Honesty was her only option. In truth, she would prefer it-lies and evasion had never been her style.
A hundred yards ahead, a hedge beckoned. Her memory provided a picture of what lay beyond. The Flynn was tiring; she leaned forward and stroked the glossy neck, whispering words of praise, encouragement and outright flattery into his ear. Then she set him for the hedge.
The Flynn soared over it, landing easily. Flick absorbed the jolt and wheeled left, into the long shadows thrown by a copse. In the space between the hedge and the copse, screened on three sides, she reined in and waited.
And waited.
After five minutes, she started to wonder if Demon had looked away at the crucial moment and not seen where she'd gone. When another minute passed and she sensed no ground-shaking thuds, she frowned and straightened in her saddle. She was about to gather her reins and move out to search for her pursuer when she saw him.
He hadn't jumped the hedge. Despite his wish to catch her, wisdom-care for his horse-had prevailed; he'd gone along the hedge until he'd found a gap. Now he cantered up through the late afternoon, broad shoulders square, long limbs relaxed, head up, the sun striking gold from his burnished curls, his face a grim mask as he scanned the fields ahead, trying to catch sight of her.
Flick froze. It was tempting-so tempting-to sit still. To look her fill, and let him pass by, to worship from afar as she had for years, letting her senses feast while she remained safely hidden. If she made no sound, it was unlikely he would see her. She wouldn't have to face him… unfortunately, there were too many hurdles along that road. Stiffening her spine, taking a firm grip on her unruly senses, she lifted her chin. "Demon!"
His head snapped around; he wheeled aggressively, then saw her. Even at that distance, his gaze pinned her, then he scanned her surroundings. Apparently satisfied, he set his grey trotting toward her, slowing to a walk as he neared.
He was wearing an elegant morning coat of a blue that matched his eyes; his long thighs, gripping the saddle skirts, were encased in tight buckskin. Ivory shirt, ivory cravat and gleaming Hessians completed the picture. He looked what he was-the very epitome of a London rake.
Flick kept her gaze fixed on his face and wished, very much, that she were taller. The closer he came, the smaller she felt-the more childlike. She was no longer a child, but she'd known him since she had been. It was hard to feel assured. With her cap shading her face, her muffler over her nose and chin, she couldn't imagine how he might see her-as a girl still with pigtails, or as the young lady who'd trenchantly avoided him. She'd been both, but she was neither now. What she was now was on a crusade. A crusade in which she could use his help. If he consented to give it.
Lips firming beneath her muffler, she tilted her chin and met his hard stare.
Demon's memories churned as he walked his horse into the copse's shadow. She'd called him "Demon"-only someone who knew him would do that. Images from the past jumbled and tumbled, glimpses through the years of a child, a girl, who would without a blush call him Demon. Of a girl who could ride-oh, yes, she'd always ridden, but when had she become a maestro?-of a girl he had long ago pegged as having that quality Carruthers described as "good bottom"-that open-hearted courage that bordered on the reckless, but wasn't.
When he stopped his horse, nose to tail with The Flynn, he had her well and truly placed. Not Flick. Felicity.
Eyes like slits, he held her trapped; reaching out, he tugged the concealing muffler from her face.
And found himself looking down at a Botticelli angel.
Found himself drowning in limpid blue eyes paler than his own. Found his gaze irresistibly drawn to lips perfectly formed and tinged the most delicate rose pink he'd ever seen.
He was sinking. Fast. And he wasn't resisting.
Sucking in a breath, he drew back, inwardly shocked at how far under he'd gone. Shaking free of the lingering spell, he scowled at its source. "What the damn hell do you think you're about?"
Chapter 2
She tilted her chin-a delicate, pointy little chin. Set as it was, it looked decidedly stubborn.
"I'm masquerading as a stable lad, in your stables, so-"
"What a damn fool lark! What the devil-"
"It's not a lark!" Her blue eyes flashed; her expression turned belligerent. "I'm doing it for the General!"
"The General?" General Sir Gordon Caxton was Demon's neighbor and mentor, and Felicity's-Flick's-guardian. Demon scowled. "You're not going to tell me the General knows about this?"
"Of course not!"
The Flynn shifted; tight-lipped, Demon waited while Flick quieted the big bay.
Her gaze flickered over him, irritated and considering in equal measure, then steadied on his face.
"It's all because of Dillon."
"Dillon?" Dillon was the General's son. Flick and Dillon were of similar age. Demon's most recent memories of Dillon were of a dark-haired youth, swaggering about the General's house, Hillgate End, giving himself airs and undeserved graces.
"Dillon's in trouble."
Demon got the distinct impression she only just avoided adding "again."
"He became involved-inadvertently-with a race-fixing racket."
"What?" He bit off the word, then had to settle his mount. The words "race-fixing" sent a chill down his spine.
Flick frowned at him. "That's when jockeys are paid to ease back on a horse, or cause a disruption, or-"
He glared at her. "I know what race-fixing entails. That doesn't explain what you're doing mixed up in it."
"I'm not!" Indignation colored her cheeks.
"What are you doing masquerading as a lad, then?"
Her soft blue eyes flashed. "If you'd stop interrupting, I'd be able to tell you!"
Demon reined in his temper, set his jaw, and pointedly waited. After a moment's fraught silence, blue eyes locked with blue, Flick nodded and put her pert nose in the air.
"Dillon was approached some weeks ago by a man and asked to take a message to a jockey about the first race of the season. He didn't see any reason he shouldn't, so he agreed. I suspect he thought it would be a lark-or that it made him more involved with the racing-but he agreed to carry the message to the jockey, then didn't. Couldn't. He got a chill and Mrs. Fogarty and I insisted he stay in bed-we took away his clothes, so he had to. Of course, he didn't say why he kept trying to struggle up. Not then."
She drew breath. "So the message didn't get passed on. It was an instruction to fix the race, so the race, therefore, wasn't fixed. It now seems that the man who approached Dillon was working for some sort of syndicate-a group of some description-and because the race wasn't fixed and they didn't know it, they lost a lot of money."
"Men came looking for Dillon-rough men. Luckily, Jacobs and Mrs. Fogarty didn't like their style-they said Dillon was away. So now he's in hiding and fears for his life."
Demon exhaled and sat back in his saddle. From what he knew of the unsavory types involved in race-fixing, Dillon had good cause to worry. He studied Flick. "Where's he hiding?"
She straightened, and fixed him with a very direct look. "I can't tell you-not unless you're willing to help us."
Demon returned her gaze with one even more severe, and distinctly more aggravated. "Of course I'm going to help you!" What did she think he was? Beneath his breath, he swore. "How's the General going to take it if his only son is charged with race-fixing?"