental flirt with any less-than-proper idea—then he’s a bounder.”
“Which tends to thin the ranks rather drastically.”
“And is absolutely no help in our campaign.”
“Campaign?” Flick stopped beside an alcove hosting three large potted palms.
Amanda glanced about, then took her hand and tugged—they all slipped into the shadowy space behind the palms.
“We’ve decided . . . ,” Amanda started.
“. . . after discussions with Catriona,” Amelia put in, “the lady of the vale—a sort of wise woman—”
“That we’re not going to wait patiently, doing nothing but look pretty while suitable gentlemen look us over and debate whether or not to make an offer—”
“No.” Amelia lifted her head. “We’re going to make our own choice.”
Amanda’s eyes glittered. “We’re going to look them over, and decide who we’ll choose, not wait to be chosen.”
Flick laughed—an arm about each, she hugged them. “Indeed, from what I’ve seen thus far, it would definitely be wise to take the matter into your own hands.”
“So we think,” Amanda declared.
“But tell us.” Amelia drew back to study Flick’s face. “Did you choose Demon, or did he choose you?”
Flick looked across the ballroom to where Demon stood, to her eyes the most superbly handsome man in the ton. He was wearing black, with ivory shirt and cravat; under the glow of the chandeliers, he looked even more dangerous than in daylight. He was chatting to a gentleman; despite that, Flick knew he knew exactly where she was.
Her lips slowly curved—he looked, and to her senses was, the embodiment of her dream, her desire, a far better reflection than any sculpture, any picture in a book.
She glanced at the twins. “I chose him.” She looked across the ballroom. “I was only ten at the time, so I didn’t really understand, but . . . yes, I definitely chose first.”
“Well, there you are.” Amanda nodded decisively. “That’s all of you—Honoria said she didn’t choose first, but she definitely chose. Patience and Catriona both said they chose first. And so did you. So choosing is obviously the best way forward.”
Flick glanced at them again, at their beautiful faces, and saw the stubborn wills underneath. She nodded. “Yes, that’s probably true.” The twins were very much like her.
“We’d better circulate.” Amelia nudged them from their nook. “Mama is looking for us.”
Adopting easy smiles, they slid into the crowd.
Smiling, Flick separated from the twins; although she forbade herself to scan the room, her senses searched for Demon. Over the last days, she’d seen him only fleetingly at the park, and once, by accident, in Bond Street. They’d exchanged no more than a few whispered phrases about the syndicate. And not once had his ever-so-slightly bored social mask slipped.
They had, however, been in public.
He’d arrived this evening at precisely the right moment to escort them down to the carriage, so they hadn’t had a moment in private to catch up—on anything.
Which was becoming frustrating. As was the fact she couldn’t locate him.
She stopped before a bust of Caesar mounted on a pedestal. Dispensing with subtlety, she stretched on her toes and tried to scan the heads—she knew Demon’s was somewhere in the room.
From behind, his hand closed on her arm.
She gasped and swung around.
He was standing beside the pedestal—he hadn’t been there a moment before. Swiftly, he drew her to him, then swung and drew her past, until she was standing in the shallow alcove behind the pedestal. He faced her, leaning one arm on the pedestal’s top, blocking her view.
Flick blinked. The ballroom possessed three semicircular alcoves; before each stood some arrangement, like the palms or the pedestal, leaving a small area behind. Those desirous of a quiet moment could avail themselves of the spot, partially private but in full view of the ballroom.
Looking into Demon’s hard-featured face, she smiled gloriously. “Hello—I was looking for you.”
His gaze on her face, he hesitated, then said, “I know.”
She searched his face, his eyes—she couldn’t quite place his tone. “Have you . . . ah, learned anything about the money?”
Demon drank in the sight of her, wallowed in the eager, welcoming light in her eyes, basked in the sensual glow that lit her face. She was screened from the ballroom by his shoulders. He drew a deep breath, and shook his head. “No. But we are making progress.”
“Oh?” Her gaze lowered, and fixed on his lips; briefly, she moistened hers.
Clenching the fist hidden from the room by the bust, Demon nodded. “Montague has eliminated various securities—financial instruments through which that much money might have been hidden. While so far the results have been negative, we’re narrowing our search.”
She continued to stare at his lips, then realized they’d stopped moving; catching her breath on a little hitch, she looked up. And blinked. “It seems like we’ve been chasing the syndicate forever. Catching them seems like a dream.” She paused, her eyes softening as they locked with his. Her “Do you think we ever will?” was softer yet.
Demon held her gaze and fought to remain still, to resist the impulse to lean forward, slide one arm about her and bring her against him. To bend his head, set his lips to hers, and answer the question in her eyes. Her gown, a sheath of silver-blue silk caught beneath her breasts with silver cords, then flaring over her hips into skirts that flirted about her ankles, didn’t help. Its only claim to modesty lay in a froth of filmy silk gauze artfully looped about the neckline and over the points of her shoulders. It was an effort to remember her question. “Yes.” His tone was deep, harsh; she blinked free of his hold, clearly puzzled when she saw his face harden.
The musicians chose that instant to strike up the waltz—he could have cheerfully strangled them with their own strings. Still, that was why they were here, at this moment. He focused on Flick’s face, saw the eager light in her eyes, the invitation in her expression. And inwardly cursed. “That’s a . . .” he drew a tight breath, “very lovely gown.”
She looked down. “It’s from Cocotte.” She spread the silvery skirts and pirouetted in time to the opening bars, then looked at him. “Do you like it?”
“Very much.” He could state that honestly, convincingly. When he’d first seen her on the stairs in Berkeley Square, he’d felt winded. The gown flattered her figure so well that he
was of the opinion it should be outlawed, but he definitely liked it—and what was in it. So much so that it was impossible for him to take her in his arms and waltz beneath the sharp eyes of his too-interested family.
With one hand, he gestured. “Turn again.” It was no hardship to keep his gaze on her hips as she twirled.
“Hmm.” He kept his gaze on her skirts, not wanting to see the disappointment gathering in her eyes. She’d told him in the carriage that Emily Cowper, a friend of his mother’s, had, in light of her years, given her formal permission to waltz. The waltz was now in full swing. “That’s very well cut—slightly different—the way the skirts fall.” He was a past master at seduction—couldn’t he do better? Next, he’d be talking about the weather.
“Have you heard anything from Newmarket?”
He looked up—he’d heard the soft sigh that had preceded that question; there was no longer any hint of anticipation in her eyes. She looked resigned, yet still gracious. He straightened. “Not specifically. But I have heard from a close acquaintance of a member of the Committee that no one has sighted Dillon yet, nor has anyone spoken to the General.”
“Well, that’s some relief. I just hope Dillon doesn’t do anything stupid while we’re in town. I’d better send him a letter tomorrow.”
She said nothing more but gazed past the bust to where couples were revolving about the floor. Demon pressed his lips tight shut. However badly he felt about making her miss her first London waltz, he couldn’t regret it. Unable to dance with her himself, he couldn’t have borne standing by the ballroom’s side, watching her in the arms of some other gentleman. He would have turned into an incarnation of his nickname—that was certainly how he felt simply at the thought of her in another man’s arms.
It was better for her to miss this waltz. “I heard from Carruthers that The Flynn’s shaping well.”
That caught her attention. “Oh?”
“He’s been pushing him morning and afternoon.”
“Carruthers told me he was trying to build his endurance.”
“Carruthers wants me to try him in a steeple.” He glanced at her. “What do you think?”
Unsurprisingly, she told him. What did surprise him was how detailed her opinion was, how much she understood, how deeply she’d merged with her one-time mount. For the first time in his life, he learned about, and took advice on, one of his horses from a female.
By the time they’d discussed The Flynn’s future, and touched on that of the filly Flick had also ridden, the waltz was long over, the next dance about to begin.
A cotillion. Demon turned and beheld a circle of hovering males, all waiting for their chance with Flick. He smiled tightly and turned back to her, still partially hidden by him. His smile softened as he reached for her hand. “Will you grant me the honor of this dance, my dear?”
She looked up and smiled—the gesture lit her face and flooded her eyes. “Of course.” She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor.
His experience, thankfully, came to the fore—he artfully complimented her, elegantly teased her, all with just the right touch, that of the accomplished rake he was. As only their hands met, and their bodies passed no closer than a handsbreath, she smiled and laughed, but didn’t glow. No one watching them, no matter how closely, would have seen anything beyond a young lady responding predictably to an experienced rake’s blandishments.
Which was precisely what he wanted them to see.
At the end of the measure, he bowed elegantly and surrendered her to the coterie of admirers, eagerly awaiting their turn. Satisfied he’d weathered the worst of the night and made the best of it, he retreated to the end of the room.
Gabriel and Lucifer joined him there.
“Why do we do this?” Lucifer grumbled. “Amanda all but ripped up at me, little shrew. Just because I insisted on waltzing with her.”
“I got the ice treatment,” Gabriel returned. “I can’t remember when last I waltzed with an iceberg. If ever.” He glanced at Demon. “If this is a taste of what the Season will bring, I think I’ll take a holiday.”
When Demon, staring over the assembled heads, said nothing, Gabriel followed his gaze to where Flick was holding court. “Hmm,” Gabriel murmured. “Didn’t see you waltzing, coz.”
Demon didn’t shift his gaze. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“So I noticed—discussing the fate of the Roman legions, no doubt.”
Demon grinned and reluctantly deserted the sight of Flick chatting animatedly. She’d taken to social outings like a duck to water. “Actually . . .” There was a note in his drawl that brought his cousins’ gazes to his face. “I’m investigating a crime.” Briefly, he filled them in, told them all he knew of the race-fixing and the syndicate, all he suspected of who they really were.
“Hundreds of thousands,” Gabriel repeated. “You’re unquestionably right—it’s got to show somewhere.”
“But,” Lucifer countered, “not necessarily where you’re looking.”
Demon raised a brow invitingly.
“There’s collectibles—jewelry’s the obvious, but there’s paintings, too, and other artifacts.”
“You could check on them.”
“I’ll check—but if those are the sums that should have been appearing over the past months, I’d already have heard.” Lucifer grimaced. “Despite the possibility, I doubt collectibles are where the money’s gone.”
Demon nodded and looked at Gabriel, whose gaze remained distant. “What?”
Gabriel refocused. “I was wondering . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve acquaintances who would know if money’s changed hands underground. I’ll put the word out. Then, if Montague’s covering the legitimate side of business, we should have all avenues through the city covered.”
Demon nodded. “Which leaves one large area yet to be canvassed.”
“Indeed,” Lucifer agreed. “Our own domain, as it were.”
“Hmm.” Gabriel raised a brow. “So we’ll need to flap our ears for any hint of unexpected blunt—old aunts no one heard of before dying, gamblers supposedly under the hatches suddenly resurrected, and so on.”
“Anyone sporting any unexpected blunt.” Demon nodded decisively. His gaze drifted back to Flick.
Lucifer and Gabriel mumured agreement, then a blond in green silk caught Lucifer’s eye—he prowled off in her wake. After a moment, Gabriel tapped Demon’s sleeve. “Don’t bite—and don’t grind your teeth—I’m going to have a word with your guinea-gold delight.”
Demon humphed—the Bar Cynster never poached on each other’s preserves. He wasn’t worried about Gabriel.
He was, however, worrying. Gabriel’s description validated his concern. Flick was highly visible, even in a crowd. Her crowning glory drew all eyes—her angelic features held them. In sunlight, her hair was bright gold—in candlelight, it glowed richly, a true yellow gold much more distinctive than the twins’ pale gold locks.
She drew eyes wherever she was, wherever she went. Which severely compounded their problem. His problem—he didn’t want her to know about it.
It was one of the things he delighted in—her openness—the shining honesty of her joy, her feelings, all displayed in her face for anyone to see. She was neither ashamed of her feelings nor frightened of them, so she showed them, openly, straightforwardly. Honestly. Accurately.
Therein lay his problem.
When they were close and she focused on him, the sensual connection they shared glowed in her face. The heightened awareness, the sensual anticipation, her glorious excitement and eagerness—and her knowledge—showed all too clearly. He’d seen it in the park, a week ago and more recently; he’d seen it tonight, when they’d met in his mother’s front hall. The sight warmed him to his toes, sent a medley of emotions wreathing through him; the very last thing he wanted was to dim it. But . . .
She was too mature, too composed, to imagine she was infatuated. No one who viewed her response to him would believe infatuation was the
cause. What they would believe was the truth—that they’d already been intimate—he, a rake of extensive experience and she, a very innocent young lady.
To his mind, all blame—if any was to be laid—should rest squarely at his door. Society, unfortunately, wouldn’t see it that way.
Her reputation would be shredded—not even the backing of the Cynsters would protect her. For himself, he didn’t care—he’d marry her in an instant, but it would be too late; although the furor might fade, it would never be forgotten. Her reputation would be irreparably tarnished—she’d never be welcomed into certain circles.
Their problem, of course, would not have occurred if she’d married him before they came to town, or even agreed to marry him so they could make some announcement. If such was the circumstance, the ton would turn a blind eye. However, now she was here, under his mother’s wing, enacting the role of a virtuous young lady. The ton could be vicious—would delight in being vicious—given that scenario.
Watching her confidently chatting and laughing, her heart obviously light, he toyed with the idea of seeing her tomorrow—alone—and explaining the matter fully. She might not believe him at first, but he could call on his mother, and even his aunts, for verification. They wouldn’t be horrified, but Flick would. She would, he was sure, agree to marry him immediately.
Which was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Lips compressing, he shifted, and wondered when, and why, a woman’s wishes—her tender feelings, her inexplicable feminine emotions—had become so important. An unanswerable question, but there was no ducking the fact. He couldn’t pressure her to agree in that way.
Straightening, he drew in a breath. If he told her her expression showed too much, she might recognize the danger and agree to marry him purely to avoid any scandal. Which wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her open-hearted commitment—a commitment to him, to their future—not an agreement compelled by society’s whip.
But if she didn’t realize the deeper implications and opt for marriage, then she would try to hide, to dampen, her instinctive reaction. And she might succeed.