that evening we learned the truth.”
Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. “Who else knows he’s there?” He looked at Flick and frowned. “How does he get food?”
She’d finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around—then she licked her lips. And looked at him.
He managed not to tremble—not to react at all.
“The only one other than us who knows Dillon’s at the cottage is Jiggs. He’s a footman—he’s been at Hillgate End for . . . oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there’s always leftover roast or a pie left wrapped in the larder.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon’s somewhere close.”
“Very likely.”
They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. “Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?”
“I haven’t told him anything at all.”
From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.
“I decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell him we’d found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash—like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn’t do for him to be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we’re making progress.”
Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off—to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.
Loyalty, devotion—and good bottom. Her hallmarks.
The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.
Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel—a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed—from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.
His gaze dropped—to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn’t need the evidence to conjure the vision.
His smile deepening, he let his lids fall, and he relaxed on the rug. He waited until the basket was neatly repacked and, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her half-filled glass in one hand, she settled to enjoy the view.
“It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that now we’ve identified Bletchley and will be following him in earnest, and you no longer need to change clothes and horses morning and afternoon, it would be wise not to go to the cottage at all—just in case Bletchley, or one of his friends, turns the tables on us and follows us back to Dillon. As it’s central to our plan to keep Dillon safely hidden, the last thing we want is to lead the syndicate to him.”
“Indeed not.” Flick considered. “I’ll send a message with Jiggs.” Staring at the stream, she narrowed her eyes. “I’ll say that there’s no longer any point in me working at the stables—that we think someone from the syndicate is about and don’t want to compromise his safety.” She nodded. “That should keep him at the cottage.”
Sipping her champagne, Flick abandoned all thoughts of Dillon. Dillon was safe at the cottage, and there he could remain until she and Demon had resolved the imbroglio he had mired them all in. On such a
Demon looked back at the stream to hide his satisfaction; he was delighted to hear that her break with Dillon had not yet healed. “Who else knows he’s there?” He looked at Flick and frowned. “How does he get food?”
She’d finished her chicken; he watched as she licked her fingers, her wet pink tongue sliding up and around—then she licked her lips. And looked at him.
He managed not to tremble—not to react at all.
“The only one other than us who knows Dillon’s at the cottage is Jiggs. He’s a footman—he’s been at Hillgate End for . . . oh, ten years at least. Jiggs takes Dillon food every second day. He told me there’s always leftover roast or a pie left wrapped in the larder.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite sure Foggy also knows Dillon’s somewhere close.”
“Very likely.”
They ate and sipped in silence, the tinkling of the brook and the chirp of insects a spring symphony about them. Replete, Demon dusted his hands, then stretched full length on the rug. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes. “Have you told Dillon anything of our discoveries?”
“I haven’t told him anything at all.”
From under his lashes, he watched Flick gather up crumbs, then start to repack the basket.
“I decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell him we’d found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash—like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn’t do for him to be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we’re making progress.”
Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off—to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.
Loyalty, devotion—and good bottom. Her hallmarks.
The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.
Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel—a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed—from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.
His gaze dropped—to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn’t need the evidence to conjure the vision.
His smile deepening, he let his lids fall, and he relaxed on the rug. He waited until the basket was neatly repacked and, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her half-filled glass in one hand, she settled to enjoy the view.
“It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that now we’ve identified Bletchley and will be following him in earnest, and you no longer need to change clothes and horses morning and afternoon, it would be wise not to go to the cottage at all—just in case Bletchley, or one of his friends, turns the tables on us and follows us back to Dillon. As it’s central to our plan to keep Dillon safely hidden, the last thing we want is to lead the syndicate to him.”
“Indeed not.” Flick considered. “I’ll send a message with Jiggs.” Staring at the stream, she narrowed her eyes. “I’ll say that there’s no longer any point in me working at the stables—that we think someone from the syndicate is about and don’t want to compromise his safety.” She nodded. “That should keep him at the cottage.”
Sipping her champagne, Flick abandoned all thoughts of Dillon. Dillon was safe at the cottage, and there he could remain until she and Demon had resolved the imbroglio he had mired them all in. On such a
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