ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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HOUGH the subject of aerial navigation is generally considered new, it has occupied the minds
of men more or less from the earliest ages. Our personal interest in it dates from our childhood
days. Late in the autumn of 1878 our father came into the house one evening with some object
partly concealed in his hands, and before we could see what it was, he tossed it into the air.
Instead of falling to the floor, as we expected, it flew across the room, till it struck the ceiling,
where it fluttered awhile, and finally sank to the floor. It was a little toy, known to scientists as a
“helicoptere,” but which we, with sublime disregard for science, at once dubbed a “bat.” It was a
light frame of cork and bamboo, covered with paper, which formed two screws, driven in
opposite directions by rubber bands under torsion. A toy so delicate lasted only a short time in
the hands of small boys, but its memory was abiding.
Several years later we began building these helicopteres for ourselves, making each one larger
than that preceding. But, to our astonishment, we found that the larger the “bat” the less it flew.
We did not know that a machine having only twice the linear dimensions of another would
require eight times the power. We finally became discouraged, and returned to kite-flying, a
sport to which we had devoted so much attention that we were regarded as experts. But as we
became older we had to give up this fascinating sport as unbecoming to boys of our ages.
It was not till the news of the sad death of Lilienthal reached America in the summer of 1896
that we again gave more than passing attention to the subject of flying. We then studied with
great interest Chanute’s “Progress in Flying Machines,” Langley’s “Experiments in
Aerodynamics,” the “Aeronautical Annuals” of 1905, 1906, and 1907, and several pamphlets
published by the Smithsonian Institution, especially articles by Lilienthal and extracts from
Mouillard’s “Empire of the Air.” The larger works gave us a good understanding of the nature of
the flying problem, and the difficulties in past attempts to solve it, while Mouillard and
Lilienthal, the great missionaries of the flying cause, infected us with their own unquenchable
enthusiasm, and transformed idle curiosity into the active zeal of workers.
In the field of aviation there were two schools. The first, represented by such men as Professor
Langley and Sir Hiram Maxim, gave chief attention to power flight; the second, represented by
Lilienthal, Mouillard, and Chanute, to soaring flight. Our sympathies were with the latter school,
partly from impatience at the wasteful extravagance of mounting delicate and costly machinery
on wings which no one knew how to manage, and partly, no doubt, from the extraordinary
charm and enthusiasm with which the apostles of soaring flight set forth the beauties of sailing
through the air on fixed wings, deriving the motive power from the wind itself.
The balancing of a flyer may seem, at first thought, to be a very simple matter, yet almost
every experimenter had found in this one point which he could not satisfactorily master. Many
different methods[2] were tried. Some experimenters placed the center of gravity far below the
wings, in the belief that the weight would naturally seek to remain at the lowest point. It is true,
that, like the pendulum, it tended to seek the lowest point; but also, like the pendulum, it tended
to oscillate in a manner destructive of all stability. A more satisfactory system, especially for
lateral balance, was that of arranging the wings in the shape of a broad V, to form a dihedral
angle, with the center low and the wing-tips elevated. In theory this was an automatic system,
but in practice it had two serious defects: first, it tended to keep the machine oscillating; and
second, its usefulness was restricted to calm air.
In a slightly modified form the same system was applied to the fore-and-aft balance. The main
aeroplane was set at a positive angle, and a horizontal tail at a negative angle, while the center of
gravity was placed far forward. As in the case of lateral control, there was a tendency to constant
undulation, and the very forces which caused a restoration of balance in calms caused a
disturbance of the balance in winds. Notwithstanding the known limitations of this principle, it
had been embodied in almost every prominent flying machine which had been built.
After considering the practical effect of the dihedral principle, we reached the conclusion that
a flyer founded upon it might be of interest from a scientific point of view, but could be of no
value in a practical way. We therefore resolved to try a fundamentally different principle. We
would arrange the machine so that it would not tend to right itself. We would make it as inert as
possible to the effects of change of direction or speed, and thus reduce the effects of wind-gusts
to a minimum. We would do this in the fore-and-aft stability by giving the aeroplanes a peculiar
shape; and in the lateral balance by arching the surfaces from tip to tip, just the reverse of what
our predecessors had done. Then by some suitable contrivance, actuated by the operator, forces
should be brought into play to regulate the balance.
Lilienthal and Chanute had guided and balanced their machines, by shifting the weight of the
operator’s body. But this method seemed to us incapable of expansion to meet large conditions,
because the weight to be moved and the distance of possible motion were limited, while the
disturbing forces steadily increased, both with wing area and with wind velocity. In order to
meet the needs of large machines, we wished to employ some system whereby the operator
could vary at will the inclination of different parts of the wings, and thus obtain from the wind
fo
rces to restore the balance which the wind itself had disturbed. This could easily be done by
using wings capable of being warped, and by supplementary adjustable surfaces in the shape of
ru
dders. As the forces obtainable for control would necessarily increase in the same ratio as the
disturbing forces, the method seemed capable of expansion to an almost unlimited extent. A
happy device was discovered whereby the apparently rigid system of superposed surfaces,
invented by Wenham, and improved by Stringfellow and Chanute, could be warped in a most
unexpected way, so that the aeroplanes could be presented on the right and left sides at different
angles to the wind. This, with an adjustable, horizontal front rudder, formed the main feature of
our first glider.
The period from 1885 to 1900 was one of unexampled activity in aeronautics, and for a time
there was high hope that the age of flying was at hand. But Maxim, after spending $100,000,
ab
andoned[3] the work; the Ader machine, built at the expense of the French Government, was a
fa
ilure; Lilienthal and Pilcher were killed in experiments; and Chanute and many others, from
one cause or another, had relaxed their efforts, though it subsequently became known that
Professor Langley was still secretly at work on a machine for the United States Government.
The public, discouraged by the failures and tragedies just witnessed, considered flight beyond
the reach of man, and classed its adherents with the inventors of perpetual motion.
We began our active experiments at the close of this period, in October, 1900, at Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina. Our machine was designed to be flown as a kite, with a man on board, in winds
from 15 to 20 miles an hour. But, upon trial, it was found that much stronger winds were
required to lift it. Suitable winds not being plentiful, we found it necessary, in order to test the
new balancing system, to fly the machine as a kite without a man on board, operating the levers
through cords from the ground. This did not give the practice anticipated, but it inspired
confidence in the new system of balance.
In the summer of 1901 we became personally acquainted with Mr. Chanute. When he learned
that we were interested in flying as a sport, and not with any expectation of recovering the
money we were expending on it, he gave us much encouragement. At our invitation, he spent
several weeks with us at our camp at Kill Devil Hill, four miles south of Kitty Hawk, during our
experiments of that and the two succeeding years. He also witnessed one flight of the power
machine near Dayton, Ohio, in October, 1904.
The machine of 1901 was built with the shape of surface used by Lilienthal, curved from front
to rear like the segment of a parabola, with a curvature 1/12 the depth of its cord; but to make
doubly sure that it would have sufficient lifting capacity when flown as a kite in 15 or 20-mile
winds, we increased the area from 165 square feet, used in 1900, to 308 square feet—a size
much larger than Lilienthal, Pilcher, or Chanute had deemed safe. Upon trial, however, the
lifting capacity again fell very far short of calculation, so that the idea of securing practice while
flying as a kite had to be abandoned. Mr. Chanute, who witnessed the experiments, told us that
the trouble was not due to poor construction of the machine. We saw only one other
explanation—that the tables of air-pressures in general use were incorrect.
We then turned to gliding—coasting downhill on the air—as the only method of getting the
desired practice in balancing a machine. After a few minutes’ practice we were able to make
glides of over 300 feet, and in a few days were safely operating in 27-mile winds. In these
experiments we met with several unexpected phenomena. We found that, contrary to the
teachings of the books, the center of pressure on a curved surface traveled backward when the
surface was inclined, at small angles, more and more edgewise to the wind. We also discovered
that in free flight, when the wing on one side of the machine was presented to the wind at a
greater angle than the one on the other side, the wing with the greater angle descended, and the
machine turned in a direction just the reverse of[4] what we were led to expect when flying the
machine as a kite. The larger angle gave more resistance to forward motion, and reduced the
speed of the wing on that side. The decrease in speed more than counterbalanced the effect of the
larger angle. The addition of a fixed vertical vane in the rear increased the trouble, and made the
machine absolutely dangerous. It was some time before a remedy was discovered. This consisted
of movable rudders working in conjunction with the twisting of the wings. The details of this
arrangement are given in specifications published several years ago.
The experiments of 1901 were far from encouraging. Although Mr. Chanute assured us that,
both in control and in weight carried per horse-power, the results obtained were better than those
of any of our predecessors, yet we saw that the calculations upon which all flying machines had
been based were unreliable, and that all were simply groping in the dark. Having set out with
ab
solute faith in the existing scientific data, we were driven to doubt one thing after another, till
finally, after two years of experiment, we cast it all aside, and decided to rely entirely upon our
own investigations. Truth and error were everywhere so intimately mixed as to be
undistinguishable. Nevertheless, the time expended in preliminary study of books was not
misspent, for they gave us a good general understanding of the subject, and enabled us at the
outset to avoid effort in many directions in which results would have been hopeless.
The standard measurements of wind-pressures is the force produced by a current of air of one
mile per hour velocity striking square against a plane of one square foot area. The practical
difficulties of obtaining an exact measurement of this force have been great. The measurements
by different recognized authorities vary 50 per cent. When this simplest of measurements
presents so great difficulties, what shall be said of the troubles encountered by those who
attempt to find the pressure at each angle as the plane is inclined more and more edgewise to the
wind? In the eighteenth century the French Academy prepared tables giving such information,
and at a later date the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain made similar experiments. Many
persons likewise published measurements and formulas; but the results were so discordant that
Professor Langley undertook a new series of measurements, the results of which form the basis
of his celebrated work, “Experiments in Aerodynamics.” Yet a critical examination of the data
upon which he based his conclusions as to the pressures at small angles shows results so various
as to make many of his conclusions little better than guesswork.
To work intelligently, one needs to know the effects of a multitude of variations that could be
incorporated in the surfaces of flying machines. The pressures on squares are different from
those on rectangles, circles, triangles, or ellipses; arched surfaces differ from planes, and vary
among themselves according to the depth of curvature; true arcs differ from parabolas, and the
latter differ among themselves; thick surfaces differ from thin, and surfaces thicker in one place
than another vary in pressure when the positions of maximum thickness are different; some
surfaces are most efficient at one angle, others at other angles. The shape of the edge also makes
a difference, so that thousands of combinations are possible in so simple a thing as a wing.
We had taken up aeronautics merely as a sport. We reluctantly entered upon the scientific side
of it. But we soon[5] found the work so fascinating that we were drawn into it deeper and deeper.
Two testing machines were built, which we believed would avoid the errors to which the
measurements of others had been subject. After making preliminary measurements on a great
number of different-shaped surfaces, to secure a general understanding of the subject, we began
systematic measurements of standard surfaces, so varied in design as to bring out the underlying
causes of differences noted in their pressures. Measurements were tabulated on nearly 50 of
these at all angles from zero to 45 degrees at intervals of 21/2 degrees. Measurements were also
secured showing the effects on each other when surfaces are superposed, or when they follow
one another.
Some strange results were obtained. One surface, with a heavy roll at the front edge, showed
the same lift for all angles from 71/2 to 45 degrees. A square plane, contrary to the measurements
of all our predecessors, gave a greater pressure at 30 degrees than at 45 degrees. This seemed so
anomalous that we were almost ready to doubt our own measurements, when a simple test was
suggested. A weather-vane, with two planes attached to the pointer at an angle of 80 degrees
with each other, was made. According to our tables, such a vane would be in unstable
equilibrium when pointing directly into the wind; for if by chance the wind should happen to
strike one plane at 39 degrees and the other at 41 degrees, the plane with the smaller angle would
have the greater pressure, and the pointer would be turned still farther out of the course of the
wind until the two vanes again secured equal pressures, which would be at approximately 30 and
50 degrees. But the vane performed in this very manner. Further corroboration of the tables was
obtained in experiments with the new glider at Kill Devil Hill the next season.
In September and October, 1902, nearly 1,000 gliding flights were made, several of which
covered distances of over 600 feet. Some, made against a wind of 36 miles an hour, gave proof
of the effectiveness of the devices for control. With this machine, in the autumn of 1903, we
made a number of flights in which we remained in the air for over a minute, often soaring for a
considerable time in one spot, without any descent at all. Little wonder that our unscientific
assistant should think the only thing needed to keep it indefinitely in the air would be a coat of
fe
athers to make it light!
With accurate data for making calculations, and a system of balance effective in winds as well
as in calms, we were now in a position, we thought, to build a successful power-flyer. The first
designs provided for a total weight of 600 lbs., including the operator and an eight horse-power
motor. But, upon completion, the motor gave more power than had been estimated, and this
allowed 150 lbs. to be added for strengthening the wings and other parts.
Our tables made the designing of the wings an easy matter, and as screw-propellers are simply
wings traveling in a spiral course, we anticipated no trouble from this source. We had thought of
getting the theory of the screw-propeller from the marine engineers, and then, by applying our
tables of air-pressures to their formulas, of designing air-propellers suitable for our purpose. But
so far as we could learn, the marine engineers possessed only empirical formulas, and the exact
action of the screw-propeller, after a century of use, was still very obscure. As we were not in a
position to undertake a long series of practical experiments to discover a propeller suitable[6] for
our machine, it seemed necessary to obtain such a thorough understanding of the theory of its
reactions as would enable us to design them from calculations alone. What at first seemed a
problem became more complex the longer we studied it. With the machine moving forward, the
air flying backward, the propellers turning sidewise, and nothing standing still, it seemed
impossible to find a starting-point from which to trace the various simultaneous reactions.
Contemplation of it was confusing. After long arguments we often found ourselves in the
ludicrous position of each having been converted to the other’s side, with no more agreement
than when the discussion began.
It was not till several months had passed, and every phase of the problem had been thrashed
over and over, that the various reactions began to untangle themselves. When once a clear
understanding had been obtained there was no difficulty in designing suitable propellers, with
proper diameter, pitch, and area of blade, to meet the requirements of the flyer. High efficiency
in a screw-propeller is not dependent upon any particular or peculiar shape; and there is no such
thing as a “best” screw. A propeller giving a high dynamic efficiency when used upon one
machine may be almost worthless when used upon another. The propeller should in every case
be designed to meet the particular conditions of the machine to which it is to be applied. Our
first propellers, built entirely from calculation, gave in useful work 66 per cent. of the power
expended. This was about one-third more than had been secured by Maxim or Langley.
The first flights with the power machine were made on December 17, 1903. Only five persons
besides ourselves were present. These were Messrs. John T. Daniels, W. S. Dough, and A. D.
Etheridge, of the Kill Devil Life-Saving Station; Mr. W. C. Brinkley, of Manteo; and Mr. John
Ward, of Naghead. Although a general invitation had been extended to the people living within
five or six miles, not many were willing to face the rigors of a cold December wind in order to
see, as they no doubt thought, another flying machine not fly. The first flight lasted only 12
seconds, a flight very modest compared with that of birds, but it was, nevertheless, the first in
the history of the world in which a machine carrying a man had raised itself by its own power
into the air in free flight, had sailed forward on a level course without reduction of speed, and
had finally landed without being wrecked. The second and third flights were a little longer, and
the fourth lasted 59 seconds, covering a distance of 852 feet over the ground against a 20-mile
wind.
After the last flight the machine was carried back to camp and set down in what was thought
to be a safe place. But a few minutes later, while we were engaged in conversation about the
flights, a sudden gust of wind struck the machine, and started to turn it over. All made a rush to
stop it, but we were too late. Mr. Daniels, a giant in stature and strength, was lifted off his feet,
and falling inside, between the surfaces, was[7] shaken about like a rattle in a box as the machine
rolled over and over. He finally fell out upon the sand with nothing worse than painful bruises,
but the damage to the machine caused a discontinuance of experiments.
In the spring of 1904, through the kindness of Mr. Torrence Huffman, of Dayton, Ohio, we
were permitted to erect a shed, and to continue experiments, on what is known as the Huffman
Prairie, at Simms Station, eight miles east of Dayton. The new machine was heavier and
stronger, but similar to the one flown at Kill Devil Hill. When it was ready for its first trial every
newspaper in Dayton was notified, and about a dozen representatives of the Press were present.
Our only request was that no pictures be taken, and that the reports be unsensational, so as not to
attract crowds to our experiment grounds. There were probably 50 persons altogether on the
ground. When preparations had been completed a wind of only three or four miles was
blowing—insufficient for starting on so short a track—but since many had come a long way to
see the machine in action, an attempt was made. To add to the other difficulty, the engine
refused to work properly. The machine, after running the length of the track, slid off the end
without rising into the air at all. Several of the newspaper men returned the next day, but were
again disappointed. The engine performed badly, and after a glide of only 60 feet, the machine
came to the ground. Further trial was postponed till the motor could be put in better running
condition. The reporters had now, no doubt, lost confidence in the machine, though their reports,
in kindness, concealed it. Later, when they heard that we were making flights of several
minutes’ duration, knowing that longer flights had been made with airships, and not knowing
any essential difference between airships and flying machines, they were but little interested.
We had not been flying long in 1904 before we found that the problem of equilibrium had not
as yet been entirely solved. Sometimes, in making a circle, the machine would turn over
sidewise despite anything the operator could do, although, under the same conditions in ordinary
straight flight, it could have been righted in an instant. In one flight, in 1905, while circling
around a honey locust tree at a height of about 50 feet, the machine suddenly began to turn up on
one wing, and took a course toward the tree. The operator, not relishing the idea of landing in a
thorn-tree, attempted to reach the ground. The left wing, however, struck the tree at a height of
10 or 12 feet from the ground and carried away several branches; but the flight, which had
already covered a distance of six miles, was continued to the starting-point.
The causes of these troubles—too technical for explanation here—were not entirely overcome
till the end of September, 1905. The flights then rapidly increased in length, till experiments
were discontinued after October 5, on account of the number of people attracted to the field.
Although made on a ground open on every side, and bordered on two sides by much-traveled
thoroughfares, with electric cars passing every hour, and seen by all the people living in the
neighborhood for miles around, and by several hundred others, yet these flights have been made
by some newspapers the subject of a great “mystery.”
A practical flyer having been finally realized, we spent the years 1906 and 1907 in
constructing new machines and in business negotiations. It was not till May of this year that
experiments (discontinued in October, 1905) were resumed[8] at Kill Devil Hill, North Carolina.
The recent flights were made to test the ability of our machine to meet the requirements of a
contract with the United States Government to furnish a flyer capable of carrying two men and
sufficient fuel supplies for a flight of 125 miles, with a speed of 40 miles an hour. The machine
used in these tests was the same one with which the flights were made at Simms Station in 1905,
though several changes had been made to meet present requirements. The operator assumed a
sitting position, instead of lying prone, as in 1905, and a seat was added for a passenger. A larger
motor was installed, and radiators and gasoline reservoirs of larger capacity replaced those
previously used. No attempt was made to make high or long flights.
In order to show the general reader the way in which the machine operates, let us fancy
ourselves ready for the start. The machine is placed upon a single-rail track facing the wind, and
is securely fastened with a cable. The engine is put in motion, and the propellers in the rear whir.
You take your seat at the center of the machine beside the operator. He slips the cable, and you
shoot forward. An assistant who has been holding the machine in balance on the rail starts
fo
rw
ard with you, but before you have gone 50 feet the speed is too great for him, and he lets go.
Before reaching the end of the track the operator moves the front rudder, and the machine lifts
from the rail like a kite supported by the pressure of the air underneath it. The ground under you
is at first a perfect blur, but as you rise the objects become clearer. At a height of 100 feet you
fe
el hardly any motion at all, except for the wind which strikes your face. If you did not take the
precaution to fasten your hat before starting, you have probably lost it by this time. The operator
moves a lever: the right wing rises, and the machine swings about to the left. You make a very
short turn, yet you do not feel the sensation of being thrown from your seat, so often experienced
in automobile and railway travel. You find yourself facing toward the point from which you
started. The objects on the ground now seem to be moving at much higher speed, though you
perceive no change in the pressure of the wind on your face. You know then that you are
traveling with the wind. When you near the starting-point the operator stops the motor while still
high in the air. The machine coasts down at an oblique angle to the ground, and after sliding 50
or 100 feet, comes to rest. Although the machine often lands when traveling at a speed of a mile
a minute, you feel no shock whatever, and cannot, in fact, tell the exact moment at which it first
touched the ground. The motor close beside you kept up an almost deafening roar during the
whole flight, yet in your excitement you did not notice it till it stopped!
Our experiments have been conducted entirely at our own expense. In the beginning we had
no thought of recovering what we were expending, which was not great, and was limited to what
we could afford in recreation. Later, when a successful flight had been made with a motor, we
gave up the business in which we were engaged, to devote our entire time and capital to the
development of a machine for practical uses. As soon as our condition is such that constant
attention to business is not required, we expect to prepare for publication the results of our
laboratory experiments, which alone made an early solution of the flying problem possible.
[9] How We Made the First Flight
By Orville Wright
THE flights of the 1902 glider had demonstrated the efficiency of our system of maintaining
equilibrium, and also the accuracy of the laboratory work upon which the design of the glider
was based. We then felt that we were prepared to calculate in advance the performance of
machines with a degree of accuracy that had never been possible with the data and tables
possessed by our predecessors. Before leaving camp in 1902 we were already at work on the
general design of a new machine which we proposed to propel with a motor.
Immediately upon our return to Dayton, we wrote to a number of automobile and motor
builders, stating the purpose for which we desired a motor, and asking whether they could
fu
rn
ish one that would develop eight brake-horsepower, with a weight complete not exceeding
200 pounds. Most of the companies answered that they were too busy with their regular business
to undertake the building of such a motor for us; but one company replied that they had motors
rated at 8 horse-power, according to the French system of ratings, which weighed only 135
pounds, and that if we thought this motor would develop enough power for our purpose they
would be glad to sell us one. After an examination of the particulars of this motor, from which
we learned that it had but a single cylinder of 4-inch bore and 5-inch stroke, we were afraid it
was much over-rated. Unless the motor would develop a full 8 brake-horsepower, it would be
useless for our purpose.
Finally we decided to undertake the building of the motor ourselves. We estimated that we
could make one of four cylinders with 4-inch bore and 4-inch stroke, weighing not over two
hundred pounds, including all accessories. Our only experience up to that time in the building of
gasoline motors had been in the construction of an air-cooled motor, 5-inch bore and 7-inch
stroke, which was used to run the machinery of our small workshop. To be certain that four
cylinders of the size we had adopted (4″ × 4″) would develop the necessary 8 horse-power, we
first fitted them in a temporary frame of simple and cheap construction. In just six weeks from
the time the design was started, we had the motor on the block testing its power. The ability to
do this so quickly was largely due to the enthusiastic and efficient services of Mr. C. E. Taylor,
who did all the machine work in our shop for the first as well as the succeeding experimental
machines. There was no provision for lubricating either cylinders or bearings while this motor
was running. For that reason it was not possible to run it more than a minute or two at a time. In
these short tests the motor developed about nine horse-power. We were then satisfied that, with
proper lubrication and better adjustments, a little more power could[10] be expected. The
completion of the motor according to drawing was, therefore, proceeded with at once.
While Mr. Taylor was engaged with this work, Wilbur and I were busy in completing the
design of the machine itself. The preliminary tests of the motor having convinced us that more
than 8 horse-power would be secured, we felt free to add enough weight to build a more
substantial machine than we had originally contemplated.
For two reasons we decided to use two propellers. In the first place we could, by the use of
two propellers, secure a reaction against a greater quantity of air, and at the same time use a
larger pitch angle than was possible with one propeller; and in the second place by having the
propellers turn in opposite directions, the gyroscopic action of one would neutralize that of the
other. The method we adopted of driving the propellers in opposite directions by means of
chains is now too well known to need description here. We decided to place the motor to one
side of the man, so that in case of a plunge headfirst, the motor could not fall upon him. In our
gliding experiments we had had a number of experiences in which we had landed upon one
wing, but the crushing of the wing had absorbed the shock, so that we were not uneasy about the
motor in case of a landing of that kind. To provide against the machine rolling over forward in
landing, we designed skids like sled runners, extending out in front of the main surfaces.
Otherwise the general construction and operation of the machine was to be similar to that of the
1902 glider.
When the motor was completed and tested, we found that it would develop 16 horse-power
fo
r a few seconds, but that the power rapidly dropped till, at the end of a minute, it was only 12
horse-power. Ignorant of what a motor of this size ought to develop, we were greatly pleased
with its performance. More experience showed us that we did not get one-half of the power we
should have had.
With 12 horse-power at our command, we considered that we could permit the weight of the
machine with operator to rise to 750 or 800 pounds, and still have as much surplus power as we
had originally allowed for in the first estimate of 550 pounds.
Before leaving for our camp at Kitty Hawk we tested the chain drive for the propellers in our
shop at Dayton, and found it satisfactory. We found, however, that our first propeller shafts,
which were constructed of heavy gauge steel tubing, were not strong enough to stand the shocks
received from a gasoline motor with light fly wheel, although they would have been able to
transmit three or four times the power uniformly applied. We therefore built a new set of shafts
of heavier tubing, which we tested and thought to be abundantly strong.
We left Dayton, September 23, and arrived at our camp at Kill Devil Hill on Friday, the 25th.
We found there provisions and tools, which had been shipped by freight several weeks in
advance. The building, erected in 1901 and enlarged in 1902, was found to have been blown by
a storm from its foundation posts a few months previously. While we were awaiting the arrival
of the shipment of machinery and parts from Dayton, we were busy putting the old building in
repair, and erecting a new building to serve as a workshop for assembling and housing the new
machine.
Just as the building was being completed, the parts and material for the machines arrived
simultaneously with one of the worst storms that had visited Kitty Hawk in years. The storm
came on suddenly, blowing 30 to 40 miles an hour.[11] It increased during the night, and the next
day was blowing over 75 miles an hour. In order to save the tar-paper roof, we decided it would
be necessary to get out in this wind and nail down more securely certain parts that were
especially exposed. When I ascended the ladder and reached the edge of the roof, the wind
caught under my large coat, blew it up around my head and bound my arms till I was perfectly
helpless. Wilbur came to my assistance and held down my coat while I tried to drive the nails.
But the wind was so strong I could not guide the hammer and succeeded in striking my fingers
as often as the nails.
The next three weeks were spent in setting the motor-machine together. On days with more
fa
vorable winds we gained additional experience in handling a flyer by gliding with the 1902
machine, which we had found in pretty fair condition in the old building, where we had left it the
year before.
Mr. Chanute and Dr. Spratt, who had been guests in our camp in 1901 and 1902, spent some
time with us, but neither one was able to remain to see the test of the motor-machine, on account
of the delays caused by trouble which developed in the propeller shafts.
While Mr. Chanute was with us, a good deal of time was spent in discussion of the
mathematical calculations upon which we had based our machine. He informed us that, in
designing machinery, about 20 per cent. was usually allowed for the loss in the transmission of
power. As we had allowed only 5 per cent., a figure we had arrived at by some crude
measurements of the friction of one of the chains when carrying only a very light load, we were
much alarmed. More than the whole surplus in power allowed in our calculations would,
according to Mr. Chanute’s estimate, be consumed in friction in the driving chains. After Mr.
Chanute’s departure, we suspended one of the drive chains over a sprocket, hanging bags of sand
on either side of the sprocket of a weight approximately equal to the pull that would be exerted
on the chains when driving the propellers. By measuring the extra amount of weight needed on
one side to lift the weight on the other, we calculated the loss in transmission. This indicated that
the loss of power from this source would be only 5 per cent., as we originally estimated. But
while we could see no serious error in this method of determining the loss, we were very uneasy
until we had a chance to run the propellers with the motor to see whether we could get the
estimated number of turns.
The first run of the motor on the machine developed a flaw in one of the propeller shafts
which had not been discovered in the test at Dayton. The shafts were sent at once to Dayton for
repair, and were not received again until November 20, having been gone two weeks. We
immediately put them in the machine and made another test. A new trouble developed. The
sprockets which were screwed on the shafts, and locked with nuts of opposite thread, persisted in
coming loose. After many futile attempts to get them fast, we had to give it up for that day, and
went to bed much discouraged. However, after a night’s rest, we got up the next morning in
better spirits and resolved to try again.
While in the bicycle business we had become well acquainted with the use of hard tire cement
fo
r fastening tires on the rims. We had once used it successfully in repairing a stop watch after
several watchsmiths had told us it could not be repaired. If tire cement was good for fastening
the hands on a stop watch, why should it not be good for fastening the[12] sprockets on the
propeller shaft of a flying machine? We decided to try it. We heated the shafts and sprockets,
melted cement into the threads, and screwed them together again. This trouble was over. The
sprockets stayed fast.
Just as the machine was ready for test bad weather set in. It had been disagreeably cold for
several weeks, so cold that we could scarcely work on the machine for some days. But now we
began to have rain and snow, and a wind of 25 to 30 miles blew for several days from the north.
While we were being delayed by the weather we arranged a mechanism to measure
au
tomatically the duration of a flight from the time the machine started to move forward to the
time it stopped, the distance traveled through the air in that time, and the number of revolutions
made by the motor and propeller. A stop watch took the time; an anemometer measured the air
traveled through; and a counter took the number of revolutions made by the propellers. The
watch, anemometer and revolution counter were all automatically started and stopped
simultaneously. From data thus obtained we expected to prove or disprove the accuracy of our
propeller calculations.
On November 28, while giving the motor a run indoors, we thought we again saw something
wrong with one of the propeller shafts. On stopping the motor we discovered that one of the
tubular shafts had cracked!
Immediate preparation was made for returning to Dayton to build another set of shafts. We
decided to abandon the use of tubes, as they did not afford enough spring to take up the shocks
of premature or missed explosions of the motor. Solid tool-steel shafts of smaller diameter than
the tubes previously used were decided upon. These would allow a certain amount of spring. The
tubular shafts were many times stronger than would have been necessary to transmit the power
of our motor if the strains upon them had been uniform. But the large hollow shafts had no
spring in them to absorb the unequal strains.
Wilbur remained in camp while I went to get the new shafts. I did not get back to camp again
till Friday, the 11th of December. Saturday afternoon the machine was again ready for trial, but
the wind was so light a start could not have been made from level ground with the run of only
sixty feet permitted by our monorail track. Nor was there enough time before dark to take the
machine to one of the hills, where, by placing the track on a steep incline, sufficient speed could
be secured for starting in calm air.
Monday, December 14, was a beautiful day, but there was not enough wind to enable a start to
be made from the level ground about camp. We therefore decided to attempt a flight from the
side of the big Kill Devil Hill. We had arranged with the members of the Kill Devil Hill Life
Saving Station, which was located a little over a mile from our camp, to inform them when we
were ready to make the first trial of the machine. We were soon joined by J. T. Daniels, Robert
Westcott, Thomas Beachem, W. S. Dough and Uncle Benny O’Neal, of the station, who helped
us get the machine to the hill, a quarter mile away. We laid the track 150 feet up the side of the
hill on a 9-degree slope. With the slope of the track, the thrust of the propellers and the machine
starting directly into the wind, we did not anticipate any trouble in getting[13] up flying speed on
the 60-foot monorail track. But we did not feel certain the operator could keep the machine
balanced on the track.
When the machine had been fastened with a wire to the track, so that it could not start until
released by the operator, and the motor had been run to make sure that it was in condition, we
tossed up a coin to decide who should have the first trial. Wilbur won. I took a position at one of
the wings, intending to help balance the machine as it ran down the track. But when the
restraining wire was slipped, the machine started off so quickly I could stay with it only a few
fe
et. After a 35 to 40-foot run it lifted from the rail. But it was allowed to turn up too much. It
climbed a few feet, stalled, and then settled to the ground near the foot of the hill, 105 feet
below. My stop watch showed that it had been in the air just 31/2 seconds. In landing the left wing
touched first. The machine swung around, dug the skids into the sand and broke one of them.
Several other parts were also broken, but the damage to the machine was not serious. While the
test had shown nothing as to whether the power of the motor was sufficient to keep the machine
up, since the landing was made many feet below the starting point, the experiment had
demonstrated that the method adopted for launching the machine was a safe and practical one.
On the whole, we were much pleased.
Two days were consumed in making repairs, and the machine was not ready again till late in
the afternoon of the 16th. While we had it out on the track in front of the building, making the
final adjustments, a stranger came along. After looking at the machine a few seconds he inquired
what it was. When we told him it was a flying machine he asked whether we intended to fly it.
We said we did, as soon as we had a suitable wind. He looked at it several minutes longer and
then, wishing to be courteous, remarked that it looked as if it would fly, if it had a “suitable
wind.” We were much amused, for, no doubt, he had in mind the recent 75-mile gale when he
repeated our words, “a suitable wind!”
During the night of December 16, 1903, a strong cold wind blew from the north. When we
arose on the morning of the 17th, the puddles of water, which had been standing about camp
since the recent rains, were covered with ice. The wind had a velocity of 10 to 12 meters per
second (22 to 27 miles an hour). We thought it would die down before long, and so remained
indoors the early part of the morning. But when ten o’clock arrived, and the wind was as brisk as
ever, we decided that we had better get the machine out and attempt a flight. We hung out the
signal for the men of the life saving station. We thought that by facing the flyer into a strong
wind, there ought to be no trouble in launching it from the level ground about camp. We realized
the difficulties of flying in so high a wind, but estimated that the added dangers in flight would
be partly compensated for by the slower speed in landing.
We laid the track on a smooth stretch of ground about one hundred feet north of the new
building. The biting cold wind made work difficult, and we had to warm up frequently in our
living room, where we had a good fire in an improvised stove made of a large carbide can. By
the time all was ready, J. T. Daniels, W. S. Dough and A. D. Etheridge, members of the Kill
Devil Life Saving Station; W. C. Brinkley, of Manteo, and Johnny Moore, a boy from Nag’s
Head, had arrived.
We had a “Richards” hand anemometer with which we measured the velocity[14] of the wind.
Measurements made just before starting the first flight showed velocities of 11 to 12 meters per
second, or 24 to 27 miles per hour. Measurements made just before the last flight gave between
9 and 10 meters per second. One made just after showed a little over 8 meters. The records of the
Government Weather Bureau at Kitty Hawk gave the velocity of the wind between the hours of
10:30 and 12 o’clock, the time during which the four flights were made, as averaging 27 miles at
the time of the first flight and 24 miles at the time of the last.
Wilbur, having used his turn in the unsuccessful attempt on the 14th, the right to the first trial
now belonged to me. After running the motor a few minutes to heat it up, I released the wire that
held the machine to the track, and the machine started forward into the wind. Wilbur ran at the
side of the machine, holding the wing to balance it on the track. Unlike the start on the 14th,
made in a calm, the machine, facing a 27-mile wind, started very slowly. Wilbur was able to stay
with it till it lifted from the track after a forty-foot run. One of the life saving men snapped the
camera for us, taking a picture just as the machine had reached the end of the track and had risen
to a height of about two feet. The slow forward speed of the machine over the ground is clearly
shown in the picture by Wilbur’s attitude. He stayed along beside the machine without any
effort.
The course of the flight up and down was exceedingly erratic, partly due to the irregularity of
the air, and partly to lack of experience in handling this machine. The control of the front rudder
was difficult on account of its being balanced too near the center. This gave it a tendency to turn
itself when started; so that it turned too far on one side and then too far on the other. As a result
the machine would rise suddenly to about ten feet, and then as suddenly dart for the ground. A
sudden dart when a little over a hundred feet from the end of the track, or a little over 120 feet
from the point at which it rose into the air, ended the flight. As the velocity of the wind was over
35 feet per second and the speed of the machine against this wind ten feet per second, the speed
of the machine relative to the air was over 45 feet per second, and the length of the flight was
equivalent to a flight of 540 feet made in calm air. This flight lasted only 12 seconds, but it was
nevertheless the first in the history of the world in which a machine carrying a man had raised
itself by its own power into the air in full flight, had sailed forward without reduction of speed,
and had finally landed at a point as high as that from which it started.
At twenty minutes after eleven Wilbur started on the second flight. The course of this flight
was much like that of the first, very much up and down. The speed over the ground was
somewhat faster than that of the first flight, due to the lesser wind. The duration of the flight was
less than a second longer than the first, but the distance covered was about seventy-five feet
greater.
Twenty minutes later the third flight started. This one was steadier than the first one an hour
before. I was proceeding along pretty well when a sudden gust from the right lifted the machine
up twelve to fifteen feet and turned it up sidewise in an alarming manner. It began sliding off to
the left. I warped the wings to try to recover the lateral balance and at the same time pointed the
machine down to reach the ground as quickly as possible. The lateral control was more effective
than I had imagined[15] and before I reached the ground the right wing was lower than the left
and struck first. The time of this flight was fifteen seconds and the distance over the ground a
little over 200 feet.
Wilbur started the fourth and last flight at just 12 o’clock. The first few hundred feet were up
and down as before, but by the time three hundred feet had been covered, the machine was under
much better control. The course for the next four or five hundred feet had but little undulation.
However, when out about eight hundred feet the machine began pitching again, and, in one of its
starts downward, struck the ground. The distance over the ground was measured and found to be
852 feet; the time of the flight 59 seconds. The frame supporting the front rudder was badly
broken, but the main part of the machine was not injured at all. We estimated that the machine
could be put in condition for flight again in a day or two.
While we were standing about discussing this last flight, a sudden strong gust of wind struck
the machine and began to turn it over. Everybody made a rush for it. Wilbur, who was at one
end, seized it in front, Mr. Daniels and I, who were behind, tried to stop it by holding to the rear
uprights. All our efforts were vain. The machine rolled over and over. Daniels, who had retained
his grip, was carried along with it, and was thrown about head over heels inside of the machine.
Fortunately he was not seriously injured, though badly bruised in falling about against the motor,
chain guides, etc. The ribs in the surfaces of the machine were broken, the motor injured and the
chain guides badly bent, so that all possibility of further flights with it for that year were at an
end.
[16] Some Aeronautical Experiments
By Wilbur Wright
THE difficulties which obstruct the pathway to success in flying machine construction are of
three general classes: (1) Those which relate to the construction of the sustaining wings.
(2) Those which relate to the generation and application of the power required to drive the
machine through the air. (3) Those relating to the balancing and steering of the machine after it
is actually in flight. Of these difficulties two are already to a certain extent solved. Men already
kn
ow how to construct wings or aeroplanes which, when driven through air at sufficient speed,
will not only sustain the weight of the wings themselves, but also that of the engine, and of the
engineer as well. Men also know how to build engines and screws of sufficient lightness and
power to drive these planes at sustaining speed. As long ago as 1893 a machine weighing
8,000 lbs. demonstrated its power both to lift itself from the ground and to maintain a speed of
from 30 to 40 miles per hour; but it came to grief in an accidental free flight, owing to the
inability of the operators to balance and steer it properly. This inability to balance and steer still
confronts students of the flying problem, although nearly ten years have passed. When this one
fe
ature has been worked out the age of flying machines will have arrived, for all other
difficulties are of minor importance.
The person who merely watches the flight of a bird gathers the impression that the bird has
nothing to think of but the flapping of its wings. As a matter of fact, this is a very small part of
its mental labour. Even to mention all the things the bird must constantly keep in mind in order
to fly securely through the air would take a very considerable treatise. If I take a piece of paper,
and after placing it parallel with the ground, quickly let it fall, it will not settle steadily down as a
staid, sensible piece of paper ought to do, but it insists on contravening every recognized rule of
decorum, turning over and darting hither and thither in the most erratic manner, much after the
style of an untrained horse. Yet this is the style of steed that men must learn to manage before
flying can become an everyday sport. The bird has learned this art of equilibrium, and learned it
so thoroughly that its skill is not apparent to our sight. We only learn to appreciate it when we
try to imitate it. Now, there are two ways of learning how to ride a fractious horse: one is to get
on him and learn by actual practice how each motion and trick may be best met; the other is to
sit on a fence and watch the beast awhile, and then retire to the house and at leisure figure out
the best way of overcoming his jumps and kicks. The latter system is the safest; but the former,
on the whole, turns out the larger proportion of good riders. It is very much the same in learning
to ride a flying machine; if you are looking for perfect safety you will do well to sit on a fence
and watch the birds; but if you really wish to learn you must mount a machine and become
acquainted with its tricks by actual trial.
My own active interest in aeronautical problems dates back to the death of Lilienthal in 1896.
The brief notice of his death which appeared in the telegraphic news at that time aroused a
passive interest which had existed from my[17] childhood, and led me to take down from the
shelves of our home library a book on “Animal Mechanism,” by Prof. Marey, which I had
already read several times. From this I was led to read more modern works, and as my brother
soon became equally interested with myself, we soon passed from the reading to the thinking,
and finally to the working stage. It seemed to us that the main reason why the problem had
remained so long unsolved was that no one had been able to obtain any adequate practice. We
figured that Lilienthal in five years of time had spent only about five hours in actual gliding
through the air. The wonder was not that he had done so little, but that he had accomplished so
much. It would not be considered at all safe for a bicycle rider to attempt to ride through a
crowded city street after only five hours’ practice, spread out in bits of ten seconds each over a
period of five years; yet Lilienthal with this brief practice was remarkably successful in meeting
the fluctuations and eddies of wind gusts. We thought that if some method could be found by
which it would be possible to practice by the hour instead of by the second there would be hope
of advancing the solution of a very difficult problem. It seemed feasible to do this by building a
machine which would be sustained at a speed of 18 miles per hour, and then finding a locality
where winds of this velocity were common. With these conditions a rope attached to the
machine to keep it from floating backward would answer very nearly the same purpose as a
propeller driven by a motor, and it would be possible to practice by the hour, and without any
serious danger, as it would not be necessary to rise far from the ground, and the machine would
not have any forward motion at all. We found, according to the accepted tables of air pressures
on curved surfaces, that a machine spreading 200 square feet of wing surface would be sufficient
fo
r our purpose, and that places could easily be found along the Atlantic coast where winds of 16
to 25 miles were not at all uncommon. When the winds were low it was our plan to glide from
the tops of sand hills, and when they were sufficiently strong to use a rope for our motor and fly
over one spot. Our next work was to draw up the plan for a suitable machine. After much study
we finally concluded that tails were a source of trouble rather than of assistance, and therefore
we decided to dispense with them altogether. It seemed reasonable that if the body of the
operator could be placed in a horizontal position instead of the upright, as in the machines of
Lilienthal, Pilcher and Chanute, the wind resistance could be very materially reduced, since only
one square foot instead of five would be exposed. As a full half-horse-power could be saved by
this change, we arranged to try at least the horizontal position. Then the method of control used
by Lilienthal, which consisted in shifting the body, did not seem quite as quick or effective as
the case required; so, after long study, we contrived a system consisting of two large surfaces on
the Chanute double-deck plan, and a smaller surface placed a short distance in front of the main
surfaces in such a position that the action of the wind upon it would counterbalance the effect of
the travel of the center of pressure on the main surfaces. Thus changes in the direction and
velocity of the wind would have little disturbing effect, and the operator would be required to
attend only to the steering of the machine, which was to be effected by curving the forward
surface up or down. The lateral equilibrium and the steering to right or left was to be attained by
a peculiar torsion of the main surfaces, which was equivalent to presenting one[18] end of the
wings at a greater angle than the other. In the main frame a few changes were also made in the
details of construction and trussing employed by Mr. Chanute. The most important of these
were: (1) The moving of the forward main cross-piece of the frame to the extreme front edge;
(2) the encasing in the cloth of all cross-pieces and ribs of the surfaces; (3) a rearrangement of
the wires used in trussing the two surfaces together, which rendered it possible to tighten all the
wires by simply shortening two of them.
With these plans we proceeded in the summer of 1900 to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, a little
settlement located on the strip of land that separates Albemarle Sound from the Atlantic Ocean.
Owing to the impossibility of obtaining suitable material for a 200-square-foot machine, we
were compelled to make it only 165 square feet in area, which, according to the Lilienthal tables,
would be supported at an angle of three degrees in a wind of about 21 miles per hour. On the
very day that the machine was completed the wind blew from 25 to 30 miles per hour, and we
took it out for a trial as a kite. We found that while it was supported with a man on it in a wind
of about 25 miles, its angle was much nearer 20 degrees than three degrees. Even in gusts of 30
miles the angle of incidence did not get as low as three degrees, although the wind at this speed
has more than twice the lifting power of a 21-mile wind. As winds of 30 miles per hour are not
plentiful on clear days, it was at once evident that our plan of practicing by the hour, day after
day, would have to be postponed. Our system of twisting the surfaces to regulate the lateral
balance was tried and found to be much more effective than shifting the operator’s body. On
subsequent days, when the wind was too light to support the machine with a man on it, we tested
it as a kite, working the rudders by cords reaching to the ground. The results were very
satisfactory, yet we were well aware that this method of testing is never wholly convincing until
the results are confirmed by actual gliding experience.
We then turned our attention to making a series of actual measurements of the lift and drift of
the machine under various loads. So far as we were aware, this had never previously been done
with any full-size machine. The results obtained were most astonishing, for it appeared that the
total horizontal pull of the machine, while sustaining a weight of 52 lbs., was only 8.5 lbs.,
which was less than had previously been estimated for head resistance of the framing alone.
Making allowance for the weight carried, it appeared that the head resistance of the framing was
but little more than 50 per cent. of the amount which Mr. Chanute had estimated as the head
resistance of the framing of his machine. On the other hand, it appeared sadly deficient in lifting
power as compared with the calculated lift of curved surfaces of its size. This deficiency we
supposed might be due to one or more of the following causes:—(1) That the depth of the
curvature of our surfaces was insufficient, being only about one in 22, instead of one in 12.
(2) That the cloth used in our wings was not sufficiently air-tight. (3) That the Lilienthal tables
might themselves be somewhat in error. We decided to arrange our machine for[19] the following
year so that the depth of the curvature of its surfaces could be varied at will and its covering airproofed.
Our attention was next turned to gliding, but no hill suitable for the purpose could be found
near our camp at Kitty Hawk. This compelled us to take the machine to a point four miles south,
where the Kill Devil sand hill rises from the flat sand to a height of more than 100 feet. Its main
slope is toward the northeast, and has an inclination of 10 degrees. On the day of our arrival the
wind blew about 25 miles an hour, and as we had had no experience at all in gliding, we deemed
it unsafe to attempt to leave the ground. But on the day following, the wind having subsided to
14 miles per hour, we made about a dozen glides. It had been the original intention that the
operator should run with the machine to obtain initial velocity, and assume the horizontal
position only after the machine was in free flight. When it came time to land he was to resume
the upright position and alight on his feet, after the style of previous gliding experiments. But in
actual trial we found it much better to employ the help of two assistants in starting, which the
peculiar form of our machine enabled us readily to do; and in landing we found that it was
entirely practicable to land while still reclining in a horizontal position upon the machine.
Although the landings were made while moving at speeds of more than 20 miles an hour, neither
machine nor operator suffered any injury. The slope of the hill was 9.5 deg., or a drop of one
fo
ot in six. We found that after attaining a speed of about 25 to 30 miles with reference to the
wind, or 10 to 15 miles over the ground, the machine not only glided parallel to the slope of the
hill, but greatly increased its speed, thus indicating its ability to glide on a somewhat less angle
than 9.5 deg., when we should feel it safe to rise higher from the surface. The control of the
machine proved even better than we had dared to expect, responding quickly to the slightest
motion of the rudder. With these glides our experiments for the year 1900 closed. Although the
hours and hours of practice we had hoped to obtain finally dwindled down to about two minutes,
we were very much pleased with the general results of the trip, for, setting out as we did with
almost revolutionary theories on many points and an entirely untried form of machine, we
considered it quite a point to be able to return without having our pet theories completely
kn
ocked on the head by the hard logic of experience, and our own brains dashed out in the
bargain. Everything seemed to us to confirm the correctness of our original opinions—(1) that
practice is the key to the secret of flying; (2) that it is practicable to assume the horizontal
position; (3) that a smaller surface set at a negative angle in front of the main bearing surfaces,
or wings, will largely counteract the effect of the fore-and-aft travel of the center of pressure;
(4) that steering up and down can be attained with a rudder without moving the position of the
operator’s body; (5) that twisting the wings so as to present their ends to the wind at different
angles is a more prompt and efficient way of maintaining lateral equilibrium than that employed
in shifting the body of the operator of the machine.
When the time came to design our new machine for 1901 we decided to make it exactly like
the previous machine in theory and method of operation. But as the former machine was not able
to support the weight of the operator when flown as a kite, except in very high winds and at very
large angles of incidence, we decided to increase its lifting power. Accordingly,[20] the curvature
of the surfaces was increased to one in 12, to conform to the shape on which Lilienthal’s table
was based, and to be on the safe side we decided also to increase the area of the machine from
165 square feet to 308 square feet, although so large a machine had never before been deemed
controllable. The Lilienthal machine had an area of 151 square feet; that of Pilcher, 165 square
fe
et; and the Chanute double-decker, 134 square feet. As our system of control consisted in a
manipulation of the surfaces themselves instead of shifting the operator’s body, we hoped that
the new machine would be controllable, notwithstanding its great size. According to
calculations, it would obtain support in a wind of 17 miles per hour with an angle of incidence of
only three degrees.
Our experience of the previous year having shown the necessity of a suitable building for
housing the machine, we erected a cheap frame building, 16 feet wide, 25 feet long, and 7 feet
high at the eaves. As our machine was 22 feet wide, 14 feet long (including the rudder), and
ab
out 6 feet high, it was not necessary to take the machine apart in any way in order to house it.
Both ends of the building, except the gable parts, were made into doors which hinged above, so
that when opened they formed an awning at each end and left an entrance the full width of the
building. We went into camp about the middle of July, and were soon joined by Mr. E. C.
Huffaker, of Tennessee, an experienced aeronautical investigator in the employ of Mr. Chanute,
by whom his services were kindly loaned, and by Dr. A. G. Spratt, of Pennsylvania, a young
man who has made some valuable investigations of the properties of variously curved surfaces
and the travel of the center of pressure thereon. Early in August Mr. Chanute came down from
Chicago to witness our experiments, and spent a week in camp with us. These gentlemen, with
my brother and myself, formed our camping party, but in addition we had in many of our
experiments the valuable assistance of Mr. W. J. Tate and Mr. Dan Tate, of Kitty Hawk.
It had been our intention when building the machine to do most of the experimenting in the
fo
llowing manner:—When the wind blew 17 miles an hour, or more, we would attach a rope to
the machine and let it rise as a kite with the operator upon it. When it should reach a proper
height the operator would cast off the rope and glide down to the ground just as from the top of a
hill. In this way we would be saved the trouble of carrying the machine uphill after each glide,
and could make at least 10 glides in the time required for one in the other way. But when we
came to try it we found that a wind of 17 miles, as measured by Richards’ anemometer, instead
of sustaining the machine with its operator, a total weight of 240 lbs., at an angle of incidence of
three degrees, in reality would not sustain the machine alone—100 lbs.—at this angle. Its lifting
capacity seemed scarcely one-third of the calculated amount. In order to make sure that this was
not due to the porosity of the cloth, we constructed two small experimental surfaces of equal
size, one of which was air-proofed and the other left in its natural state; but we could detect no
difference in their lifting powers.[21] For a time we were led to suspect that the lift of curved
surfaces little exceeded that of planes of the same size, but further investigation and experiment
led to the opinion that (1) the anemometer used by us over-recorded the true velocity of the wind
by nearly 15 per cent.; (2) that the well-known Smeaton coefficient of .005 V2 for the wind
pressure at 90 degrees is probably too great by at least 20 per cent.; (3) that Lilienthal’s estimate
that the pressure on a curved surface having an angle of incidence of three degrees equals .545 of
the pressure at 90 degrees is too large, being nearly 50 per cent. greater than very recent
experiments of our own with a special pressure testing machine indicate; (4) that the
superposition of the surfaces somewhat reduced the lift per square foot, as compared with a
single surface of equal area.
In gliding experiments, however, the amount of lift is of less relative importance than the ratio
of lift to drift, as this alone decides the angle of gliding descent. In a plane the pressure is always
perpendicular to the surface, and the ratio of lift to drift is therefore the same as that of the cosine
to the sine of the angle of incidence. But in curved surfaces a very remarkable situation is found.
The pressure, instead of being uniformly normal to the chord of the arc, is usually inclined
considerably in front of the perpendicular. The result is that the lift is greater and the drift less
than if the pressure were normal. While our measurements differ considerably from those of
Lilienthal, Lilienthal was the first to discover this exceedingly important fact, which is fully set
fo
rt
h in his book, “Bird Flight the Basis of the Flying Art,” but owing to some errors in the
methods he used in making measurements, question was raised by other investigators not only as
to the accuracy of his figures, but even as to the existence of any tangential force at all. Our
experiments confirm the existence of this force. At Kitty Hawk we spent much time in
measuring the horizontal pressure on our unloaded machine at various angles of incidence. We
fo
und that at 13 degrees the horizontal pressure was about 23 lbs. This included not only the
drift proper, or horizontal component of the pressure on the side of the surface, but also the head
resistance of the framing as well. The weight of the machine at the time of this test was about
108 lbs. Now, if the pressure had been normal to the chord of the surface, the drift proper would
have been to the lift (108 lbs.) as the sine of 13 degrees is to the cosine of 13 degrees, or .22 ×
108
/
.97 = 24+ lbs.; but this slightly exceeds the total pull of 23 lbs. on our scales. Therefore, it is
evident that the average pressure on the surface, instead of being normal to the chord, was so far
inclined toward the front that all the head resistance of framing and wires used in the
construction was more than overcome. In a wind of 14 miles per hour resistance is by no means
a negligible factor, so that tangential is evidently a force of considerable value. In a higher wind,
which sustained the machine at an angle of 10 degrees, the pull on the scales was 18 lbs. With
the pressure normal to the chord the drift proper would have been .17 × 98 / .98 = 17 lbs., so that,
although the higher wind velocity must have caused an increase in[22] the head resistance, the
tangential force still came within one pound of overcoming it. After our return from Kitty Hawk
we began a series of experiments to accurately determine the amount and direction of the
pressure produced on curved surfaces when acted upon by winds at the various angles from zero
to 90 degrees. These experiments are not yet concluded, but in general they support Lilienthal in
the claim that the curves give pressures more favorable in amount and direction than planes; but
we find marked differences in the exact values, especially at angles below 10 degrees. We were
unable to obtain direct measurements of the horizontal pressures of the machine with the
operator on board, but by comparing the distance traveled in gliding with the vertical fall, it was
easily calculated that at a speed of 24 miles per hour the total horizontal resistance of our
machine when bearing the operator, amounted to 40 lbs., which is equivalent to about 21/3 horsepower. It must not be supposed, however, that a motor developing this power would be
sufficient to drive a man-bearing machine. The extra weight of the motor would require either a
larger machine, higher speed, or a greater angle of incidence in order to support it, and therefore
more power. It is probable, however, that an engine of six horse-power, weighing 100 lbs.,
would answer the purpose. Such an engine is entirely practicable. Indeed, working motors of
one-half this weight per horse-power (9 lbs. per horse-power) have been constructed by several
different builders. Increasing the speed of our machine from 24 to 33 miles per hour reduced the
total horizontal pressure from 40 to about 35 lbs. This was quite an advantage in gliding, as it
made it possible to sail about 15 per cent. further with a given drop. However, it would be of
little or no advantage in reducing the size of the motor in a power-driven machine, because the
lessened thrust would be counterbalanced by the increased speed per minute. Some years ago
Professor Langley called attention to the great economy of thrust which might be obtained by
using very high speeds, and from this many were led to suppose that high speed was essential to
success in a motor-driven machine. But the economy to which Professor Langley called
attention was in foot-pounds per mile of travel, not in foot-pounds per minute. It is the footpounds per minute that fixes the size of the motor. The probability is that the first flying
machines will have a relatively low speed, perhaps not much exceeding 20 miles per hour, but
the problem of increasing the speed will be much simpler in some respects than that of
increasing the speed of a steamboat; for, whereas in the latter case the size of the engine must
increase as the cube of the speed, in the flying machine, until extremely high speeds are reached,
the capacity of the motor increases in less than simple ratio; and there is even a decrease in the
fu
el consumption per mile of travel. In other words, to double the speed of a steamship (and the
same is true of the balloon type of airship) eight times the engine and boiler capacity would be
required, and four times the fuel consumption per mile of travel; while a flying machine would
require engines of less than double the size, and there would be an actual decrease in the fuel
consumption per mile of travel. But looking at the matter conversely, the great disadvantage of
the flying machine is apparent;[23] for in the latter no flight at all is possible unless the proportion
of horse-power to flying capacity is very high; but on the other hand a steamship is a mechanical
success if its ratio of horse-power to tonnage is insignificant. A flying machine that would fly at
a speed of 50 miles an hour with engines of 1,000 horse-power would not be upheld by its wings
at all at a speed of less than 25 miles an hour, and nothing less than 500 horse-power could drive
it at this speed. But a boat which could make 40 miles per hour with engines of 1,000 horsepower would still move four miles an hour even if the engines were reduced to one horse-power.
The problems of land and water travel were solved in the nineteenth century, because it was
possible to begin with small achievements and gradually work up to our present success. The
flying problem was left over to the twentieth century, because in this case the art must be highly
developed before any flight of any considerable duration at all can be obtained.
However, there is another way of flying which requires no artificial motor, and many workers
believe that success will first come by this road. I refer to the soaring flight, by which the
machine is permanently sustained in the air by the same means that are employed by soaring
birds. They spread their wings to the wind, and sail by the hour, with no perceptible exertion
beyond that required to balance and steer themselves. What sustains them is not definitely
kn
own, though it is almost certain that it is a rising current of air. But whether it be a rising
current or something else, it is as well able to support a flying machine as a bird, if man once
learns the art of utilizing it. In gliding experiments it has long been known that the rate of
vertical descent is very much retarded, and the duration of the flight greatly prolonged, if a
strong wind blows up the face of the hill parallel to its surface. Our machine, when gliding in
still air, has a rate of vertical descent of nearly six feet per second, while in a wind blowing 26
miles per hour up a steep hill we made glides in which the rate of descent was less than two feet
per second. And during the larger part of this time, while the machine remained exactly in the
rising current, there was no descent at all, but even a slight rise. If the operator had had sufficient
skill to keep himself from passing beyond the rising current he would have been sustained
indefinitely at a higher point than that from which he started.
In looking over our experiments of the past two years, with models and full-size machines, the
fo
llowing points stand out with clearness:—
1. That the lifting power of a large machine, held stationary in a wind at a small distance
from the earth, is much less than the Lilienthal table and our own laboratory experiments
would lead us to expect. When the machine is moved through the air, as in gliding, the
discrepancy seems much less marked.
2. That the ratio of drift to lift in well-balanced surfaces is less at angles of incidence of five
degrees to 12 degrees than at an angle of three degrees.
3. That in arched surfaces the center of pressure at 90 degrees is near the center of the
surface, but moves slowly forward[24] as the angle becomes less, till a critical angle
varying with the shape and depth of the curve is reached, after which it moves rapidly
toward the rear till the angle of no lift is found.
4. That with similar conditions large surfaces may be controlled with not much greater
difficulty than small ones, if the control is effected by manipulation of the surfaces
themselves, rather than by a movement of the body of the operator.
5. That the head resistances of the framing can be brought to a point much below that
usually estimated as necessary.
6. That tails, both vertical and horizontal, may with safety be eliminated in gliding and other
flying experiments.
7. That a horizontal position of the operator’s body may be assumed without excessive
danger, and thus the head resistance reduced to about one-fifth that of the upright
position.
8. That a pair of superposed, or tandem, surfaces has less lift in proportion to drift than
either surface separately, even after making allowance for weight and head resistance of
the connections.
👁 :
F a m i l y t r e e
Chapter 1
^ »
March 1,1820 Newmarket, Suffolk
Unfettered freedom! He'd escaped. With an arrogant smile, Harold Henry Cynster—Demon to everyone, even to his mother in her weaker moments—drew his curricle to a flourishing halt in the yard behind his Newmarket stable. Tossing the reins to his groom, Gillies, who leaped from the back of the elegant equipage to catch them, Demon stepped down to the cobbles. In a buoyant mood, he ran a loving hand over the glossy bay hide of his leader and scanned the yard with a proprietorial eye.
There was not a scheming mama or disapproving, gimlet-eyed dowager in sight.
Bestowing a last fond pat on his horse's shoulder, Demon headed for the open rear door of the stable. He'd left London at midday, unexpectedly content to have the breeze blow the cloying perfume of a certain lascivious countess from his brain. More than content to leave behind the ballrooms, the parties, and the myriad traps the matchmaking mamas laid for gentlemen such as he. Not that he'd found any difficulty in evading such snares, but, these days, there was a certain scent on the breeze, a presentiment of danger he was too experienced to ignore.
First his cousin Devil, then his own brother Vane, and now his closest cousin, Richard—who next of their select band of six, the Bar Cynster as they were called, would fate cause to trip into the arms of a loving wife?
Whoever it was, it wouldn't be him.
Pausing before the open doors of the stable, he swung around, eyes squinting in the slanting sunlight. Some of his horses were ambling in the paddocks with their lads in close attendance. On the Heath beyond, other stables' strings were exercising under the eyes of owners and trainers.
The scene was an exclusively male one. The fact that he felt entirely at home—indeed, could feel himself relaxing—was ironic. He could hardly claim he didn't like women, didn't enjoy their company. Hadn't—didn't—devote considerable time to their conquest.
He couldn't deny he took pleasure in, and derived considerable satisfaction from, those conquests. He was, after all, a Cynster.
He smiled. All that was true. However…
Whereas the other members of the Bar Cynster, as wealthy, well-born gentlemen, had accepted the fact that they would marry and establish families in the time-honored tradition, he had vowed to be different. He'd vowed never to marry, never to tempt the fate with which his brother and cousins had fenced and lost. Marriage to fulfill society's obligations was all very well, but to marry a lady one loved had been the baneful fate of all male Cynsters to date.
A baneful fate indeed for a warrior breed—to be forever at the mercy of a woman. A woman who held one's heart, soul and future in her small, delicate hands.
It was enough to make the strongest warrior blanch. He was having none of it.
Casting a last glance around the neat yard, approving the swept cobbles, the fences in good repair, Demon turned and entered the main stable housing his racing string. Afternoon stables had already commenced—he would view his exercising horses alongside his very capable trainer, Carruthers.
Demon was on his way to his stud farm, located three miles farther south of the racecourse in the gently undulating countryside bordering the Heath. As he had every intention of avoiding marriage for the term of his natural life, and the current atmosphere in London had turned fraught with the Season about to start, and his aunts, as well as his mother, fired with the excitement of weddings, wives and the consequent babies, so he'd elected to lie low and see out the Season from the safe distance of his stud farm and the unthreatening society of Newmarket.
Fate would have no chance to sneak up on him here.
Looking down to avoid the inevitable detritus left by his favored darlings, he strolled unhurriedly up the long central alley. Boxes loomed to his left and right, all presently empty. At the other end of the building, another pair of doors stood open to the Heath. The day was fine, with a light breeze lifting manes and flicking long tails—his horses were out, doing what they did best. Running.
After spending the last hours with the sun warming his shoulders, the stable's shadows felt cool. A chill unexpectedly washed over the back of his shoulders, then coalesced into an icy tingle and slithered all the way down his spine.
Demon frowned and wriggled his shoulders. Reaching the point where the alley widened into the mounting area, he stopped and looked up.
A familiar sight met his eyes—a lad or work rider swinging a leg over the sleek back of one of his champions. The horse was facing away, wide bay rump to him; Demon recognized one of his current favorites, an Irish gelding sure to run well in the coming season. That, however, was not what transfixed him, rooting his boots to the floor.
He could see nothing of the rider bar his back and one leg. The lad wore a cloth cap pulled low on his head, a shabby hacking jacket and baggy corduroy breeches. Baggy except in one area—where they pulled tight over the rider's rear as he swung his leg over the saddle.
Carruthers stood beside the horse, issuing instructions. The lad dropped into the saddle, then stood in the stirrups to adjust his position. Again, corduroy strained and shifted.
Demon sucked in a breath. Eyes narrowing, jaw firming, he strode forward.
Carruthers slapped the horse's rump. Nodding, the rider trotted the horse, The Mighty Flynn, out into the sunshine.
Carruthers swung around, squinting as Demon came up. "Oh, it's you." Despite the abrupt greeting and the dour tone, there was a wealth of affection in Carruthers's old eyes. "Come to see how they're shaping, have ye?"
Demon nodded, his gaze locked on the rider atop The Mighty Flynn. "Indeed."
With Carruthers, he strolled in the wake of The Flynn, the last of his horses to go out on the Heath.
In silence, Demon watched his horses go through their paces. The Mighty Flynn was given a light workout, walking, trotting, then walking again. Although he noted how his other horses performed, Demon's attention never strayed far from The Flynn.
Beside him, Carruthers was watching his charges avidly. Demon glanced his way, noting his old face, much lined, weathered like well-worn leather, faded brown eyes wide as he weighed every stride, considered every turn. Carruthers never took notes, never needed any reminder of which horse had done what. When his charges came in, he would know precisely how each was faring, and what more was needed to bring them to their best. The most experienced trainer in Newmarket, Carruthers knew his horses better than his children, which was why Demon had pestered and persevered until he'd agreed to train for him, to devote his time exclusively to training Demon's string.
His gaze fastening once more on the big bay, Demon murmured, "The lad on The Flynn—he's new, isn't he?"
"Aye," Carruthers replied, his gaze never leaving the horses. "Lad from down Lidgate way. Ickley did a runner—leastways, I assume he did. He didn't turn up one morning and we haven't seen him since.
'Bout a week later, young Flick turned up, looking for a ride, so I had him up on one of the tetchy ones." Carruthers nodded to where The Flynn was trotting along, pacing neatly with the rest of the string, the small figure on his back managing him with startling ease. "Rode the brute easily. So I put him up on The Flynn. Never seen the horse give his heart so willingly. The lad's got the touch, no doubt about that.
Excellent hands, and good bottom."
Demon inwardly admitted he couldn't argue. "Good," however, was not the adjective he'd have used. But he must have been mistaken. Carruthers was a staunch member of the fraternity, quite the last man to let a female on one of his charges, let alone trust her with The Flynn.
And yet…
There was a niggle, a persistent whisper in his mind, something stronger than suspicion flitting through his brain. And at one level—the one where his senses ruled—he knew he wasn't wrong.
No lad had ever had a bottom like that.
The thought reconjured the vision; Demon shifted and inwardly cursed. He'd left the countess only a few hours ago; his lustful demons had no business being awake, much less raising their collective head. "This Flick…" Saying the name triggered something—a memory? If the lad was local, he might have stumbled across him before. "How long's he been with us?"
Carruthers was still absorbed with the horses, now cooling before walking in. "Be two weeks, now." "And he pulls his full load?"
"I've only got him on half-pay—didn't really need another hand with the stablework. Only needed him for riding—exercising and the gallops. Turned out that suited him well enough. His mum's not well, so he rides up here, does morning stables, then rides back to Lidgate to keep her company, then comes up again for afternoon stables."
"Hmm." The first horses were returning; Demon drew back into the stable, standing with Carruthers to the side of the mounting area as the stable lads walked their charges in. Most of the lads were known to him. While exchanging greetings and the occasional piece of news, and running knowledgeable eyes over his string, Demon never lost sight of The Flynn.
Flick ambled at the rear of the string. He'd exchanged no more than brief nods and occasional words with the other lads; amid the general camaraderie, Flick appeared a loner. But the other lads seemed to see nothing odd in Flick; they passed him as he walked the huge bay, patting the silky neck and, judging from the horse's twitching ears, murmuring sweet nothings with absolute acceptance. Demon inwardly cursed and wondered, yet again, if he could possibly be wrong.
The Flynn was the last in; Demon stood, hands on hips, to one side of Carruthers in the shadows, shadows rendered even deeper by the sudden brilliance of the westering sun. Flick let the bay have a last prance before settling him and guiding him into the stable. As the first heavy hoof clopped hollowly on the flags, Flick looked up.
Eyes used to the sunshine blinked wide, finding Carruthers, then quickly passing on to fix on Demon. On his face.
Flick reined in, eyes widening even more.
For one, tense instant, rider and owner simply stared.
Jerking the reins, Flick wheeled The Flynn, sending Carruthers a horrified glance. "He's still restless—I'll take him for a quick run." With that, she and The Flynn were gone, leaving only a rush of wind behind them.
"What the—!" Carruthers started forward, then stopped as the futility of any chase registered. Bemused, he turned to Demon. "He's never done anything like that before."
A curse was Demon's only answer; he was already striding along the alley. He stopped at the first open box, where a lad was easing the girth strap on one of his heavier horses.
"Leave that." Demon shouldered the startled lad aside. With one tug and a well-placed knee, he recinched the girth. He vaulted into the saddle and backed the horse, fumbling with the stirrup straps.
"Here—I can send one of the lads after him." Carruthers stepped back as Demon trotted the horse past.
"No—leave it to me. I'll straighten the lad out."
Demon doubted Carruthers caught the emphasis; he wasn't about to stop and explain. Muttering, he set out in hot pursuit.
The instant his mount cleared the stable door, he dug in his heels; the horse lengthened his stride from trot to canter to gallop. By then, Demon had located his prey. In the far distance, disappearing into the shadows thrown by a stand of trees. Another minute and he'd have lost her.
Jaw setting, he struggled with the stirrups as he pounded along. Curses and oaths colored the wind of his passage. Finally, the stirrups were lengthened enough; he settled properly into the saddle, and the chase began in earnest.
The bobbing figure on the back of The Flynn shot a glance behind, then looked forward. A second later, The Flynn swerved and lengthened his stride.
Demon tacked, trying to close the gap by cutting diagonally across—only to find himself careening toward a stretch of rough. Forced to slow and turn aside, he glanced up—and discovered that Flick had abruptly swung the other way and was making off in a different direction. Instead of shortening, the distance between them had grown.
Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, Demon forgot about swearing and concentrated on riding. Within two minutes, he'd altered his initial plan—to ride Flick down and demand an explanation—to simply keeping the damned female in sight.
She rode like a demon—even better than he. It didn't seem possible, but…
He was a superlative rider, quite possibly the most accomplished of his day. He could ride anything with four legs, mane and tail anywhere, over any terrain. But Flick was leading him a merry dance. And it wasn't simply the fact that his horse was already tired or that he rode much heavier than she. The Flynn was tired, too, and was being ridden harder; Flick was fleeing; he was only following. But she seemed to merge with her mount in that way only other expert riders could understand.
He understood it and couldn't help admiring it grudgingly, even while acknowledging he had not a hope in hell of catching her.
Her. There was no doubt of that now. Lads did not have delicate shoulders and collarbones, swanlike necks, and hands that, even encased in leather gloves, looked small and fine-boned. As for her face, the
little he'd glimpsed above the woollen muffler wound about her nose and chin had been more Madonnalike than manlike.
A female called Flick. In the distant recesses of his brain, a memory stirred, too insubstantial to catch and hold. He tried to coax it further into the light, and failed. He was sure he'd never called any female Flick.
She was still a good two furlongs ahead of him, maintaining the distance with ease. They were riding directly west, out onto the less frequented stretches of the Heath. They'd sped past a number of strings out exercising; heads had come up to watch them in surprise. He saw her glance around again; an instant later, she swerved. Grimly determined, Demon squinted into the setting sun and followed in her tracks.
He might not be able to ride her down, but he'd be damned if he'd lose her.
His resolution had, by now, communicated itself quite effectively to Flick. Making a few choice observations about London-bound rakes who came up to their stud farms with not a moment's notice and then proceeded to get in the way, to throw her off her stride, to plunge her into a ridiculous fluster, she irritatedly, and not a little frantically, reviewed her options.
There weren't many. While she could easily ride for another hour, The Flynn couldn't. And the horse Demon was on would fare even worse. And, despite the knot of sheer panic in her stomach, there wasn't any point fleeing, anyway.
She would, one way or another, either now or only marginally later, have to face Demon. She didn't know if he'd recognized her, but in that frozen instant in the stable when his blue gaze had raked her, she'd got the impression he'd seen through her disguise.
In fact, the impression she'd got was that he'd seen right through her clothes—a distinctly unnerving sensation.
Yet even if he hadn't realized she was female, her impulsive reaction had made a confrontation unavoidable. She'd run—and she couldn't possibly explain that, not without giving him, and his memories, far too many hints as to her identity.
Catching her breath on a hiccup, Flick glanced back; he was still there, doggedly following. Turning forward, she noted their location. She'd led him west, then south, skirting the stables and paddocks edging the racecourse, then heading farther onto the open Heath. She glanced at the sun. They had at least an hour before twilight. With all the others back at the stables settling horses for the night, this part of the Heath was now deserted. If she found a spot where they were reasonably screened, it would be as good a place as any for the meeting that, it now seemed, had to be.
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?"
Flick's expression immediately eased; Demon knew he couldn't have said anything more convincing—not to her. More devoted than a daughter, she was intensely protective of the ageing General. She thought the world of him, as did he. She actually nodded approvingly.
"Precisely. And that, I'm afraid, is one of the things we especially fear, because the man who hired Dillon definitely knew he was the General's son."
Demon inwardly grimaced. The General was the preeminent authority on English and Irish Thoroughbreds and revered throughout the racing industry. The syndicate had planned well. "So where's Dillon hiding?"
Flick considered him, one last measuring glance. "In the tumbledown cottage on the far corner of your land."
"My land?"
"It was safer than anywhere on the Caxton estate."
He couldn't argue—the Caxton estate comprised just the house and its surrounding park. The General had a fortune invested in the Funds and needed no farms to distract him. He'd sold off his acres years ago—Demon had bought some of the land himself. He shot a glance at Flick, sitting comfortably astride The Flynn. "My horses, my cottage—what else have you been making free with?"
She blushed slightly but didn't reply. Demon couldn't help but notice how fine her skin was, unblemished ivory silk now tinged a delicate rose. She was a painter's dream; she would have had Botticelli slavering. The idea brought to mind the painter's diaphanously clad angels; in a blink of his mental eye, he had Flick similarly clothed. And the tantalizing question of how that ivory skin, which he'd wager would extend all over her, would look when flushed with passion formed in the forefront of his brain.
Abruptly, he refocused. Good God—what was he thinking? Flick was the General's ward, and not much more than a child. How old was she? He frowned at her. "None of what you've said explains what
you're doing here, dressed like that, working my latest champion."
"I'm hoping to identify the man who contacted Dillon. Dillon only met him at night—he never saw him well enough to recognize or describe. Now Dillon's not available to act as his messenger, the man will have to contact someone else, someone who can easily speak to the race jockeys."
"So you're hanging around my stables morning and afternoon, hoping this man approaches you?" Aghast, he stared at her.
"Not me. One of the others—the older lads who know all the race jockeys. I'm there to keep watch and overhear anything I can."
He continued to stare at her while considering all the holes in her story. Clearly, he'd have to fill them in one by one. "How the hell did you persuade Carruthers to hire you? Or doesn't he know?"
"Of course he doesn't know. No one does. But it wasn't difficult to get hired. I heard Ickley had disappeared—Dillon was told Ickley had agreed to act as messenger for this season, but changed his mind at the last. That's why they approached Dillon. So I knew Carruthers was short-handed."
Demon's lips thinned. Flick continued. "So I dressed appropriately"—with a sweeping gesture, she indicated her garb—"and went to see Carruthers. Everyone in Newmarket knows Carruthers can't see well close to, so I didn't think I'd have any difficulty. All I had to do was ride for him and he'd take me on."
Demon swallowed a snort. "What about the others—the other lads, the jockeys? They're not all half-blind."
The look Flick bent on him was the epitome of feminine condescension. "Have you ever stood in a working stable and watched how often the men—lads or trainers—look at each other? The horses, yes, but they never do more than glance at the humans working alongside. The others see me all the time, but they never look. You're the only one who looked."
Accusation colored her tone. Demon swallowed his retort that he'd have to have been dead not to look. He also resisted the urge to inform her she should be grateful he had; just the thought of what she'd blithely got herself into, squaring up to expose a race-fixing syndicate, chilled him.
Race-fixing syndicates were dangerous, controlled by men to whom the lives of others meant little. The lives of people like Ickley. Demon made a mental note to find out what had happened to Ickley. The idea that Flick had set herself up as Ickley's replacement was enough to turn his hair grey. Gazing at her face, on her openly determined expression, it was on the tip of his tongue to terminate her employment immediately.
Recollection of how her chin had set earlier made him hold the words back. Pretty little chin, delicately tapered. And too stubborn by half.
There was a great deal he did not yet know, a great deal he didn't as yet understand.
The horses were cooling, the sun slowly sinking. His mount shifted, coat flickering. Demon drew breath. "Let's get back, then I'll go and see Dillon."
Flick nodded, urging The Flynn into a walk. "I'll come, too. Well, I have to. That's where I change clothes and switch horses."
"Horses?"
She threw him a wary glance. "I couldn't turn up for work riding Jessamy—that they'd certainly notice."
Jessamy, Demon recalled, was a dainty mare with exceptional bloodlines; the General had bought her last year. Apparently for Flick. He glanced at her. "So?…"
She drew breath and looked ahead. "So I borrow the old cob you let run on your back paddock. I don't ride him above a canter, if that. I'm very careful of him."
She looked up. He trapped her gaze. "Anything else you've borrowed?" Big blue eyes blinked wide. "I don't think so."
"All right. We'll ride these two back, then you climb on the cob and head off. I'll leave in my curricle. I'll drive home, then ride out and join you. I'll meet you by the split oak on the road to Lidgate."
She nodded. "Very well. But we'll need to hurry now. Come on." She leaned forward, effortlessly shifting The Flynn from walk, to trot, to canter.
And left him staring after her. With a curse, he dug in his heels and set out in her wake. He reached the split oak before her.
By the time she appeared, trotting the old cob, long past his prime, down the middle of the road, Demon had decided that, whatever transpired with Dillon, he would ensure that one point was made clear.
He was in charge from now on. She'd asked for his help; she would get it, but on his terms. From now on, he'd lead and she could follow.
As she neared, her gaze slid from him to his mount, a raking grey hunter who went by the revealing name of Ivan the Terrible. He was a proud and princely beast with a foul, dangerous, potentially lethal temper. As the cob drew closer, Ivan rolled one eye and stamped.
The cob was too old to pay the slightest attention. Flick's brows, however, rose; her gaze passed knowledgeably over Ivan's more positive points as she reined in. "I know I haven't seen him before."
Demon made no reply. He waited—and waited—until she finished examining his horse and lifted her gaze to his face. Then he smiled. "I bought him late last year." Flick's eyes, suddenly riveted on his face, widened slightly. She mouthed an "Oh," and looked away.
Side by side, they rode on, the cob doggedly plodding, Ivan placing his hooves with restless disdain. "What did you tell Carruthers?" Flick asked with a sidelong glance. When they'd returned to the stable, Flick had been in the lead. Carruthers had been standing, hands on hips, in the stable door. From behind Flick, Demon had signalled him away; Carruthers had stared, but, as Flick had trotted The Flynn up, he'd stood aside and let her pass without question. By that time, Carruthers and the nightwatchman, a retired jockey, had been the only ones left in the stable.
Handing his mount to the nightwatchman to unsaddle, Demon had set about mollifying Carruthers.
"I told him I knew you as a brat from near Lidgate, and you'd feared that, recognizing you, I'd terminate your employment immediately." The twilight was deepening; they jogged along as fast as the cob could manage. "However, having seen you ride, and being convinced of your fervent wish to work my horses, I said I'd agreed to let you stay on."
Flick frowned. "He came in and all but shooed me off—said he'd settle The Flynn and I should get on home without delay."
"I mentioned that I knew your sick mother and how she'd worry—I instructed Carruthers that you shouldn't pull duties that will keep you late, and that you should leave in plenty of time to reach home before dark."
Although he was examining the scenery and not looking at her, Demon still felt Flick's suspicious glance. It confirmed his opinion that she didn't need to know about the other instructions he'd issued to his trainer. Carruthers, thankfully not an imaginative or garrulous son, had stared at him, then shrugged and acquiesced.
They left the road and turned into a sunken track between two fields. The cob, sensing home and dinner, broke into a trot; Ivan, forced to remain alongside, accepted the edict with typical bad grace, tossing his head and jerking his reins every few yards.
"He's obviously in need of exercise," Flick remarked. "I'll give him a run later."
"I'm surprised you let him get into such a bad temper."
Demon stifled an acid retort. "He's been here, I've been in London, and no one can ride him but me." "Oh."
Lifting her gaze, Flick looked ahead to where the track wended into a small wood; she fell to studying the trees.
From under his lashes, Demon studied her. She'd examined his horse so thoroughly she probably knew his every line, yet she'd barely glanced at him. Ivan was indeed a handsome beast, as were all his cattle, but he wasn't used to taking second place to his mount. Which might seem arrogant, but he knew women—girls and ladies, females of any description—well.
It wasn't simply that she hadn't looked. His senses, well honed through his years on the prowl, could detect not the slightest flicker of consciousness—the minutest suggestion of awareness—in the female riding beside him.
Which, in his experience, was odd. Distinctly odd.
The fact that her lack of awareness was focusing his to a remarkable degree hadn't escaped him. It didn't surprise him; he was a born hunter. When the prey didn't take cover, he—at least that part of him that operated on instinct first, logic second—saw it as a challenge.
Which was, in this case, ridiculous.
There was no reason a girl like Flick, raised quietly in the country, should be aware, in any sexual sense, of a gentleman like him—especially one she'd known all her life.
Demon frowned, tightening the reins as Ivan tried to surge. Disgusted, the big grey snorted; Demon managed not to do the same.
He still had no idea precisely how old she was. He glanced her way, covertly confirming details he'd instinctively noted. She'd always been petite, although he hadn't seen her in recent years. In her present
incarnation, he'd only seen her atop a horse, but he doubted her head would clear his shoulder. Her figure remained a mystery, except for her definitely feminine bottom—a classic inverted heart, sleekly rounded. The rest of her was amply disguised by her stable lad's garb. Whether she wore bands about her breasts, as did many devoted female riders, he couldn't tell, but her overall proportions were nice. Slim, slender—she might well be delectable.
On the way back to the stables, she'd tugged her muffler up over her nose and chin so the swath hid most of her face. As for her hair, she'd stuffed it under her cap so thoroughly that, beyond the fact it was as brightly golden as he recalled, he couldn't tell how she wore it. A few short strands had slipped free at her nape, sheening against her collar like spun gold.
Looking forward, he inwardly frowned. It wasn't simply that there were lots of things he didn't yet know about her that bothered him. The very fact he wanted to know bothered him. This was Flick, the General's ward.
General Sir Gordon Caxton had been his mentor in all matters pertaining to horses since he'd been six. That was when, while visiting with his late great-aunt Charlotte, he'd first met the General. Thereafter, whenever he'd been in the locality, he'd spent as much time as possible with the General, learning everything he could about breeding Thoroughbreds. It was due to the General, to his knowledge freely shared and his unstinting encouragement, that he, Demon, was now one of the preeminent breeders of quality horseflesh in the British Isles.
He owed the General a great deal.
A fact he could never forget. He comforted himself with that thought as he trotted beside Flick into the trees beyond which stood the old cottage.
Once a tenant farmer's home, it was now one step away from a ruin. From the rutted lane meandering up to its warped and sagging door, the structure looked uninhabitable. Only on closer inspection could one discern that the roof of the main room was still mostly intact, the four walls enclosing it still standing.
With an imperious gesture, Flick led the way around the cottage. Briefly raising his eyes to the skies, Demon followed, entering a grassy clearing enclosed by trees. A sharp whinny greeted them. Eagerly, Flick urged the cob on. Looking across the clearing, Demon saw Jessamy, a pretty golden-coated mare with pale mane and tail and the most exquisite conformation he'd ever seen. She was tethered on a long rein.
Ivan saw Jessamy, too, and concurred with Demon's assessment. Still held on tight rein, Ivan reared and trumpeted. Only excellent reflexes saved Demon from an embarrassing unseating. Smothering an oath, he wrestled Ivan down, then forced him to the other side of the clearing, ignoring the combined, slightly insulted stares of Flick, Jessamy and the cob.
Dismounting, Demon double-tied Ivan's reins to a large tree. "Behave yourself," he ordered, then turned away, leaving the stallion, head up, staring with complete and absolute absorption across the clearing.
Having turned the cob loose, Flick dumped her saddle on a convenient log and gave Jessamy, who clearly adored her, a fond pat. Then, with another imperious, beckoning wave, she led the way around the far side of the cottage.
Muttering beneath his breath, Demon strode after her.
He rounded the cottage—Flick was nowhere in sight. A lean-to had been tacked onto the cottage on that side. The lean-to hadn't survived as well as the cottage—its outer wall was crumbling and
half its roof had disappeared. Flick had ducked through an opening, a door that had never been planned. Hearing her voice in the main room beyond, Demon ducked beneath the canted beams; easing his shoulders through the narrow space, he stepped silently through the debris and entered the cottage proper.
And saw Flick standing beside Dillon Caxton, who was sitting at one end of an old table, blankets wrapped about his shoulders. She was bent over him; as Demon entered, she straightened, frowning, her hand on Dillon's brow. "You don't have any sign of a fever."
Dillon didn't respond, his eyes, large and dark, framed by long black lashes, fixed on Demon. Then he coughed, glanced at Flick, then at Demon. "Ah… hello. Come in! I'm afraid it's rather cold in here—we daren't light a fire."
Mentally noting that the cottage was his property, Demon merely nodded. In such flat countryside, smoke could easily be traced, and smoke rising from an area thought to be uninhabited would certainly attract attention. Holding Dillon's increasingly wary gaze, he strolled the few paces to the other end of the table, to a stool that appeared sufficiently robust to support his weight. "Flick mentioned that there were gentlemen about whose company you were keen to avoid."
Color flooded Dillon's pale cheeks. "Ah, yes. Flick said you'd agreed to help." With one long-fingered hand, he combed back the thick lock of dark hair that fell, in perfect Byronic imitation, across his brow, and he smiled engagingly. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."
Demon held Dillon's impossibly innocent gaze for a moment, then hitched up the stool and sat, declining to mention that it was for the General's sake, and Flick's, that he was involving himself in a mess that, as an owner of racing Thoroughbreds, he'd much rather hand straight to the magistrates.
Dillon glanced up at Flick; she was frowning slightly at Demon. "Flick didn't say how much she's told you—
"Enough for me to understand what's been going on." Resting his arms on the table, Demon looked at Dillon and didn't like what he saw. The fact that Flick was hovering protectively at Dillon's shoulder contributed to his assessment only marginally; much more telling were his memories, observations made over the years, and the facts of the current imbroglio, not as Flick had innocently described them but as he knew they must be.
He didn't doubt she'd faithfully recounted all she'd been told; the truth, he knew, was more damning than that.
His smile held the right degree of male camaraderie to appeal to a youth like Dillon. "I'd like to hear your observations direct. Let's start with your meeting with this character who asked you to carry a message."
"What do you want to know?"
"The how, the when, the where. The words."
"Well, the when was nearly three weeks ago, just before the first race of the year." "Just before?"
Dillon nodded. "Two days before."
"Two days?" Demon raised his brows. "That seems awfully short notice to arrange a fix, don't you think? The general consensus is that these syndicates lay their plans well in advance. It's something of an
imperative, given the number of bookmakers and other supporting characters necessarily involved."
Dillon's eyes blanked. "Oh?" Then his smile flashed. "Actually, the man did say they'd had another messenger—Ickley—he used to work at your stables—lined up to do the job, but he'd changed his mind. So they needed someone else."
"And so they came to you. Why?"
The single word startled Dillon, then he shrugged. "I don't know—I suppose they were looking for someone who knew their way about. Knew the jockeys, and the places to go to rub the right shoulders."
Flick settled onto a stool. She was frowning more definitely, but her frown was now aimed at Dillon.
"Why did you imagine this man didn't just ask you to point out the particular jockey and speak to him himself?"
Dillon's brows drew down sharply; after a moment, he shook his head. "I don't follow."
"Surely you wondered why it was necessary for this man to have a messenger at all?" Demon trapped Dillon's gaze. "If the messages were innocent, why did the man need to hire you—or anyone—to deliver them?"
Dillon's trademark smile flashed. "Ah, but the messages weren't innocent, you see."
"Oh, I do see," Demon assured him. "But you didn't know that before they hired you, did you?" "Well…no."
"So why didn't you simply tell this man where he could find the jockey? Why be his go-between?" "Well, because… I suppose I thought he might not want to be seen… well, no." Demon recaptured Dillon's gaze. "No, indeed. How much did they pay you?"
Every drop of blood drained from Dillon's face; his eyes grew darker, wilder. "I—don't know what you mean."
Demon held his gaze unblinkingly. "This would not, I suggest, be a good time to lie. How much did they pay you?"
Dillon flushed.
Flick sprang to her feet. "You took money?" Behind her, the stool clattered on the flags. "You took money to carry a message to fix a race?"
The accusation in her tone would have made the Devil flinch; Dillon did not. "It was only two ponies—just for the one message. I wasn't going to do it any more. That's why they got Ickley."
"Any more?" Flick stared at him. "What do you mean 'any more'?"
Dillon's expression turned mulish; Flick leaned both hands on the table and looked him in the eye. "Dillon—how long? How long have you been taking money to carry messages for these men?"
He tried to keep silent, tried to withstand the demand in her tone, the scorn in her eyes."Since last summer."
"Last summer?" Flick straightened, shoving the table in her agitation. "Good God! Why?" She stared at Dillon. "What on earth possessed you?"
Demon held silent; as an avenging angel, Flick had a distinct advantage.
Turning sulky, Dillon pushed back from the table. "It was the money, of course." He attempted a sneer, but it bounced off Flick's righteous fury.
"The General gives you a very generous allowance—why would you want more?" Dillon laughed brittlely and leaned his arms on the table. He avoided Flick's outraged stare.
Which did nothing to soothe her temper. "And if you needed more, you know you only had to ask. I always have plenty…" Her words trailed away; she blinked, then her eyes blazed. She refocused on Dillon. "You've been gambling at the cockfights again, haven't you?" Scorn—raw disgust—poured through her words. "Your father forbade it, but you couldn't leave it be. And now —!" Sheer fury choked her; she gestured wildly.
"Cockfighting's not that bad," Dillon countered, still sulky. "It's not as if it's something other gentlemen don't do." He glanced at Demon.
"Don't look at me," Demon returned. "Not my style at all."
"It's disgusting!" Flick looked directly at Dillon. "You're disgusting, too." She whirled and swooped on a pile of clothes set on an old chest. "I'm going to change."
Demon glimpsed the blue velvet skirts of a stylish riding habit as she stormed past him out into the ruined lean-to.
Silence descended in the main room; Demon let it stretch. He watched Dillon squirm, then stiffen his spine, only to wilt again. When he judged it was time, he quietly said, "I rather think you'd better tell us the whole of it."
Eyes on the table, on the fingertip with which he traced circles on the scratched surface, Dillon drew a shaky breath. "I ran messages the whole autumn season. I owed a cent-per-cent in Bury St.
Edmunds—he said I had to pay up before year's end or he'd come and see the General. I had to get the money somewhere. Then the man—the one who brings the messages—found me." He paused, but didn't look up. "I always thought it was the cent-per-cent who nudged him my way, to ensure I'd be in a position to pay."
Demon thought that very likely.
Dillon shrugged. "Anyway, it was easy enough—easy money, I thought." A choking sound came from the lean-to; Dillon flushed.
"Well, it was easy last year. Then, when the man brought the messages for the last few weeks of races, I told him I wouldn't do it any more. He said, 'We'll see,' and I left it at that. I didn't expect to see him again, but two nights before the first race this year, he found me. At a cockfight."
The sound from the lean-to was eloquent—mingled disbelief, frustration and fury.
Dillon grimaced. "He told me Ickley had balked, and that I'd have to do the job until they could find a 'suitable replacement.' That's how he phrased it." Dillon paused, then offered, "I think that means
someone they have some hold over, because he said, bold as brass, that if I didn't agree they'd tell the authorities what I'd done, and make sure everyone knew I was the General's son. Well, I did it. Took the message. And the money. And then I got sick."
Demon could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. The flies in the ointment were the General, and Flick's sniff of disillusionment that came from behind him.
After a moment, Dillon wearily straightened. "That's all of it." He met Demon's gaze. "I swear. If you'll believe me."
Demon didn't answer. Forearms on the table, he steepled his fingers; it was time to take charge. "As I see it, we have two objectives—one, to keep you out of the syndicate's way until, two, we've identified your contact, traced him back to his masters—the syndicate—and unmasked at least one member of said syndicate, and have enough proof for you to take to the magistrate, so that, in turning yourself in as a witless pawn caught up in a greater game, you can plead for leniency."
He looked up; Dillon blanched, but met his gaze. A moment passed, and Demon raised his brows. Dillon swallowed, and nodded. "Yes, all right."
"So we need to identify your contact. Flick said you never saw him clearly."
Dillon shook his head. "He was always careful—he'd come up to me as 1 was leaving the pit in the dark, or come sidling up in the shadows."
"What's his height, his build?"
"Medium to tall, heavy build." Dillon's frown lifted. "One thing recognizable is his voice—it's oddly rough, like his throat is scratched, and he has a London accent."
Demon nodded, considering. Then he refocused. "Flick's idea is the only reasonable way forward—we'll have to keep watch about the tracks and stables to see who approaches the race jockeys. I'll handle that."
"I'll help."
The statement came from behind him; Demon glanced around, then rose spontaneously to his feet. Luckily, Flick was coldly glaring at Dillon, which allowed him to get his expression back under control before she glanced at him.
When she did, he met her gaze impassively, but he remained standing.
He'd guessed right—her head didn't top his shoulder. Bright, guinea-gold curls formed an aureole about her face; without muffler or cap, he could see the whole clearly, and it took his breath away. Her figure, neat and trim in blue velvet, met with his instant approval. Sleek and svelte, but with firm curves in all the right places. He could now take an oath that she must have worn tight bands to appear as she had before; the swells of her breasts filled the habit's tightly fitting bodice in a distinctly feminine way.
She swept forward with an easy, confident grace, then bent to place her neatly folded stable lad's outfit on the chest, in the process giving him a reminder of why he'd first seen through her disguise.
He blinked and drew in a much needed breath. She looked like an angel, dressed in blue velvet.
A still very angry angel. She ignored Dillon and faced Demon. "I'll keep your stables under surveillance—you can watch the other stables and other places I can't go."
"There's no need—
"The more eyes we have watching, the more likely we'll be to see him. And I'll hear things that you, as the owner, won't." She met his gaze steadily. "If they recruited Ickley, there's a good chance they'd like to hobble one of your runners—you'll have quite a few favorites in the races this season."
The Flynn, among others. Demon held her gaze, and saw her chin firm, saw it tilt, saw defiance and sheer stubborn will flash in her eyes.
"That's right," Dillon concurred. "There's a lot of Newmarket to cover, and Flick's already been accepted as one of your lads."
Demon stared, pointedly, at him; Dillon shrugged. "She's in no danger—it's me they're after."
If Demon had been closer, he would have kicked Dillon; eyes narrowing, he was tempted to do it anyway. Only the fact that he hadn't yet determined how Flick saw Dillon—if she reserved the right to kick him to herself, and would fly to Dillon's defense if he administered any of the punishment Dillon so richly deserved—kept him still.
Dillon glanced at Flick. "You could even try riding for some of the other stables."
Flick looked down her nose at him. "I'll stick to Demon's stable—he can look over the others." Her tone was cold and distant; Dillon shrugged petulantly. "You don't have to help if you don't want to."
He looked down at the table and so missed the fury that poured from Flick's eyes. "Just so we're perfectly clear," she stated, "I am only helping you because of the General—because of what having you taken up, without any evidence of a syndicate to redeem you in any way, will do to him. That's why I'm helping you."
Head high, she swung on her heel and stalked out.
Demon paused, looking at Dillon, now staring sulkily at the table. "Stay here. If you value your life, stay out of sight."
Dillon's eyes widened; with a curt nod, Demon followed Flick into the deep twilight.
He found her saddling Jessamy, her movements swift and jerky. He didn't offer to help; he suspected she could saddle up blind—indeed, he wasn't at all sure she wasn't doing that now.
Hurt and anger poured off her; disillusionment shimmered about her. Propping his shoulders against a convenient tree, Demon glanced across the clearing to where Ivan was still standing in exactly the same pose as an hour ago—staring at his new lady love.
Brows quirking, Demon turned back to Flick. Her head was just visible over Jessamy's back. He considered the halo of gold, the delicate features beneath.
She was furious with Dillon, hurt that he hadn't told her the truth, and shocked by the details of that truth. But, once her fury wore thin, what then? She and Dillon were of similar age; they'd grown up together.
Precisely what that meant he didn't know, but he had to wonder how accurate her last assertion was. Was she risking her reputation only for the General? Or for Dillon as well?
He studied her, but couldn't decide. Whatever the answer, he would shield her as best he could.
He looked up at the stars, just starting to appear, and heard a sniff, instantly suppressed. She was taking a long time with her saddle girths.
"He's young." Why he felt compelled to excuse Dillon he couldn't have said. "He's two years older than me."
How old did that make her? Demon wished he knew. "What do you think happened to Ickley?"
Demon silently considered; he didn't imagine her ensuing silence meant she didn't expect an answer. "Either he's gone to ground, in which case the last thing we'd want to do is flush him out, or… we'll never know."
She made a small sound, like a hum, in her throat—a muted sound of distress.
Demon straightened away from the tree; in the gathering gloom, he couldn't see her face clearly. At that moment, she stepped back from Jessamy's side, dusting her hands. He strolled around the mare. "You can continue at my stable for the time being—until we catch sight of this contact." If any avenue had offered, he'd have eased her out of his stable, out of Newmarket itself until all danger was past.
But… her stubbornness was a tangible thing.
She turned to face him. "If you try to get rid of me, I'll just get a job in another stable. There's more than one in Newmarket."
None as safe as his. "Carruthers will keep you on until I say otherwise." Which he would the instant they located Dillon's contact. "But you'll be restricted to riding track, morning and afternoon."
"That's the only time that matters, anyway. That's the only time outsiders aren't looked at askance about the Heath."
She was absolutely right.
He'd been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.
Lust flashed through him like liquid heat—a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.
And not drag her back down, into his arms. He wanted her in his bed.
The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up—and found her looking down at him.
She frowned and shook her reins. "Come on." Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.
Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan's reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.
And followed.
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Demon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops—and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but… the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.
So he stood in the thin mist by Carruthers's side and watched his horses thunder by. The ground shook, the air trembled; the reverberations were as familiar as his heartbeat. The scene was a part of him, and he a part of it—and Flick was in it, too. She flew past, extending The Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon's breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill—a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.
The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she'd known, or she wouldn't have risked the glance. He'd been watching her almost without pause since he'd arrived, just after she'd taken to the Heath.
Luckily, cursing beneath her breath only reinforced her disguise. But she had to suppress all other signs of agitation so she didn't communicate her sudden nervousness to The Flynn. She'd always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she'd anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this—this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She'd buried deep the suspicion it had something to do—a great deal to do—with the breath-stealing shock she'd felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon's expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.
But riding track with him watching proved a far greater trial than performing for Carruthers alone, despite the fact the old curmudgeon was the most exacting trainer on the Heath. There was a certain sharp assessment in Demon's blue gaze that was absent from Carruthers's eyes; as her nervousness grew, she had to wonder if Demon was doing it deliberately—deliberately discomposing her—so she'd make some silly error and give him a reason to send her packing.
Thankfully, all her years of riding had taught her to hide her feelings well; she and The Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.
Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.
"Good work." Demon's blue eyes held hers; he nodded curtly. "We'll see you this afternoon. Don't be late."
Flick's tongue burned; she had, until now, unsaddled and brushed down The Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. "I'll be here." With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remembering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance—before
temptation could get the upper hand.
Behind her, she heard Demon ask Carruthers some question—but she could still feel his gaze on her back.
After seeing Flick safely away, Demon repaired to the coffeehouse in Newmarket High Street favored by the members of the Jockey Club.
He was hailed the instant he crossed the threshold. Returning greetings right and left, he strolled to the counter, ordered a large breakfast, then joined a group comprised mostly of other owners at one of the long tables.
"We're exchanging predictions for the coming season." Patrick McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort's stable, turned to Demon as he sat. "Currently, of course, we've five times the number of winners as we have races."
"Sounds like a fresh crop," Demon drawled. "That'll keep the General busy."
McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning—if horses that hadn't won before made it to the winner's circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. "Ah, yes. Busy indeed."
He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGonnachie, in common with all of Newmarket, knew how close he and the General were. If there was any less-than-felicitous whisper going the rounds concerning the General, McGonnachie wouldn't tell him.
So he ate and listened to the chat about the table, and contributed his share. And bore with easy indifference the good-natured ribbing over his activities in London.
"Need to change your style if you don't want to miss your chance," Old Arthur Trumble, one of the most respected owners, nodded down the table. "Take my advice and spend less time lifting the skirts of London's mesdames, and more dealing with the business. The higher the standing of your stud, the more demanding it'll be." He paused to puff on his pipe. "And Lord knows, you look like taking the Breeder's Cup this year."
Two others took immediate exception to that prediction, leaving Demon with no need to reply. He listened, but detected no further suggestion of rumors concerning the General other than McGonnachie's earlier hesitation.
"Mister Figgins is back—did you hear?" Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGonnachie. "Sawyer ran him in the first—he couldn't wait to see if that leg would hold up, but it did. So your Mighty Flynn will have some decent competition. The handicaps won't be the walk-over they might otherwise have been."
"Oh?" Demon chatted with Buffy about The Flynn's chances, while his mind raced on a different track.
He had wondered how Dillon's syndicate had expected to fix the first race of the year. Run before the start of the spring season, the early races were used to trial horses, generally those new to racing. If that was the case, then fixing meant making sure one specific horse came first, which meant influencing how at least a handful of other horses ran. Bribing multiple jockeys required more money, and was more hazardous, than the alternative way to fix a race. But the other method required one outstanding runner—a crowd favorite.
"Tell me," Demon asked, when Buffy paused for breath. "Did Mister Figgins win? You didn't say."
"Romped in," Buffy replied. "Showed the pack a clean pair of heels all the way down the straight." Demon smiled and let their talk drift into other spheres.
At least he now knew how the syndicate operated; they must have cursed Mister Figgins all the way down the straight. Mister Figgins was the horse the fix should have been applied to; the syndicate would have assumed he'd lose, and their tools—however many bookmakers they'd seduced into their game—would have offered good odds on Mister Figgins, taken huge bets, and, in this case, suffered mammoth losses. That was the one drawback with that method—it could seriously backfire if the bribe wasn't in place, if the race wasn't properly fixed.
Which explained why Dillon was in serious trouble.
After breakfast, in company with the others, Demon strolled across the street and into the Jockey Club. The hallowed precinct was as familiar as his home; he spent the next hour wandering the rooms, chatting to stewards, jockeys and the racing elite—those gentlemen like himself who formed the hub of the English racing world.
Time and again in his idle chats, he sensed a start, or hesitation—a quick skirting around some invisible truth. Long before he ran into Reginald Molesworth, Demon knew beyond doubt that there were rumors afoot.
Reggie, an old friend, didn't wait to be asked. "I say," he said the instant they'd exchanged their usual greetings, "are you free? Let's go get some coffee—The Twig and Bough should be pretty quiet about now." He caught Demon's eye and added, "Something you need to know."
An easy air hiding his interest, Demon acquiesced; together with Reggie, he strolled out of the club and down the street. Ducking his head, he led the way into The Twig and Bough, a coffeehouse that catered more to the genteel elements of the town than to the racing set.
Their appearance left the two serving girls gawking, but the proprietress preened. She quickly bustled out from behind her counter as they claimed seats at a table against the wall. After taking their orders, the woman bobbed and hurried away. By unspoken understanding, Demon and Reggie chatted about inconsequential, tonnish London matters until their coffee and cakes arrived, and the little waitress left them.
Reggie leaned over the table. "Thought you'd want to know." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Things are being said regarding the household at Hillgate End."
Impassive, Demon asked, "What things?"
"Seems there's some suspicion of races not being run the way they should. Well, there's always talk every time a favorite loses, but recently…" Reggie stirred his coffee. "There was Trumpeter and The Trojan here last season, and Big Biscuits, Hail Well and The Unicorn at Doncaster. Not to mention The Prime at Ascot. Not so many that it's certain, but it doesn't take a man o' business to work it out. A lot of money changed hands over those losses, and the offered odds in every case… well, it certainly gives one to think. And that was just the autumn season."
Demon nodded. "Is it official?"
Reggie grimaced. "Yes and no. The Committee think there's a definite question, and they want answers, thank you very much. At present, they're only looking at last autumn, and it's all been kept under wraps, which is why you might not have heard."
Demon shook his head. "I hadn't. Is there any reason to think it went on last spring as well?"
"I gather there is, but the evidence—meaning the offering of odds that could only be considered deliberately encouraging—is not as clear."
"Any guesses as to the Committee's direction?"
Reggie looked up and met Demon's gaze. Reggie's father was on the Committee. "Yes, well, that's why I thought you should know. The jockeys involved, of course, are all as close as clams—they know it's the devil of a case to prove. But it seems young Caxton's been seen about, chatting to the jockeys involved. As he's not previously seemed all that interested in rubbing elbows with the riders, it was noticed. The Committee, not surprisingly, wants to talk to the youngster. Trouble is"—Reggie pulled one earlobe—"the boy's off visiting friends. Given he is the General's son, and no one wants to unnecessarily upset the venerable old gent, the Committee decided to wait until Caxton junior got back, and take him aside on the quiet."
Reggie sighed and continued. "Good plan, of course, but when they made it, they imagined he'd be back inside of a week. That was two weeks ago, and he's still not back. They're uneasy about fronting up at Hillgate End and asking the General where his son is—they'll hold their hand as long as they can. But with the spring season in the offing, they can't wait forever."
Demon met Reggie's deceptively innocent eyes. "I see."
And he did. The message he was getting was not from Reggie, not even from Reggie's father, but from the all-powerful Committee itself.
"You don't have any… ah, insights to offer, do you?"
After a moment, Demon said, "No. But I can see the Committee's point." "Hmm." Reggie shot Demon a commiserating look. "Not hard to see, is it?"
"No, indeed." They finished their coffee, paid, then strolled outside. Demon paused on the step. Reggie stopped beside him. "Where are you headed?"
Demon shot him a glance. "Hillgate End, where else?" He raised his brows. "To see what the situation there is."
"They all think I don't know." General Sir Gordon Caxton sat in the chair behind his desk. "But I follow the race results better than most and although I don't get out to the paddocks much these days, there's nothing wrong with my hearing when I do." He snorted.
Demon, standing before the long windows, watched his longtime friend and mentor fretfully realign his already straight blotter. He'd arrived a quarter of an hour before, and, as was his habit, had come straight to the library. The General had greeted him with open delight. To Demon's well-attuned ear, the General's heartiness had sounded forced. When the first rush of genial exchanges had faded, he'd asked how everything was with his friend. The General's superficial delight evaporated, and he'd made his admission.
"Whispers—and more. About Dillon, of course." The General's chin sank; for a long moment, he stared at the miniature of his late wife, Dillon's mother, that stood on one side of the desk, then he sighed and shifted his gaze to his blotter once more. "Race-fixing." The words were uttered with loathing. "He might, of course, be innocent, but…" He dragged in an unsteady breath, and shook his head. "I
can't say I'm surprised. The boy always lacked backbone—my fault as much as his. I should have taken a firmer stand, applied a firmer hand. But…" After another long moment, he sighed again. "I hadn't expected this."
There was a wealth of hurt, of confused pain, in the quietly spoken words. Demon's hands fisted; he felt an urgent desire to grab hold of Dillon and iron him out, literally and figuratively, regardless of Flick's sensitivities. The General, despite his lumbering bulk, shaggy brows and martial air, was a benign and gentle man, kindhearted and generous, respected by all who knew him. Demon had visited him regularly for twenty-five years; there had never been any lack of love, of gentle guidance for Dillon. Whatever the General might imagine, Dillon's situation was no fault of his.
The General grimaced. "Felicity, dear girl, and Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs all try to keep it from me. I haven't let them know there's no need. They'd only fuss more if they knew I knew."
Mrs. Fogarty had been the General's housekeeper for more than thirty years, and Jacobs, the butler, had been with him at least as long. Both, like Felicity, were utterly devoted to the General.
The General looked up at Demon. "Tell me—have you heard anything beyond suspicions?"
Demon held his gaze. "No—nothing more than this." Briefly, he stated all he'd heard in Newmarket that morning.
The General humphed. "As I said, it wouldn't surprise me to learn Dillon was involved. He's away staying with friends—if the Committee's agreeable to wait until he returns, that would be best, I suspect.
No need to summon him back. Truth to tell, if I did send a summons, I couldn't be sure he wouldn't bolt."
"It's always been a mystery how Dillon could be so weak a character when he grew up alongside Felicity. She's so…" The General stopped, then smiled fleetingly at Demon. "Well, the word 'righteous' comes to mind. Turning her from her path, which you may be sure she's fully considered from all angles, is all but impossible. Always was." He sighed fondly. "I used to put it down to her parents being missionaries, but it goes deeper than that. A true character—steadfast and unswerving.
That's my Felicity."
His smile faded. "Would that a little of her honesty had rubbed off on Dillon. And some of her steadiness. She's never caused me a moment's worry, but Dillon? Even as a child he was forever in some senseless scrape. The devil of it was, he always looked to Felicity to rescue him—and she always did.
Which was all very well when they were children, but Dillon's twenty-two. He should have matured, should have grown beyond these damned larks."
Dillon had graduated from larks to outright crime. Demon stored the insight away, and kept his lips shut.
He'd promised Flick his help; at present, that meant shielding Dillon, leaving him hidden in the ruined cottage. Helping Flick also, he knew, meant shielding the General, even if that hadn't gone unsaid. And while he and Flick were doubtless destined to clash on any number of issues in the coming days—like the details of her involvement in their investigations—he was absolutely as one with her in pledging his soul to spare the General more pain.
If the General knew where Dillon was, regardless of the details, he would be torn, driven by one loyalty—to the industry he'd served for decades—to surrender Dillon to the authorities, while at the same time compelled by the protective instincts of a parent.
Demon knew how it felt to be gripped by conflicting loyalties, but he'd rather leave the weight on his shoulders, where it presently resided, than off-load the problem onto his ageing friend. Facing the
windows squarely, he looked over the neat lawns to the shade trees beyond. "I suspect that waiting for Dillon to return is the right tack. Who knows the full story? There might be reasons, mitigating circumstances. It's best to wait and see."
"You're right, of course. And, heaven knows, I've enough to keep me busy." Demon glanced around to see the General tug the heavy record book back onto the blotter. "What with you and your fellows breeding so much Irish into the stock, I've all but had to learn Gaelic."
Demon grinned. A gong sounded.
Both he and the General glanced at the door. "Time for lunch. Why not stay? You can meet Felicity and see if you agree with my assessment."
Demon hesitated. The General frequently invited him to lunch, but in recent years, he hadn't accepted, which was presumably why he'd missed seeing Felicity grow up.
He'd spent the previous evening dredging his memory for every recollection, no matter how minute, trying to find some balance in his unexpectedly tilting world. Trying to ascertain just what his role, his standing, with this new version of Felicity should be. Her age had been a pertinent consideration; physically, she could be anything from eighteen to twenty-four, but her self-confidence and maturity were telling. He'd pegged her at twenty-three.
The General had now told him Dillon was twenty-two, which meant if Flick was two years younger, then she was only twenty. He'd been three years out, but, given the General's assessment, with which he concurred, she might as well be twenty-three.
Twenty-three made her easier to deal with, given he was thirty-one. Thinking of her as twenty made him feel too much like a cradle-snatcher.
But he still couldn't understand why he hadn't sighted her in the last five years. The last time he'd seen her was when, after importing his first Irish stallion, he'd come to give the General the relevant information for the stud records. She'd opened the door to him—a short, thin, gawky schoolgirl with long braids. He'd barely glanced at her, but he had remembered her. He'd been here countless times since, but hadn't seen her. He hadn't, however, stayed for a meal in all those years.
Demon turned from the window. "Yes, why not?" The General would attribute Demon's break with long-standing habit to concern for him, and he would be half-right at that.
So he stayed.
And had the pleasure of seeing Felicity sweep imperiously into the dining parlor, then nearly trip over her toes, and her tongue, deciding how to react to him.
Which was only fair, because he had not a clue how to react to her. Or, more accurately, didn't dare react to her as his instincts suggested. She was, after all—despite all—still the General's ward.
Who had miraculously grown up.
In full light, dressed in ivory muslin sprigged with tiny green leaves, she looked like a nymph of spring come to steal mortals' hearts. Her hair, brushed and neat, glowed like polished gold, a rich frame for the distinctive, eerily angelic beauty of her face.
It was her face that held him, compelled him. The soft blue of her eyes, like a misty sky, drew him, urging
him to lose himself in their gentle depths. Her nose was straight, her brow wide, her complexion flawless. Her lips begged to be kissed—delicately bowed, soft pink, the lower lip full and sensual, they were made to be covered by a man's.
By his.
The thought, so unequivocal, shocked him; he drew breath and shook free of the spell. A swift glance, a rake's appraisal of her figure, nearly had him in thrall again.
He resisted. The realization that he'd been bowled over for the first time in his life was enough to shake him to his senses. With his usual grace and an easy smile, he strolled forward and took Flick's hand.
She blinked and very nearly snatched it back.
Demon quashed the urge to raise her quivering fingers to his lips. He let his smile deepen instead. "Good afternoon, my dear. I do hope you don't mind me joining you for lunch?"
She blinked again, and shot a quick glance at the General. "No, of course not."
She blushed, very slightly; Demon forced himself to ignore the intriguing sight. Gracefully, he led her to the table. She claimed the chair by the General's left; he held it for her, then strolled around the table to the place on the General's right, directly opposite her.
The placement couldn't have been more perfect; while chatting with the General, it was perfectly natural that his gaze should frequently pass over her.
She of the swanlike neck and sweetly rounded shoulders, of the pert breasts encased in skin like ivory silk, their upper swells revealed by the scooped neckline of her gown. She was perfectly prim, perfectly proper, and perfectly delectable.
Demon's mouth watered every time he glanced her way.
Flick was very aware of his scrutiny; for some mystical reason, the touch of his gaze actually felt warm. Like a sun-kissed breeze touching her—lightly, enticingly. She tried not to let her awareness show; it was, after all, unsurprising that he found her appearance somewhat changed. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been fifteen, skinny, scrawny, with two long braids hanging down her back. He'd barely registered her existence—she'd stared at him and hadn't been able to stop.
That was the last time she'd allowed herself the liberty; thereafter she made sure that whenever he called, she kept out of his sight. Even if she glimpsed him, she'd force herself to walk the other way—precisely because her impulse lay in the opposite direction. She had far too much pride to stare at him like some silly, lovestruck schoolgirl. Despite the fact that was how he made her feel—hardly surprising, as he'd been her ideal gentleman for so many years—she had a strong aversion to the notion of mooning over him. She was quite sure he got enough of that from other lovestruck girls and all the lovestruck ladies.
She had absolutely no ambition to join their ranks.
So she forced herself to contribute to the conversation about horses and the coming season. Having grown up at Hillgate End, she knew more than enough about both subjects to hold her own. Demon twice tripped over her name, catching himself just in time; she manfully—womanfully—resisted glaring at him the second time it happened. His eyes met hers; one brow quirked and his lips curved teasingly. She pressed her lips tight shut and looked down at her plate.
"Could you pass the vinegar, m'dear."
She looked for the cruet set only to see Demon lift the bottle from the tray further down the table. He offered it to her; she took it—her fingers brushed his. A sharp shock lanced through her. Startled, she nearly dropped the bottle but managed to catch it in time. Carefully, she handed it to the General, then picked up her knife and fork and looked down at her plate. And breathed slowly in and out.
She felt Demon's gaze on her face, on her shoulders, then he turned to the General. "The Mighty Flynn's shaping well. I'm expecting to have another two wins at least from him this season."
"Indeed?"
The General was instantly distracted; Flick breathed a touch easier.
Demon kept the conversation rolling, not a difficult task. Much more difficult was keeping his gaze from Flick; his attention, of course, remained riveted. Ridiculous, of course—she was twenty, for heaven's sake.
But she was there, and utterly fascinating.
He told himself it was the contrast between Flick the righteous, who dressed as a stable lad and single-handedly set out to expose a race-fixing syndicate, and Felicity, the delicate and determinedly proper Botticelli angel.
It was a contrast designed to intrigue him.
"Perhaps," he said as they all stood, the light luncheon disposed of, "Felicity would care to take a turn about the lawns?"
He deliberately phrased the question to give the General an opening to support him. He needn't have bothered. Flick's head came up; she met his gaze.
"That would be pleasant." She glanced at the General. "If you don't need me, sir?" "No, no!" The General beamed. "I must get back to my books. You go along."
He shooed them toward the open French doors; Demon caught his eye. "I'll drop by if I have any news."
The General's eyes dimmed. "Yes, do." Then he glanced at Flick and his smile returned. Nodding benignly, he headed for the door.
Leaving Flick by her chair, staring at Demon. He raised a brow, and gestured to the French doors. "Shall we?"
She came around the table but didn't pause by his side, didn't wait for him to offer his arm. Instead, she walked straight past, out of the open doors. Demon stared at her back, then shook his head and followed.
She'd paused on the terrace; as soon as he appeared, she led the way down the steps. With his longer stride, he easily caught up with her as she strolled the well-tended lawn. He fell in beside her, sauntering slowly, trying to decide what gambit would work best with an angel. Before he could decide, she spoke.
"How am I supposed to hear any comments or see anyone approaching the riders in your stables when I barely spend a moment in them?" She cast a darkling glance his way. "I arrived this morning to discover The Flynn already saddled. Carruthers sent me straight out to take The Flynn around for an extended
warm-up"—her eyes narrowed—"so he wouldn't still be restless at the end. And then you
bundled me out of the stable as soon as I rode back in."
"I assumed you would need to get back here." He hadn't, but it was a good excuse. He slanted her a mildly questioning glance. "How are you covering your absences early morning and afternoon?"
"I often go riding first thing in the morning, so that's nothing unusual. If Jessamy's missing from the stable, everyone assumes I'm somewhere about, enjoying the morning. Just as long as I'm back by lunchtime, no one would think to worry."
Slowing as they passed into the shade of the old trees edging the lawn, Flick grimaced. "The afternoons are more difficult, but no one's asked where I ride off to. I suspect Foggy and Jacobs know Dillon's not off with friends, but somewhere close—but if they don't ask, then they can't say if questioned."
"I see." He hesitated, inwardly debating whether to take her hand and place it on his sleeve, forcing her to stroll with him rather than lead the way. But she'd tensed when he'd taken her hand before, and she'd nearly dropped the vinegar. Suppressing a grin, he opted for caution. "There's no reason you can't loiter around the stables after the morning gallops. Not having any chores should give you a freer rein." He had no intention of rescinding the orders he'd given Carruthers. "However, there's no sense in dallying after afternoon stables. At that time, most of the jockeys and hangers-on retire to the taverns."
"There's no reason I can't slouch about the stables until they leave."
Demon inwardly frowned. There was a mulishness in her tone, a sense of rigid purpose in her stance; both had been absent earlier. Earlier in the dining room, when she'd been Felicity, not Flick. Flick was the righteous crusader, Felicity the Botticelli angel.
Slowing, he considered a swath of daffodils nodding their trumpets in the breeze. The odd bluebell and harebell were interspersed, creating a spring carpet stretching under the trees and into the sunshine beyond. He nodded toward the show. "Beautiful, aren't they?"
An angel should respond to natural beauty.
Flick barely glanced at nature's bounty. "Hmm. Have you learned, or heard, anything yet?" She looked into his face. "You did go into town this morning, didn't you?"
He suppressed a frown. "Yes, yes and yes."
She stopped and looked at him expectantly. "Well?"
Frustrated, Demon halted and faced her. "The Committee is waiting for Dillon to return to have a quiet word with him over a number of races last season where the suspiciously priced crowd-favorite didn't win."
Her face blanked. "Oh."
"Indeed. The slumgudgeon didn't even realize that, as he hadn't made a habit of hobnobbing with the riders before, people would notice when he suddenly did."
"But…" Flick frowned. "The stewards haven't come asking after him."
"Not the stewards, no. In this instance, they weren't required—any number of the Committee have probably called on the General in the last weeks. Easy enough to learn whether Dillon is here or not."
"That's true." Then her eyes flew wide. "They haven't said anything to the General, have they?"
Demon glanced away. "No, the Committee sees no reason to unnecessarily upset the General, and as yet, they have no proof—just suspicions."
He looked back as Flick sighed with relief. "If they hold off until Dillon can return—"'
"They'll hold off as long as they can," he cut in. "But they won't—can't—wait forever. Dillon will have to return as soon as possible—the instant we get enough information to prove the existence of the syndicate."
"So we need to make headway in identifying Dillon's contact. Are the rumors of race-fixing widespread?"
"No. Among the owners and trainers, yes, but amongst others, less so. Some jockeys and stable lads must have suspicions, but they're unlikely to voice them, even to each other."
Flick started to stroll again. "If there's no open talk, no rumors abounding, it's less likely someone will let something slip."
Demon didn't reply; Flick didn't seem to notice. Which, to him, seemed all of a piece. Right now she didn't seem aware of him at all—she seemed to regard him as a benevolent uncle, or some creature equally benign. Which was so far from the truth it was laughable.
It was also irritating.
The Botticelli angel of the dining room, the one who had delicately shivered at his touch, and trembled when his fingers brushed hers, had vanished.
She glanced at him. "Perhaps you could start with the jockeys whose mounts failed last season. I assume, if they've taken a bribe once, they'll be more likely to be approached again?"
"Ordinarily, yes. However, if they've been questioned, however elliptically, by the stewards, one can guarantee their lips will be sealed. With a license in the balance, no jockey's going to incriminate himself."
"There must be some action you can take while I keep watch in your stables."
Demon's eyes widened; he only just stopped himself from replying caustically with rather more information than she needed. "Never mind about me. I'm sure I'll find some useful avenue to explore." He'd already thought of several, but he had no intention of sharing his views. "I'll make a start before I look in on the afternoon's work."
"You could investigate any touts or hangers-on lurking about the other stables' strings."
"Indeed." Demon couldn't help himself—eyes hardening, his gaze openly intent, he lengthened his stride, swung to face her, and halted.
Sucking in a breath, she stopped precipitously, all but teetering in her effort not to run into him. She looked up, blue eyes widening in surprise.
He smiled down at her. "I'll be watching you, too." He held her gaze. "Don't doubt it."
She blinked; to his chagrin, not a flicker of awareness—the consciousness he was deliberately trying to evoke—showed in her soft blue eyes. Instead puzzlement filled them. She searched his face briefly, then shrugged, stepped aside and walked around him. "As you wish, although I can't see why. You know I can handle The Flynn, and Carruthers never misses a stride."
Swallowing a curse, Demon swung on his heel and stalked after her. It wasn't The Flynn that concerned him. Flick clearly considered him unthreatening. While he had no wish to threaten her, he definitely wanted her in his bed, which ought, in his book, to make her nervous, at least a bit wary. But no—not Flick.
Felicity was sensitive—Felicity was sensible. She had the good sense to be aware of him. Felicity had some degree of self-preservation. Flick, as far as he could tell, had none. She hadn't even recognized that he was not a benign uncle, and definitely not the sort of man to be managed by a mere chit.
"It won't," he enunciated, regaining her side, "be The Flynn's performance I'll be watching."
She glanced up and met his eyes, her frown more definite. "There's no need to watch me—I haven't parted company with my saddle for years."
"Be that as it may," he purred, "I assure you that watching you—keeping my gaze firmly glued to your svelte form as you trot about perched on one of my champions—is precisely the sort of behavior that's expected of a gentleman such as I."
"Be that as it may, watching me when you could be observing the hangers-on is silly. A wasted opportunity."
"Not for me."
Flick humphed and looked ahead. He was being deliberately difficult—she could sense his aggravation, cloaked though it was, but she had no idea what had caused it, or why he was making less sense than Dillon. She strolled on. And continued to ignore the fluttery sensations assailing her stomach, and the insistent flickering of her nerves. Along with the other unwanted, unwelcome remnants of her girlish obsession with him.
He'd been her ideal gentleman since she'd been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo's works in the library. She'd found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder—altogether better defined. As for the rest, she'd surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.
She hadn't, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be foolish beyond permission to imagine he would ever look at her. But she would marry one day—one day soon; she was very ready to love and be loved. She was already twenty, waiting, hoping. And if she had her way, she would marry a gentleman exactly like Demon. He, however, was an unattainable idol, entirely beyond her reach.
"This"—she gestured—"shady contact of Dillon's. Presumably he's not a local. Perhaps a search of the hotels and inns—'
"I've already got that in hand."
"Oh." She glanced up and met Demon's gaze; for a moment, his blue eyes remained sharp, keen, then he looked ahead.
"I'll check, but it's unlikely we'll find much by that route. This is, after all, Newmarket, a place that abounds in inns and taverns, and that attracts its fair share of shady characters, most of whom aren't
local."
Flick grimaced and looked forward—they'd ambled through the gardens. The stables lay ahead, framed by a series of wooden arches over which wisteria grew. Stepping onto the path leading beneath the arches, she mused, "This contact—who would he be? One of the syndicate, or another pawn?"
"Not one of the syndicate." Demon strolled beside her, his strides long and lazy, his hands, somewhat surprisingly, in his trouser pockets. His gaze was on the gravel. "Who ever they are, the syndicate won't want for money, and the last thing they'd risk is exposure. No—the man will be a hireling. Perhaps a permanent employee. That, for us, would be best."
"So once we identify him, we'll have the best chance of following him back to his masters?" Demon nodded. Then he looked up and stopped. They'd reached the end of the arches.
Flick glanced up, squinting into the sunlight that shone from over his shoulder. He was looking at her; she couldn't see his features, but she could feel his gaze, could sense his sheer physical presence through every pore. She was used to working with large horses; standing near him reminded her of them—he exuded the same aura of potent physical power, which could, if provoked, be dangerous. Luckily, neither horses nor he posed any danger to her. Inwardly lamenting her continuing sensitivity, she raised a hand and shaded her eyes.
And looked into his.
Her breath caught; for an instant, she felt disoriented—unclear who she was, who he was, and how things really were. Then something shifted in the blue; she blinked, and regained her mental footing. Yet he continued to look at her—not precisely seriously, but intently, the expression in his eyes one she neither recognized nor understood.
She was about to raise a brow when, his gaze still steady on her face, he asked, "Now you know the full story of Dillon's involvement, do you regret agreeing to help him?"
"Regret?" Considering the question, she raised both brows. "I don't think the concept applies. I've always helped him—he's made something of a career of getting into unexpectedly complicated scrapes." She shrugged. "I always imagined he'd grow out of them eventually. He hasn't yet."
Demon considered her face, her open expression, the honesty in her soft blue eyes. They didn't tell him how she felt about Dillon; given her apparent resistance to him, he had to wonder if Dillon was the cause. When she and Dillon were together, she was the dominant party—the one in charge. She'd grown accustomed to Dillon being dependent on her—it was possible she liked it that way. There was no doubt she liked to lead.
Which was all very well, but…
"So," she blinked up at him, "what do you imagine will happen next?"
He raised his brows. "Probably not a lot." At least, not in his stables. "However, if you do stumble on any clue, I will, of course, expect to be notified immediately."
"Of course." She lowered her hand and turned toward the stables. "Where will you be?"
Investigating far and wide. "Send a message to the farm—the Shephards always know where to find me."
"I'll send word if I hear anything." She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out her hand. "I'll see you at the stable in a few hours."
Demon took her hand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes—and fell into the blue. Her fingers lay, trusting, quiescent in his grasp. He considered raising them, considered brushing a lingering kiss upon them, considered…
Madness and uncertainty clashed. The moment passed.
He released her hand. With an elegant nod, he turned and, jaw setting, strode for the stables, more conscious with every stride of a demonic desire to capture a Botticelli angel—and take her to his bed.
Chapter 4
« ^ »
The next days passed uneventfully; Flick swallowed her impatience and doggedly watched, doggedly listened. She rode morning and afternoon track work every day, then slouched about the stable for as long as she could in the mornings, and until all the stable lads left in the evenings. After three days, the only suspicious character she'd spotted had proved to be one of the lads' cousins, visiting from the north. The only surprising information she'd heard concerned the activities of some redheaded barmaid.
As he'd intimated, Demon had attended all the track work religiously—he'd watched her religiously, too; her sensitivity to his gaze grew more acute by the day. She'd sighed with relief when, within her hearing that morning, he'd told Carruthers that he'd be spending the afternoon about the other stables looking over the competition.
So at three o'clock, she left the General nodding over his records and set off on Jessamy for the cottage—Felicity garbed in her blue velvet riding habit—feeling less trepidatious, certainly more sure of herself. No longer wary of what she might face at the stable.
Dillon was in the clearing when she rode up, the cob placidly munching nearby. She reined in and slid out of her saddle, turned on her heel and marched into the cottage to change—without a single glance at Dillon. He'd have the cob saddled and bridled, and Jessamy unsaddled and tethered, by the time she came out.
She hadn't spoken to him since she'd learned the truth. Every time she'd come by, he'd tried to catch her eye, to smile and make amends.
Struggling out of her velvet skirts, Flick humphed. Dillon was being excessively careful around her—he could be careful for a while more. She hadn't forgiven him for deceiving her—she hadn't forgiven herself for being so gullible. She should have guessed; she knew he wasn't that innocent any more, but the idea that he could have been so comprehensively stupid hadn't entered her head.
Smoothing her curls, she crammed her cap over them. She was exceedingly tired of putting right Dillon's wrongs, of easing his way, but…
She sighed. She would continue to shield Dillon if the alternative was upsetting the General. Distress wasn't good for him, as Dr. Thurgood had made very clear. Assuring his tranquility was also one way she
could repay him for all he had given her.
A home—a secure, stable place in which to grow up. A steady hand, a steadier heart, and an unwavering confidence in her.
She'd come to Hillgate End a confused seven-year-old, suddenly very much alone. Her Aunt Scroggs, with whom her parents had left her in London, had not been willing to keep her when her temporary need had turned permanent. No one had wanted her until, out of nowhere, the General, a distant connection of her father's, had stepped in, smiled kindly upon her, and taken her into his home.
In the country, where she loved to be, close to horses—her favorite animal.
Coming to Hillgate End had changed her life forever, and all for the better. Even though she hadn't been a pauper, as a child, who knows where she might have ended without the General's kindness, without his care? Thanks to the General, she'd ended here, with a happy life and every opportunity. She owed him a great deal.
Drawing a deep breath, she stepped out of the lean-to. Dillon was waiting, holding the cob, saddled and bridled, close by the log she used for mounting. Flick eyed him steadily as she crossed the yard, but she refused to let him catch her eye. Despite her affection for the General, Dillon, at the moment, she simply endured.
She mounted, gathered the reins, and jogged off without a word.
At least Demon had got the truth out of Dillon. Even though she'd felt foolish for not having seen the inconsistencies in Dillon's story, she could only be glad of Demon's intervention. Since he'd agreed to help, despite his ridiculous insistence on watching her, she'd sensed a lightening of the weight that until his arrival had rested solely on her shoulders. He was there, sharing the load, doing, like her, whatever he could to spare the General. Regardless of anything else, it was a distinct relief.
Reaching the road, she set the cob trotting. At the stable, a lad had The Flynn saddled and waiting; she checked the girths, then with the lad's help, jumped up to perch high on the bay's back. He was used to her now, to the croon of her voice; with the merest urging, he trotted to the door.
Carruthers was waiting."Take a long walk, then a gentle trot, at least six, then walk him again and bring him in."
Flick nodded and clicked the reins. Afternoon work was always easy; not every trainer even bothered.
She paraded with the rest of the string, listening to the natter of the lads and riders about her, simultaneously scanning the nearby verges of the Heath where the watchers—the hangers-on and the touts, spying out the form for bookmakers or private clients—congregated.
As usual, she was the last to walk her mount in, so she could watch to see if any outsider tried to speak to a rider. None did; no one approached any rider in Demon's string, nor the strings from nearby stables.
Disappointed, starting to question whether she would ever see or hear anything useful, she slid from the saddle and let the stable lad lead The Flynn away. After a moment, she followed.
She helped the lad unsaddle, then left him cleaning the manger while she fetched the feed, then the water. The lad moved on to the next horse he looked after. Flick sighed, and The Flynn turned his huge head and nudged her.
Smiling crookedly, she patted his nose. On impulse, she climbed the box wall and perched atop it,
leaning her shoulder against the stable's outer wall. She scanned the boxes, listening to the murmurs and conversations—mostly between lads and their equine charges.
The Flynn nudged her legs; she crooned at him, grinning when he hurrumphed and nodded.
"Oh, fer Gawd's sake—take a hike! I doan wanna hear what you've got ter say, so just piss off, why doan yer?"
Flick straightened so abruptly that she nearly fell off the wall. The words sounded so clear—then she realized she was hearing them through the stable wall. The speaker—she recognized the dulcet tones of one of the top race jockeys—was outside.
"Now, now. If'n you'll just hear me out—"
"I tol' you—I doan wanna hear nuthin' from you! Now push off, afore I set ol' Carruthers on yer!" "Your loss."
The second speaker had a scratchy voice; it faded away.
Flick scrambled off the wall and tore through the stable, dodging lads with buckets and feed all the way up the alley. They swore at her. She didn't stop. She reached the doors; hugging their edge, she peeped out.
A heavy figure in an old frieze coat was lumbering away along the edge of the Heath, a cloth cap pulled low over his face, his hands sunk in his pockets. She could see little more than Dillon had.
The man was heading for the town.
For one moment, Flick stood in the yard, juggling possibilities. Then she swung around and hurried back into the stable.
Demon ambled into his stable at the end of the working day. Soft snorts and gentle whinnies punctuated breathy sighs as stable lads closed their charges in their boxes. The reek of horse was absolute; Demon barely noticed. He did notice the old cob quietly dozing in one corner, a few handfuls of hay and a bucket close by. Glancing left and right, Demon strolled down the alley.
He stopped by The Flynn's box; the big bay was settled and contentedly munching. Strolling on, he came upon Carruthers, inspecting a filly's hoof.
"Where's Flick?"
Carruthers glanced at him, then snorted. "Gone orf, already. In a pelter, he was. Left his cob—said he'd fetch it later." He looked down at the hoof he was tending.
Demon held back a frown. "Did he say anything else?"
"Nah!" With a deft flick, Carruthers pried a stone free. "Just like the other lads—couldn't wait to get to the Swan and lift a pint."
"The Swan?"
"Or the Bells." Carruthers let the horse's leg down and straightened. "Who knows with lads these days?" Demon paused; Carruthers watched the filly test the hoof. "So Flick headed into town?"
"Aye—that's what I'm saying. He usually heads off home to Lidgate, quiet as you please, but today he beetled off into town."
"How long ago?"
Carruthers shrugged. "Twenty minutes."
Demon bit back an oath, swung on his heel and strode out of his stable.
He didn't find Flick in the Swan or the Bells, both respectable inns. He found her in the smoke-filled snug of the Fox and Hen, a seedy tavern down a narrow side street. Nursing a full pint pot, she sat sunk in a corner, surrounded by ale-swilling brutes three times her size.
She was trying to look inconspicuous. Thankfully, a dart game was in full swing, and many patrons were still rolling in; the rabble were presently distracted and hadn't started looking around for likely victims.
Jaw set, Demon grabbed a pint from the harassed barman and crossed the room, his size, accentuated by his heavy greatcoat, allowing him to cleave a passage through the crowd. There were others of his ilk present, gentlemen hobnobbing with cits, rubbing shoulders with half-pay officers and racecourse riffraff; his appearance attracted no undue attention.
Reaching the corner table, he ignored Flick's huge eyes. Setting his pot down with a definite click, he sat opposite her. Then he met her gaze. "What the hell are you doing here?"
She glared at him, then flicked her gaze to the next table, then back.
Nonchalantly picking up his pint, Demon sipped, scanning the tables beside them. The nearest held two men, hunched over the table, each with a pint before him. They'd both looked up at the dart game; as Demon turned away, they looked down and resumed their conference.
Meeting Flick's eyes, Demon saw them widen meaningfully. Leaning forward, she hissed, "Listen." It took a moment to focus his hearing through the din, but once he had, he could hear well enough.
"So which horse and race are we talking about then?" The speaker was a jockey, one Demon had never hired and only knew by distant sight. He doubted the jockey knew him other than by name, but he kept his face averted.
"Hear tell you're down to ride Rowena in the Nell Gwyn Stakes in a couple o'weeks."
The second man's voice, deep and grating, was easy to distinguish beneath the raucous din. Demon lifted his eyes and met Flick's; she nodded, then shifted her attention back to their neighbors.
The jockey took a long pull, then lowered his pot. "Aye—that's right. Where'd you hear? It's not about the course yet."
"Never you mind where I heard—what you should be concentrating on is that because I did hear, you've an opportunity before you."
"Opportunity, is it?" The jockey took another long, slow drink. "How much?" "Four ponies on delivery."
An eruption of cheers from the dart game had both men looking around. Demon glanced at Flick; eyes wide, she was watching their man—the contact. Under the table, he nudged her boot. She looked
at him; he leaned forward. "If you don't stop staring, he'll notice and stare back."
She narrowed her eyes at him, then lowered her gaze to her ale—still untouched. There was another roar from the dart game; everyone looked—even Flick. Swiftly, Demon switched their glasses, leaving his half-full pot for her to nurse. Lifting hers, he drained half; the brew at the Fox and Hen left a lot to be desired, but sitting in a snug amid this sort of crowd nursing a full pot for more than five minutes was enough to invite unwanted attention.
The dart game had concluded. The cheers died and everyone returned to their drinks and conversations. The jockey looked into his pot as if seeking guidance. "Five ponies."
"Five?" The contact jeered. "You're a mite full of yourself, me lad."
The jockey's expression hardened. "Five. I'm the one on Rowena's back that race, and she'll start it prime favorite. The bets'll be heavy—real heavy. If you want her out of the winner's circle, it'll cost you five."
"Hmm." It was the contact's turn to seek inspiration from his ale. "Five? If you want five, you'll need to keep her out of the places altogether."
"Nah." The jockey shook his head. "Can't do it. If she finishes outside the places, the stewards'll be on my tail, and a whole monkey wouldn't be worth that. I ain't about to blow my license for you. Even bringing her in second… well, I can do it, but only because Cynster's got a prime filly in the race. Rowena's better, but I can slot her behind the Cynster filly and it'll look all right. But unless there's another runner we ain't seen yet, they're the only possible winners. No way I can drop Rowena out of the places."
The contact frowned, then drained his pot. "All right." He looked the jockey in the eye. "Five ponies for a no win—is it a deal?"
The jockey hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."
"Aaargh!!" A bellowed war cry erupted through the noise. Everyone turned to see a furious brute break a jug over his neighbor's head. The jug shattered, the victim slumped. A fist swung out of nowhere, and lifted the assailant from his feet.
And it was on.
Everyone leapt to their feet; chairs crashed, pots went flying. Bodies ricochetted off each other; some thudded on the floor. The melee expanded by the second as more and more patrons launched themselves into the fray.
Demon swung back. Flick, eyes huge, was on her feet in the corner. With an oath, he swept the pots from their table and set it on its side. Reaching across, he grabbed her shoulder. "Get down!"
He forced her down behind the makeshift barricade. One hand on her cap, he pushed her fully down. "Stay there!"
The instant he removed his hand, her head popped up. He swore and reached for her; her already-wide eyes dilated.
He swung around just in time to weave back from a hefty fist. It grazed his jaw—and ignited his temper. Regaining his balance, he plowed a fist into his assailant's gut, then followed with a solid right to
the jaw.
The huge walloper teetered sideways, then back, then crashed onto his back amid the ongoing brawl. "Demon!"
Ducking, he threw his next attacker, managing to shift his feet enough so the bruiser landed against the wall beyond Flick, rather than on top of her.
A jarvey staggered free of the central melee and swung his way. The man met his eyes and stopped, swaying on his feet, then turned and charged back into the heaving mass of bodies and nailing fists.
"Stop it, yer mongrels!" The barman jumped up on the counter, laying about him with a besom. To no avail. The brawlers were well away, enjoying themselves hugely.
Demon looked around. The only door from the snug was diagonally across from their corner, beyond the heaving mass of the fight. The wall to their left hosted two grimy sash windows; thrusting aside tables and chairs, he reached the nearest, forced the catch free, then heaved. After an initial resistance, the sash flew up.
Turning back, he grabbed Flick by the collar, unceremoniously dragged her from her hiding place, then manhandled her out of the window. She tried to climb daintily out; he grabbed her and pushed. She hissed and batted at his hands—he kept grabbing and pushing. She hesitated halfway out, deciding which foot to place where; he slapped a hand beneath her bottom and shoved.
She landed in an inelegant sprawl on the grass.
Flick dragged in a breath; curses burned her tongue, but she didn't have breath enough to utter them. Her bottom burned, too; her cheeks were aflame. Both sets. She glanced back. Demon was halfway through the window. Swearing weakly, she scrambled to her feet, dusting her hands on her thighs—she didn't dare touch her posterior.
The other sash window flew up, and more patrons piled out. Demon appeared beside her; grabbing her elbow, he shoved her away from the inn as others started using their escape route. An orchard rolled down an incline away from the inn—with Demon at her heels, Flick slipped between the trees. The twilight was deepening. Behind them, through the now open windows, they heard shouts, then the piercing whistles of the Watch. Glancing back, Flick saw more of the inn's customers scrambling through the windows, hurrying to disappear down the orchard's slope.
"Come on!" Demon grabbed her hand, taking the lead, lengthening his stride so she had to scurry to keep up. She tried to wriggle her hand free; he flung her a scowl, tightened his grip, and strode on even faster. She cursed; he must have heard but gave no sign. He dragged her, skipping, half-running, to the end of the orchard, to where a seven-foot wall blocked their way.
He released her as others joined them and immediately started climbing the wall. Flick eyed the wall, then edged closer to Demon. "Is there a gate anywhere?"
He glanced at her, then nodded to the others scrambling up and over. "Doesn't look like it." He hesitated, then stepped to the wall. "Come on—I'll give you a leg up."
Bracing one shoulder against the wall, he formed a cup with his hands. Balancing one hand on the stones, the other on his shoulder, Flick placed her boot in his hands.
He pushed her up. It should have been easy; The Flynn's back was nearly as high as the wall. But the top
of the wall was hard and narrow, not smooth and slippery like a saddle. She managed to get half over, with the wall digging into her middle, but her legs still dangled down.
Blowing out a breath, she braced her arms, straightened her spine, and searched with her boots for purchase. But with her hips on the wrong side of the wall, if she straightened too much, she risked falling back down. And if she didn't straighten enough, she couldn't reach any toehold. She teetered, like a seesaw, on the top of the wall.
From beneath her came a long-suffering sigh.
Demon's hand connected with her bottom again. He hefted her up; in the most flustered flurry of her life, cheeks all flaming again, she quickly swung one leg over the wall and sat.
And tried to catch her breath.
He grabbed the wall beside her and hauled himself up. Easily. Astride the wall, he raked her with a glance, then swung his leg over and dropped into the lane.
Flick dragged in a breath and swung her other leg over, then wriggled around and dropped down—before he felt compelled to help her again. She picked herself up and dusted her hands, aware to her toes of the assessing gaze that passed over her. Lifting her head, she met his eyes, ready to be belligerent.
He merely humphed and gestured down the lane.
She fell in beside him, and they strolled to the road. There were too many others about to risk any discussion. When they reached the road, Demon nudged her elbow and nodded up a lane leading to the High Street. "I left my curricle at the Jockey Club."
They changed direction, leaving the others behind.
"You were supposed to send word to me the instant you learned anything." The words, deathly soft, lethally restrained, floated down to her.
"I would have," she hissed back, "once I had a chance. But who could I send from your stable? Carruthers?"
"Next time, if there's no one to send, bring the message yourself." "And miss the chance of learning more—like today?"
"Ah, yes. Today. And just how do you imagine you would have survived if I hadn't arrived?" She studied the small houses lining the road.
"Hmm, let's see."
His purr sank deeper, sliding beneath her skin. Flick resisted an urge to wriggle.
"First we have the question of whether, quite aside from the brawl, you would have escaped notice, given you'd bought a pint and couldn't drink it. Your disguise would have disintegrated rather quickly, revealing to all the fact that the General's ward, Miss Felicity Parteger, was slumming in the Newmarket stews dressed as a lad."
"It was an inn, not a stew."
"For a lady found in it, the difference is academic." Flick humphed.
"And what might have happened if you'd survived the brawl, with or without being knocked senseless, and landed in the arms of the Watch? One can only wonder what they would have made of you."
"We'll never know," Flick hissed. "The important thing is that we've identified Dillon's contact. Did you see which way he went?"
"No."
She halted. "Perhaps we should go back—"
Demon didn't stop; he reached back, grabbed her arm, and hauled her forward so she marched beside him. "You are not following anyone anywhere." The look he shot her, even muted by the gloom, still stung. "In case it's escaped your notice, following a man like that to his customary haunts is liable to be dangerous for a gentlewoman."
His clipped accents gave the words a definite edge. As they swung into the High Street, Flick put her nose in the air. "You got a good look at him and so did I. We should be able to find him easily, then find out who he works for, and clear up this whole mess. It's our first real discovery."
After a moment, he sighed. "Yes, you're right. But leave the next step to me—or rather Gillies. I'll have him go through the inns and taverns—our man must be putting up at one of them."
Demon looked up as they crossed the High Street; the Jockey Club stood before them. His horses were tied to a tree under the porter's watchful eye. "Get in. I'll drive you back to the stable."
Flick strolled to the curricle and climbed up. Demon went to speak to the porter, then returned, untied the reins, and stepped up to the box seat. He backed the horses, then set them trotting with an expert flick of his wrist.
As they headed down the High Street, Flick tilted her chin. "You'll tell me the instant Gillies discovers anything?"
Demon reached for his whip. The black thong flew out and tickled his leader's ears. The bays stepped out, power in every stride. The curricle shot forward.
Flick grabbed the rail and stifled a curse.
The whip hissed back up the handle, and the carriage rocketed along. Demon drove back to the stable without uttering a word.
Chapter 5
« ^ »
After dinner that evening, Demon retired to the front parlor of his farmhouse to consider the ramifications of all they'd learned. Frowning, he paced before the fireplace, where a small blaze cheerily danced.
His thoughts were not cheery.
He was deeply mired in them when a tap sounded on the curtained window. Dismissing it as an insect or misguided sparrow, he didn't pause, didn't rouse from his reverie.
The tapping came again, this time more insistent.
Demon halted. Raising his head, he stared at the window, then swore and strode across the room. Jerking the curtains aside, he looked down on the face that haunted his dreams. "Dammit—what the devil are you doing here?"
Flick glared, then mouthed, "Let me in!" and gestured with her hands for him to lift the sash. He hesitated, then, muttering a string of epithets, opened the catch and flung up the sash.
He was presented with a gloved hand. "Help me in."
Against his better judgment, he did. She was dressed in breeches—not her stable lad attire but a pair of what looked to be Dillon's cast-off inexpressibles, which fitted her far too well for his equanimity. Flick clambered over the sill and into the room. Releasing her hand, he lowered the sash and redrew the curtains. "For God's sake, keep your voice down. Heaven only knows what Mrs. Shephard will think if she hears you—"
"She won't." With a dismissive wave, Flick stepped to the settee and sank down on one arm. "She and Shephard are in the kitchen—I checked."
Demon stared at her—she stared ingenuously back. Deliberately, he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets—against the temptation to lay them on her. "Do you often flit through the twilight dressed like that?"
"Of course not. But I didn't know whether I'd be able to reach you without knocking on the door. Luckily, I saw your shadow on the curtains."
Demon clamped his lips shut. There was no point expostulating that her calmly knocking on his front door and asking his housekeeper, a matronly woman with sharp eyes, to show her into his parlor would have been unwise; she would only argue. Swinging on his heel, he strode back across the room; in the circumstances, the least he should do was put some real distance between them.
Regaining the fireplace, he turned to face her, propping his shoulders against the mantel. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I came to discuss the situation, of course." He raised one brow. "The situation?"
Flick held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and, with patent determination, removed her gloves. "It seems to me that what we learned today raises a number of issues." Laying the gloves on one thigh, she raised her hands and ticked each point off on her fingers. "First and foremost, if another race is to be fixed, should we warn the authorities? However"—she proceeded to her next finger—"there's the consideration that if we tell the stewards, they may alert the contact and he'll simply disappear, along with all connection to the syndicate. If that happens, we'll lose any chance of redeeming Dillon. Even worse"—she moved to her next finger—"if we inform the stewards and they question that man, it sounds, from what Dillon said, that he'll simply implicate him, and very likely cast him as the instigator of the scheme, thus protecting the syndicate from exposure."
Lifting her head, she looked across the room at the long, lean figure lounging, all brooding elegance, against the mantel. If she'd harbored any doubts that he intended to curtail her involvement in their investigations, his present attitude dispelled them; resistance poured from him in waves. His eyes, his attention, were fixed on her, but he showed no inclination to respond. She tilted her chin. "So, are we going to inform the authorities?"
He continued to study her intently, unwaveringly, but he said nothing. Lips thinning, she raised a brow. "
Well!"
"I haven't yet decided."
"Hmm." She ignored his clipped, definitely pointed tone. "That man offered the jockey one hundred and twenty-five pounds—a small fortune for a race jockey. It seems unlikely the jockey will change his mind."
He humphed; she took it as agreement.
"Which means your horse is almost certain to win." Eyes wide, she met his gaze. "That places you in a rather awkward position, doesn't it?"
He straightened; before he could speak she went on. "It's a horrible fix—with Dillon to rescue on the one hand, and your responsibilities to the Jockey Club on the other. I suppose it's a clash between loyalty and honor." In the same even tone, she asked, "Which will you choose?"
Hands sunk in his pockets, he stared at her, then looked down and paced before the fire. "I don't know." He shot her a glance, one dark with irritation. "I was considering the matter when you came through the window."
His look was lightened by a hint of curiosity; she grinned. "I came to help." She ignored his derisive snort. "We need to weigh things up—consider our options."
"I can't see any options." He continued to pace, his gaze on the floor. "That one of my horses is involved is irrelevant—it simply makes things worse. Having learned of an attempt to fix a race, my duty as a member of the Jockey Club is clear. I should inform the Committee."
"How absolute is that duty?"
The glance he sent her was hard. "As absolute as such things can be. I could not, in all honor, let a fixed race run."
"Hmm. I agree it's impossible to let a fixed race run—that's quite out of the question. But…" She let her words trail away, her gaze, questioning, fixed on Demon.
He halted, and looked her way. Then he raised a brow. "But can I—" He broke off, his gaze on her, then briefly inclined his head. "Can we legitimately withhold the information until closer to the race, to give ourselves time to follow this contact back to the syndicate?"
"Exactly. That race is next month—more than a couple of weeks away. And the stewards could stop it even if we told them just before the start."
"Not quite, but if we hold back the information until the week before the race, it would leave us five weeks in which to trace the syndicate."
"Five weeks? That's plenty of time."
Demon suppressed a cynical humph. Flick's face was triumphantly aglow; although it was partly at his expense, he had no wish to dim it. When she'd come through the window, he'd been thinking solely in the singular; he was now talking in the plural. Which was what she'd intended; that was why she'd come.
Now she sat, perched victorious on the arm of his settee, one boot swinging, a satisfied smile in her eyes. Her understanding of the honor and responsibilities involved in his position intrigued him. She understood racing, the fraternity and its traditions—not something he'd encountered in a woman before.
But discussing such matters with a sweet innocent felt odd. Especially late in the evening, in his front parlor.
Entirely unchaperoned.
He resumed his pacing—this time, in her direction.
"So"—she almost bobbed in her eagerness—"how do we find the man we saw this evening? Shouldn't we be trying to locate him?"
He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. "We are. At this instant, three of my men are rolling around the town, searching the inns and taverns."
She beamed at him. "Excellent! And then?"
"And then…" He reached for her hand; she surrendered it readily. Smoothly, he drew her to her feet. "Then we follow him"—holding her gaze, he lowered his voice to a deep purr—"until we learn all we need to know."
Trapped in his gaze, her hand in his, eyes widening, she mouthed an "Oh."
He smiled intently. Wrapping his fingers about her hand, he waited, just a heartbeat, until she trembled.
"We'll find the contact and follow him." His lids veiling his eyes, he lowered his gaze to her lips, soft, sheening, succulent pink. "Until he leads us to the syndicate—and then we'll tell the stewards all they need to know."
When he spoke of "we" he didn't mean her—but he'd tell her that tomorrow; no need to mar the night.
Raising his lids, he recaptured her gaze, marvelling at the softness of her clear blue eyes. The two of them stood, handfast, gazes locked, mere inches distant, with her trapped between the settee and him. Without conscious thought, he shifted his fingers, brushing the backs of hers.
Her eyes widened even more; her lips parted slightly. Her breath hitched—
Then she blinked, and narrowed her eyes. Frowning, she tugged her hand free. "I'll leave you now." Blinking himself, he released her.
She stepped sideways, heading for the window. He followed. Close.
She glanced back and up at his face, eyes very wide, her breathing too rapid. "I dare say I'll see you tomorrow at the stables."
"You will."
With fluttering hands, she pushed at the curtains. He reached over her head and drew them wide. She tugged at the sash. To no avail.
He stepped behind her and reached for the handles, one on either of the pane's lower frame.
Trapping her between his arms, between the window and him. His fingers brushed hers, clasped about the handles. She sucked in a breath and snatched her hands away. Then froze as she realized he surrounded her.
Slowly, he raised the sash—all the way up.
As he straightened, she straightened, too. Her spine stiff, she turned her head and looked him in the eye. "I'll bid you a good night."
There was ice and frost in her words. Turning to the window, she sat on the sill; behind her, Demon smiled, slowly, intently.
She swung her legs over and slipped into the darkness. "Good-bye."
Her voice floated back to him; in seconds, she'd become a shadow among many, and then she was gone.
Demon's smile deepened, his lips curving as triumphantly as hers had. She wasn't averse to him—the signs had been there, clear for him to read. He didn't know why she'd pulled back, why she'd shaken free of his hold, but it would be easy to draw her back to him.
And then…
He stood at the window for a full five minutes, a smile of anticipation on his lips, staring into the night and dreaming—before reality struck.
Like a bolt.
It transfixed him. Chilled him. It effectively doused his fire.
Face hardening, he stood in the middle of his parlor and wondered what the hell had got into him.
He rose before dawn and headed for the racecourse, for his stables and Carruthers, who was not at all pleased to learn that he'd lost the services of the best work rider he'd ever employed. For once declining to remain and watch his string exercise, Demon left Carruthers grumbling and set his horses ambling back down the road to his farm. The same road led to the cottage.
Fine mist wreathed the hedgerows and blanketed the meadows; it turned golden as dawn tinged the sky. Flick appeared through the gilded haze, a sleepy stable lad atop the plodding cob, heading in for the start of a new day. Demon reined in his bays and waited for her to reach him.
By the time she halted the cob beside his curricle, she was frowning; deep suspicion glowed in her eyes. He nodded, ineffably polite. "I've tendered your resignation to Carruthers—he doesn't expect to see you again."
Her frown deepened; to her credit, she didn't ask why. "But—"
"The matter's simple. If you hadn't resigned, I would have had to dismiss you." He trapped her gaze and raised a brow. "I thought you'd prefer to resign."
Flick studied his eyes, his face. "Put like that, I don't have much choice." The ends of his lips lifted fractionally. "None."
"What story did you tell Carruthers?"
"That your ailing mother slipped away, and you'll be joining your aunt's household in London." "So I'm not even supposed to be in the vicinity?"
"Precisely."
She humphed, but without much heat; they'd found Dillon's contact—she was already thinking ahead. "What about identifying the contact? Have your men turned up anything?"
Because she was watching closely, she saw his hesitation—the swift weighing of his options.
"We've located him, yes." His gaze swept her consideringly. "Gillies is currently doing the honors, with strict instructions to miss nothing. If you'd consent to get properly dressed, perhaps we might confer in more conventional style?"
She raised her brows in question.
His smile—a teasing, alluring temptation to dalliance— flashed. "Go home and change. I'll call at eleven and take you for a tool about the lanes."
"Perfect—we can discuss how best to go on without any risk of being overheard." Flick turned the cob and urged him back toward the cottage. "I'll be ready at eleven."
Her voice floated back to Demon., The reins lax in his hands, he sat in the strengthening sunshine, watching her bob away from him. His smile deepening, he flicked the reins and set his curricle slowly rolling in her wake.
As promised, she was ready and waiting, a vision in mull muslin, a parasol shading her complexion, when he drew his horses to a scrunching halt before the front steps of Hillgate End.
Tying off his reins, he stepped down from the curricle. Face alight, a soft smile on her lips, she eagerly approached. She was too slender to bustle—her movement was more a sweeping glide. Demon watched her advance, his every faculty riveted, effortlessly held in thrall.
Luckily, she didn't know it—she had no idea. Secure in that knowledge, he returned her smile. Taking her hand, he bowed elegantly and handed her up to the box seat. She shuffled across; as he turned to follow, Demon caught sight of a maid hovering by the steps. "I'll return Miss Parteger later in the afternoon—you might mention that to Jacobs."
"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a curtsy.
Climbing up, he took his seat and met Flick's questioning glance. "Mrs. Shephard packed a hamper so we won't need to return for lunch."
Her eyes widened, then she nodded. "It's turning into a lovely day—a picnic is a very good idea."
Clicking the reins, Demon set the bays pacing, omitting to mention just whose idea it had been.
As he turned out of the drive and the horses stepped out, Flick angled her parasol and glanced at him. "I take it your men located our quarry?"
Demon nodded, taking the turn to Dullingham in style. "He's staying at the Ox and Plough." "The Ox and Plough?" Flick frowned. "I don't think I know it."
"There's no reason you would. It's a seedy little inn off the main road north of Newmarket." "Did your man learn the contact's name?"
"He goes by the unenviable name of Bletchley." "And he's a Londoner?"
"From his accent, that much seems certain." Demon slowed his horses as the hamlet of Dullingham came into view. "Gillies is prepared to swear an oath that Bletchley was born within hearing of Bow bells."
"Which suggests," Flick said, turning impulsively to him, "that the syndicate is London-based."
"That was always on the cards. The most likely base for a group of rich and greedy gentlemen is London, after all."
"Hmm."
When Flick ventured nothing more, Demon glanced at her. She was frowning absentmindedly, her gaze unseeing. It wasn't hard to follow her thoughts. She was considering the syndicate, and the possible need to journey to London to unmask them.
He left her undisturbed, content with her abstraction. As the cottages of Dullingham fell behind, he kept the bays to a steady trot, searching the hedges lining the roadway for the small lane he remembered from years gone by. It appeared on his left; he slowed and turned the bays.
The lane was deeply rutted; despite the strong springs of the carriage, the rocking jerked Flick to attention. Grabbing the front rail, she blinked and looked around. "Good heavens. Where—oh! How lovely!"
Demon smiled. "It is a pretty spot."
The lane dwindled to a track; turning the bays onto a stretch of grass, he reined in. "We'll leave the carriage here." He nodded to where willows, lit by the sun, hung catkin-draped limbs over a rippling stream. The babble of the brook filled the rustic stillness; sunlight flashed off the water, shooting rainbows through the air. Between the willows, an expanse of lush grass beckoned. "We can spread the rug by the stream and enjoy the sunshine."
"Oh, yes! I didn't even know this place existed."
Alighting, he handed Flick down, then retrieved the well-stocked luncheon basket and a large plaid rug from the boot. Flick relieved him of the rug; holding it in her arms, she strolled beside him to the grassy bank.
Laying aside her parasol, Flick shook out the rug. Demon helped her spread the heavy folds, then handed her onto it. He waited while she settled, then subsided to lounge, large, lean—all elegantly
indolent—beside her.
She had overheard maids exclaiming how their beaux made their hearts go pitter-patter. She'd always thought the description a silly nonsense.
Now she knew better. Her heart was tripping in double time. Definitely pitter-patter.
Reaching for the basket Demon had set by their legs, she hauled it closer. More definitely between them. It was a ridiculous reaction—she knew she was safe with him—but the solidity of the basket made her feel much better. Pulling out the linen napkins Mrs. Shephard had tucked about the food, she uncovered roast chicken, slices of beef, and crisp, fresh rolls. She went to speak, and had to clear her throat. "Would you prefer a leg, or a breast?"
She looked up; her eyes clashed with Demon's, burning blue. Burning?
She blinked and looked again, but he'd looked away, calmly reaching for the bottle poking out from the basket.
"A leg will do for the moment."
His voice sounded slightly… strained. Hiding a frown, she watched as he eased the cork from the bottle. It popped free and he looked up, but there was nothing to be read in his eyes or his expression beyond an easy pleasure in the moment. He held out a hand for glasses; pushing aside her uncertainties, she delved into the basket.
Discovering two long flutes, she handed them over; the wine hissed as he filled them. She took the one he offered her, studying the tiny bubbles rising through the straw-colored liquid. "Champagne?"
"Hmm." Raising his glass to her, Demon took a sip. "A suitable toast to Spring."
Flick sipped; the bubbles fizzed on her palate, but the wine slid down her throat very pleasantly. She licked her lips. "Nice."
"Hmm." Demon forced himself to look away from her lips—sheening pink curves that he ached to taste. Inwardly frowning at how definite that ache was, he accepted the chicken leg she handed him, a napkin neatly folded about the bone.
Their fingers brushed; he felt hers quiver—was conscious to his bones of the shivery tremble that raced through her. Focusing on the chicken, he sank his teeth into it, then fixed his gaze on the meadows beyond the stream while she busied herself—calmed herself—laying out their repast. Only when she drew in a breath, took a sip of champagne, then fell to eating, did he glance at her again. "How's Dillon faring?"
She shrugged. "Well enough." After a moment, she volunteered, "I haven't really spoken to him since 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 lovely afternoon, she refused to dwell on Dillon. A sense of pleasurable ease held her. A curious warmth, like the glow from a distant fire, enveloped her. It wasn't the breeze, for her curls didn't dance, and it wasn't the sun, for it didn't affect all of her at once. Instead, it washed like a warm wave over her, leaving her relaxed, oddly expectant.
In expectation of what she had no idea.
The fact didn't worry her—with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.
The moment was perfect, serene—and strangely intriguing.
There was something in the air—she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious—in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy's spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see—whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.
Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.
The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.
Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.
It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip. The bubbles got up her nose.
She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.
"So," she asked, shuffling to face him, "how are we going to follow Bletchley?"
His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. "It's not a hard task. I've got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It's a small town—now we know what he looks like, and where he's staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn't overtax us."
"But—" Flick frowned at a nearby willow. "If we don't learn something soon, won't he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don't have nothing to do."
A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.
Then he looked at the stream. "You needn't worry. He'll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables—I'll watch him there and in the High Street." He drained his glass. "Gillies and
the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns—they won't be so identifiable in a crowd."
"Hmm. Perhaps." Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. "I'll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street." She met Demon's gaze as he looked up at her. "He won't suspect a young lady of watching him."
He stared at her for a moment, as if he'd lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, "Very likely not." His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. "Hold still."
She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged… something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. "Thank you."
His eyes met hers. "My pleasure."
The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered panic rise. She looked down and gulped a mouthful of champagne.
The bubbles hit her again; this time, she nearly choked. Eyes watering, she waved a hand before her face and hauled in a much-needed breath. "I'm really not used to this." She lifted her glass. "This is all new to me."
Demon's gaze had remained steady, his eyes on hers. His lips lifted lightly. "Yes, I know."
Flick felt curiously warm, distinctly light-headed. There was a light in Demon's eyes, an understanding she couldn't fathom.
Demon saw confusion grow in her eyes—he looked away, uncertain of how much of his interest, his curious, newfound obsession with innocence, showed in his. He gestured to the sylvan scene before them and looked at her, his expression easy, controlled. "If you haven't been here before, you couldn't have strolled the path by the stream. Shall we?"
"Oh, yes! Let's."
He retrieved her almost empty glass, drained it, then set both glasses back in the basket. Then he rose and held out his hands to her. "Come. We'll investigate."
She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometimes ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful—the parasol had prevented him from watching her—any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.
"There's a bronze dragonfly." "Where?" She searched the banks.
"Over there." He leaned close; she leaned closer still, following his pointing finger to where the dragonfly hovered above a patch of reeds. Engrossed, she drew in a breath and held it; he did the same.
The scent of her washed through him, sweet, fresh—quite unlike the cloying perfumes to which he was accustomed, to which he was immune. Her fragrance was light, airy; it reminded him of lavender and appleblossom, the essence of spring.
"Ah." The dragonfly darted away, and she exhaled. His head swam.
She turned to him; they were so close that her skirts brushed his boots. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his coat. His nearness surprised her; she looked up, eyes widening, lips parting on a silent gasp as her breath seized. Her eyes met his—for one fleeting instant, pure awareness invested the soft blue. Then puzzlement seeped in.
He saw it, but had too much to do holding his own desires in check to attempt a distraction. For the last hours, he'd delighted in her—in her innocence, in the fragile beauty of a female untouched, unawakened. He'd seen, sensed, her first glimmerings of consciousness—of him, of herself, of their inherent sensuality.
Sensuality was a quality he'd lived with daily for ten years and more; experiencing it anew, through her innocent eyes, had heightened his own far-from-innocent desires.
Her eyes held his; about them, the pulse of burgeoning spring hummed and throbbed. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. In his loins.
She felt it, too, but she didn't know what it meant. When he said nothing, she relaxed, just a little, and smiled, tentatively yet without the slightest fear. "Perhaps we'd better head back."
He held her gaze for an instant, then forced himself to nod. "Perhaps we had."
His voice had deepened; she threw him another, slightly questioning look. Ignoring it, he took her hand and turned her back along the path.
By the time they regained the swath of green, Flick's puzzlement had grown. Absentmindedly, she helped him fold the rug, then, picking up her parasol, followed him to the curricle.
After stowing the basket and rug, he returned to where she waited by the curricle's side, her frowning gaze fixed on the grass where they'd lain. She looked up as he halted beside her. She said nothing, but her frown was etched in her eyes. He saw it, and read her unvoiced questions with ease.
He had a very good idea what she was feeling—the disconcerting uncertainty, the nervous confusion. She was so open, so trusting, that she thought nothing of showing her vulnerability to him. He knew all the questions crowding her mind—the questions she couldn't begin to formulate.
He knew the answers, too.
She waited, her eyes on his, clearly hoping for some hint as to what it was she sensed. Her stance was both a demand and a plea—a clear wish to know.
Her face was tilted up to him; her tapered chin was firm. Her full lips, tinted delicate rose, beckoned. The soft blue of her eyes, clouded by the first flush of desire, promised heaven and more.
If he'd stopped to think, he would never have risked it, but the web of her innocence held him, compelled him—assured him this was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.
His eyes locked with hers, he slowly lifted one hand and gently framed her jaw. Her breath caught; deliberately, still moving with mesmerizing slowness, he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. The contact shook her—and him; he instinctively tightened his hold on his demons. Their gazes held, hers unwaveringly curious.
He drew in a shallow breath and slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to balk. Other than tightening her grip on her parasol, she moved not at all. Her gaze dropped to his lips; she sucked in a breath, only to have it tangle in her throat. Her lashes fluttered, then lowered; her eyes shut on a sigh as his lips touched hers.
It was the most delicate kiss he could remember sharing—a communion of lips, nothing more. Hers were soft, as delicate as they looked, intensely feminine. He brushed them once, twice, then covered them, increasing the pressure only slightly, aware to his bones of her youth.
He was about to draw back, to bring the light caress to an end, when her lips moved beneath his—in clear response, artless, untutored. Enthralling.
She kissed him back—gently, tentatively—her question as clear as it had been in her eyes.
Without thought, he responded, the hand framing her jaw tightening, holding her face steady as he shifted closer, angling his head as he deepened the kiss.
Her lips parted under his.
Just a little—just enough for him to taste her. He ran the tip of his tongue over her lower lip, caressing the soft flesh within, then briefly stroked her tongue, teasing her senses, already taut, quiveringly tight.
They quaked; she shuddered delicately, then stepped closer, so her breasts met his chest, her hips his thighs. Completely trusting, she leaned into him, into his strength.
Demon's head reeled; his blood pounded urgently. The need to close his arms about her—to lock her against him and mold her to him—was almost overwhelming.
But she was too young, too innocent, too new to this game for that.
His demons wailed and demanded—with what wit he had left he fought to deny them. Even while he fell deeper into their kiss.
Unaware of his problem, Flick reveled in the sudden heat that suffused her, in the heady sense of male strength that surrounded her, in the firm touch of his lips on hers, on the sensual slide of his tongue between her lips.
This was a kiss—the sort of kiss she'd heard maids giggling over, a kiss that slowly curled her toes. It was enthralling, demanding yet unfrightening, an experience of the senses.
The vicar's son had once kissed her—or tried to. That had been nothing like this. There had been no magic shimmering in the air, no skittering sensations assailing her nerves. And none of the excitement slowly growing within her, as if this was a beginning, not an end.
The idea intrigued her, but Demon's lips, firm, almost hard, cool yet imparting heat, effortlessly held her attention, denying all her efforts to think. Leaning against him, her only certainty was a feeling of gratitude—that he'd consented to show her what could be, not just in a kiss but in one glorious
afternoon of simple pleasure.
The sort of pleasure a man and a woman could share, if the man knew what he was about. She was immensely grateful to him for explaining, for demonstrating, for enlightening her ignorance. Now, in the future, she'd know what to look for—know where to set her standards.
As for today, she'd enjoyed his tutelage, enjoyed the afternoon—and this kiss. Immensely.
Her unrestrained, open appreciation very nearly overwhelmed Demon. Inwardly shaking with the effort of resisting the powerful instincts that had for so long been a part of him, he finally realized his hand had fallen from her face to her shoulder. Raising his other hand, he gripped her upper arm as well and gently eased her back from him. Then, with gentle care and a reluctance he felt to his soul, he drew back and ended the kiss.
He was breathing too fast. He watched as her lids fluttered, then rose to reveal eyes a much brighter blue than before. She met his gaze; he prayed she couldn't read his state. He attempted a suave smile. "So now you know."
She blinked. Before she could speak, he turned her to the curricle. "Come—we should return to Hillgate End."
He drove her back directly. To his surprise, she was patently unflustered, sitting beside him, her parasol open, sweetly smiling at the sunwashed countryside.
If anyone was flustered, it seemed it was he. He still felt disoriented, nerves and muscles twitching. By the time he turned the bays through the gates of Hillgate End, he was inwardly frowning, and feeling a touch grim.
He wasn't at all sure what had happened that afternoon, especially not who or what had instigated the proceedings. He'd certainly organized to spend a comfortable, enjoyable afternoon with an angel, but he couldn't remember deciding to seduce her.
Things had not gone according to any plan of his.
Which was possibly not surprising—in this sphere, he was a rank amateur. He'd never dallied with anyone so young, so untouched—so damned innocent—before. Which was at least half his problem—half the reason he was increasingly attracted to her. She was a very fresh taste to his definitely jaded palate; awakening her was a rare pleasure, a sweet delight.
But seducing an innocent carried responsibility—a heavy, unavoidable responsibility he'd happily steered clear of for all his years. He didn't want to change—had no intention of changing. He was happy with his life as it was.
The taste of her—apple and delicate spice—returned to him, and had him stiffening. Swallowing a curse, he drew the bays up before the front steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down; rounding the carriage, he helped her down.
She smoothed her skirts, then straightened and smiled—gloriously, openly, entirely without guile. "Thank you for a delightful afternoon."
He stared at her, conscious to his bones of a demonic urge to taste her again. It took all his concentration to maintain a suitably impassive mien, to take the hand she held out to him, squeeze it gently—and let go.
With a nod, he turned back to the curricle. "I'll keep you informed of anything we learn. Do convey my respects to the General."
"Yes, of course."
She watched him drive away, a smile on her lips; as the shadows of the drive enclosed him, a frown settled on Demon's face.
He was still frowning when he reached home.
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Demon ran Gillies to earth later that evening in the crowded tap of the Swan; he was nursing a pint and keeping a watchful eye on Bletchley. Their quarry was part of a genial group crowding one corner.
Demon slid onto the bench beside Gillies. "Any action?"
"Nah. He went back to the Ox and Plough this afternoon, seemingly to check the post. He got a letter. Looked like he was expecting it."
"Did he leave it there?"
Glancing at Bletchley, Gillies shook his head. "He's got it on him, in an inside waistcoat pocket. He's taking no chances of losing it."
Demon sipped his beer. "What did he do after he got it?"
"Perked up, he did, and bustled right out again, back to the Heath for afternoon stables." Demon nodded. "I saw him there—it looked like he had Robinson's string in his sights."
"Aye—that's my thought, too." Gillies took another long pull from his pint. "Robinson's got at least two favored runners in the Spring Carnival."
"I didn't see Bletchley approach any of the riders." "Nor did I."
"Did he make contact with any gentlemen?"
"Not that I saw. And I've had him in sight since he came down the stairs this morning."
Demon nodded, Flick's warning in mind. "Stay at the stud tomorrow. Cross can follow Bletchley to morning stables—I'll take over after that."
"Aye." Gillies drained his pint. "It wouldn't do for him to get too familiar with my face."
Over the next three days, together with Cross and Hills, two of his stablemen, Demon and Gillies kept an unwavering watch on Bletchley. With activity on the Heath increasing in preparation for the Craven meeting—the official Spring Carnival of the English racing calendar—there was reason aplenty for Demon to be about the tracks and stables, evaluating his string and those of his major rivals. From atop Ivan the Terrible, keeping Bletchley in view in the relatively flat, open areas surrounding the
Heath was easy; increasingly, it was Demon who kept their quarry in sight for most of the day. Gillies, Cross and Hills took turns keeping an unrelenting but unobtrusive watch at all other times, from the instant Bletchley came down for breakfast, to the time he took his candle and climbed the stairs to bed.
Bletchley remained unaware of their surveillance, his obliviousness at least partly due to his concentration on the job in hand. He was careful not to be too overt in approaching the race jockeys, often spending hours simply watching and noting. Looking, Demon suspected, for any hint of a hold, any susceptibility with which to coerce the selected jockeys into doing his masters' bidding.
On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.
Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he'd made not the slightest attempt to see her—to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered—she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.
She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen's fence, he'd been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables' strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence's lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.
Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient—she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she'd dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn't do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon's side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. "Isn't it a lovely afternoon?"
"Indeed."
The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. "Where's Bletchley?"
Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. "Under the oak to the left. He's wearing a scarlet neckerchief."
She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.
All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat—which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he'd been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him—his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.
As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.
He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin. "Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?"
Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. "It appears his task here—presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do—is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters' cause."
After a moment, he added, "He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity." "Orders?"
"Presumably. But I seriously doubt he'll report back to his masters in writing."
"He probably can't write." Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. "So there's still a chance the syndicate—at least one of them—will appear here."
"Yes. To learn of Bletchley's success, if nothing else."
"Hmm." She looked at Bletchley. "I'll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon." She glanced up at him. "I'm sure you've got other matters to attend to."
He captured her gaze. "Be that as it may—
"As I've already pointed out, he won't expect a young lady to be watching him—it's the perfect disguise."
"He might not guess that you're watching him, but I can guarantee he'll notice if you follow him." She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. "Be that as it may—"
"No." The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. "There is no reason whatever for you to be involved."
Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. "This was my undertaking—I invited you to
help. 'Help' does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher." He held her irate gaze. "You are not a mere cipher—"
"Good!" With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. "I'll help you watch Bletchley then."
Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. "Flick—"
"Look! He's heading off."
Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley's wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. "As you're so determined to help…"
Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close—very close—to his side.
Blinking wildly, she looked up. "What do you mean?" Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.
"If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you'll have to help provide our disguise." He raised his brows at her. "Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me."
"But how am I to watch Bletchley?"
He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at
her. "You don't need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he's meeting."
One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick's not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.
Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace—grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.
The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent wasn't to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion.
Thankfully, he hadn't noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned. "Who do you think he's meeting?" she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.
"I've no idea." He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. "Just pray it's a member of the syndicate."
His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.
Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley's gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick's wide eyes. "Smile," he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.
Her breath caught—she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.
"I'm only teasing," he murmured. "It's just play."
"I know," Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.
From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.
Flick's eyes widened; she immediately stepped out. He hauled her up short, pulling her to his side. "No." She looked up, ready to glare; he leaned closer—nearer—so the ebb and flow of their interaction looked like a seductive game. "We don't know," he murmured, his lips close by her temple, "who he's meeting and where they are. They might be behind us."
"Oh." Obedient to his pressure on her arm, Flick, a smile on her lips, steeled herself and leaned against him, her shoulder and upper arm nestling into the warmth of his chest. Then, with the same sweet, inane smile, she eased away as they continued to stroll.
After a moment—after she'd caught her breath—she looked up, into his smiling eyes. "What are you planning to do?"
His lips quirked, very definitely teasing. "Join Bletchley and his friend, of course."
They'd reached the corner of the stable; without pause, Demon continued on, not hugging the shadow of the wall as Bletchley had but strolling on and past, into the clear area behind the stable bounded by a railing fence.
As soon as they had cleared the corner, Flick looked ahead. Demon released her elbow, slid his arm about her waist, drew her against him and kissed her.
She nearly dropped her parasol.
"Don't look at him—he'll notice." Demon breathed the injunction against her lips, then kissed her, briefly, again.
Wits reeling, she hauled in a breath. "But—"
"No buts. Just follow my lead and we'll be able to hear everything—and see it all, too." Setting her on her feet, shielded by her open parasol, presently pointed, rather waveringly, at Bletchley, his eyes searched hers, then he added, his voice deep and low, "If you won't behave, I'll have to distract you some more."
She stared at him. Then she cleared her throat. "What do you want me to do?" "Concentrate on me as if you aren't even aware Bletchley and friend exist."
She kept her gaze glued to his face. "Has his friend arrived?" She hadn't been able to see before he'd kissed her.
"Not yet, but I think someone's drifting this way." Righting her parasol, Demon smiled down at her; his hand resting lightly at her waist, he turned her. Gazes locked, they strolled on, apparently aimlessly.
Bletchley had halted midway along the back of the stable, clearly waiting for someone to join him. From the corner of her eye, Flick saw him frown at them. Demon bent his head and blew in her ear; she squirmed and giggled, entirely spontaneously.
Naturally, he did it again.
With no option but to throw herself into their deception, she giggled and wriggled and squirmed. Laughing, Demon caught her more closely to him, then with a flourish, he whirled her, twirled her—they stopped with him leaning against the railing fence, her before him. His eyes glowed wickedly; his smile was distinctly devilish.
Flick caught her breath on a gasp, a perfectly natural, silly smile on her lips. "What next?" she whispered.
Screened from Bletchley by her parasol, Demon looked down into her eyes. "Put your hand on my shoulder, stretch up and kiss me."
She blinked at him; he raised his brows innocently, the expression in his eyes anything but. "You've done it before."
She had, but that had been different. He'd started it. Still… it hadn't been difficult.
Fleetingly frowning at him, she placed her free hand on his broad shoulder and stretched up on her toes. Even so, he had to lower his head—balanced precariously on the very tips of her toes, she had to lean against him, her breasts to his hard chest, to reach his lips with hers.
She kissed him—just a simple, gentle kiss. When she went to draw back, his hands firmed, one
spanning her waist, the other closing about her fingers gripping her parasol. He held her steady as his lips closed over hers.
Tilting her and her parasol to just the right angle, Demon held her before him, and, from beneath his lashes, looked out under the parasol's frilled rim. Bletchley, ten yards away, had been slouching, watching them idly—he doubtless considered Demon a reckless blade set on seducing a sweet country miss. But although he watched, Bletchley wasn't interested. Then he straightened, alert, as another man joined him.
Breaking off the kiss, Demon breathed a curse. Flick blinked, but he didn't shift, didn't let her down.
"No—don't turn," he hissed as she went to twist her head. "Who is it?"
His lips, presently at eye level, twisted into a grim grimace. "Another jockey." Disappointment laced his tone.
"Perhaps he has a message from the syndicate." "Shssh. Listen."
Balanced against him, she strained her ears. "Let's see if I got this straight."
That had to be the jockey; the voice was clear, not scratchy.
"You'll give me three ponies the day before the Stakes, an' two ponies the day after, if I bring Cyclone in out o' the places. That right?"
"Aye—that's the deal," Bletchley grated. "Take it or leave it."
The jockey was silent, presumably ruminating; Demon looked down at her, then his arm slid further around her, better supporting her against him.
"Relax," he breathed. His lips brushed hers in the lightest of caresses, then the jockey spoke again. "I'll take it."
"Done."
"That's our cue," Demon said sotto voce.
The next instant, he laughed aloud; his arm tightening about her, he swung her around and stood her on her feet. He grinned. "Come along, sweetheart. Wouldn't do for the local gabblemongers to start wondering where we've got to. Let alone what we've been doing."
He spoke loudly enough for Bletchley and the jockey to hear. Flick blushed and ignored their audience completely; locking both hands about her parasol handle, she turned back to the Heath with a swish of her skirts.
With another demonic laugh—one of triumph—Demon, his hand lying proprietorially on her
back just a little lower than her waist, ushered her around the stable, back into the safety of the racing throng.
The instant they rounded the corner of the stable, Flick wriggled to dislodge his hand. It only pressed closer.
"We can't drop our roles yet." Demon's murmur stirred the curls above her ear. "Bletchley's following. While he can see us, we'll need to preserve our act."
She shot him a suspicious, distracted look; her bottom was heating.
He smiled, all wolf. "Who knows? An established disguise might come in handy in the following days."
Following days? Flick hoped she didn't look as scandalized as she felt; the laughing, teasing look in Demon's eyes suggested otherwise.
To her consternation, Bletchley returned to stand under the oak beside the Heath—and proceeded to watch the exercising strings for the next hour.
So they watched him, while Demon lived up to his nickname and exercised his rakish talents, using ploy after ploy to ruffle her composure. To make her blush and skitter, and act the besotted miss.
Whether it was due to his expertise or otherwise, it grew increasingly easy to act besotted. To relax and laugh and smile. And blush.
He knew just how to tease her, just how to catch her eye and invite her to laugh—at him, at them, at herself. Knew just how to touch her—lightly, fleetingly—so that her senses leapt and her heart galloped faster than any horse on the Heath. When Bletchley, after approaching one other jockey and getting short shrift, finally headed back into the town, she'd blushed more than she ever had before.
Clinging to her parasol as if it were a weapon, and her last defense, she met Demon's eye. "I'll leave you now—I'm sure you can keep him in sight for the rest of the afternoon."
His eyes held hers, their expression difficult to read; for one instant, she thought it was reluctance she glimpsed in the blue—reluctance to set aside their roles.
"I don't need to follow him." Demon looked to the edge of the Heath and raised his hand. Gillies, lounging against a post, nodded and slipped off in Bletchley's wake.
Demon looked back at his companion of the afternoon. "Come—I'll drive you home." Her gaze trapped in his, she waved to the nearby road. "I have the groom with the gig."
"We can send him on ahead." He raised one brow and reached for her hand. "Surely you'd rather be driven home behind my bays than the nag harnessed to the gig?"
As one who appreciated good horseflesh, her choice was a foregone conclusion. With an inclination of her head that was almost regal, she consented to his scheme, consented to let him hold her by him—to enjoy her freshness—for just a little while more.
He was seated in the armchair before the fire in his front parlor, staring at the flames and seeing her angelic face, her soft blue eyes, and the curious, considering light that flashed in them from time to time, when, once again, she came tapping on his windowpane. Lips setting, he didn't even bother swearing—just rose, set aside the brandy balloon he'd been cradling, and crossed to the window.
This time, when he pulled the curtains aside, he was relieved to see she was wearing skirts—to whit, her riding habit. He raised the sash. "Don't you ever use the door?"
The glance she levelled at him was reproving. "I came to invite you to accompany me to see Dillon." "I thought we'd agreed not to see him at all."
"That was before. Now we know Bletchley's the contact, and that he's wandering about the Heath, we should warn Dillon and bring him up to date, so he doesn't do anything rash."
Dillon would never put himself to so much bother. The observation burned Demon's tongue, but he swallowed the words. He wasn't at all happy at the notion of Flick riding about the county alone at night, but he knew there was no point trying to talk her out if it. Mentally locating his riding gloves, he reached for the sash. "I'll meet you by the stable."
Pointy chin resolute, she nodded, then slid into the shadows.
Demon closed the window and went to warn the Shephards he was going out for a few hours.
Atop Jessamy, Flick was waiting by the main stable. Demon hauled open the door. In the dimness inside, lit by the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the door, he located his tack and carried it to Ivan's box. The big stallion was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be saddled and led out. Luckily, before Ivan could consider and decide to protest, he set eyes on Jessamy.
Noting the stallion's fixed stare, Demon grunted and swung up to his saddle. At least he wouldn't have to exercise his talents on Ivan during their ride through the moonlight—Ivan would follow, intent, in Flick's wake.
She, of course, led the way.
They crossed his fields, the night black velvet about them. The cottage appeared deserted, a denser bulk in the deep shadows between the trees. Flick rode into the clearing behind it and dismounted. Demon followed, tethering Ivan well clear of the mare.
A twig cracked.
Flick whirled, squinting at the cottage. "It's us. Me and Demon."
"Oh," came a rather shaky voice from the dark. After a moment, Dillon asked, "Are you coming in?" "Of course." Flick started for the cottage just as Demon reached her; he followed close on her heels.
"We thought," she said, ducking through the lean-to and stepping into the main room, "that you'd want to know what we've learned."
Dillon looked up, his face lit by the glow of the lantern he'd set alight. "You've identified one of the syndicate?"
Wild hope colored his tone; settling onto a stool by the table, Flick grimaced. "No—not yet." "Oh." Dillon's face fell. He slumped down in the chair at the table's end.
Drawing off his gloves at the table's other end, Demon studied Dillon, noting his pallor and the lines the last week had etched in his cheeks. It was as if the reality of his situation, now fully realized, and the consequent worry of apprehension and exposure, were eating away at his childish self-absorption. If that
was so, then it was all to the good. Drawing out the last rickety stool, Demon sat. "We've discovered your elusive contact."
Dillon looked up, hope gleaming in his eyes. Demon raised his brows at Flick, wondering if she wanted to tell Dillon herself. Instead, she nodded for him to continue. He looked back at Dillon. "Your man's name is Bletchley—he's a Londoner." Briefly, he described their quarry.
Dillon nodded. "Yes—that's him-—the man who recruited me. He used to bring me the lists of horses and jockeys."
Flick leaned forward. "And the money?"
Dillon glanced at her, then colored, but continued to meet her eyes. "Yes. He always had my fee." "No, I mean the money for the jockeys. How did they get paid? Did Bletchley give you their money?"
Dillon frowned. "I don't know how they got paid—I wasn't involved. That's not how it worked when I did it."
"Then how did you do the organizing?" Demon asked.
Dillon shrugged. "It was simple—the list of jockeys told me how much to offer each one. I did, and then reported if they'd accepted. I wasn't involved in getting their money to them after the race."
"After the race," Flick repeated. "What about the payments before the race?" Dillon's puzzled frown grew. "Before?"
"As a down payment," Demon explained.
Dillon shook his head. "There weren't any payments before the race—only the one payment after the deed was done. And someone else took care of that, not me."
Flick frowned. "They've changed their ways."
"That's understandable," Demon said. "They're presently targeting races during the Craven meeting, one of the premier meetings in the calendar. The betting on those races is enormous—one or two fixed races, and they'll make a major killing. That's something the jockeys will know. They'll also know that the risk of being questioned by the stewards is greater—more attention is always paid to the major races during the major meets."
Dillon frowned. "Last season, they didn't try to fix any truly major races."
"It's possible they've been building up to this season—or that they've grown more cocky, more assured, and are now willing to take greater risks in the hope of greater rewards. Regardless, the jockeys for the Spring Carnival races would obviously demand more to pull their mounts." Demon glanced at Dillon. "The going rate for the two races we've heard fixed is five ponies."
"Five?" Dillon's brows flew up. "I was only once directed to offer three."
"So the price has gone up, and they're locking the jockeys in by offering some now, some later. Once the first payment's accepted, the jockey's more or less committed, which is less risky for the syndicate." Demon looked at Dillon. "They would, I fancy, be happy to make a down payment to avoid a repetition of what happened in the first race this year."
Dillon slowly nodded. "Yes, I see. This way, the fix is more or less certain."
"Hmm." Flick frowned. "Did you ever hear anything from the jockeys you organized about how they got paid?"
Dillon paled. "Only from one, early last season." He glanced at Demon. "The jockey wasn't too happy—his money was left at his mother's cottage. He didn't feel easy about the syndicate knowing where to find his old mum."
Demon met Dillon's gaze. He didn't like what he was learning. The syndicate sounded disturbingly intelligent—an evil, ruthless and intelligent opponent was, in his book, the worst. More of a challenge, but infinitely more dangerous.
That, of course, would normally whet his appetite, stir his Cynster blood. In this case, he only had to look at Flick to inwardly curse and wish the whole damned syndicate to hell. Unfortunately, the way the situation was shaping, it was going to fall to him to escort them there, while simultaneously protecting an angel from the consequences of her almost certain involvement in the syndicate's fall.
While the thought of the syndicate didn't stir his blood, Flick did—in quite a different way, a way he hadn't experienced before. This was not mere lust. He was well acquainted with that demon, and while it was certainly in the chorus, its voice wasn't the loudest. That distinction currently belonged to the impulse to protect her; if he complied with his inner promptings, he'd tie her up, cart her off to a high tower with a single door bearing a large and effective lock, and incarcerate her there until he had slain the dragon she was determined to flush out.
Unfortunately…
"We'd better go." She gathered her gloves and stood, her stool grating on the floor. He rose more slowly, watching the interaction between Flick and Dillon.
Dillon was looking earnestly at her; she tugged on her gloves, then met his gaze. "We'll let you know what we discover—when we discover something. Until then, it's best that you stay out of sight."
Dillon nodded. Reaching out, he caught her hand and squeezed. "Thank you."
She humphed and shook free, but without any heat. "I told you I'm only doing this for the General." The statement lacked the force of her earlier rendering; Demon doubted even she believed it.
Dillon's lips twisted rather ruefully. "Even so." He looked at Demon and stood. "I owe you a debt I'll never be able to repay."
His expression impassive, Demon met his gaze. "I'll think of something, never fear." Dillon's eyes widened at his tone; with a curt nod, Demon turned to Flick.
Frowning, she glanced back at Dillon. "We'll look in in a few days." Then she turned and led the way out.
Following on her heels, Demon breathed deeply as they emerged into the night. A quick glance at the sky revealed a black pall—the moon had been engulfed by dark clouds. Within the cottage, the light of the lantern dimmed, then died. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Demon looked around as he strode across the clearing; no other human was anywhere about—just the two of them alone in the night.
Flick didn't wait for help but scrambled into her saddle. Untying Ivan's reins, Demon quickly mounted,
holding the stallion steady as Flick trotted Jessamy over.
"I'll ride home through the park. I'll see you on the Heath tomorrow afternoon." "No."
Surprised, she stared at him. Before she could scowl, he clarified, "I'll ride back to Hillgate End with you. It's after midnight—you shouldn't be out riding alone."
She didn't scowl, but he sensed her resistance. She studied him, then opened her mouth, doubtless to argue, when a breeze wafted through the clearing and set the trees shivering. It moaned, softly, eerily, through the branches, then died away on a sigh, an expiring banshee leaving only the rustling leaves slowly stilling in the deep darkness.
Flick shut her mouth and nodded. "Yes, all right."
Shaking her reins she set out; muttering his by now customary oath, Demon wheeled Ivan and set out to catch up. He did in short order; side by side, they rode across the next field—the last bastion of his domain. Beyond its hedge, directly ahead of them, lay the furthest reaches of the former park of Hillgate End.
There was a spot they both knew where the hedge thinned; they pushed through onto an old bridle path. Flick led the way into the dark shadows beneath the trees.
Although some of the park's paths were kept in good condition for riders, notably Flick, to enjoy, this was not one of them. Bushes pressed close on either side, branches flapped before their faces. They had to walk their mounts—it was too dangerous to even trot. The path was deep in leaf mold; it occasionally dipped, creating the added danger of their horses slipping. They both instinctively guarded their precious mounts, alert to every shift in weight, in muscle, in balance, of the beasts beneath them.
The General had no love of shooting, so the park had become a refuge for wildlife. A badger snuffled and growled as they passed him; later, they heard rustling, then the yips of a fox.
"I didn't realize it would be this bad." Flick ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.
Demon grunted. "I thought this was the route you used to go back and forth to the cottage. Obviously not."
"I normally take the path to the east, but that crosses the stream twice, and after last night's rain, I didn't want to risk Jessamy's knees going up and down slippery banks."
Demon didn't point out that she was risking Jessamy's knees right now—they were deep in the park, with the centuries-old trees forming an impenetrable canopy overhead; he could barely see Flick, let alone any irregularities in the path. Luckily, both Jessamy and Ivan could see better than him. They stepped out confidently; both he and Flick fell back on trust and let their horses find their own way.
After some time had elapsed, he asked, "Doesn't this path cross the stream, too?"
"Yes, but there's a bridge." After a moment, Flick amended, "Well, there was a bridge last time I came this way."
Lips thinning, Demon didn't bother asking how long ago that had been; they'd deal with the rotted and possibly ex-bridge when they came to it.
Before they did, it started to rain.
At first, the light pattering on the leaves high above was of little consequence. But the tattoo steadily grew more forceful, then the forest about them started to drip.
Flick shuddered as a series of heavy drops splattered her. Instinctively, she urged Jessamy on.
"No!" Demon scowled through the night. "Hold her steady. It's too dangerous to go faster—you know that."
Her silent acquiescence told him she did. They plodded on, increasingly damp, increasingly cold.
Above them, above the trees, the wind started to rise, to whistle and moan and shake the leaves. Jaw set, Demon searched his memories, trying to gauge how much farther they had to go, but he'd never been on this path before. He didn't know how it meandered, and he couldn't place where it came out. But given the fact that this path crossed the stream only once, and they'd been making very slow progress…
He didn't like the answers his estimations suggested. They were still a long way from the manor.
Just how far was revealed when they came to a break in the trees, and he saw before them the stream with a narrow log and plank bridge spanning it. And the charcoal maker's hut in the clearing beyond. That, he recognized.
Beneath his breath, he swore.
As if in answer, the heavens cracked; the rain positively teemed. Faced with the sudden torrent—a curtain falling between them and the bridge—Jessamy and Flick balked.
Muttering all manner of dire imprecations, Demon swung down. He tied Ivan's reins to a tree; the stallion, made of stern stuff, seemed unfazed by the downpour. Head up, he sniffed the air and looked toward the bridge.
The bridge that, if not in good condition, would assuredly collapse under his weight.
"Stay back!" Demon yelled at Flick. Pushing past Jessamy, he strode the three paces to the bridge. Ignoring the rain, he checked the structure thoroughly, in the end standing atop its middle and jumping up and down. The timbers didn't creak; the bridge seemed sound enough.
Ducking back through the rain, he nodded at Flick, then freed his reins and was back in the saddle. Despite the downpour, he wasn't soaked; the bridge itself was protected by a huge oak on the stream's opposite bank.
Flick was looking back at him, her brows high. He nodded again. "You cross first."
She nodded and sent Jessamy forward; they clattered across in ordered style. Demon shook Ivan's reins—he bounded forward, keen not to be separated from the mare. His heavy hooves clattered on the planking; in a few swift strides, he was safely across.
Flick was waiting under the spreading branches of the oak; Demon reined in beside her and fixed her with a look calculated to impress on her the unwisdom of arguing with him in his present mood. "There is no possibility that we can ride on to the manor in this."
Eyes wide, she looked at him consideringly, then cast a swift glance at the clearing before them, the
surface of which was already playing host to myriad tiny rivulets. "It'll stop soon—these squalls always do."
"Precisely. Which is why we're going to wait in the hut until it does."
Flick eyed the hut and immediately thought of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Maybe even mice. Or rats. Then she looked at the steady rain coming down and grimaced. "I suppose it'll only be for an hour or so."
Demon tightened his reins. "There's a small stable tacked on the other side—ride straight there." Flick shrugged, shook her reins, and did.
A second later, Demon followed.
The small stable was only just big enough to house both horses; with the two of them in there as well, laboring in the darkness to unsaddle, space was in short supply. It was impossible not to bump into each other. Arms brushed breasts, elbows stuck into chests. Searching for a loose strap, Flick inadvertently ran her hand up Demon's thigh—she snatched it back with a mortified "Sorry."
Which was received in fraught silence.
A minute later, reaching out to locate her so he wouldn't hit her when he lifted his saddle from Ivan's back, Demon found his fingers curving about her breast. An incoherent word of apology was all he could manage, too exercised by the battle to drag his hand away.
Flick's only reply was a muted squawk.
Finally, they were done, and the horses, contented enough, were settled side by side, Ivan with a minimum of rein. Flick joined Demon in the doorway, ducking behind him, into the protection afforded by his broad shoulders.
He glanced around at her, then looked back out, peering along the front of the stone cottage. "God only knows what state the inside is in."
"The charcoal makers come every year." "In autumn," he replied incontrovertibly. She grimaced.
He sighed. "I'll go and take a look." He glanced over his shoulder. "Do you want to wait here? It's perfectly possible I won't be able to get past the door."
She nodded. "I'll stay here while you check—call if it's all right."
He looked back out, then strode swiftly for the cottage door. An instant later, Flick heard wood grating on stone. She waited, looking out at the steady rain, listening to the dripping silence. Beside her, the horses shifted, heaved horsy sighs, and settled. All she could hear was their steady breathing and the soft patter of the rain.
And a hesistant, furtive rustling in what sounded like straw, coming from the rear of the stable.
Flick stiffened. Wild-eyed, she swung around. Visions of munching rats with evil red eyes filled her brain.
She whirled and fled for the cottage.
The door was ajar; without a thought, she slipped through. "Stop." It was Demon's voice. "I've found the lantern."
Flick stood just inside the door and calmed her leaping heart. He was large—he had large feet. He'd been clomping around in the cottage for at least three minutes—surely, by now, any resident rodents would have departed.
A scrape of a match on tinder broke the stillness; light flared, then softened, throwing a warm glow about the hut as Demon reset the glass.
Letting out the breath she'd held, Flick looked about. "Well!"
"Indeed." Demon likewise was taking inventory. "Remind me to compliment the charcoal makers when next they're by."
The cottage was neat as a pin, and, bar the inevitable cobwebs, clean. The door had been tight in its frame, and the windows securely shuttered; no unwanted visitors had disturbed the charcoal makers' temporary home.
By extension, however, there was no food left in the cottage to attract vermin. The pots and pans and, most importantly, the kettle, travelled with their owners. There was, however, wood stacked and dry in the woodbox.
Demon glanced at Flick, then moved to the fireplace. "I may as well get a fire going." They were both damp, just this side of wet through.
"Hmm." Flick shut the door, then, rubbing her upper arms, came farther into the cottage. While Demon crouched before the stone hearth, selecting logs and sticks with which to start his blaze, she studied the furniture. There was only one chair—an old armchair from the manor. Beyond it stood three narrow pallets, each sporting a lumpy, tick mattress. Bending down, Flick grasped the wooden strut at the end of the nearest pallet and tugged until the end of the pallet was positioned before the hearth to one side. Satisfied, she sank down upon it. And sighed as she let her shoulders ease.
Demon glanced back, saw what she'd done, and nodded. The next instant, he had a flame laid in the kindling; busily, he coaxed it into a blaze.
Flick sat and watched the flames grow, watched the bright tendrils writhe, then lick along the dark wood. Patiently, Demon fed the flames, laying branch upon twig until the blaze roared.
Heat billowed out, enveloping her, washing through her, driving away the chill locked in her damp clothes. Contentment rolled through her; she sighed and rotated her shoulders, one, then the other, then settled again to watch Demon's hands, steady and sure, pile logs on the fire.
His hands were like the rest of him—large and lean. His long fingers never fumbled. His grip was strong and sure. His movements, she noted, were economical; he rarely used extraneous flourishes, a fact that enhanced the sense of control, of harnessed power, that invested his every act.
He was, now she considered it, a very controlled man.
Only when the flames were voraciously devouring two huge logs did he stand. He stretched, then turned; large and intensely male, he stood looking down at her.
Her gaze fixed on the flames, Flick knew he was studying her; she felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the heat from the flames. She looked away from the fire, to the nook beside the hearth, gathering strength to look up and meet his eyes.
In the dark corner she saw a flicker of movement, a twitch of a whisker. A pointy nose and two pink-red eyes.
"Eeeeeehhh!"
Her shrill scream split the stillness.
With another shriek, she leapt up, straight into Demon's arms. They locked about her. "What is it?"
"A rat!" Eyes glued to the dark cranny, she clung, her fingers sinking into his muscles. She gestured with her chin. "There—by the fireplace." Then she buried her face in his chest. "Make it go away!"
Her plea was a panicked mumble. Demon stared at the small field mouse cowering back against the stones. He stifled a sigh. "Flick —"
"Is it gone?"
This time, he did sigh. "It's only a field mouse attracted to the warmth. It'll leave in a moment." "Tell me when it does."
He squinted down at her. All he could see was the crown of her curls. Putting his head to the side, he tried to see her face; she had it buried in his chest. She'd somehow insinuated her hands under his coat, and was gripping him, one hand on either side of his back, clinging for dear life.
She was plastered against him, from her forehead to her knees. And she was trembling.
A faint vibration, the tremor travelled her spine. Instinctively, he tightened his arms about her, then eased his hold to run his hands slowly down and up her back, soothingly stroking.
Bending his head, he murmured into her curls. "It's all right. It'll go in a minute."
He could feel her panicked breathing, her breath hitching in her throat; she didn't answer, but bobbed her head to show she'd heard.
So they stood, locked together before the fire, waiting for the still-petrified mouse to make a move.
Demon had imagined waiting patiently, stoically, but within a minute, stoic was beyond him. The fire, a roaring blaze, had dried him; while Flick had been still chilled when she'd rushed into his arms, his body heat was warming her. Warming her breasts, pressed tight against his chest, warming her hips, plastered to his thighs. She, in turn, was heating him—it wouldn't be long before the largest blaze in the room was not the one in the hearth.
Gritting his teeth, he told himself he could endure it. He doubted she was even aware of his susceptibility; he could manage her easily enough.
The heat between them reached a new high, and her perfume rose to waft about him, to wreathe, then snare, his senses. Making him even more aware of the supple softness in his arms, of the warm breasts crushed to his chest, of the subtle pliancy in her frame that beckoned his hardened senses, of the feminine strength in the arms reaching around him. He snatched a breath—and drew her deep, into his soul. Closing his eyes, locking his jaw, he tried to keep his body from responding.
Entirely unsuccessfully. Hard became harder, tighter, tauter. Inexorably, yet in all innocence, she wound his sensual spring notch after notch.
In desperation, he tried to ease her away—she shook her head frantically and burrowed even deeper into his embrace. Teeth gritted, he used just a little of his strength to shift her, so she was more to his side and no longer in danger of learning, graphically, just how much she was affecting him.
He was in pain and helpless to do anything about it. He was paying for his sins in having dallied with her, teased her, enjoyed her.
But he didn't regret a single moment—then, or now.
The realization puzzled him, momentarily distracted him from the physical plane. Grateful for even such minor relief, he followed the thought, trying to unravel the mystery of why, exactly, Flick so attracted him.
He definitely didn't think of her as just another lady with whom he'd like to dally, no different from those who'd gone before. No other lady had made him feel this protective; none other had tapped the surge of feeling she so effortlessly evoked. That, of all things, was what set her apart—that something she made him feel. She could arouse him effortlessly—in itself a shock—but it was that other emotion that came roaring through him simultaneously with the lust that was so new, so addictive.
It was certainly different—something he'd never felt before. It was as if, in her innocence, she could reach into his soul and touch something innocent there as well—something new, bright, something he'd never known existed within him. Something no other had ever reached, ever touched.
He frowned and tried to shift; she immediately gripped him tighter. Demon inwardly sighed—his protective instincts were well and truly engaged; he couldn't break her hold. Perhaps he should try and think of Flick in the same way he thought of the twins.
That was impossible, yet…
Flick the fearless was afraid of mice. He found the thought endearing. Still, as she was truly frightened, the mouse was as good as a dragon. The question was how best to vanquish it—the fear, not the innocent mouse.
Drawing a difficult breath, he grasped Flick's arm and eased her back from him.
"Flick—sweetheart—just look at the mouse. It's a harmless little mouse—it can't eat you."
"It might try."
"Not while I'm here." He brushed his lips to her temple, nudging her face from his chest. "Come—look at it. It's so small."
Warily, she eased her face from his chest; still pressed hard against him, she glanced at the tiny rodent. "That's right. We'll just watch it until it goes."
A silent minute passed as they watched the field mouse, still frozen, whiskers twitching nervously. Demon couldn't move to scare it away, not with Flick clinging so tightly—she wouldn't appreciate him moving closer to the mouse-dragon.
Finally, reassured by their stillness and silence, the mouse started to edge forward. Flick stiffened. Out of the nook the mouse came, hugging the shadow of the hearth's edge. It reached the corner and paused—
A log cracked—sparks spat and showered in the hearth.
The mouse leapt, and dashed back into the cranny, straight to a small gap between two stones. It squeezed its way between and was gone.
"Quick!" Flick released him. "Block the hole!"
Demon sincerely doubted the field mouse would return, but, snatching a small branch from the woodbox, he swiftly bent and jammed it in the hole. "There. Now you're safe." Rising, he turned.
Flick was mere inches away. She'd followed him to look over his shoulder, to check he'd sealed the hole; now she stood, breathing quickly, all but against him once more.
His gaze had risen no further than her breasts, rising and falling in heightened excitement. Only excellent reflexes saved him from reacting—he locked every muscle, gripped every rein. And, slowly, lifted his gaze to her face.
Flick met his gaze and quivered—she told herself it was the remnants of her fright. But the glow in his darkened eyes—the sight of the embers smoldering in the blue—cut off her breathing, leaving her light-headed, swaying with the impulse to return to his arms, not for their safety but for the comfort her senses insisted she would find there.
Eyes wide, lips parted, her cheeks lightly flushed, she literally teetered on the brink of indiscretion—
His lids lowered, steel shutters cutting off the heat in his eyes; an excruciating awareness raced over her skin, from her breasts all the way to her toes. Her nerves flickered; a prickling sensation swept her. Heat washed in its wake.
She dragged in a breath—
He half turned and gestured to the pallet and the chair. "Which do you prefer?"
She blinked, and struggled to calm her rioting senses, to find her voice. She drew in another breath. "I'll take the pallet—you can have the chair."
He nodded; without meeting her eyes, he waved her to her selected seat. Uncertain—of him, of herself, of what shimmered in the air—she went; sitting on the pallet, she shuffled back and drew up her knees so she could balance her boots on the end strut, out of reach of any further rodents.
Hugging her knees, she settled her chin atop them, and stared into the flames.
Demon built up the fire, then subsided into the armchair. He, too, fixed his gaze on the flames, denying the urge to gaze at Flick—to look, to wonder…
That moment of unexpected awareness had very nearly defeated him, nearly overcome the defenses he'd erected between her and himself, between her innocence and his demons. Only her abiding
innocence—the innocent confusion, laced with equally innocent, equally open, curiosity, in her blue eyes—had saved them. Given him the strength to resist. The effort had left him aching, far more intensely than before. And inwardly shaking, as if his strength had been depleted to dangerously low levels.
Which meant he was in trouble—that matters between them had gone much farther than he'd thought. Than he'd been aware of.
Even now, although he'd recognized the danger, at least half his mind was fully engaged in wondering what having an angel beneath him would be like. In fantasizing, as he had so often that afternoon, about how far her delicate blush extended. But his thoughts of her were no longer merely sensual—they were possessively so. Intent, with an underlying, clawing need that he knew no way of easing, bar one. Which, in this case, by extension, meant…
The very thought made him shudder. Marriage was not a word he willingly used, not even in his mind. A rustling had him glancing her way; he watched as, drowsy, her lids heavy, she turned on her side.
Tucking her legs up in her skirts, she settled on the mattress, her gaze still fixed on the fire. Demon forced
his gaze to follow hers to the flames. And tried, very hard, not to think at all. Outside, the drops still pattered down in a steady, soaking rain.
When his mind started to wander, he tried to guess the time, but he had no idea how long they'd taken on the path through the park. An hour? Less?
A soft sigh had him turning, looking—after that, he didn't look away. She was sleeping.
A hand curled beneath her cheek, her long lashes lay still, brown crescents brushing rose-tinted skin. Her lips, slightly parted, sheened softly, their curves the gentlest temptation imaginable. The firelight gilded her jaw and set golden lights in her hair.
Demon looked, and watched—watched the steady swell and ebb of her breathing reflected in the movement of her breasts, tightly encased in blue velvet, watched the ruffle at her throat rise and fall.
He still wasn't sure how she felt about Dillon, but he'd detected no sign of any sensual awareness between them. He'd initially wondered if they were simply too young, too innocent, to have developed that susceptibility, but he now knew Flick, at least, was more than capable of feeling it.
Which brought him to wondering how she saw him…
He watched, and pondered. There was no need to look away.
Chapter 7
« ^ »
He'd seen her face so often in his dreams that he didn't notice when he fell asleep. Her face was his last image before his lids fell—it was the first thing he saw, through the dimness, when he woke.
Frowning, Demon eased his stiff neck and glanced at the fire to see it a pile of cooling ash. He froze,
staring at the grey pile, then whipped around to look at the windows.
The heavy shutters were in place, but a thin shaft of pale light edged each slat.
Swearing beneath his breath, he glanced at Flick, still softly sleeping, an angel in repose. Jaw setting, he rose and strode silently to the door. Opening it confirmed his worst fear—the day had dawned.
Drawing the door wide, Demon hauled in a deep breath. The scent of the wet forest flowed into him; he held it in, then slowly exhaled.
A sound behind him had him turning; silent and still in the doorway, he watched Flick awake.
She didn't simply open her eyes. Instead, consiousness slowly invested her features, enlivening her brows, curving her full lips. Eyes still closed, she hummed softly in her throat. Her breasts swelled as she drew in a deep breath, then she stretched languorously, straightening her spine, arching slightly, then she relaxed and her lashes fluttered.
Then, and only then, did her lids slowly rise.
She looked straight at him, then blinked her eyes wide, but no hint of consternation disturbed her content expression. Instead, her lips softened into a sleepily warm smile.
"Is it morning?"
The husky tones of her voice, still drunk with sleep, flowed over him, about him, slid under his skin and seized him. He couldn't speak, couldn't think—he could only want. Want with a searing desire that shocked him, with an absolute possessive need that nearly floored him. Containing that force, reining it in, holding it back, left him rigid. And shaking.
She was still smiling, still waiting for his answer; realizing that, with him framed in the doorway with all light coming from outside, she couldn't see his passion-blank expression, or anything else, he summoned every last ounce of his strength and managed to utter, "Almost."
His tone was harsh and uneven; he didn't wait to see her reaction but turned away to ensure she got no chance to study him further, to see the evidence of that rabid desire. Ostensibly surveying the clearing, he cleared his throat. "I'll get the horses saddled."
With that, he escaped.
Of course, within a few minutes, she came to help.
Ivan was grumpy and fractious; Demon made that his excuse for barely glancing Flick's way. He felt her puzzled gaze; jaw clenched, he ignored it. He didn't even dare help her saddle Jessamy—if she put her hand on his thigh this morning, he couldn't guarantee his reaction—or rather, his inaction. As soon as he had Ivan's girths tight, he grabbed his bridle and led the restless stallion out of the tight space.
The charcoal makers' hut had been constructed in that particular clearing because it was the natural confluence of four paths through the park. One was the path they'd travelled last night, another led onward to the manor. A third struck across to join the eastern bridle path Flick usually used to reach the ruined cottage and his farm. Halting Ivan in the middle of the clearing, Demon glanced toward the opening of the fourth path, leading in from a small country lane to the west.
To see Hugh Dunstable, the General's middle-aged steward, ambling up through the morning.
Demon froze.
Dunstable had already seen him; smiling, he raised his hand to his hat. "Ah! 'Morning, sir."
Demon nodded easily, urbanely, but he couldn't for the life of him summon a smile. His mind raced while Dunstable's cob plodded closer, ever closer.
" 'Spect you got caught in last night's squall." Drawing rein beside him, Dunstable beamed down at him. "No doubt but it was heavy. Got caught out myself, it came up so quick. I'd been off to the Carters, playing a hand of whist—I was on my way back when it hit. I was drenched by the time I reached home."
"As you say." Demon glanced surreptitiously at the shadowed stable. "It was too heavy to risk riding on." Dunstable snorted. "On these paths? You'd have risked that fine beast."
The fine beast chose that moment to snort, paw and prance, heavily shouldering Dunstable's cob. Demon swore and drew in Ivan's reins. Settling his placid cob, Dunstable chuckled. "Aye—riding him must be an adventure. Not hard to see how you came by your name."
It wasn't his expertise in riding high-bred horses that had earned him his nickname, but Demon let the comment pass; he was too busy praying.
Much good it did him. His fervent appeal to the highest authority that Flick would have the sense to remain out of sight was refused; she appeared at that instant, smiling sunnily up at Dunstable as she led Jessamy out.
"Good morning, Mr. Dunstable."
She glanced up at the sky, and so failed to notice the expression on Dunstable's face—sheer shock to begin with, rapidly transmuting into horror, momentarily displaced by speculation, only to revert to righteous horror again.
By the time Flick looked down and cheerily remarked, "And a fine morning it seems to be," Dunstable's features were set in stone, his expression impassive. He mumbled an incoherent reply to Flick; the look in his eyes when he shifted his gaze to Demon was coldly censorious.
Demon reacted in the only way he could—with a high hand. Cool arrogance in his eyes, he met Dunstable's gaze levelly; his expression hard, he raised a challenging brow.
Dunstable, only one step up from a servant, albeit an old and trusted one, was at a loss to know how to respond. Demon regretted putting the old man in his place, but every instinct he possessed refused to let anyone even imagine any ill—any indiscretion—of Flick.
To his relief, she, busy adjusting her stirrups, missed their exchange entirely.
"It looks like the clouds have blown away. I dare say it'll be quite warm by lunchtime." She straightened and glanced around for a log to use as a mounting block.
Demon dropped his reins and crossed to her side; closing his hands about her waist, he lifted her, setting her lightly on Jessamy's back.
That got her attention; she sucked in a breath and blinked at him, then quickly rearranged her legs and her skirts. "Thank you."
Lifting her chin, she fixed her blue eyes on Dunstable. "I can't believe how overgrown the park has become—we must get Hendricks to cut back rather more. Why, you can barely see the sky, even here, even on such a wonderful morning. I rather think—"
She chattered blithely on, unaware that, with her cheeks still delicately flushed from sleep, her hair tousled and her velvet skirts badly crushed, she presented a perfect picture of a youthful damsel who had recently engaged in an energetic morning romp.
Predictably, she led the way along the path to the manor.
Dunstable followed close behind. To give him his due, while remaining stony-faced, he managed to make the appropriate noises whenever Flick paused in her paean to the morning.
Hands on his hips, Demon watched them amble off, then exhaled through his teeth. Returning to the hut, he secured the door, then mounted Ivan. And paused.
For one long moment, he stared down the path at Flick's and Dunstable's backs. Then, lips thinning, jaw firming, he shook Ivan's reins. And followed.
By the time their party reached Hillgate End, Demon had a firm grip on the situation. There was no doubt that he'd compromised Flick, albeit entirely innocently.
He'd caught up with her and Dunstable, only to hear her gaily state that they'd taken shelter soon after the rain had started. So Dunstable now knew that they'd been at the hut, together and alone, from the dead of night to dawn. Of course, focused on protecting Dillon, Flick had said not a word about what had occasioned her presence, in company with a rake, deep in the park in the middle of the night.
It was no great feat to imagine what Dunstable was thinking. Indeed, it was difficult to conceive of a more damning scenario for a young, unmarried gentlewoman than being discovered at dawn leaving an evening rendezvous in company with a rake of the first order.
Demon had had ample time to consider every facet of their night alone, every nuance, every likely repercussion—their journey to the manor had been slow, the ground very wet, soft beneath their horses' hooves. They'd plodded along, Flick in the lead, followed by Dunstable, with him in the rear. In brooding silence, he'd debated their options—not many—and what that therefore meant, while Flick had entertained Dunstable with her sunny patter.
She'd described the small stable, and exclaimed over the fact that Jessamy and Ivan had been quite dry; she'd continually paused to declaim the wonders of the morning. She had not, however, mentioned the mouse—on consideration, remembering the long moments she'd spent in his arms, he'd decided that was just as well.
God only knew what picture she might paint for Dunstable if she started on that topic. Finally, they'd reached the manor's grounds; minutes later, they trotted into the stable yard.
Stifling a huge sigh of relief, her mind full of the wonders of a hot bath, Flick reined in. She untangled her legs and skirts from her sidesaddle; she was about to slide to the ground when Demon appeared beside her. He reached for her; his hands closed about her waist, then he lifted her down, and set her on her feet before him.
Quickly catching her breath—she was almost used to the effect of his touch, to the sudden seizing of her lungs—she beamed a sunny smile up at him, and held out her hand. "Thank you so much for taking pity on me last night and seeing me home. I'm really very grateful."
He looked at her—she could read nothing in his eyes, in his oddly set expression. He took her hand, but instead of squeezing it and letting go, he wrapped his fingers about hers and turned. "I'll walk you to the house."
Flick stared at him—at his back. She would have tugged and argued, but Dunstable, having dismounted more slowly, was hovering. Demon started walking—stalking; throwing a bright smile over her shoulder at Dunstable, she had to hurry to keep up.
Striding purposefully, Demon headed up the gravel path, ducking under the wisteria to pass beneath the old trees and cut across the lawn to the terrace. He didn't set her hand on his arm and stroll; instead, he kept his hand locked about hers and towed her along.
Flick tried an outraged glare, but he refused to even notice. His expression was set, determined. Determined on what she had no idea.
Glancing back, she saw Dunstable, watching from beneath the stable arch. She flashed him a reassuring smile and wondered what devil had possessed Demon.
He didn't stop until they were on the terrace, before the open morning room windows. Releasing her, he gestured her inside; with a speaking glance, she stepped over the threshold. Swinging her heavy skirts, she faced him as he followed her into the room. "Why aren't you heading off to the Heath? We have to watch Bletchley."
Halting in front of her, he looked down at her and frowned. "Gillies and the others will keep watching until I arrive to take over. At present, I have matters of greater moment to settle."
She blinked. "You do?"
His jaw set ominously. "I need to speak with the General."
Flick felt her eyes, locked on his, widen. "What about?" She had no idea why, but she was starting to feel uneasy.
Demon saw her question—her lack of understanding—etched in her eyes. Inwardly, he cursed. "I need to talk to him about our current situation."
"Situation? What situation?"
Jaw clenching, he went to step around her; quick as a flash, she blocked his way. "What are you talking about?"
He caught her eye and frowned even more. "I'm talking about the past night, which we spent together, alone." He gave the last two words particular weight; comprehension dawned in her eyes.
Then she blinked and frowned at him. "So?" Her gaze raced over his face. "Nothing—nothing
indiscreet—happened."
"No," he agreed, his voice tight, controlled, "but only you and I know that. All society will see is that the
potential for indiscretion was present, and that, in society's eyes, is all that counts."
The sound she made was elementally dismissive. His eyes locked on hers, Demon knew that if she questioned the potential, denied it had existed, he'd wring her neck.
She hovered on the brink—he saw it in her eyes. But, after studying his expression, she swung
onto a different tack. "But no one knows. Well"—she waved—"only Dunstable, and he didn't imagine anything scandalous had happened."
Stunned, he stared at her. "Tell me, is Dunstable always so stony-faced?" She grimaced. "Well, he is rather taciturn. I always do most of the talking."
"If you'd done a little more looking this morning, you'd have seen he was shocked to his toes." Again, he went to step past her; again, she blocked his way.
"What are you going to do?"
He didn't want to lay hands on her—didn't want to risk it in his present state. He pinned her with a glare. "I am going to speak to the General, and explain to him exactly what occurred."
"You're not going to tell him about Dillon?"
"No. I'll simply say I came upon you riding alone through my fields late last night, and insisted on escorting you home." He took a step toward her; to keep his face in clear view, she backed away. "I'll leave it to you to explain what you were doing in your saddle at midnight."
She blinked; he pressed his advantage and took another step. She gave ground without noticing. Her eyes, now wide, flicked up to his; before she could interrupt, he stated, "The General will see instantly that, regardless of what truly transpired at the cottage, all society—certainly every matron of standing in Newmarket—will believe you and I spent the best part of the night heating a single pallet in the charcoal makers' hut."
A light blush tinged her cheeks; her gaze flickered, then steadied. Abruptly, she stood her ground. "That's ridiculous." The statement was emphatic. "You didn't lay a finger…" Her words trailed away; her gaze blanked.
"On you?" Demon grinned tightly. "Not one—all ten." He trapped her gaze as she refocused. "Can you deny you were in my arms?"
Her lips compressed, her expression turned mutinous, her chin set like rock. Her eyes—those usually soft orbs—positively flared. "That was because of a mouse!"
"The cause is irrelevant. As far as society's concerned, having spent the night alone with me, your virtue and reputation are in question. The accepted code of behavior decrees I offer you the protection of my name."
Flick stared at him, then determinedly shook her head. "No." He looked down at her, and coolly raised his brows. "No?"
"No, that's positively stupid." Flinging her hands in the air, she swung away. "You're blowing this up out of all proportion. Society's not going to say anything because they'll know nothing about it. Dunstable won't talk." Swinging about, she paced back. "I'll see him and explain—" Lifting her head, she saw Demon almost at the door. "No! Wait!"
She raced across the room. She would have caught him, but he turned and caught her instead. His hands about her upper arms, he held her away from him. And glared at her.
"There's no point arguing—I'm going to see the General."
His determination was blazoned in his eyes; Flick couldn't mistake it. Her mind raced; she licked her lips. "He'll be at breakfast." Dragging her gaze from his, she sent it skimming down, over his rumpled clothes.
He looked down, too, then frowned; extending one leg, he scowled at the muddy streaks marring his Hessians. And swore. Releasing her, he took stock of his disreputable state. "I can't go in to see him like this."
Flick kept her eyes wide and innocent, and held her tongue. Even when—especially when—his gaze, hard and blue, returned to her face.
After a moment, lips compressed, he nodded. "I'll go home and change—then I'll be back." Eyes narrowing, he held her gaze. "And then we can discuss this fully—with the General."
She merely raised her brows and maintained a strategic silence.
He hesitated, looking into her eyes, then, with a curt nod, turned and stalked out.
Flick watched him go, drifting back to the French doors to watch him stride across the lawn. Only when he'd disappeared into the shadows of the trees did she turn back into the room—grit her teeth, clench her fists, and give vent to a frustrated scream.
"He's impossible! This is impossible." After a moment, her eyes darkened. "He's out of his mind." With that, she stalked off to clear the matter up.
Two hours later, Demon drove his bays up the drive of Hillgate End. Under his expert guidance, the curricle came to a flourishing halt immediately before the steps. Handing the reins to the groom who came running, he stepped down. Drawing off his gloves, he strode to the house.
He was perfectly attired in a blue morning coat and ivory breeches, ivory cravat and shirt, with an elegantly restrained blue-and-black-striped waistcoat. His Hessians, another pair, gleamed. His appearance was precisely as he considered it should be, given his errand.
Jacobs opened the door to his knock. Demon returned his greeting with a nod and headed straight for the library. He was somewhat surprised to gain the door without encountering Flick; he'd expected some last-ditch effort on her part to interfere with his plans—his immolation on the altar of the right and proper.
Turning the handle, he opened the door and entered, swiftly scanning the long room for any sign of an angel.
She wasn't there.
The General was, seated as usual at his desk, and sunk behind a huge tome. He looked up as Demon closed the door—and smiled warmly, delightedly.
Demon strolled nearer and saw his mentor's eyes twinkling. Inwardly, he cursed.
The General held up a hand before he could speak. "I know," he declared, "all about it."
Demon came to a dead halt facing the desk. "Flick." His tone was flat. His left hand slowly clenched.
"Eh? Oh, yes—Felicity." The General grinned and leaned back in his chair, waving him to the chair beside the desk. Although Demon moved in that direction, he couldn't sit—he prowled to the window beyond.
The General chuckled. "You needn't worry. A potential imbroglio it might have been, but Felicity took the bit between her teeth and sorted it all out."
"I see." His features under rigid control, his expression utterly bland, Demon turned his head and raised a brow. "How very helpful of her." Even to him, his tones sounded steely. "How did she manage it?"
"Well—;' If the General was aware of his tension, he didn't show it; he pushed his chair back the better to beam up at him. "She came straightaway to me, of course, and explained what happened—how she'd felt the need of some air and so gone riding late last night, and forgot the time, and wound up past your farm." The General's smug expression clouded. "Have to say, m'boy, I'm not at all sanguine about her riding off like that alone, but she's promised me she won't do it again." His wide smile returning, he looked up. "One good thing about this little fright she's had, what?"
Demon said nothing; the General grinned and continued, "Luckily, this time, you saw her—very good of you to insist on escorting her home."
"It seemed the least I could do." Especially as it had been him she'd ridden out to see.
"Silly of her to take that old path—Hendricks gave up on it years ago. As for the rain—I can't tell you how relieved I am that you were with her. Goodness knows, she's a reliable miss, but still, she's young, and inclined to press on regardless. Your decision to stop at the hut until the rain passed was unquestionably correct. After that, of course, all the rest followed—no one's fault it happened as it did. Hardly surprising you both fell asleep."
The General looked up and frowned—as severely as he ever did—at him. "And don't think you have to reassure me that nothing happened. I know you—known you from a boy. I know nothing untoward occurred. I know my Felicity would be safe with you."
The unexpected fierceness in the General's eyes held him silent; with a satisfied nod, the General sat back.
"Yes, and she told me about the mouse, too. She's petrified of the silly things—always has been. Just what I'd have expected—you had the sensitivity not to laugh at her, but to soothe her. Nothing scandalous there."
Glancing at his desk, the General frowned. "Where were we? Ah, yes. Dunstable. Him coming across you this morning was neither here nor there—he's an old friend and lucidly no gabblemonger. Flick insisted on speaking with him after she'd seen me, and he dropped by to see me half an hour ago. Just to reassure me that he would never say a word to harm our Felicity." Grinning, the General glanced up. "Dunstable also asked me to convey his apologies to you for jumping to unwarranted conclusions."
Demon met the General's eye. Flick had plugged every hole, countered every argument.
"So," the General said, his tone one of conclusion, "I hope you can see that I'm perfectly convinced there's no reason for any sacrifice on your part. As you haven't in any way harmed Felicity's reputation, there's absolutely no reason you need offer for her, is there?"
Demon held his gaze, but didn't answer; the General smiled.
"It was all perfectly innocent—and now we'll say nothing more about it, what?" He hauled his tome back into position before him. "Now tell me. I've just been checking these offshoots of the Barbary Arab. What have you heard about this colt, Enderby?"
As if in compensation, the General invited him to lunch. Demon accepted—then, offering to carry
word of his joining the table to Jacobs, left the General to his records.
Shutting the library door, Demon paused in the quiet of the corridor, trying, yet again, to regain a sense of equilibrium. He understood what had happened; rationally, logically, he knew all was well. Unfortunately, he didn't feel it. He felt… deprived.
As if a long-desired object of paramount importance had slipped—been whisked—from his grasp, just as he was about to close his hand.
Frowning, he went to find Jacobs.
He discovered him in the butler's pantry; his message delivered, Demon returned to the front hall and, without a heartbeat's pause, set out to hunt down Flick. Feeling very much like a hungry leopard, he prowled through the downstairs rooms. She would be somewhere close, he was sure, just in case he had raised some quibble she hadn't foreseen and the General had sent for her.
He found her in the garden hall.
She was snipping the stems of flowers and slipping them into a vase. Humming, she tilted her head this way and that, studying her creation. Demon watched her for a full minute, taking in her crisp, cambric morning gown, noting her hair, newly brushed, a gilded frame about her face.
After drinking his fill, he quit the doorway; on silent feet, he approached her.
Flick snipped the stem of a cornflower and considered how best to place it. She held it up, her hand hovering—
Long fingers plucked the bloom from her grasp.
She gasped, but even before her gaze collided with his, she knew who stood beside her. She knew his touch—knew the sense of strength he projected. "Have you seen the General?" she gabbled, frantically trying to slow her racing heart.
"Hmm." Eyes half-closed, he lazily angled the stem this way, then that, then slid it home into the vase. He surveyed his handiwork, then, apparently satisfied, turned to her. "I did see him, yes."
His lazy, indolent—sleepy—expression deceived her not at all; beneath his heavy lids, his eyes were sharp, his gaze incisive. She lifted her chin and picked up the garden shears. "I told you there was no need for any drama."
His lips lifted in a slight smile. "So you did."
Flick stifled a sniff at his tone; she had, indeed, expected his thanks, once he'd had time to consider, to realize what his offer would have meant. She supposed he would marry sometime, but he was only thirty-one, and he definitely didn't want to marry her.
But he made no further comment. Instead, he lounged, shoulders propped against the wall, and, with the same lazy, unnerving air, watched her place her flowers. As the silence stretched, it occurred to her that perhaps he thought she didn't fully appreciate the sacrifice he'd been prepared to make. "It's not that I'm not grateful." She kept her gaze firmly fixed on her blooms.
Her comment succeeded in dissipating a little of his indolence. She felt the sudden focusing of his attention.
"Grateful?"
She continued to snip and set. "For your kind offer to save my reputation. I appreciate it would have entailed a considerable sacrifice on your part—thankfully, there was no need."
His gaze locked on her profile, Demon fought to remain where he was—and not haul her into his arms and kiss her, just to shut her up. "Sacrifice? Actually, I hadn't viewed taking you to wife in quite that light."
"Hadn't you?" She blinked at him in patent surprise, then smiled and turned back to her flowers. "I dare say you would have, once you'd stopped to think the idea through."
Demon simply stared at her. He'd never felt so… dismissed in his life. "Luckily, there was no reason for worry. I did tell you so."
Luckily for her, what next he might have said, and done, neither of them were destined to learn; Jacobs appeared in the doorway with the information that lunch was awaiting them in the dining parlor.
Flick led the way. Demon no longer expected anything else; he prowled just behind her, making no effort to fully catch up—in his present mood, it was probably wisest if she remained just out of reach.
Lunch was not a success.
Flick grew increasingly impatient with their guest as the meal progressed. He contributed nothing to the conversation beyond answering questions the General threw his way. Instead, broodingly intent, he watched her, as if studying some incomprehensible being of whom he nevertheless disapproved, leaving her to chatter with increasingly feigned brightness until her head ached.
By the time the meal ended and they pushed back their chairs, she was ready to snap at him—if he deigned to give her the chance.
"Well, m'boy—let me know if you detect any weakness in those horses." The General shook hands with Demon, then smiled at Flick. "Why don't you see Demon to the stable, m'dear? It's a lovely day out there." With his usual benign smile, the General waved at the French doors, open to the terrace. "Enjoy the fine weather while you may."
Across the table, Flick met Demon's level gaze. The last thing she wanted to do was, all sweet comfort, accompany him to the stable—she was annoyed with him, at the way he was behaving. It was as if he'd been denied something he wanted, for heaven's sake. He was sulking! All because things hadn't gone as he'd planned—because she'd rescripted his grand gesture for him, and he hadn't got to play the role he'd expected. That of heroic sacrifice.
Drawing a deep breath, she held it; lips compressed, she held his gaze challengingly. Very nearly belligerently.
He merely raised one brow—even more challengingly, more defiantly; stepping back, he gestured to the terrace.
Flick could almost hear the gauntlet thud down on the table between them.
Lifting her head, she stepped around the table, preceding him out the doors, down the steps and across the lawn. Pacing briskly, irritatedly, she was halfway across the lawn before she realized he wasn't with her.
Abruptly stopping, she glanced back. He was strolling slowly, leisurely, exceedingly unhurriedly, in her distant wake. Gritting her teeth, she waited, and waited, for him to catch up. The instant he did, she turned and, elevating her nose to an angle worthy of her ire, she matched her pace to his, strolling at crawling pace just ahead of him.
Two paces later, a warm flush washed over her nape, exposed above her neckline. The odd sensation drifted lower, spreading across her shoulders, then sliding down her spine. It lingered in the hollow of her waist, then, at a telling pace, washed lower, and yet lower—
She caught her breath and stopped to brush an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. The instant Demon drew level with her, she straightened and stepped out—at his side—praying her fading blush was no longer visible.
Biting her tongue against all manner of heated phrases, she preserved a tense silence. He strolled calmly beside her and gave her not one opening to snipe at him.
The grooms saw them as they emerged from beneath the wisteria, and they ran to get his bays.
Halting at the entrance to the stable yard, Flick's patience came to an end. "I can't see why you're not grateful," she hissed. She kept her gaze on the grooms as they fussed with his horses.
"Can't you? Perhaps that's the problem." "There isn't any problem."
"Permit me to disagree." He paused, then added, "Aside from anything else, you're glaring." She whirled and faced him. "I'm glaring at you."
"So I noticed."
"You are impossible!" "Me?"
For an instant, his blue eyes blinked wide—she could actually imagine he was sincere in his surprise. Swiftly, his eyes searched hers; his gaze sharpened. "Tell me," he murmured, glancing at the lads harnessing the bays, "do you think to marry Dillon eventually?"
"Dillon?" She stared at him, unmindful of the fact that her mouth had fallen open. "Marry Dillon? You are out of your mind. As if I'd marry such a… a… nobody—an inconsequential boy. A man of no real substance. A nincompoop! A—"
"All right—forget I asked."
"For your information, I have no intention of marrying any gentleman unless I want to. I will certainly not marry simply because of some nonsensical social stricture." Her voice cracked with the effort of screaming in whispers. She drew breath and forged on, "And as for your offer—well, you might as well say I must marry because of a mouse!"
The bays came trotting up, led by an eager groom. Tersely, Demon nodded his thanks and took the reins. Climbing to the box seat, he sat and looked at her.
Eyes kindling, she tartly remarked, "I can't see why you aren't grateful—you know perfectly well you don't want to marry me."
He looked down at her, his expression like stone, his eyes hard as blue diamonds. He held her defiant gaze, then his chest swelled.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his diction frighteningly precise, "what I want at all."
He clicked the reins; the bays surged. He swept out of the stable yard and bowled away down the drive.
Chapter 8
« ^ »
"I wondered if you'd care for a drive?"
Gasping, Flick whirled; the large vase she was carrying shook, slipped— Demon reached out and steadied it; his fingers brushed hers.
Flick trembled. She drew her hands away, leaving him holding the vase. Standing in the sunshine streaming through the gallery windows, she stared at him, disjointed phrases tangling on her tongue. She wanted to rail at him for creeping up on her—again. She wanted to scowl or at least frown—she hadn't forgiven him for his behavior of yesterday.
She wanted to ask what he'd meant by his parting comment. "A drive?" Her head was still whirling. He shrugged, his lids veiling his eyes. "Just a tool about the lanes for half an hour or so."
She drew in a steadying breath. Twenty-four hours had passed since he'd driven away—twenty-four hours in which she'd thought of little else but him. Swinging to the windows,
she looked out on another glorious spring day. Simultaneously, she felt the warm flush she was growing accustomed to slide down her back.
"The breeze is warm. You won't need a spencer."
Just as well; she didn't have one that wouldn't look hideous with this gown—white mull muslin sprinkled with tiny gold and purple daisies. Flick nodded, determination filling her. "A drive would be very nice."
She turned to face him—he was still holding the vase. "Where do you want this?"
She gestured down the gallery. "If you'll put it on the table at the end, I'll get my parasol and meet you in the hall."
She didn't wait for his nod but headed for her room—her steps eager, her heart lighter, even if she'd yet to meet his eyes directly. They had to get past this silly hitch in their friendship, over the hurdle of yesterday—a drive would be a good start.
A good start to what she was no longer sure by the time Demon turned his bays back up the manor drive. She'd imagined they'd simply slide back to their earlier, easy friendship—she'd expected, after the initial, inevitable stiffness evaporated, to once again encounter the teasing light she'd so often seen in his blue eyes.
Instead…
Angling her parasol, she studied his face as he tooled the curricle up the drive. Shadows from the enclosing trees wreathed his features, but they did nothing to soften the patriarchal lines of his nose and chin. His was an angular face, high cheekbones shadowing the long planes of his cheeks, a broad forehead above large eyes. A hard face, its austerity seductively flavored by the frankly sensual line of his thin lips, the brooding languor of his heavy lids.
She had never really looked, not so deeply. His had been the face of a man she'd thought she'd known. She was no longer so sure of that.
Realigning her parasol, she looked ahead as they swept out of the trees and bowled along beside the lawns. The end of the drive was in sight, and she'd yet to understand why his teasing looks had been replaced by glances much more direct, much more unnerving. Much more intent. She'd yet to determine where he thought they were heading. Only then could she decide whether she agreed with him or not.
Demon sent the bays into a tight curve so that the curricle fetched up neatly before the steps. He tied off the reins and stepped down, hiding his satisfied smile, along with his awareness of the puzzled looks Flick continued to direct his way.
Strolling around the carriage, he helped her down; releasing her hand, he strolled beside her up the steps. Glancing at her, he met her blue gaze, his expression mild and urbane. "If you would, tell the General that I'm checking into those horses he mentioned yesterday. I'll call on him tomorrow."
She searched his eyes, then nodded. "Yes, of course." He smiled easily. "I hope you enjoyed our drive." "Oh—yes. It was very pleasant. Thank you."
His smile deepened. "Your enjoyment is all the thanks I need." Reaching beyond her, he jangled the doorbell. Releasing it, he held her gaze for an instant, then bowed, exquisitely correct. "I'll leave you then. Good-bye."
He turned and strolled down the steps, her hesitant farewell drifting after him. The front door opened as he climbed into the curricle and took up the reins; as he wheeled his team, he glimpsed her, parasol still open, standing on the steps watching him drive away.
His lips curved. It wasn't difficult to envision the look on her face—the puzzled frown in her big blue eyes. Smiling more definitely, he whipped up his horses and headed for the Heath.
He returned to the manor at eleven o'clock the next morning, ostensibly to see the General.
Jacobs opened the door to him; Demon crossed the threshold to discover a sermon in progress. Fittingly, it was being delivered by the vicar's wife, Mrs. Pemberton, a trenchantly good-hearted lady. Her venue was the front hall, her audience Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs, who, Demon noted, had left the front door wide open. He deduced Mrs. Pemberton was on the point of departure.
His appearance proved a distraction, making Mrs. Pemberton lose her thread. Then she recognized him and regrouped. "Mr. Cynster! Perfect!"
Demon suppressed a wince.
Mrs. Pemberton bustled up. "I've just been asking after the General—I understand he's presently
'not to be disturbed.' " Casting a severe glance at Fogarty, Mrs. Pemberton laid a hand on Demon's sleeve. "I have a very important message for him—I would take it most kindly if you would convey it to him when next you have the pleasure of seeing him."
Mrs. Pemberton was no fool. Taking the hand she offered, Demon shook it. "Only too pleased, ma'am." He could hardly refuse.
"Excellent. Now my point is this—" She fixed her eye on Fogarty. "Thank you—I won't need to disturb you further, Mrs. Fogarty."
Fogarty sent a meaningful look Demon's way, then curtsied and withdrew.
Turning, Mrs. Pemberton fixed her sights on Jacobs. "Mr. Cynster will see me to the door. Please convey my compliments to Miss Parteger when she comes in."
Jacobs stiffened but had to bow, close the door, and withdraw, too.
Mrs. Pemberton sighed and met Demon's eye. "I know they're only trying to protect the General, but really! He can't simply go to ground in his library all the time—not when he's the guardian of a young lady."
Elegantly, Demon gestured to the padded seat lining the alcove at the rear of the hall. Mrs. Pemberton consented to sit. Folding her hands over her reticule, she fixed her gaze on his face as he sat alongside her.
"My purpose in calling is to bring the General to an understanding of his duties in relation to Miss Parteger. It's all gone reasonably well until now, but she's reached an age where he really needs to take a more active role."
Demon raised his brows innocently, encouragingly.
Mrs. Pemberton pursed her lips. "That girl must be nineteen if she's a day, and she barely sets foot outside this house, at least not in a social sense. We—the ladies of the district—have done all we can in sending invitations to Hillgate End, but, thus far, the General has refused to bestir himself." Mrs. Pemberton's double chins firmed. "I'm afraid that's not good enough. It would be a crying shame if that lovely girl is left to molder into an old maid purely because the General won't shake himself out of his library and properly perform his duties as a guardian."
"Hmm," Demon replied, entirely noncommittal.
"I particularly wished to speak with him because I'm hosting a small dance at the vicarage—just for the local young people—three evenings from now. We—the other ladies and I—think it absolutely vital that the General puts more effort into taking Miss Parteger about. How else will the poor girl ever find a husband?"
Spreading her hands, she appealed to Demon; luckily, she didn't expect a reply.
"The dance at the vicarage will be just the way to start—not too many people to overwhelm the child. Will you carry my message to the General? And, perhaps, if you could put the argument that he really needs to pay more attention to Miss Parteger's future?"
Demon met her gaze, then nodded decisively. "I'll see what I can do."
"Good!" Mrs. Pemberton beamed as Demon walked her to the door. "I'll be off, then. If you see her, do
mention to Miss Parteger that I called."
Demon inclined his head as Mrs. Pemberton took her leave, considering her parting words. He would, he decided, tell Miss Parteger she'd called, but not immediately.
Turning, he sauntered toward the library.
Half an hour later, he found Flick in the back parlor. She was ensconced amid the cushions on the settee, her legs curled under her skirts, a dish of shelled nuts on a side table beside her. She was reading a book, utterly absorbed. He watched as, without taking her eyes from the page, she reached out and picked up a nut; without missing a word, she brought the nut to her lips and popped it into her mouth, continuing to read as she crunched.
With Mrs. Pemberton's sermon ringing in his head, he scanned the round blue gown presently concealing Miss Parteger's charms. While her wardrobe would not qualify as "all the crack," there was, to his mind, nothing whatever amiss with her simple gowns. Their very simplicity enhanced, underscored and emphasized the beauty of the body within.
Which, he'd decided, was all definitely to his taste. The body, the beauty, and her simple gowns.
Pushing away from the doorframe, he strolled into the room.
Flick looked up with a start. "Oh! Hello." She started to smile one of her innocently welcoming smiles, but as he halted before her, full awareness struck, and the tenor of her greeting changed. She still smiled in welcome, but her eyes were watchful, her smile more controlled.
He returned the gesture easily, inwardly pleased that she was, at long last, starting to see him differently. "I've finished talking horses with the General. He invited me to lunch and I've accepted. It's lovely outside—I wondered if you'd care to stroll until the gong?"
With him there, large as life, asking, she really had very little choice. While one part of Flick's mind acidly noted that fact, another part was rejoicing, eager to further explore their new, oddly thrilling,
not-quite-safe interaction. She didn't understand it—she'd yet to determine where he thought he was headed. But she wanted to know. "Yes—by all means, let's stroll."
She gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. Minutes later, they were on the lawn, ambling side by side.
"Has anything happened with Bletchley?"
Demon shook his head. "All he's done is make tentative overtures toward a number of jockeys." "Nothing else?"
Again he shook his head. "They seem to be concentrating on the Craven meeting, and that's still weeks away" I suspect the syndicate will have given Bletchley time to make the arrangements—it's possible his masters won't put in an appearance down here just yet."
"You think they'll leave it until closer to the meeting to check on Bletchley's success?"
"Closer, but not too close. It takes time to put all the players in place to milk the maximum return from a fix."
"Hmm." Pondering that fact, and the likelihood that Dillon would have to remain in the ruined cottage for some weeks yet, Flick frowned into the distance.
"Have you ever been to London?"
"London?" She blinked. "Only when I stayed with my aunt just after my parents died. I was only there for a few weeks, I think."
"I confess myself amazed that you've never succumbed to the urge to cut a dash in the capital."
She turned her head and studied him; to her surprise, he wasn't teasing—his gaze was steady, his expression open—well, as open as it ever was. "I…" She considered, then shrugged. "I've never really thought of it. It's all so far away and unknown. Indeed"—she raised her brows—"I'm not even sure what 'cutting a dash' entails."
Demon grinned. "Being noticed by society due to one's dress, or exploits." "Or conquests?"
His smile deepened. "That, too."
"Ah, well. That explains my disinterest, then. I'm not particularly interested in any of those things."
Demon couldn't restrain his smile. "A young lady uninterested in dresses and conquests—my dear, you'll break the matchmakers' hearts."
Her expression as she shrugged said she cared not a whit.
"But," he continued, "I'm surprised you don't like dancing—most ladies who enjoy riding also enjoy a turn about the dance floor."
She grimaced. "I haven't spent much time dancing. There aren't a lot of balls around here, you know."
"But there are the usual dances. I vaguely remember my great-aunt prodding me to attend, a few many years ago."
"Well, yes—there are dances and the odd ball as one might expect. We do get cards periodically. But the General is always so busy."
"Does he even see the cards?"
Flick glanced up, but she could read nothing in his very blue eyes. Still… she tilted her chin. "I deal with his correspondence. There's no point bothering him with such invitations—he's never attended such affairs."
"Hmm." Demon glanced at her face—what he could see beneath her golden halo. Without warning, he reached for her hand; stepping swiftly, he raised it and twirled her, unsurprised that, startled though she was, she reacted smoothly, graceful and surefooted, innately responsive.
He met her wide eyes as she slowed to a halt, her billowing skirts subsiding. "I really think," he murmured, lowering her hand, "that you'll enjoy dancing."
Flick hid a frown and wondered if that remark was intended to be cryptic. Before she could pursue it, the gong for lunch echoed over the lawn.
Demon offered his arm. "Shall we join the General?"
They did. Sitting at the dining table with the General to her right and Demon opposite was a familiar, comfortable situation. Flick relaxed; her nerves, in recent times slightly tense whenever Demon was near, eased. Chatting with her usual effervescence, she felt subtlely more in control.
Until the General laid down his fork and fixed her with a direct look. "Mrs. Pemberton called this morning."
"Oh?" Flick knew she had—that was why she'd taken refuge in the back parlor. But she was genuinely surprised that the General knew—she, Foggy and Jacobs had a long standing agreement to ensure the local matrons didn't bother him with their demands.
She scanned the room, but Jacobs had withdrawn. Had Mrs. Pemberton bullied her way past their defenses?
"Hmm," the General went on. "Seems she's giving a dance for the local young people. Us older folk are allowed to come and watch." He caught Flick's startled eye. "I rather think we should attend, don't you?"
Flick didn't—she foresaw all sorts of complications. Including the likelihood of the General learning just how many similar invitations he'd refused in recent times. She glanced at Demon, and was struck by inspiration. "I really don't have anything to wear."
The General chuckled. "I thought you might say that, so I had a word with Mrs. Fogarty—she tells me there's a very good dressmaker in the High Street. She'll go with you tomorrow and see about a dress."
"Oh." Flick blinked. The General was smiling at her, a hopeful question in his eyes. "Er… thank you."
Delighted, he patted her hand. "I'm quite looking forward to the outing—haven't been about in years, it seems. Used to enjoy it when Margery was alive. Now I'm too old to dance myself, I'm looking forward to sitting and watching you take to the floor."
Flick stared at him; guilt at having deprived him of innocent enjoyment for years tickled at her mind—but she couldn't quite believe it. He didn't like socializing—he'd given his opinion on the mesdames of the district, and their entertainments, often enough. She couldn't understand what had got into his head. "But…" She grabbed her last straw. "I don't know any of the local gentlemen well enough to stand up with them."
"Oh, you won't have to worry about that. Demon here has offered to accompany us—he'll stand up with you, teach you a few steps, and all that. Just what you need."
Flick didn't think so. Blank-faced, she looked at Demon. He met her gaze, the quality of the smile in his eyes stating louder than words that it was he who had got into the General's head.
Despite the fact that his eyes were blue, Flick saw red. But he had her trussed up tight—no matter how she wriggled, the General stood firm. And as it quickly became clear he was, beneath his placid exterior, gruffly worried about her lack of social experience, she found herself acquiescing with a sweetness entirely out of step with her temper.
Her tormentor, of course, beat a strategic retreat once he'd secured his goal. Flick gritted her teeth—she would now have to learn to dance—with him. Excusing himself on the grounds that he wanted to be early to the Heath for afternoon stables, he left them at the table.
All her steel went out of her once he'd gone. She chatted easily with the General, while making a very large, very red mental note to tell his protege just what she thought of his maneuvering, especially his fostering of the General's worry, the instant she next had a moment alone with him.
That moment did not occur until they were standing by the side of the vicarage drawing room, with every eye in the room upon them. Flick stood, head up, hands lightly clasped, beside the General's chair.
Demon, large, lean and hideously elegant, stood immediately by her side.
The stares directed her way, while disconcerting, did not greatly surprise Flick; the vision she presented had stunned her, too. All she'd done was don her new dress and the aquamarine necklace and earrings the General had given her for her last birthday, but the resulting vision that had stared back at her from her mirror had been a revelation.
She'd dutifully gone to the dressmaker with Foggy, a sudden convert to the notion of a dance. The dressmaker, Clotilde, had been surprisingly ready to put aside her other work to create a suitable gown for her. Suitable, Clotilde had insisted, meant pale blue silk, the exact same shade as her eyes. Imagining the cost, she'd demurred, suggesting a fine voile, but Clotilde had waved that aside and named a price that had been impossible to refuse. She'd agreed on the silk, only to be surprised again.
The dress whispered about her, sliding over her in quite a different way from the fine cottons she was used to. It clung, and shifted, and slithered; it was cool and at the same time warm. As for how she appeared in it—she hadn't recognized the slender, golden-haired beauty blinking huge blue eyes at her.
The color of the dress highlighted her eyes, making them appear larger, wider; the texture emphasized curves she normally paid very little attention to.
Demon, on the other hand, had paid a great deal of attention—to her, to those curves, to her eyes. When she'd descended the stairs and found him waiting in the hall, he'd blinked, then slowly smiled. Too intently for her liking. He'd come forward, handing her down the last stairs, then twirling her before him.
As she'd slowed, then halted, he'd trapped her gaze, lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across her fingertips. "Very nice," he'd purred, his blue eyes alight.
She'd felt like a blancmange he was just about to eat. Luckily, the General had appeared, and she'd escaped to fuss over him.
Their journey to Lidgate had been filled with the usual discussion of horses, but once they'd entered the vicarage, that subject was, by tacit agreement, not further pursued. Mrs. Pemberton had greeted them with great good cheer—she'd been particularly delighted to welcome Demon.
Flick slid a glance his way; he was idly scanning the room, slowly filling as more guests arrived. The General had insisted they be on time, so they'd been among the first to arrive. But the rest had followed on their heels; since taking up their positions, they'd had no chance to converse, too busy nodding politely as new arrivals nodded at them.
And stared. Half stared at her—the rest stared at him.
Hardly surprising. He was wearing black, a color that rendered his fair hair a brilliant blonde and deepened the blue of his eyes. The severe cut of his coat, pearl satin waistcoat and trousers emphasized his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his long, strong legs. He always looked elegant, but usually in a lazy, negligent way. Tonight, he was every inch the London rake, a predator stepped straight from the ton's ballrooms to prowl the vicarage dance floor.
Flick inwardly grinned at the thought.
As if sensing her gaze, he glanced down at her, then raised a quizzical brow. She hesitated, but with the General so close, she couldn't upbraid him as he deserved for getting her into this—into this room, into this gown, into this situation. With a speaking glance, she elevated her chin and haughtily looked away.
Mrs. Pemberton materialized before them. "Allow me to present Mrs. March and her family from the Grange."
Mrs. March nodded approvingly at Flick's curtsy, smiled appreciatively at Demon's elegant bow, then turned to chat with the General.
"And this is Miss March, who we all know as Kitty."
A young girl in a white dress blushed furiously and curtsied. "And her friend, Miss Avril Collins."
The second young lady, a brunette in yellow muslin, curtsied rather more assuredly. "And Henry, who is squiring his sister and Miss Collins tonight."
Henry was obviously a March, as fair as his sister. He blushed furiously while executing the stiffest bow Flick had ever seen. "It's a g-great pleasure, M-Miss Parteger."
Mrs. Pemberton turned away; a second later, together with Mrs. March, she led the General away to where the older guests were gathering to chat and gossip.
"I say—have you lived in these parts long?"
Flick turned to find Henry March earnestly regarding her. His sister, too, lifting her gaze from a perusal of her blue silk gown, looked interested in the question.
Not so Avril Collins, who was brazenly looking interested in Demon.
"Most of my life," Flick answered, her gaze on Avril Collins's face. "I live with the General at Hillgate End, south of the racecourse."
Avril's pouting lips—they had to be rouged—lifted in a little smile. "I know," she said on a breathless giggle, one finger reaching out to tap Demon's coat, "that you live in London, Mr. Cynster."
Flick glanced at Demon's face. He smiled—not a smile she was used to, but one coolly, distantly polite.
"Actually, I live in London only part of the time. The rest of the time I live near Hillgate End."
"The General keeps a studbook, doesn't he?" Henry March appealed to Flick. "That must be exciting—do you help him keep track of the horses?"
Flick smiled. "It is interesting, but I don't help all that much. Of course, all the talk in the house is about horses."
Henry's eager expression suggested such a household was his idea of heaven.
"Oh, horses!" Avril wrinkled her nose and cast an openly inviting glance at Demon. "Don't you find them the most boring of creatures?"
"No." Demon met her gaze. "I breed them."
Flick could almost feel sorry for Avril Collins—Demon purposely let the silence stretch for one exceedingly uncomfortable instant, then turned to Henry March. "I own the stud farm to the west of the Lidgate road. Stop by some time if you're interested. If I'm not there, my foreman will show you around. Just mention my name."
"T-thank you," Henry stammered. "I'd l-like that immensely."
Mrs. Pemberton appeared with another group of young people. The fresh round of introductions allowed Kitty March to remove her unfortunate friend. Kitty tugged at her brother's sleeve, but he frowned at her, then returned to his open adoration of Flick.
In that pursuit he was joined by the two male members of the new group, both young gentlemen from nearby estates. Somewhat disconcerted by their soulful looks, Flick did her best to encourage rational conversation, only to be defeated by their patent silliness.
Their silliness, however, was nothing compared to their sisters' witlessness, their vapidity. Flick was not sure which she found more distracting.
"No." She drew a patient breath. "I don't watch every race. The Jockey Club sends all the results to the General."
"Do you get to name all the new foals?" One of the young ladies stared wide-eyed up at Demon. Wearily resigned, he raised his brows. "I suppose I do."
"Oh! That must be so wonderful." The young damsel clasped her hands to her breast. "Thinking up sweet names for all those lovely little foals, staggering around on their shaky legs."
Flick immediately looked back at her group of swains. "Do any of you come to Newmarket to see the races?"
She struggled on, racking her brain for topics on which they might have more than two words to contribute. Most of such topics concerned racing, horses and carriages—within minutes, Demon insinuated a comment into their conversation. A minute later, he somehow managed to merge the two groups, which left the young ladies a trifle miffed, but they didn't move away.
Which was a pity, as Mrs. Pemberton arrived with another wave of admirers, both for her and Demon. Flick found herself facing five males, while Demon had his hands full, figuratively speaking, with six young girls. And one not-so-young, not-so-innocent young madam.
"What a delightful surprise, Mr. Cynster, to discover a gentleman of your standing at a gathering such as this. In case you missed my name, I'm Miss Henshaw."
The throaty voice had Flick quickly turning.
"I say—you ride that pretty little mare, don't you? The one with the white hocks." Distracted, Flick glanced back at one of the new male additions. "Yes. That's Jessamy." "Do you jump her?"
"Not especially."
"Well, you should. I've seen conformations like that around the traps—she'll do well, mark my words."
Flick shook her head. "Jessamy's not—
"Dare say you might not know, being a female, but take my word for it—she's got good legs and good stamina." The bluffly genial youth, the local squire's son, grinned at her, the epitome of a patronizing male. "If you like, I could organize a jockey and trainer for you."
"Yes, but—" one of her earnest admirers cut in. "She lives with the General—he keeps the stud records."
"So?" Bluff-and-genial raised a dismissive brow. "What's dusty old records got to do with it? This is horseflesh we're talking about."
A throaty laugh came from beyond Demon. Flick gritted her teeth. "For your information"—her tone stopped all argument and made Bluff-and-genial blink—"Jessamy is an investment. As a broodmare, she has arguably the best bloodlines in the country. You may be very certain I will not be risking her in any steeplechase."
"Oh," was all Bluff-and-genial dared say.
Flick turned to deal with the throaty-voiced Miss Henshaw—and saw a black-haired beauty, smiling and laughing, leaning close to Demon, her face tipped up to his. She was, Flick saw in that one chilling instant, a lot taller than she herself was—so her face, tilted up, was much closer to Demon's, her lips closer to his—
"Now, my dears!"
Every head in the room lifted; everyone looked to where Mrs. Pemberton stood, clapping her hands for attention. "Now," she reiterated, when everyone was silent, "it's time to find your partners for the first dance."
There was an instant of silence, then a rush as all the young men jockeyed for position. A chorus of invitations and acceptances filled the air.
Flick found herself facing three earnest young men—Bluff-and-genial had been shouldered aside. "My dear Miss Parteger, if you will—
"I pray, kind lady, that—
"If you would honor me with this dance—"
Flick blinked at their youthful faces—they all seemed so young. She didn't need to look to know that the seductive Miss Henshaw was batting her long lashes at Demon. She didn't need to look, but she wanted to. She wanted to—
"Actually," a deep drawling voice purred just above her right ear, "Miss Parteger's first dance is mine."
Demon's hand closed firmly about hers; Flick looked up to see him smile with a shatteringly superior air at her youthful admirers. There was no chance in heaven they would argue.
The relief she felt was quite definite, the reasons for it less clear. Luckily, she didn't need to dwell on it. Demon glanced down at her and raised one brow. Gracefully, she inclined her head. He set her hand on his sleeve; the others fell back as he led her onto the rapidly clearing floor.
The dance was to be a cotillion. As Demon led her to a set, Flick whispered, "I know the theory, but I've never actually danced one of these in my life."
He smiled reassuringly. "Just copy what the other lady does. If you wander off in the wrong direction, I'll grab you."
Despite all, despite her dismissive humph, she found that promise comforting.
They took their positions and the music started; despite her worries, she quickly found the rhythm. The dips and sways and hand-clasped twirls were heavily repetitive; it wasn't that hard to keep her place. And Demon's touch was reassuring—every time his fingers closed about hers, he steadied her, even if she wasn't drifting.
As the dance progressed, she felt increasingly assured—assured enough to stop frowning and smile when her eyes touched his. She laughed up at him, over her shoulder, as he twirled her into their final pose, then she sank into an extravagantly deep curtsy as he bowed, equally extravagantly, to her.
Demon raised her; he wondered if she knew how brightly her eyes were shining, how gloriously unabashed, unfettered in her enjoyment she was. She was so different from the other young ladies in the room, all careful to mind their words, their expressions, if not to artfully deploy them. She was unrestrained in her appreciation—something tonnish ladies rarely were. Exuberance, even if honest, was not the ton's way.
It was Flick's way—her wide smile and laughing eyes had him smiling, equally honestly, in reply. "And now," he said, and had to draw a deeper breath as he drew her closer and looked into her eyes, "we must return to our duty."
She laughed. "Which duty is that?"
The duty he alluded to was to dance with all the other young people gathered at the vicarage for that purpose. They had barely returned to the side of the room before Flick's hand was solicited for a country dance.
Her other hand still rested on Demon's sleeve. She looked up at him—he smiled reassuringly, squeezed her fingers lightly, then let her go.
As she twirled down the room, Flick noticed Demon twirling, too, with the vicar's daughter. Letting her gaze slide away, she smiled easily at her partner, Henry March.
Dance followed dance, but with time between to allow the dancers to chat. To get to know each other better, to find their feet socially. That was, after all, what the evening was about. The older members of the company sat at the rear of the room, smiling and nodding, watching benignly as their youngsters mingled.
Mrs. Pemberton, her duty as hostess done, sank into a chair beside the General. Luckily, the General was deep in discussion with the vicar; Mrs. Pemberton did not interrupt. Relieved, Flick looked away. Beside her, Demon shifted. Flick looked up, and he caught her eye. And raised a knowing brow. She stared into his eyes, at the comprehension therein, then put her nose in the air and looked away. And straggled to ignore the frisson that shot through her when his hand shifted and his fingers brushed hers
amid her skirts.
The dances that followed proved a trial. It was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on her steps. As for her eyes, they rarely rested on her partner. Twirling, whirling, she shot glances through the throng, through the constantly moving mass. Looking, searching…
She located Demon—he was dancing with Kitty March. Flick relaxed. The next measure, however, he partnered Miss Henshaw.
Flick collided with another lady in her set, and nearly ended on her bottom. Flustered, she gasped, "I think" she didn't have to feign her shaking voice—"that I'd better sit out the rest of this dance."
Her partner, a Mr. Drysdale, was only too willing to solicitously help her from the floor.
By the time Demon returned to her side at the end of the dance, as he had at the end of every dance thus far, Flick had herself well in hand. She'd lectured herself more sternly than she ever had in her life.
It was ridiculous! What on earth was she doing—thinking? Watching over him as if she was jealous. How foolish—making a cake of herself like that. Pray God he hadn't noticed, or he'd tease her unmercifully. And she'd deserve it. There was nothing between them—nothing!
She greeted him with a cool smile and immediately looked away.
His fingers found hers in her skirts—and tugged. She had to look up and meet his gaze. It was serious, exceedingly intent. "Are you all right?"
His eyes searched hers; God alone knew what he saw. Flick dragged in a breath—and wished she could drag her gaze from his. "It was just a silly slip. I didn't fall."
A frown darkened his eyes; his lips firmed, but then he nodded and, very slowly, released her hand. "Be more careful—this is, after all, your first time at a dance."
If she'd been feeling at all normal she would have responded to that as it deserved. Instead, the lingering touch of his fingers had blown all her certainties to the wind.
Nothing? If this—the light that turned his eyes dark and smoldering, the sense of protection, of strength, she felt flowing from him, the answering hitch in her breathing, the yearning that grew stronger, day by day, for him—if this was nothing, what would something be like?
More conscious of her heartbeat, of the rise and fall of her breasts than she'd ever been in her life, she looked away.
When she whirled down the next dance, she was conscious of him watching her, aware to her toes of the blue gaze that missed nothing, not a step, not a turn. He was waiting when her partner returned her to the side of the room. As if it was only natural, she slipped into the space beside him.
His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing. Until the music started up again.
"My dance, I believe."
His tone brooked no argument—from her potential partners, or her. She inclined her head
graciously, as if she'd been expecting his claim. Perhaps she had.
For him to dance with her a second time while there were other young ladies he had not yet favored lent the action a particularity it would otherwise not have had—he was clearly singling her out. Despite her lack of social experience, she knew it—and knew beyond doubt that he did, too.
It was a simple country dance that left them partnered throughout, without interaction with other dancers; they had no need to shift their attention from each other. From the instant the music started and their fingers touched, their focus was fixed. For her part, she barely heard the music. She moved instinctively, matching his actions, responding to directing touches so light she felt them more with her senses than with her nerves.
His eyes held her. His gaze, as brilliantly blue as a summer sky, wrapped her in its warmth. And she knew—knew that he was squiring her, deliberately, intentionally. Intent as only he could be. He was wooing her—even if the idea seemed so wild and impossible that her mind could not accept it, her senses did. Her first impulse was to step back—to safety, to a point where she could look about and understand. But while she whirled and twirled, her eyes never leaving his, there was no place of safety, nowhere she could hide from the smoldering glow in his eyes—and the very last thing she wanted to do was run.
His gaze held her effortlessly, yet without compulsion; she was fascinated, and that alone was power enough to keep her whirling. The sliding brush of his ringers as their hands met and parted, the gliding caress, so delicate, as he steered her into a sweeping turn—each was planned deliberately, executed with intent. In that single dance, he wove a net about her—one invisible to the eye but very clear to her senses.
Her nerves tingled, tightened; each heartbeat heightened her awareness. Until his every touch held a temptation and a promise, echoed by their movements in the dance.
She swayed closer, looking up as he drew her nearer, and felt the temptation to surrender. To surrender to the conviction of what he was telling her, to give in and believe that he wanted her to be his wife. And would have her.
The dance moved on, and she drew away, until their fingers barely touched. And heard his promise, unspoken, that if she surrendered she'd enjoy—experience—the full pleasures of the flesh.
He was adept at sending that message, expert at making the temptation grow, and the promise shine and beckon like gold.
The music ended. And they stopped. But the temptation and the promise still shone in his eyes. She felt like Cinderella when he raised her hand and brushed his lips gently across her fingertips.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
When the next dance commenced, Demon was, courtesy of Mrs. Pemberton, at the opposite end of the room from Flick. Within seconds of their leaving the floor, the vicar's wife had descended on them; with irresistible energy, she'd insisted on taking Demon to introduce him to others of the company.
Her "others" were the collected matrons of the district; Demon was amused to realize their fell purpose in
speaking with him was to subtlely encourage his pursuit of Flick.
"She's such a pretty little thing, and quite assured," Mrs. Wallace, of the Hadfield-Wallaces of Dullingham, nodded sagely. "As experienced as you are, you'll have noticed—she's not just in the common way."
Demon smiled, content to let them convince him of the lightness of his cause. He didn't need convincing, but it wouldn't hurt his campaign to have the matrons' support.
Because of his height, he could track Flick's crowning glory. As the ladies' comments continued, he started to chafe at the bit. He understood very well the reasons behind their reactions—those reasons were gathered about Flick like swarming bees about a honeypot.
Their sons looked set to make cakes of themselves over her—their fond mamas could read the script with ease. It was, therefore, in their best interests to have Demon waltz Flick off her feet, out of reach of their moonfaced sons, so said sons could recover quickly and apply themselves to the real business of the upcoming Season—finding themselves suitable wives.
Flick, of course, was highly suitable, but the ladies had accepted that their sons were not in the running, just as they'd accepted that their daughters had no chance of catching Demon's eye. It was therefore best on all counts to get him and Flick quickly paired and out of contention, before they caused any major disruptions to the good ladies' matrimonial plans.
Such was their strategy. As their plans marched so well with his, Demon was perfectly ready to reassure them as to his intentions. "Her knowledge of horses is extensive." He made the comment offhandedly, yet appreciatively. "And, of course, she is the General's ward."
"Indeed," Mrs. Wallace nodded approvingly. "So very appropriate." "A happy circumstance," Mrs. Pemberton concurred.
With an elegant bow, quite sure they all understood each other well, Demon left them. He ambled down the side of the room, scanning the dancers. He couldn't see Flick.
Halting, he searched more carefully—she wasn't there.
He located the General, chatting with a group of older gentlemen—Flick wasn't with him.
Swallowing a curse directed at milksops who couldn't be trusted to keep a quick-witted girl in line, Demon strolled as swiftly as he could to where he'd last seen her, at the far end of the room. He reached the corner, wondering what had got into her head. Surely her disappearance didn't have anything to do with Bletchley and the syndicate?
The idea that she might have been identified, followed, and lured away chilled him. He shook the thought aside—that was fanciful, unlikely. The main door stood beyond the matrons; he was sure she hadn't gone that way. But the only other doors led deeper into the house.
Where the hell had she gone?
He was searching the throng again when a flicker at the edge of his vision had him turning. The lace curtain over the long window in the corner drifted in a light breeze. The narrow casement was partly open; it extended from head height to a foot above the floor. He couldn't fit through it. Flick, however, was smaller than he.
It took him five minutes to return back up the room, smiling and nodding and avoiding invitations to chat. Regaining the front hall, he slipped out the front door and headed around the side of the vicarage.
The garden beyond the drawing room's corner window was empty. The moon was full; steady silver light illuminated a flagged path and burgeoning flowerbeds edging a neat lawn. Frowning, Demon scanned the shadows, but there were no nooks, no benches set under overhanging boughs—no angel in pale blue communing with the night.
The garden was sunk in silence, the drifting strains of the violins a superficial tune causing barely a ripple in the deep of the night. A lick of fear touched his spine, flicked toward his heart. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, to check she hadn't returned to the drawing room before he panicked, when his gaze fell on the hedge lining one side of the lawn.
A path ran beside it, between the lawn and the deep green wall. The hedge was high; he couldn't see over it. Silently, he prowled the wall, searching, wondering if he was wrong in remembering a small courtyard…
The opening lay in shadow, just a simple gap in the hedge. He stepped into the gap. And saw her.
The courtyard was a flagged square with a raised central bed in which stood an old magnolia, draping its branches over a small pond. Flick paced slowly back and forth before it, the moonlight washing the blue from her gown, leaving it an unearthly silver.
Demon watched her, transfixed by the sway of her hips, the artless grace with which she turned. Until that instant, he hadn't realized how tightly unnamed fears had seized him; he recognized the tension only as it eased, as relief replaced it.
She felt his gaze and looked up, halting, stiffening—then relaxing as she recognized him. She said nothing, but raised a brow.
"In that gown, in the moonlight, you look like a silver sprite." Come to steal this mortal's heart. His voice was gravelly, revealingly deep.
If she noticed, she gave no sign; instead, she looked down at her gown, holding out the skirts to inspect them. "It is a very pale blue. I rather like it."
He liked it, too—it was the same pale, pure blue as her eyes. The gown was well worth the price he'd paid. Of course, she'd never know he'd offset the gown's cost. Clotilde was an excellent dressmaker; he made a mental note to send some extra token of appreciation her way.
He hesitated… but they were here, alone in the moonlight, the violins a distant whisper in the dark. Unhurriedly, he strolled forward, his gaze, intent, on her.
Flick watched him approach, large, elegant—dangerous. The moon silvered his hair, rendering his face harsh in its stark light. The angular planes seemed harder, like pale stone; his eyes were deeply shadowed beneath their heavy lids.
How his presence could be reassuring and unnerving simultaneously she didn't know. Her nerves were tightening, her senses stretching… The yearning she'd felt as they'd danced returned with a rush.
She'd come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She'd come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she'd read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn't bring herself to believe it.
It was like a fairy tale.
Now he was here… Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You conspired with Mrs. Pemberton—Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you."
He halted before her. "Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid—that didn't seem a good idea."
His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. "I can't see how an evening like this is going to change things." She gestured toward the house. "I'm certainly not going to find a husband in there."
"No?"
"You saw them. They're so young!" "Ah—them."
His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. "No," he said, the word a deep rumble. "I agree—you definitely shouldn't marry any of them."
The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids rose and he met her gaze. "There is, however, an alternative."
He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.
Then came the music.
Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them—he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.
"Come—waltz with me."
The net drew tight—she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn't tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.
Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him—she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But…
"I don't know how."
Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.
"I'll teach you"—a hint of wickedness invested his smile—"all you need to know."
She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren't talking of a mere waltz—that wasn't the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body—she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away—not without trying, touching. Knowing.
She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. "Relax, and let your feet follow where they will."
He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.
Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer—she leaned her temple against his chest. "Isn't there some rule that I'm not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?"
"That only applies in town at a formal ball. Young ladies have to learn to waltz somewhere, or no gentleman would ever stand up with them."
She suppressed a sniff—she hadn't stepped on his toes once. They were revolving slowly, the music soft and low.
It was she who stepped closer, fascinated by the slide of silk between their bodies. And by the heat of him.
He didn't step back. His fingers locked about hers, he laid her hand in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm tightened about her, his hand splaying below her waist, locking her to him so that they moved in truth as one.
His hand burned; so did his thighs as they pressed between hers as he steered her through a shallow turn. Her breasts firm against his coat, she laid her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heart.
Eventually, with a minor flourish they ignored, the music died. Their feet slowed, then halted; for one long instant, they simply stood.
Then she lifted her head and looked into his face. His temptation, his promise, were all around her, a shimmering veil, a glow suffusing her skin. She knew she wasn't imagining it; she didn't know enough to imagine this. She knew what was there, what it was, what might be.
She didn't know why.
So she simply asked, her eyes on his, deeply shadowed by his lids, "Why are you doing this?"
He searched her eyes, then raised one brow. "I would have thought that was obvious." After a moment, he stated, "I'm wooing you—courting you—call it what you will."
"Why?"
"Why else? Because I want you to be my wife." "Why?"
He hesitated, then his hand left hers. His fingers slid beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His lips closed over hers.
It started as a gentle caress. That satisfied neither of them. Whether it was she or he who deepened the kiss was impossible to say—his lips were suddenly harder, firmer, more demanding; hers were correspondingly softer, more beguiling, more inviting.
Greatly daring, she parted her lips, just a little, then more, thrilled to her toes when he took instant advantage. Angling his head, he tasted her, then, like a conqueror, simply took more.
She shivered, and gave, and welcomed him in; his arms tightened about her, impressing her soft flesh with the hardness of his. She sighed, and felt him drink—her breath was his and his was hers; her head reeled as the kiss went on.
Again, it was she who took the next step, who, in all innocence, stretched her arms up, slid her hands to his nape and sank against him. She felt a rumble in his chest—a groan that never made it to his lips.
Their kiss turned ravenous. Hot. Hungry.
His lips seared hers; his hunger whipped, and licked, and tempted. She sensed it clearly—there—beneath the smooth control, the elegant facade. Ever bold, she reached for it.
He froze.
The next instant, she was standing, unsteadily, on her feet, the air cool between them. Her breasts ached oddly; all her skin felt hot. She blinked, and focused on him—he was breathing every bit as raggedly as she. He was just recovering faster—her wits were still whirling.
His hands fell from her; it was impossible to read his eyes. "We should get back."
Before she had time to consider, long before she could gather her wits and think, they were back in the drawing room. They mingled with the other guests while she struggled to find her mental feet. Beside her, he was his usual elegant self, cool and disgustingly controlled, while her lips were tingling, her breathing still too shallow. And she ached, bone-deep, with a sense of having been denied.
The next morning, a stack of books under her arm, Flick stepped out of the side door, looking down as she tugged on her gloves—and ran into a brick wall.
"Ooof!" All the breath was knocked out of her. Luckily, the wall was covered in resilient muscle, and had arms that locked around her, preventing her and her books from tumbling to the ground.
She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against Demon's soft jacket, then she blew aside the curls that had tumbled into her eyes. The exhalation ruffled the blonde locks about his ear.
He stiffened. All over.
Rigid, he awkwardly unlocked his arms, grasped her upper arms, and set her back from him. She blinked at him. He scowled at her.
"Where are you going?"
His tone, that of one having the right to know, was guaranteed to make her bridle; putting her nose in the air, she stepped around him. "To the lending library."
He smothered a curse, spun on his heel and followed. "I'll take you in my curricle."
Not so much as a by-your-leave! Let alone a "Good morning, my dear, and how are you?" So much for last night! Entirely unimpressed, Flick kept her gaze fixed stubbornly ahead, ruthlessly denying the
impulse to glance at him as he ranged alongside. "I'm perfectly capable of returning and selecting my novels myself, thank you."
"I dare say."
His tone was as stubborn as hers.
She opened her mouth to argue—and caught sight of the pair of blacks harnessed to his curricle. Her face softened, her eyes lit. "Oh—what beauties!" Her tone was reverent, a fitting tribute to the surely matchless horses impatiently pawing the gravel. "Are they new?"
"Yes." Demon strolled in her wake as she circled the pair, exclaiming over their points. When she paused for breath, he nonchalantly added, "I thought I'd take them for a short outing, just to get them used to town traffic."
Eyes still round, fixed on the blacks' sleek hides, she wasn't paying attention; seizing the moment, he took her hand and helped her into the curricle.
"They hold their heads so well." She settled on the seat. "What's their action like?"
Barely pausing for his answer, she rattled on knowledgeably; by the time she'd run through all her questions and exclamations they were rolling down the drive. Demon kept his gaze on his horses, waiting for her to suddenly realize and berate him for taking advantage. Instead, she set her books on the seat between them and leaned back with a soft sigh.
As the peace unexpectedly lengthened, he shot her a glance; she was sitting easily, one hand braced on the side railing, her gaze fixed, not on the blacks, but on his hands.
She was watching him handle the ribbons, watching his fingers flick and slide along the leather strips. There was an eager light in her eyes, a wistful expression on her face.
He faced forward; a moment later, he clenched his jaw. Never in his entire career had he let a female drive his cattle.
The blacks, although new, were well broken; thus far, they'd proved well behaved. And he would be sitting beside her.
If he did it once, she'd expect him to do it again.
When riding, she had a more delicate touch on the reins than even he.
Turning out of the manor drive, he set the curricle bowling down the road to Newmarket, but he didn't slacken the reins. Instead, drawing in a breath, he turned to Flick. "Would you like to take the reins for a stretch?"
The look on her face was payment enough for his abused sensibilities—stunned surprise gave way to eager joy, swiftly tempered.
"But…" She looked at him, hope warring with imminent disappointment. "I've never driven a pair before."
He forced himself to shrug lightly. "It's not that different from a single horse. Here—shift those books and come closer." She did, eagerly sliding along the seat until her thigh brushed his. Ignoring the heat that shot straight to his loins, he transferred the reins to her small hands, keeping his fingers
tensioning the leather until he was sure she had them.
"No." Expertly, he relaid the reins across her left palm. "Like that, so you've got simultaneous control over them both with just one hand."
She nodded, looking so excited that he wondered if she could speak at all. Sitting back, one arm along the seat behind her, ready to grab her if anything did go wrong, he watched her, his gaze flicking ahead now and again to check the road. But he knew it well, and so did she.
She had a little difficulty checking the pair for a curve; he gritted his teeth and managed not to reach out and lay his hand over hers. Thereafter, however, she adjusted; gradually, as the fields rolled past, they both relaxed.
There was, he discovered, one benefit in being driven by a lady—one he trusted not to land them in a ditch. He could keep his gaze wholly on her—on her face, on her figure, in this case, neat and trim in cambric. Her hair, those lovely golden curls, was constantly ruffling in the wind of their passage, a living frame for her delicate face.
A face flushed with pleasure, with an excitement he understood. She was thrilled and delighted. He felt decidedly smug.
She cast him a dubious glance as the first stables by the racecourse came into sight. From there on, there would be other horses, people, even dogs about—all things to which the blacks might take exception. Demon nodded; sitting up, he expertly lifted the reins from her hands. He readjusted the reins, letting the blacks know he had them again.
Flick sat back with an ecstatic sigh. She had always—forever—wanted to drive a curricle. And Demon's blacks! They were the most perfect young pair she'd ever seen. Not as powerful as his champion bays, but so very elegant, with their slim legs and long, sleekly arched necks.
And she'd driven them! She could hardly wait to tell the General. And Dillon—he would be green with envy. She sighed again; with a contented smile, she looked around.
Only then did she remember their earlier words—only then did she realize she'd been kidnapped. Lured away. Enticed into a gentleman's curricle with tempting promises and whisked into town.
She slanted a glance at her abductor. He was looking ahead, his expression easy but uninformative. There was nothing to say he'd planned this—that he'd purposely had the blacks put to that morning just so he could distract her.
She wouldn't mind betting he had.
Unfortunately, after enjoying herself so thoroughly, it would be churlish indeed to cavil. So she sat back and enjoyed herself some more, watching as he deftly tacked through the increasing traffic to pull up before the lending library, just off the High Street halfway through the town.
As was usual, the sight of a magnificent pair had drawn a gaggle of boys in their wake. After handing her to the pavement, Demon selected two and, with strict instructions, left the blacks in their care.
That surprised Flick, but she was too wise to show it; carrying her books, she headed for the library door. Demon followed on her heels; he reached over her shoulder and pushed the door wide.
She walked through into familiar surroundings—the wide front bay where two old gentlemen sat, dozing over their history books, the narrow aisles leading away toward the back of what had once been
a hall, each aisle lined on both sides with bookshelves crammed to overflowing.
"Hello, Mrs. Higgins," Flick whispered to the large, homely woman who presided over her domain from behind a table near the entrance. "I'm returning these."
"Good, good." Perching her pince-nez on her nose, Mrs. Higgins peered down at the titles. "Ah, yes, and did the General enjoy the Major's biography?"
"He did indeed. He asked me to see if there were any more like it."
"You'll find all we have in the second aisle, dear—about midway down…" Mrs. Higgins's words trailed away. Looking past Flick, she slowly raised her hand and removed her pince-nez, the better to take in who had strayed into her castle.
"Mr. Cynster's escorting me," Flick explained. Facing Demon, she gestured to the chairs in the front bay. "Would you like to wait there?"
He glanced at the two old gents, then looked back at her, his expression utterly blank. "I'll follow you." He proceeded to do so, strolling directly behind her as she wandered down the aisles.
Flick tried to ignore him and concentrate on the books, but novels and literary heroes could not compete with the masculine presence prowling in her wake. The more she tried to shut him out, the more he intruded on her mind, on her senses. Which was the very last thing she needed.
She was confused enough about him as it was.
After spending the hours until dawn reliving their second dance, reliving that amazing waltz, and replaying everything they'd said in the moonlight, over her breakfast toast she'd made a firm resolution to put the entire matter from her—and wait and see.
Wait for him to make the next move—and see if it made any more sense than his last.
She had a very strong notion she was misinterpreting, through lack of experience, reading more into his words, his actions, than he intended. He was accustomed to dallying with sophisticated ladies of the ton. Doubtless, that matter of their second dance, and the waltz, and his warm words in the moonlight—and, of course, that kiss—were all simply tonnish dalliance, the way ladies and gentlemen of his ilk entertained themselves of an evening. A form of sophisticated teasing. The more she thought of it, the more that seemed likely.
In which case, the last thing she should do was place any great emphasis on any of it.
Determinedly, she halted before the bookshelf housing her favorite novels—those of Miss Austen and Mrs. Radcliffe. Ignoring the disapproving humph from behind her, she stubbornly scanned the shelves.
Demon propped one shoulder against a bookshelf, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched her with a distinctly jaundiced eye. If she wanted romance, why the hell was she looking at books?
The fact she was didn't auger well for his plans. He watched as she pulled books out and studied them, returning some, retaining others—and wondered if there was any way he could step up his campaign. Unfortunately, she was young and innocent—and strong-willed and stubborn.
Which meant that if he pushed too hard, drove too fast, she might turn skittish and difficult.
Which would slow things down all the more. He'd gentled enough high-couraged horses to know the value of patience. And, of course, this time, there was no question of him not succeeding—he intended to get his ring on her finger no matter how long it took.
This time, he refused to entertain any possibility of defeat. Last time, when he'd turned up at the manor, ready to offer himself up on a sacrificial matrimonial altar, he hadn't known what he was about. He hadn't stopped to think—he'd reacted instinctively to the situation about him. Discovering that Flick had made everything right so there was no need for them to marry had brought him up short. He'd been stunned, but not with joy. He had, in fact, been distinctly unamused, and even less amused by that fact.
That had certainly made him think. He'd spent the next twenty-four hours doing precisely that, doggedly separating his real desires from the disguise of convenience he'd wrapped them in, only to discover that, as usual, his instincts hadn't misled him.
He wanted to marry the chit—never mind why—and having her compromised so innocently had been a convenient, if not perfect, avenue by which to stake his claim. His wish to marry her was not at all innocent—his thoughts, even then, had been colored by desire. His disappointment had been so acute that he'd actually felt hurt, which had annoyed him all the more.
No woman had ever made him feel this uncertain, had made him ache with desire with no surety of relief.
His sudden susceptibility—his need for an angel—was something he wanted dealt with quickly. Once he had her safely wedded and bedded, he was sure he'd feel better—back to his usual, assured, self-reliant, self-confident self.
Which was why he proposed to dog her every step until she agreed to marry him. He could only pray it wouldn't take too long.
With three books in her arms, she finally quit that bookshelf and strolled farther down the aisle. Pushing away from his resting place, Demon ambled after her. She paused to select a cookbook; he glanced at the title as she lifted it down. Italian Renaissance Recipes.
"Are you planning to entertain an Italian count?"
She glanced at him. "It's for Foggy—she loves reading recipes." The book was large and heavy; she juggled it, trying to settle it in her arms.
"Here." He reached for the book.
"Oh—thank you." With a grateful smile, she handed him the cookbook and her three novels.
Lips setting, Demon accepted them all, reminding himself that none of his acquaintances, not even Reggie, were likely to come in and discover him wandering the aisles at an angel's beck and call, loaded with cookbooks and romantic novels.
Flick's next stop was the biographies. "The General likes reading about gentlemen connected with horses. The last book I got for him was about a cavalry major." Frowning, she studied the shelves. "Do you know of any work he might find interesting?"
Demon glanced at the leather and gilt spines. "I don't read much."
"Oh?" Brows rising, she looked up. "What do you do of a quiet evening?" He trapped her wide gaze. "Active endeavors are more to my taste."
A puzzled frown formed in her eyes. "You must relax sometime."
Lips curving, he let his gaze grow intent, let his voice deepen. "The endeavors I favor are guaranteed to relax."
A faint blush tinged her cheeks; she held his gaze for an instant, then raised a haughty brow and looked away.
Inwardly grinning, Demon looked back at the books. At least she no longer viewed him as a benevolent uncle. "What about this one?" Reaching over her head, he tugged a volume free.
"Colonel J.E. Winsome: Memoirs of a Commander of Horse," Flick read as he put the book in her hands. She opened it and quickly perused the description at the front. "Oh, yes! This is perfect. It's about the cavalry in the Peninsula War."
"Excellent." Demon straightened. "Can we go now?" To his relief, Flick nodded. "Yes, that's it."
She led the way to the front of the hall.
Mrs. Higgins pursed her lips in silent disapproval as Demon set the books on her desk. Flick appeared not to notice; she chatted blithely as Mrs. Higgins wrote her selections on a card. Stepping back, Demon cast a last glance around—he wouldn't be paying a second visit if he could help it.
One of the old gentlemen in the overstuffed armchairs had woken; he sent a suspicious look his way, frowning direfully from under shaggy brows.
Turning back to Flick, Demon relieved her of the pile of books she'd just settled in her arms. "Come—I'll drive you home."
Flick smiled, bid Mrs. Higgins good-bye, and preceded him to the door; Demon followed, his gaze on her hips, his mind busy with plans to cure her of all future need for fictional romantic stimulation.
Chapter 1O
« ^ »
For Flick, their journey to the library was the start of a most peculiar week.
Demon drove her back to the manor by the longest possible route, ostensibly to try the blacks' paces. As he consented to let her handle the ribbons again, she refrained from making any comment on his
high-handed arrogance—as it happened, she hadn't had anything better to do.
At least, nothing to compare with the sensation of bowling along, the breeze ruffling her hair, the ribbons taut in her hands. The sheer exhilaration of tooling his curricle, well-sprung and built for speed, with the blacks high-stepping down the lanes, had worked its addictive magic—she was hooked.
When he drew up before the manor, she was smiling so brightly that she couldn't possibly have admonished him.
Which, from the gleam in his eye, was precisely as he'd planned.
He was back the next morning, although this time, it wasn't her he had come to see; he spent an hour with the General, discussing a line of horses the General was investigating. Of course, the General invited him to stay for luncheon, and he accepted.
Later, she strolled with him to the stable. She waited, but, other than an artful comment about enjoying the view—it was a brisk day and her skirts were flapping—he said nothing. His eyes, however, seemed unusually brilliant, his gaze especially attentive; despite the breeze, she didn't feel cold.
Day followed day; his visits highlighted each one. She could never be certain when or where he would appear, which was doubtless why she found herself listening for his footsteps.
And it wasn't just his gaze that was attentive.
Occasionally, he would touch her, just a hand at her back, or a sliding of his fingers from her hand to her wrist. Such touches always made her catch her breath—and flush in a most peculiar way.
Her worst moment came when he called one afternoon and inveigled her into joining him to watch the strings exercising on the Heath—he was still watching Bletchley during morning and afternoon stables.
"Hills and Cross are doing the bulk of it these days. They're less identifiable than Gillies or me."
They were standing by the Heath, she with her hands clasped on the handle of her furled parasol. "Has Bletchley made any further arrangements—fixed any more fixes?"
Demon shook his head. "I'm starting to wonder…" When he said nothing more, she prompted, "What?"
He glanced at her, then grimaced and looked across the close-cropped turf to where his string was going through their paces. Bletchley lounged under his favorite oak; from there, he could see three separate strings working.
"I'm starting to wonder," Demon mused, "whether he's got any more fixes to place. He's been chatting up the jockeys, true enough, but lately it's been more in the nature of ingratiating himself with them. Other than those three fixes we know of, all of which are for major Spring Carnival races, he hasn't made any further arrangements."
"So?"
"So it's possible all the fixes the syndicate want for the Spring Carnival are now in place—just those three. Considering the races involved, they should clear enough for the greediest of men. I'm wondering if Bletchley is simply whiling away time until his masters are due to check with him, and putting in his hours by learning as much as he can about the race jockeys with a view to making his next round of fixes, most likely in a few months—maybe at the July meeting—easier to arrange."
Flick studied Bletchley. "He's looking for weaknesses? Something to give him a hold over the jockeys?" "Hmm. Possibly."
She knew the instant he switched his gaze from Bletchley to her, knew precisely when his mind shifted from fixes to… whatever it was he was thinking about her.
A gentle tug on one curl had her turning her face, only to find him much nearer, closer…
"Stop staring at him so deliberately—he'll notice."
"I'm not staring at Bletchley." She was staring at his lips. They curved, then drew fractionally nearer…
She stiffened, blinked and dragged her eyes up to his. "Perhaps we'd better stroll." Dalliance was all very well, but she was not about to indulge in any of his mind-whirling kisses—not on the open Heath.
His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. "Perhaps we had."
He turned her; with her hand on his sleeve, they strolled along the Heath's edge—while she hoped he'd exercise his usual initiative and find an empty stable.
To her unreasoning annoyance, he didn't.
The next morning, he took her into town, so they could savor the scones at The Twig and Bough, which he insisted were a cut above excellent. After their repast, they strolled down the High Street, where Mrs. Pemberton beamed at them from her carriage, exchanging gracious greetings.
Flick was quite sure the vicar's wife had never before looked at her with such patent approval.
Which, more than anything else—far more than the insistence of her silly senses or the wonderings of her ill-informed mind—made her question what Demon was about. Really about.
She'd ridden high-bred horses all her life; she'd long ago learned the knack of putting aside all unnerving thoughts and emotions. She had, she thought, been doing an excellent job of ignoring the uncertainties his constant squiring of her had evoked. But after their meeting with Mrs. Pemberton, she could no longer ignore the fact that it really did appear that he was wooing her. Courting her.
Just like he'd said.
Had the moonlight addled his wits—or hers?
The question demanded an answer, not least because his continuing presence was stretching her nerves taut. As it was the same question, albeit in slightly different form, that had been circling in her brain for the past week without answer, there was obviously only one way forward.
And, after all, it was Demon—she'd known him nearly all her life. She hadn't shied away from asking for his help with Dillon, and he'd given it. So…
She waited until they were rolling down the manor drive the next morning for a tool about the lanes so she could hone her driving skills on his powerful bays. He was still holding the reins. Without giving herself time to think, to balk, she asked, "Why are you behaving like this—spending so much time with me?"
His head whipped around; an incipient frown darkened his eyes. "I told you. I'm wooing you."
She blinked; the storm warning in his eyes wasn't encouraging, but she was determined to have all clear. "Yes," she admitted, evenly, carefully. "But that was just…" With one hand, she gestured airily.
His frown crystallized; he slowed the bays. "Just what?" "Well," she shrugged. "Just that night. In the moonlight."
Demon hauled the bays to a halt. "What about the past days? It's been nearly a week." He was appalled.
Swearing, not entirely under his breath, he pulled on the brake, tied off the reins and faced her. "Don't tell me"—narrowing his eyes, he trapped her gaze—"that you haven't noticed. That you haven't been paying attention."
She stared at him, her eyes widening, and widening, as she read the message in his. "You're serious." Her patent astonishment nearly did him in.
"Serious?" He clenched one fist on the railing in front of her, slapped the other on the seat behind her and locked his gaze on her face. "Of course I'm serious! What in all creation do you imagine these last days have been about?"
"Well…" Given the anger vibrating in his tone, Flick decided she'd be wiser not to say. He wasn't yelling—she almost wished he was. His clipped, forcefully enunciated words were somehow more menacing than bellows.
"I am not in the habit of dancing attendance on fresh-faced chits just for the pleasure of their innocent smiles."
She blinked. "I suppose not."
"You may be certain not." His jaw hardened to match the rest of his face; his eyes narrowed to slits. "So what the devil have you been imagining?"
If there had been a way of avoiding the question, she'd have taken it, but the look in his eyes declared he wasn't about to drop the subject. And she had been the one to bring it up—and she did still want to know. Holding his gaze, she carefully said, "I thought it was just dalliance."
It was his turn to blink. "Dalliance?"
"A way to fill in the time." Spreading her hands, she shrugged. "For all I know, telling a lady you're wooing her while alone in a courtyard in the moonlight might be standard practice, entirely unremarkable behavior for—"
Caution caught her tongue. She glanced at him; he smiled—all wolf. "For a rake such as I?" She suppressed a glare. "Yes! How am I supposed to know how you go on?"
Narrow-eyed, he studied her face; his softened not at all. "You may take it from me that when I say I'm courting you, I am." Turning forward, he started to untie the reins.
Flick straightened. "Yes, all right. But you still haven't told me why."
His gaze on his horses, Demon exhaled through set teeth. He released the brake. "Because I want to marry you, of course."
"Yes, but that's what I don't understand. Why do you want to marry me?"
He was going to throttle her if she didn't leave off with her whys; jaw setting, he nicked the reins—the bays stepped out. He felt her irate glance.
"You can't expect me to believe you've suddenly taken it into your head that you need to marry me. You didn't even know I existed—well, not other than a pigtailed brat—not until you caught me on The Flynn's back." She swung on the seat to face him. "So why?"
Feathering the turn into the road, he set the bays pacing. "I want to marry you because you're the right wife for me." Anticipating her next why, he stated, "You're an eligible parti—you're well-born, your connections are commendable. You're the General's ward—you've grown up around here, and you're remarkably knowledgeable about horses." He had his excuses down pat. "All in all, we're an excellent match." He glanced at her sharply. "A fact everyone seems to have realized except you."
She looked ahead, and he turned back to his horses. He wasn't sure he trusted his ears, but he thought she sniffed. She certainly put her nose in the air.
"That sounds horridly cold-blooded to me."
Cold-blooded? He was going to throttle her. Just the thought of how heated his blood had been, simmering uncomfortably for more than a week, hot need flaring every time she drew close—and as for those times she'd been in his arms, stretched, flush, body to body against him…
He set his teeth and heard his jaw crack. His leader jibbed; dragging in a breath, he held it, carefully resettled his horses, then exhaled slowly.
"I also want to marry you"—he forced the words out through gritted teeth—"because I desire you."
He felt her questioning, innocently curious gaze—he wasn't fool enough to meet it—that puzzled look that invited him to demonstrate, to teach her. She'd perfected that look until it could lure even him into deep waters. His gaze locked on his leader's ears, he kept driving.
"What, exactly?…"
He hauled in a breath. "I want you warming my bed." He wanted her warming him. "The fact that I desire you as a man desires a woman is incidental. It merely adds another element to my wooing of you, and our eventual marriage." He quickly changed tacks, focusing on the one aspect he suspected had most contributed to her confusion. She was direct and straightforward—she'd misinterpreted his subtlety. She equated subtleties with playing, with teasing—by definition not serious. "Given your age and lack of experience, as I wish to marry you, a period of courtship is deemed mandatory, during which time my behavior must follow a prescribed pattern."
He was driving dangerously fast. He didn't want to, but he drew back on the reins, slowing to a safer pace. He'd taken a circuitous route; it wasn't necessary to stop and turn in order to return to Hillgate End. Which was just as well. Stopping with him in his present mood and her in her curious one was the definition of unwise.
She'd been listening carefully; he heard the frown in her voice as she repeated, "Prescribed pattern."
"Society dictates that I can squire you about, but I can't press my suit too openly, certainly not forcefully. That would be improper. I have to be subtle. I shouldn't tell you how I feel outright—that's not the way things are done. I shouldn't seek to see you in any clandestine manner. I shouldn't kiss you—and I should certainly not mention that I desire you—even let you get any hint of that fact. You're not supposed to know about desire."
He checked the bays for a corner, then set them pacing again. "In fact, this entire conversation shouldn't be occurring—Mrs. Pemberton and company would unhesitatingly class it as exceedingly improper."
"That's ridiculous! How will I know if I don't ask? And I can't ask anyone else about this—only
you."
Demon heard the uncertain note in her voice; much of his tension left him, swamped by a surge of emotion he was growing accustomed to—one Flick and only Flick could evoke. It encompassed an urge to protect, but that wasn't the sum of it.
He sighed, but didn't look at her—he wasn't yet sure how much in control he was, wasn't yet sure he could resist that puzzled, questioning look in her blue eyes. "It's all right to ask me as long as we're alone. You can say whatever you wish to me, but you must be careful not to let anything we discuss privately influence how you behave when we're not private."
Flick nodded. The possibility that he might forbid her to question him, especially about subjects like desire, had shaken her—for an instant she'd feared he would erect a wall between them.
Thankfully not.
Yet she still didn't entirely understand.
That he seriously wanted to marry her was hard enough to accept. That he wanted to marry her because he desired her—that was beyond her comprehension. She'd assumed she'd always be a child in his eyes. Apparently not.
As the curricle rolled on, she pondered desire. The whole concept, both in general and specifically, intrigued her. She recalled very well the shimmering net he could throw, the temptation, the promise in the moonlight. Her experience beyond that was nonexistent—all she'd known previously came from overhearing maids comparing notes on their swains. But… there was one point that, no matter how she construed it, remained unexplained.
Drawing a deep breath, her gaze, like his, fixed on the ribbon of lane stretching before them, she asked, "If you desire me"—she felt her blush heat her cheeks, but she doggedly plowed on—"as a man desires a woman, why do you go rigid when we touch?"
When he didn't immediately answer, she expanded, "Like that night in the courtyard when we kissed—you stopped suddenly. Was that due to society's strictures"—she risked a glance at him—"or something else?"
He went rigid as she looked at him; she could both sense it and see it. Sense the sudden clenching as if it was her own gut, see the muscles beneath his sleeve tense until each band was clearly delineated. As for his face, when she glanced up in surprise, she found it as hard as stone.
Amazed, she lifted a finger and poked his upper arm—it was like stubbing her finger against rock. "Like that." She frowned at him. "Are you sure it's not aversion?"
"It's—not—aversion." Demon didn't know how he got the words out; his hands were locked so tightly about the reins that he could only pray the bays didn't choose this particular moment to act up. "Believe me," he reiterated, and had to struggle to draw breath. "It's not aversion."
After a moment, she prompted, "Well?"
He'd told her she could ask. If he didn't get her wed and into bed soon, she might kill him with her questions. He exhaled; his chest felt as tight as a drum. Dredging deep for strength, he took a death grip on his inner demons. His voice almost quavering with the effort of not reacting, he explained, "That night in the moonlight, if I hadn't stopped when I did—hadn't got you back into the drawing room in short order—you would have found yourself ravished under the magnolia in the vicarage
courtyard." "Oh?"
Fascinated consideration rang in her tone.
"I'd even worked out how to accomplish the deed. I would have laid you on the stone edging around the tree and lifted your skirts—you wouldn't have stopped me."
He risked a glance at her; blushing lightly, she shrugged. "We'll never know the truth of that." He bit back a retort; narrow-eyed, he focused his gaze on her.
She glanced up, met it, and blushed more deeply. She looked ahead. After a moment, she wriggled, shifting on the seat. "All right. I understand about the courtyard, but why does it happen—you freezing like that—now? You even did it yesterday on the Heath when I accidentally bumped into you." Frowning, she looked up. "You can't want to ravish me every time we meet."
Oh, yes, he could. Demon gritted his teeth and let the bays lengthen their stride. "Desire is like a disease—once you've caught it, every further encounter makes it worse."
He was exceedingly thankful when she accepted that comment with a humph. She stared ahead, then he felt another of her considering glances.
"I won't break, you know. I won't have hysterics, or—" "Very likely." He uttered the words as repressively as he could.
She humphed again. "Well, I still don't understand. If you want to marry me anyway …"
He couldn't miss her implication—couldn't stop himself from turning his head—and reading, blazoned in the blue of her eyes, her curiosity, and a very definite invitation…
Swallowing a virulent curse, he swung his gaze back to the lane. Explaining might just have made things worse. He'd thus far managed to hold his demons in check—but what if she picked up the whip?
Oh no, no, no, no, no. He knew what he was, and what she was, and they were literally eons apart. It would take her years—at least an intensive six months—to even come close to comprehending the level of sexual knowledge he possessed. But he could guess what she was thinking, what route her innocent thoughts had taken. He had to head her off, quash any thoughts she had of jumping into that particular sea feet first. It simply couldn't happen like that. At least, not with him.
Unfortunately, at no point had she become wary of him, much to his disgust. She'd somehow gone from regarding him as an uncle to regarding him as an equal. Which was equally erroneous. His jaw ached, along with most of his body. As for his brain, that simply hurt. "It's not going to happen like that." The effort of explaining things he didn't want to risk thinking about was wearing him down.
"Oh?"
She had those Ohs down to a fine art—they always prodded him to explain.
"Desire leads to physical seduction but, in your case—in our case—that is not going to translate to any quick, rushed, illicit tumble in a courtyard or anywhere else."
He waited for her Oh; instead, she asked, "Why?"
Because he was going to train her to be his very own fallen angel. He shook aside the thought. "Because…" He struggled, then blinked; if he hadn't been driving, he would have flung up his hands in defeat. Setting his jaw, he reached for the whip. "Because you're an innocent, and you deserve better than that. And I know better than that." Oh, yes—this impinged on his ego as well. "I'll seduce you as you deserve to be seduced—slowly. Innocence isn't something you should discard like an old shoe. It has a physical value—a passionate value—all its own."
His frown deepening, he kept his gaze fixed on his leader's ears. "Innocence shouldn't be tarnished, it shouldn't be crushed. It should be made to bloom. I know." Those last two words were as much realization as assurance. "Getting innocence to bloom takes time, takes care and attention and expertise." His voice deepened. "It takes passion and desire, commitment and devotion to coax innocence from bud to bloom, to encourage it to unfurl into full flower without a single petal bruised."
Was he still talking of her innocence, or did he mean something more—something of which he was as innocent as she?
To his relief, she said nothing but sat silently and considered. He considered, too—all that he wanted, the totality of his desire.
He was acutely conscious of her sitting beside him. He could feel his own heartbeat, thudding in his chest, pulsing in his fingertips, throbbing in his loins. For long moments, the only sounds about them were the steady clack of the bays' hooves and the repetitive rattle of the wheels.
Then she stirred.
He shot her a glance, saw her frown—saw her open her mouth— He jerked his gaze forward. "And for God's sake, don't you dare ask why."
He felt her glare; from the corner of his eye, he saw her stick her nose in the air, shut her lips, primly fold her hands, and pointedly look over the landscape.
Jaw clenched, he whipped up his horses.
By the time they reached the gates of Hillgate End, he'd regained sufficient use of his brain to remember what he'd intended to tell Flick during the drive.
Setting the bays pacing up the shady avenue, he slanted a glance at her and wondered how much to reveal. Despite his distraction with her, he hadn't forgotten about the syndicate; he knew she hadn't, either.
The truth was, he was growing uneasy. They'd been following Bletchley for weeks and had learned nothing about the syndicate other than that it appeared exceedingly well organized. In the circumstances, he didn't feel happy about fixing all their hopes on Bletchley.
So he'd racked his brain for alternatives. He'd considered requesting help from the rest of the Bar Cynster but had yet to do so. Vane and Patience were in Kent; Gabriel and Lucifer were in London, but needed to keep their eyes on the twins. Richard was, at last report, rather busy with his witch in Scotland. And Devil would be busy with spring planting. Be that as it may, Devil was reasonably close at Somersham. If things got difficult, he'd call on Devil, but, given that all matters to do with racing fell within his particular area of expertise, there seemed little point in summoning aid just yet. He needed to sight the enemy first, before he called in the cavalry.
To which end…
He drew the curricle up before the steps with a flourish and stepped down. Taking Flick's hand, he helped her alight, then fell in beside her as she headed for the steps.
"I'm going to London tomorrow—there's some business I need to see to." He stopped at the base of the steps.
Already two steps up, she halted and swung to face him, a whole host of questions in her eyes. "I'll be back the day after tomorrow, probably late."
"But… what about Bletchley?"
"Don't worry about him." He trapped her blue gaze. "Gillies, Hills and Cross will keep an eye on him." Flick blinked at him. "But what if something happens?"
"I doubt it will, but Gillies will know what to do."
Flick had far less confidence in Gillies than she had in his master. However… she nodded. "Very well." She held out her hand. "I'll wish you a safe journey, then."
Taking her hand, he lifted a brow. "And a speedy return?"
She raised her brows haughtily. "I dare say I'll see you when you get back."
He trapped her gaze. His fingers shifted about her hand—raising it, he turned it and pressed his lips fleetingly to her wrist.
Her pulse leapt; she caught her breath. He smiled devilishly. "Count on it."
Releasing her hand, he swept her an elegant bow and strode back to his waiting horses.
Flick watched as he leapt up to the seat, then wheeled the bays with matchless authority and set them pacing down the drive. She watched until he disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the shadows beneath the trees.
A frown slowly forming in her eyes, she turned and climbed the steps. The door was unlatched; she went in, closing it behind her. Crossing the hall, she greeted Jacobs with an absentminded smile, then continued on through the house, out on to the terrace and so onto the lawn. The lawn she had so often in recent times strolled with Demon.
If anyone had told her even three weeks before that the thought of not seeing a gentleman for two whole days would dim her mood—would sap her anticipation for those same days—she would have laughed.
She wasn't laughing now.
Not that she was about to succumb to listless lassitude, she had far too much to do. Like deciding how she felt about desire.
She considered the point as she passed beneath the trees and on into the wisteria-shaded walk. Hands clasped behind her, she fell to slowly pacing up and down the gravel.
He wanted to marry her—he intended to marry her. He expected her to say yes—he clearly believed she would.
After this afternoon, and their frank conversation, she at least knew precisely where he stood. He wanted to marry her for all the socially acceptable reasons, and because he desired her.
Which left her facing one very large, formidable question. Would she accept him?
It wasn't a question she'd expected to face. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he, her idol—her ideal gentleman—would want to marry her. Would look at her, a pigtailed brat reborn, and feel desire. The only reason she could state that point, and view the prospect with quite amazing equanimity, was that, deep down, she was still struggling to believe it.
It still seemed like a dream. But…
She knew he was in earnest.
Reaching the end of the walk, she squinted at the clock above the stable arch. There was still an hour before luncheon; all about her was silent, no one else was in sight. Turning, she fell to pacing again, trying to organize her thoughts into a sensible sequence.
The first point she had to consider was obvious. Did she love Demon? Somewhat to her surprise, the answer was easy.
"I've been secretly in love with him for years," she muttered. The admission left her with a very odd feeling in her stomach.
She was so disconcerted, so startled to find her heart had made up its mind long ago and not told her, that she reached the end of the walk before she could set the point aside, accept that it was decided, and move on.
"Next, does he love me?"
No answer came. She mentally replayed their conversations, but there was nothing he'd said that shed light on that point.
She grimaced. "What if he doesn't love me?"
The answer to that was absolute. If he didn't love her, she couldn't marry him. Her certainty was unshakeable, deeply embedded within her.
To her mind, love and marriage went hand in hand. She knew that wasn't society's view, but it was hers, formed by her own observations. Her parents had loved deeply—it had shown in their faces, in their demeanor, whenever they'd been in the same room. She'd been seven when she'd last seen them, waving good-bye from the rail of their boat as it pulled away from the dock. While their features had blurred with the years, that glow that had always been theirs had not—it still shone strongly in her memory.
They'd left her a fortune, and they'd left her a memory—she was grateful for the fortune, but she valued the memory more. The knowledge of what love and marriage could be was a precious, timeless legacy.
One she would not turn her back on.
She wanted that glow for herself—she always had. She'd grown up with that expectation. From all she'd gleaned about the General and his wife, Margery, theirs, too, had been a union blessed.
Which brought her back to Demon.
Frowning, she paced back and forth, considering his reasons for marrying her. His socially acceptable reasons were all very well, yet superficial and not essential. They could be dismissed, taken for granted.
Which left her with desire.
One minute was enough to summarize all she knew on that subject. Questions like Did desire encompass love? Did love encompass desire? were beyond her ability to answer. Until this past week, she hadn't even known what desire was, and while she now knew what it felt like, her experience of it remained minimal. A fact their recent discussion had emphasized.
There was clearly much she had to learn about desire—love or no love.
For the next half hour, she paced and pondered; by the time the lunch gong sounded, she'd reached one clear conclusion, which raised one simple question. She had, she thought, as she strolled back to the house, made good progress.
Her conclusion was absolute and inviolable—utterly unchangeable. She would marry with love, or not at all. She wanted to love, and be loved in return—it was that or nothing.
As for her question, it was straightforward and pertinent: Was it possible to start with desire—strong desire—and progress to love?
Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes. She felt reassured, certain of what she wanted, how to face what was to come.
If Demon wanted to marry her, wanted her to say yes when he asked for her hand, then he would need to teach her more about desire, and convince her that her question could be answered in the affirmative.
Opening her eyes, she lifted her skirts; climbing the steps, she went in to lunch.
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he'd hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.
Unbeknown to Flick, he'd visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he'd fixed. He'd then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers' odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high—the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.
It was worth a try.
The road sped beneath his wheels. Demon's thoughts drifted back—to Flick. Impatience gripped him, a restless urge to hurry.
So he could return to Newmarket.
Lips setting, he shook aside the nagging worry—what possible trouble could she get into in two days? He would remain in London for only one night. Bletchley seemed settled; Gillies had his orders. All would be well.
His gaze fixed on the road ahead, he urged the bays on.
Three hours later, neatly garbed in her velvet riding habit and perched upon Jessamy, Flick went riding on Newmarket Heath.
Naturally, she expected to see Bletchley, idly watching the last of the morning gallops as he had for the past week.
To her consternation, she didn't see him. She couldn't find Gillies, Cross or Hills, either. Sitting straight in her saddle, she scanned the gallops—the rising stretches of turf where the last strings were pounding—then turned to survey the surrounding flats. To no avail.
"Isn't that just typical!" Gathering Jessamy's reins, she wheeled the mare and rode straight into town.
Without any idea what to do, Flick walked Jessamy down the paved street. Most of those about belonged to the racing fraternity—stable lads, grooms, trainers, jockeys. Some knew her and bobbed respectfully; all looked Jessamy over with keen professional eyes. Flick barely noticed.
Where had Bletchley been staying? She couldn't remember the inn's name. Demon had said it wasn't in Newmarket, but somewhere to the north.
But what had happened to Gillies and the others? They'd watched Bletchley for this long without mishap—could he finally have identified them and…
And what? She had no idea.
Doggedly, she headed north up the High Street, an ill-formed plan of inquiring at the inns to the north of town in mind. Halfway up the street, she came to the Rutland Arms, the main coaching inn. The mailcoach squatted like a huge black beetle before the inn's main door; she glanced at the passengers waiting to board.
A flash of scarlet caught her eye; abruptly she reined in. A curse from behind had her turning in her saddle. "Oh—I'm so sorry." Blushing, she drew Jessamy aside to let the racing string she'd impeded pass. The long file of horses with lads atop gave her useful cover; screened by them, she peered across the street.
"Yes!" Eyes lighting, Flick saw Bletchley, his red neckerchief a beacon, clamber up to the coach's roof. Then she frowned. "Why is he going to Bury St. Edmunds?"
Raising his yard, the guard blew a warning; the next instant, the coach lurched. Overloaded with men, apparently in rowdy mood, clinging to the roof, it ponderously rolled off up the High Street.
Flick stared after it. While she had no idea why Bletchley was heading to Bury St. Edmunds, it seemed
unlikely he'd stop anywhere en route. There simply wasn't anywhere en route.
She had to find Gillies, and find out what had happened to him and Hills and Cross. She quickly turned Jessamy south, toward the stud farm.
And spied Gillies mounted on a hack not ten yards away. With a muttered exclamation, she trotted Jessamy over.
"Did you see?" She drew rein beside him. "Bletchley's gone off to Bury St. Edmunds." "Aye." Gillies's gaze drifted up the street in the wake of the departing coach. "Well"—Flick settled Jessamy as she danced—"we'd better follow him." Gillies's gaze snapped to her face. "Follow 'im?"
"Of course." Flick frowned. "Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?" Gillies looked uncertain.
"Where are Hills and Cross?" Flick asked impatiently.
"Hills is at the farm—he was last on watch. Cross is over there." Gillies indicated with his chin. "He was watching Bletchley this morning."
Flick located the lugubrious Cross lounging in a doorway across the street. "Yes, well, now Bletchley has made a move, we'll need to organize to follow him."
"We will?"
Flick stared at Gillies. "What is the matter with you? Didn't Demon leave you with orders to follow Bletchley?"
Gillies stared back, then, mute, shook his head.
Flick stared even more; she couldn't imagine what was going on. But Gillies and Cross were out and about. "What are your orders?"
Gillies's face fell; his eyes took on the look of a mournful spaniel's. "To follow you, miss, and keep you out of trouble."
Only the fact that they were in a crowded public place prevented Flick from giving Gillies her opinion of his master's arrogance. His overweening conceit. His ridiculous male ego.
By the time she, with Gillies and Cross in tow, had retreated to the now empty Heath, she'd calmed down—to simmering. "I don't care what orders he gave before he left, he couldn't have foreseen Bletchley leaving. But he has, so we must improvise."
Gillies remained blank-faced. "The master was most particular, miss. He said we was to hold the fort here, and not let—not make any rash moves. Anyway, there's no need to follow Bletchley to Bury—chances are, when he wants to hie back to London, he'll come back through here on the coach."
"That's not the point!" Flick declared.
"Isn't it?" Standing beside them, Cross squinted up at Flick. "I thought that was it—that we was to watch him in Newmarket and see who he talked to here."
"Not just here." Flick drew a calming breath. "We need to see who he talks to wherever he goes. He might be going to Bury to meet with his masters."
Cross blinked. "Nah, he'll be—"
Gillies coughed, succumbing to a veritable paroxysm that had both Flick and Cross looking at him in concern. Blinking, he shook his head, waving his hand back and forth in a negative gesture. "It's all right," he said to Flick, but his eyes, bright and sharp, were fixed on Cross.
Cross's expression blanked. "Oh. Ah. Right—well."
Flick frowned at him. "We must organize to pick up the watch on Bletchley when he gets to Bury. The mail coach takes hours, so we have a little time."
"Ah—it's not that simple, miss." Gillies exchanged a glance with Cross. "Both Cross here and Hills have duties on the farm—they can't simply up and leave for Bury."
"Oh." Flick looked at Cross; he nodded.
"Aye—wouldn't do for us to leave the youngsters unsupervised, like." ,
Flick grimaced. It was spring, and the stud farm would be a hive of rather serious activity; taking two senior stablemen away at this time was impossible. Especially not from an enterprise as highly regarded as Demon's. Absentmindedly, she settled Jessamy—tail swishing, the mare was growing increasingly restless.
Glancing up, Flick saw Gillies and Cross exchange a look she couldn't interpret; they almost looked pleased. "Well," she stated, "as we can't afford to let Bletchley roam about unwatched, I'll have to go to Bury myself."
Gillies's and Cross's reactions to that were easy to read—their eyes went round and their mouths dropped open.
Gillies recovered first. "But… but… you can't go alone." His eyes looked slightly wild.
Flick frowned. "No, but I don't want to take my maid." She looked at Gillies. "You'll have to come, too."
The lugubrious Cross shook his head. "Nah, you don't want to go to Bury just now." He looked hopefully at Flick.
She looked steadily back. "As Bletchley has taken himself off, I expect you should get back to the stud."
Ponderously, Cross nodded. "Aye, I'd better, at that. I'll tell Hills we don' have no pigeon to watch any more."
Tight-lipped, Gillies nodded.
As Cross lumbered off, Flick turned back to Gillies. A militant light in her eye, she transfixed him with a glance. "We had better make some plans over how to watch Bletchley at Bury St. Edmunds."
Gillies stiffened his spine. "Miss, I really don't think—"
"Gillies." Flick didn't raise her voice, but her tone stopped Gillies in his tracks. "I am going to Bury to watch Bletchley. All you need to decide is whether you'll accompany me or not."
Gillies studied her face, then heaved a sigh. "Perhaps, we'd better have a word with Master Dillon. Seeing as it's on his account, an' all."
Flick frowned harder; Gillies sucked in a quick breath. "Who knows? Maybe Master Dillon has some idea of what Bletchley's doing at Bury?"
Flick blinked, then raised her brows. "You're right. Dillon might know—or be able to guess." She looked around. It was lunchtime; the Heath was empty. "I'll need to go home for lunch or they'll miss me. Meet me at the start of the track to the cottage at two."
Resigned, Gillies nodded.
Flick returned the gesture curtly, then loosened her reins, tapped her heels to Jessamy's sides, and raced home.
After polishing off a late lunch at White's, Demon retired to the reading room with a cup of coffee and a large news sheet, behind which he could hide. That last was occasioned by his encounter with the Honorable Edward Ralstrup, an old friend who had joined him for lunch.
"There's a gathering at Hillgarth's tonight. All the usual crowd, of course." Eyes bright, Edward had thrown him an engaging grin. "Nothing like a few highly bred challenges to tune one up for the Season, what?"
"Challenges?" He'd immediately thought of Flick.
Edward's expression was one of blissful anticipation. "The ladies Onslow, Carmichael, Bristow—need I go on? Not, of course, that you'll need to extend yourself—not with the countess champing at the bit."
"The countess?" Reluctantly, he'd dragged his mind back from Newmarket and focused on the woman he'd shown to the door before he'd driven north. "I thought she'd returned to the Continent."
"No, no." Edward winked. "Seems she's conceived an affection for things English, don't you know. Colston had a touch at her—well, word was you'd gone north indefinitely—but it seems she's determined to hold out for… well, her description was 'something rather more'."
"Oh." He'd been conscious of a definite longing for Newmarket.
His less-than-enthusiastic response hadn't registered with Edward. "After Hillgarth's, if you're still standing, so to speak, there's Mrs. Melton's rout. Quite sure it'll be that, too—plenty of action there. And then tomorrow…"
He'd let Edward rattle on, while his mind slid back to Newmarket, to the golden-haired angel who was waiting for him, and who didn't know the first thing about matters sensual, let alone "something rather more."
"So—what do you say? Shall I pick you up at eight?"
It had taken all his persuasive talents to convince Edward that he wasn't interested—not in the countess or the many other delights that would be offered him about town. In the end, he'd escaped only by assuring Edward that he had to hie north again at dawn and was not about to risk his horses by
staying up all night. As his care for his equine beauties was a byword throughout the ton, Edward had finally accepted that he was serious.
"And," Demon had added, struck by inspiration, "you might oblige me by letting it be known among the brotherhood that I've relinquished all claim on the countess."
"Ooh!" Edward had brightened at that. "I'll do that, yes. Nice bit of sport we should see over that."
Demon certainly hoped so. The countess was a demanding and grasping woman. While her lush body had provided a temporary distraction, one he'd paid handsomely and generously for, he had no doubt that his interest in her had been just that—temporary. Indeed, it had waned on the day he'd headed north.
Sinking into a deep armchair and arranging the news sheet like a wall before him, he settled to sip his coffee and ponder the discovery that life as he had known it—the life of a rakehell in the glittering world of the ton—no longer held any allure. Somewhat to his surprise, he could still imagine attending balls and parties—just as long as he had a certain angel by his side. He would enjoy introducing her to the ton's entertainments, just to see the expression in her wide eyes.
But the ton without Flick?
Anywhere without Flick?
He took a long sip of his coffee. This, he thought darkly, was what happened when fate caught a Cynster in her coils.
He was sitting in London, a town teeming with uncounted beauties, a surprising number of whom would be easily enough persuaded to reveal their charms to him—and he wasn't interested. Not in the beauties—not in their charms, naked or otherwise.
The only woman he was interested in was Flick.
He recalled imagining that it could never happen—that he'd never be satisfied with one woman. But it had. The only woman for him now was Flick.
And she was in Newmarket. Hopefully behaving herself.
Doing the vases, reading her novels, and twiddling her thumbs. Possibly thinking about desire.
He shifted in his seat, then frowned. No matter what setting he placed her in, his image of a patient Flick was not convincing.
Ten minutes later, he strode down the steps of White's, his goal the mews close by his lodgings where his bays were presently housed. There was no reason he couldn't leave London immediately. He'd seen Montague that morning, and spent an hour explaining the details of the race-fixing. Montague had done a few quick calculations and concurred with his assessment. The amount of money taken was enormous—it should show up somewhere.
Montague had connections Demon didn't want to know about. He'd left the hard-working agent, who thankfully thrived on financial challenges, with a gleam in his eye. If there was any way to track members
of the syndicate through the money they'd taken, Montague would find it.
Which left him free to return to Newmarket, to the watch on Bletchley and his wooing of Flick.
Glancing down, he considered his attire—town rig of trousers, morning coat and shoes. There was no real reason to change. He doubted Flick would even notice, much less make anything of the fact that he hadn't stopped to change before racing back to her side.
Lips twisting wryly, he lengthened his stride and headed straight for the mews.
"Bury St. Edmunds?" Dillon frowned at Flick, then slumped into the chair at the head of the old table. "Why there?"
Flick pulled up a stool, waving Gillies to the other, wishing he was his master instead. "We were hoping you might have some clue. Obviously not."
Dillon shook his head, his expression one of patent bewilderment. "I wouldn't have thought there was any possible attraction in Bury, not for the likes of Bletchley."
"So," Flick stated, her tone businesslike, "we'll need to go to Bury and find out what the attraction' is. Like you, I can't see any reason Bletchley would have gone there, other than to meet with his masters."
Gillies, who'd been listening carefully, and even more carefully sizing up Dillon, cleared his throat. "There's a prizefight on in Bury St. Edmunds tomorrow morning. That's almost certainly why Bletchley's hied off there. The reigning champion of all England is to take the ring against the latest challenger."
"Really?" Dillon's lassitude fell away—he was suddenly all eager youth. "A prizefight," Flick breathed, in the tone of one for whom a light has dawned.
Frowning, Gillies looked from one to the other. "Aye—so there'll be all manner of bucks and bloods and dangerous blades up from London—the town'll be fair crawling with them."
"Damn!" Dillon sat back, a frown in his eyes. Gillies heaved a sigh of relief.
"Fancy a prizefight so close and I daren't show my face." Dillon grimaced and looked at Flick, clearly inviting her sympathy.
She wasn't looking at him. Grinning, her face alight, she slapped the table. "That's it!" Gillies jumped. "What's it?"
"The prizefight, of course! It's the perfect venue for Bletchley to meet with his masters." Triumph in her eyes, she spread her hands. "It's obvious—members of the syndicate can come up from London and meet with Bletchley without in any way stepping out of their normal roles, their normal pastimes, the places they would normally be found. A prizefight is perfect."
Gillies paled. "No—I don't—
"You know," Dillon cut in, "you just might be right."
"Of course I'm right." Flick set her riding gloves on the table. "Now we need to work out how to keep an eye on Bletchley at Bury, given there's only me and Gillies to keep watch."
Both Flick and Dillon frowned; Gillies stared at them in patent dismay. "The master won't want you going to any prizefight." He made the statement to Flick, then looked at Dillon.
Dillon wrinkled his nose. "It'll be tricky, but the prizefight must be the venue for Bletchley to meet his masters. Someone's got to watch him."
Gillies dragged in a breath. "I'll go."
Dillon regarded Gillies, then grimaced. "Without belittling your skills, Gillies, it's damned difficult for one person to keep a full-time watch on a target in a crowd."
"Indeed." Flick frowned. "And besides, what if the meeting is held upstairs at the inn, in a private room? I can go upstairs." She turned to Gillies. "You can't."
"Well," Dillon put in, "you won't be able to either, not if you're disguised as a stable lad." "I'm not going disguised as a lad."
Dillon and Gillies stared at Flick—Dillon with interest, Gillies with trepidation. Flick smiled determinedly. "I'm going as a widow—I have to be able to get a room to stay the night." ,
"The night?" Dillon queried. Gillies simply stared.
"Most spectators from London will arrive this evening, won't they?" Flick glanced at Gillies. "Aye." His voice was weak.
"Well, then—if a meeting is to be held, it could be held either tonight or tomorrow—which would probably mean after the fight." Flick frowned. "If I was doing the organizing, I'd hold the meeting tonight. There's bound to be groups gathering to while away the evening—another group meeting in a private parlor would cause no comment. But if they meet tomorrow, after the fight, it'll seem rather odd, won't it?" She glanced at Gillies. "I imagine most of the Londoners will leave from the field?"
Woodenly, Gillies nodded.
"Right, then." Flick nodded curtly. "The Angel's the major inn at Bury—it's likely everyone will gather there. So that's where I'll stay—we'll make that our headquarters. Between us, Gillies and I should be able to keep Bletchley in sight."
"The Angel will be booked out," Gillies protested. "Won't be any way you'll get a room there." Flick's eyes narrowed. "I'll get a room—don't worry on that score."
"You said you'd go as a widow," Dillon looked at her. "Why a widow?"
Flick's determined smile deepened. "One"—she ticked her points off on her fingers—"men always seem to consider young widows to be in especial need of protection, which will help me get a room. Two, widows can wear concealing veils without raising brows. Three, a widow can travel alone—or at least with only her coachman." She looked at Gillies. "If you'd rather stay here and await your master, I can get Jonathon to drive me." Jonathon was the Hillgate End coachman.
Very definitely, Gillies shook his head. "I'll stick with you." Under his breath, he grumbled, "Those were my orders. Necks are going to be wrung enough over this without me sticking mine out."
Lifting his head, Gillies looked at Dillon and tried one last time. "The master's not going to like this."
Flick didn't think Demon would approve either, but she wasn't going to point out the obvious. Dillon, however, did. "Pity Cynster's not here."
"But he's not." Flick swept up her gloves and stood. "So it's up to us to manage." She looked at Gillies. "Come to the manor stable as soon as you can—I want to leave within the hour."
In the well-sprung manor carriage, the trip from Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds did not take long. They rolled into the town as the last traces of the day were fading from the western sky.
They joined the long queue of curricles, carriages, gigs and carts barely crawling along the main street.
Peering out the carriage window, Flick was amazed at the number of conveyances clogging the usually clear road. The clack of horses' hooves, the snap of whips and innumerable ripe curses filled the air. The pavements were awash with surging masses of men—laborers in drab, country squires in their tweeds, and gentlemen of every hue, from the nattily attired sportsman to the elegant rake, to the brash blades and bucks casting their eyes over any female unwise enough to appear in their sight.
Sitting back, Flick was glad of her thick veil. Not only would it hide her face but it would also hide her blushes. Glancing down, she wished she'd stopped to find a more "widowish" dress—one with a high neckline and voluminous skirts, preferably in dull black. In her haste, she'd donned one of her day gowns, a scooped-necked, high waisted gown in soft voile in her favorite shade of lavender-blue. In it, she didn't look the least like a widow—she suspected she looked very young.
She would have to remember to keep her cloak fully about her at all times whenever she was out of her room. The cloak, luckily, was perfect—voluminous, heavy and dark with a deep hood. An old trunk, in the attic recalled from childhood rummagings had yielded the heavy, black lace veil.
Old-fashioned it might be, but it was precisely what she needed—it covered her whole head, her hair as well as her face, obscuring all identifiable features, yet it did not interfere too drastically with her vision.
She was going to need to see, and see well, to play the part she would need to play.
With the veil over her head, and her hood up, the whole secured with two pins, she was certain no one would recognize her. As long as she kept her cloak completely about her, all would be well.
Clutching her black reticule, also liberated from the old trunk, she waited impatiently for the sign of The Angel to appear. The carriage rocked, stopped, then rocked and stopped again. The sound of carriage wheels scraping came to her ears—she promptly shut them to the ensuing curses.
Fixing her gaze on the carriage's wall, she reviewed her plans. She had, she thought, managed well thus far. She'd told the General she'd taken a sudden notion to visit a friend, Melissa Blackthorn, who helpfully lived just beyond Bury St. Edmunds. Over the past ten years, she and Melissa had frequently simply visited, without formal arrangements. The General was always at home, and the Blackthorns were always in residence; there was never any danger of not finding a welcome. So she'd claimed she would visit Melissa and, as usual, stay overnight.
Both the General and Foggy had accepted her decision with a little too much readiness for her liking. The General's understanding smile, his gentle pat on her hand, had left her with the distinct—and she was sure not inaccurate—impression that he thought it was Demon's absence that had prompted her visit to Melissa. That his absence was the cause of her restlessness.
Flick wasn't at all sure how she felt about that—irritated, yes, but in a rather odd way. Frowning,
she glanced out of the window and abruptly sat up. They were passing the main courtyard of The Angel, already a sea of men and boys all heading in one direction or another. The majority of visitors were still finding places to lay their heads; Flick prayed, very hard, that she'd be successful in carrying out the next phase of her plan. An instant later, the carriage lurched, then turned, and rumbled under the arch into the stable yard of The Angel.
Where pandemonium reigned.
Gillies hauled the horses to a stop, and two inn boys rushed to the carriage. One pulled open the door and let down the steps; the other ran to the boot. Flick allowed the first to take her hand and help her down; as the second, discovering the boot was empty, returned at a loss, she waved him to the carriage. "My bag is in there."
Her voice was steady; she'd deepened and strengthened her usual tones so that she sounded older, more commanding. It seemed to work; retrieving her one small bag, the inn boys stood respectfully as, having handed the horses over to the ostlers, Gillies came up.
Lifting her arms wide, palms up to encompass the scene, Flick turned dramatically and launched into her charade. "Good gracious, Giles! Just look at this crowd! Whatever's afoot?"
Gillies simply stared at her.
One of the inn boys shifted his weight. "It's a prizefight, m'lady. Over on Cobden's field t'morrow mornin'."
"A prizefight!" Pressing a hand to her cloaked breast, Flick fell back a step. "Oh, how distressing!" She glanced about, then looked at the inn. "I do hope the innkeeper has a room left—I could not possibly go another mile."
She stared—beneath her veil she glared—at Gillies. After a moment, he said rather woodenly, "Indeed not, ma'am." At least he'd remembered to address her as ma'am.
"Come, Giles—we must speak to the innkeeper immediately!" Gesturing dramatically toward the inn's main doors, she picked up her skirts and led the way. Her feminine tones, carrying a hint of imminent distress, had caused more than a few heads to turn, but, as she'd anticipated, the inn boys, responding to her dramatic flair, bustled close, eager to be part of whatever scene was to follow; together with the recently christened Giles, they cleared a path for her to the inn door.
Beyond the door lay a wide reception area fronted by a long counter presently manned by three harassed individuals—the innkeeper, his wife, and his brother. The length of the counter was packed with men-—Flick could only catch glimpses of those behind it. Between her and the counter ranged a wall of male shoulders.
It had been years since she'd visited The Angel, but Flick recognized the innkeeper and made a beeline for him, giving wordless thanks when his sharp-eyed wife was called to deal with a customer at the counter's other end. The helpful inn boys, seeing that she'd be swamped, sent up a shout, waving her bag high. "Make way for the lady."
Flick could have kissed them.
Gentlemen's heads turned at the mention of a lady; as they took in her dark cloak and veil, those in her
path politely stepped back. Between the inn boys and Gillies, she was conducted to the counter; as she fronted it, however, her escort deferentially stepped back, leaving her surrounded by gentlemen.
All of whom were studying her rather speculatively.
The innkeeper blinked at her; his expression one of concern, he asked, "Aye, ma'am?" Flick took her courage in both hands.
"Kind sir"—her voice hinted at a quaver—"I have just arrived in your fair town only to discover this crowd before me." Setting her big black reticule on the counter before her, she clasped her hands tight about it so the innkeeper could not miss the huge square-cut topaz she wore on one gloved finger. It was not an expensive stone, but it was impressive in size and style; the innkeeper's eyes duly widened. Casting an agitated glance about her, she declared, "I have already travelled far this day—I cannot go further. My horses, too…" She let the words fade, as if the situation threatened to overwhelm her.
Turning back to the innkeeper, looking into his face, she imploringly put out a hand. "Oh, dear sir, please say you have one more room left for me?"
Her plea caused a hush.
The innkeeper pursed his lips. "Hmm." Brow furrowing, he drew his ledger closer and made a great show of scanning his lists of rooms, all of which Flick knew must already be taken.
Tapping his pencil, he glanced up at her. "Just you, is it, ma'am?"
Flick drew a deep breath. "Yes." She made the word sound very small, very weak. "I…" She drew in another breath and clasped her fingers more tightly on the reticule; the facets of the topaz flashed. "I was recently widowed—well, it's been six months, now, I suppose—I've been travelling… for my health, you understand."
She delivered the words in a slightly breathless rush, with what she hoped was just the right degree of feminine fragility. The innkeeper's lips formed a silent Oh, then he nodded and looked down.
Exceedingly glad of her veil, Flick glanced about; the innkeeper's eyes were not the only ones in which calculation gleamed.
"I say, Hodges," one of her neighbors drawled, "you'll have to find a room for the lady—can't possibly send her out into the night."
A deep rumble of assent rose on all sides.
"For the honor of Bury St. Edmunds, if nothing else," some other helpful soul put in.
The innkeeper, who was now scrubbing out and rewriting names on his lists, threw them a distracted frown. That didn't please some of his more arrogant customers. "Aside from the town's honor, what about this house's honor?" Directing a too-smooth smile her way, one rakish buck leaned on the counter. "Surely, Hodges, old chap," he drawled, "you wouldn't want it known that you're the sort of innkeep who turns away helpless widows?"
Flick gritted her teeth and suppressed an impulse to deliver a swift kick to the buck's nearby shin; Hodges was now scowling.
Luckily, he was scowling at the buck. "No need to take that tone, m'lord. I've found the lady a nice room—I hope I know my duty."
He shut his ledger with a snap. Turning, he reached for a key hanging with a full score of others on a board behind the counter. To Flick's consternation, all the gentlemen around her leaned forward, squinting at the board to read the number of her room!
She had, she realized, just saddled herself with a large number of champions, some of whom might be entertaining notions of a reward.
But as the innkeeper turned with a key dangling in his hand, she was too relieved to worry.
"If you'll just come this way, ma'am?" He waved to the end of the counter, to where a wide staircase led upward. Then he turned to the waiting crowd. "You gentlemen won't mind biding your time until I get the lady settled."
It wasn't a question. Grinning behind her veil, Flick glided to the staircase. Hodges, despite being a resident of Bury St. Edmunds, was clearly up to snuff.
Gillies returned to her side to briefly murmur, "I'll go find Bletchley." Then he melted into the ever-increasing crush as the innkeeper joined her.
"This way, ma'am."
Five minutes later, with a great deal of graciousness and enough care to make her feel slightly guilty, she was installed in the very best chamber the inn possessed. Hodges admitted as much when she exclaimed over the size of the room and the superior quality of the furniture.
With a gruff suggestion that she might prefer to have her dinner on a tray to avoid the crowd downstairs—a suggestion with which she readily agreed—he left her.
Flick blew out a breath, then returned to the door and threw the bolt. Crossing to the bed, she sank down upon it; extracting her pins, she pushed back her hood and veil.
And grinned triumphantly.
She'd done it! On the eve of a prizefight, she'd secured a room at the most prominent inn.
Now all she needed to do was find Bletchley—and follow him into his masters' presence.
Leaving Newmarket, Demon headed south, past the racecourse and his stable and on across the empty Heath. As he tickled his leader's ear, then sent the whip hissing back up its handle, the last glow in the west died. Night came slowly, approaching on silent wings, borne on the shadows that reached over the Heath to enfold the country in darkness. Before him lay his stud farm, with its comfortable parlor and one of Mrs. Shephard's excellent country dinners.
Between him and supreme comfort lay Hillgate End.
It was awfully late to pay a social call, but even before he'd formulated an excuse, he checked the bays and turned them up the manor's drive. Flick would be glad he was back early—she could tell him if anything had transpired in his absence. So could Gillies, of course, but he'd rather hear it from Flick. He'd only stay for a minute, just to assure himself all was well.
He brought the curricle to a scrunching halt in the gravel before the steps. A groom or stable
lad—he couldn't see in the gloom—came loping across from the stable.
"I'll only be a few minutes," he called as he strode up the steps. Just long enough to see Flick's smile—to see her anticipation of tomorrow come alive.
Jacobs opened the door to his knock.
"Good evening, Jacobs." Crossing the threshold, he drew off his gloves. "Is Miss Parteger about?"
"I'm afraid not, sir." Jacobs closed the door and turned. "She left this afternoon to visit with a friend. I believe she's expected back tomorrow."
Demon managed to keep the frown from his face—he knew it showed in his eyes. "A friend."
"Miss Blackthorn, sir. She and Miss Parteger have been in the way of exchanging visits over the past years."
"I… see." The proposition that, with Bletchley on the Heath, Flick had abdicated her responsibilities—what she saw as her responsibilities—and had happily gone off to visit a friend, just like any other young lady, was simply too much to swallow. But Jacobs's easy expression declared that he knew no more; with a curt nod, Demon stepped to the door. "Tell her I called when she returns."
Jacobs hauled open the door. "And the General?"
Demon hesitated. "Don't bother him—I'll call and see him tomorrow."
He went swiftly down the steps and strode to his curricle, every instinct he possessed flickering, every nerve jangling. Accepting the reins with a distracted nod, he stepped up to the box seat and sat. Raising his hands to give the bays the office, he glanced at the groom.
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.
"Oh, no!" Aghast, Flick glanced to where Bletchley was nearing the far end of the courtyard, bounded by a few scraggly bushes, then she looked at Gillies, trapped and helpless in the middle of the crowd.
From where Gillies was, he couldn't see Bletchley's direction. He also didn't know where she was—that she could, if he looked her way, direct him. Gillies had lost Bletchley, and there was no way she could set him right—she could hardly fling up the window and shout down.
Lifting her gaze, Flick saw Bletchley reach the courtyard's far boundary. He didn't halt; he didn't look around. Pushing through the low bushes, he stepped out purposefully, into the dark. Heading straight up Angel Hill.
To meet with his masters—she just knew it!
Smothering a scream, she whirled and grabbed her cloak. Her veil went flying, disappearing over the edge of the bed; the pins clattered on the floor.
She didn't have time to stop. Dragging the cloak about her, she hauled the deep hood over and down so her face was heavily shadowed. Fingers flicking frantically, she cinched the cloak's laces at her throat, checked to make sure that the cloak was fully about her, then threw the bolt on the door and slipped out, pausing only to lock the door behind her.
Hurrying down the dimly lit corridor, she dredged her memory for all knowledge of the inn. She was on the first floor; the long corridor that crossed hers ended in a side stair leading down to a door just around the corner from the courtyard. Reaching the intersection, she turned and hurried on. Most of the inn's patrons were downstairs; there was no one about. All but running down the narrow carpet, Flick prayed her luck would hold.
She reached the narrow side stair; clinging to the shadows, she descended. The small hall before the side door was empty. She stepped out to cross it—
A door in the wall to her left crashed open. Two maids hurried through, carrying trays of used pots and jugs. They glanced at Flick, plastered back against the wall, but they didn't stop—they rushed on, down the corridor.
Flick dragged in a breath, steadied her pounding heart, and determinedly stepped to the door. It opened easily.
It gave onto a narrow cobbled area around the corner from the courtyard. From her left, noise rolled out and away, into the dark; the flickering flares made little impact on the night beyond.
Closing the door behind her, Flick faced Angel Hill.
Unfortunately, the cobbled area was used to house crates and barrels; it had been extended away from the inn, encroaching on the flank of the hill, where it ended in a high retaining wall. The only way she could gain the hillside and follow Bletchley was to skirt around to her left, cutting through the area dimly lit by the flares.
And risking someone—some man in the courtyard—seeing her.
Flick hesitated. Her back to the wall, safe in her dark cloak in the shadows, she thought of Demon, and Dillon, and the unknown syndicate.
Then she thought of the General.
Drawing a deep breath, she straightened and stepped away from the wall.
She didn't look back—didn't risk the light gleaming on her face or hands. She walked quickly and
silently across, skirting the low bushes edging the courtyard and onto the lowest slope of Angel Hill.
Without pause, she walked on, even after the light of the flares had died behind her. Only when the night had swallowed her up and the noise of the courtyard was fading did she stop, draw a deep, reviving breath, and exhale with relief. Then, lifting her skirts, sending fervent thanks to her guardian angel, she hurried on. In Bletchley's wake.
After arranging stabling for Ivan with The Angel's harassed grooms, Demon strolled under the arch separating the courtyard from the stable yard. He stopped and scanned the scene just as Flick appeared briefly in the weak light of the flares on the rising ground on the far side of the courtyard. If he hadn't been looking for her, if she hadn't taken complete possession of his mind, he would have seen nothing more than the outline of a swinging cloak, a shadow against the deeper shadows of the night.
As matters stood, that was enough—he knew it was Flick.
He didn't know where she was going, but that wasn't hard to guess. Swallowing his curses—saving them for later—he stepped into the crowd.
And immediately, inwardly, cursed some more. He couldn't race after her.
He had more than a few friends there—he'd known of the fight, and would probably have attended if he hadn't been so busy with Flick and her syndicate. His friends, of course, thought he'd come to join them.
"Demon!"
"You took your time. Where're you staying?" "So—who've you got your money on?"
Adopting an expression of fashionable boredom on his face, Demon answered at random.
If his friends saw him striding into the night, they might follow out of idle curiosity. There was, however, an even greater danger. Many of the young bloods, bucks and blades considered him a man to emulate. If they saw him racing off up Angel Hill, they might send up a hue and cry, and then Flick would find herself enacting the role of fox pursued by a pack of slavering hounds.
Wonderful. This time, Demon vowed, he would strangle her.
After he rescued her from whatever danger she was so determinedly marching into.
Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled and joked; gradually, he made his way to the far side of the courtyard. Only by telling one friend that he was going to join another did he manage to progress at all.
He caught sight of Gillies in the throng; it was instantly apparent his henchman had problems of his own. Demon considered, but detaching Gillies from his mates without attracting attention would prove difficult, and he didn't have the time. Flick had long since disappeared.
Finally reaching the bushes bordering the cobbles, Demon paused to scan the throng. He shifted his weight, first this way, then that, then frowned, turned, surveyed the bushes, then stepped through them. Hopefully, anyone who'd seen him would imagine he was merely caught short and looking to relieve himself.
He walked, definitely but with no panic, out of the circle of the flares. Then he strode out.
He stopped once the dark had closed around him. He looked back, but could detect no sign of pursuit or interest. Satisfied, he turned back to Angel Hill and the slumbering abbey on the ridge. Somewhere ahead of him Flick was climbing, and, he assumed, ahead of her was Bletchley.
And ahead of Bletchley…
Lips thinning, Demon set his jaw and climbed faster.
Higher up the slope, Flick had run out of curses. Which was just as well, because she needed to save her breath. She'd climbed Angel Hill numerous times through her childhood, but she'd never climbed it in the dark. What was in full light an easily conquered slope, at night took on the guise of an obstacle course.
The overall slope was even, but the terrain was not—there were dips and ridges, foot-sized holes and sudden ledges, all of which seemed to appear beneath her stumbling feet at the moment she least expected them.
And, to top it all, there was the mist.
Before leaving the inn she'd noticed the night was dark—only when she'd left the comforting flares far behind did she realize that it was, in fact, pitch black. Heavy clouds blanketed the moon; there was not even starlight to light her way. Her only landmark was the abbey and the cathedral tower, denser silhouettes on the crown of the hill, outlined against the ink black sky.
Unfortunately, as she left the town and The Angel behind, she ran into more ribbons of mist wreathing the shoulders of the hill. The higher she went, the thicker the mist became, causing her to lose sight of her landmark. Luckily, the cloud cover was not absolute—the moon occasionally shone through, giving her a chance to get her bearings.
During one such fitful illumination, she saw Bletchley laboring up the slope at least two hundred yards ahead of her. Flick thanked her stars she hadn't lost him. She battled on, slogged on, slowing when the moon again disappeared. Another wide band of mist slowed her even more.
Again the moon sailed free; Flick frantically searched the slope ahead, breathing again only when she sighted Bletchley's lumbering form.
He was much higher now, approaching the abbey. Luckily, the mists thinned toward the crest; she could see him clearly. It rapidly became apparent his goal was not the abbey but a thick stand of bushes surounding three trees a little way below and to the west of the abbey wall.
Flick's urgency eased. Bletchley's meeting with his masters would take more than a few moments. There was no need to scramble and risk alerting them to her presence. Far better to take her time and approach silently.
The clouds cooperated enough for her to see Bletchley round the stand of bushes and disappear from sight. In the time before the clouds caught the moon again, she didn't see him reemerge. In the same interval, she scanned the slope all about the bushes, but saw no one else.
Telling herself that Bletchley would definitely be on the other side of the bushes, she forced herself to climb with care, then slipped silently into the bushes' shadow.
Ears straining, she listened. She heard a gruff word, then nothing more. The moon broke free of the
clouds and shone down, lighting up the area. Flick took that as a sign. Metaphorically girding her loins—she'd come too far to retreat—she edged to where she would be able to see around the bushes, exercising supreme care to avoid stepping on twigs, or leaves, or doing anything to warn Bletchley and whoever he was meeting of her presence.
She was successful—Bletchley and his companion remained totally unaware of her.
Then again, they would probably have remained oblivious of anything short of a charge of Hussars. They were decidedly engrossed.
From the corner of the stand of bushes, Flick looked down on the meeting in progress, first in stunned surprise, then with increasing distaste.
The female Bletchley had come to meet lay flat on her back, her skirts rucked up to her waist, exposing chubby, dimpled white thighs, currently clasped about Bletchley's equally chubby, equally dimpled bare buttocks. Said buttocks were rising and falling in a staccato rhythm, quivering and tensing and shaking like jelly as Bletchley strained up and down, plunging himself into the woman's body.
Despite her carnal innocence, Flick knew what they were about. She knew how animals mated, but she'd never seen humans perform the same act. For one long instant, the sight transfixed her—in horrified fascination.
The sounds that reached her were not words about racing, or horses—certainly not the names she wanted to know. Grunts, gasps, pants and moans were the extent of the conversation.
Disgusted yet inhibited from even muttering an oath, she curled her lip, gritted her teeth on her temper, and swung away. Eyes on the ground, she strode back for the inn, heading downhill, directly away from the bushes.
After all her work—all the risks she'd taken! She had half a mind to scream with vexation and hope the sound gave Bletchley a turn. At precisely the wrong moment.
Men!
She strode into the first swath of mist—and ran right into one.
Her nose stubbed against his chest, burying itself in a soft cravat. She sucked in a breath to scream—and recognized his scent. His arms had locked, iron shackles about her, but as her instinctive rigidity eased, he relaxed his hold. She looked up at him.
He glared down at her. "Where—"
"Shssh!" Wriggling free, she tossed her head, indicating the bushes behind her. "Bletchley's back there." Demon studied her face. "He is?"
Without meeting his eyes, Flick nodded, stepped about him and continued toward the inn. "He's with a woman."
Demon looked toward the bushes, then back at Flick, who was stalking down the slope. "Ah." His lips twitched, but only momentarily. The next instant, he caught up with her. "Actually," he drawled, steel rippling beneath his words, "I didn't come here to discover what Bletchley was about."
She didn't immediately reply, but just strode on. "I followed him here. You were in London. You weren't
coming back until tomorrow."
"I changed my mind—a lucky circumstance. If I'd returned tomorrow, God only knows what trouble you might by then have succeeded in bringing down on your head." His clipped accents and the underlying force behind his words held a dire, not-at-all-subtle warning.
Unrepentant, Flick sniffed and gestured back at the bushes. "Obviously, as Bletchley isn't here to meet with the syndicate, I won't be getting into any difficulty."
"It's not Bletchley you need worry about." Demon's voice lowered to a dangerous purr. "He was never destined to be the source of your trouble."
A very odd shiver slid down Flick's spine. Demon's fingers closed about her elbow. She considered twisting free, only to feel his fingers tighten into steel shackles. Deciding her wisest course was to ignore him and his hold on her, she haughtily elevated her chin—and allowed him to escort her down the hill.
They covered the distance in silence, a silence that grew increasingly tense as they neared the courtyard. The tone of the gathering had degenerated to raucous, rough and ribald; many of the crowd were weaving on their feet. It was no place for a gently reared lady.
Demon halted beyond the area lit by the flares. "How did you get out?" "The side door." Flick pointed.
He tugged her hood down to her chin. "Keep your head down." His arm slid around her waist, and he whisked her across the danger zone, into the shadows by the door.
She barely had time to look up before he bundled her through the door and up the stairs. He followed on her heels. On the first-floor landing, he hissed, "Where's your room?"
Flick gestured along the corridor. "Above the main door."
She led the way, but his arm snaked about her waist and yanked her back, anchoring her to his side.
Flick decided not to argue. Or wriggle. The glimpse she'd had of his face as they'd gone through the door had done very strange things to her nerves. His face was always hard, but it presently appeared fashioned from rock. Uncompromising was the term that leapt to mind.
Sounds of revelry gusted up the stairwell. The corridor leading to the front rooms began just before the stairhead.
Then Demon tensed. Flick looked ahead and saw four gentlemen come staggering unsteadily up the stairs. They were well away, rowdy and boisterous; instinctively, she shrank against Demon. He slowed, stopped, then started to turn toward her, shielding her—
Clapping each other on the back and guffawing, the four lurched off down the corridor in the opposite direction. Without, apparently, seeing them.
More voices drifted up the stairs.
With a barely muffled curse, Demon tightened his arm about her and hurried her on, forcing her to half run.
Flick pressed her lips tightly shut and held back her protest. She knew that if she even murmured, he'd
throw her over his shoulder and stride on.
Then her door loomed before them. With a silent sigh of relief, she fumbled in her pocket and drew out the key.
Demon filched it from her fingers; he had it in the lock, turned, and the door swinging wide before she could blink.
Brusquely, he shepherded her over the threshold.
Shutting her mouth, Flick narrowed her eyes, elevated her chin, and swept on into the room. She walked straight to the fireplace, then regally swung about. Clasping her hands before her, spine stiff, head erect, she fixed her self-styled protector with a challenging glare.
He'd followed her in and closed the door, but he'd paused with his hand on the latch. His blue gaze raked her—from her head to her toes—then returned, sharp and penetrating, to her face.
She showed no hint of maidenly distress—Demon verified that fact with some relief. Whatever she'd seen of Bletchley's endeavors behind the bushes, she wasn't seriously upset. Indeed, her attention appeared to be fixed on him—which was undoubtedly wise. He was presently a far greater threat to her serenity than Bletchley would ever be. He captured her gaze. "Stay here—I'll go and check that Bletchley doesn't go from the arms of his companion to some other meeting." Even to his own ears, his tone sounded lethally flat. "And," he added, "I'll need to speak with Gillies."
A hint of color rose to her cheeks, and her chin rose another notch. Her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance. "The notion to come here was mine—Gillies was good enough to come with me."
"I know it was your idea." Demon heard his words and wondered at their evenness; inside him, ungoverned fury raged. "Gillies would never be such a sapskull as to even suggest bringing you here—into the middle of a prizefight crowd." His anger broke through; ruthlessly, he reined it in. "Gillies has only obeyed my orders to stay with you at all times. I'm not about to upbraid him." He held her gaze and quietly stated, "It's not Gillies I'm furious with."
He held her wide eyes for an instant longer, then turned to the door. "I'll be back shortly." Opening the door, he stepped out, shut it—and locked it.
Flick heard the bolt click home. Lips parting, arms falling to her sides, she stared at the closed door. Her temper soared.
Just like that! Put into her room and locked in, while he—!
Clenching her fists, she closed her eyes and gave vent to a frustrated scream. Demon returned to the dim first-floor corridor at the front of the inn two hours later.
To find two young sprigs, decidedly the worse for the inn's ale, serenading outside Flick's door. His footfalls muffled by the corridor runner, he was upon them before they realized, materializing menacingly beside them.
They jumped like scalded cats. "Ooh!"
"Aaah!"
Then they blinked and grinned inanely. "There's a delightful widow behind the door."
"We're attempting to entice her to come out and play, don't y'know."
The first blinked again and stared myopically up at him. "Have you come to join us?"
With satisfying abruptness, Demon disabused them of that notion. He sent them fleeing, stumbling on their way, their egos shredded, their ears burning, their rears bruised courtesy of his rather large shoes. He saw them back to the stairs before returning to Flick's door. In the dimness, it took a few tries to get the key in the lock—eventually, he managed it. Straightening, he turned the key, lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Only lightning-quick reflexes allowed him to catch and hold back the heavy earthenware jug that came swinging down from his left.
Stretched on her toes, her hands clamped about the jug, Flick met his gaze. Darkly. "Oh. It's you."
Leaving the jug in his hands, she swung away and stalked back across the room. She stopped before the fireplace, before the cheery flames, and swung to face him as she folded her arms.
Demon took in her belligerent stance and mutinous expression, then shut the door. She held her fire while he locked it and set the jug down on a nearby side table.
Then she let loose.
"You locked me in here and left me at the mercy of those!..." she gestured eloquently. Her eyes flashed. "I've had to endure two hours of nonstop caterwauling—no, no—I mustn't forget the poems. How could I forget the poems?" She flung her arms to the skies. "They were hideous! They didn't even rhyme."
She was unrestrainedly furious. Demon considered the sight.
"Anyway." Abruptly deserting fury, she fixed him with a narrow gaze. "Where did Bletchley go?" Despite her ordeal with badly phrased poems, she was obviously all right.
"The tap, then to his room." Dropping his gloves on the side table, he pointed upward. "In the attics." Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a chair, noting as he did the large number of lighted candles set about the room. Flick had obviously felt in need of light—and reassurance.
She refolded her arms and frowned at him. "He didn't speak to anyone?"
Glancing around, Demon noted that the chamber was large and commodious, and well-appointed with decent furniture. The bed was long and wide, and made up with pristine linen. "No one of the ilk we're looking for. He didn't speak to anyone beyond the usual taproom chat."
"Hmm." Frowning, Flick watched him as he strolled unhurriedly toward her. "Maybe he did just come here for the prizefight."
"So it appears." His gaze returning to her face, he stopped directly in front of her, trapping her before the hearth. She frowned at him—more with her eyes than her expression. He considered her.
After a moment, she asked, "What are you thinking?"
How much I'd like to undress you, lay you on the bed and… "I was wondering," he said, "what it will take to instill into your stubborn head that it is not acceptable for you to go hying off about the countryside chasing villains. Regardless of where I, or anyone else, might or might not be."
She humphed and tilted her chin at him. Lifting one hand, Demon closed his fingers firmly about her tapering jaw.
Her eyes widened, then spat sparks. "There's nothing you can say or do that will convince me I don't have as much right as you to go hying after villains."
He raised one brow; his gaze fell to her lips. "Is that so?" "Yes!"
His lips curved—not with humor but with satisfaction at her challenge—a challenge he was only too willing to meet. Tipping her chin up a fraction more, he lowered his head. "Perhaps we should put that to the test."
He murmured the words against her lips, hesitated for a heartbeat to let his warm breath bring her lips alive—then covered them with his.
She held tight for an instant, then surrendered. Her stiffness eased; her lips softened under his. Although still new to this—to kissing, to giving her lips, her mouth, to him—she was eager; her responses flowed instinctively. She had none of the guile of a more experienced woman—she had a fresh enthusiasm, an innocent ardency that delighted him, enthralled him.
He knew precisely what he was doing—distracting her from villains, from Bletchley and the syndicate, by giving her something else to think about. Something more exciting, more intriguing. He would bring her to life, and pique her curiosity so that she spent her time thinking about him, and this, rather than any villain. Sliding one arm about her waist, he drew her against him.
And deliberately deepened the kiss.
She responded sweetly, tipping her head back, parting her lips, welcoming him in. When his arm tightened in response, locking her to him, she eased against him readily, pert breasts pressing tight to his chest, hips sinking against his thighs. He caught his mental breath, locked an iron fist about his demons' reins, and parted her lips further, so he could artfully, skillfully ravish her soft mouth and take what she offered so freely.
The heady taste of her—so light and fresh, so teasingly alluring—went straight to his head, wreathed his senses, and set his demons straining. Wielding expertise like a whip, he held them back and set himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of her even more.
It wasn't anger that drove him, not even the wish to exercise his will over her and insist she stay out of danger. The compulsion steadily rising in his blood was simple desire—nothing more.
During the hours he'd spent watching Bletchley, speaking with Gillies, his anger had dissipated; his inchoate rage over the risks she'd taken had faded. His knowledge was wide, his imagination consequently well-informed; the visions that, even now, formed too readily were guaranteed to set his
teeth on edge. But he'd had time to appreciate her thinking, to realize that, from her point of view, innocent of prizefights, coming here had been not only the obvious step but one she'd felt compelled to take.
He could understand. He still didn't approve, but that was another matter, a different aspect of the day's emotions. His anger had died, but the underlying tension hadn't. The anger had been only a symptom of that deeper emotion—one that felt uncomfortably like fear.
Fear was an emotion no Cynster male handled well. He'd had little experience of it—and he definitely didn't like what he was experiencing now. That his fear was centered on Flick was obvious; why it should be so was another of those somethings he preferred not to examine.
If he'd known that deciding to bite the bullet and marry would bring all this down on his head, he would have thought twice. Three times. Unfortunately, it was now too late—the notion of giving up Flick, of retreating from marrying her, was unthinkable.
How unthinkable was borne in on him as he briefly released her lips to drag in a breath. Her scent came with it—appleblossom and lavender—a fragrance so innocent it touched his soul, so simple it drove through his defenses, caught and effortlessly focused his desire.
To live without this—without her, without the intense satisfaction experience told him could be his with her—that was the definition of unthinkable.
Releasing her jaw, he slid his fingers into her curls and held back a shudder at the sensation of pure silk sliding over the back of his hand. His lips firmed on hers; he angled his head, fingers sliding until he cradled her head, holding her steady so he could do as he wished—and take their kiss still deeper. Into realms she'd never experienced, along paths she'd never trod.
He, however, was supposed to be in control.
Shocked, he sensed the reins sliding from his grasp, felt his hunger well. Stunned, he pulled back—forced himself to break the all-too-evocative melding of their lips.
Long enough to drag in a much-needed breath. He couldn't remember when last his head had spun. "Umm…" He blinked. "We'll stay until two o'clock. Then we'll leave. I'll take you home."
He'd worked it all out while watching Bletchley.
Lifting her lids only high enough to locate his lips, Flick nodded, reached up, framed his face, and drew his head back to hers. She knew perfectly well why he was kissing her—he wanted to control her, to render her all weak and limp and acquiescent. She might, indeed, go weak and limp—she might even be a bit distracted—but acquiescent? Just because her body and her wits lost all resolution the instant he had her against him, the second his lips found hers, did not mean her will went the same way.
Which meant that as far as she was concerned, he could kiss her as long as he liked. If he'd decided they had until two o'clock the next morning, she saw no reason to waste any precious minutes.
Being kissed by him was exceedingly nice, exceptionally pleasant. The touch of his lips was enticing, the much bolder caress of his tongue brazenly exciting. It made her feel wild, a touch reckless—oddly restless. That last was due to what lay beyond—all the rest she did not know. His experience was there, in his lips, in the arms that held her so easily, tantalizing, beckoning—simply intriguing.
She offered her lips and he took them again, and her mouth as well. And yet he held back. There was a
restraint he placed on his actions, on his hunger, or rather, on letting her see it. She sensed it nevertheless, in his ruthlessly locked muscles, in the tension that held him. But that restraint stood firm, a barrier between her and his greater knowledge. A barrier she could not resist prodding. She was, after all, hardly a chit out of the schoolroom, no matter what he might think.
Brazenly, she leaned into him and wantonly kissed him back—trying this, then that, to see what might best weaken him. Closing her lips about his tongue and sucking was her first success—his attention abruptly focused; his resistance weakened accordingly. Sliding her hands around his neck, locking her fingers at his nape and stretching, sliding, upward against him, worked, too, but—
Abruptly he lifted his head and dragged in a huge breath. He blinked down at her. "Did the innkeeper see your face?" His voice was not entirely steady; he looked a little dazed.
"No." She sank deeper into his arms, sliding her fingertips into his hair. "I was hidden behind my veil the whole time."
"Hmm." He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. "I'll go down and pay your shot later. When all's quiet, and there's no one about to hear. There'll be someone at the desk all night tonight. Then we'll leave."
She didn't bother nodding. Her hands fell to his shoulders as he recaptured her lips, and she met his tongue with hers. She could, she decided, happily spend all night kissing him. Pressing herself to him. The thought prompted the deed, but she couldn't get any closer—she was already locked tight, breast to chest, hips to thighs. But…
He hesitated, then his lips shifted on hers. The whirlpool of their kiss dragged her deeper, into a vortex of heady sensations—all beckoning, enticing.
The need to get closer welled, swelled—
His resistance irked. If she wanted to marry him—if he wanted to marry her—then she wanted to know more. Deliberately, she stretched upward, flagrantly inciting, kissing him urgently, as evocatively as she knew how—
His arms shifted, then his hands were on her back—large and strong, they slid down, smoothly sweeping down to her waist, to her hips, then down, over the swells of her bottom. He cupped her, held her tight, her curves filling his hands, then he lifted her.
Up and against him—molding her to him so her soft belly cradled the hard ridge of his erection. She would have gasped—not with shock, but delight, a delight wholly new to her—but with lips suddenly ruthless and a demand she felt to her toes, he ravaged her mouth, took all she offered and searched for more.
There was suddenly hunger enough for two, swirling hotly about them.
Flick sank her fingers into his shoulders and hung on—thrilled to her bones as hot became hotter and hard that much harder. Need, want and desire swam through her—passion swept in in their wake. And caught her.
Excitement—even better than the rush of a winning ride—and an anticipation so keen it hurt flooded her, buoyed her—
Tap! Rat-a-tat-tat!
The sharp tattoo startled them both, ending their kiss. Breathing shallowly, they both stared at the door.
Demon straightened, softly cursing. Whoever it was, he would have to find out. It might be about Bletchley. Sliding Flick down until her feet touched the floor, he reluctantly released her luscious bottom and closed his hands about her waist. He seriously doubted she could stand unsupported.
Glancing around, his gaze fell on the solid dressing table against the wall between the mantelpiece and the bed. He glanced at the door, then steered Flick back so she could lean against the dressing table. "Stay there—don't move."
Placed as she was, she couldn't be seen from the door.
She blinked blankly at him, then looked dazedly across the room.
Demon released her; turning, he strode toward the door. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the door, he swallowed another curse and slowed, tugging his waistcoat down, resettling his coat and cuffs, then raking his fingers through his hair before reaching for the latch.
He assumed it was Gillies, or one of the inn staff. Whoever it was, he intended getting rid of them fast. Turning the key, he opened the door.
The elegant gentleman who stood on the threshold, an urbane smile rapidly fading, was not a member of the inn's staff. Unfortunately, he was familiar.
Inwardly, Demon cursed, wishing he'd snuffed some of the candles Flick had scattered about the room. At least she was out of sight. Holding the door less than half open, he raised an arrogantly weary brow. "Evening, Selbourne."
"Cynster." Disappointment rang in Lord Selbourne's tone; disgruntlement filled his eyes. His expression, however, remained urbane. "I—" Abruptly, Selbourne's gaze shifted, going past Demon's shoulder. His lordship's eyes widened.
Demon stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard that he thought it would crack. He didn't, however, turn around.
Lord Selbourne's brows rose, coolly, appraisingly, then he glanced consideringly at Demon. And smiled. "—see."
The single word carried a wealth of meaning; Demon comprehended its portent only too well. Face set, he nodded curtly. "Precisely. I fear you'll need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight."
Selbourne sighed. "To the victor, the spoils." With an arch glance directed once again beyond Demon, he turned away. "I'll leave you, dear boy, to get what rest you may."
Biting back an oath—an exceedingly virulent one—Demon managed to shut the door without slamming it. Hands rising to his hips, he stared at the wooden panels; after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shifted. He blinked, then slowly reached out and turned the key.
The sound of the lock falling home echoed gently—a single knell marking an irrevocable step. Demon turned.
And confirmed that Flick had indeed been unable to resist shifting to the other side of the hearth, to peer about him to see who was at the door.
Selbourne had had a perfect view of her—with her hair ruffled, her gown suggestively crumpled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn't been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.
She stared back. "Who was that?"
He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. "Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne."
Chapter 13
« ^ »
Flick studied him. "Do you know him?"
"Oh, indeed." Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. "Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne."
"Rattletrap?"
Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. "His tongue runs on wheels." She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.
"Which means," he explained, "that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful 'widow' discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was."
Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. "Don't start that again. Just because he saw me doesn't mean I'm compromised. He doesn't know who I am."
"But he will." Demon tapped her nose with one finger. "That's how Rattletrap secures his invitations—the particular niche he's carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons' ears."
He held Flick's gaze steadily. "He'll find out who you are—you're well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he'll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room—that's precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave."
Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. "I am not compromised."
"You are." Demon didn't blink. "As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the
definition of compromised."
She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, "Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing." "On the contrary, it changes a great deal."
"Indeed? Such as?"
He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.
She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. "What are you doing?" He met her gaze, then lowered his head. "Demonstrating how much has changed."
He kissed her—and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her—and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.
Only then did he lift his head.
Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids. "You don't want to marry me—not really."
Flick made the statement without conviction; tight against him, his rampant arousal riding against her, she could hardly claim ignorance of what he wanted. It was a powerful incentive to give in. But… She wanted him to marry her not just for that, no matter how exciting. She wanted him to marry her for more—for at least one other reason. A more important reason.
Tension invested his face. The same tension held her. His eyes remained on hers, his gaze steadfast, unwaveringly blue. Her lips throbbed. Entirely without her permission, her gaze lowered to his lips—clever lips, lean and strong, just like him. They dipped, and brushed hers.
"I do want to marry you." Again he kissed her—a tantalizing promise as he slid his hands down her back, lifting her against him once more. "I will marry you."
His lips closed on hers, and the kiss turned ravenous. And hot. She could cope with ravishment, but the heat—that welling sense of fire and flame—defeated her. He pressed it on her, and she drank it in. It slid through her veins, through her limbs, through her brain.
And she burned, as did he. There was fire in his touch, in his lips—despite the swelling heat, she couldn't get enough. As her limbs melted and resolution evaporated, she clung to her wits and inwardly cursed. How would she get him to love her if he married her like this?
How to stop him?
As if in answer, he deepened the kiss. Her head spun. Boneless, near to spineless, she sank deeper into his arms, into his strength. Into his shocking heat.
"I've dreamed of marrying you."
The words were a gravelly whisper. He steered her back a few steps; her hips met the dressing table. "You have?" Breathless, she struggled to lift her lids.
"Mmm-hmm." Propping her against the dressing table, he eased back.
The sudden loss of his hard body against her, all but around her, left her disoriented. She dragged in a breath, watching as he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them on a nearby chair. He returned to her, his hands sliding, then firming about her waist.
"You've dreamed of our wedding?" She found that hard to believe.
His lips kicked up at the ends; his expression remained driven. "My dreams were more concerned with
our wedding night."
He drew her to him. Eyes flaring wide, very certain of what she glimpsed in his, she braced her hands against his chest. "No. You know how I feel about marrying for such a reason."
He didn't force her closer, didn't pull her against him and simply melt her resistance. Instead, he ducked his head and dotted gentle kisses along her jaw, over her earlobe. Then his lips slid farther, to caress the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
She shivered.
"Would marrying me be such a hardship?"
He breathed the words against her ear, then drew back just enough so that as she turned, her eyes met his.
Their faces were so close that their breaths mingled. Wide-eyed, Flick looked deep into serious blue eyes, into his perfectly serious, well-beloved face. "No."
He didn't move, didn't grab her in triumph and crow. He simply waited. She studied his eyes, his face, then drew in a shallow breath. About them, the air shimmered, stirring, alive, invested with power. She felt his temptation, his promise, and more. Lifting one hand, she traced the line from one cheekbone to the corner of his lips. Hauling in another breath, she stretched up on her toes and touched her lips to his.
It was madness—a delicious, heady, compulsive madness—a sudden need that seared her, drove her, impelled her. It was impulse—pure, distilled and potent; she had no idea where it would lead.
But she kissed him—invitingly, encouragingly, challengingly. And sank into his arms as they closed about her, sank into his embrace, and into the kiss.
It caught her up, swept her up, and they were back in the fire, back in the flames.
Demon knew very well that she'd simply sprung her horses, that she was riding wild before the wind with no particular goal in mind. It was enough. He was expert enough to ride with her, to set his hand gently on her reins and guide her where he willed.
It took him a moment to work out the details—to plot and plan the where and how. Courtesy of her wildness, her increasingly abandoned kisses, he was already aching, but that was his most minor concern. He'd never made love to an innocent, wild or otherwise—she looked set to test his expertise, his control, to the limit.
Releasing her lips, he firmed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her atop the dressing table, giving thanks to whatever rakish god watched over him; the top was the perfect height.
She blinked at him in surprise. Her new position left her face more level with his. Her breasts swelled, then she noticed her skirts straining over her parted knees. She clamped her legs together and quickly shuffled back. Curls in disarray, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly wild, she stared at him. "What—?" She had to stop and haul in another breath. "What are you about?"
He let his lips curve reassuringly; he could do nothing about the fire in his eyes. His gaze locked on hers, he stepped forward, his hips meeting her knees, immobilizing her legs. Lowering his gaze to her chest, he reached for the top button of her bodice. "I'm going to make love to you."
"What?" Flick looked down as the first button popped free. His fingers caught the next button—she gasped and closed her hands about his wrists. "Don't be ridiculous."
She hadn't thought this far. And, thanks to him, her wits were frazzled, her brain was overheated. She certainly couldn't think now. She tugged once, then harder, and shifted his hands not at all. He continued to undo her buttons.
"Since by tomorrow evening we can rely on the entire ton believing that I spent tonight in your bed, there's no reason I can see that I shouldn't."
Fleetingly, he met her gaze; his was hot, smoldering blue. Temptation and promise—both glowed clearly; Flick found the sight reassuring.
Reassuring? She was losing her mind—he'd already lost his.
"Besides," he continued, in the same low, sinfully languid tone, "you made it clear you require something more than social stricture to agree to our wedding." The last button slipped free; he looked up and met her gaze. "Consider what follows as my answer to that."
Raising his hands, he framed her face and drew her lips to his. Flick braced herself to deny him—she would not be won over by main force.
But there was no force in his kiss. He nibbled, kissed, tantalizingly teased until, senses whirling, she grabbed him and kissed him back. She sensed his triumph, but she didn't care—in that instant, she needed his lips on hers, needed to feel the fire and flames again, wanted to know, couldn't live without knowing, more.
And she knew he could—would—teach her.
As if in confirmation, he welcomed her in, drew her deep, then toyed with her—incited her. Ignited her.
Until she was consumed by raging heat too hot to be confined within living flesh.
He eased back, his lips still on hers but their kiss no longer so demanding, no longer the focus of his attention. His hands drifted from her face, long fingers trailing down either side of her throat, then spreading over her shoulders. Unhurriedly, those long fingers skimmed down; with the lightest of touches, they flared over her breasts.
Her flesh came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled—sensitized, they waited, tightening with anticipation.
He drew back from their kiss. Flick kept her eyes shut and struggled to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the upper curves of her breasts, then the lower, through the soft fabric of her gown, then his fingers trailed lightly over the peaks, over nipples now excruciatingly tight.
She gasped—his lips returned, drinking the sound. His hands shifted, firming, palms cupping her curves. Gently but intently—inherently possessively—he closed his hands about the soft mounds.
Her breath hitched; his lips shifted on hers, brushed, caressed, reassured. She felt her breasts swell even more, felt them heat and firm until they ached.
Demon ached, too, but ignored it. Her breasts were small, pert—they fit snugly within his palms. He closed thumb and forefinger about her nipples, and she gasped, and tensed—and tensed. With his lips on hers, soothing her, distracting her, he played, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, ruthlessly denying the impulse to brush aside her bodice and bare her to his senses. Eventually, she sighed into his mouth, the tautness in her frame subtly altered to a tension he recognized very well.
She was awakening.
With every controlled sweep of his fingers, every gentle, encouraging squeeze, he drew her further along the road to fulfillment. Hers. And his.
When he released her lips, drew his hands from her breasts and reached for the edges of her bodice, she didn't stop him. She did, however, reach up, too, closing her fingers on the edges below his.
She hesitated.
They were both breathing quickly, heated yet in control of their senses, both very much aware. Supremely conscious of the pounding in his blood, the passion he was holding at bay, he drew in a slow breath, locked his jaw and staved off the urge to rush her. And waited.
Her gaze was fixed on his throat; she dragged in a breath, held it, and looked up, into his eyes.
He had no idea what she saw there—what her swiftly searching gaze discovered; he stared down at her, unable to spare the energy to summon any expression, and prayed she wouldn't balk.
Instead, her chin firmed; her lips curved in a smile of pure feminine assurance tinged with her ever-present innocence. In a gesture almost demure, she dropped her gaze from his; tightening her hold on the open flaps of her bodice, she parted them.
Inwardly reeling, he let go and let her do it. That smile, coupled with her action, had hit him with the force of a fist and left him winded. Captured, transfixed, he watched as she wriggled, sliding first one shoulder free, then the other, then drawing her arms from the tight sleeves.
She glanced shyly, questioningly, up at him; he hauled in a breath and took charge again.
He drew the gown down to her waist, then had to pause to look at her—to take in the smooth expanse of creamy skin showing above her demure chemise, to drink in the beauty of her naked shoulders, her sweetly rounded arms, the delicate structure of her collarbone.
His rakish instincts catalogued points for later examination—where her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, where her shoulder met her collarbone, the outer swells of her breasts. Her breasts themselves remained screened, albeit incompletely; her nipples peaked tightly beneath the fine chemise, but he couldn't appreciate their color. Soft, pure pink was his guess.
Feeling like a drowning man coming up for air, he hauled in a breath. Lifting his hands, he once more framed her face, and brought her lips to his.
Flick sank into the kiss. The heat welled—she welcomed it, then deliberately let go and slipped into the flow, letting it take her on its tide. If there had been a windmill near, and she'd been wearing a cap, she would have shied it into the sky. She'd made up her mind, made her decision.
She knew he desired her powerfully—it was there in his face, in the hard edge passion set to the angular planes, in the fire that smoldered in his eyes. His desire was palpable, a living thing—hot as the sun, it reached for her as his hands, his arms, his whole body did. She recognized it
instinctively—she needed no interpreter to tell her what it was. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. And she wanted him in the converse way.
As for marrying, he hadn't yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire.
Nor had she. But she'd expected no easy declaration of love—not from him. If he said it, he would mean it—she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew—and she didn't think he did. However…
There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire—there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.
Hope of love—hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream—she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.
She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her—teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy—to get her to say yes. She wasn't, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them—their first night together.
Her first time with him.
When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table's edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands upward and closed them about her breasts. "Do you like this?"
Her lids fell of their own accord; her head tipped back.
"Yes." She breathed the word, aware only of his clever hands, his clever fingers, as they stroked and gently squeezed. Although muted by fine lawn, his touch burned. His lips returned to hers. Sliding one hand to her back, he urged her nearer, closer to the table's edge.
She complied without thought—thought was beyond her; all she could do was feel. Her senses gloried in un fettered freedom, freed by her decision, freed by the night.
Freed by him. His kiss anchored her to the world, but it was a world of sensation, a world filled with an excitement she'd never known, and a promise of glory she wanted for her own.
Demon captured her lips and kissed her—ravenously—no longer so gentle, so controlled. She was delectable, and so very nearly his—he wanted to devour her. On the thought, his lips slid from hers, tracing the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly. He laved the spot, then sucked lightly; appeased by her gasp, he moved on, sliding his lips along the curve of her collarbone, then shifting lower to the warm swell of her breast.
Through her fine chemise, one pert nipple beckoned; he closed his mouth over it and heard her shocked gasp. But she didn't try to wriggle back—she didn't tell him to stop. So he settled to feast, to wring more shocked gasps from her. Long before he raised his head, he'd succeeded, drawing a chorus of appreciation from her lips.
He kissed them again, parting them fully, ravishing her softness, taking all—demanding more. She
met him eagerly, no match for the brutal strength of his passion but with an open eagerness that nearly brought him to his knees.
Abruptly, he stopped kissing her, amazed to find his own breathing as ragged as hers. Nuzzling aside her curls, he slid his lips into the sweet hollow beneath her ear while his fingers swiftly dealt with the laces of her petticoat.
Speed had suddenly become essential. Imperative.
She sighed, a tense exhalation shimmering with reined excitement; the sound literally shook him. The scent of her, rising to torment him, added to his pain. He glanced down at the soft chemise that hid her body from his sight—he longed to strip it away, but experience warned against it. Sitting naked atop a table in full light might be too much for her this time.
All thus far had gone according to his plan. She'd introduced an odd moment or two, but he'd kept them on track. He intended to seduce her but, this time, he needed to do more. He needed to be gentle, and not just because he was excruciatingly aware, to his very fingertips, of her innocence. He wanted her not just once or even twice—he wanted her for all time. So the moment had to be compelling. As powerfully compelling as he could make it—so she would want him again, as eagerly, as enthusiastically as he knew he would want her.
Another challenge—she was full of them. It was one of the things that so attracted him to her.
The laces of her petticoat came free; he loosened the waistband, pushed it down, then swiftly lifted her and swept the garment down her legs. He freed it from her feet, then flung it after her gown. His cravat and shirt followed—as he stepped back to stand against her knees, he flipped off her shoes.
She was waiting, almost shivering with excitement; she raised her arms, lifted her face and welcomed him back with an open-mouthed kiss. He sank into it and let her lead him where she would while he slipped off her garters, then rolled her stockings down, careful not to touch her bare skin. She was so caught up in their kiss, he wasn't sure she noticed when her stockings slipped away, and she was sitting in the candlelight clothed only in her chemise. The fine garment reached to midthigh; he grasped a fold and tugged—she was sitting on it.
Mentally girding his loins, he filled his lungs and wrested back control of their kiss. When he was sure he had all the reins in his grasp, he set his hands on her hips, simply holding her, giving her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of his hands there. Her chemise was so fine it was no real barrier—to his touch or his senses.
She skittered a little, but calmed almost immediately; as soon as she did, he let his hands wander. Gliding, soothing, tracing, learning, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her calves. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her knees and eased them apart.
She no longer had them locked together, but she resisted—for a moment. Then, hesitant but willing, she let him move each thigh outward, until he could step between.
Before he could haul in a triumphant breath, one of her hands slid from his shoulder to his chest. Quivering awareness shot through her—and him—when her fingers tangled in his crisp hair, when her hand came to rest tentatively, warm palm on the wide muscle above his heart.
For one long instant, Demon simply existed, focused totally on her—on holding onto the reins of her seduction. Her awakening was becoming an awakening for him—an introduction to delights more intense than any he'd previously known.
The tension that held her so tight, so taut, was, for all that, so intensely fragile; he felt as if, with one wrong move, one wrong breath, he might shatter it. And her.
When her hand shifted, drifted, then gently traced across his chest, he breathed again. Sealing his demon's reins in a death grip, he subtly altered their kiss, encouraging her to explore, relieved, if more tense, when she did.
Gradually, he eased her forward, closer to him, to the edge of the table. Every inch she slid forward pressed her thighs farther apart, until, beneath her chemise, they were wide-spread, held so by his hips.
She was open to him.
It took him a moment or three to shackle his raging lust—a few more to beat back his demons. What came next had to be perfect—it had to be right. Nothing in his life had mattered so much.
Sliding one hand to the small of her back, he settled it there, solid and sure behind her. Then he raised his head fractionally, breaking their kiss, but leaving their lips a mere inch apart. From beneath his lids, he watched her face as, with the same gentle yet deliberate touch he'd used throughout, he dipped his hand beneath her chemise's hem and slid it slowly up the silken length of her thigh.
Her lids flickered; he glimpsed her eyes, wide pupils circled in startling blue. She trembled; her breath caught, then she slowly exhaled. He stroked her thigh, the long quivering muscle, then the delicate inner face—he stroked upward, brushing her lips when she shuddered, letting her cling when, with the backs of his fingers, he caressed her quivering stomach.
Then, very slowly, he let his fingers glide down, tracing the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other, then, easing back from their kiss, he gently pressed two fingers into the silken curls between her thighs.
She sucked in a breath; a sharp quiver lanced through her. Her eyes were shut, but he watched her face, watched the expressions—anticipation, excitement, sharp delight and flaring need—flow across her features as he caressed her, then parted the soft folds and touched her intimately. She was already hot, already plump and swollen; he played, and damp quickly became wet. He found the tight nubbin hidden in its hood; he circled it with a moistened fingertip—her breath hitched, she shuddered; wildly clutching his shoulders, she sought his lips with hers.
He kissed her, but kept the caress light—he wanted her concentrating on his fingers, not his lips. With his hand at her back, he eased her forward another inch, so she was close, very close, to the edge—instinctively, she raised her knees and gripped his hips for balance.
If he could have grinned triumphantly, he would have.
She was fully exposed—to his touch, to him. He touched, caressed, then, very gently, probed her slick, soft flesh. He found her entrance—ignoring the sudden heightening of her tension, he eased one finger in, then, in the instant she caught her breath, slid it slowly, inexorably, into her heat.
She dragged her lips from his on a gasp; he felt the shudder that racked her in his bones. Her body closed hotly about his finger. Recapturing her lips, he kissed her—no longer lightly but deeply, evocatively. He stroked her in the same way.
Flick couldn't think, she couldn't reason—she couldn't imagine how she'd survive. She was hot, so hot; her skin felt afire. The flames that had started deep inside had spread to every extremity; her whole skin felt tight. As for her nerves, they were stretched so taut, so tense in anticipation of his next caress, of the next, deeply intimate invasion, that if it didn't come soon she knew she'd fly apart.
If she'd had enough breath left, she would have sobbed. With pleasure.
She couldn't understand that. She couldn't even think of what he was doing—what she was letting him do to her. Her stunned brain wouldn't hold the mental image. She'd had no idea physical intimacy would prove so shocking. So exciting. So mind-numbing.
So gloriously delicious.
And they hadn't even got to the culmination—the moment when their bodies would join. She knew what that entailed, yet…
A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.
Luckily, her lover was experienced—exceedingly experienced if her state was any guide. She was panting, squirming, ready to kill for that next bit of sensation, his next caress, the next experience he had in store.
If he didn't hurry up and give it to her, she was quite sure she'd die.
Demon was well aware of her state—not once had he stopped tracking it. He withdrew his finger from her only to slide another in beside it, deliberately stretching her, preparing her. She squirmed and adjusted instantly. He reached deep—her gasp shuddered into a soft sob. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder; he could feel her soft pants hot against his skin.
He no longer needed to hold her to him—there was no chance she would scoot back. Leaving the hand between her thighs still probing in a slow, repetitive rhythm, with the other he slipped the buttons on his trousers and guided them down his hips. He uttered a wordless thanks to fate that he was in his town rig, with shoes, not boots; he toed the shoes off, let his trousers fall, stepped out of them and kicked them away.
She felt him shift—greedy hands grasped his shoulders, hauling him to her. Momentarily
off-balance, he went with her pull—then gasped, biting back a groan as his throbbing erection hit the dressing table's edge.
Her thighs were still wide, her knees clamped to his now naked hips. He drew in a breath, nudged her head up, and found her lips again. He caught her up in the kiss, then drew his hand from her slick heat; one hand at her back, he eased her forward a fraction more—until the broad head of his staff nudged into her hot softness.
Abruptly, she drew back from the kiss. Arms locked about his shoulders, she blinked dazedly as their gazes met. She licked her lips, then glanced at the bed. "Aren't we?…"
"No." He could hardly speak. The effort of holding still, poised at her entrance, her slickness scalding him like hot honey, was turning his muscles to jelly. "This way will be easier for you this time." She was small; to lie beneath him, trapped by his weight, might not be wise—not for her first time.
Her lips formed an Oh—she risked a glance down, but her chemise, stretched across her thighs, blocked her view. She cleared her throat. "How?…"
His pained grin never made it to his face. "Easily. Just—like…" He pressed nearer, simultaneously drawing her to the very edge of the table—he sank into her. "This."
The look on her face was one he would treasure all his life—her eyes widened as he entered her, slowly pushing in, stretching her softness. She was oh, so tight, but, to his relief, she didn't freeze, didn't tense. He didn't stop—feeling her untried body ease about him, he penetrated her steadily, inexorably filling her until she'd taken him in to the hilt and he was buried in her sweet heat.
Her fractured "Oh!" shivered in the air. Her lids fell—she hauled in a huge breath. Then she tensed.
Scalding hot, she closed about him, so tight he thought he'd lose his mind.
He trapped her lips and only just managed to catch his reins and haul back on the savage urge to ravish her—her mouth, her hot softness, the luscious vessel of her body. Although reeling himself, he caught her senses and steadied her—in so doing, he steadied himself.
Releasing her lips, dragging in a huge breath, clamping a firm hold on his instincts—where she was concerned, too primal, too raw—he anchored her before him, withdrew, and slid home again.
Her maidenhead had been a mere cobweb. That hadn't surprised him; she'd been riding astride all her life and still did. So there'd been no pain, only pleasure as he'd filled her—as he withdrew and filled her again.
His muscles flickered under the strain, but he kept his rhythm very slow so she could grow accustomed to the intimacy, to the slide of his body into hers, to the flexing, regular rhythm, to the elemental repetition.
His breathing sounded ragged in his ears; he was so tense his lungs felt tight. But now he was, at long last, inside her, and she was so tight and hot, and so accepting, he was determined to prolong the sweet torture to the full.
She was very wet, scalding hot; her thighs eased about him as he loved her. Then she wriggled, pressing closer. Clinging to his shoulders, clamping her knees to his hips, she arched, and picked up his rhythm. She matched him, warm and pliant, a female body more delicious, more rewarding, than any he'd known. They could barely breathe, yet their lips fused and held, melding to the same beat as their bodies, the same beat as their hearts.
She was used to riding; he realized what that meant as she continued to meet him, her body supplely flexing in his arms. She could very likely last as long as he could—which was a thought to make a strong man weak.
It only made him more rigid, more engorged. Her murmur as she adjusted was not one of complaint. So he held her lips with his, held her steady before him, and gave her what she deserved—a long, slow ride to delight.
Flick followed his lead eagerly, delighted to find that she could. That the steady rhythm hadn't overwhelmed her, although at first she'd thought it would. That first instant of feeling him deep within her—even now, she gasped at the sensual memory. She still felt their joining keenly, the internal pressure, the fullness that was so strange, especially as she'd never felt empty there before. But now he was riding so smoothly, so deeply, so effortlessly into her, some part of her wits had reengaged.
Certainly not all of them. It was as if the heat between them had reached a new level, another plane, leaving her reeling in pleasured delight but with enough wit to appreciate the sensation. As for her body…
On a gasp, she pulled back from their kiss to draw in a labored breath, aware of her body arching in his
arms—aware to her toes of why. Her skin radiated heat, as did his. But aside from the heat, it was very like riding. She hadn't realized it could be done like this—she was finding it quite easy to cope.
He ducked his head; she felt his lips sear her throat. She clung to his broad shoulders and tipped her head away so he could sear as he would. She lifted her heavy lids to regauge their position—she pressed her hips closer, gripped his hips more tightly and splayed her hands over his back.
And caught sight of the mirror on the wall by the door. Directly opposite.
The reflection in the mirror stole her breath, focused her wits and transfixed her attention. In utter fascination.
She could see his naked back, down to his calves, see the flexing of his spine as he drove into her, see his buttocks clench and ease in time with their riding rhythm.
The view was enthralling.
She couldn't help but remember Bletchley in similar circumstance—which left her feeling like the cat who'd secured the prize cream. There was absolutely no comparison—not at any level. Not in the long, taut, steely muscles flexing in back and legs, not in the tight muscles that bunched and thrust, not in the steady, effortless rhythm, and certainly not in the powerful result.
Each deep thrust filled her completely, each movement effective, efficient and seemingly effortless—the outcome of harnessed, concerted power. Controlled power.
Bletchley had flailed and thrashed on top of his woman. In complete and stark contrast was the way Demon filled her. Deeply. Relentlessly. And oh, so repetitively.
Watching him thrust, feeling the result deep within her a split second later, focused her mind on the sensation, and drew her back into the maelstrom. Into the heat, and the swirling build of sensation.
Her lids were falling, her eyes almost shut when he changed his movement into a rolling thrust. She saw it—then felt it. She shut her eyes tight to better savor the moment—then quickly opened them again. To watch, and match her anticipation more acutely to his rhythm, to be ready to make the most of each sliding thrust, to shudder in his arms as he drove more deeply—to eventually let her lids fall as their glorious heat reached a new peak.
It was like riding at flat gallop through a fire.
Excitement, tense and searing, gripped her—along with a driving, compulsively urgent need. They were both breathing hard, both reaching deep—for the energy, the strength, to make the final dash.
He turned his head and their lips touched, but only briefly; she felt his hand slide, hot as a brand, up under her chemise. Skin to hot skin, he closed his hand about her breast. His fingers shifted; he found her tightly furled nipple. And pressed.
She cried out—the sound, laden with sharp delight, echoed through the room. His hand shifted on her flesh, and she was burning, burning—incandescent within.
Heat and flames were everywhere, raging through her—molten rivers of pleasure and urgent need flowed, a hot tide, from where they joined. The tide swelled, reaching ever higher, consuming her body, buoying her mind, her senses—lifting them high on a rush of pure passion.
Higher—ever higher.
His hand slid over her fevered flesh, from breast to hip, then around to her rear. He caressed her there—with a smothered gasp, she locked her arms about his shoulders and lifted slightly; instantly, his hand slid lower, caressing her bottom knowingly, evocatively, possessively, then reaching further to trace the line beneath the tight globes.
She shuddered—and felt like she was shattering. Blown apart by the heat and the burgeoning frenzy. He set her down and tipped her back, his hands once again at her hips. He angled them; without thought, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his waist.
Instantly, he filled her deeply, completely; as he drew back, his fingers slid into the damp curls between her widespread thighs, straight to the nubbin of flesh he'd earlier teased.
He touched her there—and reality shook. She clutched tight—in desperation, she tried to cling to her wits, to her spiralling senses…
"Let go." His lips touched hers briefly—hotly. "Throw your heart over."
She heard the raspy order as he touched her again—she obeyed, and soared high. Her world exploded.
She lost her senses utterly—lost all touch with reality. She was swept up by a force she couldn't describe—hot and powerful, it propelled her into pleasure. Deep, bone-melting pleasure.
It surrounded her like a sea, and left her floating in ecstasy.
To her surprise, her senses returned, heightened but focused solely on him. She felt his hard hands, first gentling, then gripping her, felt the force surge and sweep through his body—and into hers as he drove deep into her molten flesh. She heard his guttural groan as the force caught him, too.
Then he joined her in the void. She felt the warmth of him deep in her womb. Felt the heat of his body beneath her hands as she clung to him, and surrendered.
To the force behind their passion.
Eons later in the depths of the night, she awoke. Slowly, as always. Her mind struggled free of the wisps of sleep, only to slide into mists of confusion.
Her nerves made the dizzying leap from somnolence to excitement—befuddled by sleep, she couldn't understand why. It was full dark. She was lying on her back in the middle of a comfortable bed. A tickling sensation—it had started at the base of her stomach, just above her curls—that was what had woken her—was slowly progressing up her body. Over her stomach, past her navel, over her waist, steadily upward.
Some part of her mind was shrieking for her to react—but her limbs were too weighted—pleasurably weighted—for her to make any rash move. The tickling changed to nuzzling beneath her breasts, then warm kisses followed one curve up and over.
Demon's mouth closed over her nipple.
She sucked in a tortured breath and abruptly came to life. Not, however, quite as her mind intended. Held between his hands, she arched, flagrantly offering her breast—he accepted immediately,
laving the tip, then taking it deep in his mouth.
Flick heard a soft, strangled cry—then realized it was hers. The searing wetness shocked her anew. Opening her eyes, she looked down. "What—?"
She couldn't see him in the dark, but she could feel him. Her heart hitched, then started to canter as she felt his hair-roughened legs between hers, the solid weight of his hips spreading her thighs wide. The heat of his body as he hovered over her, mere inches distant, sent her heart into a gallop. When she realized that her senses hadn't lied—that there was no longer any garment, no matter how fine, between them, that his wicked lips and wickeder mouth were teasing her bare skin, and that, any second, his hard hot body would lie directly, skin to naked skin, on hers—her heart started to race.
"Relax."
The deep purring murmur came out of the dark as he lifted his head from her breast. After a moment he added, as if to explain, "I want you again."
Those four gravelly words went straight to her heart—then straight to her loins. He'd pushed her chemise up to her arms—when he tugged, she dragged in a massive breath, and obliged, lifting her arms and letting him draw the thin garment off over her head.
Leaving her naked beneath him.
What followed was a second lesson in sheer delight. In the dark of the night, in the depths of the bed, he touched her, caressed her, then, when her body was aching with urgent longing, filled her.
She lay on her back and let sensation wash over her—let her mind supply what she couldn't see. The cotton sheets formed a cocoon about them, cool against her fevered skin. The mattress was thick enough to cushion her against the powerful surges of his possession.
Arms braced, he loomed above her, a shadow lover in the night; he held himself over her as their bodies did what seemed to come naturally. To them both.
She couldn't deny she enjoyed it thoroughly, that she joyfully put her heart and soul into the exercise every bit as much as did he. She enjoyed feeling his body merging with hers, enjoyed the deep sense of completion that came, borne on that final surrender.
Enjoyed the weight of him when he collapsed, spent, upon her. Enjoyed the feeling of having him so deeply within her.
Demon woke as dawn tinged the sky and crept into the room to lay its pale fingers on the bed. In their light he saw an angel—his angel—sprawled asleep by his side.
She was facing away from him, half on her stomach.
For a long moment, he studied her golden curls while vivid memories rolled through his brain. Then, slowly, careful not to jar her, he came up on one elbow, then reached out and gently lifted the sheet, and drew it down.
She was more perfect than he'd thought—more beautiful than his imagination had been able to conjure. As the light about them strengthened, he looked his fill, drank in the sight of firm curves and slender limbs covered in flawless ivory skin—skin he knew felt like silk to his touch.
And would heat with gratifying swiftness if he touched her.
His gaze had fastened on the smooth hemispheres of her bottom. The thought of her responsiveness coupled with the sight brought him swiftly to attention, and too quickly to the brink of pain.
He gritted his teeth—and tried to think. Tried to reason with his overheated flesh.
All he could recall was her eagerness, her enthusiasm, her honest, open, unrestrained passion.
And the fact that he'd exercised great care in taking her the first time, and she hadn't tensed in the slightest when he'd taken her again.
He shouldn't, of course, have been so demanding as to take her a second time mere hours after the first. But he'd been desperate—visited by an ungovernable urge to reassure himself that it hadn't been a dream. That the most sensual woman he'd met in his life was an innocent Botticelli angel.
If he was wise, he wouldn't think about that—about how she'd responded so ardently, adapted so readily, then joined him in a wild ride. A ride rather wilder and certainly longer than he'd intended.
But she'd enjoyed it—and she'd enjoyed their second ride, too. Perhaps she'd enjoy a third?
His hand had made contact with her bottom before he'd finished the thought.
Flick woke to discover her bottom flushed and fevered, and Demon's hand sliding beneath her hip. He lifted her, and stuffed a pillow beneath her hips, then eased her down, settling her more definitely on her stomach.
Which seemed rather odd. But then, she was still mostly asleep. "Mmm?" she murmured, making it a question.
He leaned over her, looked into her heavy-lidded eyes, then kissed her shoulder. "Just lie still." She smiled sleepily, and let her lids fall.
His hand returned to her bottom.
To gently but evocatively caress, leaving a tracery of fire on skin already heated and dewed. Her breath came increasingly fast—when she murmured again, an incoherent question, his hand shifted. Long fingers slid between her thighs, into the soft folds of flesh between. He caressed, then probed—she felt him lean over her, the crisp hair on his chest brushing her back, sending tingling shivers racing through her.
All the way to where his fingers delved.
He smothered a curse, then his fingers left her. He shifted, his weight dipping the bed as he lifted over her. With his legs, he nudged hers wide; grasping her right knee, he drew it up, bending that leg, leaving her knee almost level with her waist—he settled his hips in the space created, hard against her bottom.
She blinked her eyes wide—a large hand came down, palm flat by her shoulder, carrying his weight above her.
Her heart throbbed and leapt to her throat as she felt his weight against her bottom—then stopped
as she felt a familiar hardness ease into her.
She gasped as he slid powerfully home. All the way.
Holding still, his hips flush with her bottom, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
Naked, with him equally naked behind her, joined in a fashion that made her think of stallions and mares, with him throbbing at her center… she was more than all right. She was on the brink of ecstasy.
"Yes." The word came out in a rush, laden with a sweet tension she couldn't disguise. He bent his head and touched his lips to her ear.
"You don't have to do anything. Just lie still." Then he made love to her until she screamed.
Chapter 14
« ^ »
"Drive on!" Demon climbed into the manor's carriage; a groom shut the door behind him. The carriage lurched, then rumbled out of The Angel's stable yard.
"Are you sure Gillies will be able to cope?" Flick asked. "There's no need for you to escort me all the way to Hillgate End."
Settling beside her, Demon glanced at her, then leaned back against the squabs. "Gillies is perfectly capable of locating Bletchley and following him back to London."
He'd gone down to breakfast and to order a tray to be taken up to Flick, only to find Gillies kicking his heels by the main door. Bletchley, it transpired, had already left for the prizefight field.
"Heard him quizzing the innkeep," Gillies had said, "about the special coaches they've put on, running direct from here to London."
After his lack of activity the previous night, it seemed likely Bletchley had dallied in Newmarket purely to attend the prizefight, but… they couldn't be certain he didn't have a meeting arranged to take place amid the crowd about the ring. Neither he nor Gillies had believed that—discussing race-fixing surrounded by a crowd containing so many potentially interested ears smacked of rank stupidity, something the syndicate had shown no sign of being. Gillies hadn't followed Bletchley, but waited for orders.
"He went out this morning with the same crew he was chatting with last night, heading straight for the field."
There was an outside chance of a meeting occurring after the prizefight, although given the aftermath of such events, that, too, seemed unlikely. Still…
Demon had rejigged his plans, sending Gillies after Bletchley to watch and to follow, to London if necessary.
"Gillies knows who to contact in London—we'll set up a watch on Bletchley. He'll have to meet
with his masters soon."
Flick humphed impatiently; Demon ignored it. He was relieved that Bletchley was heading south. With him gone, the chances of Flick running headlong into danger were considerably diminished.
With Gillies at the fight, he'd first arranged for a coachman to drive the manor carriage back to Hillgate End, then broken his fast at a leisurely pace, then paid Flick's shot with no explanation whatever, and returned upstairs to escort her, concealingly cloaked and veiled, down to the waiting carriage.
By that time, the fight had started, so there was no one of note left at the inn to witness their joint departure. The only wrinkle in his plan was Ivan the Terrible, presently tied behind the carriage.
Ivan hated being led—especially by a carriage. He was going to be in a foul mood when it came time to ride home.
Demon wasn't, however, disposed to worry about Ivan—before he rode home, he had a number of pressing matters to resolve. The most pressing sat beside him, idly gazing at the scenery, with not the slightest sign of fluster showing in her angelic face.
Which really did surprise him.
He was thirty-one and had bedded scores of women—she was just twenty, and had just spent her first night with a man. Him. Yet her composure was patently genuine. She'd been flustered enough, blushing rosily, when he'd left her in the room and gone to look for breakfast. But by the time he'd returned, she had been perfectly composed, her usual straightforward, openly confident self. Of course, by then, she had dressed.
She'd removed her veil as they'd rolled out of Bury; a quick glance revealed a serene expression, with a slight smile tilting her lips and a soft light in her eyes. As if she was recalling the events of the night and enjoying her memories.
Demon shifted, then looked out of the window—and went over his plans.
Flick was indeed reflecting on the events of the night, and those of the morning, and, further, on how much she'd enjoyed them. She still felt curiously glorious—as if she was glowing all the way to her toes. If this was satiation, she thoroughly approved. Which only made her even more determined on her course.
It seemed clear enough. Demon could love her—of that she felt sure. All she needed to do was to make sure he did before she agreed to marry him.
She needed to make him fall in love with her—she would have scoffed at the thought a mere month ago and labelled it an impossible task. Now, however, the prospects looked good. If last night and this morning were any guide, he was already halfway there.
He cared for her—was very careful of her; he clearly enjoyed giving her pleasure. He'd pleasured her to her toes. In a variety of ways. And remained considerate and caring afterward, in his usual overbearing way.
She spent the drive sunk in pleasant memories, but when they rolled through Newmarket, she inwardly shook herself, and sternly told herself to stop thinking of such things. She'd get precious little pleasuring in the days to come—at least until he came to love her.
She slanted a glance at him, then looked away, and rehearsed her plans yet again.
He spoke as they turned through the gates of Hillgate End.
"In case you're wondering, I intend telling the General that, due to an inadvertent circumstance, you and I were seen together in a chamber at The Angel last night by one of the ton's most rabid scandalmongers, and consequently, you've agreed to marry me."
She turned her head and met his eyes. "I haven't."
His face grew hard. "You've done rather a lot since last evening—precisely what is it you don't believe you've done?"
His tone was precise, his words excessively clipped. She ignored the warning. "I haven't agreed to marry you."
The sound he made was frustration incarnate. Abruptly, he sat up. "Flick—you have been well and truly and very thoroughly compromised this time. You have no choice—"
"On the contrary." She held his gaze. "I can still say no."
Demon stared at her, then narrowed his eyes. "Why would you want to say no?" "I have my reasons."
"Which are?"
She considered him, then said, "I told you I needed something more than mere circumstance to persuade me to marriage. What you did last night wasn't it."
He frowned, then shook his head, his expression turning grim. "Let me rephrase my intention. I'll tell the General what I said before, then, if you still won't agree to our marriage, I'll tell him the rest—how I spent all night in your bed—and half the night in you."
She raised her brows, considered him steadily, then looked away. "You know you'll never tell him that."
Demon stared at her, at her pure profile, at her chin resolutely firm, her nose tip-tilted—and fought down the urge to lay his hands on her.
She was right, of course—he would never do anything to harm her standing with the General, one of the few people she cared about. The General would very likely understand why he'd acted as he had, but he wouldn't understand her refusal. Any more than he did.
Forcing himself to relax, he sank back against the seat and stared out of the window. The horses clopped on.
"What story did you concoct for the household to explain your trip to Bury?" He asked the question without looking at Flick; he felt her glance, then she answered.
"That I was going to see Melissa Blackthorn—her family lives just past Bury. We often visit on the spur of the moment."
Demon considered. "Very well. You intended visiting Miss Blackthorn—Gillies offered to drive you in the hope of seeing the fight, but when you reached Bury, the street was blocked with incoming traffic and you got trapped in the melee. It got dark—you were still trapped. Not being au fait with prizefights, you sought refuge at The Angel." He glanced at Flick. "Hopefully, no one will learn of your disguise or your story to gain a room."
She shrugged. "Bury's far enough away—none of the staff have family that far afield."
Demon humphed. "We can but hope. So—you were at The Angel when I arrived, intending to stay for the fight. I saw you… and then Lord Selbourne saw us. Thus, this morning, I brought you straight home so we can deal with the current situation." He glanced at Flick. "Can you see any holes?"
She shook her head, then grimaced. "I do hate misleading the General, though."
Demon looked out of the window. "Given we've struggled to avoid all mention of Dillon and the syndicate thus far, I can't see any point mentioning them now." It would only upset the General more to know the current imbroglio was a result of Flick's championing Dillon.
The shadows of the drive fell behind them; ahead, the manor basked in sunshine. The carriage rocked to a stop. Demon opened the door, stepped out, then handed Flick down. Jacobs opened the front door before they knocked; Demon led Flick into the cool hall, then released her.
Mrs. Fogarty came bustling up, fussing about Flick, who slid around her questions easily. Flick cast a watchful, questioning glance at Demon—he met it with his blandest expression. She frowned fleetingly, but had to reorganize her expression to deal with Mrs. Fogarty. With the housekeeper in close attendance, Flick headed to her room.
Demon watched her go, then his lips lifted, just a little at the ends. Challenges—more challenges. Swinging on his heel, he headed for the library.
"So—let me see if I've got this right."
In the chair behind his desk, the General sat back and steepled his fingers. "You and Felicity were again caught in an apparently compromising situation, only this time by someone who will take great delight in ruining Felicity's good name. You, however, are perfectly prepared to marry the chit, but she's proving headstrong, and jibbing at the bit. So, instead of pressing marriage on her in such an abrupt manner, you suggest I agree to send her to your mother, Lady Horatia, to enjoy the delights of the Season in London. Under your mother's wing, even without a formal declaration, it will be surmised that she's your intended, but the interlude will give Felicity time to adjust to the position, and accept marriage to you as the sensible course." He looked up at Demon. "Is that right?"
Standing before the windows, Demon nodded. "Naturally, if, in the course of her time in London, she meets any other gentleman and forms a lasting attachment that is returned, I give you my word to release her without complaint. It's her happiness—her reputation—I'm interested in securing."
"Indeed. Hmm." The General's eyes twinkled. "Well then, no reason whatever she should take exception to a sojourn in London. Do her good anyway, to see all she's missed stuck up here with an old man."
The lunch gong boomed; the General chuckled and rose. "Capital notion all around. Let's go tell her, what?"
Demon smiled easily. Beside the General, he strolled toward the dining room. "London?" Flick stared at Demon, sitting directly opposite across the luncheon table. "Hmm—the capital. My mother would love to have you stay with her."
It was all so transparent. Flick glanced to her right, to where the General, nodding mildly, was helping himself to more peas. He seemed serenely unconcerned about her reputation, for which she was honestly grateful to Demon; she couldn't have borne it if the old dear had been distressed. Yet she was fairly
certain the only reason he was in such fine fettle, knowing her reputation was, if not precisely in shreds, then certainly rather tattered, was because he believed a stay in London under Lady Horatia's wing would make her change her mind and accept his protege as her husband.
There was a good chance he was right—she certainly hoped so.
And there were a number of good reasons for falling in with Demon's plan. Not least was the fact that Bletchley had gone to London. And while she'd never before felt any interest in tonnish affairs, if she was to marry Demon, then she would need to find her feet in that arena. She was also suddenly insatiably curious as to how, and with whom, he spent his days in London.
Quite aside from all else, if she was going to make him fall in love with her, she needed to be with him. Her eyes locked on his, she nodded. "Yes—I think I'd like that."
He smiled. "Good. I'll drive you up tomorrow." "How on earth did that happen?"
Early the next morning, already on the road to London, drawn thence by Demon's powerful bays, Flick swivelled on the curricle's seat and glanced back at Gillies, perched behind. "I thought you were following him?"
Gillies looked pained; Demon answered. "We thought Bletchley was planning to take one of the special coaches back to London from Bury—Gillies heard him asking where to catch them. After watching Bletchley throughout the fight—and learning nothing—at the end, Gillies, quite reasonably, moved to the gate leading back to Bury and waited for Bletchley to pass him. He never did."
"Oh?" Flick glanced back at Gillies.
He grimaced. "He must have caught a ride on some cart back to Newmarket."
"And then hired a horse and, bold as you please, came cantering up the manor drive." Demon set his teeth. That had been too close for his liking—luckily, Bletchley had not seen Flick, nor she, him.
Flick sat back. "I nearly dropped a vase when Jacobs mentioned he'd called, asking after Dillon."
"Thankfully, Jacobs sent him on his way." Demon eased the bays past a farm cart, then let the reins run free. "Bletchley returned to the Rutland Arms and caught the evening mail to London."
"So we've lost him."
He glanced at Flick, relieved to see nothing more than a frown on her face. "For the moment. But we'll come up with him again, never fear."
"London's very big."
"True, but it's possible to keep watch on the likely places Bletchley might meet with a group of gentlemen. The classes don't mix freely at all that many venues. Limmers, Tattersalls, and a few other, less savory haunts."
"Still, isn't it like looking for the proverbial needle?"
Demon hesitated, then grimaced. "There might be another way to identify likely members of the syndicate independent of any meeting, which should make it easier, if a meeting does occur, to track someone to
it—and so identify all the syndicate." "Another way?"
Flick's eyes were firmly fixed on his face. With his gaze on his speeding horses, he outlined his discussions with Heathcote Montague, and what they hoped to discover.
At the end of his explanation, Flick sat back. "Good. So we haven't given up on helping Dillon—it's just that our investigations have changed direction."
"Speaking of Dillon, does he know you've left Newmarket?"
"I sent a message with Jiggs—I told him to tell Dillon that we had to follow up clues in London, that I didn't know when we'd be back, but that he should stay in hiding until we returned. I promised I'd write and tell him what we discover. Jiggs will deliver my letters."
Demon nodded. If nothing else, he'd distanced her from Dillon—while in London, she could concentrate on him, and herself. He was certain his mother would encourage her in that endeavor, while at the same time helpfully denying Flick—a young lady in her charge—the license she would need to pursue Bletchley, the syndicate, or any other villain. Despite the fact both Bletchley and the syndicate were in London, he felt perfectly sanguine about taking Flick there.
As for the danger posed by Lord Selbourne, that was, at least temporarily, in abeyance; his lordship had gone directly into Norfolk to visit with his sister.
The curricle sped south through the bright morning, wheels rolling smoothly along the macadam. Despite losing Bletchley, despite having to revise his plans to accommodate a certain angel's stubbornness, Demon felt in remarkable charity with the world. Their current direction felt right—this was obviously the way to get Flick to say yes. She was, beyond question, already his, but if they had to go through a formal wooing, he was content to remove to London. It was, after all, his home ground. He was looking forward to showing her about—showing her off. Her bright-eyed innocence continued to delight him; through her eyes, he saw aspects of his world he'd long considered boring in an entirely new light.
He slanted a glance at her; the breeze was tugging at her curls, setting her bonnet ribbons twirling. Her eyes were wide, her gaze fixed ahead; her lips, delicate rose, were full, lush, lightly curved. She looked good enough to eat.
Abruptly, he looked ahead, the memory of the taste of her flooding him. Gritting his teeth, he willed the distraction away. He was going to have to keep his demons caged for the foreseeable future—there was no sense in teasing and taunting them. That was the one drawback in placing Flick under his mother's wing—she would be safe from all others, but also safe from him.
Even should she wish otherwise, which was an intriguing, potentially helpful, notion. Mulling over the possibility, he sent his whip out to tickle his leader's ear and urge his horses on.
Beside him, Flick watched the countryside roll past with a keen and eager eye. Anticipation grew with every mile—it was hard to preserve a proper calm. Soon they would reach London; soon, she would see Demon in his other milieu, his other guise. She knew he was considered a rake extraordinaire, yet, until now, her knowledge of him had been restricted to Demon in the country; she had a shrewd notion his tonnish persona would be different from the one she knew. As the miles sped past, she spent the time imagining,, envisioning a more graceful, more elegant, more potent presence—the glittering glamor he would assume when in society, a cloak donned over his true character, all the traits so familiar
to her. She couldn't wait to see it.
Despite losing Bletchley, it was impossible to remain sober. Her mood was buoyant, her heart light—she was looking forward to life in a completely new way—facing in a completely unlooked-for direction.
Marriage to Demon—it was a dizzying thought, a dream she had never dared dream. And now she was committed to the enterprise—totally and absolutely. Not that she entertained any doubts about success. In her present mood, that was impossible.
From all she'd heard of London, it would provide the setting—one with the best opportunities—for her to encourage Demon to give her his heart. Then all would be perfect, and her dream would come true.
She sat beside him with barely concealed impatience, waiting for London to appear.
When it did, she blinked. And wrinkled her nose. And winced at the raucous cries. The streets were packed with carriages of every description, the pavements teeming. She had never imagined such
close-packed humanity—fresh from the broad plain of Newmarket Heath, she found it disturbing. She felt hemmed in on every side with the sheer weight of humankind. And the noise. And the squalor. And the urchins—everywhere.
She'd lived in London for only a short time before, with her aunt at her London house. She couldn't remember any sights such as those she now saw, but it had, after all, been a long time ago. As Demon concentrated on his horses, deftly tacking through the traffic, she edged closer until she could feel the warmth of his body through her pelisse.
To her relief, the fashionable areas were more as she recalled—quiet streets lined with elegant houses, neat squares with fenced gardens at their centers. Indeed, this part of London was better, neater, more beautiful than her memories. Her aunt had lived in Bloomsbury, which was not nearly as fashionable as Berkeley Square, which was where Demon took her.
He reined in the bays before a large mansion, as imposing as the most imposing she'd seen. As Gillies took the reins and Demon stepped down, Flick stared up at the three-storeyed facade and suddenly knew what "being not quite up to snuff" felt like.
Then Demon took her hand; stilling her fears, she shuffled along the seat and let him hand her to the ground. Clutching her parasol's handle tightly, she took his profferred arm, and climbed the steps beside him.
If the house was imposing, slightly scarifying, the butler, Highthorpe, was worse. He opened the door to Demon's knock and looked down his beaked nose at her.
"Ah, Highthorpe—how's the leg?" With an affectionate smile at the butler, Demon handed Flick over the threshold. "Is her ladyship in?"
"My leg is quite improved, thank you, sir." Holding the door wider, Highthorpe bowed deferentially; he closed it after them, and turned, his starchy demeanor somewhat softer. "Her ladyship, I believe, is in her sanctuary."
Demon's smile deepened. "This is Miss Parteger, Highthorpe. She'll be staying with Mama for the nonce. Gillies will bring her bags around."
It might have been a trick of the light beaming through the fanlight, yet Flick could have sworn a gleam of
interest flashed in Highthorpe's eyes. He smiled as he bowed again to her. "Miss. I'll mention to Mrs. Helmsley to prepare a room for you at once—I'll have your bags taken there. No doubt you'll wish to refresh yourself after your journey."
"Thank you." Flick smiled back—Highthorpe suddenly sounded much more comfortable. Demon drew her on.
"I'll leave you in the drawing room while I fetch Mama." He opened a door and ushered her inside.
One glance about the elegant blue-and-white room had her turning back to him. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I could always stay with my aunt—"
"Mama will be delighted to meet you." He made the statement as if she hadn't spoken. "I won't be above a few minutes."
He went out, closing the door behind him. Flick stared at the white painted panels—he didn't come back in. Sighing, she looked around.
She considered the white damask settee, then looked down at her plain, definitely old, outmoded pelisse. Putting one in contact with the other seemed like sacrilege. So she stayed on her feet and shook out her skirts, trying vainly to rearrange them to hide the creases. What would Lady Horatia—the lady who presided over such a well-appointed drawing room—think of her in her far-from-elegant attire?
The point proved academic.
The latch clicked, the door swung wide, and a tall, commandingly elegant lady swept in.
And descended on her, a huge smile on her face, her eyes alight with a welcome Flick could not imagine what she'd done to deserve. But there was no mistaking the warmth with which Lady Horatia embraced her.
"My dear!" Touching a scented cheek to hers, Lady Horatia straightened and held her at arms' length, not to inspect her dowdy pelisse but to look into her face. "I'm so very delighted to meet you, and to welcome you to this house. Indeed"—she shot a glance at Demon—"I understand it will be my pleasure to introduce you to the ton." Looking back at Flick, Lady Horatia beamed. "I couldn't be more delighted!"
Flick smiled warmly, gratefully.
Lady Horatia's smile deepened; her blue eyes, very like Demon's, twinkled expressively. "Now we can send Harry away and get acquainted."
Flick blinked, then realized, as Lady Horatia turned to Demon, that she was referring to him.
"You may come back for dinner." Lady Horatia raised a brow—the gesture appeared haughtily teasing. "I presume you are free?"
Demon—Harry—merely smiled. "Of course." He looked at Flick. "I'll see you at seven." With a nod for her and another for his mother, he turned and strolled to the door; it shut softly behind him.
"Well!" Lady Horatia turned to Flick, and smiled exultantly. "At last!"
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Despite their languid elegance, when Cynsters acted, things happened in a rash. After luncheon, Horatia whisked Flick into her carriage, off to a family afternoon tea.
"Grosvenor Square's not far," Horatia assured her. "And Helena is going to be as delighted as I to meet you."
"Helena?" Flick sifted through the names Horatia had mentioned over luncheon.
"My sister-in-law. Mother of Sylvester, better known as Devil, now Duke of St. Ives. Helena is the Dowager. She and I only had sons—she, Sylvester and Richard, me, Vane and Harry. Sylvester, Richard and Vane are all married—" Horatia glanced at Flick. "Didn't Harry tell you?"
Flick shook her head; Horatia grimaced. "He always was one to ignore details. So—" Horatia settled back; Flick dutifully paid attention. "Sylvester married Honoria Anstruther-Wetherby over a year ago. Sebastian, their son, is eight months old. Honoria's increasing again, so while they'll doubtless come to town for the Season proper, the ducal couple are presently in Cambridgeshire.
"Which brings us to Vane. He married Patience Debbington last November. Patience is increasing, too, so we don't expect to see them for a few weeks, either. As for Richard, he married quite unexpectedly in Scotland before Christmas. There was a spot of bother—Sylvester, Honoria, Vane, Patience and Helena—and a few others—went north, but all seems to have settled comfortably and Helena is in alt at the prospect of more grandchildren.
"However," Horatia declared, reaching her peroration, "as neither Honoria nor Patience, nor Richard's Catriona, were young misses in need of help and guidance, neither Helena nor I have ever had a young lady to fuss over." Eyes bright, she patted Flick's hand. "So I'm afraid, my dear, that you'll have to put up with the two of us fussing over you—you're our last chance in that arena, you see."
Flick smiled spontaneously. "On the contrary, I would be glad of your help." Her gaze drifted over the fashionable ladies and gentlemen strolling the pavements. "I've no real idea how one should go on in London." She looked down at her pretty but definitely not chic gown, blushed slightly, and caught Horatia's eye. "Please do hint me in the right direction—I would be very unhappy to be an embarrassment to you and D—Harry."
"Nonsense." Horatia squeezed Flick's hand fondly. "I doubt you could embarrass me if you tried." Her eyes twinkled. "And certainly not my son." Flick blushed; Horatia chuckled. "With a little guidance, a little experience, and a little town bronze, you'll do very well."
Grateful for the reassurance, Flick sat back and wondered how to broach the question uppermost in her mind. Horatia clearly viewed her as a future daughter-in-law, which was what she hoped to be. But she hadn't yet accepted Demon, and wouldn't, not until… Drawing a determined breath, she looked at Horatia. "Did D—Harry explain that I haven't agreed…"
"Oh, indeed. And I can't tell you how grateful I am that you had the wit not to accept him straightaway." Horatia frowned disapprovingly. "These things should take time—time enough to organize a proper wedding, at least. Unfortunately, that's not the way they see it." Her tone made it clear she was speaking of the males of the family. "If it's left to them, they'll sweep you past a cleric and into bed with
the barest 'by-your-leave'!"
Flick choked; misinterpreting, Horatia patted her hand. "I know you won't mind my plain speaking—you're old enough to understand these things."
Flick went to nod and stopped herself; her blush was because she did know, and appreciated Horatia's insight—that was certainly how Demon had imagined it. Only, being him, he'd transposed the cleric and the bed. "I think time—at least a little time—is a necessity in this case."
"Good!" The carriage rocked, then halted; Horatia looked up. "Ah—here we are."
The groom opened the door and let down the steps, then handed Flick, then his mistress, to the pavement. Horatia nodded at the magnificent mansion reached by a sweeping set of steps. "St. Ives House."
The afternoon had turned gloriously fine—tables, chairs and chaises were set out on the lawn of the enclosed gardens. At Lady Horatia's side, Flick left the house, stepping past the deferential butler and onto the terrace. She saw a small host of well-dressed ladies, ranging in age from very old to a girl barely out of the schoolroom, congregating on the lawn.
There was not a gentleman in sight.
Parasols dipped and swayed above smart coiffures, protecting delicate complexions. Other ladies simply sat back, glorying in the weak sunshine, smiling, laughing and chatting. While substantial, the noise was not overpowering—indeed, it subtly beckoned. There was a gaiety, a relaxed sense of ease pervading the group, unexpected in conjunction with its blatantly tonnish air. This wasn't fashion and brittle frivolity—this was a fashionable family gathering; the distinction was clear.
The large number of guests was a surprise; Horatia had assured her she would meet only family members and a few close connections. Before she managed to fully grasp the reality, a beautiful older woman came sweeping up to meet them as they descended the steps to the lawn.
" 'Oratia!" The Dowager exchanged kisses with her sister-in-law, but her gaze had already moved on to Flick. "And who is this?" A glorious smile and bright eyes softened the abrupt query.
"Allow me to present Miss Felicity Parteger—Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, my dear." Flick curtsied deeply. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace."
As she straightened, Helena took her hand, directing an arrested, inquiring glance at Horatia. "Felicity is Gordon Caxton's ward."
With one blink, Helena had the reference pegged. "Ah—the good General." She smiled at Flick. "Is he well?"
"Yes, thank you, ma'am."
With the air of one who could contain herself no longer, Horatia broke in, "Harry brought Felicity up to town. She'll be staying with us in Berkeley Square, and I'll be taking her into society."
Helena's gaze flew to Horatia's face; her smile deepened, and deepened. Looking again at Flick, she positively beamed. "My dear, I am so very glad to meet you!"
Before Flick could blink, the Dowager embraced her enthusiastically, then, one arm about her waist,
bustled her down the lawn. With a Gallic charm impossible to resist, the Dowager introduced her to her sisters-in-law first, then the older ladies, and eventually the younger ones, two of whom, clearly twins, were adjured to ensure Flick wanted for nothing, including help with names and relationships.
The pair were the most ravishing blonde beauties Flick had ever seen. They had skin like alabaster, eyes like cornflower pools and a wealth of ringlets almost as golden as her own. She expected them to hang back—they might be younger than she, but she was definitely not in their social league. To her surprise, they smiled at her delightedly—every bit as delightedly as their mother and aunts had—and swooped forward to link arms with her.
"Excellent! I thought this party would be just the usual thing—pleasant but hardly exciting. Instead, we get to meet you!"
Flick blinked—she glanced from one to the other, trying to remember which was which. "I've never thought of myself as exciting."
"Hah! You must be, otherwise Demon would never have looked your way."
The second girl laughed. "Don't mind Amanda." She grinned as Flick glanced around. "I'm Amelia. You'll get used to telling us apart—we're not identical."
They weren't, but they were very much alike.
"Tell us," Amelia urged, "how long have you known Demon?"
"We ask," Amanda put in, "because until the last few weeks he's been severely testing our sanity by watching over us at the balls and major parties."
"Indeed. So we know he went up to Newmarket a few weeks ago. Is that where you met him?"
"We did meet at Newmarket," Flick agreed, "but I've lived there since I was seven, and I've known Demon from the first."
Both girls stared at her, then Amanda frowned. "What the devil's he been doing, keeping you hidden away like that?"
"Excuse us for asking, but you are older than us, aren't you? We're eighteen."
"I'm twenty," Flick replied. The twins were taller and certainly more socially assured, but there was a subtle difference; she hadn't imagined herself younger than them.
"So why," Amanda reiterated, "didn't Demon bring you down last year? He's not one for dragging his boots—not him."
"He does tend to drive fast," Flick grinned. "He didn't bring me down last year, because… well, he didn't really know I existed last year."
That comment, of course, led to further questions, further revelations. Which cleared the way for Flick to ask why Demon had been watching them.
"Sometimes I think it's simply to drive us mad, but truly they can't seem to help themselves, poor dears." Amanda shook her head. "It's something in the blood."
"Luckily, once they marry, they're not such a bother. They'd still interfere if they could, mind you, but
Honoria, Patience and Catriona have so far kept Devil, Vane and Richard out of our way." Amelia looked at Flick. "And now you'll be here to keep Demon occupied."
"With any luck," Amanda added dryly,"the others will find ladies to dote on before we become ape-leaders."
Flick grinned. "Surely they can't be that inhibiting."
"Oh, can't they?" the twins chorused. They promptly recounted a series of events illustrating their claim, in the process giving Flick vignettes of Demon within the ton—surrounded by beautiful women.
Sensing her interest, the twins dismissively waved aside his London conquests.
"Don't worry about them—they never last long, and now he'll be too busy with you." "Watching over you, thank heaven!" Amanda raised her eyes to the skies. "Only got two more to go." Amelia chuckled, and looked at Flick. "Gabriel and Lucifer."
"Who?"
The twins laughed, and explained about their older male cousins, the group known as the Bar Cynster.
"We're not supposed to know about the Bar Cynster, so remember not to mention it to Demon," Amanda warned.
They continued, giving her a potted history of the family—who was whose child, brother, sister. They beckoned the only younger girl over—their cousin, Heather, nearly sixteen.
"I won't be presented until next year," Heather sighed, "but Mama said I could attend the family events this year. Aunt Louise is giving an informal ball next week."
"You'll be invited," Amanda assured Flick. "We'll make sure your name is on the list." Amelia stifled a snort. "Mama will make sure your name is on the list."
Minutes later, they were summoned to distribute the tea cups. Flick did her share, moving easily among the company. Although every lady she paused beside spoke with her, beyond the information Horatia had imparted regarding her visit, not one word was said—not one inference drawn. At least, not within her hearing. Every lady made her feel welcome, and if, by dint of subtle questioning, they extracted her entire life history from her, it was no more than she'd expected. But they were the very opposite of nosy, and certainly not judgmental—their warm approval, their ready acceptance, the protection of the group so openly offered very nearly overwhelmed her.
One very old, very sharp-eyed lady closed a claw about her hand. "If you find yourself in a ballroom, gel, and at a loss what to do, then find one of us—even those flighty flibbertigibbets"—Lady Osbaldestone's black gaze skewered the twins, then she looked up at Flick—"and just ask. The ton can be a confusing place, but that's what family's for—you needn't feel shy."
"Thank you, ma'am." Flick bobbed a curtsy. "I'll remember."
"Good. Now you may give me one of those macaroons. Dare say Clara there would like one, too."
Lady Osbaldestone was not the only one to offer advice and support. Long before the afternoon came to an end and she and Lady Horatia took their leave, amid embraces, waves and plans to meet again, Flick felt she had literally been gathered to the bosom of the Cynster clan.
Settling back in the carriage, Horatia closed her eyes. Flick did the same, and looked back over the afternoon.
They were amazing. She'd known Demon had a large family, but that the Cynsters would prove such a close tribe had been a pleasant surprise. She'd never had a real family—not since her parents had died. She'd never felt part of a continuing whole, a group that had a before and would also have an after, beyond the individual members. She'd been alone since the age of seven. The General, Dillon and the Hillgate End household had become her surrogate family, but this was something very different.
If she married Demon, she would become, once again, part of a real family. One in which there were other women to talk to, to turn to for support; one where, by unspoken accord, the men watched over the young women, even if they weren't their sisters.
In some ways, it was all new to her—in other ways, at some deeper level, it touched a chord that resonated deeply. It felt very right. Opening her eyes, she stared, smiling but unseeing, out of the window, deeply glad at the prospect of becoming a Cynster.
Two mornings later, in a far from glorious mood, Demon gritted his teeth and turned his bays toward the park. For the third time in as many days, he'd arrived at his parents' house only to learn that Miss Parteger was out.
He'd called on the afternoon of the day he'd brought her to town, imagining her sitting alone and forlorn while his mother napped. Instead, they'd been gossiping at his Aunt Helena's—and he knew very well about what. He'd swallowed his disappointment, uneasily surprised that he'd felt it, and reflected that this was precisely why he'd brought Flick to town—so his dear family, especially the female half, could help her make up her mind to marry him. He had no doubt they would do so. They were past masters at engineering weddings. As far as he was concerned, they could exercise their talents on his behalf.
So he'd retired, leaving no message—nothing to alert his too-perceptive mother that he'd been impatient enough to call. He'd arrived promptly for dinner, but discovered that seeing Felicity over a dinner table with his parents present didn't satisfy his appetite.
Yesterday, he'd called at eleven—a perfectly innocuous time. Turning up too close to breakfast would have been too revealing. Highthorpe had looked at him with sympathy and informed him that his mother, his aunt and the young lady had gone shopping.
He knew that meant they'd be away for hours. And they'd be in one of those silly, feminine moods when they returned, wanting to tell him about frills and furbelows, unreceptive to the notion of paying attention to him.
He'd retreated in good order, noting again that this was a part of why he'd brought Flick to town—so she could be seduced by the entertainments available as his wife. Shopping, to the female soul, ranked high as entertainment.
In other arenas, fate was being more helpful; he'd heard on the grapevine that Rattletrap Selbourne had contracted mumps from his sister's offspring and was not expected in town this Season. Selbourne was one complication he could temporarily put from his mind.
Today, he'd arrived at Berkeley Square midmorning, quite sure he'd find Flick waiting to impress him in one of her new gowns.
His mother had taken her off to the park.
He was seriously considering having a very pithy few words with his mother.
Feathering his curricle through the Stanhope Gate, narrowly missing an approaching landau, he tried to rein in his unreasonable temper and still the urgent pounding in his blood. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction, at the sense of deprivation that had seized him. It was, he reassured himself, simply because he'd got used to seeing her daily, nothing else. The effect would wear off, subside.
It would have to. In town, in the lead up to the Season, he would meet her only briefly, in the park under the watchful eyes of the ton's matrons, or in a crowded ballroom, likewise overseen. Private hours such as he'd grown accustomed to in the country were no longer part of their schedule.
Turning into the Avenue, he replaced his grim expression with his usual, politely bored mask.
He found Flick sitting in his mother's barouche, smiling sweetly at a host of gentlemen who, parading with other young ladies on the lawn, were eyeing her speculatively. His mother was deep in conversation with his aunt Helena, whose landau was drawn up alongside.
Smothering a curse, he angled his curricle in behind his mother's carriage and reined in. Gillies came running to hold the bays' heads. Tying off the reins, Demon jumped down and stalked along the verge.
Flick had heard the curricle pull up, and she'd turned; now she smiled, gloriously welcoming. For an instant, he was lost in her eyes, in her glow—his mask slipped; he started to smile, his usual taunting, teasing smile.
He caught himself just in time and substituted an easy, affable expression and a cool smile. Only his eyes, as they met hers, held any heat. If his mother or his sharp-eyed aunt caught a glimpse of that other smile, they'd know a great deal too much.
Flick held out her hand; he took it, bowing easily. "Well met, my dear."
Straightening, he exchanged polite nods with his mother and aunt, then looked back at Flick. He hadn't released her hand. "Can I tempt you to a stroll about the lawns?"
"Oh, yes!" Eagerly, she shifted forward. Demon suddenly understood her interest in the couples on the lawn: simple envy. She was used to riding every day—she would miss the exercise.
His smile deepening, he opened the carriage door. Over Flick's head, his mother glared at him and mouthed "new dress." Inwardly grinning, he helped Flick down, very willing to let his gaze roam. "Is that new?"
She threw him an ingenuous smile. "Yes." Releasing his hand, she twirled, then halted. "Do you like it?"
His gaze had locked on her body, sweetly encased in lavender-blue twill; now he lifted it to her face—and couldn't find words to answer. His chest had seized, his wits scrambled—the pounding in his blood escalated. The sheer glory of her face, her eyes, didn't help—he'd forgotten what it felt like to be smitten by an angel.
His mother and aunt were watching, eagle-eyed; he cleared his throat and managed to smile urbanely. "You look… extremely fetching." She looked delectable, delicious—and he was suddenly ravenous.
Retaking her hand, he laid it on his sleeve. "We'll take a turn down to the flowerbeds and back."
He heard an amused "humph" from the carriage, but he didn't look back as they strolled onto the lawn,
too busy enjoying the sight—and the sensations—of having his angel on his arm again. She smiled up at him—her golden curls caught his eye. "You've had your hair trimmed."
"Yes." She angled her head this way and that so he could appreciate the subtle changes. Her curls had always framed her face, but loosely. Now, by dint of artful clipping, the frame was more complete, more stable—if anything, brighter. "It suits me, I think."
Demon nodded. "It's undeniably elegant." Lowering his gaze, he met her eyes. "I expect it complements your new evening gowns well."
She blinked her eyes wide. "How did you know?…"
He grinned. "I called yesterday and heard you'd gone shopping. As it appears you've visited a modiste, and I know my mother, the rest is easy."
"Helena came, too. It was…" She paused, then smiled at him. "Very enjoyable." Content, Demon returned her smile, then looked ahead.
They strolled in silence, as they had so often on the Heath. Neither felt any pressing need of words, deeply easy in the other's company. Flick felt the breeze ruffle her skirts, felt them flap against Demon's polished Hessians. The steely strength of the muscles beneath her fingers, the sense of strength that reached for her, surrounded her and lapped her about, was blissfully welcome.
She'd missed him. Her singing heart told her that; her exulting senses confirmed it. Tipping her face to the sun, she smiled, aglow with an emotion that could only be love.
She slanted him a glance—only to find him watching her. He blinked, a frown forming in his eyes. Even as she looked, his face hardened.
He looked ahead. "I thought you might like to know what we've discovered about Bletchley."
Guilt struck. In the whirl of the past days, caught up in her own discoveries, she'd forgotten Dillon and his problems. "Yes, of course." Strengthening her voice, she looked ahead. "What have you learned?"
From the corner of her eye, she saw Demon grimace.
"We've confirmed Bletchley arrived on the Newmarket coach. It stops at Aldgate. We checked, but he isn't known in the area." They reached the flowerbeds and turned onto the gravel path beside the display. "Montague—my agent—is organizing a watch on the venues gentlemen use to meet with the riffraff they occasionally hire. If Bletchley appears, we'll pick up his trail again."
Flick frowned. "Is this Mr. Montague the same man you came down to see before?" Demon nodded; she asked, "Has he learned anything by looking for the money?"
"Not yet, but there's a large number of possibilities to check. Stocks, bonds, deposits, foreign transactions—he'll check everywhere. He has finalized the approximate sums we're looking for—the amounts taken from each fixed race over the autumn season, and the first race this year."
"Is it a lot?"
Demon met her gaze. "Enormous."
Reaching the walk's end, they turned back across the lawn, passing close by a number of other couples. With easy grace, Demon exchanged cool nods, distant smiles and steered her on. Flick mimicked his
politesse with a calmly serene expression.
Once they were free, Demon glanced at her, then lengthened his stride. She kept pace easily, but wondered why he was hurrying.
"The total amount taken is simply so huge," he continued, "it's utterly inconceivable that it won't show up somewhere. That's one encouraging point. Luckily, we've still got a few weeks before informing the stewards becomes imperative."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No." He glanced down at her, his expression impassive. "I'll check with Montague in a day or so, if he doesn't contact me." He hesitated, then added, "I'll let you know when we learn anything to the point."
She had to nod—they were almost at the carriage. Glancing at Demon's face, she noted the languidly bored mask that seemed to slide over his features, sensed the steely control that infused his movements, making them appear lazily indifferent. She assumed it was his London persona—his wolf's clothing, as it were.
But she didn't understand why, when he handed her into the carriage and bowed gracefully, he didn't meet her eye.
Horatia tapped his arm. "You'll receive your invitation to an informal ball Louise is giving today. The ball's early next week—I'll expect you to escort myself and Felicity."
Demon blinked. "Won't Papa escort you?"
Horatia waved dismissively. "You know your father—he'll want to call at White's on the way."
A grim expression flashed in Demon's eyes, then was gone. Resigned, he inclined his head. "As you wish."
As he straightened, his eyes touched Flick's, just for a second, just long enough to reassure her. With a bow to Horatia and Helena, he turned away.
"Don't be late!" Horatia called after him. "We'll be dining there."
A wave showed he'd heard. Taking the reins, he leapt into his curricle, then gravel crunched, and he was gone.
Chapter 16
« ^ »
"Just look at them!" Amanda hissed disgustedly in Flick's ear, then gracefully twirled away,
Amelia took her place. "Even if they're dancing, they still sneak looks." She dipped and swayed, and continued sotto voce, "And there's usually one standing on the sidelines, like Demon is now, so if we rip a flounce or tear a ribbon and try to slip away, they still catch us!"
Flick smiled at her partner and linked hands—she gave no sign of having heard the twins' grumblings. They were whirling and twirling their way through a country dance; about them, Louise Cynster's ballroom was filled with all the family presently in London, together with family friends. As the
ball was informal, and most guests related to one another, an air of easy gaiety prevailed. There were many younger people present—girls like Heather and younger males, too—which underscored the feeling of a family celebration.
Flick dipped under her partner's hand and smiled at the innocuous young man; the twins did the same, no sign of their disgruntlement showing in their serene faces.
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 murmured 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.
He didn't want that to happen, either.
He'd consorted with too many women who manufactured their emotions, who in reality cared little for anyone or anything. Flick's transparent joy was precious to him—had been from the first. He couldn't bring himself to douse the golden glow in her eyes, not even for this.
Which meant… he was going to have to find some way to protect her.
He watched her go down a country dance, laughing gaily but without that special delight she reserved just for him. Despite his worry, despite the irony, his lips quirked at the sight. Ambling around the ballroom, his gaze fixed on her—his delight, his desire—he considered how best to protect her good name.
Part of his answer was a drive in the park. Simple, effective—and she wouldn't know enough to realize what he was doing. He drove into Berkeley Square at the earliest possible hour. Ignoring Highthorpe's smugly understanding look, he climbed the stairs to his mother's private parlor, knocked once, then entered.
Seated on the chaise, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, his mother looked up, then smiled. As he'd expected, she was sorting the morning's invitations. Seated on an ottoman before her, Flick was assisting.
"Good morning, Harry—and to what do we owe this pleasure?" Removing her glasses, his mother raised her face for his kiss.
He dutifully obliged, ignoring her teasing look. Straightening, he turned to Flick, who'd quickly risen to her feet.
"I came to ask if Felicity would care for a drive in the park."
Flick's eyes lit up. Her face was transformed by her smile. "That would be delightful." Stepping forward, she held out her hand.
Demon took it—and held it, and her, at a safe distance, ruthlessly denying the urge to draw her—allow her—closer. For one instant, he looked into her face, drank in her eager enthusiasm—then, lids lowering, he smiled urbanely and waved her to the door. "There's a brisk breeze blowing—you'll need your pelisse."
Not for a split second had his polite mask slipped; Flick blinked at him, her smile fading slightly. "Yes, of course." She turned to Horatia. "If it's agreeable to you, ma'am."
"Of course, my dear." Horatia smiled and shooed; Flick bobbed a curtsy and went.
If Demon had had any doubt as to the reality of the threat posed by Flick's revealing countenance, encountering the suddenly sharp gaze of his mother dispelled it. The instant the door shut behind Flick, Horatia shot him a speculative, potentially rigid, disapproving look—but the question to which she wanted an answer was not one she could ask.
And he was, after all, proposing to drive Flick in the park.
As confusion rose in Horatia's eyes, Demon inclined his head with his usual cool grace. "I'll meet Felicity downstairs—I need to walk my horses." Without intercepting Horatia's narrow-eyed look, he turned and made good his escape.
Flick didn't keep him waiting—she came tripping down the stairs as he descended rather more leisurely. Her contempt for feminine preening gave them a rare moment alone. Demon smiled easily, relieved to be able to drop his mask for a moment—he reached for her hand, set it on his sleeve, and drew her close.
She laughed softly, delightedly; smiling gloriously, she turned her face to his. He felt the soft tremor that ran through her, sensed the tensing of her nerves, the tightening of her breathing, the sheer awareness that raced through her as their bodies fleetingly touched. Her eyes widened, pupils distending; her lips parted—her whole face softened. And glowed.
Even in the poor light on the stairs, it was impossible to mistake the sensuality behind the sight. He'd initiated her all too well. She yearned, now, as did he. The temptation to sweep her into his arms, to bend his head and set his lips to hers had never gripped him so hard; need had never driven him so mercilously.
Drawing an unsteady breath, he glanced down—and spied Highthorpe by the door. He drew back, moving fractionally away, ruthlessly sliding his elegantly bored facade back into place. "Come—the bays will be cooling."
She sensed his withdrawal, but then she saw Highthorpe. She nodded, and strolled down the stairs by his side.
Leaving the house, handing her into the curricle, then driving to the park gave him time to reestablish complete control. Flick remained silent—she'd never been one for aimless chatter—but her pleasure in the outing was in her face, displayed for all to see. Luckily, the curricle was sufficiently wide for there to be a good foot between them, so the display was one of simple joy and happiness, rather than of anything more.
"Have you written to Dillon yet?" With a deft flick, he turned his horses through the park gates.
"Yes, this morning. I told him that while we've temporarily lost Bletchley, we're sure to come up with him again, and that meanwhile, we're searching for the money from the fixed races." Her gaze distant, Flick frowned. "I hope that will keep him at the cottage. We don't want him imagining he's been deserted and so go investigating himself. He's sure to get caught."
Demon glanced at her, then looked forward.
The carriages of the grandes dames appeared ahead of them, lining the Avenue. "I've been considering sending The Flynn to Doncaster. How do you think he'd handle the change of track?"
"Doncaster?" Flick pursed her lips, then launched into an animated answer.
It wasn't hard to keep her talking, speculating, arguing, analyzing all the way down the line of fashionable carriages, then all the way back again. He doubted she truly saw the matrons watching them—she certainly didn't notice the interest their appearance provoked, or the meaningful, smugly approving glances exchanged by the senior hostesses. When the ladies whose opinions controlled the reactions of the ton graciously inclined their heads, he responded with a suavity that confirmed their supposition.
Flick, without a blink, inclined her head, too, absentmindedly mimicking him, unaware of how her
following his lead so smoothly appeared.
"If you're serious about developing The Flynn as a 'chaser," she concluded, "you're going to have to move him to Cheltenham."
"Hmm, possibly."
Turning the bays' heads for the gates, Demon was seized by a sense of triumph. He'd pulled it off—done the deed—made his declaration, albeit unspoken. Every matron they'd passed had heard it loud and clear.
And it hadn't, somewhat to his surprise, abraded his sensitivities—if anything, he felt immeasurably relieved to have so definitively staked his claim. Every matron who mattered now understood he fully intended to marry Miss Felicity Parteger. All would assume there was an understanding between them. Most importantly, the good ladies would see it as entirely proper that he, being so much older than she, with so much more worldly experience, would declare his hand in this fashion, then allow her to enjoy her Season without keeping by her side.
No one would now think it odd if he kept a safe distance between them.
"I'll take you back to Berkeley Square, then I'll call on Montague and see what he's learned." Flick nodded, the joy in her eyes dimming. "Time is getting on."
Chapter 17
« ^ »
Time was indeed passing, but not as Flick had hoped. Four evenings later, she sat in the shadows of Lady Horatia's carriage and tried not to feel let down. Any other young lady would be enjoying herself hugely, caught up in the frantic whirl. She'd been to Almack's, to parties, balls, musicales and soirees. What more could she possibly want?
The answer was sitting on the seat opposite, clothed in his usual black. As the carriage rocked, his shoulders swayed. She could see his fair hair, and the pale oval of his face, but not his features. Her mind, however, supplied them—set in his customary social mask. Ineffably polite with just a touch of cool hauteur, that mask conveyed mild boredom. No hint of interest, sensual or otherwise, was ever permitted to show.
Increasingly, Flick wondered if such interest still existed.
She virtually never saw him in daylight. Since that drive in the park, he hadn't called again, nor had he appeared to stroll the lawns by her side. She appreciated he might be busy with other matters, but she hadn't expected him to bring her here, then leave her so terribly alone.
If it wasn't for the twins' friendship and the warmth of his family, she'd be lost—as alone as she'd been when her parents had died.
Yet she got the distinct impression he still wished to many her—that everyone expected they'd soon wed. Her words to the twins haunted her; she'd chosen, but she'd yet to declare her choice. If that choice meant leading a life like this, then she wasn't at all sure she could stand it.
The carriage halted, then rocked forward, then halted again, this time under the brilliantly lit portico of Arkdale House. Demon uncoiled his long legs—the door opened and he stepped down, turned and handed her down, then helped his mother from the carriage. Horatia shook out her skirts, smoothed her coiffure, then claimed the butler's arm and swept inside, leaving Demon to lead Flick in.
"Shall we?"
Flick glanced at his face, but it was his mask she saw; his tone held the same boredom. Studiously correct, he offered his arm; inclining her head, she rested her fingertips on his sleeve.
She kept a sweet smile on her lips as they progressed through the door and on up the curving staircase—and tried not to dwell on his stiff stance, his bent arm held away from his body. It was always thus, these days. No longer did he draw her close, as if she was special to him.
They greeted Lady Arkdale, then followed Horatia to a chaise by the wall. Demon immediately requested the first cotillion and the first country dance after supper, then melted into the crowd.
Stifling a sigh, Flick held her head high. It was always the same—he assiduously escorted her to every ball, but all that ever came of it was her laying her hand on his sleeve on the way in, one distant cotillion, one even more distant country dance, a stilted supper surrounded by her admirers, a few glimpses through the crowd, then her placing her hand on his sleeve as they departed. How anyone could imagine there was anything between them—anything with the potential to lead to marriage—she couldn't comprehend.
His departure was the signal for her court to gather. Infusing her features with appropriate delight, she set her self to manage the youthful gentlemen who, if she let them, would fawn at her feet.
In no way different from the evenings that had preceded it, this evening, too, rolled on. "I say—careful!"
"Oh! I'm so sorry." Flick blushed, quickly shifted her feet, and smiled apologetically at her partner, an earnest young gentleman, Lord Bristol. They were swinging around the floor in a waltz; unfortunately, she found dancing with anyone but Demon more a trial than a delight.
Because, if she wasn't dancing with him, she was forever trying to catch glimpses of him as he stood conversing by the side of the floor.
It was a dreadful habit, one she deplored, one she lectured herself on constantly. To no avail. If he was there, her eyes were drawn to him—she was helpless to prevent it. Luckily, the ton's ballrooms were large and excessively crowded; a quick glimpse was all she ever caught. Her partners, as far as she knew, had not noticed her fixation.
Even when she stepped on their toes.
Inwardly wincing, she sternly told herself to pay attention. She hated the taste her silly behavior left in her mouth. Once again, she was a besotted girl peering through the banisters for a glimpse of him. Her idol. The one man she'd wanted but who'd been out of her reach. More and more, she was starting to feel he was still out of her reach.
She didn't like watching him, but she did—compulsively. And what she saw brought no joy. There was inevitably a woman by his side, some hideously beautiful lady, head tilted as she looked into his face, her own creasing into smiles as she laughed at some risque quip. It only needed a glimpse for her to take it all in—the languidly elegant gestures, the saber-witted remarks, the arrogantly seductive lift of a
brow.
The women pressed close, and he let them. Some even lifted their white hands to his arms, his shoulders, leaning against him while he charmed and teased, employing the seductive wiles he no longer used on her.
Why she kept looking—fashioning a whip for her own back—she didn't know. But she did. "Do you think the weather will hold fine tomorrow?"
Flick refocused on Lord Bristol. "I suppose so." The skies had been blue for a week.
"I was hoping I might prevail upon you to honor me and my sisters with your presence on a drive to Richmond."
Flick smiled gently. "Thank you, but I'm afraid Lady Horatia and I are fully committed tomorrow." "Oh—yes, of course. Just a thought."
Flick let regret tinge her smile—and wished it was Demon who'd asked. She didn't care a fig for the constant round of entertainments; she would have enjoyed a drive to Richmond, but she couldn't encourage Lord Bristol to imagine he had any chance with her.
Supper had come and gone; Demon had coolly claimed her, stiffly escorted her into the supper room, then sat by her side and said not a word as her court endeavored to entertain her. This waltz had followed immediately; she performed without thought, waiting for their revolutions to bring them once more in sight of her obsession. He was standing at the end of the room.
Then Lord Bristol swung her into the turn. She looked—and nearly gasped. Whirling away, she dragged in a breath, struggling to mask her shock. Her lungs constricted; she felt real pain.
Who was she—the woman all but draped over him? She was stunningly beautiful—dark hair piled high over an exquisite face atop a body that flaunted more sumptuous curves than Flick had imagined possible. Much worse, her cloying closeness, the way she looked into his face, positively screamed their relationship.
Blissfully unaware, Lord Bristol swung her up the room. Blankness descended, blessed relief from the clawing, shrieking jealousy that had raked her. The change left her dizzy.
The music faded, the dance came to an end. Lord Bristol released her—she nearly stumbled, only just remembering to curtsy.
Flick knew she was pale. Inside she was trembling. She smiled weakly at Lord Bristol. "Thank you." Turning, she walked into the crowd.
She hadn't known he had a mistress.
That word kept repeating in her mind—incessantly. As she tacked through the crowd all but blind, instinct came to her aid; she headed for a group of potted palms. There was no alcove, but in the shadow cast by the large fronds close by the wall, she found sanctuary.
Not once did she question the correctness of her assumption; she knew she was right. What she didn't know was what to do. She'd never felt so lost in her life.
The man she'd just glimpsed, heavy lids at half-mast as he traded sensuous quips with his mistress, was not the man she'd met on Newmarket Heath—the man to whom she'd willingly given herself in the
best bedchamber at The Angel.
Her mind wouldn't work properly—bits of her problem surfaced, but she couldn't see the whole.
"Can't see her at present, but she's a pretty little thing. Quite suitable. Now that Horatia's taken her under her wing, all will, no doubt, go as it should."
The words came from the other side of the palms, in accents of matriarchal approval. Flick blinked. "Hmm," came a second voice. "Well, one can hardly accuse him of being besotted, can one?"
Flick peeked through the fringed leaves—two old ladies were leaning on their sticks, scanning the ballroom.
"As it should be," the first intoned. "I'm sure it's precisely as Hilary Eckles said—he's had the sense to recognize it's time for him to take a wife, and he's chosen well—a gently reared chit, ward of a friend of the family. It's not a love match, and a good thing, too!"
"Indeed," the second old biddy nodded decisively. "So tiresomely emotional, these love matches. Can't see the sense in them, myself."
"Sense?" The first snorted. "That's because there isn't any to see. Unfortunately, it's the latest fashion."
"Hmm." The second lady paused, then, with a puzzled ah", said, "Seems odd for a Cynster to be unfashionable, especially on that point."
"True, but it appears Horatia's boy's the first one in a while to have his head screwed on straight. He may be a hellion but in this, he's displayed uncommon sense. Well"—the lady gestured—"where would we have been if we'd allowed love to rule us?"
"Precisely. There's Thelma—let's see what she says."
The two ladies stumped off, leaning heavily on their canes, but Flick no longer felt safe behind the palms. Her head was still spinning; she didn't feel all that well. The withdrawing room seemed her safest option.
She slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone she knew, especially any Cynsters. Reaching the door to the corridor, she stepped into the shadows. A little maid jumped up from a stool and led her to the room set aside for ladies to refresh themselves.
The room was brightly lit along one side, which was lined with mirrors, leaving the rest of the room heavily shadowed. Accepting a glass of water from the maid, Flick retreated to a chair in the gloom. Sipping the water, she simply sat. Other ladies came and went; no one noticed her in her dim corner. She started to feel better.
Then the door swung wide, and Demon's mistress stepped through. One of the ladies preening before the mirrors saw her; smiling, she turned. "Celeste! And how goes your conquest?"
Celeste had paused dramatically just inside the door; hands rising to her voluptuous hips, she scanned the room. Her gaze stopped, briefly, on Flick, then lifted to her friend. She smiled, a gesture full of feminine sensuality. "Why it goes, cherie—it goes!"
The lady before the mirrors laughed; others smiled, too.
In a sensuous glide that focused attention on her bounteous hips, tiny waist and full breasts, Celeste crossed the room. Stopping before a long mirror, hands on hips, she critically examined her reflection.
Exchanging glances and raised brows, the other ladies departed, all except Celeste and her friend, who was artfully rerouging her lips.
"You have heard, have you not," Celeste's friend murmured, "the rumors that he's to wed?"
"Hmm," Celeste purred. In the mirror, her eyes sought Flick's. "But why should that worry me? I don't want to marry him."
Her friend snickered. "We all know what you want, but he might have other ideas—at least once he marries. He is a Cynster after all."
"I do not understand this." Celeste had a definite accent, one Flick couldn't place; it only made her purring voice more sensual, more evocative. "What matter his name?"
"Not his name—his family. Not even that, but… well, they've all proved remarkably constant as husbands."
Celeste made a moue; she tilted her head—from beneath half-closed lids, her eyes glinted. Deliberately, she leaned toward the mirror, trailing her fingers tantalizingly across the full curves and deep cleavage thus revealed. Then she straightened, gracefully lifting her arms and half turning to examine her bottom, superbly displayed by her satin gown. Then her gaze locked with Flick's. "I suspect," she purred, "that this case will prove an exception."
Feeling more ill than when she'd entered, Flick rose. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she crossed to the table by the door. Shakily, she set the glass down—the click drew the attention of Celeste's friend. As she slipped through the door, Flick glimpsed a horrified face and heard a moaned " Oh, Lord!"
The door closed; Flick stood in the dim corridor, the impulse to flee overpowering. But how could she leave? Where could she go? Drawing in a huge breath, she held it and lifted her chin. Defying the sick giddiness that assailed her, refusing to let herself think of what she'd heard, she headed back to the ballroom.
She'd gone no more than three paces when a figure materialized from the shadows. "There you are, miss! I've been chasing you for hours."
Flick blinked—into the pinched features of her Aunt Scroggs. Clinging to the tattered remnants of her dignity, she bobbed a curtsy. "Good evening, Aunt. I hadn't realized you were here."
"No doubt! You've been far too busy with those young blighters that surround you. Which is precisely what I want to speak to you about." Wrapping thin ringers about Flick's elbow, Edwina Scroggs looked toward the withdrawing room.
"There are ladies in there." Flick couldn't bear to go back, much less explain why.
"Humph!" Glancing around, Edwina drew her to the side, hard against the tapestry-covered wall. "This will have to do then—there's no one about."
The comment sent an unwelcome chill through Flick; she was already inwardly shivering. Lady Horatia had helped her locate her aunt; she'd visited her early in her stay. There was, however, nothing more than duty between them—her aunt had married socially beneath her and now lived as a penny-pinching widow, despite being relatively affluent.
Edwina Scroggs had been paid by her parents to take her in for the short time they'd expected to be away. The minute news of their deaths had arrived, Mrs. Scroggs had declared she couldn't be expected to house, feed and watch over a girl of seven. She'd literally flung Flick onto the mercy of the wider family—thankfully, the General had been there to catch her.
"It's about all these youngsters you've got sniffing at your skirts." Putting her face close, Edwina hissed, "Forget them, do you hear?" She trapped Flick's startled gaze. "It's my duty to steer you right, and I'd be lacking indeed if I didn't tell you to your face. You're staying with the Cynsters—the word around town is that the son's got his eye on you."
Edwina pressed closer; Flick's lungs seized.
"My advice to you, miss, is to make it his hands. You're quick enough—and this is too good a chance to pass up. The family's one of the wealthiest in the land, but they can be high in the instep. So you take my advice and get his ring on your finger the fastest way you know how." Edwina's eyes gleamed. "Seems Cynsters are prime 'uns, always ready to take what they can get. That house is monstrous enough—no difficulty to find a quiet room to—"
"No!" Flick pushed past her aunt and fled down the corridor.
She stopped just outside the swath of light spilling from the ballroom. Ignoring the surprise in the little maid's eyes, she pressed a hand to her chest, closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. To hold back the silly tears. To still the pounding in her head.
Cynsters are prime 'uns, always ready to take what they can get.
She managed two breaths, neither deep enough, then heard her aunt's heels tapping, tapping, nearer…
Sucking in a breath, she opened her eyes and plunged into the ballroom. And collided with Demon.
"0h!" She managed to mute her cry, then ducked her head so he couldn't see her face. Reflexively, he caught her, his hands firm about her arms as he steadied her.
In the next heartbeat, his grip tightened. "What's wrong?"
His tone was oddly flat. Flick didn't dare look up—she shook her head. "Nothing." His grip tightened, his fingers iron shackles about her upper arms, "Dammit, Flick—!"
"It's nothing." She squirmed. Because of his size, and because they were standing just inside the door, thus far they'd attracted no attention. "You're hurting me," she hissed.
Immediately, his grip eased. His hands remained on her upper arms, holding her away from him but sliding soothingly up and down, warm palms to her bare skin, slipping beneath the silk folds that formed her sleeves. His touch was so evocative—so tempting; she was wracked by the urge to sob and launch herself into his arms—
She couldn't do that.
Stiffening her spine, she hauled in a breath and lifted her head. "It's nothing," she restated, looking past his shoulder to where couples were milling on the dance floor.
Eyes narrowed, Demon stared over her head, into the shadows of the corridor. "What did your aunt say to upset you?" His voice was even—too even. It sounded deadly, which was precisely how he felt.
Flick shook her head. "Nothing!"
He studied her face, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. She was as white as a sheet and… fragile was the word that leapt to mind. "Was it one of those puppies—the ones yapping at your heels?" If it was, he'd kill them.
"No!" She shot him a venomous look; her chin set. "It was nothing."
The effort she was making to pull herself together was visible. He didn't move—while he stood before her, she was screened from curious eyes.
"It was nothing," she repeated in a steadier voice.
She was trembling, more inside than outwardly—he could sense it. His impulse was to drag her off to some quiet room where he could wrap her in his arms, wear down her resistance and learn what was wrong—but he didn't trust himself alone with her. Not in his current state. It had been bad enough before. Now…
He drew in a breath and seized the moments she needed to calm herself to steady his own wracked nerves. And reshackle his demons.
The cross he'd fashioned and willingly taken up was proving much heavier than he'd expected. Not spending any time with her—even by her side in a ballroom—was eating at his control. But he'd set the stage; now he had to play his part and stick by the script he'd written.
For her good, for her protection, he had to keep his distance.
That sentence was hard enough to bear—he didn't need anyone adding to his burden. Bad enough that he'd had to force himself to swallow every instinct he possessed and watch as she waltzed with other men. Until she agreed to marry him and they made a public announcement, he didn't dare waltz with her in public. And, given who he was—a much older, infinitely more experienced rake—and the fact that she was transparently innocent, they could never be private, not until they were formally engaged.
Straightening, he let his arms fall—she shivered at the loss of his touch. Jaw clenching, he drew in a patient breath and waited.
How long he could wait, he didn't know. Every night, the ordeal of the waltz grew worse. Those who'd previously been his partners had tried to tease him onto the floor, but he had no desire to waltz with them. He wanted his angel and only her, but he'd used the others for distraction—not his, but the ton's.
Tonight, it had been Celeste—he'd almost managed to distract himself by giving the salacious countess her congé in no uncertain terms, for she'd proved she understood nothing else. Miffed, she'd peeled herself from him and swanned off in a snit, from which he sincerely hoped she never recovered. For one moment, he'd felt good—buoyed by success. Until he'd glanced up and seen Flick in that puppy Bristol's arms.
Half-turning, his gaze raked the dance floor. Couples were forming sets for the next country dance, the second of the dances he permitted himself with Flick. As far as he could tell, all her puppies were somewhere on the floor. So who had upset her?
He looked back at her; she was calmer—a touch of color had returned to her cheeks. "Perhaps we should stroll, rather than dance."
She shot him a startled look. "No! I mean—" Shaking her head wildly, she looked away. "No, let's dance."
She sounded suddenly breathless; Demon narrowed his eyes.
"I owe you a dance—it's on my dance card." Gulping in a breath, she nodded. "That's what you want from me, so let's dance. The music's starting."
He hesitated, then, using his grace to camouflage her state, he bowed and led her to the nearest set.
The instant he took her hand in his, he knew he'd been right to acquiesce—she was so brittlely tense, so fragile, that if he pressed her she'd shatter. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will—all he could do was support her as best he could.
It was just as well he was there. He could perform any dance with his eyes closed, but she'd only learned the steps in the last weeks. She needed to concentrate, but that was presently beyond her. So he guided her as if she was a nervous filly with his hand on her reins. For most of the dance, their hands were locked—by squeezing her fingers, this way or that, he directed her through the figures.
He'd never seen her clumsy before, but she nearly stumbled twice, and bumped into two other ladies.
What the devil was wrong?
Something had changed, not just tonight but gradually. He'd been watching her closely; he wasn't mistaken. There'd been a joy in her eyes, a delight in life, that had, over the past days, slowly faded. Not the sensual glow he fought to avoid eliciting, but something else—something simpler. It had always been there, vibrant, in her eyes. Now, he could barely detect it.
The music ended with a flourish; the dancers bowed and curtsied. Flick turned from the floor and drew in a breath—he knew it was one of relief. He hesitated, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Come," he said, as she looked up at him. "I'll take you to my mother."
She, too, hesitated, then acquiesced with a small nod.
He didn't let her go until he'd planted her beside the chaise where his mother was chatting. Horatia looked up fleetingly, noting Flick's return, but turned back to her conversation immediately. Demon would have said something to her, if he could have thought of what to say. He glanced down at Flick; she still wouldn't meet his eyes. She was still very tense—he didn't dare press her.
Girding his loins for the inner battle he fought each time he left her, he stiffly inclined his head. "I'll leave you to your friends." Then he moved away.
Her court gathered around her almost instantly. Retreating to the wall nearby, Demon studied the group but could detect no reaction on Flick's part; he could discern no threat from any one of her admirers.
Indeed, she seemed to treat them as the puppies he'd labelled them, managing them with an absentminded air.
He wanted to stride back and disperse them, but it was hardly acceptable behavior. His mother would never forgive him and Flick might not, either. He couldn't even join her circle; he'd be too utterly out of place within her youthful court, a wolf amidst so many sheep.
The evening, thank God, was nearly over.
Stifling a grunt, he forced himself to stroll farther away, and not stand there staring quite so hungrily at her.
Fate had one last trial in store for him that evening.
He was propping up the wall, minding Flick's business, when a gentleman, every bit as languidly elegant as he, caught sight of him, smiled, then strolled over.
Demon ignored the smile. Grimly, he nodded. "Evening, Chillingworth."
"One would never imagine it a good one from your expression, dear boy." Glancing over the intervening heads to where Flick was passing the time with an enjoy ment more apparent than real, Chillingworth's smile deepened. "A tasty little morsel, I grant you, but I never thought you, of them all, would saddle yourself with this."
Demon decided not to understand. "This what?"
"Why—" Chillingworth turned his head and met his eyes. "This torment, of course."
Demon held back a glare, but his eyes narrowed; Chillingworth grinned and looked again at Flick. "Devil, of course, was doomed to run the full race, but the rest of you had far greater latitude. Vane had the sense to avail himself of it and marry Patience away from the ton. Richard—I always considered him the most sane—married his wild witch in Scotland, as far from the mad whirl as it's possible to get. So—" Pondering Flick, Chillingworth mused, "I have to ask myself why—why you've put yourself in line for such punishment." Amused understanding in his eyes, he glanced at Demon. "You must admit it's hardly comfortable."
Demon was not about to admit anything, and certainly not that. That his inner demons were howling with frustration. That he was hardly sleeping, barely eating, and as physically uncomfortable as it was possible to be. He met Chillingworth's gaze steadily. "I'll live."
"Hmm." Chillingworth's lips curved into a full smile. "Your fortitude leaves me quite…" Turning, he studied Flick. "Envious."
Demon stiffened.
"As you know," Chillingworth murmured, "young innocents have never been my cup of tea." He glanced back and met Demon's stony stare. "However, I've always been in remarkable accord with your family's taste in women." He looked back at Flick. "Perhaps—?"
"Don't."
The single word rang with lethal warning. Chillingworth's head snapped around; he met Demon's eyes. For one instant, despite their elegance, the scene turned primitive, the force resonating between them both primal and violent.
Then Chillingworth's lips curved; triumph gleamed in his eyes. "Perhaps not." Smiling, he inclined his head and turned away.
Inwardly cursing, Demon was damned if he'd let him escape unmarked. "If Devil was doomed, and he was, then so will you be."
Chillingworth chuckled as he strolled away. "Oh, no, dear boy." His words floated back. "I do assure you, this will never happen to me."
"Thank you, Highthorpe." After handing over his gloves and cane, Demon strode down the corridor and swung into his parents' dining room.
And came to a dead halt.
His mother's brows rose. "Good morning. And what brings you out this early?"
Surveying the empty chairs about the table, Demon inwardly grimaced. He'd asked for his mother, assuming Flick would be with her. Returning his gaze to Horatia's face, he raised his brows. "Felicity?"
Horatia studied him. "Still abed."
It was past ten. Flick, Demon was certain, would be up at the crack of dawn, regardless of how late she'd been up the night before. She was used to riding early—morning stables started at dawn.
The impulse to ask Horatia to check on her gnawed at him. He resisted only because he couldn't think of any reason for such a peculiar request.
Horatia was watching him, waiting to see if he'd do anything revealing. He actually considered letting her guess. It wouldn't take much to have her leap to the right conclusion; she knew her sons well. But… there was no guarantee, regardless of how understanding she might be, that she wouldn't, however unintentionally, pressure Flick into accepting him. And he didn't want her to be pressured.
Lips compressing, he nodded curtly. "I'll see you this evening." He was supposed to escort them to a party. He swung on his heel—then paused, and looked back. And met Horatia's eye. "Tell her I called."
Then he left.
He stopped on the pavement, drew in a deep breath, then looked down and pulled on his gloves. In the wee hours, when he'd been lying in bed wracking his brains, he'd remembered Flick's "that's what you want from me."
They'd been talking about a dance—at least, he had. So what had she meant? He didn't want her for a dance partner—at least, not primarily—not for that sort of dance.
He sighed and looked up, tightly gripping his cane. His mind was running hard in predictable grooves. Restraining his impulses, his instincts, never stronger than where she was concerned, was proving harder, more debilitating, day by day. Just how close to the edge of control he was had been demonstrated last night—he'd overheard two of her youthful swains referring to her as "Their Angel." He'd nearly erupted—nearly kicked them and the other yapping puppies away from her skirts, and told them to go find their own angel. She was his.
Instead, he'd forced himself to grit his teeth and bear it. How much longer he could manage to do so he really didn't know.
But he couldn't stand on the pavement outside his parents' house for the rest of the day.
Grimacing, he reached into his coat pocket and hauled out the list Montague had drawn up for him in between searching for clues left by the money. Checking the addresses on the list, he set out for the closest.
It was all he could think of to do—to distract himself, to convince himself that it would all work out in the end. The only thing that might give him a smidgen of ease—make him feel he was doing something definite, something meaningful, to further their matrimonial plans.
They would need a house to live in when in London.
A town house, nothing too large, with just the right combination of rooms. He knew what he was looking for. And he knew Flick's tastes ran parallel to his—he felt confident enough to buy her a house for a surprise. Not a house—a home. Theirs.
Chapter 18
« ^ »
Yet another ball—Flick wished, very much, that she was back at Hillgate End, Demon was back at his stud, and life was simple again.
"Miss Parteger, Framley's composed a smashing ode to your eyes. Are you sure you wouldn't like to hear it?"
"Quite sure." Flick fixed Lord Henderson with a severe glance. "You know my feelings about poetry." His lordship looked suitably abashed. "Just thought, perhaps, as it is your eyes…"
Flick raised a brow and gave her attention to the next member of her youthful court seeking to dazzle her. In dealing with the many admirers she'd gathered without the slightest effort, she tried hard not to be unkind, but they were so young, so innocuous, so incapable. Of anything, but most especially of awakening her interest.
Another had done that, very effectively—and then deserted her. She felt her eyes narrow and quickly forced them wider. "Indeed, sir." She nodded agreement to Lord Bristol's comment on the rain. Maintaining an expression of polite interest, she pretended to listen to the chatter while her mind remained focused on the long, lean figure lounging indolently against the opposite wall of Lady Henderson's ballroom. She could see him from the corner of her eye, as usual, along with the beautiful lady fluttering her lashes at him—also as usual. Admittedly, the lady had a different face every night, but that didn't, to her mind, change anything; she now viewed such women as challenges—to be conquered and obliterated.
He wanted to marry her—this morning, lying late abed, she'd decided she definitely wanted to marry him. Which meant he was going to have to learn to love her, regardless of what Celeste, Aunt Scroggs or any old biddies might think. He'd dangled her dream before her eyes. She'd grabbed it, and wasn't about to let go.
She couldn't relieve her feelings by glaring at him. She toyed with the idea of doing something rash. Like waiting until a waltz started, striding across the room, displacing his lady for the evening, and demanding that he waltz with her.
What would he do? How would he react?
Her fantasies were interrupted by a gentleman who, in a neat maneuever, replaced Lord Bristol at her side.
"My dear Miss Parteger—a pleasure."
Reflexively, Flick gave him her hand; he held it rather longer than necessary. He was older than her other admirers. "I'm afraid, sir"—she retrieved her hand—"that you have the advantage of me."
He smiled. "Philip Remington, my dear, at your service. We met briefly at Lady Hawkridge's last week."
Flick placed him, and inclined her head. At Lady Hawkridge's ball, he'd merely noticed her, though he hadn't shown any particular interest. His gaze had been momentarily arrested by her face, before, with a polite nod, he'd moved on. Now his gaze was much more intent. Not frighteningly so, but she certainly wouldn't confuse him with the callow youths surrounding her.
"I've a question, my dear, if I might be so bold. I fear the ton too easily turns supposition into truth. Confusion is a byword, which makes life unnecessarily complicated."
He delivered the speech with a conspiratorial smile; Flick returned it readily. "Indeed, I often find tonnish ways confusing. What is it you wish to know?"
"A somewhat delicate matter, but… if I don't ask, how will we ever know?" His gaze caught hers. "I wish to know, my dear, whether rumor is correct, and you and Harry Cynster are engaged."
Flick drew in a breath and lifted her chin. "No. Mr. Cynster and I are not engaged."
Remington smiled and bowed. "Thank you, my dear. I must admit to being very glad to hear that."
His meaning glowed in his eyes. Flick inwardly cursed, even though her pride responded to the warmth; Remington was a distinctly handsome man.
Their words had riveted the attention of other gentlemen idling at the periphery of her circle; like Remington, they were older than her puppies. One pushed through to her side, displacing Lord Henderson. "Framlingham, Miss Parteger. Seeing you amidst the Cynster household, well—we simply assumed, don't you know?"
"I'm a friend of the family," Flick replied repressively. "Lady Horatia has been kind enough to take me around town."
"Ah!"
"Indeed?"
Other gentlemen closed in, relegating her fawning puppies to the outer ranks. Flick stiffened, but, flanked by the courteous and subtly protective Remington and the gruff Framlingham, she quickly realized that her new court was far more entertaining than the last.
Within minutes, she found herself laughing spontaneously. Two other young ladies joined the circle; the conversation shifted to a new level, one of more scintillating repartee.
Stifling a giggle at one of Remington's dry remarks, Flick threw a glance across the room—Demon, she knew, would have appreciated the joke.
He was looking down—into Celeste's face.
Flick caught her breath and swung her gaze back to Remington. After a moment, she exhaled, then drew in another breath, straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and smiled on her new cavaliers.
The next morning, the instant Lady Horatia's carriage halted by the verge of the Avenue, it was swamped.
"Your Grace. Lady Cynster." At the head of a group of six gentlemen and two ladies, Remington bowed to Helena and Horatia, then with a warm smile, bowed to Flick. Straightening, he addressed Horatia. "Could we persuade you, ma'am, to allow Miss Parteger to stroll the lawns in our company?" His gaze switched to Flick. "If, of course, we can tempt her to join us?"
If Demon had been anywhere in sight, Flick would have sat in the carriage and prayed he'd speak with her—but he wasn't. He hadn't appeared in the park in the last week. She'd sent another reassuring letter to Dillon that morning, increasingly worried that he would set out to chase Bletchley himself, and get caught. The General would be devastated. Unfortunately, it wasn't Demon standing before her, ready to reassure her. It was Remington, who knew nothing about her life. Nevertheless, if she walked with Remington, at least she would get to stretch her legs. Returning his smile, she glanced at Horatia. "If you don't mind, ma'am?"
Having shrewdly assessed the group on the lawn, Horatia nodded. "By all means, my dear. A walk will do you good."
"We'll keep within sight of the carriage," Remington assured her.
Horatia nodded, watching as Remington helped Flick to the ground. Flick turned and bobbed a curtsy, then put her hand on Remington's sleeve and joined the others waiting.
"Hmm." Beside Horatia, Helena watched the group as they moved off. "Is that wise, do you think?"
Her eyes on Flick's bright curls, Horatia smiled grimly. "As to that, I can't say, but it should get some action." Turning to Helena, she raised a brow. "Don't you think?"
As had been his habit for the past weeks, Demon spent his day at White's. Montague and the people he'd hired to watch for Bletchley called on him there—he acted as a general, coordinating their searches. For all their efforts, they'd precious little to show. Both the money and Bletchley had to be somewhere—they'd yet to discover where. And time was running out.
Worrying at the problem—not at all enamored of having to admit defeat and inform the Committee about the fixes planned for the Spring Carnival, simultaneously handing Dillon over without any evidence to support his tale—Demon dropped into an armchair in the reading room, picked up a news sheet and opened it in front of his face.
And tried to relax. At least one or two muscles.
He sighed, too aware that every nerve was taut, every muscle half-tensed. He had a serious illness, caused by a Botticelli angel. The cure was obvious, but, given their present state, he was likely to suffer for some weeks yet.
He still had no idea what had upset her; she seemed, however, to have recovered. Unfortunately, there was now a certain coolness in her attitude to him. She seemed to be watching him measuringly. Which made no sense at all. She'd known him for years—she even knew him in the biblical sense—what more did she think to discover?
Suppressing a snort, he flicked out the news sheet. Dealing with that too-revealing glow of hers had to be his primary concern. Some might see it as mere encouragement, but only those with poor eyesight. As matters now stood, she was safe from self-incrimination. Reestablishing their previous relationship would
simply be a matter of wrapping her in his arms and kissing her witless, once she'd come around to the idea of marrying him. There was no need to worry on that score.
There was no reason to reverse direction and start hovering over her, even had that been an option. The best thing to do was to hold the line—to keep his distance even more rigidly. Just as he had for the last two nights.
Setting his jaw, he forced himself to read the news. "Hmm—interesting."
Demon looked up; Chillingworth stood beside his chair, regarding him quizzically. "I have to confess to supreme envy at your coolness under fire."
Demon blinked; every muscle hardened. He searched Chillingworth's face. "What fire?"
Chillingworth's brows rose. "Why, the raging interest in your sweet innocent, of course. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"That Remington—you've heard that his acres are mortgaged to the hilt and his pockets entirely to let?"
Demon nodded.
"Apparently he did the unthinkable. In the middle of a ballroom, he asked your dear delight whether she and you were engaged."
Demon swore.
"Precisely. Combined with the fact that supposedly impeccable sources credit her with an income of not less than ten thousand a year, and, well…" Demon looked up; Chillingworth met his gaze. "I do wonder, dear boy, that you have time to read the news."
Demon held his gaze for a pregnant instant, then swore viciously. Crumpling the paper, he stood and shoved it at Chillingworth. "My thanks."
Chillingworth smiled and took the paper. "Don't mention it, dear boy. Only too glad to help any of your family into parson's mousetrap."
Demon heard the words, but he didn't waste time thinking of a riposte—there was someone he wanted to see.
"Why the hell didn't she—you—someone tell me she was a damned heiress? Ten thousand a year!" Pacing his mother's parlor, Demon shot her a far from filial look.
Sitting on the chaise, engrossed in sorting silks, Horatia didn't see it. "As that's a paltry sum compared to what you have, I can't see why it so concerns you."
"Because she'll have every fortune hunter in town hanging about her!"
Horatia looked up. "But…" She frowned. "I was under the impression there was an understanding between Felicity and yourself."
Demon gritted his teeth. "There is."
"Well, then." Horatia looked back at her silks.
Fists clenched, Demon hung on to his temper—already sorely tried—and absorbed the fact that his mother was baiting him. "I want to see her," he ground out. Only then did it occur to him that to find Horatia without Flick in attendance at this time of day was odd. A chill touched his spine. "Where is she?"
"The Delacorts invited her to a picnic at Merton. She went down in Lady Hendricks's carriage." "You let her go alone?"
Horatia looked up. "Good heavens, Harry! You know that crew. They're all young, and while both Lady Hendricks and Mrs. Delacort might have sons in need of wealthy wives, as you and Flick already have an understanding, what harm can there possibly be?"
Her blue eyes, fixed on his face, dared him to tell her.
Teeth gritted so hard that his jaw ached, Demon nodded curtly, swung on his heel, and left.
He couldn't do a damned thing about it—the sudden rush of picnics, alfresco luncheons and daytime excursions that swept into the more youthful stratum of the ton.
Standing, arms crossed, against a wall in Lady Monckton's ballroom, Demon eyed the circle gathered about Flick, and only just managed not to glare. It had been bad enough watching a group of helpless puppies fawning about her skirts; the gentlemen now about her were of a different calibre. Many would rank as eligible, some had titles; the majority, however, needed money. And they were all a good few years younger than he. They could, with society's blessing, dance attendance on her, court her assiduously by attending all the picnics and innocent gatherings—all things he could not.
Whoever heard of going on a picnic and taking your own wolf? It simply didn't happen.
For the first time in all his years within the ton, he felt like an outsider looking in. The area of society Flick inhabited was not one he could enter. And she couldn't come to him. Thanks to her unfailing honesty, the distance between them was widening to a chasm.
And he was helpless to prevent it. He'd been tense before. Now…
Securing two dances with her was impossible now; he'd settled for the country dance after supper—it would follow the waltz just starting. Her present partner, he grimly noted, was Remington, one of those he trusted least. Flick didn't share his opinion; she often waltzed with the bounder.
He no longer cared if people noticed he was watching her, but he was nevertheless grateful for the tonnish quirk that held grossly overcrowded ballrooms to be the mark of a successful hostess. This evening, Lady Monckton was an unqualified success, which lent him a little cover.
The idea of using that cover to whisk Flick away, to take her in his arms and kiss her drifted through his mind. Reluctantly, he let the idea go—it was another thing he simply couldn't risk. If anyone saw them, despite his extreme care to date, questions would be asked.
Without conscious direction, his eyes tracked her through the whirl of dancers, fixing on her glorious halo. As he focused on her, she laughed and smiled at Remington. Demon gritted his teeth—unbidden, unwelcome, his promise to the General replayed in his mind. What if…
His blood ran cold—he couldn't even finish the thought, couldn't let it form in his brain. The prospect of losing Flick paralysed him.
Abruptly filling his lungs, he shook aside the thought—swiftly replaced it with the image of 12 Clarges Street, the house he'd viewed that morning. It was perfect for him and Flick. It had just the right number of rooms, not too large…
His gaze on Flick, his thoughts slowed, stopped, in time with the music. On the other side of the room, Flick and Philip Remington halted; instead of turning toward the chaise where Horatia sat, Remington cast a quick glance about, then led Flick through a door. Out of the ballroom.
Demon straightened. "Damn!"
Two matrons beside him turned to glare—he didn't stop to apologize. Moving easily, apparently unhurriedly, he crossed the room. He knew very well the implication of Remington's swift look. Who the hall did the bounder think he was?
"Ah—darling."
Celeste stepped into his path. Dark eyes glinting, she lifted a hand—
He stopped her with one look. "Good evening, madam." With a terse nod, he stepped around her and continued on. From behind, he heard a lewd curse in French.
Gaining the corridor that lay beyond the ballroom, he was just in time to see the door at its end close. He paused to dredge up his memories of Monckton House—the room at the end was the library.
He stalked down the corridor, but halted before he reached the end. There was nothing to be gained by rescuing Flick before she realized she needed rescuing.
Opening the door of the room before the library, he entered. Eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, he crossed it, silently opened the French door, and stepped onto the flagged terrace beyond.
Standing in the middle of the library, Flick scanned the pictures on the walls, then looked at her companion. "Where are the etchings?"
The library was made dark by paneling and bookshelves packed with brown books, but a small fire burned cheerily in the grate. Lighted candelabra stood on a table beside the sofa and on a side table by the wall, casting a glow about the room, their flames flickering in the breeze sliding through the French doors open to the terrace. Completing a second survey of the walls, Flick turned to Remington. "These are all paintings."
Remington's smile flashed; she saw his hand shift, heard a click as the door's lock engaged. "My sweet innocent."
There was gentle laughter in his voice as he advanced, smiling, toward her. "You didn't really believe there were any etchings here, did you?"
"Of course, I did. I wouldn't have come otherwise. I'm fond of etchings…" Her voice faded as she studied his face, then she stiffened and lifted her chin. "I think we should return to the ballroom."
Remington smiled winningly. "Oh, no. Why? Let's just dally here for a short while."
"No." Flick fixed him with a steady, unblinking stare. "I wish you to return me to Lady Horatia." Remington's expression hardened. "Unfortunately, my dear, I don't wish to do so."
"Don't worry, Remington—I'll escort Miss Parteger back to my mother."
Lounging against the frame of the French doors, Demon drank in their reactions. Flick whirled—relief softened her face, softened her stance. Remington's jaw dropped, then he snapped it shut and glowered belligerently.
"Cynster!"
"Indeed." Straightening, Demon swept Remington a taunting bow. His gaze was steely, as were the undercurrents in his voice. "As you're unable to show Miss Parteger the etchings you promised her, might I suggest you depart? Not just this room, but the house."
Remington snorted, but eyed him uncertainly. Which was wise—Demon would happily take him apart given the slightest provocation. "I'm sure," he drawled, "you can see that's the best way." Strolling forward, he stopped beside Flick and trapped Remington's now wary gaze. "We wouldn't want there to be any whispers—if there were, I'd have to explain how you'd misled Miss Parteger over the existence of etchings in the Monckton House library." Raising his brows, he mused, "Difficult to find a rich wife if you're not invited to the balls any more."
Remington's expression didn't succeed in masking his fury. But he was a good deal shorter and slighter than Demon; swallowing his ire, he nodded, bowed curtly to Flick, then swung on his heel and stalked to the door.
Beside Demon, grateful for his intimidating, reassuring presence, Flick frowningly watched the door close behind Remington. "Is he a fortune hunter?"
"Yes!" With an explosive oath, Demon lifted both hands, then appeared not to know what to do with them. With another oath, he swung away, pacing. "He is! Half those about you are—some more so than others." His blue gaze stabbed her "'What did you imagine would happen once you let it be known how much you're worth?"
Flick blinked. "Worth?"
"You can't be that innocent. Now the news is out that you come with ten thousand a year in tow, they're all flocking around. It's a wonder you haven't been mown down in the rush!"
Understanding dawned, along with her temper—she swung to face him. "How dare you!" Her voice quavered; she drew in a huge breath. "I didn't tell anyone anything about my fortune. I haven't spoken about it at all."
Demon halted; hands on hips, he looked at her. Then he scowled. "Well you needn't look at me. I'm hardly likely to fashion a rod for my own back." He started to pace again. "So who spread the news?" He spoke through clenched teeth. "Just tell me, so I can wring their neck."
Flick knew exactly how he felt. "I think it must have been my aunt. She wants me to marry well." She wanted her to marry Demon, so her aunt had let it be known that she was an heiress. She assumed, avaricious as she was, that the news would prompt him to grab her, regardless of how wealthy he was.
"Was that what she said to upset you at that ball?" She hesitated, then shrugged. "In a way."
Demon glared at her. First his mother, now her aunt. Elderly ladies were lining up to make his life difficult. That, however, wasn't the cause of the black, roiling, clawing rage that filled him, fighting to get loose, spurred by the knowledge of what would have happened if he hadn't been watching her so closely.
"Whatever—whoever." He bit off the words. Towering over her, his hands on his hips, he captured her gaze. "Bad enough you're surrounded by a gaggle of fortune hunters—that doesn't excuse your behavior tonight. You know damn well not to go anywhere alone with any man. What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Her spine stiffened; her chin rose. Her eyes flashed a warning. "You heard. I happen to like etchings." "Etchings!" Jaw clenched, he only just managed not to roar. "Don't you know what that means?" "Etchings are prints made from a metal plate on which someone has drawn with a needle."
She capped the comment by putting her pert nose in the air; Demon tightened his fingers about his hips against the urge to tighten them about her. He bent forward, lowering his face so it was closer to hers. "For your information, a gentleman offering to show a lady etchings is the equivalent of him inviting her to admire his family jewels."
Flick blinked. Puzzled, she searched his eyes. "So?" "Aargh!" He swung away. "It's an invitation to intimacy!" "It is?"
He swung back to see her lip curl.
"How like the fashionable to corrupt a perfectly good word." "Remington was looking to corrupt you."
"Hmm." She looked at him, her expression stony. "But I do like etchings. Do you have any?"
"Yes." The answer was out before he'd thought. When she raised a brow, he grudgingly elaborated, "I have two scenes of Venice." They hung on either side of his bed. When he invited ladies to see his etchings, he meant literally as well as figuratively.
"I don't suppose you'd invite me to see them?" "No." Not until she agreed to marry him.
"I thought not."
He blinked, and scowled at her. "What's that supposed to mean?" Her cryptic utterances were driving him crazy.
"It means," Flick enunciated, her accents as clipped as his, "that it's become increasingly clear that you want me merely as an ornament, a suitable, acceptable wife to parade on your arm at all the family gatherings. You don't want me powerfully at all! That doesn't impress me—and I've been even less impressed by your recent behavior."
"Oh?"
The single, quietly uttered syllable was a portent of danger; she ignored her reactive shiver. "You're never there—never about! You don't deign to waltz with me—you've driven me in the park precisely once!" Looking into his face, fists clenched, she let loose her pent-up frustrations. "You were the one who insisted on bringing me to London—if you thought this was the way to get me to marry you, you've seriously miscalculated!"
Her eyes narrowed as she looked into his. "Indeed, coming to London has opened my eyes."
"You mean it's shown you how many puppies and fortune hunters you can have at your beck and call."
His growl was a grating rumble she had to concentrate to hear; her reply was a sweet smile. "No," she said, her tone that of one explaining a simple matter to a simpleton. "I don't want puppies or fortune hunters—that wasn't what I meant. I meant I've seen the light about you!"
Eyes mere slits, he raised one brow. "Indeed?"
"Oh, indeed!" Buoyed on an outrush of pure release, Flick gestured wildly. "Your women—ladies, I'm sure. Particularly Celeste."
He stiffened. "Celeste?"
There was demand in his tone, along with a clear warning. Flick heeded the first but not the second. "You must remember her—dark hair, dark eyes. Enormous—"
"I know who Celeste is." The steely words cut her off. "What I want to know is what you know of her."
"Oh, nothing more than anyone with eyes knows." Her own eyes, filled with fury, told him precisely how much that was. "But Celeste is by the way. At least, if we're ever to marry, she will certainly have to be 'by the way.' My principal point, however, is this."
Halting directly in front of him, she looked into his face, and hissed, "I am not your cousin, to be watched over in this dog-in-the-manger way!"
He opened his mouth—quick as a flash, she pointed a finger at his nose. "Don't you dare
interrupt—just listen!"
He shut his mouth; the way his jaw set, she felt reasonably sure he wouldn't open it again soon. She drew in a deep breath. "As you well know, I am not some eighteen-year-old innocent." With her eyes, she dared him to contradict her; his lips thinned ominously, but he remained silent.
"I want to talk, walk, waltz and drive—and if you wish to marry me, you'd better see it's with you
!"
She waited, but he remained preternaturally still. A sense of being too close to something dangerous, something barely controlled, tickled her spine. Hauling in a breath, she kept her eyes steady on his, unusually dark in the weak candlelight. "And I will not be marrying you unless I'm convinced it's the right thing for me. I will not be browbeaten, or pressured in any way."
Demon heard her words through a smothering fog of seething rage. Muscles in his shoulders flickered, twitched—his palms itched. The injustice in her words whipped him. He'd done nothing for any reason other than to protect her. His body was about to explode, held still purely by the force of his will, which was steadily eroding.
She'd paused, searching his face; now she drew herself up and coolly stated, "I will not be managed by you."
Their gazes locked; for one long moment, absolute silence held sway. Neither moved—they barely breathed. The conflagration within him swelled; he locked his jaw, and endured.
"I refuse—"
He reached out and pulled her into his arms, cutting the statement off with his lips, drawing whatever repudiation she'd thought to make from her mouth, then he plundered, searched, took all she had and demanded, commanded, more.
He drew her against him, hard against the unforgiving rock his body had become. His mind was a seething cauldron of emotions—rage colliding hotly with passion and other, more elemental needs. He was coming apart—a volcano slowly cracking, outer walls crumbling, blown asunder by a force too long compressed. Only dimly did he recall that he'd wanted to shut her up, wanted to punish her—that wasn't what he wanted now.
Now, he simply wanted.
With a desire so primitive, so primally powerful he literally shook. For one instant, he stood on the cusp, quivering, the last shreds of restraint sliding through his grasp—in that moment of blinding clarity he saw, understood, that he'd asked too much of himself, too much of who he really was. Remington had provided the last straw, piling it on top of more amorphous fears—such as what he would do if she fell in love with someone else. How he would cope if she did.
He'd assumed he could control the thing that was inside him—the emotion she and only she evoked. In that quivering, evanescent instant, he knew he'd assumed wrong.
With the last shreds of his will, he forced his arms to ease just enough to give her leeway to pull away, to escape. Even in extremis, he didn't want to hurt her. If she struggled, or even remained passive, he could fight, hold back, endure, and eventually releash his demons.
She grabbed the chance and pulled her arms from between them; something inside him howled. He braced himself for her shove on his chest—whipped himself to let her go—
Her hands caught his face, framed it. Her lips firmed, then angled under his; her fingers slid into his hair. She kissed him hungrily. Voraciously. As powerfully demanding as he.
His head spun. Desire exploded. He was lost.
So was she—no angel, now, but a woman wild, demonically demanding, flagrantly inciting—
Madness.
It caught them up—set them free.
Flick gloried in the rush, gloried in the sense of being impossibly alive. Gloried in the hard body against hers, the chest like rock against her aching breasts, the thighs like pillars trapping hers. His lips bruised hers and she exulted; his hard hands held her brutally close, lifting her, rocking her—she only wanted to be closer.
She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Flinging her arms about his shoulders, she levered herself up in his punishing embrace, then held tight so their faces were closer, nearly level. His hands wrapped over her bottom, he held her high against him; she could feel the hard ridge of him grinding against her mound.
She wanted him inside her. Here. Now. Immediately. His tongue plundered remorselessly, his lips more ruthlessly demanding than ever before—she had no breath to tell him. Her skirts were just wide enough for her to grip his hips with her thighs; she did, then moved against him.
His breathing hitched; muscles tensed, then quivered. Beneath her hands, he felt like tensile steel, coiled, compressed, ready to let fly.
She moved again. He caught his breath and resumed his heated ravishing of her mouth. But his hands on her bottom shifted; supporting her with one hand, he reached down, caught the hem of her gown, and flicked, sliding first one hand under, then, palm to her bare bottom, changing hands and slipping the other, too, under her silk skirts.
Her fine chemise was short—no impediment. His hands were beneath it from the start. Hauling in a breath, she gripped tighter with her thighs, locked her arms about his neck, and flagrantly wriggled in his hands.
He got the message—his hands drifted, his touch driven, demanding, over the backs of her splayed thighs, over the globes of her bare bottom, then, holding her high with one hand, he slid the other down and around, hard fingers exploring the soft, slick folds between her thighs.
He found her entrance—one finger slid deep. She gasped and arched lightly. The finger left her—a second later, two returned, pressing deep, drawing back, then stabbing once, twice, hard and deep.
She couldn't catch her breath—heat raged beneath her skin. Her body quivered, ready to fly apart. But that wasn't what she wanted.
Locking one arm about his neck, she slid her other hand between them—down to where his engorged flesh throbbed, rampant and hard as iron. She closed her fingers greedily, sliding them down as far as she could—
He groaned. And shuddered. "God—!"
Voices reached them. Footsteps steadily approached the library. Panting, senses screaming, Flick turned her head and stared at the door. The unlocked door.
Like the procession of thoughts said to presage death, Demon saw in his mind's eye Remington closing the door behind him. Saw the image he and Flick would present to those nearing the library. They were both beyond dishevelled, barely able to breathe; Flick's arms would never release in time—nor would his.
Three giant strides had them at the French doors; with two more, he got them out of sight. The library door opened.
Swinging Flick against the wall, he pressed her into the soft creeper—the scent of jasmine wafted about them. Chest heaving, he leaned into her, pinning her there, physically wracked by the effort of exerting his will. His entire body had been focused on doing only one thing—burying himself inside her.
Voices from inside reached them clearly; he couldn't separate the sounds through the drumming in his ears.
He tried to think, but couldn't. Flexing every mental muscle, he tried to pull back from the soft body his rock-hard limbs were holding fast against the creeper-covered stone. And failed. Just thinking about that soft body had hurled him back into the volcano of his need.
Molten desire rose, battered at his senses, broke and consumed his will.
His breathing harsh in the moonlit night, he slowly lifted his head, raised his lids and looked into her face. He expected to see shock, fright—even fear—surely he had to be scaring her? Even fear of discovery—a real possibility—would do; anything to help him hold back from doing what he would do.
Instead, he saw a face sultry with desire, heavy-lidded eyes fixed hungrily on his lips. Saw her swollen lips part, her tongue briefly lick the lower. She felt his gaze and looked up—her eyes searched his briefly, then her chin firmed. "Now."
The demand reached him on a determined whisper. Her lips curved—he could have sworn in ruthless triumph. Then he felt her hand, still trapped between them.
She closed it, slid her fingers down, then up—he closed his eyes and shuddered. Her wicked chuckle was a warm breath against his lips as she trailed her fingers higher—to his waistband. She'd worn male attire herself; in seconds, she'd slipped the buttons and had him free. He leapt in her palm, iron hard, ready to explode.
With a gasping groan he only just suppressed, he reached between them, caught her hand and hauled it up, leaning even harder into her, teeth gritted against the sensation of her silk skirts sliding over his sensitized flesh.
He met her eyes, mere inches from his. If he could have glared, he would have. But his features were set, graven—impossible to shift—hers looked the same way. Driven, muscles locked and quivering, he teetered on the brink—
She met his hard gaze directly, challengingly. "Do it!" she hissed against his lips. Then kissed him ravenously.
The conversation inside the library droned on; mere yards away, in the moonlight on the terrace, hot and frenzied needs held sway. A bare second was all it took for him to lift her skirts, to smooth them up, out of the way. His staff slid seeking between her thighs; she gripped him hard and pulled him to her.
He found her entrance and plunged—drove into her heat—straight into a vortex of shattering need.
His—and hers.
The combination was too powerful for either of them to control; it buffeted them, battered them, drove them. Their bodies bucked and strained, desperate for release, locked in a battle with no foe.
Lips frantically locked to stifle the sounds that clawed their throats, they took all they could, grabbed and held on, clutched for each precious moment—there, against the wall in the moonlight.
The sounds from the library washed over them, gentle, soothing, heightening their awareness.
Of the heated slickness where they joined, of skin too hot to touch, of the raging tide in their blood—of the driven fusing of their bodies.
Crushed blossoms released perfume in a cloud about them—an evocative scent as deeply illicit, deeply intimate as their mating. Gasping, Flick dragged the scent deep. Demon's hips flexed again, ruthlessly driving into her. His lips cut off her glad cry as he plunged. Again and again he filled her—a sword slamming into its sheath. She gripped him lovingly and gloried in the power—the power that drove them both.
The ride was wild—wilder than she'd imagined anything could be. She clung tight, drunk on that power, delirious with speed, drugged with pleasure. Then the peak was before them—they rode faster, gripped by compulsive urgency.
And then they were there—the mountain exploded, erupted, melting them in its massive heat.
No! Don't leave me! Flick silently begged, clinging tightly for one heartbeat, then, accepting that he would have to, she sighed and relaxed her hold.
He withdrew from her; she closed her eyes against the sudden emptiness. Cool air slid between them, chilling her flushed skin. She gripped his shoulder as he shifted, sliding her down, carefully guiding her back to earth.
Her slippers touched cold stone; he nicked her skirts down. They fell easily. She glanced down and was amazed—they were only slightly crushed. He didn't move away; one arm about her, he angled his body, shoulder to hers as he roughly straightened his clothes.
The murmur of voices still flowed from the library; as the pounding in her ears subsided, she could hear two older men swapping tales of long gone battles. The doors to the terrace stood wide, the candlelight a pale swath on the grey flags. If anyone had come to the threshold…
Luckily, no one had.
Heat still lapped her; warmth still flowed in her veins. She felt both exhilarated and disappointed—and confused that that was so.
Tightening his arm about her, Demon steered her along the terrace to the next set of doors, also open. Without a word, he helped her over the step and into the dark room.
Her heart leapt—instantly, she stilled it. What was she thinking? Just because she still wanted to hold him, to feel his body naked against hers, to hear his heart beating under her ear, to snuggle close—feel close—to cling—just because she wanted, didn't mean they could. They were at a ball, for heaven's sake!
He drew away from her, quickly tucking in his shirt, doing up his trousers, straightening his cravat and coat. Breathless, giddy, her heart still pounding, she shook out her skirts and smoothed them, wriggled her chemise straight, fluffed out the organza ruffle that traced her neckline and formed her transparent sleeves.
She looked up to discover Demon looking at her; she stared at him hungrily, conscious to her toes of a compulsion to reach out and touch him. Hold him. Although her body hummed with satiation, some other part of her felt… deprived. Denied. Still yearning.
Even through the dimness, Demon saw the need in her eyes; he felt it in his gut. He cleared his throat. "We have to go back."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Do you know where the withdrawing room is?" He spoke in a hushed whisper, conscious of those next door.
"Yes."
"Go there—if anyone comments on you coming from the wrong direction, just say you went out of the other door and got lost." He surveyed her critically. "Put cold water on your lips." Reaching out, he tucked one unruly curl back behind her ear. Ruthlessly squelching the impulse to trail his fingers along her jaw, to fold her in his arms and simply hold her, he lowered his hand. "I'll go directly back."
She nodded, then turned to the door. He opened it, glanced out, then let her through, retreating back into the gloomy room to wait until she'd passed out of sight.
He needed to talk to her, explain things, but he couldn't do it now—not tonight. Thanks to her wantonness, and his, he couldn't think straight—and they had to get back to the ball.
Chapter 19
« ^ »
Desperate needs called for desperate deeds. Flick knew her needs qualified as desperate, especially after last night. She needed much more from her lover—her prospective husband. She knew what she wanted. The big question was: How to get it?
Surrounded by her court, in the middle of Lady Ashcombe's drawing room, she pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. She'd come to London with one clear aim: to make Demon fall in love with her. If he'd been going to look at her face and fall down smitten, it would have happened long ago. As it hadn't, she was going to have to do something—take some active steps—to achieve her desired goal.
Insisting he spend more time with her was the logical next step. She'd made a start last night, although they'd got distracted. She'd enjoyed the distraction, as far as it had gone, but that had only made her more determined, more stubbornly set on her course. Such distractions, and the subsequent empty yearning, provided yet more reasons to act soon. She didn't want to find herself in the situation of having to agree to his suit. That would leave her with absolutely no leeway to secure her dream. And she definitely wanted to ease the desolate, empty feeling their interlude outside the library had left about her heart.
She was still convinced he could love her if he tried. They had so many things in common. She'd enumerated them at length in her cold bed last night; she felt confident the possibility of love was there.
The first step to making it a reality was to ensure that he spent more time with her. To do that, she needed to speak with him alone. She also wanted to talk to him about Dillon. Recalling how the previous night's interlude had come about, she eyed her would-be suitors measuringly.
Demon saw her proposition Framlingham. His mental imprecations as he strolled to the side door to cut off their escape should have set her ears aflame.
"Oh, ah! Evening, Cynster."
"Framlingham." With a perfunctory nod to Flick, he met his lordship's eyes. "Dissatisfied with her ladyship's entertainments?"
"Ah—" Although bluffly genial, Framlingham was not slow. He shot a glance at Flick. "Miss Parteger needed a breath of fresh air, don't you know."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed," Flick verified. "However, now you're here, I won't need Lord Framlingham's kind escort." She gave Framlingham her hand and smiled sweetly. "Thank you for coming to my aid, my lord."
"Any time—er." Framlingham glanced at Demon. "Pleased to have been of assistance, my dear." With a nod, he beat a hasty retreat.
Demon watched him go, then slowly turned his head and met Flick's limpid gaze. "What are you about?" She opened her eyes at him. "I would have thought that was obvious. I want to speak with you."
So she'd jerked his leash. Demon clenched his jaw and fought to preserve some semblance of debonair aloofness.
She swung to the door. "Is the garden this way?"
Along with the terrace. "I find it difficult to believe you're in need of fresh air. You're not the wilting sort." She certainly hadn't wilted last night.
"Of course not, but we need to speak privately."
"Indubitably." He bit the word off. "Not, however, out there." He wasn't about to risk a repeat of last night.
Meeting his gaze, she tilted her chin. "Where, then?"
One challenge to which he had an answer. "There's a chaise in an alcove over there."
He caught her hand, placed it on his sleeve, and led her through the crowd. Although this was only a party, there were still too many guests crowding the room. It took them some minutes to cross it, time in which his anger faded to resentment—at her action, his reaction, and the ever present, irritating confusion that dogged him.
Never in his life had he had so much trouble with a woman. As on horses, so too in the ballrooms. He was widely acknowledged as clever in the saddle, yet for all his experience, Flick was forever running her own race, perpetually relegating him to following at her heels. He was constantly having to reassess, rethink, readjust, which was not what he'd expected. Unfortunately, there seemed little else he could do.
He had to follow, and try to keep his hands on their reins. And ignore the nagging feeling that he was out of his depth with her.
Deep inside, he knew it, but he couldn't accept it—he was infinitely more experienced than she. But this was not the young chit he'd made blush under the wisteria, the innocent miss he'd kissed by the banks of the stream, and taught to love at The Angel. This Flick was a conundrum, one he'd yet to work out.
The alcove was deep but open to the room. If they kept their voices down, they could talk freely, but in no real sense were they private.
He handed her to the chaise, then sat beside her. "Do you think, next time you wish to speak with me, you could dispense with manipulation and simply send a note?"
She looked him in the eye. "From someone who has so consistently tried to manage me, that's definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black." Her voice was even but her eyes spat blue sparks.
He waved a hand at the crowd. "Face forward and look bored. Make it appear we're idly chatting while you rest."
Her eyes flared, but she did as he said. "See?" she hissed.
"Look bored, not irate." He looked down; her fists were clenched in her lap. "Relax your hands." Despite his irritation, he'd lowered his voice to a cajoling murmur; after an instant's hesitation, her fingers uncurled.
Looking ahead, he drew in a breath, intending to explain, simply, succinctly, that in this sphere he was infinitely more experienced than she, that he knew precisely what he was doing and if she'd only deign to follow his lead, all would be well—
"I want you to spend more time with me."
The demand made him bridle, but he preserved his bored facade. His instinctive response to any outright demand was resistance, but in this case, resistance was tempered by desire. It was a shock to realize he was not at all averse to spending the bulk of his days by her side. He felt his features harden as the implication sank in, while all the reasons he couldn't do so replayed in his mind.
Not least was that sensual glow of hers—if they were frequently together, he'd never preserve a safe distance. And she'd react. On top of that, there was a quality in their interactions now that simply shouldn't be there. For instance, if he leaned closer, she would turn to him, not draw away as an innocent would. Physically, she was completely at ease in his company—womanly, seductively alluring, not nervous and skittish as she should be.
Drawing in a breath, he considered telling her, but… the very last thing he wanted was for her to change.
"No." He spoke decisively. After a moment, he added, "That's not possible."
She didn't, to his surprise, react—didn't turn her head and glare. Instead, she continued to study the room.
It took Flick some time to absorb his words. She'd made her demand expecting an argument, not bald denial. Yet she'd sensed his stiffening the instant the words were out—she'd braced herself to hear something she'd rather not.
Nevertheless… she had trouble taking it in. Trying to understand. What was he telling her?
A sudden premonition swept her—last night she'd accused him of wanting her solely as an ornament. She'd said it to prod him to deny it. He hadn't. Forcing in a breath, she concentrated on not gripping her ringers and wringing them. Had she, from the first, completely misread him—completely misunderstood what this something between them was?
Had she fooled herself into believing he might, one day, love her?
The cold started in her toes and flooded upward; her lungs froze—she felt giddy. But she had to know the truth. She glanced at his face. His features were set, determined. It wasn't his social mask that
watched her, but another more stony, more ruthless. She searched his eyes, steady crystalline blue, and found no softness there either."No?"
The word trembled on her lips. Abruptly, she looked away, struggling to mask the effect of that word—a blow to her unwary heart.
He tensed, shifted, then sat back. After a moment, he said in an even voice, "If you agree to marry me, then I can spend more time with you."
Flick stiffened. "Indeed?" First a blow, then an ultimatum.
In the same controlled tone, he continued, "You know I wish to marry you—that I've been waiting for you to make up your mind. Have you done so?"
She turned her head further away so he couldn't see the fight she waged to keep her hurt from showing.
Demon swallowed a curse. Her agitation reached him clearly, leaving him even more confused than before. But he couldn't reach out and force her to face him—force her to tell him what the devil was wrong. Kept going wrong between them.
He now wished he hadn't pressed for her answer. But he wanted her, and the agony got worse every night. His gaze locked on her curls, he waited, conscious to his bones of that deep wanting, of the contradictions between his mask, his behavior, and his feelings. He wanted to press her, wanted to reassure her. He desperately wanted to tell her the right answer.
One of her curls, the same one he'd often tucked back, had come loose. Raising one hand, he caught it, adjusted it.
And saw his hand shaking.
The sight shook him even more, forcing the vulnerability he'd tried to ignore to the forefront of his mind. His face set; his jaw clenched. A moment later, he demanded, his tone harsh, "Have you decided?"
Flick looked at him, forced herself to meet his hard blue eyes, tried to see behind the ruthless mask. But she could catch no glimpse of what she searched for—this was not the man she loved, the idol of her dreams, the man who'd made long slow love to her all night at The Angel. The man she'd hoped would learn to love her.
Looking away, she drew in a shaky breath and held it. "No—but I think I've made a dreadful mistake."
He stiffened.
She hauled in a tight breath. "If you'll excuse me?" Briefly inclining her head, Flick stood. Demon stood as she did, so winded he wasn't able to speak. He wasn't able to think, let alone do anything to stop her.
Stop her leaving him.
Flick walked back to the group she'd earlier left. Within seconds she was surrounded by eligible gentlemen. From the side of the room, Demon watched her.
The word "mistake" burned in his brain. Who had really made it—her, or him? Her rejection—how else was he to take it?-—seared him. His eyes narrowed as he saw her nod graciously to some man. Perhaps, this time, he should swallow his pride and take her at her word?
The thought was like acid, eating at his heart.
Then he saw her smile fleetingly—a huge effort all for show; the instant the gentleman looked away, her smile faded, and she glanced surreptitiously his way.
Demon caught that glance—saw the hurt, haunted look in her eyes. He swore and took an impulsive step forward, then recalled where they were. He couldn't cross the room, haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, much less swear undying devotion.
Suppressing a snarl, rigidly schooling his features to a cast that would allow him to move through the throng, he swung on his heel and left the house.
Every time he tried to manage her, things went wrong.
She refused to run in his harness; she never reacted predictably to the reins. He'd expected to be in control, but that wasn't the way it would be.
Lounging in the doorway of the nursery at 12 Clarges Street, the house he dreamed of bringing Flick to as his wife, Demon looked around the room. Set beneath the eaves, it was of a good size, well lit, well ventilated. As in the light, airy rooms downstairs, he could see Flick here, her curls glowing brighter than the sun as she smiled, shedding her warmth about her.
The house would be cold without her.
He'd be cold without her. As good as dead.
He knew she wanted something from him—something more than a few hours every day. He even knew what that something was. If he wanted to convince her that she'd made no mistake, that her heart was safe with him, he was going to have to give rather more than he had.
He didn't need to hear her say she loved him—he'd known that for some time, at The Angel if not before. But he'd thought of her feelings as a "young" love, youthful, exuberant, relatively immature—easy for him to manage and fulfill without having to expose the depth of his own feelings. He'd even used the mores of the ton to assist him in hiding those—the emotions that at times raged so powerfully he couldn't contain them.
He certainly couldn't manage them. Or her.
His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. What lay between them now was an obsession—deep and abiding and impossible to deny—not on her part, or his. She was meant for him and he for her, but if he didn't confront the one thing he most feared, didn't surrender and pay the price, he would lose her.
A prospect the Cynster in him could never, ever accept.
He stood for long moments, gazing unseeing at the empty room. Then he sighed and straightened. He would have to see her alone again, and find but what, precisely, he was going to have to do to get her to agree to be his.
That evening, together with Horatia, Flick attended Lady Merlon's musicale. Musicales were the one social event Demon had flatly refused to attend. Slipping into the room just as the soprano started to wail, Flick winced and tried to block out the thought that her reaction to such music was something else she and Demon shared. They didn't share the most important trait, which was the only one that mattered.
Setting her chin against a deplorable tendency to quiver, she looked along the rows of seats, hunting for an empty one. She'd taken refuge in the withdrawing room to avoid the twins—one look at their bright, cheery expressions and their far-too-sharp eyes and she'd fled. She possessed no mask solid enough to hide her inner misery from them.
She'd expected to sit with Horatia, but she was now surrounded, as were the twins. Looking along the edge of the room, she tried to spot a vacant seat—
"Here, gel!" Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow; surprisingly strong, they drew her back. "Sit and stop flitting—it's distracting!"
Abruptly sitting, Flick found herself on one end of a love seat, the rest of which was occupied by Lady Osbaldestone. "Th-thank you."
Hands crossed over the head of her cane, her ladyship fixed Flick with a piercing black gaze. "You look quite peaked, gel. Not getting enough sleep?"
Flick wished she had a mask to hold in front of her face; the old eyes fixed on hers were even sharper than the twins'. "I'm quite well, thank you."
"Glad to hear it. When's the wedding to be, then, heh?"
Unfortunately, they were sufficiently distant from other guests not to have to remain silent. Shifting her gaze to the singer, Flick fought to quell the tremor in her lips, in her voice. "There isn't going to be a wedding."
"Is that so?" Her ladyship's tone was mildly curious. Keeping her gaze on the singer, Flick nodded. "And why is that?"
"Because he doesn't love me."
"Doesn't he?" That was said with considerable surprise.
"No." Flick couldn't think of any more subtle way to put it—even the thought was enough to overset her. Breathing evenly, she tried to ease the knot clutched tight about her heart. It had constricted the previous evening and still hadn't loosened.
Despite all, she still wanted him—wanted desperately to marry him. But how could she? He didn't love her, and wasn't expecting to. The marriage he intended would be a living mockery of all she believed, all she wanted. She couldn't endure being trapped in a loveless, fashionably convenient union. Such a marriage wasn't for her—she simply couldn't do it.
"Humor an old woman, my dear—why do you imagine he doesn't love you?"
After a moment, Flick glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. She was sitting back, calmly waiting, her full attention on her. Despite feeling remarkably close to Horatia, Flick could hardly discuss her son's shortcomings with her kind and generous hostess. But… recalling her ladyship's first words to her, Flick drew breath and faced forward. "He refuses to give me any of his time—just the polite minimum. He wants to marry me so he'll have a suitable bride—the right ornament on his arm at family gatherings. Because we suit in many ways, he's decided I'm it. He expects to marry me, and—well, from his point of view, that's it."
A sound halfway between a snort and a guffaw came from beside her. "Pardon my plain speaking, my dear, but if that's all you've got against him, I wouldn't, if I was you, be so hasty in your judgments."
Flick shot a puzzled glance at her elderly inquisitor. "You wouldn't?"
"No, indeed." Her ladyship sat back. "You say he won't spend much time by your side—are you sure that shouldn't be 'can't?"
Flick blinked. "Why 'can't'?"
"You're young and he's much older—that alone restricts the arenas in which your paths can cross in town. And an even greater restriction stems from his reputation." Her ladyship fixed her with a direct look. "You know about that, do you not?"
Flick colored, but nodded.
"Well, then, if you think about it, you should see there are precious few opportunities for him to spend time with you. He's not here tonight?"
"He doesn't like musicales."
"Yes, well, few gentlemen do—look around." They both did. The soprano screeched, and her ladyship snorted again. "I'm not even sure I like musicales. He's generally been squiring you to your evenings' entertainments, hasn't he?"
Flick nodded.
"Then let's think what else he could do. He can't dance attendance on you, because, being who he is, and you who you are, society would raise its brows censoriously. He can't hang about you during the day, in the park or elsewhere—he most certainly can't haunt his parents' house. He can't even join your circle of an evening."
Flick frowned. "Why not?"
"Because society does not approve of gentlemen of his age and experience showing their partiality too openly, any more than it approves of ladies wearing their hearts on their sleeves."
"Oh."
"Indeed. And Harold, just like all the Cynsters, lives and breathes society's rules without even thinking of them—at least when it comes to marriage, specifically anything to do with the lady they wed.
They'll happily bend any rule that gets in their high-handed way, but not when it comes to marriage. Don't understand it myself, but I've known three generations, and they've all been the same. You may take my word for it."
Flick grimaced.
"Now, Horatia mentioned you haven't accepted him yet, so that simply lays an extra tax on him. Being a Cynster, he would want to stick by your side, force you to acknowledge him, but he can't. Which, of course, explains why he's been going around tense as an overwound watchspring. I have to say he's toed the line very well—he's doing what society expects of him by keeping a reasonable distance until you accept his offer."
"But how can I learn if he loves me if he's never near?"
"Society is not concerned with love, only its own power. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Not wanting to make himself, or you, or his family appear outre, and very definitely not wanting society to view your relationship askance, restricts him to half-hour calls in Horatia's presence—and only one or two a week, to meetings in the park, again not too frequently, and escorting you and Horatia to balls. Anything else would be construed as bad ton—something no Cynster has ever been."
"What about riding in the park? He knows I like riding."
Lady Osbaldestone eyed her. "You're from Newmarket, I believe?" Flick nodded.
"Well, riding in the park means you'll be walking your mount. At the most, you can break into a trot for a short stretch, but that's the limit of what is considered appropriate stimulation for a female on horseback." Flick stared. "So are you surprised he hasn't taken you riding in the park?"
Flick shook her head.
"Ah, well, now you appreciate the intricacies Harold's been juggling for the past weeks. And from his point of view, he doesn't dare put a foot wrong. Most entertaining, it's been." Lady Osbaldestone chuckled and patted Flick's hand. "Now, as to whether he loves you or not, there's one point you've obviously missed."
"Oh?" Flick focused on her face. "He drove you in the park." "Yes." Her expression said "So?"
"The Bar Cynster never drive ladies in the park. It's one of those ridiculously high-handed, arrogant,
oh-so-male-Cynster decisions, but they simply don't. The only ladies any of them have ever been known to take up behind their vaunted horses in the park are their wives."
Flick frowned. "He never said anything."
"I imagine he didn't, but it was a declaration, nonetheless. By driving you in the park, he made it plain to the ton's hostesses that he intends to offer for you."
Flick considered, then grimaced. "That's hardly a declaration of love."
"No, I grant you. There is, however, the small matter of his current state. Tight as a violin string about to snap. His temper's never been a terribly complacent one—he's not easygoing like Sylvester or Alasdair. His brother Spencer is reserved, but Harold's impatient and stubborn. It's a very revealing thing when such a man willingly and knowingly submits to frustration."
Flick wasn't convinced, but… "Why did he make this declaration?" She glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. "Presumably he had a reason?"
"Most likely to keep more experienced gentlemen—his peers, if you will—at a distance, even if he wasn't by your side."
"To warn them away, so to speak?"
Lady Osbaldestone nodded. "And then, of course, he kept watch from the other side of every ballroom, just to make sure."
Flick felt her lips twitch.
Lady Osbaldestone saw and nodded. "Just so. There's no reason to have the megrims just because he's not beside you. In terms of his behavior, he's handled this well—I really don't know what more you could want of him. As for love, he's shown possessiveness and protectiveness, both different facets of that emotion, facets gentlemen such as he are more prone to openly demonstrate. But for the facets to shine, the jewel must be there, at the heart. Passion alone won't give the same effect."
"Hmm." Flick wondered.
The singer reached her finale—a single, sustained, piercingly high note. When it ended, everyone clapped, including Flick and Lady Osbaldestone. The audience immediately stood and milled, chatting avidly. Others approached the love seat; Flick rose.
Lady Osbaldestone acknowledged Flick's curtsy. "You think of what I told you, gel—you'll see I'm right, mark my words."
Flick met her old eyes, then nodded and turned away.
Lady Osbaldestone's comments cast matters in a new light, but… as Horatia's carriage rumbled over the cobbles, Flick grimaced, thankful for the deep shadows that enveloped her. She still didn't know if Demon loved her—could love her—would ever love her. She'd settle for any of those alternatives, but for nothing less.
Looking back over the past weeks, she had to acknowledge his protectiveness and possessiveness, but she wasn't certain that in his case those weren't merely a reflection of his desire. That was strong—incredibly, excitingly powerful. But it wasn't love.
His frustration, which she'd recognized as steadily escalating, was to her mind more likely due to frustrated desire, compounded by the fact that she'd yet to accept his offer. She couldn't see love anywhere, no matter how hard she looked.
And while Lady Osbaldestone had explained why he couldn't spend time with her in town as he had in the country, she hadn't explained why, when he was by her side, he still kept distance between them.
As the carriage rumbled through the wide streets, lit by flickering flares, she pondered, and wondered, but always came back to her fundamental question: Did he love her?
Heaving a silent sigh, grateful to Lady Osbaldestone for at least giving her hope again, she fixed her gaze on the passing scenery and considered ways to prod Demon into answering. Despite her usual habit, she balked at asking him directly. What if he said no, but didn't mean it, either because he didn't realize he did, or did realize but wasn't willing to admit it?
Either was possible; she'd never told him how important having his love was to her. It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd got into the habit of using that one small word with her—on this subject, she couldn't risk it. If he said no, her newfound hope would shrivel and die, and her dream would evaporate.
The carriage swung around a corner, tilting her close to the window. Beyond the glass, she saw a group of men standing outside a tavern door. Saw one raise a glass in toast—saw his red neckerchief, saw his face. With a gasp, she righted herself as the carriage straightened.
"Are you alright, dear?" Horatia asked from beside her. "Yes. Just…" Flick blinked. "I must have dozed off,"
"Sleep if you will—we've still got a way to go. I'll wake you when we reach Berkeley Square."
Flick nodded, her mind racing, her troubles forgotten. She began to ask Horatia where they were, but she stopped, unable to explain her sudden need of street names. She kept her eyes glued to the streets from then on, but didn't see any signs until they were nearly home. By then, she'd decided what to do. Masking her impatience, she waited. The carriage rocked to a halt outside the Cynster house; handed to the pavement, she matched her pace to Horatia's and unhurriedly ascended the steps. As they climbed the stairs, she smothered a yawn. With a sleepy goodnight, she parted from Horatia in the gallery and turned toward her room.
As soon as she'd turned the corner, she picked up her skirts and ran. Hers was the only occupied room in that wing, and she'd forbidden the little maid who helped her to wait up. So there was no one about to see her fly into her room. No one to see her tear to her wardrobe and delve into the cases on its floor.
No one to see her shed her beautiful gown and leave it lying on the rug. No one to see her climb into attire that would have made any lady blush.
Ten minutes later, once more Flick the lad, she crept downstairs. The door was left unlatched until Demon's father came in, usually close to dawn. Until then, Highthorpe polished silver in his pantry, just beyond the baise door. Flick inched down the hall. The front door opened noiselessly—she eased it back just far enough to squeeze through, worried that a draft might alert Highthorpe. Only after she'd closed it again and gently set the latch down did she breathe freely.
Then she darted down the steps and into the street.
She stopped in the shadow of an overhang. Her first impulse was to retrace the carriage's journey, find Bletchley, then follow him through the night. This, however, was London, not Newmarket—it was hardly wise, even dressed as she was, to slink through the streets in the dark.
Accepting reality she headed for Albemarle Street.
Chapter 2O
« ^ »
Luckily, Albemarle Street wasn't far. She found the narrow house easily enough—Horatia had pointed it out when they'd driven past. Demon lived alone with only Gillies as his general factotum, for which Flick was duly grateful—at least she wouldn't have to cope with strangers.
Slipping through the shadows to the front steps, she noted a lone carriage a few doors down the street. The coachman was shuffling on the box, settling under a blanket; thankfully, his back was to her.
Flick crept up the steps. She reached for the brass knocker, steeling herself to tap gently, but the door gave, just an inch. Catching her breath, she stared at the gap. Splaying her fingers, she gently pushed—the door swung enough for her to slip through.
In the dimness beyond, she looked around, then eased the door closed. She was in a narrow hall, a flight of stairs directly before her. The wall to her right was shared with the next house; to her left lay a closed door, presumably to the parlor. A narrow corridor ran back beside the stairs.
Demon might not be home—there was no light showing beneath the parlor door. Looking up, Flick discerned a faint light low on the landing above. The room upstairs was probably his bedroom.
She bit her lip and considered the narrow stairs.
And heard a sudden scuffle, then the scrape of chair legs on polished boards.
Followed, quite distinctly, by a purring, feminine, highly accented voice: "Harrrrry, my demon…" Flick's feet were on the stairs before she knew it.
From above came a vibrant oath. Then, "What the devil are you doing here, Celeste?"
"Why, I've come to keep you company, Harrrry—it's cold tonight. I've come to keep you—all of you—warrrrrrm."
Another oath, as heated as the last, answered that. Then came, "This is ridiculous. How did you get in here?"
"Never mind that—here I am. You should, at the very least, reward me for my enterprise."
In the shadows on the landing, hard by the door, Flick heard a deep, aggravated, very masculine sigh.
"Celeste, I know English isn't your first language, but no is no in most tongues. I told you at least four times! It's over. Finis!"
It sounded as if the words were forced through gritted teeth. "You don't mean that—how can you?"
Celeste's tone conveyed a purring pout. The soft shushing of silk reached Flick's straining ears—she pressed close, one ear to the panel.
An explosive expletive nearly rocked her on her heels. "Dammit! Don't do that!"
A brief scuffle ensued. A confused medley of muttered oaths mixed with Celeste's increasingly explicit cajoling had Flick frowning—
The door was hauled open. "Gillies!"
Flick jumped—and stared, wide-eyed, into Demon's face, watched his snarling expression transform in a blink to utter blankness.
In utter, abject disbelief, Demon stood in his shirtsleeves on the threshold of his bedroom, fury still wreathing his faculties, one hand imprisoning the wrists of his importuning ex-mistress, his gaze locked with the wide blue eyes of his innocent wife-to-be.
For one definable instant, his brain literally reeled.
Flick, thank heaven, was as stunned as he—she stared up at him and uttered not one peep. Then Gillies shuffled into the hall. "Yessir?"
Demon looked down the stairs. Behind him, Celeste hissed and clawed at his hands. He filled the doorway so she couldn't see Flick, now shrinking back into the corner of the tiny landing, tugging her cap
low, pulling her muffler over her face.
Hauling in a breath, he stepped forward and turned, squashing Flick into the corner behind him. "The countess is leaving. Now." He yanked Celeste out of his room and released her; stony-faced, he gestured down the stairs.
Celeste paused for one instant, black eyes spitting fury, then she uttered three virulent words he was quite happy not to understand, stuck her nose in the air, hitched her cloak about her shoulders, and swept down the stairs.
Gillies opened the door. "Your coach awaits, madam."
Without a backward glance, Celeste swept out of the house. Gillies shut the door. Behind Demon, Flick grinned, having watched the entire proceedings from under his arm.
Then she jumped, plastering herself against the wall as he swung on her and roared, "And what the damn hell do you think you're doing here?"
"Heh?" Stunned, Gillies looked up. "Good God."
Considering what she could see in Demon's eyes, Flick didn't think God would be much help to her. She could barely remember the answer to his question. "I saw Bletchley."
He blinked and drew marginally back. "Bletchley?"
She nodded. "On one of the corners we passed on the way home from the musicale." "From Guilford Street?"
She nodded again. "There was a tavern on the corner—he was drinking and chatting to some grooms. And"—she paused dramatically—"he was in livery, too!"
Which, of course, explained why they hadn't found him, why he hadn't appeared at any of the usual places to meet with the gentlemen of the syndicate. He was, quite possibly, in the household of one of the syndicate.
Demon studied Flick's face while his mind raced. "Gillies?" "Aye—I'll fetch a hackney." Pulling on his coat, he went out.
Straightening, Demon drew in a huge breath, his gaze steady on Flick's eyes. "Which corner was it?"
"I don't know—I don't know London streets very well." She tilted her chin and looked straight back at him. "I'd know it if I saw it again."
He narrowed his eyes at her; she widened hers and stared back. Muttering an oath, he spun on his heel. "Wait there."
He fetched his coat, shrugged into it, then escorted her down the stairs and into the hackney. At his order, Gillies came too, scrambling up onto the seat beside the driver.
"Guilford Street. As fast as you can." Demon pulled the door shut and sat back.
The jarvey took him at his word; neither Demon nor Flick spoke as they rattled through the streets and
swung around corners. On reaching Guilford Street, Demon told the jarvey to head for Berkeley Square, following the directions he relayed from Flick. Sitting forward, she scanned the streets, unerringly picking out their way.
"It was just a little farther—there!" She pointed to the little tavern on the corner. "He was there, standing by that barrel." Bletchley wasn't, unfortunately, there now.
"Sit back." Demon tugged her back from the window, then ordered the jarvey to draw up after the next corner. As the coach rocked to a halt, Gillies swung down and came to the door. With his head, Demon indicated the tavern. "See what you can learn."
Gillies nodded. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered off, whistling tunelessly.
Sinking back against the leather seat, Flick stared into the night. Then she looked down and played with her fingers. Two minutes later, she drew in a deep breath and lifted her head. "The countess is very beautiful, isn't she?"
"No."
Startled, she looked at Demon. "Don't be ridiculous! The woman's gorgeous." Turning his head, he met her gaze. "Not to me."
Their eyes locked, silence stretched, then he looked down. Lifting one hand, he reached out, tugged one of hers from her lap, and wrapped his long fingers about it. "She—and all the others—they came before you. They no longer matter—they have no meaning." He slid his fingers between hers, then locked their palms together.
"My taste," he continued, his tone even and low as he rested their locked hands on his thigh, "has changed in recent times—since last I visited Newmarket, as a matter of fact."
"Oh?"
"Indeed." There was the ghost of a smile in his voice. "These days, I find gold curls much more attractive than dark locks." Again, he met her eyes, then his gaze drifted over her face. "And features that might have been drawn by Botticelli more beautiful than the merely classical."
Something powerful stirred in the dark between them—Flick felt it. Her heart hitched, then started to canter. Her lips, as his gaze settled on them, started to throb.
"I've discovered that I much prefer the taste of sweet innocence, rather than more exotic offerings." His voice had deepened to a gravelly rumble that slid, subtly rough, over her flickering nerves.
His chest swelled as he drew breath. His gaze lowered. "And I now find slender limbs and firm, svelte curves much more fascinating—more arousing—than flagrantly abundant charms."
Flick felt his gaze, hot as the sun, sweep her, then it swung up again. He searched her eyes, then lifted his other hand, shoulders shifting as he reached for her face. Fingers closing about her chin, his gaze locked with hers, he held her steady, and slowly, very slowly, leaned closer.
"Unfortunately"—he breathed the word against her yearning lips—"there's only one woman who meets my exacting requirements."
She deserted the sight of his long, lean lips—lifting her lids, she looked into his eyes. "Only one?"
She could barely get the words out.
He held her gaze steadily. "One." His gaze dropped to her lips, then his lids fell as he leaned the last inch nearer. "Only one."
Their lips touched, brushed, molded— Gillies's tuneless whistle rapidly neared.
Smothering a curse, Demon let her go and sat back.
Flick nearly cursed, too. Flushed, breathless—absolutely ravenous—she struggled to steady her breathing.
Gillies appeared at the door. "It was Bletchley, right enough. He's somebody's groom, but no one there knows who his master is. He's not a regular. The place is the local haunt for the coachmen waiting for their gentlemen to finish at the—" Gillies stopped; his features blanked.
Demon frowned. He leaned forward, looked out at the street, then sank back. "Houses?" he suggested. Gillies nodded. "Aye—that's it."
Flick glanced along the row of well-tended terrace houses. "Maybe we could learn which houses had guests tonight, then ask who the guests were?"
"I don't think that's a viable option." Demon jerked his head; Gillies leapt at the chance to scramble up top. "On to Berkeley Square."
The carriage lurched forward. Demon sat back and pretended not to notice Flick's scowl.
"I can't see why we couldn't ask at the houses—what harm could there be?" She sat back, folding her arms. "They're perfectly ordinary residences—there must be some way we can inquire."
"I'll put some people onto it tomorrow," Demon lied.
Better a lie than have her decide to investigate herself. That particular row of ordinary residences hosted a number of high-class brothels, none of which would welcome inquiries as to the identity of their evening's guests. "I'll see Montague first thing tomorrow, and swing all our people into the fashionable areas." Inwardly, Demon nodded. Things were starting to make sense.
Flick merely humphed.
Demon had the hackney drop them off just around the corner from Berkeley Square, then take Gillies on to Albemarle Street. He checked the Square, but it was late—there was no one about to see him bring Flick the lad home. He only hoped he could sneak her past Highthorpe.
"Come on." He strolled along the pavement; Flick strolled beside him.
As they climbed the steps to his parents' door, he glanced down at her. "Go straight up the stairs as silently as you can—I'll distract Highthorpe." He gripped the doorknob and turned it—"Damn!" He turned the knob fully and pushed. Nothing happened. He swore. "My father must have come home early. The bolts are set."
Flick stared at the door. "How will I get in?"
Demon sighed. "Through the back parlor." He glanced around, then took her hand. "Come on—I'll show you."
Striding back down the steps, he led her down the narrow gap between his parents' house and the next, into a lane running along the backs of the mansions. A stone wall, more than seven feet tall, lined the lane.
He tried the gate in the wall; it, too, was locked. Flick eyed the wall and groaned. "Not again."
" 'Fraid so. Here." Demon linked his hands. Grumbling, Flick placed her boot in them—he threw her up. As in Newmarket, he had to slap his hand under her bottom and heave her over—she grumbled even more.
Demon caught the top of the wall, hauled himself up, then dropped down to join Flick in the bushes below. Grabbing her hand, he led her through the rhododendrons, across the shadowed lawn, and onto the back terrace. He signalled her to silence, then, using a small knife, he set to work on the French doors of the back parlor. In less than a minute, the lock clicked and the doors swung open.
"There you are." Pocketing the knife, he gestured Flick in. Hesitantly, she crossed the threshold. He stepped in behind her to get off the open terrace—
She clutched his sleeve. "It all looks so different in the dark," she whispered. "I've never been in this room—your mother doesn't sit here." Her fingers tightened; she looked up at him. "How do I get to my room?"
Demon stared at her. He wanted to see her alone—to talk to her privately—but a more formal setting in daylight was imperative, or he'd never get out what he had to say. Not before he forgot himself and kissed her. Screened by the dark, he scowled. "Where's your room?"
"I turn left from the gallery—isn't that the other wing?"
"Yes." Stifling a curse, he locked the French doors, then found her hand. "Come on. I'll take you up."
The house was large, disorientating in the dark, but he'd slipped through its corridors on countless nights past. He'd grown up in this house—he knew his way without looking.
Flick bided her time, trailing him up the stairs and into the long gallery. The curtains at the long windows were open; moonlight streamed in, laying silver swaths across the dark carpet. She waited until they drew abreast of the last window, then she tripped, stumbled—
Demon bent and caught her—
Quick as a flash, she straightened, lifted her arms, framed his face and kissed him, wildly, wantonly—she wasn't going to wait to learn if he was planning to kiss her. What if he wasn't?
Her preemptive action rendered Demon's plans academic. Curses rang in his head—he didn't hear them. Couldn't hear them over the sudden pounding of his blood, the sudden roar of his needs. Her lips were open under his; before he'd even thought, he was deep inside, tasting her, exulting in the sweet mystery of her, drinking her deep.
And she met him—not tentatively or shyly, but with a demand so flagrant it left him giddy.
He pulled back from the kiss to draw in a huge breath, conscious to his toes of the firm swells of her
breasts compressed against his expanding chest. He straightened; hands sliding to his nape, she held tight. Eyes glinting under heavy lids, she drew his lips back to hers.
He went readily, urgently hungry for more heady kisses, his pulse pounding in anticipation of the deeper satiation her body, pressed to his in sweet abandon, promised. His arms had locked about her, but it was she who sank against him, a simple surrender so evocative he shook.
Pulling back, he dragged in a breath; dazed, he looked into her face, subtly lit by the moonlight. From under heavy lids, she studied him, then with one finger, traced his lower lip.
"Lady Osbaldestone said you've been keeping your distance because that's what society demands." She arched one fine brow. "Is that right?"
"Yes." He went back for another taste of her, so sweetly intoxicating she was making him drunk. She gave her mouth freely, sliding her tongue around his, then drawing back.
"She said by driving me in the park you made a declaration." She whispered the words against his lips, then kissed him.
This time, it was he who gave, then drew back, rakish senses alert to some subtle shift in the scene. He blinked down at her. Inwardly swearing, he fought to realign his spinning wits. She was, as usual, setting the pace. And he was left scrambling in her wake.
Reaching up, she drew his lips down to hers for another slow, intimate kiss that left them both simmering. "Did you intend the drive in the park as a declaration?"
"Yes."
His lips were back on hers. She pulled away. "Why?" "Because I wanted you." Relentless, he drew her back.
For long moments, silence reigned; locked together, they heated, then burned. When next they broke for breath they were panting. Hearts racing, eyes dark and wild under heavy lids, they paused, lips not quite touching.
"Lady Osbaldestone said you would have wanted to pressure me—why didn't you?"
He shuddered; the supple strength of her, so much less than his, struck through to his bones and left him weak. Aching to have her. "God knows."
He went to kiss her, but she stopped him—by running one hand down one locked bicep, then up, across his shoulder and his chest. Stopping with her palm over his heart, she splayed her fingers and tried to press them in—they made no impression on the already tensed muscle.
"She said you were frustrated." She looked up into his eyes. "Is she right?" He sucked in a breath and tensed even more. "Yes!"
"Is that why you won't let me close—near—even when we're together?"
He hesitated, looking deep into her eyes. "Put that down to the violence of my feelings. I was afraid they'd show." He was never, ever, going to tell her she glowed.
As if in vindication, she did. He swooped and took her mouth—she surrendered it eagerly, sinking deeper against him, openly, joyously, feeding his need. Her lips were soft under his, her tongue ready to tangle; he took what she freely gave and returned it full-fold.
"I couldn't bear to see you surrounded by those puppies—and the others were even worse." "You should have rescued me—carried me off. I didn't want them."
"I didn't know—you hadn't said."
Where the words were coming from, he didn't know, but they were suddenly flowing. "I hate seeing you waltz with other men."
"I won't—not ever again."
"Good." After another searching kiss, he added, "Just because I'm not forever by your side doesn't mean that's not precisely where I want to be."
Her "Mmm" sounded deeply content. She softened in his arms; his breath hitched, his wits reeled—even in her breeches, her body flowed with the promise of warm silk over his erection. He gritted his teeth and heard himself admit, "I nearly went mad thinking you would fall in love with one of them—prefer one of them—over me."
She drew back. In the moonlight he saw surprise and shock in her face, then her expression softened; slowly, she smiled at him—glowed at him. "That won't ever happen."
He looked into her eyes, and thanked God, fate—whoever had arranged it. She loved him—and she knew it. Perhaps he could leave it at that, now he'd admitted so much, and soothed her silly fears that his caution had been disinterest, that his towering restraint had been coolness. He studied her eyes, basked in her glow. Perhaps he could leave things to ease by themselves…
A second later, his chest swelled; he bent his head and kissed her—deeply, demandingly, until he knew her head was spinning, her wits in disarray. Then he drew back and whispered against her lips, "I wanted to ask…"
Drawing back a fraction further, he drank in the sight of her angelic face—the finely drawn features, smooth ivory skin, swollen, rosy lips, large eyes lustrous under heavy lids, her bright curls gleaming gold even in the moonlight. Her cap had disappeared, as had her muffler. As had his wits. "I hadn't meant it to be like this. You had engagements all day today—I was going to call on you tomorrow to speak to you formally."
Her lips curved; her arms tightened about his neck. "I prefer this." Arching lightly, she pressed against him; he caught his breath. "What were you going to ask?"
Flick waited, and wondered, with what little wit she still possessed. She felt so happy, so reassured. So wanted. Deeply, sincerely, uncontrollably wanted.
His eyes held hers—she both sensed and felt him steeling himself.
"What will it take to make you say yes?" After a moment, he clarified, "What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?"
She wanted his heart—she wanted him to lay it at her feet. Flick heard the words in her head, which was suddenly spinning much too fast. She dragged in a too-shallow breath—
"Just tell me." His voice was so low she felt it more than heard it.
Eyes wide, she held his darkened gaze and dazedly considered it—considered asking the one question she'd told herself she never could. Searching his face, she saw his strength, and a new, more visible devotion, both unswerving, unfailing—there for her to lean on. Neither surprised her. What did—what made her breath catch and her head swim—was the raw hunger in his eyes, in the harsh planes of his face; for the first time, she saw his naked need. She shivered, deeply thrilled by the sight, shaken by its consequence.
He'd asked for the price of her heart. She would have to tell him it was his.
Drawing in a deep breath, she steadied, calmed. This was, without doubt, the highest fence she'd ever faced. She felt his arms about her, felt his heart thudding against her breast. Her eyes locked with his, so dark in the night, she drew in a last breath, and threw her heart over. "I need to know—to believe—that you love me." Her lungs seized; she forced in a quick breath. "If you love me, I'll say yes."
His expression didn't change. He looked at her for a long, long moment. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat. Then he shifted, one arm sliding more completely around her, holding her locked against him; with the other, he lifted her hand from his shoulder. He held her gaze, then carried her hand to his lips.
His kiss seared the back of her hand.
"I could say 'I love you'—and I do." Raising his lids, he met her gaze. "But it's not that simple… not for me. I never wanted a wife." He drew in a breath. "I never wanted to love—not you, not any woman. I never wanted to risk it—never wanted to be forced to find out if I could handle the strain. In my family, loving's not easy—it's not a simple sunny thing that makes one merely happy. Love for us—for me—was always going to be dramatic—powerful, unsettling—an ungovernable force. A force that controls me, not the other way about. I knew I wouldn't like it—" His eyes met hers. "And I don't. But… it isn't, it appears, something I have a choice about."
His lips twisted. "I thought I was safe—that I had defenses in place, strong and inviolable, far too steely for any mere woman to break through. And none did, not for years." He paused. "Until you.
"I can't remember inviting you in, or ever opening the gates—I just turned around one day and you were there—a part of me." He hesitated, studying her eyes, then his face hardened, his voice deepened. "I don't know what will convince you, but I won't ever let you go. You're mine—the only woman I could ever imagine marrying. You can share my life. You know a hock from a fetlock—you know as much about riding as I do. You can be a partner in my enterprises, not a distant spectator standing at the periphery. You'll stand at the center of it all, by my side.
"And I'll want you there always, by my side—in the ton as much as at Newmarket. I want to build a life with you—to have a home with you, to have children with you."
He paused; Flick held her breath, very conscious of the steely tension investing his muscles, of the brutal strength holding her gently trapped, of the power in his voice, in his eyes, so totally focused on her.
Releasing her hand, he tucked one stray curl back behind her ear. "That's what you mean to me." The words were gravelly, raw, compelling. "You're the one I want—now and forever. The only future I want lies with you."
Demon drew breath and looked into her eyes, and saw tears welling bright against the blue. He inwardly quaked, unsure if they meant victory or defeat. He swallowed and asked, his voice barely audible, "Have I convinced you?"
She searched his face, then smiled—glowed. "I'll tell you tomorrow."
His hands, one at her waist, the other at her hip, tightened—he forced them to relax. Disappointment welled, but… she seemed happy. Deeply content. If anything, her glow had reached new heights, new depths.
He studied her eyes, hard to read in the silvery light, then forced himself to nod. "I'll call on you midmorning." He raised her hand and pressed an ardent kiss to her palm. If he had to wait, that was all he dared do.
Steeling himself, he eased his arms from her. Instantly, she clutched—her eyes flew wide.
"No! Don't go!" Flick locked her eyes on his. "I want you with me tonight."
She didn't want to tell him her decision in words—she could never match his exposition. She intended telling him in a more direct fashion—in a manner she was sure he'd understand. Words could wait until tomorrow. Tonight…
He grimaced lightly. "Flick, sweetheart, much as I want you, this is my parents' house, and—" She cut him off with a kiss—the most potent one she could muster.
Long before she stopped for breath, Demon had forgotten the point of his argument—he'd lost the reins of their carriage long ago. The only point he was capable of contemplating lay at the juncture of her thighs, but… deeply ingrained honor forced him to pull back, catch his breath—
She touched him.
Inexpertly, not firmly enough—but she was learning. He shuddered, groaned—and caught her hand. "Flick—!"
She wriggled—he had to move quickly to catch her other hand before she reduced him to quivering helplessness.
"Dammit, woman—you're supposed to be innocent!"
Her warm chuckle was the very opposite. "I gave you my innocence at The Angel—don't you remember?"
"How could I forget? Every damned minute of that night is engraved on my brain." She grinned. "Like an etching?"
"If an etching can convey sensations as well, then yes." The memories had warmed him, tortured him, for weeks.
Her grin widened. "In that case, you must recall that I'm not a sweet innocent any more." Her expression softened, and glowed. "I gave you my innocence. It was a gift—won't you accept it?"
Demon stared into her lovely face—he couldn't think.
She dropped her gaze to his lips. "If you won't stay with me here, I'll come back to your lodgings." "No."
"I'll follow you—you can't stop me." Her lips curved; she met his eyes. "I want to see your etchings."
Demon looked down into eyes so blatantly full of love he wondered how he could have doubted her answer. She loved him, and always had, regardless of whether he loved her. But he did love her—desperately. Which meant they'd marry soon. Why was he holding her away?
He blinked. The next instant, he released her hands, wrapped his arms about her, and pulled her hard against him. "God, you are so stubborn!"
He kissed her—powerfully, passionately, deliberately letting the reins go—feeling her tug them from his grasp and fling them aside.
At some point in the subsequent heated exchange, they surfaced long enough to turn the corner of the gallery and find the door to her room. Once inside, he leaned back against the door—and let her have her way with him. It was a new experience, and oddly precious—to have a woman so wantonly, ravenously, set on ravishing him.
He reveled in it, in the hot kisses she pressed on him, in the greedy clutch of her fingers on his naked chest. She'd wrecked his cravat, crushed his coat and waistcoat—his shirt had lost buttons. When she hummed in her throat and reached for his waistband, he summoned enough strength to back her to the bed. "Not yet." Catching her hands, he stayed her. "I want to see you first."
Despite having had her more than once, he hadn't, yet, had a chance to sate his senses as he wished, and view her totally naked. He wanted that—and he wanted it now.
She blinked as he sat on the bed and drew her to stand between his thighs. "See me?"
"Hmm." He didn't elaborate—she'd catch on soon enough. At The Angel, he'd seen her naked back, but not her naked front—not in any degree of light. Her male attire made undressing her easy—he had her clad only in a whisper-fine chemise in less than a minute.
By then her eyes were round.
He stood. She stepped back, swiftly scanning the room, noting the lighted candles on her dresser and bedside table, the flickering glow cast by the fire. Dispensing with his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt took a minute—his boots and stockings took one more.
Then he sat on the bed again, thighs wide. She turned to look at him, then shyly smiled. All but swaying with the force, the steady pounding, of desire, he went to move—to reach out and draw her to him—
She moved first.
With that same, shy smile on her lips, she grasped the hem of her chemise, and slowly drew it off over her head.
His chest locked—if his life had depended on not looking at her—not visually devouring
her—he'd have died.
He wasn't sure he hadn't—he couldn't breathe, couldn't think—he certainly couldn't move. Every muscle had seized, poised, ready… It took enormous effort to drag in a breath, to drag his gaze upward from the lithe sweeps of her thighs, from the golden nest of curls at their apex, over the smooth curve of her stomach, up over her waist—one he could span with his hands—to the swells of her breasts, high, pert, and tipped with rose.
Her nipples puckered as his gaze touched them; he felt his lips curve, and knew his smile was hungry.
He was ravenous—aching to have her, to haul her into his arms and possess her, sink his throbbing staff deep into her softness, to ride her into sweet oblivion.
She still held her chemise in one hand, but she didn't clutch it close, didn't try to hide from his hot gaze. She shivered, but let him look his fill; when his gaze reached her face, she met his eyes.
There was no mistaking her glow—it was invitation and known delight—it held a siren's allure, and the confidence of a woman well-loved.
If she ever looked at another man like that she would break his heart. The vulnerability washed over him—he acknowledged it, accepted it and let it pass. Reaching out, he took her chemise from her, let it fall to the floor, then curved his hand about her hip.
He urged her to him and she came—shy but not hesitant. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders; he slid his about her waist and held her, sensing the supple strength of her, then he looked up, trapped her gaze, and slid both palms down, over her hips, over the firm spheres of her bottom. He spread his fingers and cupped her, caressed her, kneaded gently—within seconds, her skin dewed and heated. Her pupils dilated, her lids half lowered; she caught her breath and tensed slightly.
Holding her gaze, refusing to let her break the contact, he left one hand evocatively fondling, tracing the smooth curves and hidden valleys, brushing the backs of her thighs. His other hand he placed palm flat on her belly. She sucked in a breath, and tensed even more. Ruthlessly holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hand up, brushing the sensitive underside of one breast with the backs of his fingers, then closing his hand about the firm mound.
She gasped softly; her lids fluttered, then fell. He smiled and kneaded, stroked and tweaked, all the time watching desire flow across her face. Her lips parted. Her tongue slipped out to moisten them; her breath came in little rushes, not yet pants, but with urgency building. Her lashes fluttered as she felt him learn her, explore her.
With a wolfish smile, he bent his head.
Her shocked gasp rang through the room. She clutched his head, fingers gripping tight as he rasped his tongue over the nipple he'd suckled, torturing it even more. She was soon panting in earnest, the sound sweetly evocative.
He drew back. Desire had flooded her, changing her skin from flawless ivory to rose. Sliding his hand down over her waist, he watched her face as he gently kneaded her taut belly, then reached lower, spearing his fingers through her soft curls, pressing into the soft flesh behind.
She was already wet, swollen and ready—he stroked, and she shuddered. And leaned against one thigh, caught his shoulder for balance.
Before he could blink, she hauled in a breath, opened her eyes, and reached for his buttons. Her nimble
fingers slid them free; she reached in— He closed his eyes and groaned.
She closed her hand and he shuddered. His hands fell from her; head bowed, hands fisted, he endured as she eased her hold and went searching, exploring.
He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to open his eyes—his lids still lifted, just enough so he could see her slender arm, wrist-deep in his open breeches, fine muscles flexing as she stroked and squeezed.
Then she reached deep.
The groan she ripped from him was one of real pain—he was achingly hard, throbbing fit to explode.
Her other hand pushed at his chest. "Lie back."
He did, falling flat on his back, chest heaving as he struggled for breath—control was far beyond him. Her hand left him—he cursed the loss of her touch.
"Just a minute."
In disbelief, he felt her tugging at his breeches. This was nothing like what he'd had planned, but… with a defeated groan, he lifted his hips and let her strip them from him. She got them halfway down, then froze.
Only then did he recall she'd never seen what she'd so successfully accommodated four times thus far.
Oh, God! He levered his lids up—she was standing between his thighs, completely naked, staring, absolutely mesmerized, at his groin. At his rather large member, thick as her wrist, which was presently standing at full attention out of its nest of brown hair.
Stifling a groan, he tensed to sit up, to grab her before she jumped away—to calm her, soothe her, reassure her—
In that instant, the stunned look on her face dissolved into a glorious smile—a wicked, purely sensual, blatantly eager light danced in her eyes. Releasing his breeches, she reached for him—
"No!"
Chest heaving, he lay on the bed and gazed at her in absolute horror. Her fingers had stopped mere inches from his staff, which was growing more painfully rigid by the second. He glanced at her face.
She opened her eyes wide and raised her brows back. She didn't get close to looking innocent—it was pure sensual challenge that flashed in her eyes. When he didn't immediately respond—just lay there looking at her, stupefied and at her mercy—her chin firmed.
He hauled in a breath. "All right—but for God's sake get these off me first."
She chuckled wickedly and did, quickly easing the tight breeches down his long legs, then hauling them off his feet.
He used the moment to gather his strength—she was going to kill him.
His breeches hit the floor; the next instant, she clambered eagerly onto the bed—and surprised him
again. He'd assumed she'd come to his side—instead, she climbed up between his thighs, settling herself on her knees directly before what was clearly her present obsession.
He sucked in a breath—it got trapped in his lungs; they seized as she seized him. Too gently. On a groan, he reached down and closed his hand about hers, showing her how much pressure to exert. As in all things, she learned quickly. After that, all he could do was lie back and think of England. Of Lady Osbaldestone—of anything that might distract him. Not that anything did—it was utterly impossible to detach himself from her touch, from her increasingly explicit caresses. With the fingers of one hand wrapped about his rigid length, she reached to his chest, running her warm hand over taut muscles that tensed and tightened even more.
Then she leaned over him—she couldn't reach his mouth—she did reach his flat nipples. When he jerked, she chuckled—when he moaned, she only licked harder. With gay abandon, she spread hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, then nibbled her way down, over his ridged abdomen.
He went rigid when she nuzzled along the trail of hair leading down from his navel— And nearly died when she closed her hot mouth about his head.
He caught her, gripping her arms tight, fighting a desperate battle not to buck and push himself deeper. Dizzy, almost faint, he clenched his jaw, and hauled in three deep breaths, even while he gloried in the intimate caress.
Then he slid his hands further, gripped and lifted her.
Her eyes went wide as he held her briefly above him while he brought his legs inside hers. "Didn't you like it?"
He met her gaze briefly. "Too much." He bit the words off—he wasn't up to talking. He set her down astride his hips. "I need to be inside you."
He was nudging into her as he spoke, muscles bunching, flickering, veins cording as he fought to be gentle. He should have readied her more, eased her more, but…
He glanced up—she met his gaze, studied his eyes fleetingly, then she smiled, gloriously wanton, and gave her wicked little chuckle. Setting her hands on his chest for balance, she leaned forward, just a little.
She flowered and opened for him. Before he could catch his breath and thrust upward, she sank down, not in a rush—he was too big for that—but slowly. Her lids fell; her breath caught.
Frowning in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she eased herself down on him, inch by steady inch, even tucking her rear deeper to take him all. She enveloped him in hot, wet silk, slick with her own passion; when she was fully impaled, she released the breath she'd held—and tightened firmly about him.
After that, he couldn't remember anything clearly—just startling moments of achingly sweet sensuality, a delight he'd never experienced before. As she rode him, loved him, used her body to pleasure him, he lay back, conquered—defeated—and surrendered and simply took. He let her set the pace, let her gallop, rush, or amble as she would. While she moved over him, rising and falling, he let his hands roam, refreshing his memory, learning more—feasting on the knowledge, reveling in the intimacy.
And when, flushed and panting, she convulsed about him, collapsing, sated, into his arms, he decided this had to be heaven. Only an angel could have given him so much.
He held her, soothed her, waited until she'd caught her breath before he rolled her beneath him. Pushing her thighs wide, he thrust heavily, deeply; she caught her breath and opened wide, then clung.
She stayed with him as he rode her, reaching up to stroke his chest. Briefly meeting his eyes, she smiled—a cat who'd savored a whole bowlful of cream. "I love you." Her eyes drifted shut on the whisper; her smile remained on her face.
"I know," he murmured, then closed his eyes and concentrated on loving her back. A soft, smug smile flirted about her lips. Two minutes later, it died.
She blinked, and shot him a surprised look, immediately wiped from her face as she gasped and arched beneath him. He stifled a groan as she tensed, and tightened about him once more. He was fully engorged and so deeply inside her he was going to lose his mind.
She lost hers first, coming apart in a series of small explosions, a shatteringly long, rolling release.
He continued to ride her, hard and deep, waiting until she eased, until all tension leached from her limbs, until, open and possessed, she lay beneath him, her body accepting him with no resistance—in that instant just before she started drifting, just before he joined her in the void, he leaned down, and kissed her gently.
"I love you, too."
Chapter 21
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The instincts of years hadn't died—Demon woke long before anyone else in the house. And instantly remembered his last words. He tensed, waiting for horror to engulf him—instead, all he felt was a warm peace, a subtle sense that all was right in his world. For long moments, he simply lay there, luxuriating in that feeling.
A ticking inner clock finally prompted him to move. It wasn't yet dawn, but he had to leave soon. Turning on his side, he studied the angel snuggled beside him. He'd fallen asleep still inside her; during the night, he'd woken and disengaged, then gently settled her to sleep by his side.
How she woke was one of the delights already imprinted—etched—on his mind. Smiling, he gently tugged the sheet from her slack grasp and lifted it.
Flick woke to the sensation of him parting her thighs, to the sweet stroking of his finger in the soft flesh between. She never woke quickly—she simply couldn't do it. By the time her breathing had accelerated enough for her to lift her lids, she was hot and wet, aching and empty. In the instant before she would have tensed to move, he shifted over her, one hand pressing beneath her bottom to tilt her up, his hard thighs pressing hers wide.
He entered her—solid and hard and hot. He pushed in, and stretched her, filled her until she gasped, clutched and clung. He rode her and she joined him, their bodies locked together, driven and driving, seeking, climbing, racing until their hearts almost burst and glory rained upon them.
Flat on her back, gasping in the aftermath, she felt him still high and hard inside her. He hung over her, on his elbows, head bowed, chest working like a bellows. They were both hot, skins slick. The hair on his chest abraded her nipples—in her sensitized state, she could feel his hair elsewhere—on his forearms and calves, on his stomach, at his groin. Their limbs touched—everywhere; they were as intimately joined as it was possible to be. She had never been more physically aware of him—or herself.
His heart, thudding against her breast, slowed. Raising his head, he looked at her. "Have I convinced you?"
She lifted her lids and looked into his eyes, then deliberately tensed, tightening all about him, smiled, and let her lids fall. "Yes."
He groaned, moaned, dropped his forehead to hers—and predictably convinced her all over again.
As he left her room in a rush, flitting through the corridors like a thief to slip out of the side door before any maid caught sight of him, Demon swore on his soul that he'd never again underestimate an angel.
His morning was busy, but he was back in Berkeley Square by eleven, confident that now the Season was in full swing, his mother would not yet be down. As he'd requested before he'd left, Flick was waiting—she came gliding down the stairs as Highthorpe opened the door.
The light in her eyes, that glow in her face, took his breath away. As she crossed the hall toward him, the sun shone through the fanlight full upon her—it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. If Highthorpe hadn't been standing in silent majesty beside him, he would have.
Flick seemed to sense his thoughts; the glance she shot him as she glided straight past and out of the door was designed to torment.
"We'll be back late in the afternoon." Demon threw the comment back at Highthorpe as he followed her down the steps. He caught her on the pavement and lifted her into his curricle.
Flick glanced at the empty pillion. "No Gillies?"
"He's off visiting his peers all over town." Retrieving the reins and rewarding the urchin who'd held them, Demon joined her; he set the bays pacing smartly. "I spoke to Montague—we've people everywhere. Now we know where to look, we'll find Bletchley. And his masters." He took a corner in style. "And not before time."
Flick glanced at him. "I had wondered…"
The Spring Carnival was next week. Demon grimaced. "I should have gone back and seen the Committee this week, but… I kept hoping we'd find something—at least one link, one fact, to support Dillon's story. As things stand, we should locate Bletchley by tomorrow evening at the latest—if he's anywhere within the ton, he won't be able to hide. As soon as we have any further information, I'll go back to Newmarket—at the very latest, on Sunday." He glanced at Flick. "Will you come with me?"
She blinked and opened her eyes wide. "Of course."
Suppressing a grin, he looked to his horses. "We haven't found any trace of the money—not anywhere—which is odd. We now think it has to be moving through the ton as wagers and overt expenditure. But no one's been throwing large sums around unexpectedly."
He flicked the reins; the bays stretched their legs. As they passed the gates of the park, he added, "I'd assumed the syndicate was too clever to use their own servants, but it's possible that, when both Dillon and Ickley declined to provide the necessary services so close to the Spring Carnival, they had no choice but to send someone already to hand—someone they trusted."
"So Bletchley's gentleman might be a member of the syndicate?"
"Possibly. Bletchley's a pawn, but he may still be being used at a distance. As a gentleman's groom, he'd have plenty of opportunity to meet with other gentlemen—just a word here and there wouldn't register as odd. There'd be no need for formal meetings."
Flick nodded. "I'll write to Dillon and tell him we'll be back by Sunday." Relief rang in her tone. A moment later, she realized her surroundings weren't familiar. "Where are we going?"
Demon glanced at her. "There's a sale at Tattersalls—carriage horses mostly. A pair of high-steppers I wouldn't mind picking up. I thought you might like to watch."
"Oh, yes! Tattersalls! I've heard so much about it, but I've never been there. Where is it?"
Her continuing eager queries left Demon in no doubt that he'd discovered the one woman in all England who would rather watch a horse auction than stroll down Bond Street. When, incapable of hiding his appreciation, he said as much, Flick blinked at him in blank bemusement.
"Well, of course—don't be ridiculous. These are horses!"
By mutual agreement, he bid on a pair of sweet-tempered, high-stepping greys, rather too finely boned for his taste—he didn't tell Flick they were for her. When they were knocked down to him, she was absolutely thrilled—she spent the time while he arranged to have them delivered to Newmarket making their acquaintance. He all but had to drag her away.
"Come on, or we'll never make it to Richmond."
"Richmond?" Consenting at last to let him lead her from the yard, she stared at him. "Why there?" He looked down into her eyes. "So I can have you to myself."
He did, throughout a glorious day filled with simple pleasures, simple delights. They went first to the Star and Garter on the hill, to partake of a light luncheon. Settling her skirts at a table for two by a window overlooking the parklands, Flick noted that the other diners were definitely noticing them. She raised a brow at Demon. "Shouldn't we have some sort of chaperon for this type of outing?" Her tone was merely curious, certainly not complaining.
He met her gaze, then reached into his pocket. "I took this to the Gazette—it'll be run tomorrow." He handed her a slip of paper. "I didn't think you'd object."
Flick smoothed out the slip, read the words upon it, then smiled. "No—of course not." Refolding it, she handed the paper back—it contained a brief statement of their engagement. "So does that mean we can go about alone without trampling on society's toes?"
"Yes, thank heaven." After a moment, he amended, "Well, within reason."
Reason included a long ramble in the park, under the huge oaks and beeches. They fed the deer, then, hands locked, ambled on through the sunshine. They walked and talked—not of Dillon and the syndicate, or society—but of their plans, their hopes, their aspirations for the shared life before
them. They laughed and teased—and shared brief, stolen, tantalizing kisses, screened by the trees. Those kisses left them trembling, suddenly too aware; in unstated accord, they turned back to the carriage and their talk turned to their wedding, and when it was to be.
As soon as possible was their unanimous decision.
As Demon had expected, his mother was waiting when they returned to Berkeley Square.
"Her ladyship is in the upstairs parlor," Highthorpe intoned. "She wished to see you immediately you returned, sir."
"Thank you, Highthorpe." Still smiling, Demon ignored Flick's questioning look; taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.
Reaching Horatia's private parlor, he knocked, then opened the door and sauntered through, towing Flick behind him.
Horatia, head already raised, fixed him with a look so severe—so filled with menacing portent—he should have been struck to stone.
Demon grinned. "How long does it take to arrange a wedding?"
The next afternoon, Flick went for a drive in the park with Horatia and Helena. The notice of her engagement to Demon had appeared that morning; Horatia was in alt. Indeed, she'd been so happy and excited on their behalf last night that they'd cancelled their evening's plans and dined unfashionably en famille so they could discuss their impending nuptials. As Demon's only stipulation was that it had to be soon, and she had nothing more to add, Horatia was beside herself with plans.
Naturally, Helena had been immediately informed—she'd appeared in Berkeley Square for breakfast, ready to join in the fun. She was presently seated in the carriage beside Horatia; both were regally dispensing information to the senior matrons of the ton, all of whom made a point of stopping by the carriage to comment, and compliment, and graciously bestow their approval.
Flick sat back, endeavored to look pretty, and smilingly accepted the ladies' good wishes. According to Helena and Horatia, that was all she was required to do.
Thus mildly occupied, Flick scanned the scene and wondered if Demon would appear. She doubted it—he didn't seem enamored of this facet of the ton. Indeed, she'd got the distinct impression that as soon as they were wed, he intended to whisk her back to Newmarket, to his farmhouse, and keep her there for the foreseeable future.
That plan met with her complete approval.
Lips quirking, she glanced at the carriageway, at the high-perch phaeton bowling smoothly toward them along the Avenue. The horses caught her eye; she viewed the high-stepping blacks with educated appreciation, then glanced at the carriage—spanking new, black picked out with gold—not showy but exceedingly elegant.
Idly wondering, she lifted her gaze to the gentleman holding the reins, but she didn't know him. He was older than Demon, brown hair curling tightly above a face that was startling in its cold handsomeness. His features were classical—a wide brow and patrician nose set between thin cheeks; his skin was very white. His eyes were cold under their heavy lids; his thin mouth was unsmiling. Overall, his expression was of overweening arrogance, as if even those blue bloods lining the Avenue were beneath his notice.
Flick mentally raised her brows as the equipage swept past; she was about to look away when her gaze touched the liveried groom up behind. Bletchley!
Flick turned to Horatia. "Who is that gentleman—the one who just drove past?"
Horatia looked. "Sir Percival Stratton." She waved dismissively. "Very definitely not one of our circle." She returned to Lady Hastings.
Flick smiled at her ladyship, but behind her demure facade, her mind raced. Sir Percival Stratton—she remembered the name. It took her a moment to recall from where—an invitation sent to Vane Cynster's house, redirected to his parents as Vane and Patience were still in Kent.
Sir Percival was giving a masquerade that evening.
Flick could barely contain her impatience. The instant she and her two soon-to-be relatives regained the Cynster front hall, she excused herself and quickly climbed the stairs—then rushed to reach the parlor ahead of Horatia and Helena. Quickly shutting the door, she raced to the mantelpiece and rifled through the pile of cards set on its end. She'd been helping Horatia answer the invitations; she'd seen Sir Percival's while sorting the cards one morning, and put it with the others for Vane and Patience. Finding it, she tucked it into the folds of her shawl, then sank down on a chair as the door opened and Helena and Horatia swept in. Flick smiled. "I thought, after all, that I might join you for tea."
She did, then excused herself, saying she would rest. Helena would soon leave, then Horatia would rest, too. They all had a full evening of engagements—a dinner and two balls.
That gave her a few hours in which to think what to do.
On the window seat in her bedchamber, she studied the heavy white card, inscribed with bold, black lettering. The invitation was addressed to Mr. Cynster, not Mr. and Mrs. Cynster; Sir Percival must not have realized that Vane had married. Sir Percival's masquerade was to commence at eight o'clock.
Unfortunately, it was to be held at Stratton Hall, at Twickenham.
Twickenham was beyond Richmond, which meant it would take hours to get there.
Jaw firming, Flick jumped up, crossed to the bellpull, and sent a footman in search of Demon. The footman returned, not with Demon but Gillies. He joined Flick in the back parlor. "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."
Flick didn't even attempt a smile. Luckily, Stratton's attention was claimed by some other lady; Flick seized the moment and slipped away.
The swelling crowd was growing restive. Flick plunged into it, purposefully crossing the room, leaving Stratton before the windows. In addition to the main ballroom door, there were three other doors leading into the house. Guests were arriving via the main door; thus far, she'd seen only footmen using the other doors. The masquerade was getting underway—while the noise exceeded that of the usual ton ball, it had yet to reach raucous.
Flick halted midway down the inner wall, with the fountain and its surrounding melee directly between herself and Stratton. He was reasonably tall—she could see him. She hoped he couldn't see her. From where she stood, she could keep watch on the doors leading into the house—if any meeting was to be held, she doubted it would be convened in the increasingly crowded ballroom.
Until Demon joined her, watching for any sign of a suspicious fathering was the best she could do. Her heart slowing, she relieved the urge to scrub at where Stratton had touched her chin. Settling against the wall, she kept a wary eye on him.
The gathering before her grew increasingly licentious—the guests might be wealthy and well-born, but she was quick to see why masquerades no longer found favor with the grandes dames. Even after spending two nights in Demon's arms, some of what she saw still shocked her. Luckily, there were rules of some sort. Despite the way some other ladies were behaving, letting gentlemen freely grope beneath their dominos, all the gentlemen present were gentlemen—those who paused to speak with her as she stood quietly by the wall treated her with courtesy, albeit, like Stratton, with a certain predatory intent.
She recognized that intent well enough, but most moved on once she made it clear she was in immediate expectation of being joined by her particular gentleman.
Unfortunately, there were exceptions to every rule.
"I say—your gentleman not here yet?" One predatory rogue lounged close. "Just realized you're still waiting—a pity to waste time, such a pretty little thing like you."
He reached out and flicked a feather on her mask; Flick swayed back, her frown concealed by the mask.
"Indeed." The rogue's friend appeared on her other side, his gaze trailing speculatively down her length. "What say we retire to one of the rooms along the hall, and you can show me and my friend here just how pretty you are, hmm?" He looked up, cool eyes searching hers. "You can always come back and meet your gentleman later."
He moved closer, as did the first rogue, crowding her between them. "I don't think my particular gentleman would like that," Flick stated.
"We weren't suggesting you tell him, sweetheart," the first all but whispered in her ear.
Flick turned her head to him, then had to turn the other way as his friend did the same thing.
"We wouldn't want to cause any ructions—just a friendly bit of slap and tickle to keep my friend and me going until the orgy starts."
Orgy! Flick's jaw dropped.
"That's it—just think of it as a case of mutual tummy-rubbing. Here we are, with our peckers twitching but the action some way off—"
"And here you are, a plump little, pigeon just waiting to be plucked, but with your chosen plucker not yet in sight."
"Right—a bit of hot fumbling and a few good pokes would ease things all around. What do you say?"
They both leaned closer, voices low, increasingly hoarse as they whispered, in quick fire exchanges, a
stream of suggestive suggestions directly into Flick's ears.
Behind her mask, her eyes grew rounder, and rounder. Toes? Tongues? Rods…
Flick had had enough. First Stratton, now these two. They'd pressed close; jerking both elbows outward, she jabbed them in the ribs. They fell back gasping—she whirled on them. "I have never met with such arrogant presumption in my life! You should be ashamed of yourselves—propositioning a lady in such terms! And without the slightest invitation! Just think
how horrified your poor mamas would be if they ever heard you speaking like that." They stared at her as if she'd gone mad; Flick glared, then hissed, "And as for your twitching appendages, I suggest you take them for a long walk in the rain—that should cure them of their indisposition!"
She glared one last time, then swung on her heel— And collided with another male.
Hers. His arms closed about her before she bounced off. Clutching his domino, she looked up into his masked face. For a moment, his gaze remained levelled over her head, then he glanced down.
Flick frowned. "How did you recognize me?"
She was the only woman there with hair like spun gold and she drew his senses like a lodestone. Demon narrowed his eyes. "What in heaven possessed you—"
"Ssh!" Her eyes darted about. "Here—kiss me." Stretching on her toes, she did the honors. As their lips parted, she whispered, "This appears to be a bacchanal-by-another-name—we have to do our best to fit in." Sliding her arms beneath his domino, she sank against him.
Demon gritted his teeth and backed her into the space she'd recently vacated.
"Those two gentlemen who were talking to me—you'll never guess what—" She broke off. "Where did they go?"
"They suddenly remembered pressing engagements elsewhere." "Oh?"
She shot him a glance. Demon ignored it, and her distraction. "What I want to know is why you thought fit—" He broke off on a hiss, sucking in a breath as she twined her arms about his neck and shifted her hips against him.
He stared blankly down at her—she smiled, and laid her head on his chest. "I found Bletchley. He's Sir Percival's groom."
He studied her eyes, lit with anticipation, with expectant excitement, and inwardly sighed. "So your note said." Gathering her more comfortably into his arms, he shifted so he could view the room. "I suppose you've decided the syndicate will meet tonight."
"It's the perfect occasion."
He could hardly disagree—looking over the sea of heads, he noted the spontaneous distractions arising here and there in the crowd. "Those attending wouldn't even risk being recognized." He looked down and met her gaze. "Let's take a look around—Stratton's occasions are always open house." Aside from anything else, he wanted her away from the center of activity, although, as things went, Sir
Percival's masquerade had a long way yet to go.
Boldly curving a palm about her bottom, he steered her toward the nearest door. Glancing down, he met her shocked glance, and raised a far from innocent brow. "We have to do our best to fit in."
He flexed his fingers—behind her mask, her eyes flared, then a dangerous glint entered the soft blue. Before he could stop her, she swayed close, slipped one slim hand through the opening of his domino and stroked, tantalizingly, up his length.
Sucking in a breath, he froze; she chuckled wickedly. Catching his hand, she swung to the door. "Come along." The look she threw him as she led him out would have convinced the most suspicious observer that her fell aim was entirely in keeping with Sir Percival's masquerade.
Drawing a steadying breath, Demon went along with her charade while considering a few elaborations to her scheme. Once in the corridor, he drew her closer, settling her within his arm, his hand returning to its former, stridently possessive position. Any others coming upon them in the dimly lit corridors would simply see two revellers searching for a quiet nook.
Many others were doing the same. Pausing before every door, Demon urged Flick to kiss him, then opened the door and half stumbled in, scanning the room without releasing her, mumbling an incoherent apology and swinging straight back out again if it was already occupied. All the downstairs rooms were, some hosting groups; despite his best efforts, it was impossible to completely screen Flick from the frolics in progress. At first, she stiffened with shock—by the time they'd covered all the downstairs rooms, her reaction had changed to one of curiosity.
A fact he tried not to think about. Some of what she was seeing she was definitely not up to. Yet.
"No meetings," Flick murmured as they turned back to the front hall. "Couldn't we just watch Stratton, then follow when he leaves the ballroom?"
"That might not help us. Remember what I said about Bletchley's employer not necessarily being one of the syndicate?"
Flick frowned. "Stratton's phaeton is brand new—his horses would have done you credit."
"Maybe so, but while Stratton's a deuced cold fish, he's also exceedingly wealthy." Demon gestured to their surroundings. "He inherited a massive fortune."
Flick grimaced. "He seemed such a promising candidate."
"Yes, well—" Reaching the hall, Demon turned her up the stairs. "I think we should check all the rooms."
Other couples, flushed and subtly dishevelled, laughing breathlessly, were descending the stairs as they went up. Demon drew Flick suggestively close as they climbed—with her one step ahead of him, their bodies slid against each other as they ascended.
They reached the gallery. Flick paused and whispered breathlessly, "Shouldn't we be checking outside? If it's not Stratton but some of his guests come to meet with Bletchley, wouldn't they use the garden?"
"It's raining—it started as I arrived. I think we can assume no meeting had taken place earlier. Now, it'll have to be held indoors—in some area open to the guests."
They continued their search. Some of the bedrooms and suites were occupied, others were empty. While
they stumbled upon meetings aplenty, none were of the type they sought. Flick's shoulders had slumped long before they reached the last door at the end of the last corridor.
Demon tested the handle, then carefully turned it fully and tried the door. "It's locked." He started to turn back; Flick stood in the way, frowning at the locked door.
"Why locked?" She glanced back up the corridor. "His bedroom wasn't locked." She looked at the door behind which two couples were engaged in an energetic romp on Stratton's huge bed. "Nor was his dressing room or study." She nodded at each of those doors, then turned to stare at the last door. "Why would he lock this room and not any other in the house?"
Demon looked at her face, at her stubbornly set chin, and sighed. Placing his ear to the panel, he listened, then glanced down at the bottom of the door; no telltale strip of light showed. "There's no one in there."
"Let's look," Flick urged. "Can you unlock it?"
Demon considered reiterating that Stratton was not a good candidate for race-fixer, but her sudden excitement was infectious. He drew out the small tool he carried everywhere—a multi-pronged pick and knife useful for destoning horses' hooves. In less than a minute, he had the door open. The room within was empty; standing back, he let Flick in. Glancing back up the corridor, he confirmed it was empty, then shut the door behind them.
A warm glow suffused the room. Flick adjusted the wick on a lamp set on a wide desk, then reset the glass. They both looked around.
"An office." Demon glanced at ledgers and books of accounts filling one bookshelf. It wasn't a large room. A padded leather chair stood behind the desk; a wooden chair faced it. One wall was filled with windows looking out over the river—they presently displayed a landscape of driving rain and thick grey clouds backlit by sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled, drawing nearer.
"Half a library, too." Flick considered the wall of bookshelves opposite the windows. "I wonder why he keeps them up here. The library was barely half full."
Demon turned from the elemental rage outside and sauntered to the shelves. Scanning the titles, he found familiar volumes on various games of chance, and a few not so familiar on card-sharping techniques and ways of weighting the odds in some forms of wagering. Frowning, he looked more closely, eventually hunkering down to read the titles of the volumes on the lowest shelf. "Interesting."
His voice had changed—he read the titles again, then rose and turned to the desk, his frame radiating purpose.
Flick looked at him questioningly. He met her gaze as he joined her behind the desk, shrugging off his domino, slipping off his mask.
"Those"—with his head he indicated the bottom shelf of books—"are the full race records for the past two years."
Flick blinked. "The full records?"
Demon nodded and pulled open the top desk drawer. "Not something one finds in your usual library. I
don't even have a set."
"How?…" Without finishing her question, Flick drew out the top drawer on her side of the desk.
"A set went missing last year—never to be found. But he's also added the most recent volumes—those from last season."
"A most useful tool for fixing races."
"Indeed. Look for anything that even mentions horses."
They were the ideal team for the task—they both knew the names of all recent winners, as well as those expected to win in the upcoming season. They sifted through every drawer, examined every single piece of paper.
"Nothing." Blowing an errant curl from her forehead, Flick turned and sat on the desk.
Grimacing, Demon dropped into the padded chair. Without enthusiasm, he lifted the last item from the bottom drawer, a leather-bound ledger. Propping it on the desk, he opened it and scanned the entries. After a moment, he snorted. "That phaeton is new, and he paid a pretty penny for it. As for the horses, he definitely paid too much."
"Anything else?"
"Caviar's gone up two pounds an ounce in the last year—his account-keeping habits are as stultifyingly rigid as he is. He enters every single transaction—even the lost wagers he's paid."
Studying the grim set of his face, Flick grimaced. "No entries under race-fixing, I take it?"
Demon started to shake his head, but he froze as one particular figure danced before his eyes. Slowly straightening, he flicked back a page, then another…
"What is it?"
"Remind me we owe Montague an enormous bonus." If it hadn't been for the agent's accuracy, he'd never have seen it. "Those amounts we were looking for—the sums cleared from each fixed race?"
"Yes?"
"They show up here. According to this, they're his main source of income." "I thought you said he was rich."
Flicking back through the ledger, Demon bit back a curse. "He was—he must have lost it." He tapped an entry. "His income from the Funds was miniscule last year, then it ends. There've been huge debts paid—Hazard, at a guess." He looked up. "He never went to the wall—no one realized he'd been rolled up because he substituted income from race-fixing to cover his lost investment income. He's always been a lavish spender—nothing appeared to have changed. He simply carried on as he always had."
"Except he corrupted and blackmailed Dillon, and jockeys, and goodness knows what happened to Ickley."
"Or any others." Demon studied the ledger. "This is too wieldy to smuggle out." He flicked through the pages, then laid the book on the desk and ripped out five pages.
"Will that do?"
"I think so—they show the amounts from three fixed races going in, and five major purchases that
can be traced to Stratton, as well as four very large debts paid to members of the ton who I'm sure will verify from whom they received those sums. On top of that, his writing's distinctive." He scanned the pages, then folded them and stowed them in the inner pocket of his coat. He returned the ledger to the bottom drawer. "We'll take the pages to Newmarket tomorrow—with any luck, he won't notice they're missing."
He shut the drawer and looked at Flick.
A board creaked in the corridor—footsteps paused, some way away—then quickly, purposefully, strode toward the office.
Chapter 22
« ^ »
What occurred next happened so quickly that to Flick it was just a blur. Demon stood, shifted her to the desk's center, her back to the door, yanked the neck ties of her domino free, and flung the garment off so it pooled about her. He tugged—a button on her bodice popped, then he hauled her gown and chemise down, dragging her sleeves down her arms, fully exposing her shoulders and breasts.
"Free your arms—lean back on them."
His words were a sibilant hiss—instinctively, she obeyed. He sat before her, throwing her skirts up, pushing her knees wide.
The door opened. He clamped his mouth over one nipple; Flick gasped—his mouth was hot!
He licked, and suckled, and slid his hand between her thighs, slid his long fingers into her soft flesh, stroking, then probing…
Flick moaned; her arms locked. She let her head roll back, helplessly arching as he suckled and probed simultaneously.
Then he lifted his head, looking beyond her. She forced her lids up—in the glow from the lamp bathing her bare breasts, sheening the skin showing above her garters, his eyes were glazed, dazed, as he blinked at the door.
"Problem, Stratton?"
Flick didn't look around—Demon's fingers were still playing teasingly between her thighs. It wasn't hard to imagine the tableau their host was seeing as he stood in the doorway. From her quivering back it must be clear she was bare to the waist, and that, with her skirts rucked up so, she must, to Demon, be exposed below as well. The only thing she was still truly wearing was her feathered mask. ,
She could barely breathe, all too conscious of the slick wetness Demon's long fingers were reveling in. Her heart thudded in her throat; excitement sizzled in her veins.
Sir Percival's hesitation was palpable. In the stillness, she heard the rain pelting the windows, heard her own ragged breathing. Then he shifted, and drawled, "No, no. Do carry on."
The door clicked softly shut; Flick hauled in a relieved breath—and promptly lost it as Demon's mouth closed over her nipple again. He suckled strongly—she barely restrained her shriek.
"Demon?" Her voice shook. He suckled more fiercely. "Harry!"
Two fingers slid deep, probing evocatively.
She arched—on a long, shuddering gasp, she managed, "Here?" "Hmm." He stood, easing her back to lie across the desk.
"But…" Flat on her back, she licked her dry lips. "Stratton might come back."
"All the more reason," he whispered, leaning over her, cupping her breasts as he kissed her. She parted her lips and he surged within; he kneaded her aching flesh, fingers tightening momentarily about her ruched nipples before his hands drifted away.
Clinging to her senses, her tongue sliding about his, she felt him unbutton his trousers, then his hands closed about her hips, anchoring her as he stepped closer, between her widespread thighs. She felt the pressure as his rigid flesh parted her swollen folds, then found her entrance.
"All the more convincing," he purred against her lips. Straightening, he looked down at her, the wicked curve to his lips elementally male.
Dazed, she stared up at him. "Stratton might be dangerous!"
Curtailing his perusal of her quivering body held taut between his hands, he met her gaze and lifted a brow. "Adds a certain recklessness to the situation, don't you think?"
Think? She couldn't think.
He grinned. "Don't tell me you're not game?"
"Game?" She could barely gasp the word. With him poised just inside her, she was frantic. One step away from spontaneous combustion. But game? Lips and chin firming, she dragged in a breath, lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips. "Don't be ridiculous."
She pulled him to her—then gasped, arched—frantically gripped his forearms as he pushed steadily, inexorably, all the way in until he filled her.
That sense of incredible fullness was still new, still startling. She caught her breath and clamped down, feeling him hot and hard, buried deep within her. His lids fell, his jaw locked, then, fingers tightening about her hips, he eased back, then surged anew.
As usual, he was in no hurry—he teased her, tormented her—tortured her. Held before him, virtually naked but for her mask, she squirmed, panted, moaned, then screamed as the world fell away and she was consumed by glory. The storm beyond the windows swallowed her wild cries as he flicked a sensual whip and drove her on, into a landscape of illicit delight, of pleasures honed to excruciating sharpness by the very real presence of danger.
His hands roamed, hard and demanding; she writhed and begged, wanton in her pleading.
And when she came apart for the last time, senses fragmenting beneath his onslaught, he followed swiftly, joining her in that delicious void—only, too quickly, to draw her back. He drew away from her;
chest still heaving, he straightened his clothes, then hers.
Struggling to coordinate her wits, let alone her limbs, she helped as best she could. If they didn't reappear in the ballroom soon, Stratton would notice—and start to wonder.
They returned downstairs, Demon holding her close against him. They reentered the ballroom, but didn't go far—propping his shoulders against the wall, Demon cradled her against him, her cheek against his chest, then bent his head and kissed her. Soothingly, calmingly.
Distractingly. Despite that, as her senses returned, Flick heard catcalls, whistles, suggestions called out—clearly to some exhibition at the room's center. From the associated sounds, and some of the suggestions, it wasn't hard to imagine what that exhibition entailed. With Demon's arms around her, she couldn't see—she didn't try to look.
After fifteen or so minutes, when their hearts had slowed to their normal pace, Demon glanced around the room, then looked down at her. "We've been seen and duly noted," he murmured. "Now we can leave."
They did in short order, their bodies still thrumming, their spirits soaring, the evidence they'd sought for weeks at long last in their possession.
Demon called in Berkeley Square at eight the next morning; Flick was waiting in the front hall, her packed bags at her feet, a glorious smile on her face. Within minutes, they were away, the bays pacing swiftly, Gillies up behind.
"You were right about your mother stopping her scolding when I told her we'd rely on her and Helena to make all the wedding arrangements."
Demon snorted. "That was a foregone conclusion—she could hardly scold while in alt. It's her dream come true—to organize a wedding."
"I'm only glad, after all her worrying, that we could leave her so happy." Demon merely snorted—distinctly unfilially—again.
Two minutes later, in a quiet street, he drew in to the curb, tossed the reins to Gillies, and jumped down. Flick looked around. "What?…
Demon impatiently waved her to him; she shuffled along the seat and he lifted her down. "I want to show you something." Taking her hand, he led her up the steps of the nearest house—a gentleman's residence with a portico held aloft by two columns. In the portico, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, selected one, opened the front door, and pushed it wide. With an elegant bow, he waved her in, merely lifting his brows at her questioning look.
Wondering, Flick entered a pleasant rectangular hall—from the echoes and absence of furniture it was apparent the house stood empty. Pausing in the middle of the hall, she turned and raised her brows.
Demon waved her on. "Look around."
She did, starting with the reception rooms opening from the front hall, then on up the stairs, going faster and faster as excitement gripped her. The pleasant, welcoming aura that hung in the hall recurred throughout the rooms, all airy and gracious, the morning sun streaming in through large windows. The master bedroom was large, the other bedrooms more than adequate; she eventually reached the nursery, under the eaves.
"Oh! This is wonderful!" She darted down the corridor that led to the small bedrooms, then crossed to peek into the nanny's domain. Then, her heart swelling so much she thought it would burst, she turned and looked at Demon, lounging, all rakish elegance, in the doorway, watching her. She met his gaze, smiling but watchful.
He studied her face, then raised one brow. "Do you like it?"
Flick let her heart fill her eyes; her smile was ecstatic. "It's wonderful—perfect!" Reining in her excitement, she asked, "How much is it? Could we possibly?…"
His slow smile warmed her. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he held up the keys. "It's ours—we'll live here while in town."
"Oh!" Flick flew at him, hugged him wildly, kissed him soundly—then raced off again. She didn't need further explanation—this would be their home—this the nursery they would fill with their children. After the last weeks, she knew family was a vital part of him, the central concept around which he was focused. Even if he didn't know it, she did—this, from him, was the ultimate declaration—she needed no further vows. This—the home, the family—would be theirs.
Demon grinned and watched her. He still found her joy deeply refreshing, her open delight infectious. As he trailed her once more through the house, he wryly admitted he could now understand why so many generations of his forebears had found pleasure in indulging their wives.
That had been an abiding mystery before—it no longer was. He—Demon by name, demon by nature—had been vanquished by an angel. He no longer viewed her as innocent and youthful in the sense of being less able than he. After last night, he knew she could match him in any venture, any challenge. She was the wife for him.
And so here he was, trailing in her wake. She led—he followed, with his hand oh-so-lightly on her reins. What he'd found with her he'd found with no other—she was his and he was hers, and that was how it had to be. It was that simple. This was love—he was long past denying it.
Regaining the drawing room, she stopped at its center. "We'll have to shop for furniture."
Demon quelled a shudder. He followed her in, slid one arm around her waist, drew her against him, paused for one instant to watch the sudden flaring of awareness in her eyes, then kissed her.
She sank into his embrace; he tightened it about her. The kiss deepened—and they said all they needed with their lips, their bodies, their hearts. For one long moment, they clung, then he lifted his head.
The evidence he carried in his pocket crackled.
His chest swelled as he drew in a breath; she looked up—he met her eyes. "Let's take these to Newmarket." So they could get on with the rest of their lives.
She nodded briskly. They disengaged, straightened their clothes, then hurried out to the curricle.
By ten o'clock, they were bowling northward, the enclosed spaces of London far behind. Joyfully, Flick breathed deep, then turned her face to the sun. "We'll have to go to Hillgate End first—to tell the General and Dillon."
"I'll drive to the farm. We can leave your things there for the moment, ride to the cottage and collect Dillon, ride on to the manor and tell the General, then go straight on to the Jockey Club. I want to get that
information before the Committee as soon as possible." His face hardened; he reached for the whip.
Flick wondered if his grim urgency stemmed from concern for the industry he'd so long been a part of, or from the nebulous feeling that they hadn't, yet, defeated Stratton. That feeling hadn't left her since Stratton had walked in on them last night—like a specter, it hovered at her shoulder, growing blacker, weightier. As they rounded a curve, she looked back, but there was no one there.
They drove through Newmarket in the early afternoon and headed straight for the farm. While Demon organized their horses, Flick hurried upstairs and changed into her riding habit. In less than half an hour, they were riding into the clearing behind the ruined cottage.
"It's us, Dillon," Flick called as she slid from the saddle. "Me and Demon. We're back!"
Her excitement rang in her voice. Dillon appeared through the lean-to, struggling to contain the hope lightening his haggard features.
One glance was enough to tell Demon that Dillon had changed—somewhere, somehow, he'd found some backbone. He said nothing, however, but joined Flick as she headed for the cottage.
Even before she reached him, Dillon stiffened. Demon had never seen him stand so tall, so determined. Fists clenched at his sides, he met Flick's gaze directly. "I've been to see the General."
She blinked and stopped before him. "You have?"
"I told him all about it—the whole story—so you don't need to lie for me—cover up for me—any more. I should have done that at the start."
He looked Demon straight in the eyes. "Papa and I decided to wait until tomorrow in case you found anything, but we'll be going to see the Committee regardless."
Demon met his eyes and nodded, his approval sincere.
"But we have found something." Flick gripped Dillon's arm. "We've learned who the syndicate is and we've enough proof to show the Committee!"
One hand at her back, Demon urged her in. "Let's take our revelations indoors."
Neither Dillon nor Flick argued. If they had, Demon couldn't have explained who he thought might overhear. But he was edgy, and had been since he'd looked into Stratton's cold eyes the previous evening.
That Stratton had noticed them the instant they'd regained the ballroom had him worried. Stratton was known as cold and detached—he might well prove a formidable enemy. If there had been any way to safely leave Flick somewhere well out of the action, he'd have snatched the opportunity. But there wasn't. That being so, the safest place for her was with him.
In the cottage, Dillon faced them. "I've written a detailed account of my involvement, first to last—just the bare facts." He looked grim. "It's hardly pleasant reading, but at least it's honest."
Flick smiled. Her inner happiness radiated from her, all but lighting up the cottage. She laid a hand on Dillon's arm. "We've proof of the syndicate."
Dillon looked at her, then at Demon; his expression said he hardly dared hope. "Who are they?"
"Not they—that was our error. It's a syndicate of one." Briefly, Demon explained. "I have to hand
it to him—his execution was almost flawless. Only his greed—the fact he fixed too many races—brought the scheme to light. If he'd been content with the money from one or two major races a year…" He shrugged. "But Stratton's lifestyle calls for rather more blunt than that."
Reaching into his pocket, Demon drew out their evidence. "This was the key." He smoothed out a sheet on the table. Flick hadn't seen it before; together with Dillon, she crowded close.
"I gathered all the details I could about the betting on the fixed races, and my agent, Montague, worked out the amounts cleared from each one. He's a wizard. If he hadn't got it right—very close to exact—I would never have recognized the figures in Stratton's ledger."
Unfolding the sheets he'd torn from Stratton's account book, Demon laid them alongside Montague's sheet. "See?" Tapping various figures in Stratton's income column, he pointed to similar figures on the other sheet. "The dates match, too." Both Dillon and Flick glanced from one sheet to the others, nodding as they took it in.
"Can we prove these are Stratton's accounts?" Dillon looked up.
Demon pointed to certain entries in the expenditure column. "These purchases of a phaeton, and here the pair to go with it—and even more these—lost wagers paid to gentlemen of the ton—can be proved to have been Stratton. With virtually the exact money from the races listed as income on the same pages, it's hard to argue any case other than it was Stratton behind the race-fixing. These"—he gestured to the papers—"are all the evidence we need."
Heeeee—crash!
With a tearing scream, the main door flew in, kicked off its rusting hinges to slam down on the floor. The whole cottage shook. Demon grabbed Flick as they backed up, eyes watering, coughing as dust reared and washed over them.
"How exceedingly foolish of you."
The words, clipped, precise and totally devoid of all feeling, came from the man silhouetted in the doorway.
The bright sunlight outside haloed him; they couldn't see his features. Flick and Demon recognized him instantly.
Eyes on the long barrelled pistol in Stratton's right hand, Demon tried to push Flick behind him. Unfortunately, they'd backed up against the hearth with its low chimney coping.
"Just remain where you are." Stratton stepped over the threshold. He barely glanced at the papers lying scattered on the table, evidence enough to put him in Newgate, a long way from the luxury to which he was accustomed.
Demon tensed, praying Stratton would look at the papers—take his eye off him just for an instant…
Stratton hesitated, but didn't. "You've been far too clever. Much too clever for your own good. If I didn't have such a suspicious nature, you might even have succeeded, but I checked my ledger at four o'clock this morning. By six, I was on the road to Newmarket. I knew you wouldn't dally. It was just a matter of time before you appeared."
"And if we'd gone directly to the Jockey Club?"
"That," Stratton admitted, "would have been exceedingly messy. Luckily, you drove straight through. It was easy to follow you on horseback. Equally easy to guess that, if I was patient, you'd lead me to the one player still eluding me." He inclined his head toward Dillon, but the pistol, aimed directly at Flick's chest, didn't waver. He studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Such a pity, but after that little exposition, I fear I'll have to make away with you all."
"And how," Demon asked, "do you imagine explaining that?" Stratton raised a brow. "Explaining? Why should I explain anything?"
"Others know I've been investigating you in connection with the race-fixing."
"Do they now?" Stratton remained very still, his eyes steady on Demon's face, his aim never faltering from Flick's chest. Then his thin lips eased. "How unfortunate—for Bletchley."
Stratton's jaw set. He lifted his arm, straightening it, aiming the pistol at Demon— Flick screamed.
She flung herself at Demon, clinging to his chest, shoving him back against the chimney. Stratton's eyes widened—his finger had already tightened about the trigger.
Dillon stepped across Flick—the pistol discharged. The explosion echoed deafeningly between the cottage walls.
Demon and Flick froze, locked together before the chimney. Demon had frenziedly tried to wrestle Flick to the side, knowing he'd be too late—
They both continued to breathe, each searingly conscious the other was still alive. They turned their heads and looked—
Dillon slowly crumpled to the floor. "Damn!" Stratton dropped the pistol.
Demon released Flick. She dropped to the floor beside Dillon. His face a mask of vengeance, Demon went for Stratton and nearly fell as his boots tangled in Flick's skirts. He grabbed the table to steady himself and saw Stratton pull another, smaller pistol from his greatcoat pocket, saw him aim at him—
"Here! Wait a minute!" Ducking through the lean-to, Bletchley lumbered in. "What's this about things being unfortunate for me?"
Belligerent as a bull, he made straight for Stratton.
Without a blink, Stratton swung his arm farther and shot Bletchley. Demon vaulted the table.
Stratton swung to face him, raising his riding quirt—
Demon's right cross snapped his head back with a satisfying scrunch. He followed up with a left, but Stratton was already on his way down. His head hit the flags with a thud. After one glance at Bletchley's slumped form, Demon leaned over Stratton.
He was unconscious, his aristocratic jaw at an odd, very painful-looking angle. Demon considered, but restrained himself from rearranging any more of his features. Wrecking Stratton's cravat without the slightest compunction, he dumped him on his face, hauled his arms back, secured them, then tied them to his ankles. Satisfied Stratton was no longer a threat, Demon glanced over the table. Flick was staunching a wound on Dillon's shoulder.
Turning to Bletchley, Demon eased him onto his back. Stratton had been rushed, his aim fractionally off. Bletchley would live, hopefully to sing of his master's infamy. Right now, all he could do was moan.
Demon left him to it—he wasn't bleeding badly enough to be in any real danger. From what little he'd glimpsed, Dillon was.
Rounding the table, Demon joined Flick, on her knees beside Dillon. She'd eased him onto his back. Her face white as a sheet, she struggled to contain her trembling as she pressed her wadded petticoat down hard on his wound. Demon glanced at her face, then looked at Dillon. "Ease back—let me see the wound."
Relaxing her arms, she leaned back. Demon lifted the wad and quickly looked, then replaced it. His face easing, he looked at Flick as she reapplied pressure to the wound.
"It's bad, but he'll live."
Blank-faced, she looked at him. Demon put his arm around her shoulders and hugged. "Stratton was aiming for me. Dillon's shorter than I am—the ball's in his shoulder; it hasn't even touched his lung. He'll be all right once we get the doctor to him."
She searched his eyes; some of the cold blankness left her face. She looked down at Dillon. "He's been such a fool, but I don't want to lose him—not now."
Demon hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss into her curls. He wasn't all that calm himself, but he knew what she meant. If Dillon hadn't come good at the last—hadn't become man enough to, for once, shield Flick rather than expecting the reverse, Flick would have died.
His arm still about her, his cheek against her golden curls, Demon closed his eyes tight and again told himself—the being who dwelled deep inside—that it really was all right, that Flick was still with him, that he hadn't lost his angel so soon after finding her. Flick was a lot shorter than he was—if Dillon hadn't shielded her, Stratton's bullet would have hit her in the back of her beautiful head.
He really couldn't think of it—not without coming apart—so he pushed the image away, locked it deep inside. Lifting his head, he looked down at Dillon, to whom he now owed more than his life. Flick was still staunching the flow of blood, but it seemed to be easing. Demon considered, then looked into her face. She was still pale, but composed.
Part of him wanted to shake her—to swear and rant at her for throwing herself across him; the saner part realized there really was no point. She would simply set her little chin and get that stubborn look on her face and refuse to pay the slightest attention. And she'd do it again in a blink.
The realization only made him want to hug her, hold her tight, keep her forever safe in his arms.
Drawing a deep breath, he reached out and gently tugged her hands from the bloody pad. "Come." She turned to him; he met her gaze. "Leave that to me—you're going to have to ride for help."
Sorting it out took the rest of the day. Flick rode to the farm—Gillies and the Shephards took over from there, summoning the doctor, the magistrate and constable while Flick rode to Hillgate End. She stayed with the General, soothing and reassuring, until the doctor's gig arrived from the cottage with Demon driving and Dillon in the back.
They got Dillon inside—the doctor, a veteran of the Peninsula Wars, had extracted the bullet at the cottage, so Dillon was quickly made comfortable. He was still unconscious—the doctor warned he probably wouldn't wake until the next day. Mrs. Fogarty installed herself at his bedside; the General, after seeing his son still breathing, and hearing from both Flick and Demon of Dillon's bravery, finally consented to retire to the library.
The magistrate and the constable met them there; the members of the Committee, at Newmarket for the Spring Carnival that week, joined them. Tabling Dillon's account, then an explanation of the investigations that had resulted in Montague's estimations, then laying out Stratton's accounts for all to see, Demon led the assembled company through the details of Sir Percival's race-fixing racket.
While Dillon's involvement was frowned upon, in light of the greater crimes involved and his clear repentance, his misdemeanors were set aside, to be dealt with later by the Committee, once he was fully recovered. At present, they had greater fish to fry—the extent of Stratton's manipulation of their industry fired them with fury. They left, faces stiff, vowing to make an example of him. An aim Demon openly supported.
The instant they'd gone, the General slumped. Flick fussed and fretted and worried him into bed; Jacobs assured her he would watch over him. Leaving the General propped on his pillows, Flick paused in the corridor; shutting the General's door behind him, Demon studied her face, then walked to her side and drew her into his arms.
She stood stiffly for an instant, then the iron will and sheer stubbornness that had kept her going until then dissolved. She sank into his arms, sliding hers about him, laying her cheek against his chest.
Then she started to shake.
Demon carried her downstairs and coaxed a small glass of brandy past her lips. Her color improved marginally, but he didn't like the distant look in her eyes. He racked his brain for something with which to distract her.
"Come on." Abruptly standing, he drew her to her feet. "Let's go back to the farmhouse. Your luggage is there, remember? Mrs. Shephard can feed us, then you can look around and decide what changes you'd like to make."
She blinked at him. "Changes?"
He towed her to the door. "Remodelling, redecorating—how should I know?"
They rode back. He watched her every step of the way, but she was steady in her saddle. His staff were very pleased to see them; it instantly became clear Gillies had spread their news. Which was probably just as well, as Demon had every intention of dining alone with his angel.
Mrs. Shephard was on her mettle, laying a nourishing meal quickly before them. Demon was relieved to note Flick's appetite hadn't evaporated. They sat quietly as the evening lengthened, making comments at random, slowly winding down.
Finishing his port, Demon rose, rounded the table, and drew Flick to her feet. "Come—I'll give
you the grand tour." He showed her all around the ground floor, then climbed the stairs; his tour ended in his bedroom, above the parlor at whose window she used to come a-tapping.
Much, much later, Flick lolled, utterly naked, in Demon's big bed. She had, she decided, never felt more comfortable, more at peace, more at home, in her life.
"Come on." A sharp smack on her bottom followed. "We'd better get dressed and I'll drive you home."
Flick didn't look around. She didn't lift her head—she sank it deeper into the pillow and shook it. "You can drive me home early in the morning, can't you?"
Lounging beside her, as naked as she, Demon looked down at her—what he could see of her—the tousled guinea gold curls gilding his pillow, one sweetly rounded shoulder and delicately curved arm, one slender leg, and one firm, absolutely perfect buttock, all clothed in the silkiest ivory skin, presently lightly flushed. All the rest of her—all that he'd enjoyed for the past several hours—was provocatively draped in his satin sheets.
She was going to be a never-ending challenge, demanding all his skill to let her run as free as she wished, with only the very lightest hand on her reins.
A slow smile curved his lips as he reached for the sheet. "Yes—I suppose I can."
Epilogue « ^ April 30, 1820
St. Georges Church, Hanover Square
Everyone attended. The Duke and Duchess of St. Ives sat in the first row, with the Dowager beside them. Vane, of course, was best man; he and Patience had returned to London the week before. Of all the family and its myriad connections, only Richard and Catriona hadn't been able to attend, and that only because of the short notice.
The twins were Flick's bridesmaids, with Heather, Henrietta, Elizabeth, Angelica and little Mary as flower girls. Such a crowd had been needed, Demon had discovered, to manage Flick's long train. But from the instant she'd appeared and walked down the nave to join him, to the moment they were pronounced man and wife, he couldn't recall any detail beyond the sheer beauty of her angelic face.
Now, beside him on the pavement before the ton's favored church, an angel in truth in pearl-encrusted silk, she glowed with transparent joy; he couldn't have felt more proud or more favored by fate. Crowds of well-wishers flocked about them as they paused before their carriage. All the family and much of the ton had turned up to see yet another Cynster tie the knot—they were all about to adjourn to Berkeley Square for the wedding breakfast.
His mother was in tears—positive floods of happiness.
Halting before him, she stretched up to place a motherly kiss on his cheek, then she sniffed, and quavered, "I'm so glad I made you promise not to marry in any hole-and-corner fashion." She dabbed at her overflowing eyes. "You've made me so happy," she sobbed.
Helplessly, he looked at her, then looked at his father.
Who grinned and clapped him on the back. "Play your cards right, and you'll be able to live on this for years."
Demon grinned back, shook his hand, then glanced again at Horatia. Today had been the happiest, proudest day of his life—one he wouldn't have missed for the world. Despite his earlier view of marriage, he was now much wiser. But he wasn't fool enough to tell his mother that—instead, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
Instantly suspicious, she stopped crying and stared at him; his father chuckled and drew her away.
Grinning, Demon turned to have a word with the General and Dillon, standing beside Flick on his other side. Dillon was a far cry from the petulant youth of only a few months ago; now he stood straight and tall, unafraid to meet any man's eye. The Committee had agreed that in reparation for his crime—one against the industry—he would act as a clerk to the Jockey Club, and assist in keeping the breeding register up to date. In his spare time, of his own accord, he'd taken up the task of managing the General's investments, giving his father more time for his research. Seeing them together now, father and son side by side as they chatted with Flick, Demon sensed a closeness, a bond that hadn't been there—or not openly so—before.
Sliding his arm around Flick, he smiled and held out his hand to Dillon.
Above the bustle, lounging against one of the pillars of the church porch, Lucifer looked down on the gathering. In particular, on the twins. "They're going to be much worse after this, you realize. "
"Hmm." Beside him, Gabriel resignedly raised his brows. "I've never understood what it is about weddings that so excites the mating instinct of females."
"Whatever it is, you only need to look at them to see its effect. They look ready to grab anything in breeches."
"Luckily, most of us here are related." "Or, in their view, too old to count."
They continued watching the twins, perfect pictures of delight in cornflower blue gowns the same color as their eyes, their pale ringlets dancing in the breeze. They'd been hovering not far from Flick. Now they pushed forward to hug her frantically as she and Demon prepared to enter the waiting carriage. Flick returned their hugs affectionately—even from the porch, it was easy to discern her reasssuring words: "Your time will come—never doubt it."
To Gabriel and Lucifer, those words held a different ring.
Gabriel quelled an odd shiver. "It's not going to be easy, now it's just you and me." "Devil and Vane will help out."
"When they're allowed to."
Lucifer's dark blue gaze shifted to Honoria and Patience, standing chatting to one side. "There is that. Still, we should be able to manage it—don't you think?"
Gabriel didn't answer, well aware they hadn't been talking solely about the twins.
At that moment, Demon handed Flick into the carriage. A cheer went up from all the onlookers. Demon
turned to acknowledge it—to exchange a round of last comments with Devil and Vane. They laughed, and fell back; Demon reached for the carriage door.
Then he looked up, directly at them—the last unmarried members of the Bar Cynster. A slow, rakish, too-knowing smile lit his face; holding their gazes, he raised a hand and saluted them, paused for one last instant, then turned, ducked and entered the carriage.
Barely hearing the cheers and huzzahs as the carriage rumbled off, Gabriel stood in the porch as if turned to stone. In his mind rang the words Your time will come—never doubt it. Not, this time, in Flick's soft voice, but in Demon's much more forceful tones.
He blinked and shook aside the horrendous thought, then shivered in earnest as a chill touched his spine. Exactly as if someone had walked on his grave.
Disguising his shiver as a wriggle of his shoulders, he resettled his cuffs, then glanced at his brother. "Come on—we'd better do the honors vis-a-vis the twins, before they find some bounder to accompany them instead."
With a nod, Lucifer followed him down the church steps.
In the carriage rocking over the cobbles toward Berkeley Square, Flick was in her husband's arms. "Demon! Be careful!" She tried vainly to right her headdress. "We'll be greeting our guests soon."
"We're ahead of them," Demon pointed out, and kissed her again.
Flick inwardly sighed and forgot about her headdress, forgot about everything as she sank into his embrace. Possessive, protective, passionately loving—he was all she'd ever wanted. She loved him with all her soul. As she kissed him back, she felt the glow her parents had always had infuse her and Demon, enfolding them in its warmth. With this marriage, this man, this husband and lover, she'd seized her parents' legacy—now, they'd make it their own.
Author's Note
Dear Reader,
The Bar Cynster—a group of arrogant Regency rogues-domineering, autocratic, rakish—what more need one say? Writing about them—their lives, their loves and about the wider Cynster family with its strong, willful women—has been a delight. What especially attracted me to write about the Bar Cynsters was what I see as the ultimate strength in strong, arrogant, warrior males—the fact that their very nature compels them to seek their own family to protect and defend. And in order to establish that family, ah well—they need a wife. But Fate, a willful woman herself, has reserved a special destiny for every Cynster: to love and be loved by said wife. To surrender to love—to willingly do so—takes courage, determination, and commitment. As Demon recognizes at the beginning of this book, marrying the lady one loves—being forever at the mercy of a woman who holds one's heart, soul, and future in her small, delicate hands—is a fate baneful enough to make the strongest warrior blanch. Although each of them blanches, and clearly recognizes the danger, every member of the Bar Cynster ultimately makes his fateful choice. First Devil, in Devil's Bride
, then Vane in A Rake's Vow, followed by Richard in Scandal's Bride, and now Demon in A Rogue's Proposal. Each choose love, family, and a lifetime of commitment over all else their wealthy world has to offer.
To me, that willing choice is the very essence of romance in the Regency.
Recording how each Cynster falls has been my privilege, watching as Fate lays her snare for each one. The next in line is Gabriel. He receives a summons from a mysterious countess and meets her in the mists at St. Georges, Hanover Square. Even cloaked and veiled, the lady raises much more than his interest. She wishes to recruit his talents to expose a financial scam. Gabriel agrees, intent on exposing much more than that. But the countess proves a creature of night and shadow. What Gabriel finally reveals when he rips aside her last veil rocks him to his very foundation. That, however, is just the start of his problems.
Read how he and Fate triumph in the next installment in the Bar Cynster series from Avon Books in July 2000.
I hope reading my work brings you as much joy as creating it gives me. A big thank-you to all my readers—your letters, cards and email provide a constant stream of support. I write to entertain you, and hope to do so for many years yet!
First Avon Books Printing: October 1999 Inside cover autor photo Keith Savin
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She undressed slowly, dreamily, and when she was naked, she selected a bright red negligee to wear so that the blood would not show. Doris Whitney looked around the bedroom for the last time to make certain that the pleasant room, grown dear over the past thirty years, was neat and tidy. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and carefully removed the gun. It was shiny black, and terrifyingly cold. She placed it next to the telephone and dialed her daughter's number in Philadelphia. She listened to the echo of the distant ringing. And then there was a soft "Hello?"
"Tracy... I just felt like hearing the sound of your voice, darling." "What a nice surprise, Mother."
"I hope I didn't wake you up."
"No. I was reading. Just getting ready to go to sleep. Charles and I were going out for dinner, but the weather's too nasty. It's snowing hard here. What's it doing there?"
Dear God, we're talking about the weather, Doris Whitney thought, when there's so much I want to tell her. And can't.
"Mother? Are you there?"
Doris Whitney stared out the window. "It's raining." And she thought, How melodramatically appropriate. Like an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
"What's that noise?" Tracy asked.
Thunder. Too deeply wrapped in her thoughts, Doris had not been aware of it. New Orleans was having a storm. Continued rain, the weatherman had said. Sixty-six degrees in New Orleans. By evening the rain will be turning to thundershowers. Be sure to carry your umbrellas. She would not need an umbrella.
"That's thunder, Tracy." She forced a note of cheerfulness into her voice. "Tell me what's happening in Philadelphia."
"I feel like a princess in a fairy tale, Mother," Tracy said. "I never believed anyone could be so happy. Tomorrow night I'm meeting Charles's
parents." She deepened her voice as though making a pronouncement. "The Stanhopes, of Chestnut Hill," she sighed. "They're an institution. I have butterflies the size of dinosaurs."
"Don't worry. They'll love you, darling."
"Charles says it doesn't matter. He loves me. And I adore him. I can't wait for you to meet him. He's fantastic."
"I'm sure he is." She would never meet Charles. She would never hold a grandchild in her lap. No. I must not think about that. "Does he know how lucky he is to have you, baby?"
"I keep telling him." Tracy laughed. "Enough about me. Tell me what's going on there. How are you feeling?"
You're in perfect health, Doris, were Dr. Rush's words. You'll live to be a hundred. One of life's little ironies. "I feel wonderful." Talking to you.
"Got a boyfriend yet?" Tracy teased.
Since Tracy's father had died five years earlier, Doris Whitney had not even considered going out with another man, despite Tracy's encouragement.
"No boyfriends." She changed the subject. "How is your job? Still enjoying it?"
"I love it. Charles doesn't mind if I keep working after we're married." "That's wonderful, baby. He sounds like a very understanding man."
"He is. You'll see for yourself."
There was a loud clap of thunder, like an offstage cue. It was time. There was nothing more to say except a final farewell. "Good-bye, my darling." She kept her voice carefully steady.
"I'll see you at the wedding, Mother. I'll call you as soon as Charles and I set a date."
"Yes." There was one final thing to say, after all. "I love you very, very much, Tracy." And Doris Whitney carefully replaced the receiver.
**********
She picked up the gun. There was only one way to do it. Quickly. She raised the gun to her temple and squeezed the trigger.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 02
Philadelphia
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21--- 8:OO A.M.
Tracy Whitney stepped out of the lobby of her apartment building into a gray, sleety rain that fell impartially on sleek limousines driven down Market Street by uniformed chauffeurs, and on the abandoned and boarded- up houses huddled together in the slums of North Philadelphia. The rain washed the limousines clean and made sodden messes of the garbage piled high in front of the neglected row houses. Tracy Whitney was on her way to work. Her pace was brisk as she walked east on Chestnut Street toward the bank, and it was all she could do to keep from singing aloud. She wore a bright-yellow raincoat, boots, and a yellow rain hat that barely contained a mass of shining chestnut hair. She was in her mid-twenties, with a lively, intelligent face, a full, sensuous mouth, sparkling eyes that could change from a soft moss green to a dark jade in moments, and a trim, athletic figure. Her skin ran the gamut from a translucent white to a deep rose, depending on whether she was angry, tired, or excited. Her mother had once told her, "Honestly, child, sometimes I don't recognize you. You've got all the colors of the wind in you."
Now, as Tracy walked down the street, people turned to smile, envying the happiness that shone on her face. She smiled back at them.
It's indecent for anyone to be this happy, Tracy Whitney thought. I'm marrying the man I love, and I'm going to have his baby. What more could anyone ask?
As Tracy approached the bank, she glanced at her watch. Eight-twenty. The doors of the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank would not be open to employees for another ten minutes, but Clarence Desmond, the bank's senior vice-president in charge of the international department, was already turning off the outside alarm and opening the door. Tracy enjoyed watching the morning ritual. She stood in the rain, waiting, as Desmond entered the bank and locked the door behind him.
Banks the world over have arcane safety procedures, and the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank was no exception. The routine never varied, except for the security signal, which was changed every week. The signal that week was a half-lowered venetian blind, indicating to the employees waiting outside that a search was in progress to make certain that no intruders were concealed on the premises, waiting to hold the employees hostage. Clarence Desmond was checking the lavatories, storeroom, vault, and safe-deposit area. Only when he was fully satisfied that he was alone would the venetian blind be raised as a sign that all was well.
The senior bookkeeper was always the first of the employees to be admitted. He would take his place next to the emergency alarm until all the other employees were inside, then lock the door behind them.
Promptly at 8:30, Tracy Whitney entered the ornate lobby with her fellow workers, took off her raincoat, hat, and boots, and listened with secret amusement to the others complaining about the rainy weather.
"The damned wind carried away my umbrella," a teller complained. "I'm soaked."
"I passed two ducks swimming down Market Street," the head cashier joked.
"The weatherman says we can expect another week of this. I wish I was in Florida."
Tracy smiled and went to work. She was in charge of the cable-transfer department. Until recently, the transfer of money from one bank to another and from one country to another had been a slow, laborious process, requiring multiple forms to be filled out and dependent on national and international postal services. With the advent of computers, the situation had changed dramatically, and enormous amounts of money could be transferred instantaneously. It was Tracy's job to extract overnight transfers from the computer and to make computer transfers to other banks. All transactions were in code, changed regularly to prevent unauthorized access. Each day, millions of electronic dollars passed through Tracy's hands. It was fascinating work, the lifeblood that fed the arteries of business all over the globe, and until Charles Stanhope
III had come into Tracy's life, banking had been the most exciting thing in the world for her. The Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank had a large international division, and at lunch Tracy and her fellow workers would discuss each morning's activities. It was heady conversation.
Deborah, the head bookkeeper, announced, "We just closed the hundred- million-dollar syndicated loan to Turkey. "
Mae Trenton, secretary to the vice-president of the bank, said in a confidential tone, "At the board meeting this morning they decided to join the new money facility to Peru. The up-front fee is aver five million dollars. "
Jon Creighton, the bank bigot, added, "I understand we're going in on the Mexican rescue package for fifty million. Those wetbacks don't deserve a damned cent. "
"It's interesting," Tracy said thoughtfully, "that the countries that attack America for being too money-oriented are always the first to beg us for loans."
It was the subject on which she and Charles had had their first argument.
**********
Tracy had met Charles Stanhope III at a financial symposium where Charles was the guest speaker. He ran the investment house founded by his great- grandfather, and his company did a good deal of business with the bank Tracy worked for. After Charles's lecture, Tracy had gone up to disagree with his analysis of the ability of third-world nations to repay the staggering sums of money they had borrowed from commercial banks worldwide and western governments. Charles at first had been amused, then intrigued by the impassioned arguments of the beautiful young woman
before him. Their discussion had continued through dinner at the old Bookbinder's restaurant.
In the beginning, Tracy had not been impressed with Charles Stanhope III, even though she was aware that he was considered Philadelphia's prize catch. Charles was thirty-five and a rich and successful member of one of the oldest families in Philadelphia. Five feet ten inches, with thinning sandy hair, brown eyes, and an earnest, pedantic manner, he was, Tracy thought, one of the boring rich.
As though reading her mind, Charles had leaned across the table and said, "My father is convinced they gave him the wrong baby at the hospital."
"What?"
"I'm a throwback. I don't happen to think money is the end-all and be-all of life. But please don't ever tell my father I said so."
There was such a charming unpretentiousness about him that Tracy found herself warming to him. I wonder what it would be like to be married to someone tike him--- one of the establishment.
It had taken Tracy's father most of his life to build up a business that the Stanhopes would have sneered at as insignificant. The Stanhopes and the Whitneys would never mix, Tracy thought. Oil and water. And the Stanhopes are the oil. And what am I going on about like an idiot? Talk about ego. A man asks me out to dinner and I'm deciding whether I want to marry him. We'll probably never even see each other again.
Charles was saying, "I hope you're free for dinner tomorrow...?"
**********
Philadelphia was a dazzling cornucopia of things to see and do. On Saturday nights Tracy and Charles went to the ballet or watched Riccardo Muti conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra. During the week they explored NewMarket and the unique collection of shops in Society Hill. They ate cheese steaks at a sidewalk table at Geno's and dined at the Café Royal, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Philadelphia. They shopped at Head House Square and wandered through the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Rodin Museum.
Tracy paused in front of the statue of The Thinker. She glanced at Charles and grinned. "It's you!"
Charles was not interested in exercise, but Tracy enjoyed it, so on Sunday mornings she jogged along the West River Drive or on the promenade skirting the Schuylkill River. She joined a Saturday afternoon t'ai chi ch'uan class, and after an hour's workout, exhausted but exhilarated, she would meet Charles at his apartment. He was a gourmet cook, and he liked preparing esoteric dishes such as Moroccan bistilla and guo bu li, the dumplings of northern China, and tahine de poulet au citron for Tracy and himself.
Charles was the most punctilious person Tracy had ever known. She had once been fifteen minutes late for a dinner appointment with him, and his- displeasure had spoiled the evening for her. After that, she had vowed to be on time for him.
Tracy had had little sexual experience, but it seemed to her that Charles made love the same way he lived his life: meticulously and very properly. Once, Tracy had decided to be daring and unconventional in bed, and had so shocked Charles that she began secretly to wonder if she were some kind of sex maniac.
The pregnancy had been unexpected, and when it happened, Tracy was filled with uncertainty. Charles had not brought up the subject of marriage, and she did not want him to feel he had to marry her because of the baby. She was not certain whether she could go through with an abortion, but the alternative was an equally painful choice. Could she raise a child without the help of its father, and would it be fair to the baby?
She decided to break the news to Charles after dinner one evening. She had prepared a cassoulet for him in her apartment, and in her nervousness she had burned it. As she set the scorched meat and beans in front of him, she forgot her carefully rehearsed speech and wildly blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Charles. I'm--- pregnant."
There was an unbearably long silence, and as Tracy was about to break it, Charles said, "We'll get married, of course."
Tracy was filled with a sense of enormous relief. "I don't want you to think I--- You don't have to marry me, you know."
He raised a hand to stop her. "I want to marry you, Tracy. You'll make a wonderful wife." He added, slowly, "Of course, my mother and father will be a bit surprised." And he smiled and kissed her.
Tracy quietly asked, "Why will they be surprised?"
Charles sighed. "Darling, I'm afraid you don't quite realize what you're letting yourself in for. The Stanhopes always marry--- mind you, I'm using quotation marks--- 'their own kind.' Mainline Philadelphia."
"And they've already selected your wife," Tracy guessed.
Charles took her in his arms. "That doesn't matter a damn. It's whom I've selected that counts. We'll have dinner with Mother and Father next Friday. It's time you met them."
**********
At five minutes to 9:00 Tracy became aware of a difference in the noise level in the bank. The employees were beginning to speak a little faster, move a little quicker. The bank doors would open in five minutes and everything had to be in readiness. Through the front window, Tracy could see customers lined up on the sidewalk outside, waiting in the cold rain.
Tracy watched as the bank guard finished distributing fresh blank deposit and withdrawal slips into the metal trays on the six tables lined up along the center aisle of the bank. Regular customers were issued deposit slips with a personal magnetized code at the bottom so that each time a deposit was made, the computer automatically credited it to the proper account. But often customers came in without their deposit slips and would fill out blank ones.
The guard glanced up at the clock on the wall, and as the hour hand moved to 9:00, he walked over to the door and ceremoniously unlocked it.
The banking day had begun.
**********
For the next few hours Tracy was too busy at the computer to think about anything else. Every wire transfer had to be double-checked to make sure it had the correct code. When an account was to be debited, she entered the account number, the amount, and the bank to which the money was to be transferred. Each bank had its own code number, the numbers listed in a confidential directory that contained the codes for every major bank in the world.
The morning flew by swiftly. Tracy was planning to use her lunchtime to have her hair done and had made an appointment with Larry Stella Botte. He was expensive, but it would be worth it, for she wanted Charles's parents to see her at her best. I've got to make them like me. I don't care whom they chose for him, Tracy thought. No one can make Charles as happy as I will.
At 1:00, as Tracy was getting into her raincoat, Clarence Desmond summoned her to his office. Desmond was the image of an important executive. If the bank had used television commercials, he would have been the perfect spokesman. Dressed conservatively, with an air of solid, old-fashioned authority about him, he looked like a person one could trust.
"Sit down, Tracy," he said. He prided himself on knowing every employee's first name. "Nasty outside, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Ah, well. People still have to do their banking." Desmond had used up his small talk. He leaned across his desk. "I understand that you and Charles Stanhope are engaged to be married."
Tracy was surprised. "We haven't even announced it yet. How---?"
Desmond smiled. "Anything the Stanhopes do is news. I'm very happy for you. I assume you'll be returning here to work with us. After the honeymoon, of course. We wouldn't want to lose you. You're one of our most valuable employees."
"Charles and I talked it over, and we agreed I'd be happier if I worked."
Desmond smiled, satisfied. Stanhope and Sons was one of the most important investment houses in the financial community, and it would be a nice plum if he could get their exclusive account for his branch. He leaned back in his chair. "When you return from your honeymoon, Tracy, there's going to be a nice promotion for you, along with a substantial raise."
"Oh, thank you! That's wonderful." She knew she had earned it, and she felt a thrill of pride. She could hardly wait to tell Charles. It seemed to Tracy that the gods were conspiring to do everything they could to overwhelm her with happiness.
**********
The Charles Stanhope Seniors lived in an impressive old mansion in Rittenhouse Square. It was a city landmark that Tracy had passed often. And now, she thought, it's going to be a part of my life.
She was nervous. Her beautiful hairdo had succumbed to the dampness in the air. She had changed dresses four times. Should she dress simply? Formally? She had one Yves Saint Laurent she had scrimped to buy at Wanamaker's. If I wear it, they'll think I'm extravagant. On the other hand, if l dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they'll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they're going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple gray wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas.
**********
The door to the mansion was opened by a liveried butler. "Good evening, Miss Whitney." The butler knows my name. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? "May I take your coat?" She was dripping on their expensive Persian rug.
He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank. Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I'm dressed all wrong! ! should have worn the Yves Saint Laurent. As she turned into the library, she felt a run start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles's parents.
Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked like a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles's, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.
Charles's mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy- set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She'll make a wonderful grandmother.
Mrs. Stanhope held out her hand. "My dear, so good of you to join us. We've asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don't mind?"
"Of course she doesn't mind," Charles's father declared. "Sit down... Tracy, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I'm about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother's voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can't handle. Just take it one step at a time.
Tracy's first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the run in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.
"So!" Mr. Stanhope's voice was hearty. "You and Charles want to get married."
The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married.
Yes," Tracy said.
"You and Charles really haven't known each other long, have you?" Mrs. Stanhope asked.
Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.
"Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs. Stanhope." "Love?" Mr. Stanhope murmured.
Mrs. Stanhope said, "To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles's news came as something of a shock to his father and me." She smiled forebearingly. "Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?" She saw the expression on Tracy's face. "I see. Well., he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and--- well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year."
It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.
"Tell us about your family," Mr. Stanhope suggested.
My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I'm the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant's parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.
"Where were you born, my dear?" Mrs. Stanhope asked.
"In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic." There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.
"A mechanic?"
"Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business."
"What does this--- er--- company manufacture?" "Exhaust pipes and other'automotive parts."
Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, "I see."
Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it's going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. "You'll really like my mother. She's beautiful, and intelligent, and charming.
She's from the South. She's very small, of course, about your height, Mrs. Stanhope---" Tracy's words trailed off, weighted down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs. Stanhope's stare.
It was Mr. Stanhope who said without expression, "Charles informs us you're pregnant."
Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.
"I don't understand how in this day and---" Mrs. Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.
"Well," Charles beamed. "How are you all getting along?"
Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. "Fine, darling." She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn't like his parents. He could never be like them. They're narrow-minded and snobbish and cold.
There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It's going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie's going to have a happy ending.
**********
The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to cat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, "You trapped our son into marriage." In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One
day Charles will own the firm, and it's important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.
Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy's heart soared.
"Tracy and I prefer a small wedding," Charles said, "and afterward---"
"Nonsense," Mrs. Stanhope interrupted. "Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married." She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. "Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent out at once." And as an afterthought, "That is, if that's acceptable to you?"
"Yes. Yes, of course." There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?
Mrs. Stanhope said, "Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I'll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house."
Mr. Stanhope asked, "Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon?"
Charles smiled. "That's privileged information, Father." He gave Tracy's hand a squeeze.
"How long a honeymoon are you planning?" Mrs. Stanhope inquired. "About fifty years," Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.
After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather- bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.
It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park.
"I hope the evening wasn't too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes."
"Oh, no, they were lovely." Tracy lied.
She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, "Are you going to come in, Charles?" She needed to have him hold her in his arms. She wanted him to say, "I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart."
He said, "Afraid not tonight. I've got a heavy morning."
Tracy concealed her disappointment. "Of course. I understand, darling."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow." He gave her a brief kiss, and she watched him disappear down the hallway.
**********
The apartment was ablaze and the insistent sound of loud fire bells crashed abruptly through the silence. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2:30 A.M. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone. "Hello?"
A distant male voice asked, "Tracy Whitney?"
She hesitated. If this was an obscene phone call... "Who is this?"
"This is Lieutenant Miller of the New Orleans Police Department. Is this Tracy Whitney?"
"Yes." Her heart began to pound. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you." Her hand clenched around the phone. "It's about your mother."
"Has--- has Mother been in some kind of accident?" "She's dead, Miss Whitney."
"No!" It was a scream. This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy.
"I hate to break it to you this way," the voice said.
It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen.
The lieutenant's voice was saying, "Hello...? Miss Whitney? Hello...?" "I'll be on the first plane."
**********
She sat in the tiny kitchen of her apartment thinking about her mother. It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy's father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to buy the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused
to sell. "Your father built up this business. I can't throw away all his hard work." And she had kept the business flourishing.
Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You'll never meet Charles, and you'll never see your grandchild, and she began to weep.
She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark. Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side. She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 3:30
A.M. She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans. She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, "When you get here, grab a cab and come to police headquarters." Why police headquarters? Why? What had happened?
**********
Standing in the crowded New Orleans airport waiting for her suitcase, surrounded by pushing, impatient travelers, Tracy felt suffocated. She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through. She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I'm afraid I have bad news for you.... She's dead, Miss Whitney.... I hate to break it to you this way....
When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: "Seven fifteen South Broad Street, please."
The driver grinned at her in the rearview mirror. "Fuzzville, huh?" No conversation. Not now. Tracy's mind was too filled with turmoil.
The taxi headed east toward the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. "Come here for the big show, miss?"
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she thought, No. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver's voice, but she did not hear the words. She sat stiffly an her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past. It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise. It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany.
"Far as I can take you," the driver informed her.
And then Tracy looked up and saw it. It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and sidewalks ahead with a wild cacophony of sound. It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing.
"Better get out before they turn my cab over," the driver said. "Damned Mardi Gras."
Of course. It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd. It was obscene, a black witches' sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother. Tracy's suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil's mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria. She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station.
**********
Lieutenant Miller was a middle-aged, harassed-looking man with a weather- beaten face, who seemed genuinely uncomfortable in his role. "Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport," he told Tracy, "but the whole town's gone nuts. We went through your mother's things, and you're the only one we could find to call."
"Please, Lieutenant, tell me what--- what happened to my mother." "She committed suicide."
A cold chill went through her. "That's--- that's impossible! Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for." Her voice was ragged.
"She left a note addressed to you."
**********
The morgue was cold and indifferent and terrifying. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty. It was filled with the dead. Her dead.
A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. "Wanna take a look?"
No! I don't want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire belt was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead. Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek. The cheek was cold and rubbery. "Oh, Mother," Tracy whispered. "Why? Why did you do it?"
"We gotta perform an autopsy," the attendant was saying. "It's the state law with suicides."
The note Doris Whitney left offered no answer. My darling Tracy,
Please forgive me. I failed, and I couldn't stand being a burden on you.
This is the best way. I love you so much. Mother.
"Oh, my God!"
"There's more. The district attorney served your mother notice that he was going to ask for an indictment against her for fraud, that she was facing a prison sentence. That was the day she really died, I think."
Tracy was seething with a wave of helpless anger. "But all she had to do was tell them the truth--- explain what that man did to her."
The old foreman shook his head. "Joe Romano works for a man named Anthony Orsatti. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano's done this before with other companies. Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn't have the money to fight him."
"Why didn't she tell me?" It was a cry of anguish, a cry for her mother's anguish.
"Your mother was a proud woman. And what could you do? There's nothing anyone can do."
You're wrong, Tracy thought fiercely. "I want to see Joe Romano. Where can I find him?"
Schmidt said flatly, "Forget about him. You have no idea how powerful he is."
"Where does he live, Otto?"
"He has an estate near Jackson Square, but it won't help to go there, Tracy, believe me."
Tracy did not answer. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: hatred. Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 03
She needed time. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on. She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, "You'll have to pay in advance. That'll be forty dollars for the night."
From her room Tracy telephoned Clarence Desmond to tell him she would be unable to come to work for a few days.
He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. "Don't worry about it," he told Tracy. "I'll find someone to fill in until you return." He hoped she would remember to tell Charles Stanhope how understanding he had been.
Tracy's next call was to Charles. "Charles, darling---"
"Where the devil are you, Tracy? Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over."
"I'm sorry, darling. I'm in New Orleans."
"You're where? What are you doing in New Orleans?" "My mother--- died." The word stuck in her throat.
"Oh." The tone of his voice changed instantly. "I'm sorry, Tracy. It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she?"
She was very young, Tracy thought miserably. Aloud she said, "Yes. Yes, she was."
"What happened? Are you all right?"
Somehow Tracy could not bring herself to tell Charles that it was suicide. She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself. It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, "Don't worry I'm all right, darling."
"Would you like me to come down there, Tracy?"
"No. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday."
When she hung up, she lay on the hotel bed, her thoughts unfocused. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling. One... two... three... Romano... four... five... Joe Romano... six... seven... he was going to pay. She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.
Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old- fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter.
"Help you?"
"I--- I want to buy a gun." "What kind of gun?"
"You know... a... revolver."
"You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a---"
Tracy had never even held a gun. "A--- a thirty-two will do."
"I have a nice thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson here for two hundred twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred fifty- nine..."
She had not brought much cash with her. "Have you got something cheaper?"
He shrugged. "Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets."
"All right." Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. "You know how to use it?"
"You--- you pull the trigger."
He grunted. "Do you want me to show you how to load it?"
She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. "Yes, please."
Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. "Thank you." She reached in tier purse and counted out the money.
"I'll need your name and address for the police records."
That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.
The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. "Name?"
"Smith. Joan Smith."
He made a note on a card. "Address?" "Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road."
Without looking up he said, "There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty." He pushed the receipt in front of her.
She signed JOAN SMITH. "Is that it?"
"That's it." He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop.
"Hey, lady," he yelled after her. "Don't forget that gun is loaded!"
**********
Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.
Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.
She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.
She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. "Hello. May I help you?"
"Are you Joseph Romano?" Her voice was shaky.
"Yes. What can I do for you?" He had an easy, engaging manner. No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.
"I--- I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Romano."
He studied her figure for a moment. "Certainly. Please come in."
Tracy walked into a living room filled with beautiful, burnished antique furniture. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly.
"I was just about to mix myself a drink. What would you like?" "Nothing."
He looked at her curiously.. "What was it you wanted to see me about, Miss---?"
"Tracy Whitney. I'm Doris Whitney's daughter."
He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then a look of recognition flashed across his face. "Oh, yes. I heard about your mother. Too bad."
Too bad! He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: "Too bad."
"Mr. Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name."
He shrugged. "I never talk business during Mardi Gras. It's against my religion." Romano walked over to the bar and began mixing two drinks. "I think you'll feel better after you've had a drink."
He was leaving her no choice. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. "I'll tell you what will make me feel better, Mr. Romano. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother."
Joseph Romano turned and saw the gun. "You'd better put that away, Miss Whitney. It could go off."
"It's going to go off if you don't do exactly what I tell you to. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide."
He was watching her carefully now, his dark eyes wary. "I see. What if I refuse?"
"Then I'm going to kill you." She could feel the gun shaking in her hand.
"You don't took like a killer, Miss Whitney." He was moving toward her now, a drink in his hand. His voice was soft and sincere. "I had nothing to do with your mother's death, and believe me, I---" He threw the drink in her face.
Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.
"Your old lady held out on me," Joe Romano said. "She didn't tell me she had a horny-looking daughter."
He was holding her, pinning her arms, and Tracy was blinded and terrified. She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her.
"You have guts, baby. I like that. It turns me on." His voice was hoarse. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip.
"You came here for a little excitement, huh? Well, Joe's going to give it to you."
She tried to scream, but her voice came out in a gasp. "Let me go!"
He ripped her blouse away. "Hey! Look at those tits," he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. "Fight me, baby," he whispered. "I love it!"
"Let go of me!"
He was squeezing harder, hurting her. She felt herself being forced down to the floor.
"I'll bet you've never been fucked by a real man," he said. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion.
"Oh, Jesus!" Romano cried. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. "You shot me... you bitch. You shot me. "
Tracy was transfixed, unable to move. She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room.
Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. "I'm sorry," she said inanely. "I didn't mean to "
"Ambulance..." His breathing was ragged.
Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. "Operator, send an ambulance right away. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot."
She replaced the receiver and looked down at Joe Romano. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: to kill him. She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His
eyes were closed, but he was breathing. "An ambulance is on its way," Tracy promised.
She fled.
She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house. I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. "Are you free?"
"That depends. Where you goin'?" "The airport." She held her breath. "Get in."
On the way to the airport, Tracy thought about the ambulance. What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her. She had purchased the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible.
"Enjoy the carnival?" the driver asked.
Tracy swallowed. "I--- yes." She pulled out her hand mirror and did what she could to make herself presentable. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand. Charles would know what to do.
**********
When the taxi arrived at New Orleans International Airport, Tracy wondered, Was it only this morning that I was here? Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother's suicide... the horror of being swept up in the carnival... the man snarling, "You shot me... you bitch. "
When Tracy walked into the terminal, it seemed to her that everyone was staring at her accusingly. That's what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano's condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He's going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother's funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles.
Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter. "I'd like a one-way ticket on the next flight to Philadelphia, please. Tourist."
The passenger representative consulted his computer. "That will be Flight three-o-four. You're in luck. I have one seat left."
"What time does the plane leave?"
"In twenty minutes. You just have time to board."
As Tracy reached into her purse, she sensed rather than saw two uniformed police officers step up on either side of her. One of them said, "Tracy Whitney?"
Her heart stopped beating for an instant. It would be stupid to deny my identity. "Yes..."
"You're under arrest."
And Tracy felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapped on her wrists.
**********
Everything was happening in slow motion to someone else. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black- and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear. The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the backseat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it had happened. They had to believe her. They had to.
**********
The police station Tracy was taken to was in the Algiers district, on the west bank of New Orleans, a grim and foreboding building with a look of hopelessness about it. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters--- prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.
One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape."
"I wasn't---"
"Take the cuffs off."
The handcuffs were removed. Tracy found her voice. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and---" She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney?"
"Yes. I---"
"Lock her up."
"No! Wait a minute," she pleaded. "I have to call someone. I--- I'm entitled to make a phone call."
The desk sergeant grunted, "You know the routine, huh? How many times you been in the stammer, honey?"
"None. This is---"
"You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want?"
She was so nervous that she could not remember Charles's telephone number. She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? No. That was not right. She was trembling.
"Come on. I haven't got all night."
Two-one-five. That was it! "Two-one-five-five-five-five-nine-three-zero- one."
The desk sergeant dialed the number and handed the phone to Tracy. She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. There was no answer. Charles had to be home.
The desk sergeant said, "Time's up." He started to take the phone from her.
"Please wait!" she cried. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him.
The desk sergeant asked, "You through?"
Tracy looked up at him and said dully, "I'm through."
A policeman in shirt-sleeves took Tracy. into a room where she was booked and fingerprinted, then led down a corridor and locked in a holding cell, by herself.
"You'll have a hearing in the morning," the policeman told her. He walked away, leaving her alone.
None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real.
But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.
**********
The hours of the night dragged by endlessly. If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened.
At 6:00 A.M. a bored guard brought Tracy a breakfast of tepid coffee and cold oatmeal. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. At 9:00 a matron came for her.
"Time to go, sweetie." She unlocked the cell door. "I must make a call," Tracy said. "It's very---"
"Later," the matron told her. "You don't want to keep the judge waiting.
He's a mean son of a bitch."
She escorted Tracy down a corridor and through a door that led into a courtroom. An elderly judge was seated on the bench. His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and- pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes.
Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him, his head bobbing up and down.
Now. Now was Tracy's moment to explain to someone in authority the truth about what had happened. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. "Your Honor, it wasn't murder. I shot him, but it was an accident. I only meant to frighten him. He tried to rape me and---"
The district attorney interrupted. "Your Honor, I see no point in wasting the court's time. This woman broke into Mr. Romano's home, armed with a thirty-two-caliber revolver, stole a Renoir painting worth half a million dollars, and when Mr. Romano caught her in the act, she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead."
Tracy felt the color draining from her face. "What--- what are you talking about?"
None of this was making any sense.
The district attorney rapped out, "We have the gun with which she wounded Mr. Romano. Her fingerprints are on it."
Wounded! Then Joseph Romano was alive! She had not killed anyone.
"She escaped with the painting. Your Honor. It's probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars."
The judge turned to Tracy, who stood there in shock. "Are you represented by counsel?"
She did not even hear him.
He raised his voice. "Do you have an attorney?"
Tracy shook her head. "No. I--- what--- what this man said isn't true. I never---"
"Do you have money for an attorney?"
There was her employees' fund at the bank. There was Charles. "I... no, Your Honor, but I don't understand---"
"The court will appoint one for you. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail. Next case."
"Wait! This is all a mistake! I'm not---"
She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom.
**********
The name of the attorney appointed by the court was Perry Pope. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately.
He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, "Well! You've created quite a sensation for a lady who's been in town only twenty-four hours." He grinned. "But you're lucky. You're a lousy shot. It's only a flesh wound. Romano's going to live." He took out a pipe. "Mind?"
"No."
He filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and studied Tracy. "You don't look like the average desperate criminal. Miss Whitney."
"I'm not. I swear I'm not."
"Convince me," he said. "Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Take your time."
Tracy told him. Everything. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face. "That bastard," Pope said softly.
"I don't understand what they were talking about." There was confusion in Tracy's eyes. "I don't know anything about a painting."
"It's really very simple. Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother. You walked right into a setup."
"I still don't understand."
"Then let me lay it out for you. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he's hidden away somewhere, and he'll collect. The insurance company will be after you, not him. When things cool down, he'll sell the painting to a private patty and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn't you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless?"
"I--- I suppose so. I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation."
His pipe had gone out. He relit it. "How did you enter his house?" "I rang the front doorbell, and Mr. Romano let me in."
"That's not his story. There's a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran."
"That's a lie! I---"
"But it's his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you're dealing?"
Tracy shook her head mutely.
"Then let me tell you the facts of life, Miss Whitney. This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti's okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pave a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he's the top man in Orsatti's organization." He looked at her in wonder. "And you walked into Romano's house and pulled a gun on him."
Tracy sat there, numb and exhausted. Finally she asked, "Do you believe my story?"
He smiled. "You're damned right. It's so dumb it has to be true." "Can you help me?"
He said slowly, "I'm going to try. I'd give anything to put them all behind bars. They own this town and most of the judges in it. If you go to trial, they'll bury you so deep you'll sever see daylight again."
Tracy looked at him, puzzled. "If I go to trial?"
Pope stood and paced up and down in the small cell. "I don't want to put you in front of a jury, because, believe me, it will be his jury. There's only one judge Orsatti has never been able to buy. His name is Henry Lawrence. If I can arrange for him to hear this case, I'm pretty sure I can make a deal for you. It's not strictly ethical, but I'm going to speak to him privately. He hates Orsatti and Romano as much as I do. Now all we've got to do is get to Judge Lawrence."
**********
Perry Pope arranged for Tracy to place a telephone call to Charles. Tracy heard the familiar voice of Charles's secretary. "Mr. Stanhope's office."
"Harriet. This is Tracy Whitney. Is---?"
"Oh! He's been trying to reach you, Miss Whitney, but we didn't have a telephone number for you. Mrs. Stanhope is most anxious to discuss the wedding arrangements with you. If you could call her as soon as possible-
--"
"Harriet, may I speak to Mr. Stanhope, please?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Whitney. He's on his way to Houston for a meeting. If you'll give me your number, I'm sure he'll telephone you as soon as he can."
"I---" There was no way she could have him telephone her at the jail. Not until she had a chance to explain things to him first.
"I--- I'll have to call Mr. Stanhope back." She slowly replaced the receiver.
Tomorrow, Tracy thought wearily. I'll explain it all to Charles tomorrow.
That afternoon Tracy was moved to a larger cell. A delicious hot dinner appeared from Galatoire's, and a short time later fresh flowers arrived with a note attached. Tracy opened the envelope and pulled out the card. CHIN UP, WE'RE GOING TO BEAT THE BASTARDS. PERRY POPE.
**********
He came to visit Tracy the following morning. The instant she saw the smile on his face, she knew there was good news.
"We got lucky," he exclaimed. "I've just left Judge Lawrence and Topper, the district attorney. Topper screamed like a banshee, but we've got a deal."
"A deal?"
"I told Judge Lawrence your whole story. He's agreed to accept a guilty plea from you."
Tracy stared at him in shock. "A guilty plea? But I'm not---"
He raised a hand. "Hear me out. By pleading guilty, you save the state the expense of a trial. I've persuaded the judge that you didn't steal the painting. He knows Joe Romano, and he believes me."
"But... if I plead guilty," Tracy asked slowly, "what will they do to me?"
"Judge Lawrence will sentence you to three months in prison with---" "Prison!"
"Wait a minute. He'll suspend the sentence, and you can do your probation out of the state."
"But then I'll--- I'll have a record."
Perry Pope sighed. "If they put you on trial for armed robbery and attempted murder during the commission of a felony, you could be sentenced to ten years."
Ten years in jail!
Perry Pope was patiently watching her. "It's your decision," he'said. "I can only give you my best advice. It's a miracle that I got away with this. They want an answer now. You don't have to take the deal. You can get another lawyer and---"
"No." She knew that this man was honest. Under the circumstances, considering her insane behavior, he had done everything possible for her. If only she could talk to Charles. But they needed an answer now. She was probably lucky to get off with a three-month suspended sentence.
"I'll--- I'll take the deal," Tracy said. She had to force the words out. He nodded. "Smart girl."
**********
She was not permitted to make any phone calls before she was returned to the courtroom. Ed Topper stood on one side of her, and Perry Pope on the other. Seated on the bench was a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with a smooth, unlined face and thick, styled hair.
Judge Henry Lawrence said to Tracy, "The court has been informed that the defendant wishes to change her plea from not guilty to guilty. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Are all parties in agreement?" Perry Pope nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
"The state agrees, Your Honor," the district attorney said.
Judge Lawrence sat there in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and looked into Tracy's eyes. "One of the reasons this great country of ours is in such pitiful shape is that the streets are crawling with vermin who think they can get away with anything. People who laugh at the law. Some judicial systems in this country coddle criminals. Well, in Louisiana, we don't believe in that. When, during the commission of a
felony, someone tries to kill in cold blood, we believe that that person should be properly punished."
Tracy began to feel the first stirrings of panic. She turned to look at Perry Pope. His eyes were fixed on the judge.
"The defendant has admitted that she attempted to murder one of the outstanding citizens of this community--- a man noted for his philanthropy and good works. The defendant shot him while in the act of stealing an art object worth half a million dollars." His voice grew harsher. "Well, this court is going to see to it that you don't get to enjoy that money--- not for the next fifteen years, because for the next fifteen years you're going to be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women."
Tracy felt the courtroom begin to spin. Some horrible joke was being played. The judge was an actor typecast for the part, but he was reading the wrong lines. He was not supposed to say any of those things. She turned to explain that to Perry Pope, but his eyes were averted. He was juggling papers in his briefcase, and for the first time, Tracy noticed that his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Judge Lawrence had risen and was gathering up his notes. Tracy stood there, numb, unable to comprehend what was happening to her.
A bailiff stepped to Tracy's side and took her arm. "Come along," he said.
"No," Tracy cried. "No, please!" She looked up at the judge. "There's been a terrible mistake, Your Honor. I---"
And as she felt the bailiff's grip tighten on her arm, Tracy realized there had been no mistake. She had been tricked. They were going to destroy her.
Just as they had destroyed her mother.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 04
The news of Tracy Whitney's crime and sentencing appeared on the front page of the New Orleans Courier, accompanied by a police photograph of her. The major wire services picked up the story and flashed it to correspondent newspapers around the country, and when Tracy was taken from the courtroom to await transfer to the state penitentiary, she was confronted by a crew of television reporters. She hid her face in humiliation, but there was no escape from the cameras. Joe Romano was big news, and the attempt on his life by a beautiful female burglar was even bigger news. It seemed to Tracy that she was surrounded by enemies.
Charles will get me out, she kept repeating to herself. Oh, please, God, let Charles get me out. I can't have our baby born in prison.
It was not until the following afternoon that the desk sergeant would permit Tracy to use the telephone. Harriet answered. "Mr. Stanhope's office."
"Harriet, this is Tracy Whitney. I'd like to speak to Mr. Stanhope."
"Just a moment, Miss Whitney." She heard the hesitation in the secretary's voice. "I'll--- I'll see if Mr. Stanhope is in."
After a long, harrowing wait, Tracy finally heard Charles's voice. She could have wept with relief. "Charles---"
"Tracy? Is that you, Tracy?"
"Yes, darling. Oh, Charles, I've been trying to reach---"
"I've been going crazy, Tracy! The newspapers here are full of wild stories about you. I can't believe what they're saying."
"None of it is true, darling. None of it. I---" "Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried. I couldn't reach you. I---" "Where are you now?"
"I'm--- I'm in a jail in New Orleans. Charles, they're going to send me to prison for something I didn't do." To her horror, she was weeping.
"Hold on. Listen to me. The papers say that you shot a man. That's not true, is it?"
"I did shoot him, but---" "Then it is true."
"It's not the way it sounds, darling. It's not like that at all. I can explain everything to you. I---"
"Tracy, did you plead guilty to attempted murder and stealing a painting?"
"Yes, Charles, but only because---"
"My God, if you needed money that badly, you should have discussed it with me.... And trying to kill someone.... I can't believe this. Neither can my parents. You're the headline in this morning's Philadelphia Daily News. This is the first time a breath of scandal has ever touched the Stanhope family."
It was the bitter self-control of Charles's voice that made Tracy aware of the depth of his feelings. She had counted on him so desperately, and
he was on their side. She forced herself not to scream. "Darling, I need you. Please come down here. You can straighten all this out."
There was a long silence. "It doesn't sound like there's much to straighten out. Not if you've confessed to doing all those things. The family can't afford to get mixed up in a thing like this. Surely you can see that. This has been a terrible shock for us. Obviously, I never really knew you."
Each word was a hammerblow. The world was falling in on her. She felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. There was no one to turn to now, no one. "What--- what about the baby?"
"You'll have to do whatever you think best with your baby," Charles said. "I'm sorry, Tracy." And the connection was broken.
She stood there holding the dead receiver in her hand.
A prisoner behind her said, "if you're through with the phone, honey, I'd like to call my lawyer."
When Tracy was returned to her cell, the matron had instructions for her. "Be ready to leave in the morning. You'll be picked up at five o'clock."
**********
She had a visitor. Otto Schmidt seemed to have aged years during the few hours since Tracy had last seen him. He looked ill.
"I just came to tell you how sorry my wife and I are. We know whatever happened wasn't your fault."
If only Charles had said that!
"The wife and I will be at Mrs. Doris's funeral tomorrow." "Thank you, Otto."
They're going to bury both of us tomorrow, Tracy thought miserably.
She spent the night wide awake, lying on her narrow prison bunk, staring at the ceiling. In her mind she replayed the conversation with Charles again and again. He had never even given her a chance to explain.
She had to think of the baby. She had read of women having babies in prison, but the stories had been so remote from her own life that it was as though she were reading about people from another planet. Now it was happening to her. You'll have to do whatever you think best with your baby, Charles had said. She wanted to have her baby. And yet, she thought, they won't let me keep it. They'll take it away from me because I'm going to be in prison for the next fifteen years. It's better that it never knows about its mother.
She wept.
**********
At 5:00 in the morning a male guard, accompanied by a matron, entered Tracy's cell. "Tracy Whitney?"
"Yes." She was surprised at how odd her voice sounded.
"By order of the Criminal Court of the State of Louisiana, Orleans Parish, you are forthwith being transferred to the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. Let's move it, babe."
She was walked down a long corridor, past cells filled with inmates. There was a series of catcalls.
"Have a good trip, honey. "
"You tell me where you got that paintin' hidden, Tracy, baby, and I'll split the money with you. "
"If you're headin' for the big house, ask for Ernestine Littlechap. She'll take real good care of you. "
Tracy passed the telephone where she had made her call to Charles. Good- bye, Charles.
**********
She was outside in a courtyard. A yellow prison bus with barred windows stood there, its engine idling. Half a dozen women already were seated in the bus, watched over by two armed guards. Tracy looked at the faces of her fellow passengers. One was defiant, and another bored; others wore expressions of despair. The lives they had lived were about to come to an end. They were outcasts, headed for cages where they would be locked up like animals. Tracy wondered what crimes they had committed and whether any of them was as innocent as she was, and she wondered what they saw in her face.
The ride on the prison bus was interminable, the bus hot and smelly, but Tracy was unaware of it. She had withdrawn into herself, no longer conscious of the other passengers or of the lush green countryside the bus passed through. She was in another time, in another place.
**********
She was a little girl at the shore with her mother and father, and her father was carrying her into the ocean on his shoulders, and when she cried out her father said, Don't be a baby, Tracy, and he dropped her into the cold water. When the water closed over her head, she panicked and began to choke, and her father lifted her up and did it again, and from that moment on she had been terrified of the water....
The college auditorium was filled with students and their parents and relatives. She was class valedictorian. She spoke for fifteen minutes,
and her speech was filled with soaring idealism, clever references to the past, and shining dreams for the future. The dean had presented her with a Phi Beta Kappa key. l want you to keep it, Tracy told her mother, and the pride on her mother's face was beautiful....
I'm going to Philadelphia, Mother. I have a job at a bank there.
Annie Mahler, her best friend, was calling her. You'll love Philadelphia, Tracy. It's full of all kinds of cultural things. It has beautiful scenery and a shortage of women. I mean, the men here are really hungry! I can get you a job at the bank where I work....
Charles was making love to her. She watched the moving shadows on the ceiling and thought, How many girls would like to be in my place? Charles was a prime catch. And she was instantly ashamed of the thought. She loved him. She could feel him inside her, beginning to thrust harder, faster and faster, on the verge of exploding, and he gasped out, Are you ready? And she lied and said yes. Was it wonderful for you? Yes, Charles. And she thought, Is that all there is? And the guilt again....
**********
"You! I'm talkin' to you. Are you deaf for Christ's sake? Let's go."
Tracy looked up and she was in the yellow prison bus. It had stopped in an enclosure surrounded by a gloomy pile of masonry. A series of nine fences topped with barbed wire surrounded the five hundred acres of farm pasture and woodlands that made up the prison grounds of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women.
"Get out," the guard said. "We're here." Here was hell.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 05
A stocky, stony-faced matron with sable-brown dyed hair was addressing the new arrivals: "Some of you are gonna be here for a long, long time. There's only one way you're gonna make it, and that's by forgettin' all about the outside world. You can do your time the easy way or the hard way. We have rules here, and you'll follow those rules. We'll tell you when to get up, when to work, when to eat, and when to go to the toilet. You break any of our rules, and you'll wish you was dead. We like to keep things peaceful here, and we know how to handle troublemakers." Her eyes flicked over to Tracy. "You'll be taken for your physical examinations now. After that you'll go to the showers and be assigned your cells. In the mornin' you'll receive your work duties. That's all." She started to turn away.
A pale young girl standing next to Tracy said, "Excuse me, please, could-
--"
The matron whirled around, her face filled with fury. "Shut your fuckin' mouth. You speak only when you're spoken to, do you understand? That goes for all you assholes."
The tone, as much as the words, was a shock to Tracy. The matron signaled to two women guards at the back of the room. "Get these no-good bitches out of here."
Tracy found herself being herded out of the room with the others, down a long corridor. The prisoners were marched into a large, white-tiled room, where a fat, middle-aged man in a soiled smock stood next to an examination table.
One of the matrons called out, "Line up," and formed the women into one long line.
The man in the smock said, "I'm Dr. Glasco, ladies. Strip!"
The women turned to look at one another, uncertainly. One of them said, "How far should we---?"
"Don't you know what the hell strip means? Get your clothes off--- all of them."
Slowly, the women began to undress. Some of them were self-conscious, some outraged, some indifferent. On Tracy's left was a woman in her late forties, shivering violently, and on Tracy's right was a pathetically thin girl who looked to be no more than seventeen years old. Her skin was covered with acne.
The doctor gestured to the first woman in line. "Lie down on the table and put your feet in the stirrups."
The woman hesitated.
"Come on. You're holding up the line."
She did as she was told. The doctor inserted a speculum into her vagina. As he probed, he asked, "Do you have a venereal disease?"
"No."
"We'll soon find out about that."
The next woman replaced her on the table. As the doctor started to insert the same speculum into her, Tracy cried out, "Wait a minute!"
The doctor stopped and looked up in surprise. "What?"
Everyone was staring at Tracy. She said, "I... you didn't sterilize that instrument."
Dr. Glasco gave Tracy a slow, cold smile. "Well! We have a gynecologist in the house. You're worried about germs, are you? Move down to the end of the line."
"What?"
"Don't you understand English? Move down."
Tracy, not understanding why, took her place at the end of the line.
"Now, if you don't mind," the doctor said, "we'll continue." He inserted the speculum into the woman on the table, and Tracy suddenly realized why she was the last in line. He was going to examine all of them with the same unsterilized speculum, and she would be the last one on whom he used it. She could feel an anger boiling up inside her. He could have examined them separately, instead of deliberately stripping away their dignity.
And they were letting him get away with it. If they all protested--- It was her turn.
"On the table, Ms. Doctor."
Tracy hesitated, but she had no choice. She climbed up on the table and closed her eyes. She could feel him spread her legs apart, and then the cold speculum was inside her, probing and pushing and hurting.
Deliberately hurting. She gritted her teeth.
"You got syphilis or gonorrhea?" the doctor asked.
"No." She was not going to tell him about the baby. Not this monster. She would discuss that with the warden.
She felt the speculum being roughly pulled out of her. Dr. Glasco was putting on a pair of rubber gloves. "All right," he said. "Line up and bend over. We're going to check your pretty little asses."
Before she could stop herself, Tracy said, "Why are you doing this?"
Dr. Glasco stared at her. "I'll tell you why, Doctor. Because assholes are great hiding places. I have a whole collection of marijuana and cocaine that I got from ladies like you. Now bend over." And he went down the line, plunging his fingers into anus after anus. Tracy was sickened. She could feel the hot bile rise in her throat and she began to gag.
"You vomit in here, and I'll rub your face in it." He turned to the guards. "Get them to the showers. They stink."
Carrying their clothes, the naked prisoners were marched down another corridor to a large concrete room with a dozen open shower stalls.
"Lay your clothes in the corner," a matron ordered. "And get into the showers. Use the disinfectant soap. Wash every part of your body from head to foot, and shampoo your hair."
Tracy stepped from the rough cement floor into the shower. The spray of water was cold. She scrubbed herself hard, thinking, I'll never be clean again. What kind of people are these? How can they treat other human beings this way? I can't stand fifteen years of this.
A guard called out to her, "Hey, you! Time's up. Get out.''
Tracy stepped out of the shower; and another prisoner took her place. Tracy was handed a thin, worn towel and half dried her body.
When the last of the prisoners had showered, they were marched to a large supply room where there were shelves of clothes guarded by a Latino inmate who sized up each prisoner and handed out gray uniforms. Tracy and the others were issued two uniform dresses, two pairs of panties, two brassieres, two pairs of shoes, two nightgowns, a sanitary belt, a hairbrush, and a laundry bag. The matrons stood watching while the prisoners dressed. When they had finished, they were herded to a room where a trusty operated a large portrait camera set on a tripod.
"Stand over there against the wall." Tracy moved over to the wall.
"Full face."
She stared into the camera. Click. "Turn your head to the right."
She obeyed. Click.
"Left." Click. "Over to the table."
The table had fingerprint equipment on it. Tracy's fingers were rolled across an inky pad, then pressed onto a white card.
"Left hand. Right hand. Wipe your hands with that rag. You're finished."
She's right, Tracy thought numbly. I'm finished. I'm a number. Nameless, faceless.
A guard pointed to Tracy. "Whitney? Warden wants to see you. Follow me."
Tracy's heart suddenly soared. Charles had done something after all! Of course he had not abandoned her, any more than she ever could have abandoned him. It was the sudden shock that had made him behave the way he had. He had had time to think it over now and to realize he still loved her. He had talked to the warden and explained the terrible mistake that had been made. She was going to be set free.
She was marched down a different corridor, through two sets of heavily barred doors manned by male and female guards. As Tracy was admitted through the second door, she was almost knocked down by a prisoner. She was a giant, the biggest woman Tracy had ever seen--- well over six feet
tall, she must have weighed three hundred pounds. She had a flat, pockmarked face, with feral yellow eyes. She grabbed Tracy s arm to steady her and pressed her arm against Tracy's breasts.
"Hey!" the woman said to the guard. "We got a new fish. How 'bout you put her in with me?" She had a heavy Swedish accent.
"Sorry. She's already been assigned, Bertha."
The amazon stroked Tracy's face. Tracy jerked away, and the grant woman laughed. "It's okay, littbarn. Big Bertha will see you later. We got plenty of time. You ain't goin' nowhere."
They reached the warden's office. Tracy was faint with anticipation. Would Charles be there? Or would he have sent his attorney?
The warden's secretary nodded to the guard, "He's expecting her. Wait here."
**********
Warden George Brannigan was seated at a scarred desk, studying some papers in front of him. He was in his mid-forties, a thin, careworn- Looking man, with a sensitive face and deep-set hazel eyes.
Warden Brannigan had been in charge of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for five years. He had arrived with the background of a modern penologist and the zeal of an idealist, determined to make sweeping reforms in the prison. But it had defeated him, as it had defeated others before him.
The prison originally had been built to accommodate two inmates to a cell, and now each cell held as many as four to six prisoners. He knew that the same situation applied everywhere. The country's prisons were all overcrowded and understaffed. Thousands of criminals were penned up day and night with nothing to do but nurse their hatred and plot their vengeance. It was a stupid, brutal system, but it was all there was.
He buzzed his secretary. "All right. Send her in."
The guard opened the door to the inner office, and Tracy stepped inside.
Warden Brannigan looked up at the woman standing before him. Dressed in the drab prison uniform, her face bruised with fatigue, Tracy Whitney still looked beautiful. She had a lovely, candid face, and Warden Brannigan wondered how long it would remain that way. He was particularly interested in this prisoner because he had read about her case in the newspapers and had studied her record. She was a first offender, had not killed anyone, and fifteen years was an inordinately harsh sentence. The fact that Joseph Romano was her accuser made her conviction all the more suspect. But the warden was simply the custodian of bodies. He could not buck the system. He was the system.
"Please have a seat," he said.
Tracy was glad to sit down. Her knees were weak. He was going to tell her now about Charles, and how soon she would be released.
"I've been looking over your record," the warden began. Charles would have asked him to do that.
"I see you're going to be with us a long time. Your sentence is fifteen years."
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Something was dreadfully wrong. "Didn't--- didn't you speak to--- to Charles?" In her nervousness she was stammering.
He looked at her blankly. "Charles?"
And she knew. Her stomach turned to water. "Please," she said. "Please listen to me. I'm innocent. I don't belong here."
How many times had he heard that? A hundred? A thousand? I'm innocent.
He said, "The courts have found you guilty. The best advice I can give you is to try to do easy time. Once you accept the terms of your imprisonment, it will be a lot easier for you. There are no clocks in prison, only calendars."
I can't be locked up here for fifteen years, Tracy thought in despair. I want to die. Please, God, let me die. But I can't die, can I? I would be killing my baby. It's your baby, too, Charles. Why aren't you here helping me? That was the moment she began to hate him.
"If you have any special problems,", Warden Brannigan said, "I mean, if I can help you in any way, I want you to come see me." Even as he spoke, he knew how hollow his words were. She was young and beautiful and fresh.
The bull-dykes in the prison would fall on her like animals. There was not even a safe cell to which he could assign her. Nearly every cell was controlled by a stud. Warden Brannigan had heard rumors of rapes in the showers, in the toilets, and in the corridors at night. But they were only rumors, because the victims were always silent afterward. Or dead.
Warden Brannigan said gently, "With good behavior, you might be released in twelve or---"
"No!" It was a cry of black despair, of desperation. Tracy felt the walls of the office closing in on her. She was on her feet, screaming. The guard came hurrying in and grabbed Tracy's arms.
"Easy," Warden Brannigan commanded him.
He sat there, helpless, and watched as Tracy was led away.
**********
She was taken down a series of corridors past cells filled with inmates of every description. They were black and white and brown and yellow.
They stared at Tracy as she passed and called out to her in a dozen accents. Their cries made no sense to Tracy.
"Fish night..."
"French mate..."
"Fresh mite..."
"Flesh meet..."
It was not until Tracy reached her cell block that she realized what the women were chanting: "Fresh meat."
BOOK ONE
Chapter 06
There were sixty women in Cell Block C, four to a cell. Faces peered out from behind bars as Tracy was marched down the long, smelly corridor, and the expressions varied from indifference to lust to hatred. She was walking underwater in some strange, unknown land, an alien in a slowly unfolding dream. Her throat was raw from the screaming inside her trapped body. The summons to the warden's office had been her last faint hope.
Now there was nothing. Nothing except the mind-numbing prospect of being caged in this purgatory for the next fifteen years.
The matron opened a cell door. "Inside!"
Tracy blinked and looked around. In the cell were three women, silently watching her.
"Move," the matron ordered.
Tracy hesitated, then stepped into the cell. She heard the door slam behind her.
She was home.
The cramped cell barely held four bunks, a little table with a cracked mirror over it, four small lockers, and a seatless toilet in the far corner.
Her cell mates were staring at her. The Puerto Rican woman broke the silence. "Looks like we got ourselves a new cellie." Her voice was deep and throaty. She would have been beautiful if it had not been for a livid knife scar that ran from her temple to her throat. She appeared to be no older than fourteen, until you looked into her eyes.
A squat, middle-aged Mexican woman said, "¡Que suerte verte! Nice to see you. What they got you in for, querida?"
Tracy was too paralyzed to answer.
The third woman was black. She was almost six feet tall, with narrow, watchful eyes and a cold, hard mask of a face. Her head was shaved and her skull shone blue-black in the dim light. "Tha's your bunk over in the corner."
Tracy walked over to the bunk. The mattress was filthy, stained with the excreta of God only knew how many previous occupants. She could not bring herself to touch it. Involuntarily, she voiced her revulsion. "I--- I can't sleep on this mattress."
The fat Mexican woman grinned. "You don' have to, honey. Hay tiempo. You can sleep on mine."
Tracy suddenly became aware of the undercurrents in the cell, and they hit her with a physical force. The three women were watching her, staring, making her feel naked. Fresh meat. She was suddenly terrified. I'm wrong, Tracy thought Oh, please let me be wrong.
She found her voice. "Who--- who do I see about getting a clean mattress?"
"God," the black woman grunted. "But he ain't been around here lately."
Tracy turned to look at the mattress again. Several large black roaches were crawling across it. I can't stay in this place, Tracy thought. I'll go insane.
As though reading her mind, the black woman told her, "You go with the flow, baby."
Tracy heard the warden's voice: The best advice l can give you is to try to do easy time....
The black woman continued. "I'm Ernestine Littlechap." She nodded toward the woman with the long scar. "Tha's Lola. She's from Puerto Rico, and fatso here is Paulita, from Mexico. Who are you?"
"I'm--- I'm Tracy Whitney." She had almost said, "I was Tracy Whitney." She had the nightmarish feeling that her identity was slipping away. A spasm of nausea swept through her, and she gripped the edge of the bunk to steady herself.
"Where you come from, honey?" the fat woman asked.
"I'm sorry, I--- I don't feel like talking." She suddenly felt too weak to stand. She slumped down on the edge of the filthy bunk and wiped the beads of cold perspiration from her face with her skirt. My baby, she thought. I should have told the warden I'm going to have a baby. He'll
move me into a clean cell. Perhaps they'll even let me have a cell by myself.
She heard footsteps coming down the corridor. A matron was walking past the cell. Tracy hurried to the cell door. "Excuse me," she said, "I have to see the warden. I'm---"
"I'll send him right down," the matron said over her shoulder. "You don't understand. I'm---"
The matron was gone.
Tracy crammed her knuckles in her mouth to keep from screaming. "You sick or somethin', honey?" the Puerto Rican asked.
Tracy shook her head, unable to speak. She walked back to the bunk, looked at it a moment, then slowly lay down on it. It was an act of hopelessness, an act of surrender. She closed her eyes.
**********
Her tenth birthday was the.most exciting day of her life. We're going to Antoine's for dinner, her father announced.
Antoine's! It was a name that conjured up another world, a world of beauty and glamour and wealth. Tracy knew that her father did not have much money: We'll be able to afford a vacation next year, was the constant refrain in the house. And now they were going to Antoine's!
Tracy's mother dressed her in a new green frock.
Just look at you two, her father boasted. I'm with the two prettiest women in New Orleans. Everyone's going to be jealous of me.
Antoine's was everything Tracy had dreamed it would be, and more. So much more. It was a fairyland, elegant and tastefully decorated, with white napery and gleaming silver-and-gold monogrammed dishes. It's a palace, Tracy thought. I'll bet kings and queens come here. She was too excited to eat, too busy staring at all the beautifully dressed men and women.
When I'm grown up, Tracy promised herself, I'm going to come to Antoine's every night, and I'll bring my mother and father with me.
You're not eating, Tracy, her mother said.
And to please her, Tracy forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls. There was a cake for her, with ten candles on it, and the waiters sang Happy Birthday and the other guests turned and applauded, and Tracy felt like a princess. Outside she could hear the clang of a streetcar bell as it passed.
**********
The clanging of the bell was loud and insistent.
"Suppertime," Ernestine Littlechap announced.
Tracy opened her eyes. Cell doors were slamming open throughout the cell block. Tracy lay on her bunk, trying desperately to hang on to the past.
"Hey! Chow time," the young Puerto Rican said.
The thought of food sickened her. "I'm not hungry."
Paulita, the fat Mexican woman spoke. "Es llano. It's simple. They don' care if you're hungry or not. Everybody gotta go to mess."
Inmates were lining up in the corridor outside.
"You better move it, or they'll have your ass," Ernestine warned. I can't move, Tracy thought. I'll stay here.
Her cell mates left the cell and lined up in a double file. A short, squat matron with peroxided-blond hair saw Tracy lying on her bunk. "You!" she said. "Didn't you hear the bell? Get out here."
Tracy said, "I'm not hungry, thank you. I'd like to be excused."
The matron's eyes widened in disbelief. She stormed inside the cell and strode over to where Tracy lay. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You waitin' for room service? Get your ass in that line. I could put you on report for this: If it happens again, you go to the bing. Understand?"
She did not understand. She did not understand anything that was happening to her. She dragged herself from the bunk and walked out into the line of women. She was standing next to the black woman. "Why do I---
?"
"Shut up!" Ernestine Littlechap growled out of the corner of her mouth. "No talkin' in line."
The women were marched down a narrow, cheerless corridor past two sets of security doors, into an enormous mess hall filled with large wooden tables and chairs. There was a long serving counter with steam tables, where prisoners lined up for their food. The menu of the day consisted of a watery tuna casserole, limp green beans, a pale custard, and a choice of weak coffee or a synthetic fruit drink. Ladles of the unappetizing- looking food were thrown into the tin plates of the prisoners as they moved along the line, and the inmates who were serving behind the counter kept up a steady cry: "Keep the line moving. Next... keep the line moving. Next..."
When Tracy was served, she stood there uncertainly, not sure where to go. She looked around for Ernestine Littlechap, but the black woman had disappeared. Tracy walked over to a table where Lola and Paulita, the fat Mexican woman, were seated. There were twenty women at the table,
hungrily wolfing down their food. Tracy looked down at what was on her plate, then pushed it away, as the bile rose and welled in her throat.
Paulita reached over and grabbed the plate from Tracy. "If you ain't gonna eat that, I'll take it."
Lola said, "Hey, you gotta eat, or you won't last here."
I don't want to last, Tracy thought hopelessly. l want to die. How could these women tolerate living like this? How tong had they been here?
Months? Years? She thought of the fetid cell and her verminous mattress, and she wanted to scream. She clenched her jaw shut so that no sound would come out.
The Mexican woman was saying, "If they catch you not eatin', you go to the bing." She saw the uncomprehending look on Tracy's face. "The hole--- solitary. You wouldn't like it." She leaned forward. "This is your first time in the joint, huh? Well, I'm gonna give you a tip, querida.
Ernestine Littlechap runs this place. Be nice to her an' you got it made."
**********
Thirty minutes from the time the women had entered the room, a loud bell sounded and the women stood up. Paulita snatched a lone green bean from a plate next to her. Tracy joined her in the line, and the women began the march back to their cells. Supper was over. It was four o'clock in the afternoon--- five long hours to endure before lights out.
When Tracy returned to the cell, Ernestine Littlechap was already there. Tracy wondered incuriously where she had bee at dinnertime. Tracy looked at the toilet in the corner. She desperately needed to use it, but she could not bring herself to do so in front of these women. She would wait until the lights went out. She sat down on the edge of her bunk.
Ernestine Littlechap said, "I understan' you didn't eat none of your supper. Tha's stupid."
How could she have known that? And why should she care? "How do I see the warden?"
"You put in a written request. The guards use it for toilet paper. They figure any cunt who wants to see the warden is a troublemaker." She walked over to Tracy. "There's lotsa things kin get you in trouble here. What you need is a friend who kin he'p keep you outta trouble." She smiled, showing a gold front tooth. Her voice was soft. "Someone who knows their way around the zoo."
Tracy looked up into the black woman's grinning face. It seemed to be floating somewhere near the ceiling.
**********
It was the tallest thing she had ever seen.
That's a giraffe, her father said.
They were at the zoo in Audubon Park. Tracy loved the park. On Sundays they went there to listen to the band concerts and afterward her mother and father took her to the aquarium or the zoo. They walked slowly, looking at the animals in the cages.
Don't they hate being locked up, Papa?
Her father laughed. No. Tracy. They have a wonderful life They're taken care of and fed, and their enemies can't get them.
They looked unhappy to Tracy. She wanted to open their cages and let them out. l wouldn't ever want to be locked up like that, Tracy thought.
**********
At 8:45 the warning bell rang throughout the prison. Tracy's cell mates began to undress. Tracy did not move.
Lola said, "You got fifteen minutes to get ready for bed."
The women had stripped and put.on nightgowns. The peroxided-blond matron passed the cell. She stopped when she saw Tracy lying on her cot.
"Get undressed," she ordered. She turned to Ernestine. "Didn't you tell her?"
"Yeah. We tol' her."
The matron turned back to Tracy. "We got a way of takin' care of troublemakers," she warned. "You do what you're told here, or I'll bust your ass." The matron moved down the hall.
Paulita cautioned, "You better listen to her, baby. Old Iron Pants is one mean bitch."
Slowly, Tracy rose and began to undress, keeping her back to the others. She took off all her clothes, with the exception of her panties, and slipped the coarse nightgown over her head. She felt the eyes of the other women on her.
"You got a real nice body," Paulita commented. "Yeah, real nice," Lola echoed.
Tracy felt a shiver go through her.
Ernestine moved over to Tracy and looked down at her. "We're your friends. We gonna take good care of you." Her voice was hoarse with excitement.
Tracy wildly jerked around. "Leave me alone! All of you. I'm--- I'm not that way."
The black woman chuckled. "You'll be any way we want you to be, baby." "Hay tiempo. There's plenty of time."
The lights went out.
**********
The dark was Tracy's enemy. She sat on the edge of her bunk, her body tense. She could sense the others waiting to pounce on her. Or was it her imagination? She was so overwrought that everything seemed to be a threat. Had they threatened her? Not really. They were probably just trying to be friendly, and she had read sinister implications into their overtures. She had heard about homosexual activity in prisons, but that had to be the exception rather than the rule. A prison would not permit that sort of behavior.
Still, there was a nagging doubt. She decided she would stay awake all night. If one of them made a move, she would call for help. It was the responsibility of the guards to see that nothing happened to the inmates. She reassured herself that there was nothing to worry about. She would just have to stay alert.
Tracy sat on the edge of her bunk in the dark, listening to every sound. One by one she heard the three women go to the toilet, use it, and return to their bunks. When Tracy could stand it no longer, she made her way to the toilet. She tried to flush it, but it did not work. The stench was almost unbearable. She hurried back to her cot and sat there. It will be light soon, she thought. In the morning I'll ask to see the warden. I'll tell him about the baby. He'll have me moved to another cell.
Tracy's body was tense and cramped. She lay back on her bunk and within seconds felt something crawling across her neck. She stifled a scream. I've got to stand it until morning. Everything will be all right in the morning, Tracy thought. One minute at a time.
At 3:00 she could no longer keep her eyes open. She slept.
**********
She was awakened by a hand clamped across her mouth and two hands grabbing at her breasts. She tried to sit up and scream, and she felt her nightgown and underpants being ripped away. Hands slid between her thighs, forcing her legs apart. Tracy fought savagely, struggling to rise.
"Take it easy," a voice in the dark whispered, "and you won't get hurt." Tracy lashed out at the voice with her feet. She connected with solid flesh.
"Carajo! Give it to the bitch," the voice gasped. "Get her on the floor!"
A hard fist smashed into Tracy's face and another into her stomach. Someone was on top of her, holding her down, smothering her, while obscene hands violated her.
Tracy broke loose for an instant, but one of the women grabbed her and slammed her head against the bars. She felt the blood spurt from her nose. She was thrown to the concrete floor, and her hands and legs were pinned down. Tracy fought like a madwoman, but she was no match for the three of them. She felt cold hands and hot tongues caressing her body. Her legs were spread apart and a hard, cold object was shoved inside her. She writhed helplessly, desperately trying to call out. An arm moved across her mouth, and Tracy sank her teeth into it, biting down with all her strength.
There was a muffled cry. "You cunt!"
Fists pounded her face.... She sank into the pain, deeper and deeper, until finally she felt nothing.
**********
It was the clanging of the bell that awakened her. She was lying on the cold cement floor of her cell, naked. Her three cell mates were in their bunks.
In the corridor, Iron Pants was calling out, "Rise and shine." As the matron passed the cell, she saw Tracy lying on the floor in a small pool of blood, her face battered and one eye swollen shut.
"What the hell's goin' on here?" She unlocked the door and stepped inside the cell.
"She musta fell outta her bunk," Ernestine Littlechap offered.
The matron walked over to Tracy's side and nudged her with her foot. "You! Get up."
Tracy heard the voice from a far distance. Yes, she thought, I must get up; I must get out of here. But she was unable to move. Her body was screaming out with pain.
The matron grabbed Tracy's elbows and pulled her to a sitting position, and Tracy almost fainted from the agony.
"What happened?"
Through one eye Tracy saw the blurred outlines of her cell mates silently waiting for her answer.
"I--- I---" Tracy tried to speak, but no words would come out. She tried again, and some deep-seated atavistic instinct made her say, "I fell off my bunk. "
The matron snapped, "I hate smart asses. Let's put you in the bing till you learn some respect."
**********
It was a form of oblivion, a return to the womb. She was alone in the dark. There was no furniture in the cramped basement cell, only a thin, worn mattress thrown on the cold cement floor. A noisome hole in the floor served as a toilet. Tracy lay there in the blackness, humming folk songs to herself that her father had taught her long ago. She had no idea how close she was to the edge of insanity.
She was not sure where she was, but it did not matter. Only the suffering of her brutalized body mattered. I must have fallen down and hurt myself, but Mama will take care of it. She called out in a broken voice, "Mama...," and when there was no answer, she fell asleep again.
She slept for forty-eight hours, and the agony finally receded to pain, and the pain gave way to soreness. Tracy opened her eyes. She was surrounded by nothingness. It was so dark that she could not even make out the outline of the cell. Memories came flooding back. They had carried her to the doctor. She could hear his voice: "...a broken rib and a fractured wrist. We'll tape them up.... The cuts and bruises are bad, but they'll heal. She's lost the baby. "
"Oh, my baby," Tracy whispered. "They've murdered my baby."
And she wept. She wept for the loss of her baby. She wept for herself. She wept for the whole sick world.
Tracy lay on the thin mattress in the cold darkness, and she was filled with such an overpowering hatred that it literally shook her body. Her thoughts burned and blazed until her mind was empty of every emotion but one: vengeance. It was not a vengeance directed against her three cell mates. They were victims as much as she. No; she was after the men who had done this to her, who had destroyed her life.
Joe Romano: "Your old lady held out on me. She didn't tell me she had a horny-looking daughter. "
Anthony Orsatti: "Joe Romano works for a man named Anthony Orsatti. Orsatti runs New Orleans. "
Perry Pope: "By pleading guilty; you save the state the expense of a trial. "
Judge Henry Lawrence: "For the next fifteen years you're going to be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. "
Those were her enemies. And then there was Charles, who had never even listened to her: "If you needed money that badly, you could have discussed it with me.... Obviously I never really knew you. You'll
have to do whatever you think best with your baby. "
She was going to make them pay. Every one of them. She had no idea how. But she knew she was going to get revenge. Tomorrow, she thought. If tomorrow comes.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 07
Time lost all meaning. There was never light in the cell, so there was no difference between night and day, and she had no idea how long she was kept in solitary confinement. From time to time cold meals were shoved through a slot in the bottom of the door. Tracy had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat every morsel. You gotta eat, or you won't last here. She understood that now; she knew she would need every bit of her strength for what she planned to do. She was in a situation that anyone else would have considered hopeless: She was locked away for fifteen years, with no money, no friends, no resources of any kind. But there was a wellspring of strength deep within her. I will survive, Tracy thought. I face mine enemies naked, and my courage is my shield. She would survive as her ancestors had survived. In her was the mixed blood of the English and the Irish and the Scots, and she had inherited the best of their qualities, the intelligence and the courage and the will. My ancestors survived famine and plagues and floods, and I'm going to survive this.
They were with her now in her stygian cell: the shepherds and trappers, the farmers and shopkeepers, the doctors and teachers. The ghosts of the past, and every one was a part of her. I won't let you down, Tracy whispered into the darkness.
She began to plan her escape.
**********
Tracy knew that the first thing she had to do was regain her physical strength. The cell was too cramped for extensive exercise, but it was large enough for t'ai chi ch'uan, the centuries-old martial art that was taught warriors to prepare them for combat. The exercises required little space, and they used every muscle in the body. Tracy stood up and went through the opening moves. Each movement had a name and a significance.
She started with the militant Punching the Demons, then into the softer Gathering the Light. The movements were fluid and graceful and done very slowly. Every gesture came from tan tien, the psychic center, and all the movements were circular. Tracy could hear the voice of her teacher: Arouse your chi, your vital energy. It starts heavy as a mountain and becomes light as a bird's feather. Tracy could feel the chi flowing through her fingers, and she concentrated until her whole being was focused on her body moving through the timeless patterns.
Grasp the bird's tail, become the white stork, repulse the monkey, face the tiger, let your hands become clouds and circulate the water of life. Let the white snake creep down and ride the tiger. Shoot the tiger, gather your chi, and go back to tan tien, the center.
The complete cycle took an hour, and when it was finished Tracy was exhausted. She went through the ritual each morning and afternoon until her body began to respond and grow strong.
When she was not exercising her body, Tracy exercised her mind. She lay in the dark, doing complicated mathematical equations, mentally operating the computer at the bank, reciting poetry, recalling the lines of plays she had been in at college. She was a perfectionist, and when she had gotten a part in a school play where she had to use different accents, she had studied accents for weeks before the play went on. A talent scout had once approached her to offer her a screen test in Hollywood. "No, thank you. I don't want the limelight. That's not for me," Tracy had told him.
Charles's voice: You're the headline in this morning's Daily News.
Tracy pushed the memory of Charles away. There were doors in her mind that had to remain closed for now.
She played the teaching game: Name three absolutely impossible things to teach.
To teach an ant the difference between Catholics and Protestants.
To make a bee understand that it is the earth that travels around the sun.
To explain to a cat the difference between communism and democracy.
But she concentrated mostly on how she was going to destroy her enemies, each of them in turn. She remembered a game she had played as a child. By holding up one hand toward the sky, it was possible to blot out the sun. That's what they had done to her. They had raised a hand and blotted out her life.
**********
Tracy had no idea how many prisoners had been broken by their confinement in the bing, nor would it have mattered to her.
On the seventh day, when the cell door opened, Tracy was blinded by the sudden light that flooded the cell. A guard stood outside. "On your feet. You're going back upstairs."
He reached down to give Tracy a helping hand, and to his surprise, she rose easily to her feet and walked out of the cell unaided. The other prisoners he had removed from solitary had come out either broken or defiant, but this prisoner was neither. There was an aura of dignity about her, a self-confidence that was alien to this place. Tracy stood in the light, letting her eyes gradually get accustomed to it. What a great- looking piece of ass, the guard thought. Get her cleaned up and you could take her anywhere. I'll bet she'd do anything for a few favors.
Aloud he said, "A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to go through this kind of thing. If you and me was friends, I'd see that it didn't happen again."
Tracy turned to face him, and when he saw the look in her eyes, he hastily decided not to pursue it.
The guard walked Tracy upstairs and turned her over to a matron.
The matron sniffed. "Jesus, you stink. Go in and take a shower. We'll burn those clothes."
The cold shower felt wonderful. Tracy shampooed her hair and scrubbed herself from head to foot with the harsh lye soap.
When she had dried herself and put on a change of clothing, the matron was waiting for her. "Warden wants to see you."
The last time Tracy had heard those words, she had believed it meant her freedom. Never again would she be that naive.
**********
Warden Brannigan was standing at the window when Tracy walked into his office. He turned and said, "Sit down, please." Tracy took a chair. "I've been away in Washington at a conference. I just returned this morning and saw a report on what happened. You should not have been put in solitary."
She sat watching him, her impassive face giving nothing away.
The warden glanced at a paper on his desk. "According to this report, you were sexually assaulted by your cell mates."
"No, sir."
Warden Brannigan nodded understandingly. "I understand your fear, but I can't allow the inmates to run this prison. I want to punish whoever did this to you, but I'll need your testimony. I'll see that you're protected. Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened and who was responsible."
Tracy looked him in the eye. "I was. I fell off my bunk."
The warden studied her a long time, and she could see the disappointment cloud his face. "Are you quite sure"
"Yes, sir."
"You won't change your mind?" "No, sir."
Warden Brannigan sighed. "All right. If that's your decision. I'll have you transferred to another cell where---"
"I don't want to be transferred."
He looked at her in surprise. "You mean you want to go back to the same cell?"
"Yes, sir."
He was puzzled. Perhaps he had been wrong about her; maybe she had invited what had happened to her. God only knew what those damned female prisoners were thinking or doing. He wished he could be transferred to some nice, sane men's prison, but his wife and Amy, his small daughter, liked it here. They all lived in a charming cottage, and there were lovely grounds around the prison farm. To them, it was like living in the country, but he had to cope with these crazy women twenty-four hours a day.
He looked at the young woman sitting before him and said awkwardly, "Very well. Just stay out of trouble in the future."
"Yes, sir."
**********
Returning to her cell was the most difficult thing Tracy had ever done. The moment she stepped inside she was assailed by the horror of what had happened there. Her cell mates were away at work. Tracy lay on her bunk, staring at the ceiling, planning. Finally, she reached down to the bottom of her bunk and pried a piece of the metal side loose. She placed it under her mattress. When the 11:00 A.M. lunch bell rang, Tracy was the first to line up in the corridor.
In the mess hall, Paulita and Lola were seated at a table near the entrance. There was no sign of Ernestine Littlechap.
Tracy chose a table filled with strangers, sat down, and finished every bite of the tasteless meal. She spent the afternoon alone in her cell. At 2:45 her three cell mates returned.
Paulita grinned with surprise when she saw Tracy. "So you came back to us, pretty pussy. You liked what we did to you, huh?"
"Good. We got more for you," Lola said.
Tracy gave no indication that she heard their taunting. She was concentrating on the black woman. Ernestine Littlechap was the reason Tracy had come back to this cell. Tracy did not trust her. Not for a moment. But she needed her.
I'm gonna give you a tip, querida. Ernestine Littlechap runs this place....
That night, when the fifteen-minute warning bell sounded for lights out, Tracy rose from her bunk and began to undress. This time there was no
false modesty. She stripped, and the Mexican woman gave a long, low whistle as she looked at Tracy's full, firm breasts and her long, tapering legs and creamy thighs. Lola was breathing hard. Tracy put on a nightgown and lay back on her bunk. The lights went out. The cell was in darkness.
Thirty minutes went by. Tracy lay in the dark listening to the breathing of the others.
Across the cell, Paulita whispered, "Mama's gonna give you some real lovin' tonight. Take off your nightgown, baby."
"We're gonna teach you how to eat pussy, and you'll do it till you get it right," Lola giggled.
Still not a word from the black woman. Tracy felt the rush of wind as Lola and Paulita came at her, but Tracy was ready for them. She lifted the piece of metal she had concealed in her hand and swung with all her might, hitting one of the women in the face. There was a scream of pain, and Tracy kicked out at the other figure and saw her fall to the floor.
"Come near me again and I'll kill you," Tracy said. "You bitch!"
Tracy could hear them start for her again, and she raised the piece of metal.
Ernestine's voice came abruptly out of the darkness. "Tha's enough. Leave her alone."
"Ernie, I'm bleedin'. I'm gonna fix her---" "Do what the fuck I tell you."
There was a long silence. Tracy heard the two women moving back to their bunks, breathing hard. Tracy lay there, tensed, ready for their next move.
Ernestine Littlechap said, "You got guts, baby." Tracy was silent.
"You didn't sing to the warden." Ernestine laughed softly in the darkness. "If you had, you'd be dead meat."
Tracy believed her.
"Why di'n' you let the warden move you to another cell?" So she even knew about that. "I wanted to come back here."
"Yeah? What fo'?" There was a puzzled note in Ernestine Littlechap's voice.
This was the moment Tracy had been waiting for. "You're going to help me escape."
BOOK ONE
Chapter 08
A matron came up to Tracy and announced, "You got a visitor, Whitney."
Tracy looked at her in surprise. "A visitor?" Who could it be? And suddenly she knew. Charles. He had come after all. But he was too late. He had not been there when she had so desperately needed him. Well, I'll never need him again. Or anyone else.
Tracy followed the matron down the corridor to the visitors' room. Tracy stepped inside.
A total stranger was seated at a small wooden table. He was one of the most unattractive men Tracy had ever seen. He was short, with a bloated, androgynous body, a long, pinched-in nose, and a small, bitter mouth. He had a high, bulging forehead and intense brown eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.
He did not rise. "My name is Daniel Cooper. The warden gave me permission to speak to you."
"About what?" Tracy asked suspiciously.
"I'm an investigator for IIPA--- the International Insurance Protection Association. One of our clients insured the Renoir that was stolen from Mr. Joseph Romano."
Tracy drew a deep breath. "I can't help you. I didn't steal it." She started for the door.
Cooper's next words stopped her. "I know that."
Tracy turned and looked at him, wary, every sense alert. "No one stole it. You were framed, Miss Whitney." Slowly, Tracy sank into a chair.
**********
Daniel Cooper's involvement with the case had begun three weeks earlier when he had been summoned to the office of his superior, J. J. Reynolds, at IIPA headquarters in Manhattan.
"I've got an assignment for you, Dan," Reynolds said. Daniel Cooper loathed being called Dan.
"I'll make this brief." Reynolds intended to make it brief because Cooper made him nervous. In truth, Cooper made everyone in the organization nervous. He was a strange man--- weird, was how many described him.
Daniel Cooper kept entirely to himself. No one knew where he lived, whether he was married or had children. He socialized with no one, and never attended office parties or office meetings. He was a loner, and the only reason Reynolds tolerated him was because the man was a goddamned genius. He was a bulldog, with a computer for a brain. Daniel Cooper was single-handedly responsible for recovering more stolen merchandise, and exposing more insurance frauds, than all the other investigators in the organization put together. Reynolds just wished he knew what the hell Cooper was all about. Merely sitting across from the man with those fanatical brown eyes staring at him made him uneasy.
Reynolds said, "One of our client companies insured a painting for half a million dollars and---"
"The Renoir. New Orleans. Joe Romano. A woman named Tracy Whitney was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years. The painting hasn't been recovered."
The son of a bitch! Reynolds thought. If it were anyone else, I'd think he was showing off. "That's right," Reynolds acknowledged grudgingly. "The Whitney woman has stashed that painting away somewhere, and we want it back. Go to it."
Cooper turned and left the office without a word. Watching him leave, J.
J. Reynolds thought, not for the first time, Someday I'm going to find out what makes that bastard tick.
Cooper walked through the office, where fifty employees were working side by side, programming computers, typing reports, answering telephones. It was bedlam.
As Cooper passed a desk, a colleague said, "I hear you got the Romano assignment. Lucky you. New Orleans is---"
Cooper walked by without replying. Why couldn't they leave him alone? That was all he asked of anybody, but they were always pestering him with their nosy overtures.
It had become a game in the office. They were determined to break through his mysterious reserve and find out who he really was.
"What are you doing for dinner Friday night, Dan...?"
"If you're not married, Sarah and I know a wonderful girl, Dan...?" Couldn't they see he did not need any of them--- didn't want any of them?
"Come on, it's only for a drink. "
But Daniel Cooper knew what that could lead to. An innocent drink could lead to dinner, and a dinner could start friendships, and friendships could lead to confidences. Too dangerous.
Daniel Cooper lived in mortal terror that one day someone would learn about his past. Let the dead past bury its dead was a lie. The dead never stayed buried. Every two or three years one of the scandal sheets would dig up the old scandal, and Daniel Cooper would disappear for several days. Those were the only times he ever got drunk.
Daniel Cooper could have kept a psychiatrist busy full-time had he been able to expose his emotions, but he could never bring himself to speak of the past to anyone. The one piece of physical evidence that he retained from that terrible day long ago was a faded, yellowed newspaper clipping, safety locked away in his room, where no one could ever find it. He looked at it from time to time as a punishment, but every word in the article was emblazoned on his mind.
He showered or bathed at least three times a day, but never felt clean. He firmly believed in hell and hell's fire, and he knew his only salvation on earth was expiation, atonement. He had tried to join the New York police force, but when he had failed the physical because he was four inches too short, he had become a private investigator. He thought of himself as a hunter, tracking down those who broke the law. He was the vengeance of God, the instrument that brought down God's wrath on the heads of wrongdoers. It was the only way he could atone for the past, and prepare himself for eternity.
He wondered if there was time to take a shower before he caught his plane.
**********
Daniel Cooper's first stop was New Orleans. He spent five days in the city, and before he was through, he knew everything he needed to know about Joe Romano, Anthony Orsatti, Perry Pope, and Judge Henry Lawrence. Cooper read the transcripts of Tracy Whitney's court hearing and sentencing. He interviewed Lieutenant Miller and learned about the suicide of Tracy Whitney's mother. He talked to Otto Schmidt and found out how Whitney's company had been stripped. During all these meetings, Daniel Cooper made not one note, yet he could have recited every conversation verbatim. He was 99 percent sure that Tracy Whitney was an innocent victim, but to Daniel Cooper, those were unacceptable odds. He flew to Philadelphia and talked to Clarence Desmond, vice-president of the bank where Tracy Whitney had worked. Charles Stanhope III had refused to meet with him.
**********
Now, as Cooper looked at the woman seated across from him, he was 100 percent convinced that she had had nothing to do with the theft of the painting. He was ready to write his report.
"Romano framed you, Miss Whitney. Sooner or later, he would have put in a claim for the theft of that painting. You just happened to come along at the right moment to make it easy for him."
Tracy could feel her heartbeat accelerate. This man knew she was innocent. He probably had enough evidence against Joe Romano to clear her. He would speak to the warden or the governor, and get her out of this nightmare. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe. "Then you'll help me?"
Daniel Cooper was puzzled. "Help you?" "Yes. Get a pardon or---"
"No."
The word was like a slap. "No? But why? If you know I'm innocent " How could people be so stupid? "My assignment is finished."
**********
When he returned to his hotel room, the first thing Cooper did was to undress and step into the shower. He scrubbed himself from head to foot, letting the steaming-hot spray wash over his body for almost half an hour. When he had dried himself and dressed, he sat down and wrote his report.
To: J. J. Reynolds File No. Y-72-830-412
FROM: Daniel Cooper
SUBJECT: Deux Femmes dans le Café Rouge, Renoir--- Oil on Canvas
It is my conclusion that Tracy Whitney is in no way involved in the theft of above painting. I believe that Joe Romano took out the insurance policy with the intention of faking a burglary, collecting the insurance, and reselling the painting to a private party, and that by this time the painting is probably out of the country. Since the painting is well known, I would expect it to turn up in Switzerland, which has a good- faith purchase and protection law. If a purchaser says he bought a work of art in good faith, the Swiss government permits him to keep it, even though it is stolen.
Recommendation: Since there is no concrete proof of Romano's guilt, our client will have to pay him off on the policy. Further, it would be useless to look to Tracy Whitney for either the recovery of the painting or damages, since she has neither knowledge of the painting nor any assets that I have been able to uncover. In addition, she will be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for the next fifteen years.
Daniel Cooper stopped a moment to think about Tracy Whitney. He supposed other men would consider her beautiful. He wondered, without any real
interest, what fifteen years in prison would do to her. It had nothing to do with him.
Daniel Cooper signed the memo and debated whether he had time to take another shower.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 09
Old Iron Pants had Tracy Whitney assigned to the laundry. Of the thirty- five work assignments available to prisoners, the laundry was the worst. The enormous, hot room was filled with rows of washing machines and ironing boards, and the loads of laundry that poured in were endless.
Filling and emptying the washing machines and toting heavy baskets to the ironing section was a mindless, backbreaking job.
Work began at 6:00 A.M., and prisoners were permitted one 10-minute rest period every two hours. By the end of the nine-hour day, most of the women were ready to drop from exhaustion. Tracy went about her work mechanically, speaking to no one, cocooned in her own thoughts.
When Ernestine Littlechap heard about Tracy's assignment, she remarked, "Old Iron Pants is out for your ass."
Tracy said, "She doesn't bother me."
Ernestine Littlechap was puzzled. This was a different woman from the terrified young girl who had been brought into the prison three weeks earlier. Something had changed her, and Ernestine Littlechap was curious to know what it was.
On Tracy's eighth day working in the laundry, a guard came up to her in the early afternoon. "I got a transfer here for you. You're assigned to the kitchen." The most coveted job in the prison.
There were two standards of food in the penitentiary: The prisoners ate hash, hot dogs, beans, or inedible casseroles, while the meals for the guards and prison officials were prepared by professional chefs. Their range of meals included steaks, fresh fish, chops, chicken, fresh vegetables and fruits, and tempting desserts. The convicts who worked in the kitchen had access to those meals, and they took full advantage of it.
When Tracy reported to the kitchen, she was somehow not surprised to see Ernestine Littlechap there.
Tracy approached her. "Thank you." With difficulty, she forced a friendly note into her voice.
Ernestine grunted and said nothing.
"How did you get me past Old Iron Pants?" "She ain't with us no mo'."
"What happened to her?"
"We got a little system. If a guard is hard-ass and starts givin' us too much of a bad time, we get rid of 'em."
"You mean the warden listens to---?"
"Shee-et. What's the warden got to do with it?" "Then how can you---?"
"It's easy. When the guard you want to get rid of is on duty, hassles begin to happen. Complaints start comin' in. A prisoner reports that Old Iron Pants grabbed her pussy. The next day 'nother prisoner accuses her of brutality. Then someone complains she took somethin' from her cell--- say a radio--- and sure enough, it turns up in Old Iron Pants's room. Old Iron Pants is gone. The guards don't run this prison, we do."
"What are you in here for?" Tracy asked. She had no interest in the answer. The important thing was to establish a friendly relationship with this woman.
"Through no fault of Ernestine Littlechap, you'd better believe it. I had a whole bunch of girls workin' for me."
Tracy looked at her. "You mean as---?" She hesitated.
"Hookers?" She laughed.. "Naw. They worked as maids in big homes. I opened me a employment agency. I had at least twenty girls. Rich folks have a hell of a time findin' maids. I did a lot of fancy advertisin' in the best newspapers, and when they called me I placed my girls with 'em. The girls would size up the houses, and when their employers was at work or outta town, the girls would gather up all the silver and jewelry and furs and whatever other goodies were around and skip." Ernestine sighed. "If I told you how much fuckin' tax-free money we was pullin' down, you wouldn't believe me."
"How did you get caught?"
"It was the fickle finger of fate, honey. One of my maids was servin' a luncheon at the mayor's house, and one of the guests was a old lady the maid had worked for and cleaned out. When the police used hoses on her, my girl began singin', and she sang the whole opera, and here's poor of Ernestine."
They were standing at a stove by themselves. "I can't stay in this place," Tracy whispered. "I've got to take care of something on the outside. Will you help me escape? I---"
"Start slicin' up them onions., We're havin' Irish stew tonight."
And she walked away.
**********
The prison grapevine was incredible. The prisoners knew everything that was going to happen long before it occurred. Inmates known as garbage rats picked up discarded memos, eavesdropped on phone calls, and read the warden's mail, and all information was carefully digested and sent around to the inmates who were important. Ernestine Littlechap was at the head of the list. Tracy was aware of how the guards and prisoners deferred to Ernestine. Since the other inmates had decided that Ernestine had become Tracy's protector, she was left strictly alone. Tracy waited warily for Ernestine to make advances toward her, but the big black kept her distance. Why? Tracy wondered.
**********
Rule number 7 in the official ten-page pamphlet issued to new prisoners read, "Any form of sex is strictly forbidden. There will be no more than four inmates to a cell. Not more than one prisoner shall be permitted to be on a bunk at one time."
The reality was so startlingly different that the prisoners referred to the pamphlet as the prison joke book. As the weeks went by, Tracy watched new prisoners--- fish--- enter the prison every day, and the pattern was always the same. First offenders who were sexually normal never had a chance. They came in timid and frightened, and the bull-dykes were there, waiting. The drama was enacted in planned stages. In a terrifying and hostile world, the bull-dyke was friendly and sympathetic. She would invite her victim to the recreation hall, where they would watch television together, and when the bull-dyke held her hand, the new prisoner would allow it, afraid of offending her only friend. The new prisoner quickly noticed that the other inmates left her alone, and as her dependence on the bull-dyke grew, so did the intimacies, until finally, she was willing to do anything to hold onto her only friend.
Those who refused to give in were raped. Ninety percent of the women who entered the prison were forced into homosexual activity--- willingly or unwillingly--- within the first thirty days. Tracy was horrified.
"How can the authorities allow it to happen?" she asked Ernestine.
"It's the system," Ernestine explained, "and it's the same in every prison, baby. There ain't no way you can separate twelve hundred women from their men and expect them not to fuck somebody. We don't just rape for sex. We rape for power, to show 'em right off who's boss. The new fish who come in here are targets for everybody who wants to gang-fuck 'em. The only protection they got is to become the wife of a bull-dyke. That way, nobody'll mess with 'em."
Tracy had reason to know she was listening to an expert.
"It ain't only the inmates," Ernestine went on. "The guards are jest as bad. Some fresh meat comes in and she's on H. She's strung out and needs a fix real bad. She's sweatin' and shakin' herself to pieces. Well, the matron can get heroin for her, but the matron wants a little favor in exchange, see? So the fish goes down on the matron and she gets her fix. The male guards are even worse. They got keys to these cells, and all they have to do is walk in at night and he'p themselves to free pussy.
They might get you pregnant, but they can do a lot of favors. You want a candy bar or a visit from your boyfriend, you give the guard a piece of ass. It's called barterin', and it goes on in every prison system in the country."
"It's horrible!"
"It's survival." The overhead cell light shone on Ernestine's bald head. "You know why they don't allow no chewin' gum in this place?"
"No."
"Because the girls use it to jam up the locks on the doors so they don't close all the way, and at night they slip out and visit one another. We follow the rules we want to follow. The girls who make it out of here may be dumb, but they're smart dumb."
**********
Love affairs within the prison walls flourished, and the protocol between lovers was even more strictly enforced than on the outside. In an unnatural world, the artificial roles of studs and wives were created and played out. The studs assumed a man's role in a world where there were no men. They changed their names. Ernestine was called Ernie; Tessie was Tex; Barbara became Bob; Katherine was Kelly. The stud cut her hair short or shaved her head, and she did no chores. The Mary Femme, the wife, was expected to do the cleaning, mending, and ironing for her stud. Lola and Paulita competed fiercely for Ernestine's attentions, each fighting to outdo the other.
The jealousy was fierce and frequently led to violence, and if the wife was caught looking at another stud or talking to one in the prison yard, tempers would flare. Love letters were constantly flying around the prison, delivered by the garbage rats.
The letters were folded into small triangular shapes, known as kites, so they could easily be hidden in a bra or a shoe. Tracy saw kites being passed among women as they brushed by one another entering the dining hall or on their way to work.
Time after time, Tracy watched inmates fall in love with their guards. It was a love born of despair and helplessness and submissiveness. The prisoners were dependent on the guards for everything: their food, their well-being, and sometimes, their lives. Tracy allowed herself to feel no emotion for anyone.
Sex went on day and night. It occurred in the shower room, in toilets, in cells, and at night there was oral sex through the bars. The Mary Femmes who belonged to guards were let out of their cells at night to go to the guards' quarters.
After lights out, Tracy would lie in her bunk and put her hands over her ears to shut out the sounds.
One night Ernestine pulled out a box of Rice Krispies from under her bunk and began scattering them in the corridor outside the cell. Tracy could hear inmates from other cells doing the same thing.
"What's going on?" Tracy asked.
Ernestine turned to her and said harshly, "Non'a your business. Jest stay in your bunk. Jest stay in your fuckin' bunk."
A few minutes later there was a terrified scream from a nearby cell, where a new prisoner had just arrived. "Oh, God, no. Don't! Please leave me alone!"
Tracy knew then what was happening, and she was sick inside. The screams went on and on, until they finally diminished into helpless, racking sobs. Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, filled with burning rage. How could women do this to one another? She had thought that prison had hardened her, but when she awoke in the morning, her face was stained with dried tears.
She was determined not to show her feelings to Ernestine. Tracy asked casually, "What were the Rice Krispies for?"
"That's our early warnin' system. If the guards try sneakin' up on us, we kin hear 'em comin'."
**********
Tracy soon learned why inmates referred to a term in the penitentiary as "going to college." Prison was an educational experience, but what the prisoners learned was unorthodox.
The prison was filled with experts in every conceivable type of crime. They exchanged methods of grifting, shoplifting, and rolling drunks. They brought one another up to date on badger games and exchanged information on snitches and undercover cops.
In the recreation yard one morning, Tracy listened to an older inmate give a seminar on pickpocketing to a fascinated young group.
"The real pros come from Colombia. They got a school in Bogotá, called the school of the ten bells, where you pay twenty-five hundred bucks to learn to be a pickpocket. They hang a dummy from the ceilin', dressed in a suit with ten pockets, filled with money and jewelry."
"What's the gimmick?"
"The gimmick is that each pocket has a belt on it. You don't graduate till you kin empty every damn pocket without ringin' the bell."
Lola sighed, "I used to go with a guy who walked through crowds dressed in an overcoat, with both his hands out in the open, while he picked everybody's pockets like crazy."
"How the hell could he do that?"
"The right hand was a dummy. He slipped his real hand through a slit in the coat and picked his way through pockets and wallets and purses."
In the recreation room the education continued.
"I like the locker-key rip-off," a veteran said. "You hang around a railroad station till you see a little old lady tryin' to lift a suitcase or a big package into one a them lockers. You put it in for her and hand her the key. Only it's the key to an empty locker. When she leaves, you empty her locker and split."
In the yard another afternoon, two inmates convicted of prostitution and possession of cocaine were talking to a new arrival, a pretty young girl who looked no more than seventeen.
"No wonder you got busted, honey," one of the older women scolded. "Before you talk price to a John, you gotta pat him down to make sure he ain't carryin' a gun, and never tell him what you're gonna do for him.
Make him tell you what he wants. Then if he turns out to be a cop, it's entrapment, see?"
The other pro added, "Yeah. And always took at their hands. If a trick says he's a workin' man, see if his hands are rough. That's the tip-off. A lot of plainclothes cops wear workin' men's outfits, but when it comes to their hands, they forget, so their hands are smooth."
**********
Time went neither slowly nor quickly. It was simply time. Tracy though of St. Augustine's aphorism: "What is time? If no one asks me, I know. But if I have to explain it, I do not know."
The routine of the prison never varied: 4:40 A.M. Warning bell
4:45 A.M. Rise and dress 5:00 A.M. Breakfast
5:30 A.M. Return to cell 5:55 A.M. Warning bell
6:00 A.M. Work detail lineup 10:00 A.M. Exercise yard 10:30 A.M. Lunch
11:00 A.M. Work detail lineup 3:30 P.M. Supper
4:00 P.M. Return to cell
5:00 P.M. Recreation room 6:00 P.M. Return to cell 8:45 P.M. Warning bell 9:00 P.M. Lights out
The rules were inflexible. All inmates had to go to meals, and no talking was permitted in the lines. No more than five cosmetic items could be kept in the small cell lockers. Beds had to be made prior to breakfast and kept neat during the day.
The penitentiary had a music all its own: the clanging bells, shuffle of feet on cement, slamming iron doors, day whispers and night screams... the hoarse crackle of the guards' walkie-talkies, the clash of trays at mealtime. And always there was the barbed wire and the high walls and the loneliness and isolation and the pervading aura of hate.
Tracy became a model prisoner. Her body responded automatically to the sounds of prison routine: the bar sliding across her cell at count time and sliding back at wake-up time; the bell for reporting to work and the buzzer when work was finished.
Tracy's body was a prisoner in this place, but her mind was free to plan her escape.
**********
Prisoners could make no outside telephone calls, and they were permitted to receive two five-minute calls a month. Tracy received a call from Otto Schmidt.
"I thought you'd want to know," he said awkwardly. "It was a real nice funeral. I took care of the bills, Tracy."
"Thank you, Otto. I--- thank you." There was nothing more for either of them to say.
There were no more phone calls for her.
"Girl, you best forget the outside world," Ernestine warned her. "There ain't nobody out there for you."
You're wrong, Tracy thought grimly. Joe Romano
Perry Pope
Judge Henry Lawrence Anthony Orsatti Charles Stanhope III
It was in the exercise yard that Tracy encountered Big Bertha again. The yard was a large outdoor rectangle bounded by the high outer prison wall on one side and the inner wall of the prison on the other. The inmates were allowed in the yard for thirty minutes each morning. It was one of the few places where talking was permitted, and clusters of prisoners
gathered together exchanging the latest news and gossip before lunch. When Tracy walked into the yard for the first time, she felt a sudden sense of freedom, and she realized it was because she was in the open air. She could see the sun, high above, and cumulus clouds, and somewhere in the distant blue sky she heard the drone of a plane, soaring free.
"You! I been lookin' for you," a voice said.
Tracy turned to see the huge Swede who had brushed into her on Tracy's first day in prison.
"I hear you got yourself a nigger bull-dyke."
Tracy started to brush past the woman. Big Bertha grabbed Tracy's arm, with an iron grip. "Nobody walks away from me," she breathed. "Be nice; littbarn." She was backing Tracy toward the wall, pressing her huge body into Tracy's.
"Get away from me."
"What you need is a real good lickin'. You know what I mean? An' I'm gonna give it to you. You're gonna be all mine, älskade."
A familiar voice behind Tracy rasped, "Get your fuckin' hands off her, you asshole."
Ernestine Littlechap stood there, big fists clenched, eyes blazing, the sun reflecting off her shiny shaved skull.
"You ain't man enough for her, Ernie."
"I'm man enough for you," the black woman exploded "You bother her again, and I'll have your ass for breakfast. Fried."
The air was suddenly charged with electricity. The two amazons were eyeing each other with naked hatred. They're ready to kill each other over me, Tracy thought. And then she realized it had very little to do with her. She remembered something Ernestine had told her: "In this place, you have to fight, fuck, or hit the fence. You gotta hold your mud, or you're dead."
It was Big Bertha who backed down. She gave Ernestine a contemptuous look. "I ain't in no hurry." She leered at Tracy. "You're gonna be here a long time, baby. So am I. I'll be seein' you."
She turned and walked away.
Ernestine watched her go. "She's a bad mother. 'Member that nurse in Chicago who killed off all them patients? Stuck 'em full of cyanide and stayed there an' watched 'em die? Well, that angel of mercy is the one who got the hots for you, Whitney. Shee-et! You need a fuckin' keeper. She ain't gonna let up on you."
"Will you help me escape?"
A bell rang.
"It's chow time," Ernestine Littlechap said.
That night, lying in her bunk, Tracy thought about Ernestine.
Even though she had never tried to touch Tracy again, Tracy still did not trust her. She could never forget what Ernestine and her other cell mates had done to her. But she needed the black woman.
**********
Each afternoon after supper, the inmates were allowed to spend one hour in the recreation room, where they could watch television or talk or read the latest magazines and newspapers. Tracy was thumbing through a copy of a magazine when a photograph caught her eye. It was a wedding picture of Charles Stanhope III and his new bride, coming out of a chapel, arm in arm, laughing. It hit Tracy like a blow. Seeing his photograph now, the happy smile on his face, she was filled with a pain that turned to cold fury. She had once planned to share her life with this man, and he had turned his back on her, let them destroy her, let their baby die. But that was another time, another place, another world. That was fantasy.
This is reality.
Tracy slammed the magazine shut.
**********
On visiting days it was easy to know which inmates had friends or relatives coming to see them. The prisoners would shower and put on fresh clothes and makeup. Ernestine usually returned from the visitors' room smiling and cheerful.
"My Al, he always comes to see me," she told Tracy. "He'll be waitin' for me when I get out. You know why? 'Cause I give him what no other woman gives him."
Tracy could not hide her confusion. "You mean... sexually?"
"You bet your ass. What goes on behind these walls has nothin' to do with the outside. In here, sometimes we need a warm body to hold--- somebody to touch us and tell us they love us. We gotta feel there's somebody who gives a damn about us. It don't matter if it ain't real or don't last.
It's all we got. But when I get on the outside"--- Emestine broke into a broad grin--- "then I become a fuckin' nymphomaniac, hear?"
There was something that had been puzzling Tracy. She decided to bring it up now. "Ernie, you keep protecting me. Why?"
Ernestine shrugged. "Beats the shit out of me."
"I really want to know." Tracy chose her words carefully. "Everyone else who's your--- your friend belongs to you. They do whatever you tell them to do."
"If they don't want to walk around with half an ass, yeah." "But not me. Why?"
"You complainin'?" "No. I'm curious."
Ernestine thought about it for a moment. "Okay. You got somethin' I want." She saw the look on Tracy's face. "No, not that. I get alla that I want, baby. You got class. I mean, real, honest-to-God class. Like those cool ladies you see in Vogue and Town and Country, all dressed up and servin' tea from silver pots. That's where you belong. This ain't your world. I don't know how you got mixed up with all that rat shit on the outside, but my guess is you got suckered by somebody." She looked at Tracy and said, almost shyly, "I ain't come across many decent things in my life. You're one of 'em." She turned away so that her next words were almost inaudible. "And I'm sorry about your kid. I really am "
That night, after lights out, Tracy whispered in the dark, "Ernie, I've go to escape. Help me. Please."
"I'm tryin' to sleep, for Christ's sake! Shut up now, hear?"
**********
Ernestine initiated Tracy into the arcane language of the prison. Groups of women in the yard were talking: "This bull-dyker dropped the belt on the gray broad, and from then on you had to feed her with a long-handled spoon. "
"She was short, but they caught her in a snowstorm, and a stoned cop turned her over to the butcher. That ended her getup. Good-bye, Ruby- do. "
To Tracy, it was like listening to a group of Martians. "What are they talking about?" she asked.
Ernestine roared with laughter. "Don't you speak no English, girl? When the lesbian 'dropped the belt,' it meant she switched from bein' the guy to bein' a Mary Femme. She got involved with a 'gray broad'--- that's a honky, like you. She couldn't be trusted, so that meant you stayed away from her. She was 'short,' meanin' she was near the end of her prison sentence, but she got caught takin' heroin by a stoned cop that's
someone who lives by the rules and can't be bought--- and they sent her to the 'butcher,' the prison doctor."
"What's a 'Ruby-do' and a 'getup'?"
"Ain't you learned nothin'? A 'Ruby-do' is a parole. A 'getup' is the day of release."
Tracy knew she would wait for neither.
**********
The explosion between Ernestine Littlechap and Big Bertha happened in the yard the following day. The prisoners were playing a game of softball, supervised by the guards. Big Bertha, at bat with two strikes against her, hit a hard line drive on the third pitch and ran to first base, which Tracy was covering. Big Bertha slammed into Tracy, knocking her down, and then was on top of her. Her hands snaked up between Tracy's legs, and she whispered, "Nobody says no to me, you cunt. I'm comin' to get you tonight, littbarn, and I'm gonna fuck your ass off."
Tracy fought wildly to get loose. Suddenly, she felt Big Bertha being lifted off her. Ernestine had the huge Swede by the neck and was throttling her.
"You goddamn bitch!" Ernestine was screaming. "I warned you!" She slashed her fingernails across Big Bertha's face, clawing at her eyes.
"I'm blind!" Big Bertha screamed: "I'm blind!" She grabbed Ernestine's breasts and starting pulling them. The two women were punching and clawing at each other as four guards came running up. It took the guards five minutes to pull them apart. Both women were taken to the infirmary. It was late that night when Ernestine was returned to her cell. Lola and Paulita hurried to her bunk to console her.
"Are you all right?" Tracy whispered.
"Damned right," Ernestine told her. Her voice sounded muffled, and Tracy wondered how badly she had been hurt. "I made my Ruby-do yesterday. I'm gettin' outta this joint. You got a problem. That mother ain't gonna leave you alone now. No way. And when she's finished fuckin' with you, she's gonna kill you."
They lay there in the silent darkness. Finally, Ernestine spoke again. "Maybe it's time you and me talked about bustin' you the hell outta here."
BOOK ONE
Chapter 10
"You're going to lose your governess tomorrow," Warden Brannigan announced to his wife.
Sue Ellen Brannigan looked up in surprise. "Why? Judy's very good with Amy."
"I know, but her sentence is up. She's being released in the morning."
They were having breakfast in the comfortable cottage that was one of the perquisites of Warden Brannigan's job. Other benefits included a cook, a maid, a chauffeur, and a governess for their daughter, Amy, who was almost five. All the servants were trusties. When Sue Ellen Brannigan had arrived there five years earlier, she had been nervous about living on the grounds of the penitentiary, and even more apprehensive about having a house full of servants,who were all convicted criminals.
"How do you know they won't rob us and cut our throats in the middle of the night?" she had demanded.
"If they do," Warden Brannigan had promised, "I'll put them on report."
He had persuaded his wife, without convincing her, but Sue Ellen's fears had proved groundless. The trusties were anxious to make a good impression and cut their time down as much as possible, so they were very conscientious.
"I was just getting comfortable with the idea of leaving Amy in Judy's care," Mrs. Brannigan complained. She wished Judy well, but she did not want her to leave. Who knew what kind of woman would be Amy's next governess? There were so many horror stories about the terrible things strangers did to children.
"Do you have anyone in particular in mind to replace Judy, George?"
The warden had given it considerable thought. There were a dozen trusties suitable for the job of taking care of their daughter. But he had not been able to get Tracy Whitney out of his mind. There was something about her case that he found deeply disturbing. He had been a professional criminologist for fifteen years, and he prided himself that one of his strengths was his ability to assess prisoners. Some of the convicts in his care were hardened criminals, others were in prison because they had committed crimes of passion or succumbed to a momentary temptation, but it seemed to Warden Brannigan that Tracy Whitney belonged in neither category. He had not been swayed by her protests of innocence, for that was standard operating procedure for all convicts. What bothered him was the people who had conspired to send Tracy Whitney to prison. The warden had been appointed by a New Orleans civic commission headed by the governor of the state, and although he steadfastly refused to become involved in politics, he was aware of all the players. Joe Romano was Mafia, a runner for Anthony Orsatti. Perry Pope, the attorney who had defended Tracy Whitney, was on their payroll, and so was Judge Henry Lawrence. Tracy Whitney's conviction had a decidedly rank odor to it.
Now Warden Brannigan made his decision. He said to his wife, "Yes. I do have someone in mind."
**********
There was an alcove in the prison kitchen with a small Formica-topped dining table and four chairs, the only place where it was possible to have a reasonable amount of privacy. Ernestine Littlechap and Tracy were seated there, drinking coffee during their ten-minute break.
"I think it's about time you tol' me what your big hurry is to bust outta here," Ernestine suggested.
Tracy hesitated. Could she trust Ernestine? She had no choice. "There--- there are some people who did things to my family and me. I've got to get out to pay them back."
"Yeah? What'd they do?"
Tracy's words came out slowly, each one a drop of pain. "They killed my mother."
"Who's they?"
"I don't think the names would mean anything to you. Joe Romano, Perry Pope, a judge named Henry Lawrence; Anthony Orsatti---"
Ernestine was staring at her with her mouth open. "Jesus H. Christ! You puttin' me on, girl?"
Tracy was surprised. "You've heard of them?"
"Heard of 'em! Who hasn't heard of 'em? Nothin' goes down in New Or- fuckin'-leans unless Orsatti or Romano says so. You can't mess with them. They'll blow you away like smoke."
Tracy said tonelessly, "They've already blown me away."
Ernestine looked around to make sure they could not be overheard. "You're either crazy or you're the dumbest broad I've ever met. Talk about the untouchables!" She shook her head. "Forget about 'em. Fast!"
"No. I can't. I have to break out of here. Can it be done?"
Ernestine was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, she said, "We'll talk in the yard."
**********
They were in the yard, off in a corner by themselves.
"There've been twelve bust-outs from this joint," Ernestine said. "Two of the prisoners were shot and killed. The other ten were caught and brought back." Tracy made no comment. "The tower's manned twenty-four hours by guards with machine guns, and they're mean sons of bitches. If anyone escapes, it costs the guards their jobs, so they'd just as soon kill you as look at you. There's barbed wire all around the prison, and if you get through that and past the machine guns, they got hound dogs that can track a mosquito's fart. There's a National Guard station a few miles away, and when a prisoner escapes from here they send up helicopters with
guns and searchlights. Nobody gives a shit if they bring you back dead or alive, girl. They figure dead is better. It discourages anyone else with plans."
"But people still try," Tracy said stubbornly.
"The ones who broke out had help from the outside--- friends who smuggled in guns and money and clothes. They had getaway cars waltin' for 'em." She paused for effect. "And they still got caught."
"They won't catch me," Tracy swore.
A matron was approaching. She called out to Tracy, "Warden Brannigan wants you. On the double."
**********
"We need someone to take care of our young daughter," Warden Brannigan said. "It's a voluntary job. You don't have to take it if you don't wish to."
Someone to take care of our young daughter. Tracy's mind was racing. This might make her escape easier. Working in the warden's house, she could probably learn a great deal more about the prison setup.
"Yes," Tracy said. "I'd like to take the job."
George Brannigan was pleased. He had an odd, unreasonable feeling that he owed this woman something. "Good. It pays sixty cents an hour. The money will be put in your account at the end of each month."
Prisoners were not allowed to handle cash, and all monies accumulated were handed over upon the prisoner's release.
l won't be here at the end of the month, Tracy thought, but aloud she said, "That will be fine."
"You can start in the morning. The head matron will give you the details."
"Thank you, Warden."
He looked at Tracy and was tempted to say something more. He was not quite sure what. Instead, he said, "That's all."
**********
When Tracy broke the news to Ernestine, the black woman said thoughtfully, "That means they gonna make you a trusty. You'll get the run of the prison. That might make bustin' out a little easier."
"How do I do it?" Tracy asked.
"You got three choices, but they're all risky. The first way is a sneak- out. You use chewin' gum one night to jam the locks on your cell door and the corridor doors. You sneak outside to the yard, throw a blanket over the barbed wire, and you're off and runnin'."
With dogs and helicopters after her. Tracy could feel the bullets from the guns of the guards tearing into her. She shuddered. "What are the other ways?"
"The second way's a breakout. That's where you use a gun and take a hostage with you. If they catch you, they'll give you a deuce with a nickel tail." She saw Tracy's puzzled expression. "That's another two to five years on your sentence."
"And the third way?"
"A walkaway. That's for trusties who are out on a work detail. Once you're out in the open, girl, you jest keep movin'."
Tracy thought about that. Without money and a car and a place to hide out, she would have no chance. "They'd find out I was gone at the next head count and come looking for me."
Ernestine sighed. "There ain't no perfect escape plan, girl. That's why no one's ever made it outta this place."
I will, Tracy vowed. I will.
**********
The morning Tracy was taken to Warden Brannigan's home marked her fifth month as a prisoner. She was nervous about meeting the warden's wife and child, for she wanted this job desperately. It was going to be her key to freedom.
Tracy walked into the large, pleasant kitchen and sat down. She could feel the perspiration bead and roll down from her underarms. A woman clad in a muted rose-colored housecoat appeared in the doorway.
She said, "Good morning." "Good morning."
The woman started to sit, changed her mind, and stood. Sue Ellen Brannigan was a pleasant-faced blonde in her middle thirties, with a vague, distracted manner. She was thin and hyper, never quite sure how to treat the convict servants. Should she thank them for doing their jobs, or just give them orders? Should she be friendly, or treat them like prisoners? Sue Ellen still had not gotten used to the idea of living in the midst of drug addicts and thieves and killers.
"I'm Mrs. Brannigan," she rattled on. "Amy is almost five years old, and you know how active they are at that age. I'm afraid she has to be watched all the time." She glanced at Tracy's left hand. There was no
wedding ring there, but these days, of course, that meant nothing. Particularly with the lower classes, Sue Ellen thought. She paused and asked delicately, "Do you have children?"
Tracy thought of her unborn baby. "No."
"I see." Sue Ellen was confused by this young woman. She was not at all what she had expected. There was something almost elegant about her. "I'll bring Amy in." She hurried out of the room.
Tracy looked around. It was a fairly large cottage, neat and attractively furnished. It seemed to Tracy that it had been years since she had been in anyone's home. That was all part of the other world, the world outside.
Sue Ellen came back into the room holding the hand of a young girl. "Amy, this is---" Did one call a prisoner by her first or last name? She compromised. "This is Tracy Whitney."
"Hi," Amy said. She had her mother's thinness and deepset, intelligent hazel eyes. She was not a pretty child, but there was an open friendliness about her that was touching.
I won't let her touch me.
"Are you going to be my new nanny?"
"Well, I'm going to help your mother look after you."
"Judy went out on parole, did you know that? Are you going out on parole, too?"
No, Tracy thought. She said, "I'm going to be here for a long while, Amy."
"That's good," Sue Ellen said brightly. She colored in embarrassment and bit her lip. "I mean---" She whirled around the kitchen and started explaining Tracy's duties to her. "You'll have your meals with Amy. You can prepare breakfast for her and play with her in the morning. The cook will make lunch here. After lunch, Amy has a nap, and in the afternoon she likes walking around the grounds of the farm. I think it's so good for a child to see growing things, don't you?"
"Yes."
The farm was on the other side of the main prison, and the twenty acres, planted with vegetables and fruit trees, were tended by trusties. There was a large artificial lake used for irrigation, surrounded by a stone wall that rose above it.
**********
The next five days were almost like a new life for Tracy. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed getting away from the bleak prison
walls, free to walk around the farm and breathe the fresh country air, but all she could think about was escaping. When she was not on duty with Amy, she was required to report back to the prison. Each night Tracy was locked in her cell, but in the daytime she had the illusion of freedom.
After breakfast in the prison kitchen, she walked over to the warden's cottage and made breakfast for Amy. Tracy had learned a good deal about cooking from Charles, and she was tempted by the varieties of foodstuffs on the warden's shelves, but Amy preferred a simple breakfast of oatmeal or cereal with fruit. Afterward, Tracy would play games with the little girl or read to her. Without thinking. Tracy began teaching Amy the games her mother had played with her.
Amy loved puppets. Tracy tried to copy Shari Lewis's Lamb Chop for her from one of the warden's old socks, but it turned out looking like a cross between a fox and a duck. "I think it's beautiful," Amy said loyally.
Tracy made the puppet speak with different accents: French, Italian, German, and the one Amy adored the most, Paulita's Mexican lilt. Tracy would watch the pleasure oft the child's face and think, I won't become involved. She's just my means of getting out of this place.
After Amy's afternoon nap, the two of them would take long walks, and Tracy saw to it that they covered areas of the prison grounds she had not seen before. She carefully observed every exit and entrance and how the guard towers were manned and noted when the shifts changed. It became obvious to her that none of the escape plans she had discussed with Ernestine would work.
"Has anyone ever tried to escape by hiding in one of the service trucks that deliver things to the prison? I've seen milk trucks and food---"
"Forget it," Ernestine said flatly. "Every vehicle comin' in and goin' out of the gate is searched."
**********
At breakfast one morning, Amy said, "I love you, Tracy. Will you be my mother?"
The words sent a pang through Tracy. "One mother is enough. You don't need two."
"Yes, I do. My friend Sally Ann's father got married again, and Sally Ann has two mothers."
"You're not Sally Ann," Tracy said curtly. "Finish your breakfast." Amy was looking at her with hurt eyes. "I'm not hungry anymore." "All right. I'll read to you, then."
As Tracy started to read, she felt Amy's soft little hand on hers.
"Can I sit on your lap?"
"No." Get your affection from your own family, Tracy thought. You don't belong to me. Nothing belongs to me.
**********
The easy days away from the routine of the prison somehow made the nights worse. Tracy loathed returning to her cell, hated being caged in like an animal. She was still unable to get used to the screams that came from nearby cells in the uncaring darkness. She would grit her teeth until her jaws ached. One night at a time, she promised herself. I can stand one night at a time.
She slept little, for her mind was busy planning. Step one was to escape. Step two was to deal with Joe Romano, Perry Pope, Judge Henry Lawrence, and Anthony Orsatti. Step three was Charles. But that was too painful even to think about yet. I'll handle that when the time comes, she told herself.
**********
It was becoming impossible to stay out of the way of Big Bertha. Tracy was sure the huge Swede was having her spied upon. If Tracy went to the recreation room, Big Bertha would show up a few minutes later, and when Tracy went out to the yard, Big Bertha would appear shortly afterward.
One day Big Bertha walked up to Tracy and said, "You're looking beautiful today, littbarn. I can't wait for us to get together."
"Stay away from me," Tracy warned.
The amazon grinned. "Or what? Your black bitch is gettin' out. I'm arrangin' to have you transferred to my cell."
Tracy stared at her.
Big Bertha nodded. "I can do it, honey. Believe it."
Tracy knew then her time was running out. She had to escape before Ernestine was released.
**********
Amy's favorite walk was through the meadow, rainbowed with colorful wildflowers. The huge artificial lake was nearby, surrounded by a low concrete wall with a long drop to the deep water.
"Let's go swimming," Amy pleaded. "Please, let's, Tracy?"
"It's not for swimming," Tracy said. "They use the water for irrigation." The sight of the cold, forbidding-looking lake made her shiver.
Her father was carrying her into the ocean on his shoulders, and when she cried out, her father said, Don't be a baby, Tracy, and he dropped her into the cold water, and when the water closed over her head she panicked and began to choke....
**********
When the news came, it was a shock, even though Tracy had expected it. "I'm gettin' outta here a week from Sattiday," Ernestine said.
The words sent a cold chill through Tracy. She had not told Ernestine about her conversation with Big Bertha. Ernestine would not be here to help her. Big Bertha probably had enough influence to have Tracy transferred to her cell. The only way Tracy could avoid it would be to talk to the warden, and she knew that if she did that, she was as good as dead. Every convict in the prison would turn on her. You gotta fight, fuck; or hit the fence. Well, she was going to hit the fence.
She and Ernestine went over the escape possibilities again. None of them was satisfactory.
"You ain't got no car, and you ain't got no one on the outside to he'p you. You're gonna get caught, sure as hell, and then you'll be worse off. You'd be better doin' cool time and flnishin' out your gig."
But Tracy knew there would be no cool time. Not with Big Bertha after her. The thought of what the giant bull-dyke had in mind for her made her physically ill.
**********
It was Saturday morning, seven days before Ernestine's release. Sue Ellen Brannigan had taken Amy into New Orleans for the weekend, and Tracy was at work in the prison kitchen.
"How's the nursemaid job goin'?" Ernestine asked. "All right."
"I seen that little girl. She seems real sweet." "She's okay." Her tone was indifferent.
"I'll sure be glad to get outta here. I'll tell you one thing, I ain't never comin' back to this joint. If there's anythin' Al or me kin do for you on the outside---"
"Coming through," a male voice called out.
Tracy turned. A laundryman was pushing a huge cart piled to the top with soiled uniforms and linens. Tracy watched, puzzled, as he headed for the exit.
"What I was sayin' was if me and Al can do anythin' for you--- you know--
- send you things or---"
"Ernie, what's a laundry truck doing here? The prison has its own laundry."
"Oh, that's for the guards," Ernestine laughed. "They used to send their uniforms to the prison laundry, but all the buttons managed to get ripped off, sleeves were torn, obscene notes were sewn inside, shirts were shrunk, and the material got mysteriously slashed. Ain't that a fuckin' shame, Miss Scarlett? Now the guards gotta send their stuff to an outside laundry." Ernestine laughed her Butterfly McQueen imitation.
Tracy was no longer listening. She knew how she was going to escape.
BOOK ONE
Chapter 11
"George, I don't think we should keep Tracy on."
Warden Brannigan looked up from his newspaper. "What? What's the problem?"
"I'm not sure, exactly. I have the feeling that Tracy doesn't like Amy. Maybe she just doesn't like children."
"She hasn't been mean to Amy, has she? Hit her, yelled at her?" "No..."
"What, then?"
"Yesterday Amy ran over and put her arms around Tracy, and Tracy pushed her away. It bothered me because Amy's so crazy about her. To tell you the truth, I might be a little jealous. Could that be it?"
Warden Brannigan laughed. "That could explain a lot, Sue Ellen. I think Tracy Whitney is just right for the job. Now, if she gives you any real problems, let me know, and I'll do something about it."
"All right, dear." Sue Ellen was still not satisfied. She picked up her needlepoint and began stabbing at it. The subject was not closed yet.
"Why can't it work?"
"I tol' you, girl. The guards search every truck going through the gate."
"But a truck carrying a basket of laundry--- they're not going to dump out the laundry to check it."
"They don' have to. The basket is taken to the utility room, where a guard watches it bein' filled."
Tracy stood there thinking. "Ernie... could someone distract that guard for five minutes?"
"What the hell good would---?" She broke off, a slow grin lighting her face. "While someone pumps him full of sunshine, you get into the bottom of the hamper and get covered up with laundry!" She nodded. "You know, I think the damned thing might work."
"Then you'll help me?"
Ernestine was thoughtful for a moment. Then she said softly, "Yeah. I'll he'p you. It's my last chance to give Big Bertha a kick in the ass."
The prison grapevine buzzed with the news of Tracy Whitney's impending escape. A breakout was an event that affected all prisoners. The inmates lived vicariously through each attempt, wishing they had the courage to try it themselves. But there were the guards and the dogs and the helicopters, and, in the end, the bodies of the prisoners who had been brought back.
With Ernestine's help, the escape plan moved ahead swiftly. Ernestine took Tracy's measurements, Lola boosted the material for a dress from the millinery shop, and Paulita had a seamstress in another cell block make it. A pair of prison shoes was stolen from the wardrobe department and dyed to match the dress. A hat, gloves, and purse appeared, as if by magic.
"Now we gotta get you some ID," Ernestine informed Tracy "You'll need a couple a credit cards and a driver's license."
"How can I---?"
Ernestine grinned. "You jest leave it to old Ernie Littlechap."
The following evening Ernestine handed Tracy three major credit cards in the name of Jane Smith.
"Next, you need a driver's license."
**********
Sometime after midnight Tracy heard the door of her cell being opened. Someone had sneaked into the cell. Tracy sat up in her bunk, instantly on guard.
A voice whispered, "Whitney? Let's go."
Tracy recognized the voice of Lillian, a trusty. "What do you want?" Tracy asked.
Ernestine's voice shot out of the darkness. "What kind of idiot child did your mother raise? Shut up and don't ask questions."
Lillian said softly, "We got to do this fast. If we get caught, they'll have my ass. Come on."
"Where are we going?" Tracy asked, as she followed Lillian down the dark corridor to a stairway. They went up to the landing above and, after making sure there were no guards about, hurried down a hallway until they came to the room where Tracy had been fingerprinted and photographed.
Lillian pushed the door open. "In here," she whispered.
Tracy followed her into the room. Another inmate was waiting inside. "Step up against the wall." She sounded nervous.
Tracy moved against the wall, her stomach in knots. "Look into the camera. Come on. Try and took relaxed."
Very funny, Tracy thought. She had never been so nervous in her life. The camera clicked.
"The picture will be delivered in the morning," the inmate said. "It's for your driver's license. Now get out of here--- fast."
Tracy and Lillian retraced their steps. On the way, Lillian said, "I hear you're changin' cells."
Tracy froze. "What?"
"Didn't you know? You're movin' in with Big Bertha."
**********
Ernestine, Lola, and Paulita were waiting up for Tracy when she returned. "How'd it go?"
"Fine."
Didn't you know? You're movin' in with Big Bertha. "The dress'll be ready for you Sattiday," Paulita said.
The day of Ernestine's release. That's my deadline, Tracy thought.
Ernestine whispered, "Everythin' is cool. The laundry pickup Sattiday is two o'clock. You gotta be in the utility room by one-thirty. You don' have to worry about the guard. Lola will keep him busy next door. Paulita will be in the utility room waitin' for you. She'll have your clothes.
Your ID will be in your purse. You'll be drivin' out the prison gates by two-fifteen."
Tracy found it difficult to breathe. Just talking about the escape made her tremble. Nobody gives a shit if they bring you back dead or alive.... They figure dead is better.
In a few days she would be making her break for freedom. She had no illusions: The odds were against her. They would eventually find her and bring her back. But there was something she had sworn to take care of first.
**********
The prison grapevine knew all about the contest that had been fought between Ernestine Littlechap and Big Bertha over Tracy. Now that the word was out that Tracy was being transferred to Big Bertha's cell, it was no accident that no one had mentioned anything, to Big Bertha about Tracy's escape plan: Big Bertha did not like to hear bad news. She was often apt to confuse the news with the bearer and treat that person accordingly.
Big Bertha did not learn about Tracy's plan until the morning the escape was to take place, and it was revealed to her by the trusty who had taken Tracy's picture.
Big Bertha took the news in ominous silence. Her body seemed to grow bigger as she listened.
"What time?" was all she asked.
"This afternoon at two o'clock, Bert. They're gonna hide her in the bottom of a laundry hamper in the utility room."
Big Bertha thought about it for a long time. Then she waddled over to a matron and said, "I gotta see Warden Brannigan right away."
**********
Tracy had not slept all night. She was sick with tension. The months she had been in prison seemed like a dozen eternities. Images of the past flashed through her mind as she lay on her bunk, staring into the dark.
I feel like a princess in a fairy tale, Mother. I didn't know anyone could be this happy.
So! You and Charles want to get married. How long a honeymoon are you planning?
You shot me, you bitch!...
Your mother committed suicide.... I never really knew you....
The wedding picture of Charles smiling at his bride.... How many eons ago? How many planets away?
**********
The morning bell clanged through the corridor like a shock wave. Tracy sat up on her bunk, wide awake. Ernestine was watching her. "How you feelin', girl?"
"Fine," Tracy lied. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was beating erratically.
"Well, we're both leavin' here today." Tracy found it hard to swallow. "Uh-huh."
"You sure you kin get away from the warden's house by one-thirty?" "No problem. Amy always takes a nap after lunch."
Paulita said, "You can't be late, or it won't work." "I'll be there."
Ernestine reached under her mattress and took out a roll of bills. "You're gonna need some walkin' around money. It's only two hundred bucks, but it'll get you on your way."
"Ernie, I don't know what to---"
"Oh, jest shut up, girl, and take it."
**********
Tracy forced herself to swallow some breakfast. Her head was pounding, and every muscle in her body ached. I'll never make it through the day, she thought. I've got to make it through the day.
There was a strained, unnatural silence in the kitchen, and Tracy suddenly realized she was the cause of it. She was the object of knowing looks and nervous whispers. A breakout was about to happen, and she was the heroine of the drama. In a few hours she would be free. Or dead.
She rose from her unfinished breakfast and headed for Warden Brannigan's house. As Tracy waited for a guard to unlock the corridor door, she came face-to-face with Big Bertha. The huge Swede was grinning at her.
She's going to be in for a big surprise, Tracy thought. She's all mine now, Big Bertha thought.
**********
The morning passed so slowly that Tracy felt she would go out of her mind. The minutes seemed to drag on interminably. She read to Amy and had
no idea what she was reading. She was aware of Mrs. Brannigan watching from the window.
"Tracy, let's play hide-and-seek."
Tracy was too nervous to play games, but she dared not do anything to arouse Mrs. Brannigan's suspicions. She forced a smile. "Sure. Why don't you hide first, Amy?"
They were in the front yard of the bungalow. In the far distance Tracy could see the building where the utility room was located. She had to be there at exactly 1:30. She would change into the street clothes that had been made for her, and by 1:45 she would be lying in the bottom of the large clothes hamper, covered over with uniforms and linens. At 2:00 the laundryman would come by for the hamper and wheel it out to his truck. By 2:15 the truck would drive through the gates on its way to the nearby town where the laundry plant was located.
The driver can't see in the back of the truck from the front seat. When the truck gets to town and stops for a red light, just open the door, step out, real cool, and catch a bus to wherever you're goin'.
"Can you see me?" Amy called. She was half-hidden behind the trunk of a magnolia tree. She held her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
I'll miss her, Tracy thought. When I leave here, the two people I'll miss will be a black, bald-headed bull-dyke and a young girl. She wondered what Charles Stanhope III would have made of that.
"I'm coming to find you," Tracy said.
**********
Sue Ellen watched the game from inside the house. It seemed to her that Tracy was acting strangely. All morning she had kept looking at her watch, as though expecting someone, and her mind was obviously not on Amy.
I must speak to George about it when he comes home for lunch, Sue Ellen decided. I'm going to insist that he replace her.
**********
In the yard, Tracy and Amy played hopscotch for a while, then jacks, and Tracy read to Amy, and finally, blessedly, it was twelve-thirty, time for Amy's lunch. Time for Tracy to make her move. She took Amy into the cottage.
"I'll be leaving now, Mrs. Brannigan."
"What? Oh. Didn't anyone tell you, Tracy? We're having a delegation of VIP visitors today. They'll be having lunch here at the house, so Amy won't be having her nap. You may take her with you."
Tracy stood there, willing herself not to scream. "I--- I can't do that, Mrs. Brannigan."
Sue Ellen Brannigan stiffened. "What do you mean you can't do that?"
Tracy saw the anger in her face and she thought, l mustn't upset her. She'll call the warden, and I'll be sent back to my cell.
Tracy forced a smile. "I mean... Amy hasn't had her lunch. She'll be hungry."
"I've had the cook prepare a picnic lunch for both of you. You can go for a nice walk in the meadow and have it there. Amy enjoys picnics, don't you, darling?"
"I love picnics." She looked at Tracy pleadingly. "Can we, Tracy? Can we?"
No! Yes. Careful. It could still work.
Be in the utility room by one-thirty. Don't be late.
Tracy looked at Mrs. Brannigan. "What--- what time do you want me to bring Amy back?"
"Oh, about three o'clock. They should be gone by then."
So would the truck. The world was tumbling in on her. "I---" Are you all right? You look pale."
That was it. She would say she was ill. Go to the hospital.
But then they would want to check her over and keep her there. She would never be able to get out in time. There had to be some other way.
Mrs. Brannigan was staring at her. "I'm fine."
There's something wrong with her, Sue Ellen Brannigan decided. I'm definitely going to have George get someone else.
Amy's eyes were alight with joy. "I'll give you the biggest sandwiches, Tracy. We'll have a good time, won't we?"
Tracy had no answer.
**********
The VIP tour was a surprise visit. Governor William Haber himself was escorting the prison reform committee through the penitentiary. It was something that Warden Brannigan had to live with once a year.
"It goes with the territory, George," the governor had explained. "Just clean up the place, tell your ladies to smile pretty, and we'll get our budget increased again."
The word had gone out from the chief guard that morning: "Get rid of all the drugs, knives, and dildos."
Governor Haber and his party were due to arrive at 10:00 A.M. They would inspect the interior of the penitentiary first, visit the farm, and then have lunch with the warden at his cottage.
Big Bertha was impatient. When she had put in a request to see the warden, she had been told, "The warden is very pressed for time this morning. Tomorrow would be easier. He---"
"Fuck tomorrow!" Big Bertha had exploded. "I want to see him now. It's important."
There were few inmates in the prison who could have gotten away with it, but Big Bertha was one of them. The prison authorities were well aware of her power. They had seen her start riots, and they had seen her stop them. No prison in the world could be run without the cooperation of the inmate leaders, and Big Bertha was a leader.
She had been seated in the warden's outer office for almost an hour, her huge body overflowing the chair she sat in. She's a disgusting-looking creature, the warden's secretary thought. She gives me the creeps.
"How much longer?" Big Bertha demanded.
"It shouldn't be too much longer. He has a group of people in with him. The warden's very busy this morning."
Big Bertha said, "He's gonna be busier." She looked at her watch. Twelve- forty-five. Plenty of time.
**********
It was a perfect day, cloudless and warm, and the singing breeze carried a tantalizing mixture of scents across the green farmland. Tracy had spread out a tablecloth on a grassy area near the lake, and Amy was happily munching on an egg salad sandwich. Tracy glanced at her watch. It was already 1:00. She could not believe it. The morning had dragged and the afternoon was winging by. She had to think of something quickly, or time was going to steal away her last chance at freedom.
**********
One-ten. In the warden's reception office Warden Brannigan's secretary put down the telephone and said to Big Bertha, "I'm sorry. The warden says it's impossible for him to see you today. We'll make another appointment for---"
Big Bertha pushed herself to her feet. "He's got to see me! It's---"
"We'll fit you in tomorrow."
Big Bertha started to say, "Tomorrow will be too late," but she stopped herself in time. No one but the warden himself must know what she was doing. Snitches suffered fatal accidents. But she had no intention of giving up. There was no way she was going to let Tracy Whitney get away from her. She walked into the prison library and sat down at one of the long tables at the far end of the room. She scribbled a note, and when the matron walked over to an aisle to help an inmate, Big Bertha dropped the note on her desk and left.
When the matron returned, she found the note and opened it. She read it twice:
YOU BETTER CHEK THE LAUNDREY TRUCK TO DAY.
There was no signature. A hoax? The matron had no way of knowing. She picked up the telephone. "Get me the superintendent of guards..."
**********
One-fifteen. "You're not eating," Amy said. "You want some of my sandwich?"
"No! Leave me alone." She had not meant to speak so harshly.
Amy stopped eating. "Are you mad at me, Tracy? Please don't be mad at me. I love you so much. I never get mad at you." Her soft eyes were filled with hurt.
"I'm not angry." She was in hell.
"I'm not hungry if you're not. Let's play ball, Tracy." And Amy pulled her rubber ball out of her pocket.
One-sixteen. She should have been on her way. It would take her at least fifteen minutes to get to the utility room. She could just make it if she hurried. But she could not leave Amy alone. Tracy looked around, and in the far distance she saw a group of trusties picking crops. Instantly, Tracy knew what she was going to do.
"Don't you want to play ball, Tracy?"
Tracy rose to her feet. "Yes. Let's play a new game. Let's see who can throw the ball the farthest. I'll throw the ball, and then it will be your turn." Tracy picked up the hard rubber ball and threw it as far as she could in the direction of the workers.
"Oh, that's good," Amy said admiringly. "That's real far." "I'll go get the ball," Tracy said. "You wait here."
And she was running, running for her life, her feet flying across the fields. It was 1:18. If she was late, they would wait for her. Or would they? She ran faster. Behind her, she heard Amy calling, but she paid no attention. The farm workers were moving in the other direction now. Tracy yelled at them, and they stopped. She was breathless when she reached them.
"Anythin' wrong?" one of them asked.
"No, n--- nothing." She was panting, fighting for breath. "The little girl back there. One of you look after her. I have something important I have to do. I---"
She heard her name called from a distance and turned. Amy was standing on top of the concrete wall surrounding the lake. She waved. "Look at me, Tracy."
"No! Get down!" Tracy screamed.
And as Tracy watched in horror, Amy lost her balance and plunged into the lake.
"Oh, dear God!" The blood drained from Tracy's face. She had a choice to make, but there was no choice. I can't help her. Not now. Someone will save her. I have to save myself. I've got to get out of this place or I'll die. It was 1:20.
Tracy turned and began running as fast as she had ever run in her life. The others were calling after her, but she did not hear them. She flew through the air, unaware that her shoes had fallen off, not caring that the sharp ground was cutting into her feet. Her heart was pounding, and her lungs were bursting, and she pushed herself to run faster, faster. She reached the wall around the lake and vaulted on top of it: Far below, she could see Amy in the deep, terrifying water, struggling to stay afloat. Without a second's hesitation, Tracy jumped in after her. And as she hit the water, Tracy thought; Oh, my God! I can't swim....
BOOK TWO
Chapter 12
New Orleans
FRIDAY, AUGUST 25--- lO:OO A.M.
Lester Torrance, a teller at the First Merchants Bank of New Orleans, prided himself on two things: his sexual prowess with the ladies and his ability to size up his customers. Lester was in his late forties, a lanky, sallow-faced man with a Tom Selleck mustache and long sideburns. He had been passed over for promotion twice, and in retaliation, Lester used the bank as a personal dating service. He could spot hookers a mile away, and he enjoyed trying to persuade them to give him their favors for nothing. Lonely widows were an especially easy prey. They came in all
shapes, ages, and states of desperation, and sooner or later they would appear in front of Lester's cage. If they were temporarily overdrawn, Lester would lend a sympathetic ear and delay bouncing their checks. In return, perhaps they could have a quiet little dinner together? Many of his female customers sought his help and confided delicious secrets to him: They needed a loan without their husbands' knowledge They
wanted to keep confidential certain checks they had written.... They were contemplating a divorce, and could Lester help them close out their joint account right away? Lester was only too eager to please. And to be pleased.
On this particular Friday morning, Lester knew he had hit the jackpot. He saw the woman the moment she walked in the door of the bank. She was an absolute stunner. She had sleek black hair falling to her shoulders, and she wore a tight skirt And sweater that outlined a figure a Las Vegas chorine would have envied.
There were four other tellers in the bank, and the young woman's eyes went from one cage to the other, as though seeking help. When she glanced at Lester, he nodded eagerly and gave her an encouraging smile. She walked over to his cage, just as Lester had known she would.
"Good morning," Lester said warmly. "What may I do for you?" He could see her nipples pushing against her cashmere sweater, and he thought, Baby, what I'd like to do for you!
"I'm afraid I have a problem," the woman said softly. She had the most delightful southern accent Lester had ever heard.
"That's what I'm here for," he said heartily, "to solve problems." "Oh, I do hope so. I'm afraid I've done somethin' just terrible."
Lester gave her his best paternal, you-can-lean-on-me smile. "I can't believe a lovely lady like you could do anything terrible."
"Oh, but I have." Her soft brown eyes were wide with panic. "I'm Joseph Romano's secretary, and he told me to order new blank checks for his checking account a week ago, and I simply forgot all about it, and now we've just about run out, and when he finds out, I don't know what he'll do to me." It came out in a soft, velvety rush.
Lester was only too familiar with the name of Joseph Romano. He was a prized customer of the bank's, even though he kept relatively small amounts in his account. Everyone knew that his real money was laundered elsewhere.
He sure has great taste in secretaries, Lester thought. He smiled again. "Well, now, that's not too serious, Mrs ?"
"Miss. Hartford. Lureen Hartford."
Miss. This was his lucky day. Lester sensed that this was going to work out splendidly. "I'll just order those new checks for you right now. You should have them in two or three weeks and---"
She gave a little moan, a sound that seemed to Lester to hold infinite promise. "Oh, that's too late, and Mr. Romano's already so upset with me. I just can't seem to keep my mind on my work, you know?" She leaned forward so that her breasts were touching the front of the cage. She said breathlessly, "If you could just rush those checks out, I'd be happy to pay extra."
Lester said ruefully, "Gee, I'm sorry, Lureen, it would be impossible to-
--" He saw that she was near to tears.
"To tell you the truth, this might cost me my job. Please... I'll do anything."
The words fell like music on Lester's ears.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," Lester declared. "I'll phone in a special rush on them, and you'll have them Monday. How's that?"
"Oh, you're just wonderful!" Her voice was filled with gratitude. "I'll send them to the office and---"
"It would be better if I picked them up myself. I don't want Mr. Romano to know how stupid I was."
Lester smiled indulgently. "Not stupid, Lureen. We all get a little forgetful sometimes."
She said softly, "I'll never forget you. See you Monday." "I'll be here." It would take a broken back to keep him home.
She gave him a dazzling smile and walked slowly out of the bank, and her walk was a sight to behold. Lester was grinning as he went over to a file cabinet, got the number of Joseph Romano's account, and phoned in a rush order for the new checks.
**********
The hotel on Carmen Street was indistinguishable from a hundred other hotels in New Orleans, which was why Tracy had chosen it. She had been in the small, cheaply furnished room for a week. Compared to her cell, it was a palace.
When Tracy returned from her encounter with Lester, she took off the black wig, ran her fingers through her own luxuriant hair, removed the soft contact lenses, and creamed off her dark makeup. She sat down on the single straight chair in the room and breathed deeply. It was going well. It had been easy to learn where Joe Romano kept his bank account. Tracy
had looked up the canceled check from her mother's estate, issued by Romano. "Joe Romano? You can't touch him," Ernestine had said.
Ernestine was wrong and Joe Romano was just the first. The others would follow. Every one of them.
She closed her eyes and relived the miracle that had brought her there....
**********
She felt the cold, dark waters closing over her head. She was drowning, and she was filled with terror. She dived down, and her hands found the child and grabbed her and pulled her to the surface. Amy struggled in blind panic to break free, dragging them both under again, her arms and legs flailing wildly. Tracy's lungs were bursting. She fought her way out of the watery grave, hanging on to the little girl in a death grip, and she felt her strength ebbing. We're not going to make it, she thought.
We're dying. Voices were calling out, and she felt Amy's body torn from her arms and she screamed, "Oh, God, no!" Strong hands were around Tracy's waist and a voice said, "Everything's fine now. Take it easy.
It's over."
Tracy looked around frantically for Amy and saw that she was safe in a man's arms. Moments later they were both hauled up from the deep, cruel water....
The incident would have been worth no more than a paragraph on the inside page of the morning newspapers, except for the fact that a prisoner who could not swim had risked her life to save the child of the warden.
Overnight the newspapers and television commentators turned Tracy into a heroine. Governor Haber himself visited the prison hospital with Warden Brannigan to see Tracy.
"That was a very brave thing you did," the warden said. "Mrs. Brannigan and I want you to know how grateful we are." His voice was choked with emotion.
Tracy was still weak and shaken from her experience. "How is Amy?" "She's going to be fine."
Tracy closed her eyes. I couldn't have borne it if anything had happened to her, she thought. She remembered her coldness, when all the child had wanted was love, and Tracy felt bitterly ashamed. The incident had cost her her chance to escape, but she knew that if she had it to do over again, she would do the same thing.
There was a brief inquiry into the accident.
"It was my fault," Amy told her father. "We were playing ball, and Tracy ran after the ball and told me to wait, but I climbed up on the wall so I could see her better and I fell in the water. But Tracy saved me, Daddy."
They kept Tracy in the hospital that night for observation, and the next morning she was taken to Warden Brannigan's office. The media was waiting for her. They knew a human-interest story when they saw one, and stringers from UPI and the Associated Press were present; the local television station had sent a news team.
That evening the report of Tracy's heroism unfolded, and the account of the rescue went on national television and began to snowball. Time, Newsweek, People, and hundreds of newspapers all over the country carried the story. As the press coverage continued, letters .and telegrams poured into the penitentiary, demanding that Tracy Whitney be pardoned.
Governor Haber discussed it with Warden Brannigan.
"Tracy Whitney is in here for some serious crimes," Warden Brannigan observed.
The governor was thoughtful. "But she has no previous record, right, George?"
"That's right, sir."
"I don't mind telling you, I'm getting a hell of a lot of pressure to do something about her."
"So am I, Governor."
"Of course, we can't let the public tell us how to run our prisons, can we?"
"Certainly not."
"On the other hand," the governor said judiciously, "the Whitney girl has certainly demonstrated a remarkable amount of courage. She's become quite a heroine."
"No question about it," Warden Brannigan agreed.
The governor paused to light a cigar. "What's your opinion, George?"
George Brannigan chose his words carefully. "You're aware, of course, Governor, that I have a very personal interest in this. It was my child she saved. But, putting that aside, I don't think Tracy Whitney is the criminal type, and I can't believe she would be a danger to society if she were out in the world. My strong recommendation is that you give her a pardon."
The governor, who was about to announce his candidacy for a new term, recognized a good idea when he heard it. "Let's play this close to the chest for a bit." In politics, timing was everything.
**********
After discussing it with her husband, Sue Ellen said to Tracy, "Warden Brannigan and I would like it very much if you moved into the cottage. We have a spare bedroom in back. You could take care of Amy full-time."
"Thank you," Tracy said gratefully. "I would like that."
**********
It worked out perfectly. Not only did Tracy not have to spend each night locked away in a cell, but her relationship with Amy changed completely. Amy adored Tracy, and Tracy responded. She enjoyed being with this bright, loving little girl. They played their old games and watched Disney movies on television and read together. It was almost like being part of a family.
But whenever Tracy had an errand that took her into the cell blocks, she invariably ran into Big Bertha.
"You're a lucky bitch," Big Bertha growled. "But you'll be back here with the common folks one day soon. I'm workin' on it, littbarn."
**********
Three weeks after Amy's rescue Tracy and Amy were playing tag in the yard when Sue Ellen Brannigan hurried out of the house. She stood there a moment watching them. "Tracy, the warden just telephoned. He would like to see you in his office right away."
Tracy was filled with a sudden fear. Did it mean that she was going to be transferred back to the prison? Had Big Bertha used her influence to arrange it. Or had Mrs. Brannigan decided that Amy and Tracy were getting too close?
"Yes, Mrs. Brannigan."
The warden was standing in the doorway of his office when Tracy was escorted in. "You'd better sit down," he said.
Tracy tried to read the answer to her fate from the tone of his voice.
"I have some news for you." He paused, filled with some emotion that Tracy did not understand. "I have just received an order from the governor of Louisiana," Warden Brannigan went on, "giving you a full pardon, effective immediately."
Dear God, did he say what I think he said? She was afraid to speak.
"I want you to know," the warden continued, "that this is not being done because it was my child you saved. You acted instinctively in the way any decent citizen would have acted. By no stretch of the imagination could I ever believe that you would be a threat to society." He smiled and added, "Amy is going to miss you. So are we."
Tracy had no words. If the warden only knew the truth: that if the accident had not happeped, the warden's men would have been out hunting her as a fugitive.
"You'll be released the day after tomorrow."
Her "getup." And still Tracy could not absorb it. "I--- I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything. Everyone here is very proud of you. Mrs. Brannigan and I expect you to do great things on the outside."
So it was true: She was free. Tracy felt so weak that she had to steady herself against the arm of the chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was firm. "There's a lot I want to do, Warden Brannigan."
**********
On Tracy's last day in prison an inmate from Tracy's old cell block walked up to her. "So you're getting out."
"That's right."
The woman, Betty Franciscus, was in her early forties, still attractive, with an air of pride about her.
"If you need any help on the outside, there's a man you should see in New York. His name is Conrad Morgan." She slipped Tracy a piece of paper. "He's into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who've been in prison."
"Thank you, but I don't think I'll need---" "You never know. Keep his address."
Two hours later, Tracy was walking through the penitentiary gates, moving past the television cameras. She would not speak to the reporters, but when Amy broke away from her mother and threw herself into Tracy's arms, the cameras whirred. That was the picture that came out over the evening news.
Freedom to Tracy was no longer simply an abstract word. It was something tangible, physical, a condition to be enjoyed and savored. Freedom meant breathing fresh air, privacy, not standing in lines for meals, not listening for bells. It meant hot baths and good-smelling soaps, soft lingerie, pretty dresses, and high-heeled shoes. It meant having a name instead of a number. Freedom meant escape from Big Bertha and fear of gang rapes and the deadly monotony of prison routine.
Tracy's newfound freedom took getting used to. Walking along a street, she was careful not to jostle anyone. In the penitentiary bumping into another prisoner could be the spark that set off a conflagration. It was the absence of constant menace that Tracy found most difficult to adjust to. No one was threatening her.
She was free to carry out her plans.
**********
In Philadelphia, Charles Stanhope III saw Tracy on television, leaving the prison. She's still beautiful, he thought. Watching her, it seemed impossible that she had committed any of the crimes for which she had been convicted. He looked at his exemplary wife, placidly seated across the room, knitting. I wonder if I made a mistake.
**********
Daniel Cooper watched Tracy on the television news in his apartment in New York. He was totally indifferent to the fact that she had been released from prison. He clicked off the television set and returned to the file he was working on.
**********
When Joe Romano saw the television news, he laughed aloud. The Whitney girl was a lucky bitch. I'll bet prison was good for her. She must be really horny by now. Maybe one day we'll meet again.
Romano was pleased with himself. He had already passed the Renoir to a fence, and it had been purchased by a private collector in Zurich. Five hundred grand from the insurance company, and another two hundred thousand from the fence. Naturally, Romano had split the money with Anthony Orsatti. Romano was very meticulous in his dealings with him, for he had seen examples of what happened to people who were not correct in their transactions with Orsatti.
**********
At noon on Monday Tracy, in her Lureen Hartford persona, returned to the First Merchants Bank of New Orleans. At that hour it was crowded with customers. There were several people in front of Lester Torrance's window. Tracy joined the line, and when Lester saw her, he beamed and nodded. She was even more goddamned beautiful than he had remembered.
When Tracy finally reached his window, Lester crowed, "Well, it wasn't easy, but I did it for you, Lureen."
A warm, appreciative smile lit Lureen's face. "You're just too wonderful."
"Yes, sir, got 'em right here." Lester opened a drawer, found the box of checks he had carefully put away, and handed it to her. "There you are. Four hundred blank checks. Will that be enough?"
"Oh, more than enough, unless Mr. Romano goes on a check-writing spree." She looked into Lester's eyes and sighed, "You saved my life."
Lester felt a pleasurable stirring in his groin. "I believe people have to be nice to people, don't you, Lureen?"
"You're so right, Lester."
"You know, you should open your own account here. I'd take real good care of you. Real good."
"I just know you would," Tracy said softly.
"Why don't you and me talk about it over a nice quiet dinner somewhere?" "I'd surely love that."
"Where can I call you, Lureen?"
"Oh, I'll call you, Lester." She moved away.
"Wait a min---" The next customer stepped up and handed the frustrated Lester a sackful of coins.
In the center of the bank were four tables that held containers of blank deposit and withdrawal slips, and the tables were crowded with people busily filling out forms. Tracy moved away from Lester's view. As a customer made room at a table, Tracy took her place. The box that Lester had given her contained eight packets of blank checks. But it was not the checks Tracy was interested in: It was the deposit slips at the back of the packets.
She carefully separated the deposit slips from the checks and, in fewer than three minutes, she was holding eighty deposit slips in her hand.
Making sure she was unobserved, Tracy put twenty of the slips in the metal container.
She moved on to the next table, where she placed twenty more deposit slips. Within a few minutes, all of them had been left on the various tables. The deposit slips were blank, but each one contained a magnetized code at the bottom, which the computer used to credit the various accounts. No matter who deposited money, because of the magnetic code, the computer would automatically credit Joe Romano's account with each deposit. From her experience working in a bank, Tracy knew that within two days all the magnetized deposit slips would be used up and that it would take at least five days before the mix-up was noticed. That would give her more than enough time for what she planned to do.
On the way back to her hotel, Tracy threw the blank checks into a trash basket. Mr. Joe Romano would not be needing them.
Tracy's next stop was at the New Orleans Holiday Travel Agency. The young woman behind the.desk asked, "May I help you?"
"I'm Joseph Romano's secretary. Mr. Romano would like to make a reservation for Rio de Janeiro. He wants to leave this Friday."
"Will that be one ticket?"
"Yes. First class. An aisle seat. Smoking, please." "Round trip?"
"One way."
The travel agent turned to her desk computer. In a few seconds, she said, "We're all set. One first-class seat on Pan American's Flight seven twenty-eight, leaving at six-thirty-five P.M. on Friday, with a short stopover in Miami."
"He'll be very pleased," Tracy assured the woman.
"That will be nineteen hundred twenty-nine dollars. Will that be cash or charge?"
"Mr. Romano always pays cash. COD. Could you have the ticket delivered to his office on Thursday, please?"
"We could have it delivered tomorrow, if you like."
"No. Mr. Romano won't be there tomorrow. Would you make it Thursday at eleven A.M.?"
"Yes. That will be fine. And the address?"
"Mr. Joseph Romano, Two-seventeen Poydras Street, Suite four-zero-eight."
The woman made a note of it. "Very well. I'll see that it's delivered Thursday morning."
"Eleven sharp," Tracy said. "Thank you."
Half a block down the street was the Acme Luggage Store. Tracy studied the display in the window before she walked inside.
A clerk approached her. "Good morning. And what can I do for you this morning?"
"I want to buy some luggage for my husband."
"You've come to the right place. We're having a sale. We have some nice, inexpensive---"
"No," Tracy said. "Nothing inexpensive."
She stepped over to a display of Vuitton suitcases stacked against a wall. ""That's more what I'm looking for. We're going away on a trip."
"Well, I'm sure he'll be pleased with one of these. We have three different sizes. Which one would---?"
"I'll take one of each."
"Oh. Fine. Will that be charge or cash?"
"COD. The name is Joseph Romano. Could you have them delivered to my husband's office on Thursday morning?"
"Why, certainly, Mrs. Romano." "At eleven o'clock?"
"I'll see to it personally."
As an afterthought, Tracy added, "Oh... would you put his initials on them--- in gold? That's J.R."
"Of course. It will be our pleasure, Mrs. Romano." Tracy smiled and gave him the office address.
At a nearby Western Union office, Tracy sent a paid cable to the Rio Othon Palace on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro. It read: REQUEST YOUR BEST SUITE COMMENCING THIS FRIDAY FOR TWO MONTHS. PLEASE CONFIRM BY COLLECT CABLE. JOSEPH ROMANO, 217 POYDRAS STREET, SUITE 408, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, USA.
Three days later Tracy telephoned the bank and asked to speak to Lester Torrance. When she heard his voice, she said softly, "You probably don't remember me, Lester, but this is Lureen Hartford, Mr. Romano's secretary, and---"
Not remember her! His voice was eager. "Of course I remember you, Lureen. I---"
"You do? Why, I'm flattered. You must meet so many people."
"Not like you," Lester assured her. "You haven't forgotten about our dinner date, have you?"
"You don't know how much I'm lookin' forward to it. Would next Tuesday suit you, Lester?"
"Great!"
"Then it's a date. Oh. I'm such an idiot! You got me so excited talkin' to you I almost forgot why I called. Mr. Romano asked me to check on his bank balance. Would you give me that figure?"
"You bet. No trouble at all."
Ordinarily, Lester Torrance would have asked for a birth date or some form of identification from the caller, but in this case it was certainly not necessary. No, Sir. "Hang on, Lureen," he said.
He walked over to the file, pulled out Joseph's Romano's sheet, and studied it in surprise. There had been an extraordinary number of deposits made to Romano's account in the past several days. Romano had never kept so much money in his account before. Lester Torrance wondered what was going on. Some big deal, obviously. When he had dinner with Lureen Hartford, he intended to pump her. A little inside information never hurt. He returned to the phone.
"Your boss has been keeping us busy," he told Tracy. "He has just over three hundred thousand dollars in his checking account."
"Oh, good. That's the figure I have."
"Would he like us to transfer it to a money market account? It's not drawing any interest sitting here, and I could---"
"No. He wants it right where it is," Tracy assured him. "Okay."
"Thank you so much, Lester. You're a darlin'."
"Wait a minute! Should I call you at the office about the arrangements for Tuesday?"
"I'll call you, honey," Tracy told him. And the connection was broken.
**********
The modern high-rise office building owned by Anthony Orsatti stood on Poydras Street between the riverfront and the gigantic Louisiana Superdome, and the offices of the Pacific Import-Export Company occupied the entire fourth floor of the building. At one end of the suite were Orsatti's offices, and at the other end, Joe Romano's rooms. The space in between was occupied by four young receptionists who were available evenings to entertain Anthony Orsatti's friends and business acquaintances. In front of Orsatti's suite sat two very large men whose lives were devoted to guarding their boss. They also served as chauffeurs, masseurs, and errand boys for the capo.
On this Thursday morning Orsatti was in his office checking out the previous day's receipts from running numbers, bookmaking, prostitution, and a dozen other lucrative activities that the Pacific Import-Export Company controlled.
Anthony Orsatti was in his late sixties. He was a strangely built man, with a large, heavy torso and short, bony legs that seemed to have been designed for a smaller man. Standing up he looked like a seated frog. He had a face crisscrossed with an erratic web of scars that could have been woven by a drunken spider, an oversized mouth, and black, bulbous eyes.
He had been totally bald from the age of fifteen after an attack of alopecia, and had worn a black wig ever since. It fitted him badly, but
in all the years no one had dared mention it to his face. Orsatti's cold eyes were gambler's eyes, giving away nothing, and his face, except when he was with his five daughters, whom he adored, was expressionless. The only clue to Orsatti's emotions was his voice. He had a hoarse, raspy voice, the result of a wire having been tightened around his throat on his twenty-first birthday, when he had been left for dead. The two men who had made that mistake had turned up in the morgue the following week. When Orsatti got really upset, his voice lowered to a strangled whisper that could barely be heard.
Anthony Orsatti was a king who ran his fiefdom with bribes, guns, and blackmail. He ruled New Orleans, and it paid him obeisance in the form of untold riches. The capos of the other Families across the country respected him and constantly sought his advice.
At the moment, Anthony Orsatti was in a benevolent mood. He had had breakfast with his mistress, whom he kept in an apartment building he owned in Lake Vista. He visited her three times a week, and this morning's visit had been particularly satisfactory. She did things to him in bed that other women never dreamed of, and Orsatti sincerely believed it was because she loved him so much. His organization was running smoothly. There were no problems, because Anthony Orsatti knew how to solve difficulties before they became problems. He had once explained his philosophy to Joe Romano: "Never let a little problem become a big problem, Joe, or it grows like a fuckin' snowball. You got a precinct captain who thinks he oughta get a bigger cut--- you melt him, see? No more snowball. You get some hotshot from Chicago who asks permission to open up his own little operation here in New Orleans? You know that pretty soon that 'little' operation is gonna turn into a big operation and start cuttin' into your profits. So you say yes, and then when he gets here, you melt the son of a bitch. No more snowball. Get the picture?"
Joe Romano got the picture.
Anthony Orsatti loved Romano. He was like a son to him. Orsatti had picked him up when Romano was a punk kid rolling drunks in alleys. He himself had trained Romano, and now the kid could tap-dance his way around with the best of them. He was fast, he was smart, and he was honest. In ten years Romano had risen to the rank of Anthony Orsatti's chief lieutenant. He supervised all the Family's operations and reported only to Orsatti.
Lucy, Orsatti's private secretary, knocked and came into the office. She was twenty-four years old, a college graduate, with a face and figure that had won several local beauty contests. Orsatti enjoyed having beautiful young women around him.
He looked at the clock on his desk. It was 10:45. He had told Lucy he did not want any interruptions before noon. He scowled at her. "What?"
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Orsatti. There's a Miss Gigi Dupres on the phone. She sounds hysterical, but she won't tell me what she wants. She
insists on speaking with you personally. I thought it might be important."
Orsatti sat there, running the name through the computer in his brain. Gigi Dupres? One of the broads he had up in his suite his last time in Vegas? Gigi Dupres? Not that he could remember, and he prided himself on a mind that forgot nothing. Out of curiosity, Orsatti picked up the phone and waved a dismissal at Lucy.
"Yeah? Who's this?"
"Is thees Mr. Anthony Orsatti?" She had a French accent. "So?"
"Oh, thank God I get hold of you, Meester Orsatti!"
Lucy was right. The dame was hysterical. Anthony Orsatti was not interested. He started to hang up, when her voice went on.
"You must stop him, please!"
"Lady, I don't know who you're talkin' about, and I'm a busy---"
"My Joe. Joe Romano. He promised to take me with him, comprenez-vous?"
"Hey, you got a beef with Joe, take it up with him. I ain't his nursemaid."
"He lie to me! I just found out he is leave for Brazil without me. Half of that three hundred thousand dollars is mine."
Anthony Orsatti suddenly found he was interested, after all. "What three hundred thousand you talkin' about?"
"The money Joe is hiding in his checking account. The money he--- how you say?--- skimmed."
Anthony Orsatti was very interested.
"Please tell Joe he must take me to Brazil with him. Please! Weel you do thees?"
"Yeah;" Anthony Orsatti promised. "I'll take care of it."
**********
Joe Romano's office was modern, all white and chrome, done by one of New Orleans's most fashionable decorators. The only touches of color were the three expensive French Impressionist paintings on the walls. Romano prided himself on his good taste. He had fought his way up from the slums of New Orleans, and on the way he had educated himself. He had an eye for paintings and an ear for music. When he dined out, he had long, knowledgeable discussions with the sommelier about wines. Yes, Joe Romano
had every reason to be proud. While his contemporaries had survived by using their fists, he had succeeded by using his brains. If it was true that Anthony Orsatti owned New Orleans, it was also true that it was Joe Romano who ran it for him.
His secretary walked into his office. "Mr. Romano, there's a messenger here with an airplane ticket for Rio de Janeiro. Shall I write out a check? It's COD."
"Rio de Janeiro?" Romano shook his head. "Tell him there's some mistake."
The uniformed messenger was in the doorway. "I was told to deliver this to Joseph Romano at this address."
"Well, you were told wrong. What is this, some kind of a new airline promotion gimmick?"
"No, sir. I---"
"Let me see that." Romano took the ticket from the messenger's hand and looked at it. "Friday. Why would I be going to Rio on Friday?"
"That's a good question," Anthony Orsatti said. He was standing behind the messenger. "Why would you, Joe?"
"It's some kind of dumb mistake, Tony." Romano handed the ticket back to the messenger. "Take this back where it came from and---"
"Not so fast." Anthony Orsatti took the ticket and examined it. "It says here one first-class ticket, aisle seat, smoking, to Rio de Janeiro for Friday. One way."
Joe Romano laughed. "Someone made a mistake." He turned to his secretary. "Madge, call the travel agency and tell them they goofed. Some poor slob is going to be missing his plane ticket."
Joleen, the assistant secretary, walked in. "Excuse me, Mr. Romano. The luggage has arrived. Do you want me to sign for it?"
Joe Romano stared at her. "What luggage? I didn't order any luggage." "Have them bring it in," Anthony Orsatti commanded.
"Jesus!" Joe Romano said. "Has everyone gone nuts?"
A messenger walked in carrying three Vuitton suitcases. "What's all this? I never ordered those."
The messenger checked his delivery slip. "It says Mr. Joseph Romano, Two- seventeen Poydras Street, Suite four-zero-eight?"
Joe Romano was losing his temper. "I don't care what the fuck it says. I didn't order them. Now get them out of here."
Orsatti was examining the luggage. "They have your initials on them, Joe."
"What? Oh. Wait a minute! It's probably some kind of present. "Is it your birthday?"
"No. But you know how broads are, Tony. They're always givin' you gifts." "Have you got somethin' going in Brazil?" Anthony Orsatti inquired.
"Brazil?" Joe Romano laughed. "This must be someone's idea of a joke, Tony."
Orsatti smiled gently, then turned to the secretaries and the two messengers. "Out."
When the door was closed behind them, Anthony Orsatti spoke. "How much money you got in your bank account, Joe?"
Joe Romano looked at him, puzzled. "I don't know. Fifteen hundred, I guess, maybe a couple of grand. Why?"
"Just for fun, why don't you call your bank and check it out?" "What for? I---"
"Check it out, Joe."
"Sure. If it'll make you happy." He buzzed his secretary. "Get me the head bookkeeper over at First Merchants."
A minute later she was on the line.
"Hello, honey. Joseph Romano. Would you give me the current balance in my checking account? My birth date is October fourteenth."
Anthony Orsatti picked up the extension phone. A few moments later the bookkeeper was back on the line.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Romano. As of this morning, your checking account balance is three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five dollars and thirty-five cents."
Romano could feel the blood draining from his face. "It's what?" "Three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five---"
"You stupid bitch!" he yelled. "I don't have that kind of money in my account. You made a mistake. Let me talk to the---"
He felt the telephone being taken out of his hand, as Anthony Orsatti replaced the receiver. "Where'd that money come from, Joe?"
Joe Romano's face was pale. "I swear to God, Tony, I don't know anything about that money."
"No?"
"Hey, you've got to believe me! You know what's happening? Someone is setting me up."
"It must be someone who likes you a lot. He gave you a going-away present of three hundred ten thousand dollars." Orsatti sat down heavily on the Scalamander silk-covered armchair and looked at Joe Romano for a long moment, then spoke very quietly. "Everything was all set, huh? A one-way ticket to Rio, new luggage... Like you was planning a whole new life."
"No!" There was panic in Joe Romano's voice. "Jesus, you know me better than that, Tony. I've always been on the level with you. You're like a father to me."
He was sweating now. There was a knock at the door, and Madge poked her head in. She held an envelope.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Romano. There's a cable for you, but you have to sign for it yourself."
With the instincts of a trapped animal, Joe Romano said, "Not now. I'm busy."
"I'll take it," Anthony Orsatti said, and he was out of the chair before the woman could close the door. He took his time reading the cable, then he focused his eyes on Joe Romano.
In a voice so low that Romano could barely hear him, Anthony Orsatti said, "I'll read it to you, Joe. 'Pleased to confirm your reservation for our Princess Suite for two months this Friday, September first.' It's signed, 'S. Montalband, manager, Rio Othon Palace, Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro.' It's your reservation, Joe. You won't be needin' it, will you?"
BOOK TWO
Chapter 13
Andre Gillian was in the kitchen making preparations for spaghetti alla carbonara, a large Italian salad, and a pear torte when he heard a loud, ominous popping sound, and a moment later the comfortable hum of the central air conditioner trailed off into silence.
Andre stamped his foot and said, "Merde! Not the night of the game."
He hurried to the utility closet where the breaker box was located and flicked the electrical switches, one by one. Nothing happened.
Oh, Mr. Pope was going to be furious. Simply furious! Andre knew how much his employer looked forward to his weekly Friday-night poker game. It was a tradition that had been going on for years, and it was always with the same elite group of players. Without air-conditioning, the house would be unbearable. Simply unbearable! New Orleans in September was only for the uncivilized. Even after the sun went down, there was no relief from the heat and humidity.
Andre returned to the kitchen and consulted the kitchen clock. Four o'clock. The guests would be arriving at 8:00. Andre thought about telephoning Mr. Pope and telling him the problem, but then he remembered that the lawyer had said he was going to be tied up in court all day. The dear man was so busy. He needed his relaxation. And now this!
Andre took a small black telephone book from a kitchen drawer, looked up a number, and dialed.
After three rings, a metallic voice intoned, "You have reached the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Service. Our technicians are not available at this time. If you will leave your name and number and a brief message, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep."
Foutre! Only in America were you forced to hold a conversation with a machine.
A shrill, annoying beep sounded in Andre's ear. He spoke into the mouthpiece: "This is the residence of Monsieur Perry Pope, Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning has ceased to function. You must send someone here as quickly as possible. Vite!"
He slammed down the receiver. Of course no one was available. Air- conditioning was probably going off all over this dreadful city. It was impossible for air conditioners to cope with the damnable heat and humidity. Well, someone had better come soon. Mr. Pope had a temper. A nasty temper.
In the three years Andre Gillian had worked as a cook for the attorney, he had learned how influential his employer was. It was amazing. All that brilliance in one so young. Perry Pope knew simply everybody. When he snapped his fingers, people jumped.
It seemed to Andre Gillian that the house was already feeling warmer. Ça va chier dur. If something is not done quickly, the shit's going to hit the fan.
As Andre went back to cutting paper-thin slices of salami and provolone cheese for the salad, he could not shake the terrible feeling that the evening was fated to be a disaster.
When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Andre's clothes were soaked with perspiration, and the kitchen was like an oven. Gillian hurried to open the back door.
Two workmen in overalls stood in the doorway, carrying toolboxes. One of them was a tall black man. His companion was white, several inches shorter, with a sleepy, bored look on his face. In the rear driveway stood their service truck.
"Gotta problem with your air-conditioning?" the black man asked.
"Oui! Thank heaven you're here. You've just got to get it working right away. There'll be guests arriving soon."
The black man walked over to the oven, sniffed the baking torte, and said, "Smells good."
"Please!" Gillian urged. "Do something!"
"Let's take a look in the furnace room," the short man said. "Where is it?"
"This way."
Andre hurried them down a corridor to a utility room, where the air- conditioning unit stood.
"This is a good unit, Ralph," the black man said to his companion. "Yeah, Al. They don't make 'em like this anymore."
"Then for heaven's sake why isn't it working?" Gillian demanded. They both turned to stare at him.
"We just got here," Ralph said reprovingly. He knelt down and opened a small door at the bottom of the unit, took out a flashlight, got down on his stomach, and peered inside. After a moment, he rose to his feet. "The problem's not here."
"Where is it, then?" Andre asked.
"Must be a short in one of the outlets. Probably shorted out the whole system. How many air-conditioning vents do you have?"
"Each room has one. Let's see. That must be at least nine."
"That's probably the problem. Transduction overload. Let's go take a look."
The three of them trooped back down the hall. As they passed the living room, Al said, "This is sure a beautiful place Mr. Pope has got here."
The living room was exquisitely furnished, filled with signed antiques worth a fortune. The floors were covered with muted-colored Persian rugs. To the left of the living room was a large, formal dining room, and to the right a den, with a large green baize-covered gaming table in the center. In one corner of the room was a round table, already set up for supper. The two servicemen walked into the den, and Al shone his flashlight into the air-conditioning vent high on the wall.
"Hmm," he muttered. He looked up at the ceiling over the card table. "What's above this room?"
"The attic."
"Let's take a look."
The workmen followed Andre up to the attic, a long, low-ceilinged room, dusty and spattered with cobwebs.
Al walked over to an electrical box set in the wall. He inspected the tangle of wires. "Ha!"
"Did you find something?" Andre asked anxiously.
"Condenser problem. It's the humidity. We musta had a hundred calls this week. It's shorted out. We'll have to replace the condenser."
"Oh, my God! Will it take long?"
"Naw. We got a new condenser out in the truck."
"Please hurry," Andre begged them. "Mr. Pope is going to be home soon." "You leave everything to us," Al said.
Back in the kitchen, Andre confided, "I must finish preparing my salad dressing. Can you find your way back up to the attic?"
Al raised a hand: "No sweat, pal. You just go on about your business, and we'll go on about ours."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you."
Andre watched the men go out to the truck and return with two large canvas bags. "If you need anything," he told them, "just call me."
"You betcha!"
The workmen went up the stairs, and Andre returned to his kitchen.
When Ralph and Al reached the attic, they opened their canvas bags and removed a small folding camp chair, a drill with a steel bit, a tray of sandwiches, two cans of beer, a pair of 12 by 40 Zeiss binoculars for viewing distant objects in a dim light, and two live hamsters that had been injected with three quarters of a milligram of acetyl promazine.
The two men went to work.
"Ol Ernestine is gonna be proud of me," Al chortled as they started.
**********
In the beginning, Al had stubbornly resisted the idea.
"You must be outta your mind, woman. I ain't gonna fuck around with no Perry Pope. That dude'll come down on my ass so hard I'll never see daylight again."
"You don't gotta worry about him. He won't never be botherin' no one again."
They were naked on the water bed in Ernestine's apartment. "What you gettin' out of this deal, anyway, honey" Al demanded. "He's a prick."
"Hey, baby, the world's full of pricks, but you don't spend your life goin' around cuttin' off their balls."
"All right. I'm doin' it for a friend." "Tracy?"
"That's right."
Al liked Tracy. They had all had dinner together the day she got out of prison.
"She's a classy dame," Al admitted. "But why we stickin' our necks out for her?"
"Because if we don't he'p her, she's gonna have to settle for someone who ain't half as good as you, and if she gets caught, they'll cart her ass right back to the joint."
Al sat up in bed and looked at Ernestine curiously. "Does it mean that much to you, baby?"
"Yeah, hon."
She would never be able to make him understand it, but the truth was simply that Ernestine could not stand the thought of Tracy back in prison at the mercy of Big Bertha. It was not only Tracy whom Ernestine was concerned about: It was herself. She had made herself Tracy's protector, and if Big Bertha got her hands on her, it would be a defeat for Ernestine.
So all she said now was, "Yeah. It means a lot to me, honey. You gonna, do it?"
"I damn sure can't do it alone," Al grumbled.
And Ernestine knew she had won. She started nibbling her way down his long, lean body. And she murmured, "Wasn't ole Ralph due to be released a few days ago...?"
**********
It was 6:30 before the two men returned to Andre's kitchen, grimy with sweat and dust.
"Is it fixed?" Andre asked anxiously.
"It was a real bitch," Al informed him. "You see, what you got here is a condenser with an AC/DC cutoff that---"
"Never mind that," Andre interrupted impatiently. "Did you fix it?"
"Yeah. It's all set. In five minutes we'll have it goin' again as good as new."
"Formidable! If you'll just leave your bill on the kitchen table---" Ralph shook his head. "Don't worry about it. The company'll bill you." "Bless you both. Au 'voir."
Andre watched the two men leave by the back door, carrying their canvas bags. Out of his sight, they walked around to the yard and opened the casing that housed the outside condenser of the air-conditioning unit. Ralph held the flashlight while Al reconnected the wires he had loosened a couple hours earlier. The air-conditioning unit immediately sprang into life.
Al copied down the telephone number on the service tag attached to the condenser. When he telephoned the number a short time later and reached the recorded voice of the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Company, Al said, "This is Perry Pope's residence at Forty-two Charles Street. Our air- conditioning is workin' fine now. Don't bother to send anyone. Have a nice day."
**********
The weekly Friday-night poker game at Perry Pope's house was an event to which all the players eagerly looked forward. It was always the same carefully selected group: Anthony Orsatti, Joe Romano, Judge Henry Lawrence, an alderman, a state senator, and of course their host. The stakes were high, the food was great, and the company was raw power.
Perry Pope was in his bedroom changing into white silk slacks and matching sport shirt. He hummed happily, thinking of the evening ahead.
He had been on a winning streak lately. In fact, my whole life is just one big winning streak, he thought.
If anyone needed a legal favor in New Orleans, Perry Pope was the attorney to see. His power came from his connections with the Orsatti Family. He was known as The Arranger, and could fix anything from a traffic ticket to a drug-dealing charge to a murder rap. Life was good.
When Anthony Orsatti arrived, he brought a guest with him. "Joe Romano won't be playin' anymore," Orsatti announced. "You all know Inspector Newhouse."
The men shook hands all around.
"Drinks are on the sideboard, gentlemen," Perry Pope said.
"We'll have supper later. Why don't we start a little action going?"
The men took their accustomed chairs around the green felt table in the den. Orsatti pointed to Joe Romano's vacant chair and said to Inspector Newhouse, "That'll be your seat from now on, Mel."
While one of the men opened fresh decks of cards, Pope began distributing poker chips. He explained to Inspector Newhouse, "The black chips are five dollars, red chips ten dollars, blue chips fifty dollars, white chips a hundred. Each man starts out buying five hundred dollars' worth of chips. We play table stakes, three raises, dealer's choice."
"Sounds good to me," the inspector said.
Anthony Orsatti was in a bad mood. "Come on. Let's get started." His voice was a strangled whisper. Not a good sign.
Perry Pope would have given a great deal to learn what had happened to Joe Romano, but the lawyer knew better than to bring up the subject.
Orsatti would discuss it with him when he was ready.
Orsatti's thoughts were black: I been like a father to Joe Romano. I trusted him, made him my chief lieutenant. And the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back. If that dizzy French dame hadn't telephoned, he might have gotten away with it, too. Well, he won't ever get away with nothin' again. Not where he is. If he's so clever, let him fuck around with the fish down there.
"Tony, are you in or out?"
Anthony Orsatti turned his attention back to the game. Huge sums of money had been won and lost at this table. It always upset Anthony Orsatti to lose, and it had nothing to do with money. He could not bear to be on the losing end of anything. He thought of himself as a natural-born winner.
Only winners rose to his position in fife. For the last six weeks, Perry Pope had been on some kind of crazy winning streak, and tonight Anthony Orsatti was determined to break it.
Since they played dealer's choice, each dealer chose the game in which he felt the strongest. Hands were dealt for five-card stud, seven-card stud, low ball, draw poker--- but tonight, no matter which game was chosen, Anthony Orsatti kept finding himself on the losing end. He began to increase his bets, playing recklessly, trying to recoup his losses. By midnight when they stopped to have the meal Andre had prepared, Orsatti was out $50,000, with Perry Pope the big winner.
The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.
"You're not eating, Tony," Perry Pope said.
"I'm not hungry." Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry.
He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.
"What the hell's goin' on upstairs?" Anthony Orsatti asked.
Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Tony?"
The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.
"It sounds to me like you have mice," the senator said. "Not in this house." Perry Pope was indignant.
"Well, you sure as hell got somethin'," Orsatti growled. A larger piece of plaster fell on the green felt table.
"I'll have Andre take care of it," Pope said. "If we're finished eating, why don't we get back to the game?"
Anthony Orsatti was staring up at a small hole in the ceiling directly above his head. "Hold it. Let's go take a look up there."
"What for, Tony? Andre can---"
Orsatti had already risen and started for the stairway. The others looked at one another, then hurried after him.
"A squirrel probably got into the attic," Perry Pope guessed. "This time of year they're all over the place: Probably hiding his nuts for the winter." He laughed at his little joke.
When they reached the door to the attic, Orsatti pushed it open, and Perry Pope turned on the light. They caught a glimpse of two white hamsters frantically racing around the room.
"Jesus!" Perry Pope said. "I've got rats!"
Anthony Orsatti was not listening. He was staring at the room. In the middle of the attic was a camp chair with a packet of sandwiches on top of it and two open cans of beer. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of binoculars.
Orsatti walked over to them, picked up the objects one by one, and examined them. Then he got down on his knees on the dusty floor and moved the tiny wooden cylinder that concealed a peephole that had been drilled into the ceiling. Orsatti put his eye to the peephole. Directly beneath him the card table was clearly visible.
Perry Pope was standing in the middle of the attic, dumbfounded. "Who the hell put all this junk up here? I'm going to raise hell with Andre about this."
Orsatti rose slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his trousers.
Perry Pope glanced down at the floor. "Look!" he exclaimed. "They left a goddamned hole in the ceiling. Workmen today aren't worth a shit."
He crouched down and took a look through the hole, and his face suddenly lost its color. He stood up and looked around, wildly, to find all the men staring at him.
"Hey!" Perry Pope said. "You don't think I---? Come on, fellas, this is me. I don't know anything about this. I wouldn't cheat you. My God, we're friends!" His hand flew to his mouth, and he began biting furiously at his cuticles.
Orsatti patted him on the arm. "Don't worry about it." His voice was almost inaudible.
Perry Pope kept gnawing desperately at the raw flesh of his right thumb.
BOOK TWO
Chapter 14
"That's two down, Tracy," Ernestine Littlechap chortled. "The word on the street is that your lawyer friend Perry Pope ain't practicin' law no more. He had a real bad accident."
They were having café au lait and beignets at a small sidewalk café off Royal Street.
Ernestine gave a high giggle. "You got a brain, girl. You wouldn't like to go into business with me, would you?"
"Thanks, Ernestine. I have other plans." Ernestine asked eagerly, "Who's next?" "Lawrence. Judge Henry Lawrence."
**********
Henry Lawrence had begun his career as a small-town lawyer in Leesville, Louisiana. He had very little aptitude for the law, but he had two very important attributes: He was impressive-looking, and he was morally flexible. His philosophy was that the law was a frail rod, meant to be bent to suit the needs of his clients. With that in mind, it was not surprising that shortly after he moved to New Orleans, Henry Lawrence's law practice began to flourish with a special group of clients. He went from handling misdemeanors and traffic accidents to handling felonies and capital crimes, and by the time he reached the big leagues, he was an expert at suborning juries, discrediting witnesses, and bribing anyone who could help his case. In short, he was Anthony Orsatti's kind of man, and it was inevitable that the paths of the two should cross. It was a marriage made in Mafia heaven. Lawrence became the mouthpiece for the Orsatti Family, and when the timing was right, Orsatti had him elevated to a judgeship.
**********
"I don't know how you kin nail the judge," Ernestine said. "He's rich an' powerful an' untouchable."
"He's rich and powerful," Tracy corrected her, "but he's not untouchable."
Tracy had worked out her plan, but when she telephoned Judge Lawrence's chambers, she knew, immediately, that she would have to change it.
"I'd like to speak to Judge Lawrence, please."
A secretary said, "I'm sorry, Judge Lawrence is not in." "When do you expect him?" Tracy asked.
"I really couldn't say."
"It's very important. Will he be in tomorrow morning?" "No. Judge Lawrence is out of town."
"Oh. Perhaps I can reach him somewhere?"
"I'm afraid that would be impossible. His Honor is out of the country."
Tracy carefully kept the disappointment from her voice. "I see. May I ask where?" .
"His Honor is in Europe, attending an international judiciary symposium." "What a shame," Tracy said.
"Who's calling, please?"
Tracy's mind was racing. "This is Elizabeth Rowane Dastin, chairwoman of the southern division of the American Trial Lawyers' Association. We're having our annual awards dinner in New Orleans on the twentieth of this month, and we've chosen Judge Henry Lawrence to be our man of the year."
"That's lovely," the judge's secretary said, "but I'm afraid His Honor won't be back by then."
"What a pity. We were all so looking forward to hearing one of his famous speeches. Judge Lawrence was the unanimous choice of our selection committee."
"He'll be disappointed to miss it."
"Yes. I'm sure you know what a great honor this is. Some of our country's most prominent judges have been chosen in the past. Wait a minute! I have an idea. Do you suppose the judge might tape a brief acceptance speech for us--- a few words of thanks, perhaps?"
"Well, I--- I really can't say. He has a very busy schedule---"
"There'll be a great deal of national television and newspaper coverage."
There was a silence. Judge Lawrence's secretary knew how much His Honor enjoyed media coverage. In fact, as far as she could see, the tour he was presently on seemed to be mainly for that purpose.
She said, "Perhaps he might find time to record a few words for you. I could ask him."
"Oh, that would be wonderful," Tracy enthused. "It would really make the whole evening."
"Would you like His Honor to address his remarks toward anything specific?"
"Oh, definitely. We'd like him to talk about---" She hesitated. "I'm afraid it's a bit complicated. It would be better if I could explain it to him directly."
There was a momentary silence. The secretary faced a dilemma. She had orders not to reveal her boss's itinerary. On the other hand, it would be just like him to blame her if he missed receiving an award as important as this.
She said, "I'm really not supposed to give out any information, but I'm sure he would want me to make an exception for something as prestigious as this. You can reach him in Moscow, at the Rossia Hotel. He'll be there for the next five days, and after that---"
"Wonderful. I'll get in touch with him right away. Thank you so much." "Thank you, Miss Dastin."
**********
The cables were addressed to Judge Henry Lawrence, Rossia Hotel, Moscow. The first cable read:
NEXT JUDICIARY COUNCIL MEETING CAN NOW BE ARRANGED. CONFIRM CONVENIENT DATE AS SPACE MUST BE REQUESTED. BORIS.
The second cable, which arrived the next day, read: ADVISE PROBLEM TRAVEL PLANS.
YOUR SISTER'S PLANE ARRIVED LATE
BUT LANDED SAFELY. LOST PASSPORT AND MONEY. SHE WILL BE PLACED IN FIRST-CLASS SWISS HOTEL. WILL SETTLE ACCOUNT LATER.
BORIS.
The last cable read:
YOUR SISTER WILL TRY AMERICAN EMBASSY TO OBTAIN TEMPORARY PASSPORT.
NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE YET ON NEW VISA SWISS MAKE RUSSIANS SEEM SAINTS.
WILL SHIP SISTER TO YOU SOONEST. BORIS.
The NKVD sat back and waited to see if there were any further cables. When no more were forthcoming, they arrested Judge Lawrence.
The interrogation lasted for ten days and nights. "To whom did you send the information?"
"What information? I don't know what you're talking about." "We're talking about the plans. Who gave you the plans?" "What plans?"
"The plans for the Soviet atomic submarine."
"You must be crazy. What do I know about Soviet submarines?"
"That's what we intend to find out. Who were your secret meetings with?"
"What secret meetings? I have no secrets." "Good. Then you can tell us who Boris is." "Boris, who?"
"The man who deposited money in your Swiss account." "What Swiss account?"
They were furious. "You're a stubborn fool," they told him. "We're going to make an example of you and all the other American spies trying to undermine our great motherland."
By the time the American ambassador was permitted to visit him, Judge Henry Lawrence had lost fifteen pounds. He could not remember the last time his captors had allowed him to sleep, and he was a trembling wreck of a man.
"Why are they doing this to me?" the judge croaked. "I'm an American citizen. I'm a judge. For God's sake, get me out of here!"
"I'm doing everything I can," the ambassador assured him. He was shocked by Lawrence's appearance. The ambassador had greeted Judge Lawrence and the other members of the Judiciary Committee when they had arrived two weeks earlier. The man the ambassador met then bore no resemblance to the cringing, terrified creature who groveled before him now.
What the hell are the Russians up to this time? the ambassador wondered. The judge is no more a spy than I am. Then he thought wryly, I suppose I could have chosen a better example.
The ambassador demanded to see the president of the Politburo, and when the request was refused, he settled for one of the ministers.
"I must make a formal protest," the ambassador angrily declared. "Your country's behavior in the treatment of Judge Henry Lawrence is inexcusable. To call a man of his stature a spy is ridiculous."
"If you're quite finished," the minister said coldly, "you will please take a look at these."
He handed copies of the cables to the ambassador.
The ambassador read them and looked up, bewildered. "What's wrong with them? They're perfectly innocent."
"Really? Perhaps you had better read them again. Decoded." He handed the ambassador another copy of the cables. Every fourth word had been underlined.
NEXT JUDICIARY COUNCIL MEETING CAN NOW BE ARRANGED. CONFIRM CONVENIENT DATE AS SPACE MUST BE REQUESTED.
BORIS
ADVISE PROBLEM TRAVEL PLANS. YOUR SISTER'S PLANE ARRIVED LATE
BUT LANDED SAFELY. LOST PASSPORT AND MONEY. SHE WILL BE PLACED IN FIRST-CLASS SWISS HOTEL. WILL SETTLE ACCOUNT LATER.
BORIS
YOUR SISTER WILL TRY AMERICAN EMBASSY TO OBTAIN TEMPORARY PASSPORT.
NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE YET ON NEW VISA. SWISS MAKE RUSSIANS SEEM SAINTS.
WILL SHIP SISTER TO YOU SOONEST. BORIS
I'll be a son of a bitch, the ambassador thought.
The press and public were barred from the trial. The prisoper remained stubborn to the last, continuing to deny he was in the Soviet Union on a spying mission. The prosecution promised him leniency if he would divulge who his bosses were, and Judge Lawrence would have given his soul to have been able to do so, but alas, he could not.
The day after the trial there was a brief mention in Pravda that the notorious American spy Judge Henry Lawrence had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to Siberia for fourteen years of hard labor.
The American intelligence community was baffled by the Lawrence case. Rumors buzzed among the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service, and the Treasury Department.
"He's not one of ours," the CIA said. "He probably belongs to Treasury."
The Treasury Department disclaimed any knowledge of the case. "No, Sir. Lawrence isn't our baby. Probably the fucking FBI butting into our territory again."
"Never heard of him," the FBI said. "He was probably run by State, or the Defense Intelligence Agency."
The Defense Intelligence Agency, as much in the dark as the others, cannily said, "No comment."
Each agency was sure that Judge Henry Lawrence had been sent abroad by one of the others.
"Well, you've got to admire his guts," the head of the CIA said. "He's tough. He hasn't confessed and he hasn't named names. To tell you the truth, I wish we had a lot more like him."
**********
Things were not going well for Anthony Orsatti, and the capo was unable to figure out why. For the first time in his life, his luck was going bad. It had started with Joe Romano's defection, then Perry Pope, and now the judge was gone, mixed up in some crazy spy deal. They had all been an intrinsic part of Orsatti's machine--- people he had relied on.
Joe Romano had been the linchpin in the Family organization, and Orsatti had not found anyone to take his place. The business was being run sloppily, and complaints were coming in from people who had never dared complain before. The word was out that Tony Orsatti was getting old, that he couldn't keep his men in line, that his organization was coming apart.
The final straw was a telephone call from New Jersey.
"We hear you're in a little trouble back there; Tony. We'd like to help you out."
"I ain't in no trouble," Orsatti bristled. "Sure, I've had a couple a problems lately, but they're all straightened out."
"That's not what we hear, Tony. The word's out that your town's goin' a little wild; there's no one controlling it."
"I'm controlling it."
"Maybe it's too much for you. Could be you're working too hard. Maybe you need a little rest."
"This is my town. No one's takin' it away from me."
"Hey, Tony, who said anything about taking it away from you? We just want to help. The Families back east got together and decided to send a few of our people down there to give you a little hand. There's nothing wrong with that between old friends, is there?"
Anthony Orsatti felt a deep chill go through him. There was only one thing wrong with it: The little hand was going to become a big hand, and it was going to snowball.
**********
Ernestine had prepared shrimp gumbo for dinner, and it was simmering on the stove while she and Tracy waited for Al to arrive. The September heat wave had burned itself deeply into everyone's nerves, and when Al finally walked into the small apartment, Ernestine screamed, "Where the hell you been? The fuckin' dinner's burning, and so am I"
But Al's spirits were too euphoric to be affected. "I been busy diggin' the scam, woman. An' wait'll you hear what I got." He turned to Tracy. "The mob's puttin' the arm on Tony Orsatti. The Family from New Jersey's comin' in to take over." His face split into a broad grin. "You got the son of a bitch!" He looked into Tracy's eyes, and his smile died. "Ain't you happy, Tracy?"
What a strange word, Tracy thought. Happy. She had forgotten what it meant. She wondered whether she would ever be happy again, whether she would ever feel any normal emotions again. For so long now, her every waking thought had been to avenge what had been done to her mother and herself. And now that it was almost finished, there was only an emptiness inside her.
**********
The following morning Tracy stopped at a florist. "I want some flowers delivered to Anthony Orsatti. A funeral wreath of white carnations on a stand, with a wide ribbon. I want the ribbon to read: 'REST IN PEACE.' " She wrote out a card. It said, FROM DORIS WHITNEY'S DAUGHTER.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 15
Philadelphia
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 7--- 4:00 P.M.
It was time to deal with Charles Stanhope III. The others had been strangers. Charles had been her lover, the father of her unborn child, and he had turned his back on both of them.
Ernestine and Al had been at the New Orleans Airport to see Tracy off.
"I'm gonna miss you," Ernestine had said. "You sure set this town on its ass. They oughta run you for people's mayor."
"Whatcha gonna do in Philly?" Al had asked.
She had told them half the truth. "Go back to my old job at the bank."
Ernestine and Al had exchanged a glance. "They--- er--- know you're comin'?"
"No. But the vice-president likes me. There won't be a problem. Good computer operators are hard to find."
"Well, good luck. Keep in touch, ya hear? And stay out of trouble, girl." Thirty minutes later Tracy had been in the air, bound for Philadelphia.
**********
She checked into the Hilton Hotel and steamed out her one good dress over the hot tub. At 11:00 the following morning she walked into the bank and approached Clarence Desmond's secretary.
"Hello, Mae."
The girl stared at Tracy as though she were seeing a ghost. "Tracy!" She did not know where to look. "I--- how are you?"
"Fine. Is Mr. Desmond in?"
"I--- I don't know. Let me see. Excuse me." She rose from her chair, flustered, and hurried into the vice-president's office.
She came out a few moments later. "You may go in." She edged away as Tracy walked toward the door.
What's the matter with her? Tracy wondered. Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.
"Hello, Mr. Desmond. Well, I've come back," Tracy said brightly. "What for?" His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.
It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. "Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought ---"
"You thought I'd give you back your old job?"
"Well, yes, sir. I haven't forgotten any of my skills. I can still---"
"Miss Whitney." It was no longer Tracy. "I'm sorry, but what you're asking is quite out of the question. I'm sure you can understand that our customers would not wish to deal with someone who served time in the penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder. That would hardly fit in with our high ethical image. I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. I would suggest that you try to find employment more suitable to your circumstances. I hope you understand there is nothing personal in this."
Tracy listened to his words, first with shock and then with growing anger. He made her sound like an outcast, a leper. We wouldn't want to lose you. You're one of our most valuable employees.
"Was there anything else, Miss Whitney?" It was a dismissal.
There were a hundred things Tracy wanted to say, but she knew they would do no good. "No. I think you've said it all." Tracy turned and walked out the office door, her face burning. All the bank employees seemed to be staring at her. Mae had spread the word: The convict had come back. Tracy moved toward the exit, head held high, dying inside. I can't let them do this to me. My pride is all I have left, and no one is going to take that away from me.
**********
Tracy stayed in her room all day, miserable. How could she have been naive enough to believe that they would welcome her back with open arms? She was notorious now. "You're the headline in the Philadelphia Daily News." Well, to hell with Philadelphia, Tracy thought. She had some unfinished business there, but when that was done, she would leave. She would go to New York, where she would be anonymous. The decision made her feel better.
That evening, Tracy treated herself to dinner at the Café Royal. After the sordid meeting with Clarence Desmond that morning, she needed the reassuring atmosphere of soft lights, elegant surroundings, and soothing music. She ordered a vodka martini, and as the waiter brought it to her table, Tracy glanced up, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Seated in a booth across the room were Charles and his wife. They had not yet seen her. Tracy's first impulse was to get up and leave. She was not ready to face Charles, not until she had a chance to put her plan into action.
"Would you like to order now?" the captain was asking.
"I'll--- I'll wait, thank you." She had to decide whether she was going to stay.
She looked over at Charles again, and an astonishing phenomenon occurred: It was as though she were looking at a stranger. She was seeing a sallow, drawn-looking, middle-aged, balding man, with stooped shoulders and an air of ineffable boredom on his face. It was impossible to believe that she had once thought she loved this man, that she had slept with him, planned to spend the rest of her life with him. Tracy glanced at his wife. She wore the same bored expression as Charles. They gave the impression of two people trapped together for eternity, frozen in time.
They simply sat there, speaking not one word to each other. Tracy could visualize the endless, tedious years ahead of the two of them. No love. No joy. That is Charles's punishment, Tracy thought, and she felt a sudden surge of release, a freedom from the deep, dark, emotional chains that had bound her.
Tracy signaled to the captain and said, "I'm ready to order now." It was over. The past was finally buried.
It was not until Tracy returned to her hotel room that evening that she remembered she was owed money from the bank's employees' fund. She sat down and calculated the amount. It came to $1,375.65.
She composed a letter to Clarence Desmond, and two days later she received a reply from Mae.
Dear Miss Whitney:
In response to your request, Mr. Desmond has asked me to inform you that because of the morals policy in the employees' financial plan, your share has reverted to the general fund. He wants to assure you that he bears no personal ill will toward you.
Sincerely, Mae Trenton
Secretary to the Senior Vice-president
Tracy could not believe it. They were stealing her money, and doing it under the pretext of protecting the morals of the bank! She was outraged. I'm not going to let them cheat me, she vowed. No one is ever going to cheat me again.
**********
Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy, dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong, it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well: She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.
She removed a bottle cap from her purse, placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, "Yes?"
It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
"Buenos días, señor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora," Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. "Name?" "Rita Gonzales."
"And how much would you like to put in your account?" "Ten dollars."
His voice was a sneer. "Will that be by check or cash?" "Cash, I theenk."
She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.
"Fill this out---"
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. "I'm sorry, senor. I hurt mi mano--- my hand--- in an accident. Would you min' writin' it for me, si se puede?"
Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! "Rita Gonzales, you said?"
"Si."
"Your address?"
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel. "Your mother's maiden name?"
"Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle." "And your date of birth?"
"December twentieth, 1958." "Place of birth?"
"Ciudad de Mexico." "Mexico City. Sign here."
"I weel have to use my left hand," Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.
"I'll give you a temporary checkbook. Your printed checks will be mailed to you in three or four weeks."
"Bueno. Muchas gracias, señor." "Yeah."
He watched her walk out of the bank. Fuckin' spic.
**********
There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circumvent it.
Her first step was to find a computer store, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank's computer. The store, several blocks from the bank, was almost empty.
An eager salesman approached Tracy. "May I help you, miss?" "Eso sí que no, señor. I am just looking."
His eye was caught by a teen-ager playing a computer game. "Excuse me." He hurried away.
Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but
without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.
"We must keep changing it," Clarence Desmond had said, "so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it."
The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day's date.
Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
Today was the tenth.
FALL 10, Tracy tapped out.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.
Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming toward her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled slang the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk- model computer.
She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond's mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably shifted the seasons around.
Tracy tried again.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE? WINTER 10.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.
It's not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I'll give it one more try.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE? SPRING 10.
The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.
So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.
Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen:
DO YOU WISH TO
A DEPOSIT MONEY
B TRANSFER MONEY
C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT
D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER
E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CHECKING ACCOUNT PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE
Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared. AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?
WHERE TO?
WHERE FROM?
She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought.
Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief. All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.
She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales's account number.
The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?
NO.
SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.
The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion shifted from bank to bank every day.
The store clerk was approaching Tracy again, frowning. Tracy hurriedly pressed a key, and the screen went blank.
"Are you interested in purchasing this machine, miss?"
"No, gracias," Tracy apologized. "I don' understan' these computers."
She telephoned the bank from a corner drug store and asked to speak to the head cashier.
"Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my checkin' account transferred to the main branch of the First Hanover Bank of New York City, por favor."
"Your account number, Miss Gonzales?"
Tracy gave it to her.
An hour later Tracy had checked out of the Hilton and was on her way to New York City.
When the First Hanover Bank of New York opened at 10:00 the following morning, Rita Gonzales was there to withdraw s8 the,money from her account.
"How much ees in it?" she asked.
The teller checked. "Thirteen hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents."
"Sí, that ees correct."
"Would you like a certified check for that, Miss Gonzales?"
"No, gracias," Tracy said. "I don' trust banks. I weel take the cash."
**********
Tracy had received the standard two hundred dollars from the state prison upon her release, plus the small amount of money she had earned taking care of Amy, but even with her money from the bank fund, she had no financial security. It was imperative she get a job as quickly as possible.
She checked into an inexpensive hotel on Lexington Avenue and began sending out applications to New York banks, applying for a job as a computer expert. But Tracy found that the computer had suddenly become her enemy. Her life was no longer private. The computer banks held her life's story, and readily told it to everyone who pressed the right buttons. The moment Tracy's criminal record was revealed, her application was automatically rejected.
I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. Clarence Desmond had been right.
Tracy sent in more job applications to insurance companies and dozens of other computer-oriented businesses. The replies were always the same: negative.
Very well, Tracy thought, I can always do something else. She bought a copy of The New York Times and began searching the want ads.
There was a position listed as secretary in an export firm.
The moment Tracy walked in the door, the personnel manager said, "Hey, I seen you on television. You saved a kid in prison, didn't you?"
Tracy turned and fled.
The following day she was hired as a saleswoman in the children's department at Saks Fifth Avenue. The salary was a great deal less than she had been used to, but at least it was enough to support herself.
On her second day, a hysterical customer recognized her and informed the floor manager that she refused to be waited on by a murderess who had drowned a small child. Tracy was given no chance to explain. She was discharged immediately.
It seemed to Tracy that the men upon whom she had exacted vengeance had had the last word after all. They had turned her into a public criminal, an outcast. The unfairness of what was happening to her was corrosive.
She had no idea how she was going to live, and for the first time she began to have a feeling of desperation. That night she looked through her purse to see how much money remained, and tucked away in a corner of her wallet she came across the slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELER, 640 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY.
He's into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who've been in prison.
**********
Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers was an elegant establishment, with a liveried doorman on the outside and an armed guard on the inside. The shop itself was tastefully understated, but the jewels were exquisite and expensive.
Tracy told the receptionist inside, "I'd like to see Mr. Conrad Morgan, please."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No. A--- a mutual friend suggested that I see him." "Your name?"
"Tracy Whitney."
"Just a moment, please."
The receptionist picked up a telephone and murmured something into it that Tracy could not hear. She replaced the receiver. "Mr. Morgan is occupied just now. He wonders if you could come back at six o'clock."
"Yes, thank you," Tracy said.
She walked out of the shop and stood on the sidewalk, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad Morgan could do for her. And why should he? She was a complete stranger to him. He'll give me a lecture and a handout. Well, I don't need either. Not from him or anyone else. I'm a survivor. Somehow I'm going to make it. To hell with Conrad Morgan. I won't go back to see him.
Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, passing the glittering salons of Fifth Avenue, the guarded apartment buildings on Park Avenue, the bustling shops on Lexington and Third. She walked the streets of New York mindlessly, seeing nothing, filled with a bitter frustration.
At 6:00 she found herself back on Fifth Avenue, in front of Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. The doorman was gone, and the door was locked. Tracy pounded on the door in a gesture of defiance and then turned away, but to her surprise, the door suddenly opened.
An avuncular-looking man stood there looking at her. He was bald, with ragged tufts of gray hair above his ears, and he had a jolly, rubicund face and twinkling blue eyes. He looked like a cheery little gnome. "You must be Miss Whitney?"
"Yes. "
"I'm Conrad Morgan. Please, do come in, won't you?" Tracy entered the deserted store.
"I've been waiting for you," Conrad Morgan said. "Let's go into my office where we can talk."
He led her through the store to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like an apartment than a place of business, with no desk, just couches, chairs, and tables artfully placed. The walls were covered with old masters.
"Would you care for a drink?" Conrad Morgan offered. "Whiskey, cognac, or perhaps sherry?"
"No, nothing, thank you."
Tracy was suddenly nervous. She had dismissed the idea that this man would do anything to help her, yet at the same time she found herself desperately hoping that he could.
"Betty Franciscus suggested that I look you up, Mr. Morgan. She said you-
-- you helped people who have been in... trouble." She could not bring herself to say prison.
Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.
"Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know." "Unlucky?"
"Yes. She got caught."
"I--- I don't understand."
"It's really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well... they caught her."
Tracy was confused. "She worked for you here as a saleslady?"
Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. "No, my dear," he said, wiping the tears away. "Obviously, Betty didn't explain everything to you." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss Whitney, and I take great pleasure in sharing those profits with my colleagues. I have been most successful employing people like yourself--- if you'll forgive me--- who have served time in prison."
Tracy studied his face, more puzzled that ever.
"I'm in a unique position, you see. I have an extremely wealthy clientele. My clients become my friends. They confide in me." He tapped his fingers together delicately. "I know when my customers take trips. Very few people travel with jewelry in these parlous times, so their jewels are locked away at home. I recommend to them the security measures they should take to protect them. I know exactly what jewels they own because they purchased them from me. They---"
Tracy found herself on her feet. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan." "Surely you're not leaving already?"
"If you're saying what I think you're saying---" "Yes. Indeed, I am."
She could feel her cheeks burning. "I'm not a criminal. I came here looking for a job."
"And I'm offering you one, my dear. It will take an hour or two of your time, and I can promise you twenty-five thousand dollars." He smiled impishly. "Tax free, of course."
Tracy was fighting hard to control her anger. "I'm not interested. Would you let me out, please?"
"Certainly, if that is what you wish." He rose to his feet and showed her to the door. "You must understand, Miss Whitney, that if there were the slightest danger of anyone's being caught, I would not be involved in this. I have my reputation to protect."
"I promise you I won't say anything about it," Tracy said coldly.
He grinned. "There's really nothing you could say, my dear, is there? I mean, who would believe you? I am Conrad Morgan."
As they reached the front entrance of the store, Morgan said, "You will let me know if you change your mind, won't you? The best time to
telephone me is after six o'clock in the evening. I'll wait for your call."
"Don't," Tracy said curtly, and she walked out into the approaching night. When she reached her room, she was still trembling.
She sent the hotel's one bellboy out for a sandwich and coffee. She did not feel like facing anyone. The meeting with Conrad Morgan had made her feel unclean. He had lumped her with all the sad, confused, and beaten criminals she had been surrounded by at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. She was not one of them. She was Tracy Whitney, a computer expert, a decent, law-abiding citizen.
Whom no one would hire.
Tracy lay awake all night thinking about her future. She had no job, and very little money left. She made two resolutions: In the morning she would move to a cheaper place and she would find a job. Any kind of job.
**********
The cheaper place turned out to be a dreary fourth-floor walkup, one-room apartment on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbors screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small stores that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighborhood seemed to be populated by drunks, prostitutes, and bag ladies.
On her way to the market to shop, Tracy was accosted three times--- twice by men and once by a woman.
I can stand it. I won't be here long, Tracy assured herself.
**********
She went to a small employment agency a few blocks from her apartment. It was run by a Mrs. Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy's resumé and studied her quizzically. "I don't know what you need me for. There must be a dozen companies that'd give their eyeteeth to get someone like you."
Tracy took a deep breath. "I have a problem," she said. She explained as Mrs. Murphy sat listening quietly, and when Tracy was finished, Mrs.
Murphy said flatly, "You can forget about looking for a computer job." "But you said---"
"Companies are jumpy these days about computer crimes. They're not gonna hire anybody with a record."
"But I need a job. I---"
"There are other kinds of jobs. Have you thought about working as a saleslady?"
Tracy remembered her experience at the department store. She could not bear to go through that again. "Is there anything else?"
The woman hesitated. Tracy Whitney was obviously over-qualified for the job Mrs. Murphy had in mind. "Look," she said. "I know this isn't up your alley, but there's a waitress job open at Jackson Hole. It's a hamburger place on the Upper East Side."
"A waitress job?"
"Yeah. If you take it, I won't charge you any commission. I just happened to hear about it."
Tracy sat there, debating. She had waited on tables in college. Then it had been fun. Now it was a question of surviving.
"I'll try it," she said.
**********
Jackson Hole was bedlam, packed with noisy and impatient customers, and harassed, irritable fry cooks. The food was good and the prices reasonable, and the place was always jammed. The waitresses worked at a frantic pace with no time to relax, and by the end of the first day Tracy was exhausted. But she was earning money.
At noon on the second day, as Tracy was serving a table filled with salesmen, one of the men ran his hand up her skirt, and Tracy dropped a bowl of chili on his head. That was the end of the job.
She returned to Mrs. Murphy and reported what had happened.
"I may have some good news," Mrs. Murphy said. "The Wellington Arms needs an assistant housekeeper. I'm going to send you over there."
The Wellington Arms was a small, elegant hotel on Park Avenue that catered to the rich and famous. Tracy was interviewed by the housekeeper and hired. The work was not difficult, the staff was pleasant, and the hours reasonable.
A week after she started, Tracy was summoned to the housekeeper's office. The assistant manager was also there.
"Did you check Suite eight-twenty-seven today?" the housekeeper asked Tracy. The suite was occupied by Jennifer Marlowe, a Hollywood actress. Part of Tracy's job was to inspect each suite and see that the maids had done their work properly.
"Why, yes," she said. "What time?"
"At two o'clock. Is something wrong?"
The assistant manager spoke up. "At three o'clock Miss Marlowe returned and discovered that a valuable diamond ring was missing."
Tracy could feel her body grow tense. "Did you go into the bedroom, Tracy?" "Yes. I checked every room."
"When you were in the bedroom, did you see any jewelry lying around?" "Why... no. I don't think so."
The assistant manager pounced on it. "You don't think so? You're not sure?"
"I wasn't looking for jewelry," Tracy said. "I was checking the beds and towels."
"Miss Marlowe insists that her ring was on the dressing table when she left the suite."
"I don't know anything about it."
"No one else has access to that room. The maids have been with us for many years."
"I didn't take it."
The assistant manager sighed. "We're going to have to call in the police to investigate."
"It had to be someone else," Tracy cried. "Or perhaps Miss Marlowe misplaced it."
"With your record---" the assistant manager said.
And there it was, out in the open. With your record...
"I'll have to ask you to please wait in the security office until the police get here."
Tracy felt her face flush. "Yes, sir."
She was accompanied to the office by one of the security guards, and she felt as though she were back in prison again. She had read of convicts being hounded because they had prison records, but it had never occurred to her that this kind of thing could happen to her. They had stuck a label on her, and they expected her to live up to it. Or down to it, Tracy thought bitterly.
Thirty minutes later the assistant manager walked into the office, smiling. "Well!" he said. "Miss Marlowe found her ring. She had misplaced it, after all. It was just a little mistake."
"Wonderful," Tracy said.
She walked out of the office and headed for Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers.
**********
"It's ridiculously simple," Conrad Morgan was saying. "A client of mine, Lois Bellamy, has gone to Europe. Her house is in Sea Cliff, on Long Island. On weekends the servants are off, so there's no one there. A private patrol makes a check evey four hours. You can be in and out of the house in a few minutes."
They were seated in Conrad Morgan's office.
"I know the alarm system, and I have the combination to the safe. All you have to do, my dear, is walk in, pick up the jewels, and walk out again. You bring the jewels to me, I take them out of their settings, recut the larger ones, and sell them again."
"If it's so simple, why don't you do it yourself?" Tracy asked bluntly.
His blue eyes twinkled. "Because I'm going to be out of town on business. Whenever one of these little 'incidents' occurs, I'm always out of town on business."
"I see."
"If you have any scruples about the robbery hurting Mrs. Bellamy, you needn't have. She's really quite a horrible woman, who has houses all over the world filled with expensive goodies. Besides, she's insured for twice the amount the jewels are worth. Naturally, I did all the appraisals."
Tracy sat there looking at Conrad Morgan, thinking, l must be crazy. I'm sitting here calmly discussing a jewel robbery with this man.
"I don't want to go back to prison, Mr. Morgan."
"There's no danger of that. Not one of my people has ever been caught. Not while they were working for me. Well... what do you say?"
That was obvious. She was going to say no. The whole idea was insane. "You said twenty-five thousand dollars?"
"Cash on delivery."
It was a fortune, enough to take care of her until she could figure out what to do with her life. She thought of the dreary little room she lived
in, of the screaming tenants, and the customer yelling, "I don't want a murderess waiting on me," and the assistant manager saying, "We're going to have to call in the police to investigate."
But Tracy stilt could not bring herself to say yes.
"I would suggest this Saturday night," Conrad Morgan said. "The staff leaves at noon on Saturdays. I'll arrange a driver's license and a credit card for you in a false name. You'll rent a car here in Manhattan and drive out to Long Island, arriving at eleven o'clock. You'll pick up the jewelry, drive back to New York, and return the car.... You do drive, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. There's a train leaving for St. Louis at seven-forty-five
A.M. I'll reserve a compartment for you. I'll meet you at the station in St. Louis, you'll turn over the jewels, and I'll give you your twenty- five thousand."
He made it all sound so simple.
This was the moment to say no, to get up and walk out. Walk out to where? "I'll need a blond wig," Tracy said slowly.
**********
When Tracy had left, Conrad Morgan sat in the dark in his office, thinking about her. A beautiful woman. Very beautiful, indeed. It was a shame. Perhaps he should have warned her that he was not really that familiar with that particular burglar-alarm system.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 16
With the thousand dollars that Conrad Morgan advanced her, Tracy purchased two wigs--- one blond and one black, with a multitude of tiny braids. She bought a dark-blue pants suit, black coveralls, and an imitation Gucci valise from a street vendor on Lexington Avenue. So far everything was going smoothly. As Morgan had promised, Tracy received an envelope containing a driver's license in the name of Ellen Branch, a diagram of the security system in the Bellamy house, the combination to the bedroom safe, and an Amtrak ticket to St. Louis, in a private compartment. Tracy packed her few belongings and left. I'll never live in a place like this again, Tracy promised herself. She rented a car and headed for Long Island. She was on her way to commit a burglary.
What she was doing had the unreality of a dream, and she was terrified. What if she were caught? Was the risk worth what she was about to do?
It's ridiculously simple, Conrad Morgan had said.
He wouldn't be involved in anything like this if he weren't sure about it. He has his reputation to protect. I have a reputation, too, Tracy thought bitterly, and it's all bad. Any time a piece of jewelry is missing, I'll be guilty until proven innocent.
Tracy knew what she was doing: She was trying to work herself up into a rage, trying to psych herself up to commit a crime. It did not work. By the time she reached Sea Cliff, she was a nervous wreck. Twice, she almost ran the car off the road. Maybe the police will pick me up for reckless driving, she thought hopefully, and I can tell Mr. Morgan that things went wrong.
But there was not a police car in sight. Sure, Tracy thought, in disgust. They're never around when you need them.
She headed toward Long Island Sound, following Conrad Morgan's directions. The house is right on the water. It's called the Embers. It's an old Victorian mansion. You can't miss it.
Please let me miss it, Tracy prayed.
But there it was, looming up out of the dark like some ogre's castle in a nightmare. It looked deserted. How dare the servants take the weekend off, Tracy thought indignantly. They should all be discharged.
She drove the car behind a stand of giant willow trees, where it was hidden from view, and turned off the engine, listening to the nocturnal sounds of insects. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The house was off the main road, and there was no traffic at that time of night.
The property is screened by trees, my dear, and the nearest neighbor is acres away, so you don't have to be concerned about being seen. The security patrol makes its check at ten P.M. and again at two A.M. You'll be long gone by the two A.M. check.
Tracy looked at her watch. It was 11:00. The first patrol had gone. She had three hours before the patrol was due to arrive for its second check. Or three seconds to turn the car around and head back to New York and forget about this insanity. But head back to what? The images flashed unbidden into her mind. The assistant manager at Saks: "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Whitney, but our customers must be humored. "
"You can forget about running a computer. They're not going to hire anybody with a record. "
"Twenty-five thousand tax-free dollars for an hour or two.. If you have scruples, she's really a horrible woman."
What am I doing? Tracy thought. I'm not a burglar. Not a real one. I'm a dumb amateur who's about to have a nervous breakdown.
If I had half a brain, I'd get away from here while there's still time. Before the SWAT team catches me and there's a shoot-out and they carry my riddled body to the morgue. l can see the headline: DANGEROUS CRIMINAL KILLED DURING BUNGLED BURGLARY ATTEMPT.
Who would be there to cry at her funeral? Ernestine and Amy. Tracy looked at her watch. "Oh, my God." She had been sitting there, daydreaming, for twenty minutes. If I'm going to do it, I'd better move.
She could not move. She was frozen with fear. I can't sit here forever, she told herself. Why don't I just go take a look at the house? A quick look.
Tracy took a deep breath and got out of the car. She was wearing black coveralls; her knees were shaking. She approached the house slowly, and she could see that it was completely dark.
Be sure to wear gloves.
Tracy reached in her pocket, took out a pair of gloves, and put them on. Oh, God, I'm doing it, she thought. I'm really going ahead with it. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could no longer hear any other sounds.
The alarm is to the left of the front door. There are five buttons. The red light will be on, which means the alarm is activated. The code to turn it off is three-two-four-one-one. When the red light goes off, you'll know the alarm is deactivated. Here's the key to the front door. When you enter, be sure to close the door after you. Use this flashlight. Don't turn on any of the lights in the house in case someone happens to drive past. The master bedroom is upstairs, to your left, overlooking the bay. You'll find the safe behind a portrait of Lois Bellamy. It's a very simple safe. All you have to do is follow this combination.
Tracy stood stock-still, trembling, ready to flee at the slightest sound. Silence. Slowly, she reached out and pressed the sequence of alarm buttons, praying that it would not work. The red light went out. The next step would commit her. She remembered that airplane pilots had a phrase for it: the point of no return.
Tracy put the key in the lock, and the door swung open. She waited a full minute before she stepped inside. Every nerve in her body throbbed to a savage beat as she stood in the hallway, listening, afraid to move. The house was filled with a deserted silence. She took out a flashlight, turned it on, and saw the staircase. She moved forward and started up.
All she wanted to do now was get it over with as quickly as possible and run.
The upstairs hallway looked eerie in the glow of her flashlight, and the wavering beam made the walls seem to pulse back and forth. Tracy peered into each room she passed. They were all empty.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, looking out over the bay, just as Morgan had described it. The bedroom was beautiful, done in dusky pink, with a canopied bed and a commode decorated with pink roses.
There were two love seats, a fireplace, and a table in front of it for dining. I almost lived in a house like this with Charles and our baby, Tracy thought.
She walked over to the picture window and looked out at the distant boats anchored in the bay. Tell me, God, what made you decide that Lois Bellamy should live in this beautiful house and that I should be here robbing it? Come on, girl, she told herself, don't get philosophical. This is a one- time thing. It will be over in a few minutes, but not if you stand here doing nothing.
She turned from the window and walked over to the portrait Morgan had described. Lois Bellamy had a hard, arrogant took. It's true. She does look like a horrible woman. The painting swung outward, away from the wall, and behind it was a small safe. Tracy had memorized the combination. Three turns to the right, stop at forty-two. Two turns to the left, stop at ten. One turn to the right, stop at thirty. Her hands were trembling so much that she had to start over twice. She heard a click. The door was open.
The safe was filled with thick envelopes and papers, but Tracy ignored them. At the back, resting on a small shelf, was a chamois jewelry bag. Tracy reached for it and lifted it from the shelf. At that instant the burglar alarm went off, and it was the loudest sound Tracy had ever heard. It seemed to reverberate from every corner of the house, screaming out its warning. She stood there, paralyzed, in shock.
What had gone wrong? Had Conrad Morgan not known about the alarm inside the safe that was activated when the jewels were removed?
She had to get out quickly. She scooped the chamois bag into her pocket and started running toward the stairs. And then, over the sound of the alarm, she heard another sound, the sound of an approaching siren. Tracy stood at the top of the staircase, terrified, her heart racing, her mouth dry. She hurried to a window, raised the curtain, and peered out. A black-and-white patrol car was pulling up in front of the house. As Tracy watched, a uniformed policeman ran toward the back of the house, while a second one moved toward the front door. There was no escape. The alarm bells were still clanging, and suddenly they sounded like the terrible bells in the corridors of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women.
No! thought Tracy. I won't let them send me back there. The front doorbell shrilled.
**********
Lieutenant Melvin Durkin had been on the Sea Cliff police force for ten years. Sea Cliff was a quiet town, and the main activity of the police was handling vandalism, a few car thefts, and occasional Saturday-night drunken brawls. The setting-off of the Bellamy alarm was in a different category. It was the type of criminal activity for which Lieutenant Durkin had joined the force. He knew Lois Bellamy and was aware of what a valuable collection of paintings and jewelry she owned. With her away, he
had made it a point to check the house from time to time, for it was a tempting target for a cat burglar. And now, Lieutenant Durkin thought, it looks like I've caught one. He had been only two blocks away when the radio call had come in from the security company. This is going to look good on my record. Damned good.
Lieutenant Durkin pressed the front doorbell again. He wanted to be able to state in his report that he had rung it three times before making a forcible entry. His partner was covering the back, so there was no chance of the burglar's escaping. He would probably try to conceal himself on the premises, but he was in for a surprise. No one could hide from Melvin Durkin.
As the lieutenant reached for the bell for the third time, the front door suddenly opened. The policeman stood there staring. In the doorway was a woman dressed in a filmy nightgown that left little to the imagination.
Her face was covered with a mudpack, and her hair was tucked into a curler cap.
She demanded, "What on earth is going on?" Lieutenant Durkin swallowed. "I... who are you?"
"I'm Ellen Branch. I'm a houseguest of Lois Bellamy's. She's away in Europe."
"I know that." The lieutenant was confused. "She didn't tell us she was having a houseguest."
The woman in the doorway nodded knowingly. "Isn't that just like Lois? Excuse me, I can't stand that noise."
As Lieutenant Durkin watched, Lois Bellamy's houseguest reached over to the alarm buttons, pressed a sequence of numbers, and the sound stopped.
"That's better," she sighed. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you." She laughed shakily. "I was just getting ready for bed when the alarm went off. I was sure there were burglars in the house, and I'm all alone here. The servants left at noon."
"Do you mind if we look around?" "Please, I insist!"
It took the lieutenant and his partner only a few minutes to make sure there was no one lurking on the premises.
"All clear," Lieutenant Durkin said. "False alarm. Something must have set it off. Can't always depend on these electronic things. I'd call the security company and have them check out the system."
"I most certainly will."
"Well, guess we'd better be running along," the lieutenant said.
"Thank you so much for coming by. I feel much safer now."
She sure has a great body, Lieutenant Durkin thought. He wondered what she looked like under that mudpack and without the curler cap. "Will you be staying here long, Miss Branch?"
"Another week or two, until Lois returns."
"If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know." "Thank you, I will."
Tracy watched as the police car drove away into the night. She felt faint with relief. When the car was out of sight, she hurried upstairs, washed off the mudpack she had found in the bathroom, stripped off Lois Bellamy's curler cap and nightgown, changed into her own black coveralls, and left by the front door, carefully resetting the alarm.
**********
It was not until Tracy was halfway back to Manhattan that the audacity of what she had done struck her. She giggled, and the giggle turned into a shaking, uncontrollable laughter, until she finally had to pull the car off onto the side of the road. She laughed until the tears streamed down her face. It was the first time she had laughed in a year. It felt wonderful.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 17
It was not until the Amtrak train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station that Tracy began to relax. At every second she had expected a heavy hand to grip her shoulder, a voice to say, "You're under arrest."
She had carefully watched the other passengers as they boarded the train, and there was nothing alarming about them. Still, Tracy's shoulders were knots of tension. She kept assuring herself that it was unlikely anyone would have discovered the burglary this soon, and even if they had, there was nothing to connect her with it. Conrad Morgan would be waiting in St. Louis with $25,000. Twenty-five thousand dollars to do with as she pleased! She would have had to work at the bank for a year to earn that much money. I'll travel to Europe, Tracy thought. Paris. No. Not Paris.
Charles and I were going to honeymoon there. I'll go to London. There, I won't be a jailbird. In a curious way, the experience she had just gone through had made Tracy feel like a different person. It was as though she had been reborn.
She locked the door to the compartment and took out the chamois bag and opened it. A cascade of glittering colors spilled into her hands. There
were three large diamond rings, an emerald pin, a sapphire bracelet, three pairs of earrings, and two necklaces, one of rubies, one of pearls.
There must be more than a million dollars' worth of jewelry here, Tracy marveled. As the train rolled through the countryside, she leaded back in her seat and replayed the evening in her mind. Renting the car... the drive to Sea Cliff... the stillness of the night... turning off the alarm and entering the house... opening the safe... the shock of the alarm going off, and the police appearing. It had never occurred to them that the woman in the nightgown with a mudpack on her face and a curler cap on her head was the burglar they were looking for.
Now, seated in her compartment on the train to St. Louis, Tracy allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She had enjoyed outwitting the police. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about being on the edge of danger. She felt daring and clever and invincible. She felt absolutely great.
There was a knock at the door of her compartment. Tracy hastily put the jewels back into the chamois bag and placed the bag in her suitcase. She took out her train ticket and unlocked the compartment door for the conductor.
Two men in gray suits stood in the corridor. One appeared to be in his early thirties, the other one about ten years older. The younger man was attractive, with the build of an athlete. He had a strong chin, a small, neat mustache, and wore horn-rimmed glasses behind which were intelligent blue eyes. The older man had a thick head of black hair and was heavy- set. His eyes were a cold brown.
"Can I help you?" Tracy asked.
"Yes, ma'am," the older man replied. He pulled out a wallet and held up an identification card:
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
"I'm Special Agent Dennis Trevor. This is Special Agent Thomas Bowers."
Tracy's mouth was suddenly dry. She forced a smile. "I--- I'm afraid I don't understand. Is something wrong?"
"I'm afraid there is, ma'am," the younger agent said. He had a soft, southern accent. "A few minutes ago this train crossed into New Jersey. Transporting stolen merchandise across a state line is a federal offense."
Tracy felt suddenly faint. A red film appeared in front of her eyes, blurring everything.
The older man, Dennis Trevor, was saying, "Would you open your luggage, please?" It was not a question but an order.
Her only hope was to try to bluff it out. "Of course I won't! How dare you come barging into my compartment like this!" Her voice was filled with indignation. "Is that all you have to do--- go around bothering innocent citizens? I'm going to call the conductor."
"We've already spoken to the conductor," Trevor said.
Her bluff was not working. "Do--- do you have a search warrant?" The younger man said gently, "We don't need a search warrant, Miss
Whitney. We're apprehending you during the commission of a crime." They even knew her name. She was trapped. There was no way out. None.
Trevor was at her suitcase, opening it. It was useless to try to stop him. Tracy watched as he reached inside and pulled out the chamois bag. He opened it, looked at his partner, and nodded. Tracy sank down onto the seat, suddenly too weak to stand.
Trevor took a list from his pocket, checked the contents of the bag against the list, and put the bag in his pocket. "It's all here, Tom."
"How--- how did you find out?" Tracy asked miserably.
"We're not permitted to give out any information," Trevor replied. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and to have an attorney present before you say anything. Anything you say now may be used as evidence against you. Do you undersand?"
Her answer was a whispered, "Yes."
Tom Bowers said, "I'm sorry about this. I mean, I know about your background, and I'm really sorry."
"For Christ's sake," the older man said, "this isn't a social visit." "I know, but still---"
The older man held out a pair of handcuffs to Tracy. "Hold ijut your wrists, please."
Tracy felt her heart twisting in agony. She remembered the airport in New Orleans when they had handcuffed her, the staring faces. "Please! Do you-
-- do you have to do that?" "Yes, ma'am."
The younger man said, "Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Dennis?" Dennis Trevor shrugged. "Okay."
The two men stepped outside into the corridor. Tracy sat there, dazed, filled with despair. She could hear snatches of their conversation.
"For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away. "
"When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have. "
"Come on. Give her a break. She's embarrassed enough, and. "
"That's nothing to what she's going to. "
She could not hear the rest of the conversation. She did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.
In a moment they returned to the compartment. The older man seemed angry. "All right," he said. "We're not cuffing you. We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment. Is that clear?"
Tracy nodded, too miserable to speak.
The younger man, Tom Bowers, gave her a sympathetic shrug, as though to say, "I wish there was something more I could do."
There was nothing anyone could do. Not now. It was too late. She had been caught red-handed. Somehow the police had traced her and informed the FBI.
The agents were outside in the corridor talking to the conductor. Bowers pointed to Tracy and said something she could not hear. The conductor nodded. Bowers closed the door of the compartment, and to Tracy, it was like a cell door slamming.
The countryside sped by, flashing vignettes briefly framed by the window, but Tracy was unaware of the scenery. She sat there, paralyzed by fear.
There was a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the sounds of the train. She would get no second chance. She was a convicted felon.
They would give her the maximum sentence, and this time there would be no warden's daughter to rescue, there would be nothing but the deadly, endless years of prison facing her. And the Big Berthas. How had they caught her? The only person who knew about the robbery was Conrad Morgan, and he could have no possible reason to turn her and the jewelry over to the FBI. Possibly some clerk in his store had learned of the plan and tipped off the police. But how it happened made no difference. She had been caught. At the next stop she would be on her way to prison again.
There would be a preliminary hearing and then the trial, and then....
Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to think about it any further. She felt hot tears, brush her cheeks.
**********
The train began to lose speed. Tracy started to hyperventilate. She could not get enough air. The two FBI agents would be coming for her at any moment. A station came into view, and a few seconds later the train
jerked to a stop. It was time to go. Tracy closed her suitcase, put on her coat, and sat down. She stared at the closed compartment door, waiting for it to open. Minutes went by. The two men did not appear. What could they be doing? She recalled their words: "We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment."
She heard the conductor call, "All aboard. "
Tracy started to panic. Perhaps they had meant they would wait for her on the platform. That must be it. If she stayed on the train, they would accuse her of trying to run away from them, and it would make things even worse. Tracy grabbed her suitcase, opened the compartment door, and hurried out into the corridor.
The conductor was approaching. "Are you getting off here, miss?" he asked. "You'd better hurry. Let me help you. A woman in your condition shouldn't be lifting things."
She stared. "In my condition?"
"You don't have to be embarrassed. Your brothers told me you're pregnant and to sort of keep an eye on you."
"My brothers-?"
"Nice chaps. They seemed really concerned about you."
The world was spinning around. Everything was topsy-turvy.
The conductor carried the suitcase to the end of the car and helped Tracy down the steps. The train began to move.
"Do you know where my brothers went?" Tracy called.
"No, ma'am. They jumped into a taxi when the train stopped." With a million dollars' worth of stolen jewelry.
**********
Tracy headed for the airport. It was the only place she could think of. If the men had taken a taxi, it meant they did not have their own transportation, and they would surely want to get out of town as fast as possible. She sat back in the cab, filled with rage at what they had done to her and with shame at how easily they had conned her. Oh, they were good, both of them. Really good. They had been so convincing. She blushed to think how she had fallen for the ancient good cop-bad cop routine.
For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary -to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away....
When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have....
The Bureau? They were probably both fugitives from the law. Well, she was going to get those jewels back. She had gone through too much to be outwitted by two con artists. She had to get to the airport in time.
She leaned forward in her seat and said to the driver, "Could you go faster, please!"
**********
They were standing in the boarding line at the departure gate, and she did not recognize them immediately. The younger man, who had called himself Thomas Bowers, no longer wore glasses, his eyes had changed from blue to gray, and his mustache was gone. The other man, Dennis Trevor, who had had thick black hair, was now totally bald. But still, there was no mistaking them. They had not had time to change their clothes. They were almost at the boarding gate when Tracy reached them.
"You forgot something," Tracy said.
They turned to look at her, startled. The younger man frowned. "What are you doing here? A car from the Bureau was supposed to have been at the station to pick you up." His southern accent was gone.
"Then why don't we go back and find it?" Tracy suggested.
"Can't. We're on another case," Trevor explained. "We have to catch this plane."
"Give me back the jewelry, first," Tracy demanded.
"I'm afraid we can't do that," Thomas Bowers told her. "It's evidence. We'll send you a receipt for it."
"No. I don't want a receipt. I want the jewelry."
"Sorry," said Trevor. "We can't let it out of our possession."
They had reached the gate. Trevor handed his boarding pass to the attendant. Tracy looked around, desperate, and saw an airport policeman standing nearby. She called out, "Officer! Officer!"
The two men looked at each other, startled.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trevor hissed. "Do you want to get us all arrested?"
The policeman was moving toward them. "Yes, miss? Any problem?"
"Oh, no problem," Tracy said gaily. "These two wonderful gentlemen found some valuable jewelry I lost, and they're returning it to me. I was afraid I was going to have to go to the FBI about it."
The two men exchanged a frantic look.
"They suggested that perhaps you wouldn't mind escorting me to a taxi." "Certainly. Be happy to."
Tracy turned toward the men. "It's safe to give the jewels to me now. This nice officer will take care of me."
"No, really," Tom Bowers objected. "It would be much better if we---"
"Oh, no, I insist," Tracy urged. "I know how important it is for you to catch your plane."
The two men looked at the policeman, and then at each other, helpless. There was nothing they could do. Reluctantly, Tom Bowers pulled the chamois bag from his pocket.
"That's it!" Tracy said. She took the bag from his hand, opened it, and looked inside. "Thank goodness. It's all here."
Tom Bowers made one last-ditch try. "Why don't we keep it safe for you until---"
"That won't be necessary," Tracy said cheerfully. She opened her purse, put the jewelry inside, and took out two $5.00 bills. She handed one to each of the men. "Here's a little token of my appreciation for what you've done."
The other passengers had all departed through the gate. The airline attendant said, "That was the last call. You'll have to board now, gentlemen."
"Thank you again," Tracy beamed as she walked away with the policeman at her side. "It's so rare to find an honest person these days."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 18
Thomas Bowers--- né Jeff Stevens--- sat at the plane window looking out as the aircraft took off. He raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and his shoulders heaved up and down.
Dennis Trevor--- a.k.a. Brandon Higgins--- seated next to him, looked at him in surprise. "Hey," he said, "it's only money. It's nothing to cry about."
Jeff Stevens turned to him with tears streaming down his face, and Higgins, to his astonishment, saw that Jeff was convulsed with laughter.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Higgins demanded. "It's nothing to laugh about, either."
To Jeff, it was. The manner in which Tracy Whitney had outwitted them at the airport was the most ingenius con he had ever witnessed. A scam on top of a scam. Conrad Morgan had told them the woman was an amateur. My God, Jeff thought, what would she be like if she were a professional?
Tracy Whitney was without doubt the most beautiful woman Jeff Stevens had ever seen. And clever. Jeff prided himself on being the best confidence artist in the business, and she had outsmarted him. Uncle Willie would have loved her, Jeff thought.
**********
It was Uncle Willie who had educated Jeff. Jeff's mother was the trusting heiress to a farm-equipment fortune, married to an improvident schemer filled with get-rich-quick projects that never quite worked out. Jeff's father was a charmer, darkly handsome and persuasively glib, and in the first five years of marriage he had managed to run through his wife's inheritance. Jeff's earliest memories were of his mother and father quarreling about money and his father's extramarital affairs. It was a bitter marriage, and the young boy had resolved, I'm never going to get married. Never.
His father's brother, Uncle Willie, owned a small traveling carnival, and whenever he was near Marion, Ohio, where the Stevenses lived, he came to visit them. He was the most cheerful man Jeff had ever known, filled with optimism and promises of a rosy tomorrow. He always managed to bring the boy exciting gifts, and he taught Jeff wonderful magic tricks. Uncle Willie had started out as a magician at a carnival and had taken it over when it went broke.
When Jeff was fourteen, his mother died in an automobile accident. Two months later Jeff's father married a nineteen-year-old cocktail waitress. "It isn't natural for a man to live by himself," his father had explained. But the box was filled with a deep resentment, feeling betrayed by his father's callousness.
Jeff's father had been hired as a siding salesman and was on the road three days a week. One night when Jeff was alone in the house with his stepmother, he was awakened by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Moments later he felt a soft, naked body next to his. Jeff sat up in alarm.
"Hold me, Jeffie," his stepmother whispered. "I'm afraid of thunder." "It--- it isn't thundering," Jeff stammered.
"But it could be. The paper said rain." She pressed her body close to his. "Make love to me, baby."
The boy was in a panic. "Sure. Can we do it in Dad's bed?" "Okay." She laughed. "Kinky, huh?"
"I'll be right there," Jeff promised.
She slid out of bed and went into the other bedroom. Jeff had never dressed faster in his life. He went out the window and headed for Cimarron, Kansas, where Uncle Willie's carnival was playing. He never looked back.
When Uncle Willie asked Jeff why he had run away from home, all he would say was, "I don't get along with my stepmother."
Uncle Willie telephoned Jeff's father, and after a long conversation, it was decided that the boy should remain with the carnival. "He'll get a better education here than any school could ever give him," Uncle Willie promised.
**********
The carnival was a world unto itself. "We don't run a Sunday school show," Uncle Willie explained to Jeff. "We're flimflam artists. But remember, sonny, you can't con people unless they're greedy to begin with. W. C. Fields had it right. You can't cheat an honest man."
The carnies became Jeff's friends. There were the "front-end" men, who had the concessions, and the "back-end" people, who ran shows like the fat woman and the tattooed lady, and the flat-store operators, who operated the games. The carnival had its share of nubile girls, and they were attracted to the young boy. Jeff had inherited his mother's sensitivity and his father's dark, good looks, and the ladies fought over who was going to relieve Jeff of his virginity. His first sexual experience was with a pretty contortionist, and for years she was the high-water mark that other women had to live up to.
Uncle Willie arranged for Jeff to work at various jobs around the carnival.
"Someday all this will be yours," Uncle Willie told the boy, "and the only way you're gonna hang on to it is to know more about it than anybody else does."
Jeff started out with the six-cat "hanky-park," a scam where customers paid to throw balls to try to knock six cats made out of canvas with a wood-base bottom into a net. The operator running the joint would demonstrate how easy it was to knock them over, but when the customer tried it, a "gunner" hiding in back of the canvas lifted a rod to keep the wooden base on the cats steady. Not even Sandy Koufax could have downed the cats.
"Hey, you hit it too low," the operator would say. "All you have to do is hit it nice and easy."
Nice and easy was the password, and the moment the operator said it, the hidden gunner would drop the rod, and the operator would knock the cat off the board. He would then say, "See what I mean?" and that was the
gunner's signal to put up the rod again. There was always another rube who wanted to show off his pitching arm to his giggling girl friend.
Jeff worked the "count stores," where clothespins were arranged in a line. The customer would pay to throw rubber rings over the clothespins, which were numbered, and if the total added up to twenty-nine, he would win an expensive toy. What the sucker did not know was that the clothespins had different numbers at each end, so that the man running the count store could conceal the number that would add up to twenty-nine and make sure the mark never won.
One day Uncle Willie said to Jeff, "You're doin' real good, kid, and I'm proud of you. You're ready to move up to the skillo."
The skillo operators were the crème de la crème, and all the other carnies looked up to them. They made more money than anyone else in the carnival, stayed at the best hotels, and drove flashy cars. The skillo game consisted of a flat wheel with an arrow balanced very carefully on glass with a thin piece of paper in the center. Each section was numbered, and when the customer spun the wheel and it stopped on a number, that number would be blocked off. The customer would pay again for another spin of the wheel, and another space would be blocked off. The skillo operator explained that when all the spaces were blocked off, the customer would win a large sum of money. As the customer got closer to filling in all the spaces, the skillo operator would encourage him to increase his bets. The operator would look around nervously and whisper, "I don't own this game, but I'd like you to win. If you do, maybe you'll give me a small piece."
The operator would slip the customer five or ten dollars and say, "Bet this for me, will you? You can't lose now." And the mark would feel as though he had a confederate. Jeff became an expert at milking the customers. As the open spaces on the board became smaller and the odds of winning grew greater, the excitement would intensify.
"You can't miss now!" Jeff would exclaim, and the player would eagerly put up more money. Finally, when there was only one tiny space left to fill, the excitement would peak. The mark would put up all the money he had, and often hurry home to get more. The customer never won, however, because the operator or his shill would give the table an imperceptible nudge, and the arrow would invariably land at the wrong place.
Jeff quickly learned all the carnie terms: The "gaff" was a term for fixing the games so that the marks could not win. The men who stood in front of a sideshow making their spiel were called "barkers" by outsiders, but the carnie people called them "talkers." The talker got 10 percent of the take for building the tip--- the "tip" being a crowd. "Slum" was the prize given away. The "postman" was a cop who had to be paid off.
Jeff became an expert at the "blow-off." When customers paid to see a sideshow exhibition, Jeff would make his spiel: "Ladies and gentlemen: Everything that's pictured, painted, and advertised outside, you will see within the walls of this tent for the price of your general admission.
However, immediately after the young lady in the electric chair gets finished being tortured, her poor body racked by fifty thousand watts of electricity, we have an extra added attraction that has absolutely nothing to do with the show and is not advertised outside. Behind this enclosure you are going to see something so truly remarkable, so chilling and hair-raising, that we dare not portray it outside, because it might come under the eyes of innocent children or susceptible women."
And after the suckers had paid an extra dollar, Jeff would usher them inside to see a girl with no middle, or a two-headed baby, and of course it was all done with mirrors.
One of the most profitable carnival games was the "mouse running." A live mouse was put in the center of a table and a bowl was placed over it. The rim of the table had ten holes around its perimeter into any one of which the mouse could run when the bowl was lifted. Each patron bet on a numbered hole. Whoever selected the hole into which the mouse would run won the prize.
"How do you gaff a thing like that?" Jeff asked Uncle Willie. "Do you use trained mice?"
Uncle Willie roared with laughter. "Who the hell's go time to train mice? No, no. It's simple. The operator sees which number no one has bet on, and he puts a little vinegar on his finger and touches the edge of the hole he wants the mouse to run into. The mouse will head for that hole every time."
Karen, an attractive young belly dancer, introduced Jeff to the "key" game.
"When you've made your spiel on Saturday night," Karen told him, "call some of the men customers aside, one at a time, and sell them a key to my trailer."
The keys cost five dollars. By midnight, a dozen or more men would find themselves milling around outside her trailer. Karen, by that time, was at a hotel in town, spending the night with Jeff. When the marks came back to the carnival the following morning to get their revenge, the show was long gone.
**********
During the next four years Jeff learned a great deal about human nature. He found out how easy it was to arouse greed, and how guillible people could be. They believed incredible tales because their greed made them want to believe. At eighteen, Jeff was strikingly handsome. Even the most casual woman observer would instantly note and approve his gray, well- spaced eyes, tall build, and curly dark hair. Men enjoyed his wit and air of easy good humor. Even children, as if speaking to some answering child in him, gave him their confidence immediately. Customers flirted outrageously with Jeff, but Uncle Willie cautioned, "Stay away from the townies, my boy. Their fathers are always the sheriff."
It was the knife thrower's wife who caused Jeff to leave the carnival. The show had just arrived in Milledgeville, Georgia, and the tents were being set up. A new act had signed on, a Sicilian knife thrower called the Great Zorbini and his attractive blond wife. While the Great Zorbini was at the carnival setting up his equipment, his wife invited Jeff to their hotel room in town.
"Zorbini will be busy all day," she told Jeff. "Let's have some fun." It sounded good.
"Give me an hour and then come up to the room," she said. "Why wait an hour?" Jeff asked.
She smiled and said, "It will take me that long to get everything ready."
Jeff waited, his curiosity increasing, and when he finally arrived at the hotel room, she greeted him at the door, stark naked. He reached for her, but she took his hand and said, "Come in here."
He walked into the bathroom and stared in disbelief. She had filled the bathtub with six flavors of Jell-O, mixed with warm water.
"What's that?" Jeff asked.
"It's dessert. Get undressed, baby." Jeff undressed.
"Now, into the tub."
He stepped into the tub and sat down, and it was the wildest sensation he had ever experienced. The soft, slippery Jell-O seemed to fill every crevice of his body, massaging him all over. The blonde joined him in the tub.
"Now," she said, "lunch."
She started down his chest toward his groin, licking the Jell-O as she went. "Mmmm, you taste delicious. I like the strawberry best "
Between her rapidly flicking tongue and the friction of the warm, viscous Jell-O, it was an erotic experience beyond description. In the middle of it, the bathroom door flew open and the Great Zorbini strode in. The Sicilian took one look at his wife and the startled Jeff, and howled, "Tu sei una puttana! Vi ammazzo tutti e due! Dove sono i miei coltelli?"
Jeff did not recognize any of the words, but the tone was familiar. As the Great Zorbini raced out of the room to get his knives, Jeff leaped out of the tub, his body looking like a rainbow with the multicolored Jell-O clinging to it, and grabbed his clothes. He jumped out of the window, naked, and began running down the alley. He heard a shout behind him and felt a knife sing past his head. Zing! Another, and then he was
out of range. He dressed in a culvert, pulling his shirt and pants over the sticky Jell-O, and squished his way to the depot, where he caught the first bus out of town.
Six months later, he was in Vietnam.
**********
Every soldier fights a different war, and Jeff came out of his Vietnam experience with a deep contempt for bureaucracy and a lasting resentment of authority. He spent two years in a war that could never be won, and he was appalled by the waste of money and matériel and lives, and sickened by the treachery and deceit of the generals and politicians who performed their verbal sleight of hand. We've been suckered into a war that nobody wants, Jeff thought. It's a con game. The biggest con game in the world.
A week before Jeff's discharge, he received the news of Uncle Willie's death. The carnival had folded. The past was finished. It was time for him to enjoy the future.
**********
The years that followed were filled with a series of adventures. To Jeff, the whole world was a carnival, and the people in it were his marks. He devised his own con games. He placed ads in newspapers offering a color picture of the President for a dollar. When he received a dollar, he sent his victim a postage stamp with a picture of the President on it.
He put announcements in magazines warning the public that there were only sixty days left to send in five dollars, that after that it would be too late. The ad did not specify what the five dollars would buy, but the money poured in.
For three months Jeff worked in a boiler room, selling phony oil stocks over the telephone.
He loved boats, and when a friend offered him a job working on a sailing schooner bound for Tahiti, Jeff signed on as a seaman.
The ship was a beauty, a 165-foot white schooner, glistening in the sun, all sails drawing well. It had teak decking, long, gleaming Oregon fir for the hull, with a main salon that sat twelve and a galley forward, with electric ovens. The crew's quarters were in the forepeak. In addition to the captain, the steward, and a cook, there were five deckhands. Jeff's job consisted of helping hoist the sails, polishing the brass portholes, and climbing up the ratlines to the lower spreader to furl the sails. The schooner was carrying a party of eight.
"The owner is named Hollander," Jeff's friend informed him.
Hollander turned out to be Louise Hollander, a twenty-five year-old, golden-haired beauty, whose father owned half of Central America. The other passengers were her friends, whom Jeff's buddies sneeringly referred to as the "jest set."
The first day out Jeff was working in the hot sun, polishing the brass on deck. Louise Hollander stopped beside him.
"You're new on board." He looked up. "Yes." "Do you have a name?" "Jeff Stevens."
"That's a nice name." He made no comment. "Do you know who I am?" "No."
"I'm Louise Hollander. I own this boat." "I see. I'm working for you."
She gave him a slow smile. "That's right."
"Then if you want to get your money's worth, you'd better let me get on with my work." Jeff moved on to the next stanchion.
**********
In their quarters at night, the crew members disparaged the passengers and made jokes about them. But Jeff admitted to himself that he was envious of them--- their backgrounds, their educations, and their easy manners. They had come from monied families and had attended the best schools. His school had been Uncle Willie and the carnival.
One of the carnies had been a professor of archaeology until he was thrown out of college for stealing and selling valuable relics. He and Jeff had had long talks, and the professor had imbued Jeff with an enthusiasm for archaeology. "You can read the whole future of mankind in the past," the professor would say. "Think of it, son. Thousands of years ago there were people just like you and me dreaming dreams, spinning tales, living out their lives, giving birth to our ancestors." His eyes had taken on a faraway look. "Carthage--- that's where I'd like to go on a dig. Long before Christ was born, it was a great city, the Paris of ancient Africa. The people had their games, and baths, and chariot racing. The Circus Maximus was as large as five football fields." He had noted the interest in the boy's eyes. "Do you know how Cato the Elder used to end his speeches in the Roman Senate? He'd say, 'Delenda est cartaga'; 'Carthage must be destroyed.' His wish finally came true. The Romans reduced the place to rubble and came back twenty-five years later to build a great city on its ashes. I wish I could take you there on a dig one day, my boy."
A year later the professor had died of alcoholism, but Jeff had promised himself that one day he would go on a dig. Carthage, first, for the professor.
**********
On the last night before the schooner was to dock in Tahiti, Jeff was summoned to Louise Hollander's stateroom. She was wearing a sheer silk robe.
"You wanted to see me, ma'am?" "Are you a homosexual, Jeff?"
"I don't believe it's any of your business, Miss Hollander, but the answer is no. What I am is choosy."
Louise Hollander's mouth tightened. "What kind of women do you like? Whores, I suppose."
"Sometimes," Jeff said agreeably. "Was there anything else, Miss Hollander?"
"Yes. I'm giving a dinner party tomorrow night. Would you like to come?" Jeff looked at the woman for a long moment before he answered. "Why not?" And that was the way it began.
**********
Louise Hollander had had two husbands before she was twenty-one, and her lawyer had just made a settlement with her third husband when she met Jeff. The second night they were moored at the harbor in Papeete, and as the passengers and crew were going ashore, Jeff received another summons to Louise Hollander's quarters. When Jeff arrived, she was dressed in a colorful silk pareu slit all the way up to the thigh.
"I'm trying to get this off," she said. "I'm having a problem with the zipper."
Jeff walked over and examined the costume. "It doesn't have a Zipper." She turned to face him, and smiled. "I know. That's my problem."
They made love on the deck, where the soft tropical air caressed their bodies like a blessing. Afterward, they lay on their sides, facing each other. Jeff propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Louise. "Your daddy's not the sheriff, is he?" Jeff asked.
She sat up in surprise. "What?"
"You're the first townie I ever made love to. Uncle Willie used to warn me that their daddies always turned out to be the sheriff."
They were together every night after that. At first Louise's friends were amused. He's another one of Louise's playthings, they thought. But when she informed them that she intended to marry Jeff, they were frantic.
"For Christ's sake, Louise, he's a nothing. He worked in a carnival. My God, you might as well be marrying a stable hand. He's handsome--- granted. And he has a fab bod. But outside of sex, you have absolutely nothing in common, darling."
"Louise, Jeff's for breakfast, not dinner." "You have a social position to uphold." "Frankly, angel, he just won't fit in, will he?"
But nothing her friends said could dissuade Louise. Jeff was the most fascinating man she had ever met. She had found that men who were outstandingly handsome were either monumentally stupid or unbearably dull. Jeff was intelligent and amusing, and the combination was irresistible.
When Louise mentioned the subject of marriage to Jeff, he was as surprised as her friends had been.
"Why marriage? You've already got my body. I can't give you anything you don't have."
"It's very simple, Jeff. I love you. I want to share the rest of my life with you."
Marriage had been an alien idea, and suddenly it no longer was. Beneath Louise Hollander's worldly, sophisticated veneer; there was a vulnerable, lost little girl. She needs me, Jeff thought. The idea of a stable homelife and children was suddenly immensely appealing. It seemed to him that ever since he could remember, he had been running. It was time to stop.
They were married in the town hall in Tahiti three days later..
**********
When they returned to New York, Jeff was summoned to the office of Scott Fogarty, Louise Hollander's attorney, a small, frigid man, tight-lipped and probably, Jeff thought, tight-assed.
"I have a paper here for you to sign," the attorney announced. "What kind of paper?"
"It's a release. It simply states that in the event of the dissolution of your marriage to Louise Hollander---"
"Louise Stevens."
"---Louise Stevens, that you will not participate financially in any of her---"
Jeff felt the muscles of his jaw tightening. "Where do I sign?" "Don't you want me to finish reading?"
"No. I don't think you get the point. I didn't marry her for her fucking money."
"Really, Mr. Stevens! I just "
"Do you want me to sign it or don't you?"
The lawyer placed the paper in front of Jeff. He scrawled his signature and stormed out of the office. Louise's limousine and driver were waiting for him downstairs. As Jeff climbed in, he had to laugh to himself. What the hell am I so pissed off about? I've been a con artist all my life, and when I go straight for the first time and someone thinks I'm out to take them, I behave like a fucking Sunday school teacher.
**********
Louise took Jeff to the best tailor in Manhattan. "You'll look fantastic in a dinner jacket," she coaxed. And he did. Before the second month of the marriage, five of Louise's best friends had tried to seduce the attractive newcomer in their circle, but Jeff ignored them. He was determined to make his marriage work.
Budge Hollander, Louise's brother, put Jeff up for membership in the exclusive New York Pilgrim Club, and Jeff was accepted. Budge was a beefy, middle-aged man who had gotten his sobriquet playing right tackle on the Harvard football team, where he got the reputation of being a player his opponents could not budge. He owned a shipping line, a banana plantation, cattle ranches, a meat-packing company, and more corporations than Jeff could count. Budge Hollander was not subtle in concealing his contempt for Jeff Stevens.
"You're really out of our class, aren't you, old boy? But as long as you amuse Louise in bed, that will do nicely. I'm very fond of my sister."
It took every ounce of willpower for Jeff to control himself. I'm not married to this prick. I'm married to Louise.
The other members of the Pilgrim Club were equally obnoxious. They found Jeff terribly amusing. All of them dined at the club every noontime, and pleaded for Jeff to tell them stories about his "carnie days," as they liked to call them. Perversely, Jeff made the stories more and more outrageous.
**********
Jeff and Louise lived in a twenty-room townhouse filled with servants, on the East Side of Manhattan. Louise had estates in Long Island and the
Bahamas, a villa in Sardinia, and a large apartment on Avenue Foch in Paris. Aside from the yacht, Louise owned a Maserati, a Rolls Corniche, a Lamborghini, and a Daimler.
It's fantastic, Jeff thought. It's great, Jeff thought.
It's boring, Jeff thought. And degrading.
One morning he got up from his eighteenth-century four-poster bed, put on a Sulka robe, and went looking for Louise. He found her in the breakfast room.
"I've got to get a job," he told her.
"For heaven's sake, darling, why? We don't need the money."
"It has nothing to do with money. You can't expect me to sit around on my hands and be spoonfed. I have to work."
Louise gave it a moment's thought. "All right, angel. I'll speak to Budge. He owns a stockbrokerage firm. Would you like to be a stockbroker, darling?"
"I just want to get off my ass," Jeff muttered.
**********
He went to work for Budge. He had never had a job with regular hours before. I'm going to love it, Jeff thought.
He hated it. He stayed with it because he wanted to bring home a paycheck to his wife.
"When are you and I going to have a baby?" he asked Louise, after a lazy Sunday brunch.
"Soon, darling. I'm trying." "Come to bed. Let's try again."
**********
Jeff was seated at the luncheon table reserved for his brother-in-law and half a dozen other captains of industry at the Pilgrim Club.
Budge announced, "We just issued our annual report for the meat-packing company, fellas. Our profits are up forty percent."
"Why shouldn't they be?" one of the men at the table laughed. "You've got the fucking inspectors bribed." He turned to the others at the table. "Old clever Budge, here, buys inferior meat and has it stamped prime and sells it for a bloody fortune."
Jeff was shocked. "People eat meat, for Christ's sake. They feed it to their children. He's kidding, isn't he, Budge?"
Budge grinned and whooped, "Look who's being moral!"
**********
Over the next three months Jeff became very well acquainted with his table companions. Ed Zeller had paid a million in bribes in order to build a factory in Libya. Mike Quincy, the head of a conglomerate, was a raider who bought companies and illegally tipped off his friends when to buy and sell the stock. Alan Thompson, the richest man at the table, boasted of his company's policy. "Before they changed the damn law, we used to fire the old gray hairs one year before their pensions were due. Saved a fortune."
All the men cheated on taxes, had insurance scams, falsified expense accounts, and put their current mistresses on their payrolls as secretaries or assistants.
Christ, Jeff thought. They're just dressed-up carnies. They all run flat stores.
The wives were no better. They grabbed everything they could get their greedy hands on and cheated on their husbands. They're playing the key game, Jeff marveled.
When he tried to tell Louise how he felt, she laughed. "Don't be naive, Jeff. You're enjoying your life, aren't you?"
The truth was that he was not. He had married Louise because he believed she needed him. He felt that children would change everything.
"Let's have one of each. It's time. We've been married a year now."
"Angel, be patient. I've been to the doctor, and he told me I'm fine. Maybe you should have a checkup and see if you're all right."
Jeff went.
"You should have no trouble producing healthy children," the doctor assured him.
And still nothing happened.
**********
On Black Monday Jeff's world fell apart. It started in the morning when he went into Louise's medicine chest for an aspirin. He found a shelf full of birth control pills. One of the cases was almost empty. Lying innocently next to it was a vial of white powder and a small golden spoon. And that was only the start of the day.
At noon, Jeff was seated in a deep armchair in the Pilgrim Club, waiting for Budge to appear, when he heard two men behind him talking.
"She swears that her Italian singer's cock is over ten inches long." There was a snicker. "Well, Louise always liked them big."
They're talking about another Louise, Jeff told himself.
"That's probably why she married that carnival person in the first place. But she does tell the most amusing stories about him. "You won't believe what he did the other day..."
Jeff rose and blindly made his way out of the club.
He was filled with a rage such as he had never known. He wanted to kill. He wanted to kill the unknown Italian. He wanted to kill Louise. How many other men had she been sleeping with during the past year? They had been laughing at him all this time. Budge and Ed Zeller and Mike Quincy and Alan Thompson and their wives had been having an enormous joke at his expense. And Louise, the woman he had wanted to protect. Jeff's immediate reaction was to pack up and leave. But that was not good enough. He had no intention of letting the bastards have the last laugh.
That afternoon when Jeff arrived home, Louise was not there. "Madame went out this morning," Pickens, the butler, said. "I believe she had several appointments."
I'll bet she did, Jeff thought. She's out fucking that ten-inch-cock Italian. Jesus Christ!
By the time Louise arrived home, Jeff had himself under tight control. "Did you have a nice day?" Jeff asked.
"Oh, the usual boring things, darling. A beauty appointment, shopping.... How was your day, angel?"
"It was interesting," Jeff said truthfully. "I learned a lot." "Budge tells me you're doing beautifully."
"I am," Jeff assured her. "And very soon I'm going to be doing even better."
Louise stroked his hand. "My bright husband. Why don't we go to bed early?"
"Not tonight," Jeff said. "I have a headache."
**********
He spent the next week making his plans.
He began at lunch at the club. "Do any of you know anything about computer frauds?" Jeff asked.
"Why?" Ed Zeller wanted to know. "You planning to commit one?" There was a sputter of laughter.
"No, I'm serious," Jeff insisted. "It's a big problem. People are tapping into computers and ripping off banks and insurance companies and other businesses for billions of dollars. It gets worse all the time."
"Sounds right up your alley," Budge murmured.
"Someone I met has come up with a computer he says can't be tampered with."
"And you want to have him knocked off," Mike Quincy kidded.
"As a matter of fact, I'm interested in raising money to back him. I just wondered if any of you might know something about computers."
"No," Budge grinned, "but we know everything about backing inventors, don't we fellas?"
There was a burst of laughter.
Two days later at the club, Jeff. passed by the usual table and explained to Budge, "I'm sorry I won't be able to join you fellows today. I'm having a guest for lunch."
When Jeff moved on to another table, Alan Thompson grinned, "He's probably having lunch with the bearded lady from the circus."
A stooped, gray-haired man entered the dining room and was ushered to Jeff's table.
"Jesus!" Mike Quincy said. "Isn't that Professor Ackerman?" "Who's Professor Ackerman?"
"Don't you ever read anything but financial reports, Budge? Vernon Ackerman was on the cover of Time last month. He's chairman of the President's National Scientific Board. He's the most brilliant scientist in the country."
"What the hell is he doing with my dear brother-in-law?"
Jeff and the professor were engrossed in a deep conversation all during lunch, and Budge and his friends grew more and more curious. When the professor left, Budge motioned Jeff over to his table.
"Hey, Jeff. Who was that?"
Jeff looked guilty. "Oh... you mean Vernon?"
"Yeah. What were you two talking about?"
"We... ah..." The others could almost watch Jeff's thought processes as he tried to dodge the question. "I... ah... might write a book about him. He's a very interesting character."
"I didn't know you were a writer."
"Well, I guess we all have to start sometime."
**********
Three days later Jeff had another luncheon guest. This time it was Budge who recognized him. "Hey! That's Seymour Jarrett, chairman of the board of Jarrett International Computer. What the hell would he be doing with Jeff?"
Again, Jeff and his guest held a long, animated conversation. When the luncheon was over, Budge sought Jeff out.
"Jeffrey, boy, what's with you and Seymour Jarrett?"
"Nothing," Jeff said quickly. "Just having a chat." He started to walk away. Budge stopped him.
"Not so fast, old buddy. Seymour Jarrett is a very busy fellow. He doesn't sit around having long chats about nothing."
Jeff said earnestly, "All right. The truth is, Budge, that Seymour collects stamps, and I told him about a stamp I might be able to acquire for him."
The truth, my ass, Budge thought.
**********
The following week, Jeff lunched at the club with Charles Bartlett, the president of Bartlett & Bartlett, one of the largest private capital venture groups in the world. Budge, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy watched in fascination as the two men talked, their heads close together.
"Your brother-in-law is sure in high-flying company lately," Zeller commented. "What kind of deal has he got cooking, Budge?"
Budge said testily, "I don't know, but I'm sure in hell going to find out. If Jarrett and Bartlett are interested, there must be a pot of money involved."
They watched as Bartlett rose, enthusiastically pumped Jeff's hand, and left. As Jeff passed their table, Budge caught his arm. "Sit down, Jeff. We want to have a little talk with you."
"I should get back to the office," Jeff protested. "I---"
"You work for me, remember? Sit down." Jeff sat. "Who were you having lunch with?"
Jeff hesitated. "No one special. An old friend." "Charlie Bartlett's an old friend?"
"Kind of."
"What were you and your old friend Charlie discussing, Jeff?"
"Uh... cars, mostly. Old Charlie likes antique cars, and I heard about this '37 Packard, four-door convertible---"
"Cut the horseshit!" Budge snapped. "You're not collecting stamps or selling automobiles, or writing any fucking book. What are you really up to?"
"Nothing. I---"
"You're raising money for something, aren't you, Jeff?" Ed Zeller asked. "No!" But he said it a shade too quickly.
Budge put a beefy arm around Jeff. "Hey, buddy, this is your brother-in- law. We're family, remember?" He gave Jeff a bear hug. "It's something about that tamper-proof computer you mentioned last week, right?"
They could see by the look on Jeff's face that they had trapped him. "Well, yes."
It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the son of a bitch. "Why didn't you tell us Professor Ackerman was involved?"
"I didn't think you'd be interested."
"You were wrong. When you need capital, you go to your friends."
"The professor and I don't need capital," Jeff said "Jarrett and Bartlett---"
"Jarrett and Bartlett are fuckin' sharks! They'll eat you alive," Alan Thompson exclaimed.
Ed Zeller picked it up. "Jeff, when you deal with friends, you don't get hurt."
"Everything is already arranged," Jeff told them. "Charlie Bartlett---" "Have you signed anything yet?"
"No, but I gave my word---"
"Then nothing's arranged. Hell, Jeff boy, in business people change their minds every hour."
"I shouldn't even be discussing this with you," Jeff protested. "Professor Ackerman's name can't be mentioned. He's under contract to a government agency."
"We know that," Thompson said soothingly. "Does the professor think this thing will work?"
"Oh, he knows it works."
"If it's good enough for Ackerman, it's good enough for us, right fellows?"
There was a chorus of assent.
"Hey, I'm not a scientist," Jeff said. "I can't guarantee anything. For all I know, this thing may have no value at all."
"Sure. We understand. But say it does have a value, Jeff How big could this thing be?"
"Budge, the market for this is worldwide. I couldn't even begin to put a value on it. Everybody will be able to use it."
"How much initial financing are you looking for?"
"Two million dollars, but all we need is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars down. Bartlett promised---"
"Forget Bartlett. That's chicken feed, old buddy. We'll put that up ourselves. Keep it in the family. Right, fellas?"
"Right!"
Budge looked up and snapped his fingers, and a captain came hurrying over to the table. "Dominick, bring Mr. Stevens some paper and a pen."
It was produced almost instantly.
"We can wrap up this little deal right here," Budge said to Jeff. "You just make out this paper, giving us the rights, and we'll all sign it, and in the morning you'll have a certified check for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. How does that suit you?"
Jeff was biting his lower lip. "Budge, I promised Mr. Bartlett "
"Fuck Bartlett," Budge snarled. "Are you married to his sister or mine? Now write."
"We don't have a patent on this, and---"
"Write, goddamn it!" Budge shoved the pen in Jeff's hand.
Reluctantly, Jeff began to write: "This will transfer all my rights, title, and interest to a mathematical computer called SUCABA, to the buyers, Donald 'Budge' Hollander, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy, for the consideration of two million dollars, with a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on signing. SUCABA has been extensively tested, is inexpensive, trouble-free, and uses less power than any computer currently on the market. SUCABA will require no maintenance or parts for a minimum period of ten years." They were all looking over Jeff's shoulder as he wrote.
"Jesus!" Ed Zeller said. "Ten years! There's not a computer on the market that can claim that!"
Jeff continued. "The buyers understand that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I holds a patent on SUCABA---"
"We'll take care of all that," Alan Thompson interrupted impatiently. "I've got one hell of a patent attorney."
Jeff kept writing. "I have explained to the buyers that SUCABA may have no value of any kind, and that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I makes any representations or warranties about SUCABA except as written above." He signed it and held up the paper. "Is that satisfactory?"
"You sure about the ten years?" Budge asked.
"Guaranteed. I'll just make a copy of this," Jeff said. They watched as he carefully made a copy of what he had written.
Budge snatched the papers out of Jeff's hand and signed them. Zeller, Quincy, and Thompson followed suit.
Budge was beaming. "A copy for us and a copy for you. Old Seymour Jarrett and Charlie Bartlett are sure going to have egg on their faces, huh, boys? I can't wait until they hear that they got screwed out of this deal."
The following morning Budge handed Jeff a certified check for $250,000. "Where's the computer?" Budge asked.
"I arranged for it to be delivered here at the club at noon. I thought it only fitting that we should all be together when you receive it."
Budge clapped him on the shoulder. "You know, Jeff, you're a smart fellow. See you at lunch."
At the stroke of noon a messenger carrying a box appeared in the dining room of the Pilgrim, Club and was ushered to Budge's table, where he was seated with Zeller, Thompson, and Quincy.
"Here it is!" Budge exclaimed. "Jesus! The damned thing's even portable!" "Should we wait for Jeff?" Thompson asked.
"Fuck him. This belongs to us now." Budge ripped the paper away from the box. Inside was a nest of straw. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted out the object that lay in the nest. The men sat there, staring at it. It was a square frame about a foot in diameter, holding a series of wires across which were strung rows of beads. There was a long silence.
"What is it?" Quincy finally asked.
Alan Thompson said, "It's an abacus. One of those things Orientals use to count---" The expression on his face changed. "Jesus! SUCABA is abacus spelled backward!" He turned to Budge. "Is this some kind of joke?"
Zeller was sputtering. "Low power, trouble-free, uses less power than any computer currently on the market... Stop the goddamned check!"
There was a concerted rush to the telephone.
"Your certified check?" the head bookkeeper said. "There's nothing to worry about. Mr. Stevens cashed it this morning."
**********
Pickens, the butler, was very sorry, indeed, but Mr. Stevens had packed and left. "He mentioned something about an extended journey."
**********
That afternoon, a frantic Budge finally managed to reach Professor Vernon Ackerman.
"Of course. Jeff Stevens. A charming man. Your brother-in-law, you say?" "Professor, what were you and Jeff discussing?"
"I suppose it's no secret. Jeff is eager to write a book about me. He has convinced me that the world wants to know the human being behind the scientist "
**********
Seymour Jarrett was reticent. "Why do you want to know what Mr. Stevens and I discussed? Are you a rival stamp collector?"
"No I "
"Well, it won't do you any good to snoop around. There's only one stamp like it in existence, and Mr. Stevens has agreed to sell it to me when he acquires it."
And he slammed down the receiver.
**********
Budge knew what Charlie Bartlett was going to say before the words were out. "Jeff Stevens? Oh, yes. I collect antique cars. Jeff knows where this '37 Packard four-door convertible in mint condition "
This time it was Budge who hung up.
"Don't worry," Budge told his partners. "We'll get our money back and put the son of a bitch away for the rest of his life. There are laws against fraud."
**********
The group's next stop was at the office of Scott Fogarty.
"He took us for two hundred fifty thousand dollars," Budge told the attorney. "I want him put behind bars for the rest of his life. Get a warrant out for "
"Do you have the contract with you, Budge?"
"It's right here." He handed Fogarty the paper Jeff had written out.
The lawyer scanned it quickly, then read it again, slowly. "Did he forge your names to this paper?"
"Why, no," Mike Quincy said. "We signed it." "Did you read it first?"
Ed Zeller angrily said, "Of course we read it. Do you think we're stupid?"
"I'll let you be the judge of that, gentlemen. You signed a contract stating that you were informed that what you were purchasing with a down payment of two hundred fifty thousand dollars was an object that had not been patented and could be completely worthless. In the legal parlance of an old professor of mine, 'You've been royally fucked.' "
**********
Jeff had obtained the divorce in Reno. It was while he was establishing residence there that he had run into Conrad Morgan. Morgan had once worked for Uncle Willie. "How would you like to do me a small favor, Jeff?" Conrad Morgan had asked. "There's a young lady traveling on a train from New York to St. Louis with some jewelry. "
Jeff looked out of the plane window and thought about Tracy. There was a smile on his face.
**********
When Tracy returned to New York, her first stop was at Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. Conrad Morgan ushered Tracy into his office and closed the door. He rubbed his hands together and said, "I was getting very worried, my dear. I waited for you in St. Louis and---"
"You weren't in St. Louis."
"What? What do you mean?" His blue eyes seemed to twinkle.
"I mean, you didn't go to St. Louis. You never intended to meet me." "But of course I did! You have the jewels and I---"
"You sent two men to take them away from me."
There was a puzzled expression on Morgan's face. "I don't understand."
"At first I thought there might be a leak in your organization, but there wasn't, was there? It was you. You told me that you personally arranged for my train ticket, so you were the only one who knew the number of my compartment. I used a different name and a disguise, but your men knew exactly where to find me."
There was a look of surprise on his cherubic face. "Are you trying to tell me that some men robbed you of the jewels?"
Tracy smiled. "I'm trying to tell you that they didn't."
This time the surprise on Morgan's face was genuine. "You have the jewels?"
"Yes. Your friends were in such a big hurry to catch a plane that they left them behind."
Morgan studied Tracy a moment. "Excuse me."
He went through a private door, and Tracy sat down on the couch, perfectly relaxed.
Conrad Morgan was gone for almost fifteen minutes, and when he returned, there was a look of dismay on his face. "I'm afraid a mistake has been made. A big mistake. You're a very clever young lady, Miss Whitney.
You've earned your twenty-five thousand dollars." He smiled admiringly. "Give me the jewels and---"
"Fifty thousand." "I beg your pardon?"
"I had to steal them twice. That's fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Morgan. "
"No," he said flatly. His eyes had lost their twinkle. "I'm afraid I can't give you that much for them."
Tracy rose. "That's perfectly all right. I'll try to find someone in Las Vegas who thinks they're worth that." She moved toward the door.
"Fifty thousand dollars?" Conrad Morgan asked. Tracy nodded.
"Where are the jewels?"
"In a locker at Penn Station. As soon as you give me the money--- in cash--- and put me in a taxi, I'll hand you the key."
Conrad Morgan gave a sigh of defeat. "You've got a deal."
"Thank you," Tracy said cheerfully. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 19
Daniel Cooper was already aware of what the meeting in J. J. Reynolds's office that morning was about, for all the company's investigators had been sent a memo the day before regarding the Lois Bellamy burglary that had taken place a week earlier. Daniel Cooper loathed conferences. He was too impatient to sit around listening to stupid chatter.
He arrived in J. J. Reynolds's office forty-five minutes late, while Reynolds was in the middle of a speech.
"Nice of you to drop by," J. J. Reynolds said sarcastically. There was no response. It's a waste of time, Reynolds decided. Cooper did not understand sarcasm--- or anything else, as far as Reynolds was concerned. Except how to catch criminals. There, he had to admit, the man was a goddamned genius.
Seated in the office were three of the agency's top investigators: David Swift, Robert Schiffer, and Jerry Davis.
"You've all read the report on the Bellamy burglary," Reynolds said, "but something new has been added. It turns out that Lois Bellamy is a cousin of the police commissioner's. He's raising holy hell."
"What are the police doing?" Davis asked.
"Hiding from the press. Can't blame them. The investigating officers acted like the Keystone Kops. They actually talked to the burglar they caught in the house and let her get away."
"Then they should have a good description of her," Swift suggested.
"They have a good description of her nightgown," Reynolds retorted witheringly. "They were so goddamned impressed with her figure that their brains melted. They don't even know the color of her hair. She wore some kind of curler cap, and her face was covered with a mudpack. Their description is of a woman somewhere in her middle twenties, with a fantastic ass and tits. There's not one single clue. We have no information to go on. Nothing."
Daniel Cooper spoke for the first time. "Yes, we have."
They all turned to look at him, with varying degrees of dislike. "What are you talking about?" Reynolds asked
"I know who she is."
**********
When Cooper had read the memo the morning before, he had decided to take a look at the Bellamy house, as a logical first step. To Daniel Cooper, logic was the orderliness of God's mind, the basic solution to every problem, and to apply logic, one always started at the beginning. Cooper drove out to the Bellamy estate in Long Island, took one look at it, and, without getting out of his car, turned around and drove back to Manhattan. He had learned all he needed to know. The house was isolated, and there was no public transportation nearby, which meant that the burglar could have reached the house only by car.
He was explaining his reasoning to the men assembled in Reynolds's office. "Since she probably would have been reluctant to use her own car, which could have been traced, the vehicle either had to be stolen or rented. I decided to try the rental agencies first. I assumed that she would have rented the car in Manhattan, where it would be easier for her to cover her trail."
Jerry Davis was not impressed. "You've got to be kidding, Cooper. There must be thousands of cars a day rented in Manhattan."
Cooper ignored the interruption. "All car-rental operations are computerized. Relatively few cars are rented by women. I checked them all out. The lady in question went to Budget Rent a Car at Pier Sixty-one on West Twenty-third Street, rented a Chevy Caprice at eight P.M. the night of the burglary, and returned it to the office at two A.M."
"How do you know it was the getaway car?" Reynolds asked skeptically.
Cooper was getting bored with the stupid questions. "I checked the elapsed mileage. It's thirty-two miles to the Lois Bellamy estate and another thirty-two miles back. That checks exactly with the odometer on the Caprice. The car was rented in the name of Ellen Branch."
"A phony," David Swift surmised. "Right. Her real name is Tracy Whitney."
They were all staring at him. "How the hell do you know that?" Schiffer demanded.
"She gave a false name and address, but she had to sign a rental agreement. I took the original down to One Police Plaza and had them run it through for fingerprints. They matched the prints of Tracy Whitney.
She served time at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. If you remember, I talked to her about a year ago about a stolen Renoir."
"I remember," Reynolds nodded. "You said then that she was innocent."
"She was--- then. She's not innocent anymore. She pulled the Bellamy job."
The little bastard had done it again! And he had made it seem so simple. Reynolds tried not to sound grudging. "That's--- that's fine work, Cooper. Really fine work. Let's nail her. We'll have the police pick her up and---"
"On what charge?" Cooper asked mildly. "Renting a car? The police can't identify her, and there's not a shred of evidence against her."
"What are we supposed to do?" Schiffer asked. "Let her walk away scot- free?"
"This time, yes," Cooper said. "But I know who she is now. She'll try something again. And when she does, I'll catch her."
The meeting was finally over. Cooper desperately wanted a shower. He took out a little black book and wrote in it very carefully: TRACY WHITNEY.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 20
It's time to begin my new life, Tracy decided. But what kind of life? I've gone from an innocent, naive victim to a... what? A thief--- that's what. She thought of Joe Romano and Anthony Orsatti and Perry Pope and Judge Lawrence. No. An avenger. That's what I've become. And an adventuress, perhaps. She had outwitted the police, two professional con artists, and a double-crossing jeweler. She thought of Ernestine and Amy and felt a pang. On an impulse, Tracy went to F.A.O. Schwarz and bought a puppet theater, complete with half a dozen characters, and had it mailed to Amy. The card read: SOME NEW FRIENDS FOR YOU. MISS YOU. LOVE TRACY.
Next she visited a furrier on Madison Avenue and bought a blue fox boa for Ernestine and mailed it with a money order for two hundred dollars. The card simply read: THANKS, ERNIE. TRACY.
All my debts are paid now, Tracy thought. It was a good feeling. She was free to go anywhere she liked, do anything she pleased.
She celebrated her independence by checking into a Tower Suite in The Helmsley Palace Hotel. From her forty-seventh-floor living room, she could look down at St. Patrick's Cathedral and see the George Washington Bridge in the distance. Only a few miles in another direction was the dreary place she had recently lived in. Never again, Tracy swore.
She opened the bottle of champagne that the management had sent up and sat sipping it, watching the sun set over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. By the time the moon had risen, Tracy had made up her mind. She was going to London. She was ready for all the wonderful things life had to offer. I've paid my dues, Tracy thought. I deserve some happiness.
**********
She lay in bed and turned on the late television news. Two men were being interviewed. Boris Melnikov was a short, stocky Russian, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, and Pietr Negulesco was his opposite, tall and thin and elegant-looking. Tracy wondered what the two men could possibly have in common.
"Where is the chess match going to be held?" the news anchorman asked. "At Sochi, on the beautiful Black Sea," Melnikov replied.
"You are both international grand masters, and this match has created quite a stir, gentlemen. In your previous matches you have taken the title from each other, and your last one was a draw. Mr. Negulesco, Mr. Melnikov currently holds the title. Do you think you will be able to take it away from him again?"
"Absolutely," the Romanian replied.
"He has no chance," the Russian retorted.
Tracy knew nothing about chess, but there was an arrogance about both men that she found distasteful. She pressed the remote-control button that turned off the television set and went to sleep.
**********
Early the following morning Tracy stopped at a travel agency and reserved a suite on the Signal Deck of the Queen Elizabeth 2. She was as excited as a child about her first trip abroad, and spent the next three days buying clothes and luggage.
On the morning of the sailing Tracy hired a limousine to drive her to the pier. When she arrived at Pier 90, Berth 3, at West Fifty-fifth and Twelfth Avenue, where the QE II was docked, it was crowded with photographers and television reporters, and for a moment, Tracy was panic-stricken. Then she realized they were interviewing the two men posturing at the foot of the gangplank--- Melnikov and Negulesco, the
international grand masters. Tracy brushed past them, showed her passport to a ship's officer at the gangplank, and walked up onto the ship. On deck, a steward looked at Tracy's ticket and directed her to her stateroom. It was a lovely suite, with a private terrace. It had been ridiculously expensive, but Tracy decided it was going to be worth it.
She unpacked and then wandered along the corridor. In almost every cabin there were farewell parties going on, with laughter and champagne and conversation. She felt a sudden ache of loneliness. There was no one to see her off, no one for her to care about, no one who cared about her.
That's not true, Tracy told herself. Big Bertha wants me. And she laughed aloud.
She made her way up to the Boat Deck and had no idea of the admiring glances of the men and the envious stares of the women cast her way.
Tracy heard the sound of a deep-throated boat whistle and calls of "All ashore who's going ashore," and she was filled with a sudden excitement. She was sailing into a completely unknown future. She felt the huge ship shudder as the tugs started to pull it out of the harbor, and she stood among the passengers on the Boat Deck, watching the Statue of Liberty slide out of sight, and then she went exploring.
The QE II was a city, more than nine hundred feet long and thirteen stories high. It had four restaurants, six bars, two ballrooms, two nightclubs, and a "Golden Door Spa at Sea." There were scores of shops, four swimming pools, a gymnasium, a golf driving range, a jogging track. I may never want to leave the ship, Tracy marveled.
**********
She had reserved a table upstairs in the Princess Grill, which was smaller and more elegant than the main dining room. She barely had been seated when a familiar voice said, "Well, hello there!"
She looked up, and there stood Tom Bowers, the bogus FBI man. Oh, no. I don't deserve this, Tracy thought.
"What a pleasant surprise. Do you mind if I join you?" "Very much."
He slid into the chair across from her and gave her an engaging smile. "We might as well be friends. After all, we're both here for the same reason, aren't we?"
Tracy had no idea what he was talking about. "Look, Mr. Bowers---" "Stevens," he said easily. "Jeff Stevens."
"Whatever." Tracy started to rise.
"Wait. I'd like to explain about the last time we met."
"There's nothing to explain," Tracy assured him. "An idiot child could have figured it out--- and did."
"I owed Conrad Morgan a favor." He grinned ruefully. "I'm afraid he wasn't too happy with me."
There was that same easy, boyish charm that had completely taken her in before. For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away....
She said hostilely, "I'm not too happy with you; either. What are you doing aboard this ship? Shouldn't you be on a riverboat?"
He laughed. "With Maximilian Pierpont on board, this is a riverboat." "Who?"
He looked at her in surprise. "Come on. You mean you really don't know?" "Know what?"
"Max Pierpont is one of the richest men in the world. His hobby is forcing competitive companies out of business. He loves slow horses and fast women, and he owns a lot of both. He's the last of the big-time spenders."
"And you intend to relieve him of some of his excess wealth."
"Quite a lot of it, as a matter of fact." He was eyeing her speculatively. "Do you know what you and I should do?"
"I certainly do, Mr. Stevens. We should say good-bye."
And he sat there watching as Tracy got up and walked out of the dining room.
She had dinner in her cabin. As she ate, she wondered what ill fate had placed Jeff Stevens in her path again. She wanted to forget the fear she had felt on that train when she thought she was under arrest. Well, I'm not going to let him spoil this trip. I'll simply ignore him.
After dinner Tracy went up on deck. It was a fantastic night, with a magic canopy of stars sprayed against a velvet sky. She was standing at the rail in the moonlight, watching the soft phosphorescence of the waves and listening to the sounds of the night wind, when he moved up beside her.
"You have no idea how beautiful you look standing there. Do you believe in shipboard romances?"
"Definitely. What I don't believe in is you." She started to walk away.
"Wait. I have some news for you. I just found out that Max Pierpont isn't on board, after all. He canceled at the last minute."
"Oh, what a shame. You wasted your fare."
"Not necessarily." He eyed her speculatively. "How would you like to pick up a small fortune on this voyage?"
The man is unbelievable. "Unless you have a submarine or a helicopter in your pocket, I don't think you'll get away with robbing anyone on this ship."
"Who said anything about robbing anyone? Have you ever heard of Boris Melnikov or Pietr Negulesco?"
"What if I have?"
"Melnikov and Negulesco are on their way to Russia for a championship match. If I can arrange for you to play the two of them," Jeff said earnestly, "we can win a lot of money. It's a perfect setup."
Tracy was looking at him incredulously. "If you can arrange for me to play the two of them? That's your perfect setup?"
"Uh-huh. How do you like it?"
"I love it. There's just one tiny hitch." "What's that?"
"I don't play chess."
He smiled benignly. "No problem. I'll teach you."
"You're insane," Tracy said. "If you want some advice, you'll find yourself a good psychiatrist. Good night."
**********
The following morning Tracy literally bumped into Boris Melnikov. He was jogging on the Boat Deck, and as Tracy rounded a corner, he ran into her, knocking her off her feet.
"Watch where you're going," he growled. And he kept running.
Tracy sat on the deck, looking after him. "Of all the rude---!" She stood up and brushed herself off.
A steward approached. "Are you hurt, miss? I saw him---" "No, I'm fine, thank you."
Nobody was going to spoil this trip.
When Tracy returned to her cabin, there were six messages to call Mr. Jeff Stevens. She ignored them. In the afternoon she swam and read and
had a massage, and by the time she went into the bar that evening to have a cocktail before dinner, she was feeling wonderful. Her euphoria was short-lived. Pietr Negulesco, the Romanian, was seated at the bar. When he saw Tracy, he stood up and said, "May I buy you a drink, beautiful lady?"
Tracy hesitated, then smiled. "Why, yes, thank you." "What would you like?"
"A vodka and tonic, please."
Negulesco gave the order to the barman and turned back to Tracy. "I'm Pietr Negulesco."
"I know."
"Of course. Everyone knows me. I am the greatest chess player in the world. In my country, I am a national hero." He leaned close to Tracy, put a hand on her knee, and said, "I am also a great fuck."
Tracy thought she had misunderstood him. "What?" "I am a great fuck."
Her first reaction was to throw her drink in his face, but she controlled herself. She had a better idea. "Excuse me," she said, "I have to meet a friend."
**********
She went to look for Jeff Stevens. She found him in the Princess Grill, but as Tracy started toward his table, she saw that he was dining with a lovely-looking blonde with a spectacular figure, dressed in an evening gown that looked as if it had been painted on. I should have known better, Tracy thought. She turned and headed down the corridor. A moment later Jeff was at her side.
"Tracy... did you want to see me?"
"I don't want to take you away from your... dinner."
"She's dessert," Jeff said lightly. "What can I do for you?" "Were you serious about Melnikov and Negulesco?" "Absolutely. Why?"
"I think they both need a lesson in manners."
"So do I. And we'll make money while we teach them." "Good. What's your plan?"
"You're going to beat them at chess." "I'm serious."
"So am I"
"I told you, I don't play chess. I don't know a pawn from a king. I---"
"Don't worry," Jeff promised her. "A couple of lessons from me, and you'll slaughter them both."
"Both?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you? You're going to play them simultaneously."
**********
Jeff was seated next to Boris Melnikov in the. Double Down Piano Bar.
"The woman is a fantastic chess player," Jeff confided to Melnikov. "She's traveling incognito."
The Russian grunted. "Women know nothing about chess. They cannot think." "This one does. She says she could beat you easily."
Boris Melnikov laughed aloud. "Nobody beats me--- easily or not."
"She's willing to bet you ten thousand dollars that she can play you and Pietr Negulesco at the same time and get a draw with at least one of you."
Boris Melnikov choked on his drink. "What! That's--- that's ridiculous! Play two of us at the same time? This--- this female amateur?"
"That's right. For ten thousand dollars each."
"I should do it just to teach the stupid idiot a lesson."
"If you win, the money will be deposited in any country you choose."
A covetous expression flitted across the Russian's face. "I've never even heard of this person. And to play the two of us! My God, she must be insane."
"She has the twenty thousand dollars in cash." "What nationality is she?"
"American."
"Ah, that explains it. All rich Americans are crazy, especially their women."
Jeff started to rise. "Well, I guess she'll just have to play Pietr Negulesco alone."
"Negulesco is going to play her?"
"Yes, didn't I tell you? She wanted to play the two of you, but if you're afraid..."
"Afraid! Boris Melnikov afraid?" His voice was a roar. "I will destroy her. When is this ridiculous match to take place?"
"She thought perhaps Friday night. The last night out."
Boris Meinikov was thinking hard. "The best two out of three?" "No. Only one game."
"For ten thousand dollars?" "That is correct."
The Russian sighed. "I do not have that much cash with me."
"No problem," Jeff assured him. "All Miss Whitney really wants is the glory of playing the great Boris Melnikov. If you lose, you give her a personally autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars."
"Who holds the stakes?" There was a sharp note of suspicion in his voice. "The ship's purser."
"Very well," Melnikov decided. "Friday night We will start at ten o'clock, promptly."
"She'll be so pleased," Jeff assured him.
The following morning Jeff was talking to Pietr Negulesco in the gymnasium, where the two men were working out.
"She's an American?" Pietr Negulesco said. "I should have known. All Americans are cuckoo."
"She's a great chess player.."
Pietr Negulesco made a gesture of contempt. "Great is not good enough. Best is what counts. And I am the best."
"That's why she's so eager to play against you. If you lose, you give her an autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars in cash..."
"Negulesco does not play amateurs."
"...deposited in any country you like." "Out of the question."
"Well, then, I guess she'll have to play only Boris Melnikov."
"What? Are you saying Melnikov has agreed to play against this woman?" "Of course. But she was hoping to play you both at once."
"I've never heard of anything so--- so---" Negutesco sputtered, at a loss for words. "The arrogance! Who is she that she thinks she can defeat the two top chess masters in the world? She must have escaped from some lunatic asylum."
"She's a little erratic," Jeff confessed, "but her money is good. All cash."
"You said ten thousand dollars for defeating her?" "That's right."
"And Boris Meinikov gets the same amount?" "If he defeats her."
Pietr Negulesco grinned. "Oh, he will defeat her. And so will I." "Just between us, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
"Who will hold the stakes?" "The ship's purser."
Why should Melnikov be the only one to take money from this woman? thought Pietr Negutesco.
"My friend, you have a deal. Where and when?" "Friday night. Ten o'clock. The Queen's Room." Pietr Negulesco smiled wolfishly. "I will be there."
**********
"You mean they agreed?" Tracy cried. "That's right."
"I'm going to be sick." "I'll get you a cold towel."
Jeff hurried into the bathroom of Tracy's suite, ran cold water on a towel, and brought it back to her. She was lying on the chaise longue. He placed the towel on her forehead. "How does that feel?"
"Terrible. I think I have a migraine." "Have you ever had a migraine before?" "No."
"Then you don't have one now. Listen to me, Tracy, it's perfectly natural to be nervous before something like this."
She leapt up and flung down the towel. "Something like this? There's never been anything like this! I'm playing two international master chess players with one chess lesson from you and---"
"Two," Jeff corrected her. "You have a natural talent for chess." "My God, why did I ever let you talk me into this?"
"Because we're going to make a lot of money."
"I don't want to make a lot of money," Tracy wailed. "I want this boat to sink. Why couldn't this be the Titanic?"
"Now, just stay calm," Jeff said soothingly. "It's going to be---"
"It's going to be a disaster! Everyone on this ship is going to be watching."
"That's exactly the point, isn't it?" Jeff beamed.
**********
Jeff had made all the arrangements with the ship's purser. He had given the purser the stakes to hold--- $20,000 in traveler's checks--- and asked him to set up two chess tables for Friday evening. The word spread rapidly throughout the ship, and passengers kept approaching Jeff to ask if the matches were actually going to take place.
"Absolutely," Jeff assured all who inquired. "It's incredible. Poor Miss Whitney believes she can win. In fact, she's betting on it."
"I wonder," a passenger asked, "If I might place a small bet?"
Certainly. As much money as you like. Miss Whitney is asking only ten-to- one odds."
A million-to-one odds would have made more sense. From the moment the first bet was accepted, the floodgates opened. It seemed that everyone on board, including the engine-room crew and the ship's officers, wanted to place bets on the game. The amounts varied from five dollars to five
thousand dollars and every single bet was on the Russian and the Romanian.
The suspicious purser reported to the captain. "I've never seen anything like it, sir. It's a stampede. Nearly all the passengers have placed wagers. I must be holding two hundred thousand dollars in bets."
The captain studied him thoughtfully. "You say Miss Whitney is going to play Melnikov and Negulesco at the same time?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Have you verified that the two men are really Pietr Negulesco and Boris Melnikov?"
"Oh, yes, of course, sir."
"There's no chance they would deliberately throw the chess game, is there?"
"Not with their egos. I think they'd rather die first. And if they lost to this woman, that's probably exactly what would happen to them when they got home."
The captain ran his fingers through his hair, a puzzled frown on his face. "Do you know anything about Miss Whitney or this Mr. Stevens?"
"Not a thing, sir. As far as I can determine, they're traveling separately."
The captain made his decision. "It smells like some kind of con game, and ordinarily I would put a stop to it. However, I happen to be a bit of an expert myself, and if there was one thing I'd stake my life on, it's the fact that there is no way to cheat at chess. Let the match go on." He walked over to his desk and withdrew a black leather wallet. "Put down fifty pounds for me. On the masters."
**********
By 9:00 Friday evening the Queen's Room was packed with passengers from first class, those who had sneaked in from second and third class, and the ship's officers and members of the crew who were off duty. At Jeff Stevens's request, two rooms had been set up for the tournament. One table was in the center of the Queen's Room, and the other table was in the adjoining salon. Curtains had been drawn to separate the two rooms.
"So that the players aren't distracted by each other," Jeff explained. "And we would like the spectators to remain in whichever room they choose."
Velvet ropes had been placed around the two tables to keep the crowds back. The spectators were about to witness something they were sure they would never see again. They knew nothing about the beautiful young American woman, except that it would be impossible for her--- or anyone
else--- to play the great Negulesco and Melnikov simultaneously and obtain a draw with either of them.
Jeff introduced Tracy to the two grand masters shortly before the game was to begin. Tracy looked like a Grecian painting in a muted green chiffon Galanos gown which left one shoulder bare. Her eyes seemed tremendous in her pale face.
Pietr Negulesco looked her over carefully. "Have you won all the national tournaments you have played in?" he asked.
"Yes," Tracy replied truthfully.
He shrugged. "I have never heard of you."
Boris Melnikov was equally rude. "You Americans do not know what to do with your money," he said. "I wish to thank you in advance. My winnings will make my family very happy."
Tracy's eyes were green jade. "You haven't won, yet, Mr. Melnikov."
Melnikov's laugh boomed out through the room. "My dear lady, I don't know who you are, but I know who I am. I am the great Boris Melnikov."
It was 10:00. Jeff looked around and saw that both salons had filled up with spectators. "It's time for the match to start."
Tracy sat down across the table from Melnikov and wondered for the hundredth time how she had gotten herself into this.
"There's nothing to it," Jeff had assured her. "Trust me."
And like a fool she had trusted him. I must have been out of my mind, Tracy thought. She was playing the two greatest chess players in the world, and she knew nothing about the same, except what Jeff had spent four hours teaching her.
The big moment had arrived. Tracy felt her legs trembling. Melnikov turned to the expectant crowd and grinned. He made a hissing noise at a steward. "Bring me a brandy. Napoleon."
"In order to be fair to everyone," Jeff had said to Melnikov, "I suggest that you play the white so that you go first, and in the game with Mr.
Negulesco, Miss Whitney will play the white and she will go first." Both grand masters agreed.
While the audience stood hushed, Boris Melnikov reached across the board and played the queen's gambit decline opening, moving his queen pawn two squares. I'm not simply going to beat this woman. I'm going to crush her.
He glanced up at Tracy. She studied the board, nodded, and stood up, without moving a piece. A steward cleared the way through the crowd as Tracy walked into the second salon, where Pietr Negulesco was seated at a
table waiting for her. There were at least a hundred people crowding the room as Tracy took her seat opposite Negulesco.
"Ah, my little pigeon. Have you defeated Boris yet?" Pietr Negulesco laughed uproariously at his joke.
"I'm working on it, Mr. Negulesco," Tracy said quietly.
She reached forward and moved her white queen's pawn two squares. Negulesco looked up at her and grinned. He had arranged for a massage in one hour, but he planned to finish this game before then. He reached down and moved his black queen's pawn two squares. Tracy studied the board a moment, then rose. The steward escorted her back to Boris Melnikov.
Tracy sat down at the table and moved her black queen's pawn two squares. In the background she saw Jeffs almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Without hesitation, Boris Melnikov moved his white queen's bishop pawn two squares.
Two minutes later, at Negulesco's table, Tracy moved her white queen's bishop two squares.
Negulesco played his king's pawn square.
Tracy rose and returned to the room where Boris Melnikov was waiting. Tracy played her king's pawn square.
So! She is not a complete amateur, Melnikov thought in surprise. Let us see what she does with this. He played his queen's knight to queen's bishop 3.
Tracy watched his move, nodded, and returned to Negulesco, where she copied Melnikov's move.
Negulesco moved the queen's bishop pawn two squares, and Tracy went back to Melnikov and repeated Negulesco's move.
With growing astonishment, the two grand masters realized they were up against a brilliant opponent. No matter how clever their moves, this amateur managed to counteract them.
Because they were separated, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco had no idea that, in effect, they were playing against each other. Every move that Melnikov made with Tracy, Tracy repeated with Negulesco. And when Negulesco countered with a move, Tracy used that move against Melnikov.
By the time the grand masters entered the middle game, they were no longer smug. They were fighting for their reputations. They paced the floor while they contemplated moves and puffed furiously on cigarettes. Tracy appeared to be the only calm one.
In the beginning, in order to end the game quickly, Melnikov had tried a knight's sacrifice to allow his white bishop to put pressure on the black king's side. Tracy had carried the move to Negulesco. Negulesco had
examined the move carefully, then refuted the sacrifice by covering his exposed side, and when Negulesco had sacked a bishop to advance a rook to white's seventh rank, Melnikov had refuted it before the black rook could damage his pawn structure.
There was no stopping Tracy. The game had been going on for four hours, and not one person in either audience had stirred.
Every grand master carries in his head hundreds of games played by other grand masters. It was as this particular match was going into the end game that both Melnikov and Negulesco recognized the hallmark of the other.
The bitch, Melnikov thought. She has studied with Negulesco. He has tutored her.
And Negulesco thought, She is Melnikov's protegee. The bastard has taught her his game.
The harder they fought Tracy, the more they came to realize there was simply no way they could beat her. The match was appearing drawish.
In the sixth hour of play, at 4:00 A.M., when the players had reached the end game, the pieces on each board had been reduced to three pawns, one rook, and a king. There was no way for either side to win. Melnikov studied the board for a long time, then took a deep, choked breath and said, "I offer a draw."
Over the hubbub, Tracy said, "I accept." The crowd went wild.
Tracy rose and made her way through the crowd into the next room. As she started to take her seat, Neguleseo, in a strangled voice said, "I offer a draw."
And the uproar from the other room was repeated. The crowd could not believe what it had just witnessed. A woman had come out of nowhere to simultaneously stalemate the two greatest chess masters in the world.
Jeff appeared at Tracy's side. "Come on," he grinned. "We both need a drink."
When they left, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco were sill slumped in their chairs, mindlessly staring at their boards.
**********
Tracy and Jeff sat at a table for two in the Upper Deck bar. "You were beautiful," Jeff laughed. "Did you notice the look on Melnikov's face? I thought he was going to have a heart attack."
"I thought I was going to have a heart attack," Tracy said. "How much did we win?"
"About two hundred thousand dollars. We'll collect it from the purser in the morning when we dock at Southampton. I'll meet you for breakfast in the dining room."
"Fine."
"I think I'll turn in now. Let me walk you to your stateroom."
"I'm not ready to go to bed yet, Jeff. I'm too excited. You go ahead."
"You were a champion," Jeff told her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Good night, Tracy."
"Good night, Jeff."
She watched him leave. Go to sleep? Impossible! It had been one of the most fantastic nights of her life. The Russian and the Romanian had been so sure of themselves, so arrogant. Jeff had said, "Trust me," and she had. She had no illusions about what he was. He was a con artist. He was bright and amusing and clever, easy to be with. But of course she could never be seriously interested in him.
**********
Jeff was on the way to his stateroom when he encountered one of the ship's officers.
"Good show, Mr. Stevens. The word about the match has already gone out over the wireless. I imagine the press will be meeting you both at Southampton. Are you Miss Whitney's manager?"
"No, we're just shipboard acquaintances," Jeff said easily, but his mind was racing. If he and Tracy were linked together, it would look like a setup. There could even be an investigation. He decided to collect the money before any suspicions were aroused.
Jeff wrote a note to Tracy. HAVE PICKED UP MONEY AND WILL MEET YOU FOR A CELEBRATION BREAKFAST AT THE SAVOY HOTEL. YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT. JEFF. He
sealed it in an envelope and handed it to a steward. "Please see that Miss Whitney gets this first thing in the morning."
"Yes, Sir."
Jeff headed for the purser's office.
"Sorry to bother you," Jeff apologized, "but we'll be docking in a few hours, and I know how busy you're going to be, so I wondered whether you'd mind paying me off now?"
"No trouble at all," the purser smiled. "Your young lady is really wizard, isn't she?"
"She certainly is."
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Stevens, where in the world did she learn to play chess like that?"
Jeff leaned close and confided, "I heard she studied with Bobby Fischer."
The purser took two large manila envelopes out of the safe. "This is a lot of cash to carry around. Would you like me to give you a check for this amount?"
"No, don't bother. The cash will be fine," Jeff assured him. "I wonder if you could do me a favor? The mail boat comes out to meet the ship before it docks, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Sir. We're expecting it at six A.M."
"I'd appreciate it if you could arrange for me to leave on the mail boat. My mother is seriously ill, and I'd like to get to her before it's"--- his voice dropped--- "before it's too late."
"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr. Stevens. Of course I can handle that for you. I'll make the arrangements with customs."
**********
At 6:15 A.M. Jeff Stevens, with the two envelopes carefully stashed away in his suitcase, climbed down the ship's ladder into the mail boat. He turned to take one last look at the outline of the huge ship towering above him. The passengers on the liner were sound asleep. Jeff would be on the dock long before the QE II landed. "It was a beautiful voyage," Jeff said to one of the crewmen on the mail boat.
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" a voice agreed.
Jeff turned around. Tracy was seated on a coil of rope, her hair blowing softly around her face.
"Tracy! What are you doing here?" "What do you think I'm doing?"
He saw the expression on her face. "Wait a minute! You didn't think I was going to run out on you?"
"Why would I think that?" Her tone was bitter.
"Tracy, I left a note for you. I was going to meet you at the Savoy and--
-"
"Of course you were," she said cuttingly. "You never give up, do you?" He looked at her, and there was nothing more for him to say.
**********
In Tracy's suite at the Savoy, she watched carefully as Jeff counted out the money. "Your share comes to one hundred and one thousand dollars."
"Thank you." Her tone was icy.
Jeff said, "You know, you're wrong about me, Tracy. I wish you'd give me a chance to explain. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "All right." "Good. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock."
**********
When Jeff Stevens arrived at the hotel that evening and asked for Tracy, the room clerk said, "I'm sorry, sir. Miss Whitney checked out early this afternoon. She left no forwarding address."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 21
It was the handwritten invitation. Tracy decided later, that changed her life.
After, collecting her share of the money from Jeff Stevens, Tracy checked out of the Savoy and moved into 47 Park Street, a quiet, semiresidential hotel with large, pleasant rooms and superb service.
On her second day in London the invitation was delivered to her suite by the hall porter. It was written in a fine, copperplate handwriting: "A mutual friend has suggested that it might be advantageous for us to become acquainted. Won't you join me for tea at the Ritz this afternoon at 4:00? If you will forgive the cliché, I will be wearing a red carnation." It was signed "Gunther Hartog."
Tracy had never heard of him. Her first inclination was to ignore the note, but her curiosity got the better of her, and at 4:15 she was at the entrance of the elegant dining hall of the Ritz Hotel. She noticed him immediately. He was in his sixties, Tracy guessed, an interesting-looking man with a lean, intellectual face. His skin was smooth and clear, almost translucent. He was dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit and wore a red carnation in his lapel.
As Tracy walked toward his table, he rose and bowed slightly. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
He seated her with an old-fashioned gallantry that Tracy found attractive. He seemed to belong to another world. Tracy could not imagine what on earth he wanted with her.
"I came because I was curious," Tracy confessed, "but are you sure you haven't confused me with some other Tracy Whitney?"
Gunther Hartog smiled. "From what I have heard, there is only one Tracy Whitney."
"What exactly have you heard?" "Shall we discuss that over tea?"
Tea consisted of finger sandwiches, filled with chopped egg, salmon, cucumber, watercress, and chicken. There were hot scones with clotted cream and jam, and freshly made pastries, accompanied by Twinings tea. As they ate, they talked.
"Your note mentioned a mutual friend," Tracy began. "Conrad Morgan. I do business with him from time to time."
I did business with him once, Tracy thought grimly. And he tried to cheat me.
"He's a great admirer of yours," Gunther Hartog was saying.
Tracy looked at her host more closely. He had the bearing of an aristocrat and the look of wealth. What does he want with me? Tracy wondered again. She decided to let him pursue the subject, but there was no further mention of Conrad Morgan or of what possible mutual benefit there could be between Gunther Hartog and Tracy Whitney.
Tracy found the meeting enjoyable and intriguing. Gunther told her about his background. "I was born in Munich. My father was a banker. He was wealthy, and I'm afraid I grew up rather spoiled, surrounded by beautiful paintings and antiques. My mother was Jewish, and when Hitler came to power, my father refused to desert my mother, and so he was stripped of everything. They were both killed in the bombings. Friends smuggled me out of Germany to Switzerland, and when the war was over, I decided not to return to Germany. I moved London and opened a small antique shop on Mount Street. I hope that you will visit it one day."
That's what this is all about, Tracy thought in surprise. He wants to sell me something.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
As Gunther Hartog was paying the check, he said, casually, "I have a little country house in Hampshire. I'm having a few friends down for the weekend, and I'd be delighted if you would join us."
Tracy hesitated. The man was a complete stranger, and she still had no idea what he wanted from her. She decided she had nothing to lose.
**********
The weekend turned out to be fascinating. Gunther Hartog's "little country house" was a beautiful seventeenth-century manor home on a thirty-acre estate. Gunther was a widower, and except for his servants, he lived alone. He took Tracy on a tour of the grounds. There was a barn stabling half a dozen horses, and a yard where he raised chickens and pigs.
"That's so we'll never go hungry," he said gravely. "Now, let me show you my real hobby."
He led Tracy to a cote full of pigeons. "These are homing pigeons." Gunther's voice was filled with pride. "Look at these little beauties. See that slate-gray one over there? That's Margo." He picked her up and held her. "You really are a dreadful girl, do you know that? She bullies the others, but she's the brightest." He gently smoothed the feathers over the small head and carefully set her down.
The colors of the birds were spectacular: There was a variety of blue- black, blue-gray with checked patterns, and silver.
"But no white ones," Tracy noticed.
"Homing pigeons are never white," Gunther explained, "because white feathers come off too easily, and when pigeons are homing, they fly at an average of forty miles an hour."
Tracy watched Gunther as he fed the birds a special racing feed with added vitamins.
"They are an amazing species," Gunther said. "Do you know they can find their way home from over five hundred miles away?"
"That's fascinating."
The guests were equally fascinating. There was a cabinet minister, with his wife; an earl; a general and his girl friend; and the Maharani of Morvi, a very attractive, friendly young woman. "Please call me V.J.," she said, in an almost unaccented voice. She wore a deep-red sari shot with golden threads, and the most beautiful jewels Tracy had ever seen.
"I keep most of my jewelry in a vault," V.J. explained. "There are so many robberies these days."
**********
On Sunday afternoon, shortly before Tracy was to return to London, Gunther invited her into his study. They sat across from each other over a tea tray. As Tracy poured the tea into the wafer-thin Belleek cups, she said, "I don't know why you invited me here, Gunther, but whatever the reason, I've had a wonderful time."
"I'm pleased, Tracy." Then, after a moment, he continued. "I've been observing you."
"I see."
"Do you have any plans for the future?"
She hesitated. "No. I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet." "I think we could work well together."
"You mean in your antique shop?"
He laughed. "No, my dear. It would be a shame to waste your talents. You see, I know about your escapade with Conrad Morgan. You handled it brilliantly."
"Gunther... all that's behind me."
"But what's ahead of you? You said you have no plans. You must think about your future. Whatever money you have is surely going to run out one day. I'm suggesting a partnership. I travel in very affluent, international circles. I attend charity balls and hunting parties and yachting parties. I know the comings and goings of the rich."
"I don't see what that has to do with me---"
"I can introduce you into that golden circle. And I do mean golden, Tracy. I can supply you with information about fabulous jewels and paintings, and how you can safely acquiree them. I can dispose of them privately. You would be balancing the ledgers of people who have become wealthy at the expense of others. Everything would be divided evenly between us. What do you say?"
"I say no."
He studied her thoughtfully. "I see. You will call me if you change your mind?"
"I won't change my mind, Gunther."
Late that afternoon Tracy returned to London.
**********
Tracy adored London. She dined at Le Gavroche and Bill Bentley's and Coin du Feu, and went to Drones after the theater, for real American hamburgers and hot chili. She went to the National Theatre and the Royal Opera House and attended auctions at Christie's and Sotheby's. She shopped at Harrods, and Fortnum and Mason's, and browsed for books at Hatchards and Foyles, and W. H. Smith. She hired a car and driver and spent a memorable weekend at the Chewton Glen Hotel in Hampshire, on the fringe of the New Forest, where the setting was spectacular and the service impeccable.
But all these things were expensive. Whatever money you have is sure to run out some day. Gunther Hartog was right. Her money was not going to
last forever, and Tracy realized she would have to make plans for the future.
**********
She was invited back for more weekends at Gunther's country home, and she thoroughly enjoyed each visit and delighted in Gunther's company.
One Sunday evening at dinner a member of Parliament turned to Tracy and said, "I've never met a real Texan, Miss Whitney. What are they like?"
Tracy went into a wicked imitation of a nouveau riche Texas dowager and had the company roaring with laughter.
Later, when Tracy and Gunther were alone, he asked, "How would you like to make a small fortune doing that imitation?"
"I'm not an actress, Gunther."
"You underestimate yourself. There's a jewelry firm in London--- Parker and Parker--- that takes a delight in--- as you Americans would say--- ripping off their customers. You've given me an idea how to make them pay for their dishonesty." He told Tracy his idea.
"No," Tracy said. But the more she thought about it, the more intrigued she was. She remembered the excitement of outwitting the police in Long Island, and Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco, and Jeff Stevens. It had been a thrill that was indescribable. Still, that was part of the past.
"No, Gunther," she said again. But this time there was less certainty in her voice.
**********
London was unseasonably warm for October, and Englishmen and tourists alike took advantage of the bright sunshine. The noon traffic was heavy with tie-ups at Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross, and Piccadilly Circus. A white Daimler turned off Oxford Street to New Bond Street and threaded its way through the traffic, passing Roland Cartier, Geigers, and the Royal Bank of Scotland. A few doors farther on, it coasted to a stop in front of a jewelry store. A discreet, polished sign at the side of the door read: PARKER & PARKER. A liveried chauffeur stepped out of the limousine and hurried around to open the rear door for his passenger. A young woman with blond Sassoon-ed hair, wearing far too much makeup and a tight-fitting Italian knit dress under a sable coat, totally inappropriate for the weather, jumped out of the car.
"Which way's the joint, junior?" she asked. Her voice was loud, with a grating Texas accent.
The chauffeur indicated the entrance. "There, madame." "Okay, honey. Stick around. This ain't gonna take long."
"I may have to circle the block, madame. I won't be permitted to park here."
She clapped him on the back and said, "You do what you gotta do, sport."
Sport! The chauffeur winced. It was his punishment for being reduced to chauffeuring rental cars. He disliked all Americans, particularly Texans. They were savages; but savages with money. He would have been astonished to learn that his passenger had never even seen the Lone Star State.
Tracy checked her reflection in the display window, smiled broadly, and strutted toward the door, which was opened by a uniformed attendant.
"Good afternoon, madame."
"Afternoon, sport. You sell anythin' besides costume jewelry in this joint?" She chuckled at her joke.
The doorman blanched. Tracy swept into the store, trailing an overpowering scent of Chloé behind her.
Arthur Chilton, a salesman in a morning coat, moved toward her. "May I help you, madame?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Old P.J. told me to buy myself a little birthday present, so here I am. Whatcha got?"
"Is there something in particular Madame is interested in?"
"Hey, pardner, you English fellows are fast workers, ain'cha?" She laughed raucously and clapped him on the shoulder. He forced himself to remain impassive. "Mebbe somethin' in emeralds. Old P.J. loves to buy me emeralds."
"If you'll step this way, please. "
Chilton led her to a vitrine where several trays of emeralds were displayed.
The bleached blonde gave them one disdainful glance. "These're the babies. Where are the mamas and papas?"
Chilton said stiffly, "These range in price up to thirty thousand dollars."
"Hell, I tip my hairdresser that." The woman guffawed. "Old P.J. would be insulted if I came back with one of them little pebbles."
Chilton visualized old P.J. Fat and paunchy and as loud and obnoxious as this woman. They deserved each other. Why did money always flow to the undeserving? he wondered.
"What price range was Madame interested in?"
"Why don't we start with somethin' around a hundred G's." He looked blank. "A hundred G's?"
"Hell, I thought you people was supposed to speak the king's English. A hundred grand. A hundred thou."
He swallowed. "Oh. In that case, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with our managing director."
The managing director, Gregory Halston, insisted on personally handling all large sales, and since the employees of Parker & Parker received no commission, it made no difference to them. With a customer as distasteful as this one, Chilton was relieved to let Halston deal with her. Chilton pressed a button under the counter, and a moment later a pale, reedy- looking man bustled out of a back room. He took a look at the outrageously dressed blonde and prayed that none of his regular customers appeared until the woman had departed.
Chilton said, "Mr. Halston, this is Mrs.... er...?" He turned to the woman.
"Benecke, honey. Mary Lou Benecke. Old P.J. Benecke's wife. Betcha you all have heard of P.J. Benecke."
"Of course." Gregory Halston gave her a smile that barely touched his lips.
"Mrs. Benecke is interested in purchasing an emerald, Mr. Halston."
Gregory Halston indicated the trays of emeralds. "We have some fine emeralds here that---"
"She wanted something for approximately a hundred thousand dollars."
This time the smile that lit Gregory Halston's face was genuine. What a nice way to start the day.
"You see; it's my birthday, and old P.J. wants me to buy myself somethin' pretty."
"Indeed," Halston said. "Would you follow me, please?"
"You little rascal, what you got in mind?" The blonde giggled. Halston and Chilton exchanged a pained look. Bloody Americans!
Halston led the woman to a locked door and opened it with a key. They entered a small, brightly lit room, and Halston carefully locked the door behind them.
"This is where we keep our merchandise for our valued customers," he said.
In the center of the room was a showcase filled with a stunning array of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, flashing their bright colors.
"Well, this is more like it. Old P.J.'d go crazy in here." "Does Madame see something she likes?
"Well, let's jest see what we got here." She walked over to to jewelry case containing emeralds. "Let me look at that there bunch."
Halston extracted another small key from his pocket, unlocked the case, lifted out a tray of emeralds, and placed it on top of the table. There were ten emeralds in the velvet case. Halston watched as the woman picked up the largest of them, as exquisite pin in a platinum setting.
"As old P.J. would say, 'This here one's got my name writ on it.' "
"Madame has excellent taste. This is a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. It's flawless and---"
"Emeralds ain't never flawless."
Halston was taken aback for an instant. "Madame is correct, of course. What I meant was---" For the first time he noticed that the woman's eyes were as green as the stone she twisted in her hands, turning it around, studying its facets.
"We have a wider selection if---"
"No sweat, sweetie. I'll take this here one." The sale had taken fewer than three minutes.
"Splendid," Ralston said. Then he added delicately, "In dollars it comes to one hundred thousand. How will Madame paying?"
"Don't you worry, Halston, old sport, I have a dollar account at a bank here in London. I'll write out a little ole personal check. Then P.J. can jest pay me back."
"Excellent. I'll have the stone cleaned for you and delivered to your hotel."
The stone did not need cleaning, but Halston had no intention of letting it out of his possession until her check had cleared, for too many jewelers he knew had been bilked by clever swindlers. Halston prided himself on the fact that he had never been cheated out of one pound.
"Where shall I have the emerald delivered?"
"We got ourselves the Oliver Messel Suite at the Dorch." Halston made a note. "The Dorchester."
"I call it the Oliver Messy Suite," she laughed. "Lots of people don't like the hotel anymore because it's full of A-rabs, but old P.J. does a lot of business with them. `Oil is its own country,' he always says. P.J. Benecke's one smart fella."
"I'm sure he is," Halston replied dutifully.
He watched as she tore out a check and began writing. He noted that it was a Barclays Bank check. Good. He had a friend there who would verify the Beneckes' account.
He picked up the check. "I'll have the emerald delivered to you personally tomorrow morning."
"Old P.J.'s gonna love it," she beamed.
"I am sure he will," Halston said politely. He walked her to the front door.
"Ralston---"
He almost corrected her, then decided against it. Why bother? He was never going to lay eyes on her again, thank God! "Yes, madame?"
"You gotta come up and have tea with us some afternoon. You'll love old P.J."
"I am sure I would. Unfortunately, I work afternoons." "Too bad."
He watched as his customer walked out to the curb. A white Daimler slithered up, and a chauffeur got out and opened the door for her. The blonde turned to give Halston the thumbsup sign as she drove off.
When Halston returned to his office, he immediately picked up the telephone and called his friend at Barclays. "Peter, dear, I have a check here for a hundred thousand dollars drawn on the account of a Mrs. Mary Lou Benecke. Is it good?"
"Hold on, old boy."
Halston waited. He hoped the check was good, for business had been slow lately. The miserable Parker brothers, who owned the store, were constantly complaining, as though it were he who was responsible and not the recession. Of course, profits were not down as much as they could have been, for Parker & Parker had a department that specialized in cleaning jewelry, and at frequent intervals the jewelry that was returned to the customer was inferior to the original that had been brought in.
Complaints had been lodged, but nothing had ever been proven.
Peter was back on the line. "No problem, Gregory. There's more than enough money in the account to cover the check." Halston felt a little frisson of relief. "Thank you, Peter."
"Not at all."
"Lunch next week--- on me."
**********
The check cleared the following morning, and the Colombian emerald was delivered by bonded messenger to Mrs. P.J. Benecke at the Dorchester Hotel.
That afternoon, shortly before closing time, Gregory Halston's secretary said, "A Mrs. Benecke is here to see you, Mr. Halston."
His heart sank. She had come to return the pin, and he could hardly refuse to take it back. Damn all women, all Americans, and all Texans! Halston put on a smile and went out to greet her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Benecke. I assume your husband didn't like the pin."
She grinned. "You assume wrong, buster. Old P.J. was just plain crazy about it."
Halston's heart began to sing. "He was?"
"In fact, he liked it so much he wants me to get another one so we can have 'em made into a pair of earrings. Let me have a twin to the one I got."
A small frown appeared on Gregory Halston's face. "I'm afraid we might have a little problem there, Mrs. Benecke."
"What kinda problem, honey?"
"Yours is a unique stone. There's not another one like it. Now, I have a lovely set in a different style I could---"
"I don't want a different style. I want one jest like the one I bought."
"To be perfectly candid, Mrs. Benecke, there aren't very many ten-carat Colombian flawless"--- he saw her look--- "nearly flawless stones available."
"Come on, sport. There's gotta be one somewhere."
"In all honesty, I've seen very few stones of that quality, and to try to duplicate it exactly in shape and color would be almost impossible."
"We got a sayin' in Texas that the impossible jest takes a little longer. Saturday's my birthday. P.J. wants me to have those earrings, and what
P.J. wants, P.J. gets."
"I really don't think I can---"
"How much did I pay for that pin--- a hundred grand? I know old P.J. will go up to two hundred or three hundred thousand for another one."
Gregory Halston was thinking fast. There had to be a duplicate of that stone somewhere, and if P. J. Benecke was willing to pay an extra
$200,000 for it, that would mean a tidy profit. In fact, Halston thought, I can work it out so that it means a tidy profit for me.
Aloud he said, "I'll inquire around, Mrs. Benecke. I'm sure that no other jeweler in London has the identical emerald, but there are always estates coming up for auction. I'll do some advertising and see what results I get."
"You got till the end of the week," the blonde told him. "And jest between you and me and the lamppost, old P.J. will probably be willin' to go up to three hundred fifty thousand for it."
And Mrs. Benecke was gone, her sable coat billowing out behind her.
**********
Gregory Halston sat in his office lost in a daydream. Fate had placed in his hands a man who was so besotted with his blond tart that he was willing to pay $350,000 for a $100,000 emerald. That was a net profit of
$250,000. Gregory Halston saw no need to burden the Parker brothers with the details of the transaction. It would be a simple matter to record the sale of the second emerald at $100,000 and pocket the rest. The extra
$250,000 would set him up for life.
All he had to do now was to find a twin to the emerald he had sold to Mrs. P.J. Benecke.
It turned out to be even more difficult than Halston had anticipated. None of the jewelers he telephoned had anything in stock that resembled what he required. He placed advertisements in the London Times and the Financial Times, and he called Christie's and Sotheby's, and a dozen estate agents. In the next few days Halston was inundated with a flood of inferior emeralds, good emeralds, and a few first-quality emeralds, but none of them came close to what he was looking for.
On Wednesday Mrs. Benecke telephoned. "Old P.J.'s gettin' mighty restless," she warned. "Did you find it yet?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Benecke," Halston assured her, "but don't worry, we will."
On Friday she telephoned again. "Tomorrow's my birthday," she reminded Halston.
"I know, Mrs. Benecke. If I only had a few more days, I know I could---"
"Well, never mind, sport. If you don't have that emerald by tomorrow mornin', I'll return the one I bought from you. Old P.J.--- bless his heart--- says he's gonna buy me a big ole country estate instead. Ever hear of a place called Sussex?"
Halston broke out in perspiration. "Mrs. Benecke," he moaned earnestly, "you would hate living in Sussex. You would loathe living in a country house. Most of them are in deplorable condition. They have no central heating and---"
"Between you and I," she interrupted, "I'd rather have them earrings. Old
P.J. even mentioned somethin' about bein' willin' to pay four hundred thousand dollars for a twin to that stone. You got no idea how stubborn old P.J. can be."
Four hundred thousand! Halston could feel the money slipping between his fingers. "Believe me, I'm doing everything I can," he pleaded. "I need a little more time."
"It ain't up to me, honey," she said. "It's up to P.J." And the line went dead.
Halston sat there cursing fate. Where could he find an identical ten- carat emerald? He was so busy with his bitter thoughts that he did not hear his intercom until the third buzz. He pushed down the button and snapped, "What is it?"
"There's a Contessa Marissa on the telephone, Mr. Halston. She's calling about our advertisement for the emerald."
Another one! He had had at least ten calls that morning, every one of them a waste of time. He picked up the telephone and said ungraciously, "Yes?"
A soft female voice with an Italian accent said, "Buon giorno, signore. I have read you are interested possibly in buying an emerald, sì?"
"If it fits my qualifications, yes." He could not keep the impatience out of his voice.
"I have an emerald that has been in my family for many years. It is a peccato--- a pity--- but I am in a situation now where I am forced to sell it."
He had heard that story before. I must try Christie's again, Halston thought. Or Sotheby's. Maybe something came in at the last minute, or---
"Signore? You are looking for a ten-carat emerald, sì?" "Yes "
"I have a ten-carat verde--- green--- Colombian."
When Halston started to speak, he found that his voice was choked. "Would--- would you say that again, please?"
"Sì. I have a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. Would you be interested in that?"
"I might be," he said carefully. "I wonder if you could drop by and let me have a look at it."
"No, scusi, I am afraid I am very busy right now. We are preparing a party at the embassy for my husband. Perhaps next week I could---"
No! Next week would be too late. "May I come to see you?" He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "I could come up now."
"Ma, no. Sono occupata stamani. I was planning to go shopping---" "Where are you staying, Contessa?"
"At the Savoy."
"I can be there in fifteen minutes. Ten." His voice was feverish. "Molto bene. And your name is---"
"Halston. Gregory Halston." "Suite ventisei--- twenty-six."
**********
The taxi ride was interminable. Halston transported himself from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, and back again. If the emerald was indeed similar to the other one, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Four hundred thousand dollars, he'll pay. A $300,000 profit. He would buy a place on the Riviera. Perhaps get a cruiser. With a villa and his own boat, he would be able to attract as many handsome young men as he liked....
Gregory halston was an atheist, but as he walked down the corridor of the Savoy Hotel to Suite 26, he found himself praying, Let the stone be similar enough to satisfy old P.J. Benecke.
He stood in front of the door of the contessa's room taking slow, deep breaths, fighting to get control of himself. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer.
Oh, my God, Halston thought. She's gone; she didn't wait for me. She went out shopping and---
The door opened, and Halston found himself facing an elegant-looking lady in her fifties, with dark eyes, a lined face, and black hair laced with gray.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, with the familiar melodic Italian accent. "Sì?"
"I'm G-Gregory Halston. You t-telephoned me." In his nervousness he was stuttering.
"Ah, sì. I am the Contessa Marissa. Come in, signore, per favore." "Thank you."
He entered the suite, pressing his knees together to keep them from trembling. He almost blurted out, "Where's the emerald? But he knew he must control himself. He must not seem too eager. If the stone was satisfactory, he would have the advantage in bargaining. After all, he was the expert. She was an amateur.
"Please to sit yourself," the contessa said. He took a chair.
"Scusi. Non parlo molto bene inglese. I speak poor English." "No, no. It's charming, charming."
"Grazie. Would you take perhaps coffee? Tea?" "No, thank you, Contessa."
He could feel his stomach quivering. Was it too soon to bring up the subject of the emerald? He could not wait another second. "The emerald--- "
She said, "Ah, sì. The emerald was given to me by my grandmother. I wish to pass it on to my daughter when she is twenty-five, but my husband is going into a new business in Milano, and I---"
Halston's mind was elsewhere. He was not interested in the boring life story of the stranger sitting across from him. He was burning to see the emerald. The suspense was more than he could bear.
"Credo che sia importante to help my husband get started in his business." She smiled ruefully. "Perhaps I am making a mistake---"
"No, no," Halston said hastily. "Not at all, Contessa. It's a wife's duty to stand by her husband. Where is the emerald now?"
"I have it here," the contessa said.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a jewel wrapped in a tissue, and held it out to Halston. He stared at it, and his spirits soared. He was
looking at the most exquisite ten-carat grass-green Colombian emerald he had ever seen. It was so close in appearance, size, and color to the one he had sold Mrs. Benecke that the difference was almost impossible to detect. It is not exactly the same, Halston told himself, but only an expert would be able to tell the difference. His hands began to tremble. He forced himself to appear calm.
He turned the stone over, letting the light catch the beautiful facets, and said casually, "It's a rather nice little stone."
"Splendente, sì. I have loved it very much all these years. I will hate to part with it."
"You're doing the right thing," Halston assured her. "Once your husband's business is successful, you will be able to buy as many of these as you wish."
"That is exactly what I feel. You are molto simpatico."
"I'm doing a little favor for a friend, Contessa. We have much better stones than this in our shop, but my friend wants one to match an emerald that his wife bought. I imagine he would be willing to pay as much as sixty thousand dollars for this stone."
The contessa sighed. "My grandmother would haunt me from her grave if I sold it for sixty thousand dollars."
Halston pursed his lips. He could afford to go higher. He smiled. "I'll tell you what... I think I might persuade my friend to go as high as one hundred thousand. That's a great deal of money, but he's anxious to have the stone."
"That sounds fair," the contessa said.
Gregory Halston's heart swelled within his breast. "Bene! I brought my checkbook with me, so I'll just write out a check---"
"Ma, no.... I am afraid it will not solve my problem." The contessa's voice was sad.
Halston stared at her. "Your problem?"
"Sì. As I explain, my husband is going into this new business, and he needs three hundred fifty thousand dollars. I have a hundred thousand of my money to give him, but I need two hundred fifty thousand more. I was hope to get it for this emerald."
He shook his head. "My dear Contessa, no emerald in the world is worth that kind of money. Believe me, one hundred thousand dollars is more than a fair offer."
"I am sure it is so, Mr. Halston," the contessa told him, "but it will not help my husband, will it?" She rose to her feet. "I will save this to
give to our daughter." She held out a slim, delicate hand. "Grazie, signore. Thank you for coming."
Halston stood there in a panic. "Wait a minute," he said. His greed was dueling with his common sense, but he knew he must not lose the emerald now. "Please sit down, Contessa. I'm sure we can come to some equitable arrangement. If I can persuade my client to pay a hundred fifty thousand-
--?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars." "Let's say, two hundred thousand?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
There was no budging her. Halston made his decision. A $150,000 profit was better than nothing. It would mean a smaller villa and boat, but it was still a fortune. It would serve the Parker brothers right for the shabby way they treated him. He would wait a day or two and then give them his notice. By next week he would be on the Côte d'Azur.
"You have a deal," he said. "Meraviglioso! Sono contenta!"
You should be contented, you bitch, Halston thought. But he had nothing to complain about. He was set for life. He took one last look at the emerald and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll give you a check written on the store's account."
"Bene, signore."
Halston wrote out the check and handed it to her. He would have Mrs. P.J. Benecke make out her $400,000 check to cash. Peter would cash the check for him, and he would exchange the contessa's check for the Parker brothers' check and pocket the difference. He would arrange it with Peter so that the $250,000 check would not appear on the Parker brothers' monthly statement. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
He could already feel the warm French sun on his face.
**********
The taxi ride back to the store seemed to take only seconds. Halston visualized Mrs. Benecke's happiness when he broke the good news to her. He had not only found the jewel she wanted, he had spared her from the excruciating experience of living in a drafty, rundown country house.
When Halston floated into the store, Chilton said, "Sir, a customer here is interested in---"
Halston cheerfully waved him aside. "Later."
He had no time for customers. Not now, not ever again. From now on people would wait on him. He would shop at Hermes and Gucci and Lanvin.
Halston fluttered into his office, closed the door, set the emerald on the desk in front of him, and dialed a number.
An operator's voice said, "Dorchester Hotel." "The Oliver Messel Suite, please."
"To whom did you wish to speak?" "Mrs. P.J. Benecke."
"One moment, please."
Halston whistled softly while he waited.
The operator came back on the line. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Benecke has checked out."
"Then ring whatever suite she's moved to." "Mrs. Benecke has checked out of the hotel." "That's impossible. She---"
"I'll connect you with reception."
A male voice said, "Reception. May I help you?" "Yes. What suite is Mrs. P.J. Benecke in?"
"Mrs. Benecke checked out of the hotel this morning." There had to be an explanation. Some unexpected emergency. "May I have her forwarding address, please. This is---" "I'm sorry. She didn't leave one."
"Of course she left one."
"I checked Mrs. Benecke out myself. She left no forwarding address."
It was a jab to the pit of his stomach. Halston slowly replaced the receiver and sat there, bewildered. He had to find a way to get in touch with her, to let her know that he had finally located the emerald. In the meantime, he had to get back the $250,000 check from the Contessa Marissa.
He hurriedly dialed the Savoy Hotel. "Suite twenty-six." "Whom are you calling, please?"
"The Contessa Marissa." "One moment, please."
But even before the operator came back on the line, some terrible premonition told Gregory Halston the disastrous news he was about to hear.
"I'm sorry. The Contessa Marissa has checked out."
He hung up. His fingers were trembling so hard that he was barely able to dial the number of the bank. "Give me the head bookkeeper.... quickly! I wish to stop payment on a check."
But, of course, he was too late. He had sold an emerald for $100,000 and had bought back the same emerald for $250,000. Gregory Halston sat there slumped in his chair, wondering how he was going to explain it to the Parker brothers.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 22
It was the beginning of a new life for Tracy. She purchased a beautiful old Georgian house at 45 Eaton Square that was bright and cheerful and perfect for entertaining. It had a Queen Anne--- British slang for a front garden--- and a Mary Anne--- a back garden--- and in season the flowers were magnificent. Gunther helped Tracy furnish the house, and before the two of them were finished, it was one of the showplaces of London.
Gunther introduced Tracy as a wealthy young widow whose husband had made his fortune in the import-export business. She was an instant success; beautiful, intelligent, and charming, she was soon inundated with invitations.
At intervals, Tracy made short trips to France and Switzerland and Belgium and Italy, and each time she and Gunther Hartog profited.
Under Gunther's tutelage, Tracy studied the Almanach de Gotha and Debrett's Peerage and Baronetage, the authoritative books listing detailed information on all the royalty and titles in Europe. Tracy became a chameleon, an expert in makeup and disguises and accents. She acquired half a dozen passports. In various countries, she was a British duchess, a French airline stewardess, and a South American heiress. In a year she had accumulated more money than she would ever need. She set up a fund from which she made large, anonymous contributions to organizations that helped former women prisoners, and she arranged for a generous pension to be sent to Otto Schmidt every month. She no longer even entertained the thought of quitting. She loved the challenge of
outwitting clever, successful people. The thrill of each daring escapade acted like a drug, and Tracy found that she constantly needed new and bigger challenges. There was one credo she lived by: She was careful never to hurt the innocent. The people who jumped at her swindles were greedy or immoral, or both. No one will ever commit suicide because of what I've done to them, Tracy promised herself.
The newspapers began to carry stories of the daring escapades that were occurring all over Europe, and because Tracy used different disguises, the police were convinced that a rash of ingenious swindles and burglaries was being carried out by a gang of women. Interpol began to take an interest.
**********
At the Manhattan headquarters of the International Insurance Protection Association, J. J. Reynolds sent for Daniel Cooper.
"We have a problem," Reynolds said. "A large number of our European clients are being hit apparently by a gang of women. Everybody's screaming bloody murder. They want the gang caught. Interpol has agreed to cooperate with us. It's your assignment, Dan. You leave for Paris in the morning."
**********
Tracy was having dinner with Gunther at Scott's on Mount Street. "Have you ever heard of Maximilian Pierpont, Tracy?"
The name sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? She remembered. Jeff Stevens, on board the QE II, had said, "We're here for the same reason. Maximilian Pierpont."
"Very rich, isn't he?"
"And quite ruthless. He specializes in buying up companies and stripping them."
When Joe Romano took over the business, he fired everybody and brought in his own people to run things. Then he began to raid the company. They
took everything--- the business, this house, your mother's car.... Gunther was looking at her oddly. "Tracy, are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine." Sometimes life can be unfair, she thought, and it's up to us to even things out. "Tell me more about Maximilian Pierpont."
"His third wife just divorced him, and he's alone now. I think it might be profitable if you made the gentleman's acquaintance. He's booked on the Orient Express Friday, from London to Istanbul."
Tracy smiled. "I've never been on the Orient Express. I think I'd enjoy it."
Gunther smiled back. "Good. Maximilian Pierpont has the only important Fabergé egg collection outside of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. It's conservatively estimated to be worth twenty million dollars."
"If I managed to get some of the eggs for you," Tracy asked, curious, "what would you do with them, Gunther? Wouldn't they be too well known to sell?"
"Private collectors, dear Tracy. You bring the little eggs to me, and I will find a nest for them."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Maximilian Pierpont is not an easy man to approach. However, there are two other pigeons also booked on the Orient Express Friday, bound for the film festival in Venice. I think they're ripe for plucking. Have you heard of Silvana Luadi?"
"The Italian movie star? Of course."
"She's married to Alberto Fornati, who produces those terrible epic films. Fornati is infamous for hiring actors and directors for very little cash, promising them big percentages of the profits, and keeping all the profits for himself. He manages to make enough to buy his wife very expensive jewels. The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store. I'm sure you'll find all of them interesting company."
"I'm looking forward to it," Tracy said.
**********
The Venice Simplon Orient Express departs from Victoria Station in London every Friday morning at 11:44, traveling from London to Istanbul, with intermediate stops in Boulogne, Paris, Lausanne, Milan, and Venice.
Thirty minutes before departure a portable check-in counter is set up at the entrance to the boarding platform in the terminal, and two burly uniformed men roll a red rug up to the counter, elbowing aside eagerly waiting passengers.
The new owners of the Orient Express had attempted to recreate the golden age of rail travel as it existed in the late nineteenth century, and the rebuilt train was a duplicate of the original, with a British Pullman car, wagon-lit restaurants, a bar-salon car, and sleeping cars.
An attendant in a 1920's marine-blue uniform with gold braid carried Tracy's two suitcases and her vanity case to her cabin, which was disappointingly small. There was a single seat, upholstered with a flower-patterned mohair. The rug, as well as the ladder that was used to reach the top berth, was covered in the same green plush. It was like being in a candy box.
Tracy read the card accompanying a small bottle of champagne in a silver bucket: OLIVER AUBERT, TRAIN MANAGER.
I'll save it until I have something to celebrate, Tracy decided. Maximilian Pierpont. Jeff Stevens had failed. It would be a wonderful feeling to top Mr. Stevens. Tracy smiled at the thought.
She unpacked in the cramped space and hung up the clothes she would be needing. She preferred traveling on a Pan American jet rather than a train; but this journey promised to be an exciting one.
Exactly on schedule, the Orient Express began to move out of the station. Tracy sat back in her seat and watched the southern suburbs of London roll by.
At 1:15 that afternoon the train arrived at the port of Folkestone, where the passengers transferred to the Sealink ferry, which would take them across the channel to Boulogne, where they would board another Orient Express heading south.
Tracy approached one of the attendants. "I understand Maximilian Pierpont is traveling with us. Could you point him out to me?"
The attendant shook his head. "I wish I could, ma'am. He booked his cabin and paid for it, but he never showed up. Very unpredictable gentleman, so I'm told."
That left Silvana Luadi and her husband, the producer of forgettable epics.
**********
In Boulogne, the passengers were escorted onto the continental Orient Express. Unfortunately, Tracy's cabin on the second train was identical to the one she had left, and the rough roadbed made the journey even more uncomfortable. She remained in her cabin all day making her plans, and at 8:00 in the evening she began to dress.
The dress code of the Orient Express recommended evening clothes, and Tracy chose a stunning dove-gray chiffon gown with gray hose and gray satin shoes. Her only jewelry was a single strand of matched pearls. She checked herself in the mirror before she left her quarters, staring at her reflection for a long time. Her green eyes had a look of innocence, and her face looked guileless and vulnerable. The mirror is lying, Tracy thought. I'm not that woman anymore. I'm living a masquerade. But an exciting one.
As Tracy left her cabin, her purse slipped out of her hand, and as she knelt down to retrieve it, she quickly examined the outside locks on the door. There were two of them: a Yale lock and a Universal lock. No problem. Tracy rose and moved on toward the dining cars.
There were three dining cars aboard the train. The seats were plush- covered, the walls were veneered, and the soft lights came from brass
sconces topped with Lalique shades. Tracy entered the first dining room and noted several empty tables. The maître d' greeted her. "A table for one, mademoiselle?"
Tracy looked around the room. "I'm joining some friends, thank you."
She continued on to the next dining car. This one was more crowded, but there were still several unoccupied tables.
"Good evening," the maître d' said. "Are you dining alone?" "No, I'm meeting someone. Thank you."
She moved on to the third dining car. There, every table was occupied.
The maître d' stopped her at the door. "I'm afraid there will be a wait for a table, madam. There are available tables in the other dining cars, however."
Tracy looked around the room, and at a table in the far corner she saw what she was looking for. "That's all right," Tracy said. "I see friends."
She moved past the maître d' and walked over to the corner table. "Excuse me," she said apologetically. "All the tables seem to be occupied. Would you mind if I joined you?"
The man quickly rose to his feet, took a good look at Tracy, and exclaimed, "Prego! Con piacere! I am Alberto Fornati and this is my wife, Silvans Luadi."
"Tracy Whitney." She was using her own passport. "Ah! È Americana! I speak the excellent English."
Alberto Fornati was short, bald; and fat. Why Silvana Luadi had ever married him had been the most lively topic in Rome for the twelve years they had been together. Silvana Luadi was a classic beauty, with a sensational figure and a compelling, natural talent. She had won an Oscar and a Silver Palm award and was always in great demand. Tracy recognized that she was dressed in a Valentino evening gown that sold for five thousand dollars, and the jewelry she wore must have been worth close to a million. Tracy remembered Gunther Hartog's words: The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store.
"This is your first time on the Orient Express, signorina?" Fornati opened the conversation, after Tracy was seated.
"Yes, it is."
"Ah, it is a very romantic train, filled with legend." His eyes were moist. "There are many interessante tales about it. For instance, Sir Basil Zaharoff, the arms tycoon, used to ride the old Orient Express---
always in the seventh compartment. One night he hears a scream and a pounding on his door. A bellissima young Spanish duchess throws herself upon him." Fornati paused to butter a roll and take a bite. "Her husband was trying to murder her. The parents had arranged the marriage, and the poor girl now realized her husband was insane. Zaharoff restrained the husband and calmed the hysterical young woman and thus began a romance that lasted forty years."
"How exciting," Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with interest. "Sì. Every year after that they meet on the Orient Express, he in
compartment number seven, she in number eight. When her husband died; the lady and Zaharoff were married, and as a token of his love, he bought her the casino at Monte Carlo as a wedding gift."
"What a beautiful story, Mr. Fornati." Silvana Luadi sat in stony silence. "Mangia," Fornati urged Tracy. "Eat."
**********
The menu consisted of six courses, and Tracy noted that Alberto Fornati ate each one and finished what his wife left on her plate. In between bites he kept up a constant chatter.
"You are an actress, perhaps?" he asked Tracy. She laughed. "Oh no. I'm just a tourist."
He beamed at her. "Bellissima. You are beautiful enough to be an actress."
"She said she is not an actress," Silvana said sharply.
Alberto Fornati ignored her. "I produce motion pictures," he told Tracy. "You have heard of them, of course: Wild Savages, The Titans versus Superwoman. "
"I don't see many movies," Tracy apologized. She felt his fat leg press against hers under the table.
"Perhaps I can arrange to show you some of mine." Silvana turned white with anger.
"Do you ever get to Rome, my dear?" His leg was moving up and down against Tracy's.
"As a matter of fact, I'm planning to go to Rome after Venice."
"Splendid! Benissimo! We will all get together for dinner. Won't we, cara?" He gave a quick glance toward Silvana before he continued. "We
have a lovely villa off the Appian Way. Ten acres of---" His hand made a sweeping gesture and knocked a bowl of gravy into his wife's lap. Tracy could not be sure whether it was deliberate or not.
Silvana Luadi rose to her feet and looked at the spreading stain on her dress. "Sei un mascalzone!" she screamed. "Tieni le tue puttane lontano da me!"
She stormed out of the dining car, every eye following her.
"What a shame," Tracy murmured. "It's such a beautiful dress." She could have slapped the man for degrading his wife. She deserves every carat of jewelry she has, Tracy thought, and more.
He sighed. "Fornati will buy her another one. Pay no attention to her manners. She is very jealous of Fornati."
"I'm sure she has good reason to be." Tracy covered her irony with a small smile.
He preened. "It is true. Women find Fornati very attractive."
It was all Tracy could do to keep from bursting out laughing at the pompous little man. "I can understand that."
He reached across the table and took her hand. "Fornati likes you," he said. "Fornati likes you very much. What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a legal secretary. I saved up all my money for this trip. I hope to get an interesting position in Europe."
His bulging eyes roved over her body. "You will have no problem, Fornati promises you. He is very nice to people who are very nice to him."
"How wonderful of you," Tracy said shyly.
He lowered his voice. "Perhaps we could discuss this later this evening in your cabin?"
"That might be embarrassing." "Perché? Why?"
"You're so famous. Everyone on the train probably knows who you are." "Naturally."
"If they see you come to my cabin--- well, you know, some people might misunderstand. Of course, if your cabin is near mine... What number are you in?"
"E settanta--- seventy." He looked at her hopefully.
Tracy sighed. "I'm in another car. Why don't we meet in Venice?"
He beamed. "Bene! My wife, she stays in her room most of the time. She cannot stand the sun on her face. Have you ever been to Venezia?"
"No."
"Ah. You and I shall go to Torcello, a beautiful little island with a wonderful restaurant, the Locanda Cipriani. It is also a small hotel." His eyes gleamed. "Molto privato."
Tracy gave him a slow, understanding smile. "It sounds exciting." She lowered her eyes, too overcome to say more.
Fornati leaned forward, squeezed her hand, and whispered wetly, "You do not know what excitement is yet, cara."
Half an hour later Tracy was back in her cabin.
**********
The Orient Express sped through the lonely night, past Paris and Dijon and Vallarbe, while the passengers slept. They had turned in their passports the evening before, and the border formalities would be handled by the conductors.
At 3:30 in the morning Tracy quietly left her compartment. The timing was critical. The train would cross the Swiss border and reach Lausanne at 5:21 A.M. and was due to arrive in Milan, Italy, at 9:15 A.M.
Clad in pajamas and robe, and carrying a sponge bag, Tracy moved down the corridor, every sense alert, the familiar excitement making her pulse leap. There were no toilets in the cabins of the train, but there were some located at the end of each car. If Tracy was questioned, she was prepared to say that she was looking for the ladies' room, but she encountered no one. The conductors and porters were taking advantage of the early-morning hours to catch up on their sleep.
Tracy reached Cabin E 70 without incident. She quietly tried the doorknob. The door was locked. Tracy opened the sponge bag and took out a metallic object and a small bottle with a syringe, and went to work.
Ten minutes later she was back in her cabin, and thirty minutes after that she was asleep, with the trace of a smile on her freshly scrubbed face.
**********
At 7:00 A.M., two hours before the Orient Express was due to arrive in Milan, a series of piercing screams rang out. They came from Cabin E 70, and they awakened the entire car. Passengers poked their heads out of their cabins to see what was happening. A conductor came hurrying along the car and entered E 70.
Silvana Luadi was in hysterics. "Aiuto! Help!" she screamed. "All my jewelry is gone! This miserable train is full of ladri--- thieves!"
"Please calm down, madame," the conductor begged. "The other---"
"Calm down!" Her voice went up an octave. "How dare you tell me to calm down, stupido maiale! Someone has stolen more than a million dollars' worth of my jewels!"
"How could this have happened?" Alberto Fornati demanded. "The door was locked--- and Fornati is a light sleeper. If anyone had entered, I would have awakened instantly."
The conductor sighed. He knew only too well how it had happened, because it had happened before. During the night someone had crept down the corridor and sprayed a syringe full of ether through the keyhole. The locks would have been child's play for someone who knew what he was doing. The thief would have closed the door behind him, looted the room, and, having taken what he wanted, quietly crept back to his compartment while his victims were still unconscious. But there was one thing about this burglary that was different from the others. In the past the thefts had not been discovered until after the train had reached its destination, so the thieves had had a chance to escape. This was a different situation. No one had disembarked since the robbery, which meant that the jewelry still had to be on board.
"Don't worry," the conductor promised the Fornatis. "You'll get your jewels back. The thief is still on this train."
He hurried forward to telephone the police in Milan.
**********
When the Orient Express pulled into the Milan terminal, twenty uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives lined the station platform, with orders not to let any passengers or baggage off the train.
Luigi Ricci, the inspector in charge, was taken directly to the Fornati compartment.
If anything, Silvana Luadi's hysteria had increased. "Every bit of jewelry I owned was in that jewel case," she screamed. "And none of it was insured!"
The inspector examined the empty jewel case. "You are sure you put your jewels in there last night, signora?"
"Of course I am sure. I put them there every night." Her luminous eyes, which had thrilled millions of adoring fans, pooled over with large tears, and Inspector Ricci was ready to slay dragons for her.
He walked over to the compartment door, bent down, and sniffed the keyhole. He could detect the lingering odor of ether. There had been a robbery, and he intended to catch the unfeeling bandit.
Inspector Ricci straightened up and said, "Do not worry, signora. There is no way the jewels can be removed from this train. We will catch the thief, and your gems will be returned to you."
Inspector Ricci had every reason to be confident. The trap was tightly sealed, and there was no possibility for the culprit to get away.
One by one, the detectives escorted the passengers to a station waiting room that had been roped off, and they were expertly body searched. The passengers, many of them people of prominence, were outraged by this indignity.
"I'm sorry," Inspector Ricci explained to each of them, "but a million- dollar theft is a very serious business."
As each passenger was led from the train, detectives turned their cabins upside down. Every inch of space was examined. This was a splendid opportunity for Inspector Ricci, and he intended to make the most of it. When he recovered the stolen jewels, it would mean a promotion and a raise. His imagination became inflamed. Silvana Luadi would be so grateful to him that she would probably invite him to... He gave orders with renewed vigor.
There was a knock at Tracy's cabin door and a detective entered. "Excuse me, signorina. There has been a robbery. It is necessary to search all passengers. If you will come with me, please..."
"A robbery?" Her voice was shocked. "On this train?" "I fear so, signorina."
When Tracy stepped out of her compartment, two detectives moved in, opened her suitcases, and began carefully sifting through the contents.
At the end of four hours the search had turned up several packets of marijuana, five ounces of cocaine, a knife, and an illegal gun. There was no sign of the missing jewelry.
Inspector Ricci could not believe it. "Have you searched the entire train?" he demanded of his lieutenant.
"Inspector, we have searched every inch. We have examined the engine, the dining rooms, the bar, the toilets, the compartments. We have searched the passengers and crew and examined every piece of luggage. I can swear to you that the jewelry is not on board this train. Perhaps the lady imagined the theft."
But Inspector Ricci knew better. He had spoken to the waiters, and they had confirmed that Silvana Luadi had indeed worn a dazzling display of jewelry at dinner the evening before.
A representative of the Orient Express had flown to Milan. "You cannot detain this train any longer," he insisted. "We are already far behind schedule."
Inspector Ricci was defeated. He had no excuse for holding the train any further. There was nothing more he could do. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow, during the night, the thief had tossed the jewels off the train to a waiting confederate. But could it have happened that way? The timing would have been impossible. The thief could not have known in advance when the corridor would be clear, when a conductor or passenger might be prowling about, what time the train would be at some deserted assignation point. This was a mystery beyond the inspector's power to solve.
"Let the train go on," he ordered.
He stood watching helplessly as the Orient Express slowly pulled out of the station. With it went his promotion, his raise, and a blissful orgy with Silvana Luadi.
**********
The sole topic of conversation in the breakfast car was the robbery.
"It's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in years," confessed a prim teacher at a girls' school. She fingered a small gold necklace with a tiny diamond chip. "I'm lucky they didn't take this."
"Very," Tracy gravely agreed.
When Alberto Fornati walked into the dining car, he caught sight of Tracy and hurried over to her. "You know what happened, of course. But did you know it was Fornati's wife who was robbed?"
"No!"
"Yes! My life was in great danger. A gang of thieves crept into my cabin and chloroformed me. Fornati could have been murdered in his sleep."
"How terrible."
"È una bella fregatura! Now I shall have to replace all of Silvana's jewelry. It's going to cost me a fortune."
"The police didn't find the jewels?"
"No, but Fornati knows how the thieves got rid of them." "Really! How?"
He looked around and lowered his voice. "An accomplice was waiting at one of the stations we passed during the night. The ladri threw the jewels out of the train, and--- ecco--- it was done."
Tracy said admiringly, "How clever of you to figure that out."
"Sì." He raised his brows meaningfully. "You will not forget our little tryst in Venezia?"
"How could I?" Tracy smiled.
He squeezed her arm hard. "Fornati is looking forward to it. Now I must go console Silvana. She is hysterical."
**********
When the Orient Express arrived at the Santa Lucia station in Venice, Tracy was among the first passengers to disembark. She had her luggage taken directly to the airport and was on the next plane to London with Silvana Luadi's jewelry.
Gunther Hartog was going to be pleased.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 23
The seven-story headquarters building of Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, is at 26 Rue Armengaud, in the hills of St. Cloud, about six miles west of Paris, discreetly hidden behind a high green fence and white stone walls. The gate at the street entrance is locked twenty-four hours a day, and visitors are admitted only after being scrutinized through a closed-circuit television system. Inside the building, at the head of the stairs at each floor, are white iron gates which are locked at night, and every floor is equipped with a separate alarm system and closed-circuit television.
The extraordinary security is mandatory, for within this building are kept the world's most elaborate dossiers with files on two and a half million criminals. Interpol is a clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries, and coordinates the worldwide activities of police forces in dealing with swindlers, counterfeiters, narcotics smugglers, robbers, and murderers. It disseminates up-to-the-second information by an updated bulletin called a circulation; by radio, photo- telegraphy, and early-bird satellite. The Paris headquarters is manned by former detectives from the Sûreté Nationale or the Paris Préfecture.
**********
On an early May morning a conference was under way in the office of Inspector André Trignant, in charge of Interpol headquarters. The office was comfortable and simply furnished, and the view was breathtaking. In the far distance to the east, the Eiffel Tower loomed, and in another direction the white dome of the Sacré Coeur in Montmartre was clearly visible. The inspector was in his mid-forties, an attractive,
authoritative figure, with an intelligent face, dark hair, and shrewd brown eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses. Seated in the office with him were detectives from England, Belgium, France, and Italy.
"Gentlemen," Inspector Trignant said, "I have received urgent requests from each of your countries for information about the rash of crimes that has recently sprung up all over Europe. Half a dozen countries have been hit by an epidemic of ingenious swindles and burglaries, in which there are several similarities. The victims are of unsavory reputation, there is never violence involved, and the perpetrator is always a female. We have reached the conclusion that we are facing an international gang of women. We have identi-kit pictures based on the descriptions by victims and random witnesses. As you will see, none of the women in the pictures is alike. Some are blond, some brunet. They have variously been reported as being English, French, Spanish, Italian, American--- or Texan."
Inspector Trignant pressed a switch, and a series of pictures began to appear on the wall screen. "Here you see an identi-kit sketch of a brunet with short hair." He pressed the button again. "Here is a young blonde with a shag cut.... Here is another blonde with a perm... a brunet with a pageboy.... Here is an older woman with a French twist... a young woman with blond streaks... an older woman with a coup sauvage. He turned off the projector. "We have no idea who the gang's leader is or where their headquarters is located. They never leave any clues behind, and they vanish like smoke rings. Sooner or later we will catch one of them, and when we do, we shall get them all. In the meantime, gentlemen, until one of you can furnish us with some specific information, I am afraid we are at a dead end. "
**********
When Daniel Cooper's plane landed in Paris, he was met at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport by one of Inspector Trignant's assistants, and driven to the Prince de Galles, next door to its more illustrious sister hotel, the George V.
"It is arranged for you to meet Inspector Trignant tomorrow," his escort told Cooper. "I will pick you up at eight-fifteen."
**********
Daniel Cooper had not been looking forward to the trip to Europe. He intended to finish his assignment as quickly as possible and return home. He knew about the fleshpots of Paris, and he had no intention of becoming involved.
He checked into his room and went directly into the bathroom. To his surprise, the bathtub was satisfactory. In fact, he admitted to himself, it was much larger than the one at home. He ran the bath water and went into the bedroom to unpack. Near the bottom of his suitcase was the small locked box, safe between his extra suit and his underwear. He picked up the box and held it in his hands, staring at it, and it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He carried it into the bathroom and placed it on the sink. With the tiny key dangling from his key ring, he unlocked the
box and opened it, and the words screamed up at him from the yellowed newspaper clipping.
BOY TESTIFIES IN MURDER TRIAL
Twelve-year-old Daniel Cooper today testified in the trial of Fred Zimmer, accused of the rape-murder of the young boy's mother. According to his testimony, the boy returned home from school and saw Zimmer, a next-door neighbor, leaving the Cooper home with blood on his hands and face. When the boy entered his home, he discovered the body of his mother in the bathtub. She had been savagely stabbed to death. Zimmer confessed to being Mrs. Cooper's lover, but denied that he had killed her.
The young boy has been placed in the care of an aunt.
Daniel Cooper's trembling hands dropped the clipping back into the box and locked it. He looked around wildly. The walls and ceiling of the hotel bathroom were spattered with blood. He saw his mother's naked body floating in the red water. He felt a wave of vertigo and clutched the sink. The screams inside him became gutteral moans, and he frantically tore off his clothes and sank down into the blood-warm bath.
**********
"I must inform you, Mr. Cooper," Inspector Trignant said, "that your position here is most unusual. You are not a member of any police force, and your presence here is unofficial. However, we have been requested by the police departments of several European countries to extend our cooperation."
Daniel Cooper said nothing.
"As I understand it, you are an investigator for the International Insurance Protective Association, a consortium of insurance companies."
Some of our European clients have had heave losses lately. I was told there are no clues."
Inspector Trignant sighed. "I'm afraid that is the case. We. know we are dealing with a gang of very clever women, but beyond that---"
"No information from informers?" "No. Nothing."
"Doesn't that strike you as odd?" "What do you mean, monsieur?"
It seemed so obvious to Cooper that he did not bother to keep the impatience out of his voice. "When a gang is involved, there's always someone who talks too much, drinks too much, spends too much. It's impossible for a large group of people to keep a secret. Would you mind giving me your files on this gang?"
The inspector started to refuse. He thought Daniel Cooper was one of the most physically unattractive men he had ever met. And certainly the most arrogant. He was going to be a chierie, "a pain in the ass"; but the inspector had been asked to cooperate fully.
Reluctantly, he said, "I will have copies made for you." He spoke into an intercom and gave the order. To make conversation, Inspector Trignant said, "An interesting report just crossed my desk. Some valuable jewels were stolen aboard the Orient Express while it---"
"I read about it. The thief made a fool of the Italian police."
"No one has been able to figure out how the robbery was accomplished." "It's obvious," Daniel Cooper said rudely. "A matter of simple logic."
Inspector Trignant looked over his glasses in surprise. Mon Dieu, he has the manners of a pig. He continued, coolly, "In this case, logic does not help. Every inch of that train was examined, and the employees, passengers, and all the luggage searched."
"No," Daniel Cooper contradicted.
This man is crazy, Inspector Trignant decided. "No--- what?" "They didn't search all the luggage."
"And I tell you they did," Inspector Trignant insisted. "I have seen the police report."
"The woman from whom the jewels were stolen--- Silvana Luadi?" "Yes?"
"She had placed her jewels in an overnight case from which they were taken?"
"That is correct."
"Did the police search Miss Luadi's luggage?"
"Only her overnight case. She was the victim. Why should they search her luggage?"
"Because that's logically the only place the thief could have hidden the jewels--- in the bottom of one of her other suitcases. He probably had a duplicate case, and when all the luggage was piled on the platform at the Venice station, all he had to do was exchange suitcases and disappear." Daniel Cooper rose. "If those reports are ready, I'll be running along."
**********
Thirty minutes later, Inspector Trignant was speaking to Alberto Fornati in Venice.
"Monsieur," the inspector said, "I was calling to inquire whether there happened to be any problem with your wife's luggage when you arrived in Venice."
"Sì, sì," Fornati complained. "The idiot porter got her suitcase mixed up with someone else's. When my wife opened her bag at the hotel, it contained nothing but a lot of old magazines. I reported it to the office of the Orient Express. Have they located my wife's suitcase?" he asked hopefully.
"No, monsieur," the inspector said. And he added silently to himself, Nor would I expect it, if I were you.
When he completed the telephone call, he sat back in his chair thinking, This Daniel Cooper is très formidable. Very formidable, indeed.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 24
Tracy's house in Eaton Square was a haven. It was in one of the most beautiful areas in London, with the old Georgian houses facing tree- filled private parks. Nannies in stiffly starched uniforms wheeled their small charges in status-named prams along the graveled paths, and children played their games. I miss Amy, Tracy thought.
Tracy walked along the storied old streets and shopped at the greengrocers and the chemist on Elizabeth Street; she marveled at the variety of brilliantly colored flowers sold outside the little shops.
Gunther Hartog saw to it that Tracy contributed to the right charities and met the right people. She dated wealthy dukes and impoverished earls and had numerous proposals of marriage. She was young and beautiful and rich, and she seemed so vulnerable.
"Everyone thinks you're a perfect target," Gunther laughed. "You've really done splendidly for yourself, Tracy. You're set now. You have everything you'll ever need."
It was true. She had money in safe-deposit boxes all over Europe, the house in London, and a chalet in St. Moritz. Everything she would ever need. Except for someone to share it with. Tracy thought of the life she had almost had, with a husband and a baby. Would that ever be possible for her again? She could never reveal to any man who she really was, nor could she live a lie by concealing her past. She had played so many parts, she was no longer sure who she really was, but she did know that she could never return to the life she had once had. It's all right,
Tracy thought defiantly. A lot of people are lonely. Gunther is right. I have everything.
**********
She was giving a cocktail party the following evening, the first since her return from Venice.
"I'm looking forward to it," Gunther told her. "Your parties are the hottest ticket in London."
Tracy said fondly, "Look who my sponsor is." "Who's going to be there?"
"Everybody," Tracy told him.
Everybody turned out to be one more guest than Tracy had anticipated. She had invited the Baroness Howarth, an attractive young heiress, and when Tracy saw the baroness arrive, she walked over to greet her. The greeting died on Tracy's lips. With the baroness was Jeff Stevens.
"Tracy, darling, I don't believe you know Mr. Stevens. Jeff, this is Mrs. Tracy Whitney, your hostess."
Tracy said stiffly, "How do you do, Mr. Stevens?"
Jeff took Tracy's hand, holding it a fraction longer than necessary. "Mrs. Tracy Whitney?" he said. "Of course! I was a friend of your husband's. We were together in India."
"Isn't that exciting!" Baroness Howarth exclaimed. "Strange, he never mentioned you," Tracy said coolly.
"Didn't he, really? I'm surprised. Interesting old fella. Pity he had to go the way he did."
"Oh, what happened?" Baroness Howarth asked. Tracy glared at Jeff. "It was nothing, really."
"Nothing!" Jeff said reproachfully. "If I remember correctly, he was hanged in India."
"Pakistan," Tracy said tightly. "And I believe I do remember my husband mentioning you. How is your wife?"
Baroness Howarth looked at Jeff. "You never mentioned that you were married, Jeff."
"Cecily and I are divorced."
Tracy smiled sweetly. "I meant Rose."
"Oh, that wife."
Baroness Howarth was astonished. "You've been married twice?"
"Once," he said easily. "Rose and I got an annulment. We were very young." He started to move away.
Tracy asked, "But weren't there twins?" Baroness Howarth exclaimed, "Twins?"
"They live with their mother," Jeff told her. He looked at Tracy: "I can't tell you how pleasant it's been talking to you, Mrs. Whitney, but we mustn't monopolize you." And he took the baroness's hand and walked away.
The following morning Tracy ran into Jeff in an elevator at Harrods. The store was crowded with shoppers. Tracy got off at the second floor. As she left the elevator, she turned to Jeff and said in a loud, clear voice, "By the way, how did you ever come out on that morals charge?" The door closed, and Jeff was trapped in an elevator filled with indignant strangers.
Tracy lay in bed that night thinking about Jeff, and she had to laugh. He really was a charmer. A scoundrel, but an engaging one. She wondered what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was: She knew very well what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was. Jeff and I are two of a kind, Tracy thought. Neither of them would ever settle down. The life they led was too exciting and stimulating and rewarding.
She turned her thoughts toward her next job. It was going to take place in the South of France, and it would be a challenge. Gunther had told her that the police were looking for a gang. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
**********
In his hotel room in Paris, Daniel Cooper was reading the reports Inspector Trignant had given him. It was 4:00 A.M., and Cooper had been poring over the papers for hours, analyzing the imaginative mix of robberies and swindles. Some of the scams Cooper was familiar with, but others were new to him. As Inspector Trignant had mentioned, all the victims had unsavory reputations. This gang apparently thinks they're Robin Hoods, Cooper reflected.
He had nearly finished. There were only three reports left. The one on top was headed BRUSSELS. Cooper opened the cover and glanced at the report. Two million dollars' worth of jewelry had been stolen from the wall safe of a Mr. Van Ruysen, a Belgian stockbroker, who had been involved in some questionable financial dealings.
The owners were away on vacation, and the house was empty, and--- Cooper caught something on the page that made his heart quicken. He went back to
the first sentence and began rereading the report, focusing on every word. This one varied from the others in one significant respect: The burglar had set off an alarm, and when the police arrived, they were greeted at the door by a woman wearing a filmy negligee. Her hair was tucked into a curler cap, and her face was thickly covered with cold cream. She claimed to be a houseguest of the Van Ruysens'. The police accepted her story, and by the time they were able to check it out with the absent owners, the woman and the jewelry had vanished.
Cooper laid down the report. Logic, logic.
**********
Inspector Trignant was losing his patience. "You're wrong. I tell you it is impossible for one woman to be responsible for all these crimes."
"There's a way to check it out," Daniel Cooper said. "How?"
"I'd like to see a computer run on the dates and locations of the last few burglaries and swindles that fit into this category."
"That's simple enough, but ---"
"Next, I would like to get an immigration report on every female American tourist who was in those same cities at the times the crimes were committed. It's possible that she uses false passports some of the time, but the probabilities are that she also uses her real identity."
Inspector Trignant was thoughtful. "I see your line of reasoning, monsieur." He studied the little man before him and found himself half hoping that Cooper was mistaken. He was much too sure of himself. "Very well. I will set the wheels in motion."
The first burglary in the series had been committed in Stockholm. The report from Interpol Sektionen Rikspolis Styrelsen, the Interpol branch in Sweden, listed the American tourists in Stockholm that week, and the names of the women were fed into a computer. The next city checked was Milan. When the names of American women tourists in Milan at the time of the burglary was cross-checked with the names of women who had been in Stockholm during that burglary, there were fifty-five names on the list. That list was checked against the names of female Americans who had been in Ireland during a swindle, and the list was reduced to fifteen.
Inspector Trignant handed the printout to Daniel Cooper.
"I'll start checking these names against the Berlin swindle," Inspector Trignant said, "and---"
Daniel Cooper looked up. "Don't bother."
The name at the top of the list was Tracy Whitney.
**********
With something concrete finally to go on, Interpol went into action. Red circulations, which meant top priority, were sent to each member nation, advising them to be on the lookout for Tracy Whitney.
"We're also Teletyping green notices," Inspector Trignant told Cooper. "Green notices?"
"We use a color-code 'system. A red circulation is top priority, blue is an inquiry for information about a suspect, a green notice puts police departments on warning that an individual is under suspicion and should be watched, black is an inquiry into unidentified bodies. X-D signals that a message is very urgent, while D is urgent. No matter what country Miss Whitney goes to, from the moment she checks through customs, she will be under observation.
The following day Telephoto pictures of Tracy Whitney from the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women were in the hands of Interpol.
Daniel Cooper put in a call to J. J. Reynolds's home. The phone rang a dozen times before it was answered.
"Hello..."
"I need some information."
"Is that you, Cooper? For Christ's sake, it's four o'clock in the morning here. I was sound---"
"I want you to send me everything you can find on Tracy Whitney. Press clippings, videotapes--- everything."
"What's happening over---?" Cooper had hung up.
One day I'll kill the son of a bitch, Reynolds swore.
**********
Before, Daniel Cooper had been only casually interested in Tracy Whitney. Now she was his assignment. He taped her photographs on the walls of his small Paris hotel room and read all the newspaper accounts about her. He rented a video cassette player and ran and reran the television news shots of Tracy after her sentencing, and after her release from prison.
Cooper sat in his darkened room hour after hour, looking at the film, and the first glimmering of suspicion became a certainty. "You're the gang of women, Miss Whitney," Danie Cooper said aloud. Then he flicked the rewind button of the cassette player once more.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 25
Every year, on the first Saturday in June, the Count de Matigny sponsored a charity ball for the benefit of the Children's Hospital in Paris.
Tickets for the white-tie affair were a thousand dollars apiece, and society's elite flew in from all over the world to attend.
The Château de Matigny, at Cap d'Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the château itself dated back to the fifteenth century. On the evening of the fete, the grand ballroom and the petit ballroom were filled with beautifully dressed guests and smartly liveried servants offering endless glasses of champagne. Huge buffet tables were set up, displaying an astonishing array of hors d'oeuvres on Georgian silver platters.
Tracy, looking ravishing in a white lace gown, her hair dressed high and held in place by a diamond tiara, was dancing with her host, Count de Matigny, a widower in his late sixties, small and trim, with pale, delicate features. The benefit ball the count dives each year for the Children's Hospital is a racket. Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. Ten percent of the money goes to the children--- ninety percent goes into his pocket.
"You are a superb dancer, Duchess," the count said. Tracy smiled. "That's because of my partner."
"How is it that you and I have not met before?"
"I've been living in South America," Tracy explained. "In the jungles, I'm afraid."
"Why on earth!"
"My husband owns a few mines in Brazil." "Ah. And is your husband here this evening?"
"No. Unfortunately, he had to stay in Brazil and take care of business."
"Unlucky for him. Lucky for me." His arm tightened around her waist. "I look forward to our becoming very good friends."
"And I, too," Tracy murmured.
Over the count's shoulder Tracy suddenly caught sight of Jeff Stevens, looking suntanned and ridiculously fit. He was dancing with a beautiful, willowy brunet in crimson taffeta, who was clinging to him possessively. Jeff saw Tracy at the same moment and smiled.
The bastard has every reason to smile, Tracy thought grimly. During the previous two weeks Tracy had meticulously planned two burglaries. She had
broken into the first house and opened the safe, only to find it empty. Jeff Stevens had been there first. On the second occasion Tracy was moving through the grounds toward the targeted house when she heard the sudden acceleration of a car and caught a glimpse of Jeff as he sped away. He had beaten her to it again. He was infuriating. Now he's here at the house I'm planning to burgle next, Tracy thought.
Jeff and his partner danced nearer. Jeff smiled and said, "Good evening, Count."
The Count de Matigny smiled. "Ah, Jeffrey. Good evening. I'm so pleased that you could come."
"I wouldn't have missed it." Jeff indicated the voluptuous-looking woman in his arms. "This is Miss Wallace. The Count de Matigny."
"Enchanté!" The count indicated Tracy. "Duchess, may I present Miss Wallace and Mr. Jeffrey Stevens? The Duchess de Larosa."
Jeff's eyebrows raised questioningly. "Sorry. I didn't hear the name." "De Larosa," Tracy said evenly.
"De Larosa... De Larosa." Jeff was studying Tracy. "That name seems so familiar. Of course! I know your husband. Is the dear fellow here with you?"
"He's in Brazil." Tracy found that she was gritting her teeth.
Jeff smiled. "Ah, too bad. We used to go hunting together. Before he had his accident, of course."
"Accident?" the count asked.
"Yes." Jeff's tone was rueful. "His gun went off and shot him in a very sensitive area. It was one of those stupid things." He turned to Tracy. "Is there any hope that he'll ever be normal again?"
Tracy said tonelessly, "I'm sure that one day he'll be as normal as you are, Mr. Stevens."
"Oh, good. You will give him my best regards when you talk to him, won't you, Duchess?"
The music stopped. The Count de Matigny apologized to Tracy. "If you'll excuse me, my dear, I have a few hostly duties to attend to." He squeezed her hand. "Don't forget you're seated at my table."
As the count moved away, Jeff said to his companion, "Angel, you put some aspirin in your bag, didn't you? Could you get one for me? I'm afraid I'm getting a terrible headache."
"Oh, my poor darling." There was an adoring look in her eyes. "I'll be right back, sweetheart."
Tracy watched her slink across the floor. "Aren't you afraid she'll give you diabetes?"
"She is sweet, isn't she? And how have you been lately, Duchess?"
Tracy smiled for the benefit of those around them. "That's really none of your concern, is it?"
"Ah, but it is. In fact, I'm concerned enough to give you some friendly advice. Don't try to rob this château."
"Why? Are you planning to do it first?"
Jeff took Tracy's arm and walked her over to a deserted spot near the piano, where a dark-eyed young man was soulfully massacring American show tunes.
Only Tracy could hear Jeff's voice over the music. "As a matter of fact, I was planning a little something, but it's too dangerous."
"Really?" Tracy was beginning to enjoy the conversation.
It was a relief to be herself, to stop playacting. The Greeks had the right word for it, Tracy thought. Hypocrite was from the Greek word for "actor."
"Listen to me, Tracy." Jeff's tone was serious. "Don't try this. First of all, you'd never get through the grounds alive. A killer guard dog is let loose at night."
Suddenly, Tracy was listening intently. Jeff was planning to rob the place.
"Every window and door is wired. The alarms connect directly to the police station. Even if you did manage to get inside the house, the whole place is crisscrossed with invisible infrared beams."
"I know all that." Tracy was a little smug.
"Then you must also know that the beam doesn't sound the alarm when you step into it. It sounds the alarm when you step out of it. It senses the heat change. There's no way you can get through it without setting it off."
She had not known that. How had Jeff learned of It? "Why are you telling me all this?"
He smiled, and she thought he had never looked more attractive. "I really don't want you to get caught, Duchess. I like having you around. You know, Tracy, you and I could become very good friends."
"You're wrong," Tracy assured him. She saw Jeff's date hurrying toward them. "Here comes Ms. Diabetes. Enjoy yourself."
As Tracy walked away, she heard Jeff's date say, "I brought you some champagne to wash it down with, poor baby."
The dinner was sumptuous. Each course was accompanied by the appropriate wine, impeccably served by white-gloved footmen. The first course was a native asparagus with a white truffle sauce, followed by a consommé with delicate morels. After that came a saddle of lamb with an assortment of fresh vegetables from the count's gardens. A crisp endive salad was next. For dessert there were individually molded ice-cream servings and a silver epergne, piled high with petite fours. Coffee and brandy came last. Cigars were offered to the men, and the women were given Joy perfume in a Baccarat crystal flacon.
After dinner, the Count de Matigny turned to Tracy. "You mentioned that you were interested in seeing some of my paintings. Would you like to take a look now?"
"I'd love to," Tracy assured him.
The picture gallery was a private museum filled with Italian masters, French Impressionists, and Picassos. The long hall was ablaze with the bewitching colors and forms painted by immortals. There were Monets and Renoirs, Canalettos and Guardis and Tintorettos. There was an exquisite Tiepolo and Guercino and a Titian, and there was almost a full wall of Cézannes. There was no calculating the value of the collection.
Tracy stared at the paintings a long time, savoring their beauty. "I hope these are well guarded."
The count smiled. "On three occasions thieves have tried to get at my treasures. One was killed by my dog, the second was maimed, and the third is serving a life term in prison. The château is an invulnerable fortress, Duchess."
"I'm so relieved to hear that, Count."
There was a bright flash of light from outside. "The fireworks display is beginning," the count said. "I think you'll be amused." He took Tracy's soft hand in his papery, dry one and led her out of the picture gallery. "I'm leaving for Deauville in the morning, where I have a villa on the sea. I've invited a few friends down next weekend. You might enjoy it."
"I'm sure I would," Tracy said regretfully, "but I'm afraid my husband is getting restless. He insists that I return."
The fireworks display lasted for almost an hour, and Tracy took advantage of the distraction to reconnoiter the house. What Jeff had said was true: The odds against a successful burglary were formidable, but for that very reason Tracy found the challenge irresistible. She knew that upstairs in the count's bedroom were $2 million in jewels, and half a dozen masterpieces, including a Leonardo.
The château is a treasure house, Gunther Hartog had told her, and it's guarded like one. Don't make a move unless you have a foolproof plan.
Well, I've worked out a plan, Tracy thought. Whether it's foolproof or not, I'll know tomorrow.
**********
The following night was chilly and cloudy, and the high walls around the château appeared grim and forbidding as Tracy stood in the shadows, wearing black coveralls, gum-soled shoes, and supple black kid gloves, carrying a shoulder bag. For an unguarded moment Tracy's mind embraced the memory of the walls of the penitentiary, and she gave an involuntary shiver.
She had driven the rented van alongside the stone wall at the back of the estate. From the other side of the wall came a low, fierce growl that developed into a frenzied barking, as the dog leapt into the air, trying to attack. Tracy visualized the Doberman's powerful, heavy body and deadly teeth.
She called out softly to someone in the van, "Now."
A slight, middle-aged man, also dressed in black, with a rucksack on his back, came out of the van holding onto a female Doberman. The dog was in season, and the tone of barking from the other side of the stone wall suddenly changed to an excited whine.
Tracy helped lift the bitch to the top of the van, which was almost the exact height of the wall.
"One, two, three," she whispered.
And the two of them tossed the bitch over the wall into the grounds of the estate. There were two sharp barks, followed by a series of snuffling noises, then the sound of the dogs running. After that all was quiet.
Tracy turned to her confederate. "Let's go."
The man, Jean Louis, nodded. She had found him in Antibes. He was a thief who had spent most of his life in prison. Jean Louis was not bright, but he was a genius with locks and alarms, perfect for this job.
Tracy stepped from the roof of the van onto the top of the wall. She unrolled a scaling ladder and hooked it to the edge of the wall. They both moved down it onto the grass below. The estate appeared vastly different from the way it had looked the evening before, when it was brightly lit and crowded with laughing guests. Now, everything was dark and bleak.
Jean Louis trailed behind Tracy, keeping a fearful watch for the Dobermans.
The château was covered with centuries-old ivy clinging to the wall up to the rooftop. Tracy had casually tested the ivy the evening before. Now, as she put her weight on a vine, it held. She began to climb, scanning the grounds below. There was no sign of the dogs. l hope they stay busy for a long time, she prayed.
When Tracy reached the roof, she signaled to Jean Louis and waited until he climbed up beside her. From the pinpoint light Tracy switched on, they saw a glass skylight, securely locked from below. As Tracy watched, Jean Louis reached into the rucksack on his back and pulled out a small glass cutter. It took him less than a minute to remove the glass.
Tracy glanced down and saw that their way was blocked by a spiderweb of alarm wires. "Can you handle that, Jean?" she whispered.
"Je peux faire ça. No problem." He reached into his pack and pulled out a foot-long wire with an alligator clamp on each end. Moving slowly, he traced the beginning of the alarm wire, stripped it, and connected the alligator clamp to the end of the alarm. He pulled out a pair of pliers and carefully cut the wire. Tracy tensed herself, waiting for the sound of the alarm, but all was quiet. Jean Louis looked up and grinned. "Voilà. Fini."
Wrong, Tracy thought. This is just the beginning.
They used a second scaling ladder to climb down through the skylight. So far so good. They had made it safely into the attic. But when Tracy thought of what lay ahead, her heart began to pound.
She pulled out two pairs of red-lens goggles and handed one of them to Jean Louis. "Put these on."
She had figured out a way to distract the Doberman, but the infrared-ray alarms had proved to be a more difficult problem to solve. Jeff had been correct: The house was crisscrossed with invisible beams. Tracy took several long, deep breaths. Center your energy, your chi. Relax. She forced her mind into a crystal clarity: When a person moves into a beam, nothing happens, but the instant the person moves out of the beam, the sensor detects the difference in temperature and the alarm is set off. It has been set to go off before the burglar opens the safe, leaving him no time to do anything before the police arrive.
And there, Tracy had decided, was the weakness in the system. She had needed to devise a way to keep the alarm silent until after the safe was opened. At 6:30 in the morning she had found the solution. The burglary was possible, and Tracy had felt that familiar feeling of excitement begin to build within her.
Now, she slipped the infrared goggles on, and instantly everything in the room took on an eerie red glow. In front of the attic door Tracy saw a beam of light that would have been invisible without the glasses.
"Slip under it," she warned Jean Louis. "Careful."
They crawled under the beam and found themselves in a dark hallway leading to Count de Matigny's bedroom. Tracy flicked on the flashlight and led the way. Through the infrared goggles, Tracy saw another light beam, this one low across the threshold of the bedroom door. Gingerly, she jumped over it. Jean Louis was right behind her.
Tracy played her flashlight around the walls, and there were the paintings, impressive, awesome.
Promise to bring me the Leonardo, Gunther had said. And of course the jewelry.
Tracy took down the picture, turned it over, and laid it on the floor. She carefully removed it from its frame, rolled up the vellum, and stored it in her shoulder bag. All that remained now was to get into the safe, which stood in a curtained alcove at the far end of the bedroom.
Tracy opened the curtains. Four infrared lights transversed the alcove, from the floor to the ceiling, crisscrossing one another. It was impossible to reach the safe without breaking one of the beams.
Jean Louis stared at the beams with dismay. "Bon Dieu de merde! We can't get through those. They're too low to crawl under and too high to jump over."
"I want you to do just as I tell you," Tracy said. She stepped in back of him and put her arms tightly around his waist. "Now, walk with me. Left foot first."
Together, they took a step toward the beams, then another. Jean Louis breathed, "Alors! We're going into them!" "Right."
They moved directly into the center of the beams, where they converged, and Tracy stopped.
"Now, listen carefully," she said. "I want you to walk over to the safe." "But the beams---"
"Don't worry. It will be all right." She fervently hoped she was right.
Hesitantly, Jean Louis stepped out of the infrared beams. All was quiet. He looked back at Tracy with large, frightened eyes. She was standing in the middle of the beams, her body heat keeping the sensors from sounding the alarm. Jean Louis hurried over to the safe. Tracy stood stock-still, aware that the instant she moved, the alarm would sound.
Out of the corner of one eye, Tracy could see Jean Louis as he removed some tools from his pack and began to work on the dial of the safe. Tracy stood motionless, taking slow, deep breaths. Time stopped. Jean Louis
seemed to be taking forever. The calf of Tracy's right leg began to ache, then went into spasm. Tracy gritted her teeth. She dared not move.
"How long?" she whispered. "Ten, fifteen minutes."
It seemed to Tracy she had been standing there a lifetime. The leg muscles in her left leg were beginning to cramp. She felt like screaming from the pain. She was pinned in the beams, frozen. She heard a click.
The safe was open.
"Magnifique! C'est la banque! Do you wish everything?" Jean Louis asked. "No papers. Only the jewels. Whatever cash is there is yours."
"Merci."
Tracy heard Jean Louis riffling through the safe, and a few moments later he was walking toward her.
"Formidable!" he said. "But how do we get out of here without breaking the beam?"
"We don't," Tracy informed him. He stared at her. "What?" "Stand in front of me."
"But---"
"Do as I say."
Panicky, Jean Louis stepped into the beam.
Tracy held her breath. Nothing happened. "All right. Now, very slowly, we're going to back out of the room."
"And then?" Jean Louis's eyes looked enormous behind the goggles. "Then, my friend, we run for it."
Inch by inch, they backed through the beams toward the curtains, where the beams began. When they reached them, Tracy took a deep breath. "Right. When I say now, we go out the same way we came in."
Jean Louis swallowed and nodded. Tracy could feel his small body tremble. "Now!"
Tracy spun around and raced toward the door, Jean Louis after her. The instant they stepped out of the beams, the alarm sounded. The noise was deafening, shattering.
Tracy streaked to the attic and scurried up the hook ladder, Jean Louis close behind. They raced across the roof and clambered down the ivy, and the two of them sped across the grounds toward the wall where the second ladder was waiting. Moments later they reached the roof of the van and scurried down. Tracy leapt into the driver's seat, Jean Louis at her side.
As the van raced down the side road, Tracy saw a dark sedan parked under a grove of trees. For an instant the headlights of the van lit the interior of the car. Behind the wheel sat Jeff Stevens. At his side was a large Doberman. Tracy laughed aloud and blew a kiss to Jeff as the van sped away.
From the distance came the wail of approaching police sirens.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 26
Biarritz, on the southwestern coast of France, has lost much of its turn- of-the-century glamour. The once-famed Casino Bellevue is closed for badly needed repairs, while the Casino Municipal on Rue Mazagran is now a run-down building housing small shops and a dancing school. The old villas on the hills have taken on a look of shabby gentility.
Still, in high season, from July to September, the wealthy and titled of Europe continue to flock to Biarritz to enjoy the gambling and the sun and their memories. Those who do not have their own châteaus stay at the luxurious Hôtel du Palais, at 1 Avenue Impératrice. The former summer residence of Napoleon III, the hotel is situated on a promontory over the Atlantic Ocean, in one of nature's most spectacular settings: a lighthouse on one side, flanked by huge jagged rocks looming out of the gray ocean like prehistoric monsters, and the boardwalk on the other side.
On an afternoon in late August the French Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly swept into the lobby of the Hôtel du Palais. The baroness was an elegant young woman with a sleek cap of ash-blond hair. She wore a green-and-white silk Givency dress that set off a figure that made the women turn and watch her enviously, and the men gape.
The baroness walked up to the concierge. "Ma clé, s'il vous plaît," she said. She had a charming French accent.
"Certainly, Baroness." He handed Tracy her key and several telephone messages.
As Tracy walked toward the elevator, a bespectacled, rumpled-looking man turned abruptly away from the vitrine displaying Hermes scarves and crashed into her, knocking the purse from her hand.
"Oh, dear," he said. "I'm terribly sorry." He picked up her purse and handed it to her. "Please forgive me." He spoke with a Middle European accent.
The Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly gave him an imperious nod and moved on.
An attendant ushered her into the elevator and let her off at the third floor. Tracy had chosen Suite 312, having learned that often the selection of the hotel accommodations was as important as the hotel itself. In Capri, it was Bungalow 522 in the Quisisana. In Majorca, it was the Royal Suite of Son Vida, overlooking the mountains and the distant bay. In New York, it was Tower Suite 4717 at The Helmsley Palace Hotel, and in Amsterdam, Room 325 at the Amstel, where one was lulled to sleep by the soothing lapping of the canal waters.
Suite 312 at the Hôtel du Palais had a panoramic view of both the ocean and the city. From every window Tracy could watch the waves crashing against the timeless rocks protruding from the sea like drowning figures. Directly below her window was an enormous kidney-shaped swimming pool, its bright blue water clashing with the gray of the ocean, and next to it a large terrace with umbrellas to ward off the summer sun. The walls of the suite were upholstered in blue-and-white silk damask, with marble baseboards, and the rugs and curtains were the color of faded sweetheart roses. The wood of the doors and shutters was stained with the soft patina of time.
When Tracy had locked the door behind her, she took off the tight-fitting blond wig and massaged her scalp. The baroness persona was one of her best. There were hundreds of titles to choose from in Debrett's Peerage and Baronetage and Almanach de Gotha. There were ladies and duchesses and princesses and baronesses and countesses by the score from two dozen countries, and the books were invaluable to Tracy, for they gave family histories dating back centuries, with the names of fathers and mothers and children, schools and houses, and addresses of family residences. It was a simple matter to select a prominent family and become a distant cousin--- particularly a wealthy distant cousin. People were so impressed by titles and money.
Tracy thought of the stranger who had bumped into her in the hotel lobby and smiled. It had begun.
**********
At 8:00 that evening the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly was seated in the hotel's bar when the man who had collided with her earlier approached her table.
"Excuse me," he said diffidently, "but I must apologize again for my inexcusable clumsiness this afternoon."
Tracy gave him a gracious smile. "That's quite all right. It was an accident."
"You are most kind." He hesitated. "I would feel much better if you would permit me to buy you a drink."
"Oui. If you wish."
He slid into a chair opposite her. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Adolf Zuckerman."
"Marguerite de Chantilly."
Zuckerman signaled the captain. "What are you drinking?" Zuckerman asked Tracy.
"Champagne. But perhaps---"
He raised a reassuring hand. "I can afford it. In fact, I am on the verge of being able to afford anything in the world."
"Really?" Tracy gave him a small smile. "How nice for you." "Yes."
Zuckerman ordered a bottle of Bollinger, then turned to Tracy. "The most extraordinary thing has happened to me. I really should not be discussing this with a stranger, but it is too exciting to keep to myself." He leaned closer and lowered 'his voice. "To tell you the truth, I am a simple school-teacher--- or I was, until recently. I teach history. It is most enjoyable, you understand, but not too exciting."
She listened, a look of polite interest on her face.
"That is to say, it was not exciting until a few months ago." "May I ask what happened a few months ago, Professor Zuckerman?"
"I was doing research on the Spanish Armada, looking for odd bits and pieces that might make the subject more interesting for my students, and in the archives of the local museum, I came across an old document that had somehow gotten mixed in with other papers. It gave the details of a secret expedition that Prince Philip sent out in 1588. One of the ships, loaded with gold bullion, was supposed to have sunk in a storm and vanished without a trace."
Tracy looked at him thoughtfully. "Supposed to have sunk?"
"Exactly. But according to these records, the captain and crew deliberately sank the ship in a deserted cove, planning to come back later and retrieve the treasure, but they were attacked and killed by pirates before they could return. The document survived only because none of the sailors on the pirate ship could read or write. They did not know the significance of what they had." His voice was trembling with excitement. "Now"--- he lowered his voice and looked around to make sure it was safe to continue--- "I have the document, with detailed instructions on how to get to the treasure."
"What a fortunate discovery for you, Professor." There was a note of admiration in her voice.
"That gold bullion is probably worth fifty million dollars today," Zuckerman said. "All I have to do is bring it up."
"What's stopping you?"
He gave an embarrassed shrug. "Money. I must outfit a ship to bring the treasure to the surface."
"I see. How much would that cost?"
"A hundred thousand dollars. I must confess, I did something extremely foolish. I took twenty thousand dollars--- my life's savings--- and I came to Biarritz to gamble at the casino, hoping to win enough to..." His voice trailed off.
"And you lost it."
He nodded. Tracy saw the glint of tears behind his spectacles.
The champagne arrived, and the captain popped the cork and poured the golden liquid into their glasses.
"Bonne chance," Tracy toasted. "Thank you."
They sipped their drinks in contemplative silence.
"Please forgive me for boring you with all this," Zuckerman said. "I should not be telling a beautiful lady my troubles."
"But I find your story fascinating," she assured him. "You are sure the gold is there, oui?"
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt. I have the original shipping orders and a map drawn by the captain, himself. I know the exact location of the treasure."
She was studying him with a thoughtful expression on her face. "But you need a hundred thousand dollars?"
Zuckerman chuckled ruefully. "Yes. For a treasure worth fifty million." He took another sip of his drink.
"C'est possible..." She stopped. "What?"
"Have you considered taking in a partner?"
He looked at her in surprise. "A partner? No. I planned to do this alone. But of course now that I've lost my money..." His voice trailed off again.
"Professor Zuckerman, suppose I were to give you the hundred thousand dollars?"
He shook his head. "Absolutely not, Baroness. I could not permit that. You might lose your money."
"But if you're sure the treasure is there---?"
"Oh, of that I am positive. But a hundred things could go wrong. There are no guarantees."
"In life, there are few guarantees. Your problem is très intéressant. Perhaps if I help you solve it, it could be lucrative for both of us."
"No, I could never forgive myself if by any remote chance you should lose your money."
"I can afford it," she assured him. "And I would stand to make a great deal on my investment, n'est-ce pas?"
"Of course, there is that side of it," Zuckerman admitted. He sat there weighing the matter, obviously torn with doubts. Finally, he said, "If that is what you wish, you will be a fifty-fifty partner."
She smiled, pleased. "D'accord. I accept."
The professor added quickly, "After expenses, of course." "Naturellement. How soon can we get started?"
"Immediately." The professor was charged with a sudden vitality. "I have already found the boat I want to use. It has modern dredging equipment and a crew of four. Of course, we will have to give them a small percentage of whatever we bring up."
"Bien sûr."
"We should get started as quickly as possible, or we might lose the boat."
"I can have the money for you in five days."
"Wonderful!" Zuckerman exclaimed. "That will give me time to make all the preparations. Ah, this was a fortuitous meeting for both of us, was it not?"
"Oui. Sans doute."
"To our adventure." The professor raised his glass.
Tracy raised hers and toasted, "May it prove to be as profitable as I feel it will be."
They clinked glasses. Tracy looked across the room and froze. At a table in the far corner was Jeff Stevens, watching her with an amused smile on his face. With him was an attractive woman ablaze with jewels.
Jeff nodded to Tracy, and she smiled, remembering how she had last seen him outside the De Matigny estate, with that silly dog beside him. That was one for me, Tracy thought happily.
"So, if you will excuse me," Zuckerman was saying, "I have much to do. I will be in touch with you." Tracy graciously extended her hand, and he kissed it and departed.
**********
"I see your friend has deserted you, and I can't imagine why. You look absolutely terrific as a blonde."
Tracy glanced up. Jeff was standing beside her table. He sat down in the chair Adolf Zuckerman had occupied a few minutes earlier.
"Congratulations," Jeff said. "The De Matigny caper was ingenious. Very neat."
"Coming from you, that's high praise, Jeff." "You're costing me a lot of money, Tracy." "You'll get used to it."
He toyed with the glass in front of him. "What did Professor Zuckerman want?"
"Oh, you know him?" "You might say that."
"He... er... just wanted to have a drink." "And tell you all about his sunken treasure?"
Tracy was suddenly wary. "How do you know about that?"
Jeff looked at her in surprise. "Don't tell me you fell for it? It's the oldest con game in the world."
"Not this time."
"You mean you believed him?"
Tracy said stiffly, "I'm not at liberty to discuss it, but the professor happens to have some inside information."
Jeff shook his head in disbelief. "Tracy, he's trying to take you. How much did he ask you to invest in his sunken treasure?"
"Never mind," Tracy said primly. "It's my money and my business."
Jeff shrugged. "Right. Just don't say old Jeff didn't try to warn you.''
"It couldn't be that you're interested in that gold for yourself, could it?"
He threw up his hands in mock despair. "Why are you always so suspicious of me?"
"It's simple," Tracy replied. "I don't trust you. Who was the woman you were with?" She instantly wished she could have withdrawn the question.
"Suzanne? A friend." "Rich, of course."
Jeff gave her a lazy smile. "As a matter of fact, I think she does have a bit of money. If you'd like to join us for luncheon tomorrow, the chef on her two-hundred-fifty-foot yacht in the harbor makes a---"
Thank you. I wouldn't dream of interfering with your lunch. What are you selling her?"
"That's personal."
"I'm sure it is." It came out harsher than she had intended.
Tracy studied him over the rim of her glass. He really was too damned attractive. He had clean, regular features, beautiful gray eyes with long lashes, and the heart of a snake. A very intelligent snake.
"Have you ever thought of going into a legitimate business?" Tracy asked. "You'd probably be very successful."
Jeff looked shocked. "What? And give up all this? You must be joking!" "Have you always been a con artist?"
"Con artist? I'm an entrepreneur," he said reprovingly. "How did you become a--- an--- entrepreneur?"
"I ran away from home when I was fourteen and joined a carnival."
"At fourteen?" It was the first glimpse Tracy had had into what lay beneath the sophisticated, charming veneer.
"It was good for ma--- I learned to cope. When that wonderful war in Vietnam came along, I joined up as a Green Beret and got an advanced
education. I think the main thing I learned was that that war was the biggest con of all. Compared to that, you and I are amateurs." He changed the subject abruptly. "Do you like pelota?"
"If you're selling it, no thank you."
"It's a game, a variation of jai alai. I have two tickets for tonight, and Suzanne can't make it. Would you like to go?"
Tracy found herself saying yes.
**********
They dined at a little restaurant in the town square, where they had a local wine and confit de canard à l' ail--- roast duck simmered in its own juices with roasted potatoes and garlic. It was delicious.
"The specialty of the house," Jeff informed Tracy.
They discussed politics and books and travel, and Tracy found Jeff surprisingly knowledgeable.
"When you're on your own at fourteen," Jeff told her, "you pick up things fast. First you learn what motivates you, then you learn what motivates other people. A con game is similar to ju jitsu. In ju jitsu you use your opponent's strength to win. In a con game, you use his greed. You make the first move, and he does the rest of your work for you."
Tracy smiled, wondering if Jeff had any idea how much alike they were. She enjoyed being with him, but she was sure that given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to double-cross her. He was a man to be careful of, and that she intended to be.
**********
The fronton where pelota was played was a large outdoor arena the size of a football field, high in the hills of Biarritz. There were huge green concrete backboards at either end of the court, and a playing area in the center, with four tiers of stone benches on both sides of the field. At dusk, floodlights were turned on. When Tracy and Jeff arrived, the stands were almost full, crowded with fans, as the two teams went into action.
Members of each team took turns slamming the ball into the concrete wall and catching it on the rebound in their cestas, the long, narrow baskets strapped to their arms. Pelota was a fast, dangerous game.
When one of the players missed the ball, the crowd screamed, "They really take this very seriously," Tracy commented.
"A lot of money is bet on these games. The Basques are a gambling race."
As spectators kept filing in, the benches became more crowded, and Tracy found herself being pressed against Jeff. If he was aware of her body against his, he gave no sign of it.
The pace and ferocity of the game seemed to intensify as the minutes passed, and the screams of the fans kept echoing through the night.
"Is it as dangerous as it looks?" Tracy asked.
"Baroness, that ball travels through the air at almost a hundred miles an hour. If you get hit in the head, you're dead. 'INK it's rare for a player to miss." He patted her hand absently, his eyes glued to the action.
The players were experts, moving gracefully, in perfect control. But in the middle of the game, without warning, one of the players hurled the ball at the backboard at the wrong angle, and the lethal ball came hurtling straight toward the bench where Tracy and Jeff sat. The spectators scrambled for cover. Jeff grabbed Tracy and shoved her to the ground, his body covering hers. They heard the sound of the ball sailing directly over their heads and smashing into the side wall. Tracy lay on the ground, feeling the hardness of Jeff's body. His face was very close to hers.
He held her a moment, then lifted himself up and pulled her to her feet. There was a sudden awkwardness between them.
"I--- I think I've had enough excitement for one evening," Tracy said. "I'd like to go back to the hotel, please."
They said good-night in the lobby.
"I enjoyed this evening," Tracy told Jeff. She meant it.
"Tracy, you're not really going ahead with Zuckerman's crazy sunken- treasure scheme, are you?"
"Yes, I am."
He studied her for a long moment "You still think I'm after that gold, don't you?"
She looked him in the eye. "Aren't you?" His expression hardened. "Good luck " "Good night, Jeff."
Tracy watched him turn and walk out of the hotel. She supposed he was on his way to see Suzanne. Poor woman.
The concierge said, "Ah, good evening, Baroness. There is a message for you."
It was from Professor Zuckerman.
**********
Adolf Zuckerman had a problem. A very large problem. He was seated in the office of Armand Grangier, and Zuckerman was so terrified of what was happening that he discovered he had wet his pants. Grangier was the owner of an illegal private casino located in an elegant private villa at 123 Rue de Frias. It made no difference to Grangier whether the Casino Municipal was closed or not, for the club at Rue de Frias was always filled with wealthy patrons. Unlike the government-supervised casinos, bets there were unlimited, and that was where the high rollers came to play roulette, chemin de fer, and craps. Grangier's customers included Arab princes, English nobility, Oriental businessmen, African heads of state. Scantily clad young ladies circulated around the room taking orders for complimentary champagne and whiskey, for Armand Grangier had learned long before that, more than any other class of people, the rich appreciated getting something for nothing. Grangier could afford to give drinks away. His roulette wheels and his card games were rigged.
The club was usually filled with beautiful young women escorted by older gentlemen with money, and sooner or later the women were drawn to Grangier. He was a miniature of a man, with perfect features, liquid brown eyes, and a soft, sensual mouth. He stood five feet four inches, and the combination of his looks and his small stature drew women like a magnet. Grangier treated each one with feigned admiration.
"I find you irresistible, chérie, but unfortunately for both of us, I am madly in love with someone."
And it was true. Of course, that someone changed from week to week, for in Biarritz there was an endless supply of beautiful young men, and Armand Grangier gave each one his brief place in the sun.
Grangier's connections with the underworld and the police were powerful enough for him to maintain his casino. He had worked his way up from being a ticket runner for the mob to running drugs, and finally, to ruling his own little fiefdom in Biarritz; those who opposed him found out too late how deadly the little man could be.
Now Adolf Zuckerman. was being cross-examined by Armand Grangier.
"Tell me more about this baroness you talked into the sunken-treasure scheme."
From the furious tone of his voice, Zuckerman knew that something was wrong, terribly wrong.
He swallowed and said, "Well, she's a widow whose husband left her a lot of money, and she said she's going to come up with a hundred thousand dollars." The sound of his own voice gave him confidence to go on: "Once we get the money, of course, we'll tell her that the salvage ship had an accident and that we need another fifty thousand. Then it'll be another hundred thousand, and--- you know--- just like always."
He saw the look of contempt on Armand Grangier's face. "What's--- what's the problem, chief?"
"The problem," said Grangier in a steely tone, "is that I just received a call from one of my boys in Paris. He forged a passport for your baroness. Her name is Tracy Whitney, and she's an American."
Zuckerman's mouth was suddenly dry. He licked his lips. "She--- she really seemed interested, chief."
"Balle! Conneau! She's a con artist. You tried to pull a swindle on a swindler!"
"Then w-why did she say yes? Why didn't she just turn it down?"
Armand Grangier's voice was icy. "I don't know, Professor, but I intend to find out. And when I do, I'm sending the lady for a swim in the bay. Nobody can make a fool out of Armand Grangier. Now, pick up that phone. Tell her a friend of yours has offered to put up half the money, and that I'm on my way over to see her. Do you think you can handle that?"
Zuckerman said eagerly, "Sure, chief. Not to worry."
"I do worry," Armand Grangier said slowly. "I worry a lot about you, Professor."
**********
Armand Grangier did not like mysteries. The sunken-treasure game had been worked for centuries, but the victims had to be gullible. There was simply no way a con artist would ever fall for it. That was the mystery that bothered Grangier, and he intended to solve it; and when he had the answer, the woman would be turned over to Bruno Vicente. Vicente enjoyed playing games with his victims before disposing of them.
Armand Grangier stepped out of the limousine as it stopped in front of the Hôtel du Palais, walked into the lobby, and approached Jules Bergerac, the white-haired Basque who had worked at the hotel from the age of thirteen.
"What's the number of the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly's suite?"
There was a strict rule that desk clerks not divulge the room numbers of guests, but rules did not apply to Armand Grangier.
"Suite three-twelve, Monsieur Grangier." "Merci."
"And Room three-eleven." Grangier stopped. "What?"
"The countess also has a room adjoining her suite." "Oh? Who occupies it?"
"No one."
"No one? Are you sure?"
"Oui, monsieur. She keeps it locked. The maids have been ordered to keep out."
A puzzled frown appeared on Grangier's face. "You have a passkey?"
"Of course." Without an instant's hesitation, the concierge reached under the desk for a passkey and handed it to Armand Grangier. Jules watched as Armand Grangier walked toward the elevator. One never argued with a man like Grangier.
When Armand Grangier reached the door of the baroness's suite, he found it ajar. He pushed it open and entered. The living room was deserted. "Hello. Anyone here?"
A feminine voice from another room sang out, "I'm in the bath. I'll be with you in a minute. Please help yourself to a drink."
Grangier wandered around the suite, familiar with its furnishings, tbr over the years he had arranged for many of his friends to stay in the hotel. He strolled into the bedroom. Expensive jewelry was carelessly spread out on a dressing table.
"I won't be a minute," the voice called out from the bathroom. "No hurry, Baroness."
Baroness mon cul! he thought angrily. Whatever little game you're playing, chérie, is going to backfire. He walked over to the door that connected to the adjoining room. It was locked. Grangier took out the passkey and opened the door. The room he stepped into had a musty, unused smell. The concierge had said that no one occupied it. Then why did she need---? Grangier's eye was caught by something oddly out of place. A heavy black electrical cord attached to a wall socket snaked along the length of the floor and disappeared into a closet. The door was open just enough to allow the cord to pass through. Curious, Grangier walked over to the closet door and opened it.
A row of wet hundred-dollar bills held up by clothespins on a wire was strung across the closet, hanging out to dry. On a typewriter stand was an object covered by a drape cloth. Grangier flicked up the cloth. He uncovered a small printing press with a still-wet hundred-dollar bill in it. Next to the press were sheets of blank paper the size of American currency and a paper cutter. Several one-hundred-dollar bills that had been unevenly cut were scattered on the floor.
An angry voice behind Grangier demanded, "What are you doing in here?"
Grangier spun around. Tracy Whitney, her hair damp from the bath and wrapped in a towel, had come into the room.
Armand Grangier said softly, "Counterfeit! You were going to pay us off with counterfeit money." He watched the expressions that played across her face. Denial, outrage, and then defiance.
"All right," Tracy admitted. "But it wouldn't have mattered. No one can tell these from the real thing."
"Con!" It was going to be a pleasure to destroy this one. "These bills are as good as gold."
"Really?" There was contempt in Grangier's voice. He pulled one of the wet bills from the wire and glanced at it. He looked at one side, then the other, and then examined them more closely. They were excellent. "Who cut these dies?"
"What's the difference? Look, I can have the hundred thousand dollars ready by Friday."
Grangier stared at her, puzzled. And when he realized what she was thinking, he laughed aloud. "Jesus," he said. "You're really stupid. There's no treasure."
Tracy was bewildered. "What do you mean, no treasure? Professor Zuckerman told me---"
"And you believed him? Shame, Baroness." He studied the bill in his hand again. "I'll take this."
Tracy shrugged. "Take as many as you like. It's only paper."
Grangier grabbed a handful of the wet hundred-dollar bills. "How do you know one of the maids won't walk in here?" he asked.
"I pay them well to keep away. And when I'm out, I lock the closet."
She's cool, Armand Grangier thought. But it's not going to keep her alive.
"Don't leave the hotel," he ordered. "I have a friend I want you to meet."
**********
Armand Grangier had intended to turn the woman over to Bruno Vicente immediately, but some instinct held him back. He examined one of the bills again. He had handled a lot of counterfeit money, but nothing nearly as good as this. Whoever cut the dies was a genius. The paper felt authentic, and the lines were crisp and clean. The colors remained sharp and fixed, even with the bill wet, and the picture of Benjamin Franklin
was perfect. The bitch was right. It was hard to tell the difference between what he held in his hand and the real thing. Grangier wondered whether it would be possible to pass it off as genuine currency. It was a tempting idea.
He decided to hold off on Bruno Vicente for a while.
Early the following morning Armand Grangier sent for Zuckerman and handed him one of the hundred-dollar bills. "Go down to the bank and exchange this for francs."
"Sure, chief."
Grangier watched him hurry out of the office. This was Zuckerrpan's punishment for his stupidity. If he was arrested, he would never tell where he got the counterfeit bill, not if he wanted to live. But if he managed to pass the bill successfully... I'll see, Grangier thought.
Fifteen minutes later Zuckerman returned to the office. He counted out a hundred dollars' worth of French francs. "Anything else, chief?"
Grangier stared at the francs. "Did you have any trouble?" "Trouble? No. Why?"
"I want you to go back to the same bank," Grangier ordered. "This is what I want you to say "
**********
Adolf Zuckerman walked into the lobby of the Banque de France and approached the desk where the bank manager sat. This time Zuckerman was aware of the danger he was in, but he preferred facing that than Grangier's wrath.
"May I help you?" the manager asked.
"Yes." He tried to conceal his nervousness. "You see, I got into a poker game last night with some Americans I met at a bar." He stopped.
The bank manager nodded wisely. "And you lost your money and perhaps wish to make a loan?"
"No," Zuckerman said. "As--- as a matter of fact, I won. The only thing is, the men didn't look quite honest to me." He pulled out two $100 bills. "They paid me with these, and I'm afraid they--- they might be counterfeit."
Zuckerman held his breath as the bank manager leaned forward and took the bills in his pudgy hands. He examined them carefully, first one side and then the other, then held them up to the light.
He looked at Zuckerman and smiled. "You were lucky, monsieur. These bills are genuine."
Zuckerman allowed himself to exhale. Thank God! Everything was going to be all right.
**********
"No problem at all, chief. He said they were genuine."
It was almost too good to be true. Armand Grangier sat there thinking, a plan already half-formed in his mind.
"Go get the baroness."
**********
Tracy was seated in Armand Grangier's office, facing him across his Empire desk.
"You and I are going to be partners," Grangier informed her. Tracy started to rise. "I don't need a partner and---"
"Sit down."
She looked into Grangier's eyes and sat down.
"Biarritz is my town. You try to pass a single one of those bills and you'll get arrested so fast you won't know what hit you. Comprenez-vous? Bad things happen to pretty ladies in our jails. You can't make a move here without me."
She studied him. "So what I'm buying from you is protection?" "Wrong. What you're buying from me is your life."
Tracy believed him.
"Now, tell me where you got your printing press."
Tracy hesitated, and Grangier enjoyed her squirming. He watched her surrender.
She said reluctantly, "I bought it from an American living in Switzerland. He was an engraver with the U.S. Mint for twenty-five years, and when they retired him there was some technical problem about his pension and he never received it. He felt cheated and decided to get even, so he smuggled out some hundred-dollar plates that were supposed to have been destroyed and used his contacts to get the paper that the Treasury Department prints its money on."
That explains it, Grangier thought triumphantly. That is why the bills look so good. His excitement grew. "How much money can that press turn out in a day?"
"Only one bill an hour. Each side of the paper has to be processed and--- "
He interrupted. "Isn't there a larger press?"
"Yes, he has one that will turn out fifty bills every eight hours--- five thousand dollars a day--- but he wants half a million dollars for it."
"Buy it," Grangier said.
"I don't have five hundred thousand dollars." "I do. How soon can you get hold of the press?"
She said reluctantly, "Now, I suppose, but I don't---"
Grangier picked up the telephone and spoke into it. "Louis, I want five hundred thousand dollars' worth of French francs. Take what we have from the safe and get the rest from the banks. Bring it to my office. Vite!"
Tracy stood up nervously. "I'd better go and---" "You're not going anywhere."
"I really should---"
"Just sit there and keep quiet. I'm thinking."
He had business associates who would expect to be cut in on this deal, but what they don't know won't hurt them, Grangier decided. He would buy the large press for himself and replace what he borrowed from the casino's bank account with money he would print. After that, he would tell Bruno Vicente to handle the woman. She did not like partners.
Well, neither did Armand Grangier.
**********
Two hours later the money arrived in a large sack. Grangier said to Tracy, "You're checking out of the Palais. I have a house up in the hills that's very private. You will stay there until we set up the operation." He pushed the phone toward her. "Now, call your friend in Switzerland and tell him you're buying the big press."
"I have his phone number at the hotel. I'll call from there. Give me the address of your house, and I'll tell him to ship the press there and---"
"Non!" Grangier snapped. "I don't want to leave a trail. I'll have it picked up at the airport. We will talk about it at dinner tonight. I'll see you at eight o'clock."
It was a dismissal. Tracy rose to her feet.
Grangier nodded toward the sack. "Be careful with the money. I wouldn't want anything to happen to it--- or to you."
"Nothing will," Tracy assured him.
He smiled lazily. "I know. Professor Zuckerman is going to escort you to your hotel."
The two of them rode in the limousine in silence, the money bag between them, each busy with his own thoughts. Zuckerman was not exactly sure what was happening, but he sensed it was going to be very good for him. The woman was the key. Grangier had ordered him to keep an eye on her, and Zuckerman intended to do that.
**********
Armand Grangier was in a euphoric mood that evening. By now, the large printing press would have been arranged for. The Whitney woman had said it would print $5,000 a day, but Grangier had a better plan. He intended to work the press on twenty-four hour shifts. That would bring it to
$15,000 a day, more than $100,000 a week, $1 million every ten weeks. And that was just the beginning. Tonight he would learn who the engraver was and make a deal with him for more machines. There was no limit to the fortune it would make him.
At precisely 8:00, Grangier's limousine pulled into the sweeping curve of the driveway of the Hôtel du Palais, and Grangier stepped out of the car. As he walked into the lobby, he noticed with satisfaction that Zuckerman was seated near the entrance, keeping a watchful eye on the doors.
Grangier walked over to the desk. "Jules, tell the Baroness de Chantilly I am here. Have her come down to the lobby."
The concierge looked up and said, "But the baroness has checked out, Monsieur Grangier."
"You're mistaken. Call her."
Jules Bergerac was distressed. It was unhealthy to contradict Armand Grangier. "I checked her out myself."
Impossible. "When?"
"Shortly after she returned to the hotel. She asked me to bring her bill to her suite so she could settle it in cash--"
Armand Grangier's mind was racing. "In cash? French francs?" "As a matter of fact, yes, monsieur."
Grangier asked frantically, "Did she take anything out of her suite? Any baggage or boxes?"
"No. She said she would send for her luggage later."
So she had taken his money and gone to Switzerland to make her own deal for the large printing press.
"Take me to her suite. Quickly!" "Oui, Monsieur Grangier."
Jules Bergerac grabbed a key from a rack and raced with Armand Grangier toward the elevator.
As Grangier passed Zuckerman, he hissed, "Why are you sitting there, you idiot? She's gone."
Zuckerman looked up at him uncomprehendingly. "She can't be gone. She hasn't come down to the lobby. I've been watching for her."
"Watching for her," Grangier mimicked. "Have you been watching for a nurse--- a gray-haired old lady--- a maid going out service door?"
Zuckerman was bewildered. "Why would I do that?"
"Get back to the casino," Grangier snapped. "I'll deal with later."
The suite looked exactly the same as when Grangier had seen it last. The connecting door to the adjoining room was open. Grangier stepped in and hurried over to the closet and yanked open the door. The printing press was still there, thank God! The Whitney woman had left in too big a hurry to take it with her. That was her mistake. And it is not her only mistake, Grangier thought. She had cheated him out of $500,000, and he was going to pay her back with a vengeance. He would let the police help him find her and put her in jail, where his men could get at her. They would make her tell who the engraver was and then shut her up for good.
Armand Grangier dialed the number of police headquarters and asked to talk to Inspector Dumont. He spoke earnestly into the phone for three minutes and then said, "I'll wait here."
Fifteen minutes later his friend the inspector arrived, accompanied by a man with an epicene figure and one of the most unattractive faces Grangier had ever seen. His forehead looked ready to burst out of his face, and his brown eyes, almost hidden behind thick spectacles, had the piercing look of a fanatic.
"This is Monsieur Daniel Cooper," Inspector Dumont said. "Monsieur Grangier. Mr. Cooper is also interested in the woman you telephoned me about."
Cooper spoke up. "You mentioned to Inspector Dumont that she's involved in a counterfeiting operation."
"Vraiment. She is on her way to Switzerland at this moment. You can pick her up at the border. I have all the evidence you need right here."
He led them to the closet, and Daniel Cooper and Jnspector Dumont looked inside.
"There is the press she printed her money on."
Daniel Cooper walked over to the machine and examined it carefully. "She printed the money on this press?"
"I just told you so," Grangier snapped. He took a bill from his pocket. "Look at this. It is one of the counterfeit hundred-dollar bills she gave me."
Cooper walked over to the window and held the bill up to the light. "This is a genuine bill."
"It only looks like one. That is because she used stolen plates she bought from an engraver who once worked at the Mint in Philadelphia. She printed these bills on this press."
Cooper said rudely "You're stupid. This is an ordinary printing press. The only thing you could print on this is letterheads."
"Letterheads?" The room was beginning to spin.
"You actually believed in the fable of a machine that turns paper into genuine hundred-dollar bills?"
"I tell you I saw with my own eyes---" Grangier stopped. What had he seen? Some wet hundred-dollar bills strung up to dry, some blank paper, and a paper cutter. The enormity of the swindle began to dawn on him.
There was no counterfeiting operation, no engraver waiting in Switzerland. Tracy Whitney had never fallen for the sunken-treasure story. The bitch had used his own scheme as the bait to swindle him out of half a million dollars. If the word of this got out....
The two men were watching him.
"Do you wish to press charges of some kind, Armand?" Inspector Dumont asked.
How could he? What could he say? That he had been cheated while trying to finance a counterfeiting operation? And what were his associates going to do to him when they learned he had stolen half a million dollars of their money and given it away? He was filled with sudden dread.
"No. I--- I don't wish to press charges." There was panic in his voice. Africa, Armand Grangier thought. They'll never find me in Africa.
Daniel Cooper was thinking, Next time. I'll get her next time.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 27
It was Tracy who suggested to Gunther Hartog that they meet in Majorca. Tracy loved the island. It was one of the truly picturesque places in the world. "Besides," she told Gunther, "it was once the refuge of pirates.
We'll feel right at home there."
"It might be best if we are not seen together," he suggested. "I'll arrange it."
**********
It had started with Gunther's phone call from London. "I have something for you that is quite out of the ordinary, Tracy. I think you'll find it a real challenge."
The following morning Tracy flew to Palma, Majorca's capital. Because of Interpol's red circulation on Tracy, her departure from Biarritz and her arrival in Majorca were reported to the local authorities. When Tracy checked into the Royal Suite at the Son Vida Hotel, a surveillance team was set up on a twenty-four-hour basis.
Police Commandant Ernesto Marze at Palma had spoken with Inspector Trignant at Interpol.
"I am convinced," Trignant said, "that Tracy Whitney is a one-woman crime wave."
"All the worse for her. If she commits a crime in Majorca, she will find that our justice is swift."
Inspector Trignant said, "Monsieur, there is one other thing I should mention."
"Sí?"
"You will be having an American visitor. His name is Daniel Cooper."
**********
It seemed to the detectives trailing Tracy that she was interested only in sightseeing. They followed her as she toured the island, visiting the cloister of San Francisco and the colorful Bellver Castle and the beach at Illetas. She attended a bullfight in Palma and dined on sobrasadas and camaiot in the Plaza de la Reine; and she was always alone.
She took trips to Formentor and Valldemosa and La Granja, and visited the pearl factories at Manacor.
"Nada," the detectives reported to Ernesto Marze. "She is here as a tourist, Commandant."
The commandant's secretary came into the office. "There is an American here to see you. Señor Daniel Cooper."
Commandant Marze had many American friends. He liked Americans, and he had the feeling that despite what Inspector Trignant had said, he was going to like this Daniel Cooper.
He was wrong.
"You're idiots. All of you," Daniel Cooper snapped. "Of course she's not here as a tourist. She's after something."
Commandant Marze barely managed to hold his temper in check. "Señor, you yourself have said that Miss Whitney's targets are always something spectacular, that she enjoys doing the impossible. I have checked carefully, Señor Cooper. There is nothing in Majorca that is worthy of attracting Señorita Whitney's talents."
"Has she met anyone here... talked to anyone?" The insolent tone of the ojete! "No. No one." "Then she will," Daniel Cooper said flatly.
I finally know, Commandant Marze told himself, what they mean by the Ugly American.
**********
There are two hundred known caves in Majorca, but the most exciting is the Cuevas del Drach, the "Caves of the Dragon," near Porto Cristo, an hour's journey from Palma. The ancient caves go deep into the ground, enormous vaulted caverns carved with stalagmites and stalactites, tomb- silent except for the occasional rush of meandering, underground streams, with the water turning green or blue or white, each color denoting the extent of the tremendous depths.
The caves are a fairyland of pale-ivory architecture, a seemingly endless series of labyrinths, dimly lit by strategically placed torches.
No one is permitted inside the caves without a guide, but from the moment the caves are opened to the public in the morning, they are filled with tourists.
Tracy chose Saturday to visit the caves, when they were most crowded, packed with hundreds of tourists from countries all over the world. She bought her ticket at the small counter and disappeared into the crowd. Daniel Cooper and two of Commandant Marze's men were close behind her. A guide led the excursionists along narrow stone paths, made slippery by the dripping water from the stalactites above, pointing downward like accusing skeletal fingers.
There were alcoves where the visitors could step off the paths to stop and admire the calcium formations that looked like huge birds and strange animals and trees. There were pools of darkness along the dimly lit paths, and it was into one of these that Tracy disappeared.
Daniel Cooper hurried forward, but she was nowhere in sight. The press of the crowd moving down the steps made it impossible to locate her. He had no way of knowing whether she was ahead of him or behind him. She is planning something here, Cooper told himself. But how? Where? What?
**********
In an arena-sized grotto at the lowest point in the caves, facing the Great Lake, is a Roman theater. Tiers of stone benches have been built to accommodate the audiences that come to watch the spectacle staged every hour, and the sightseers take their seats in darkness, waiting for the show to begin.
Tracy counted her way up to the tenth tier and moved in twenty seats. The man in the twenty-first seat turned to her. "Any problem?"
"None, Gunther." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
He said something, and she had to lean closer to hear him above the babel of voices surrounding them.
"I thought it best that we not be seen together, in case you're being followed."
Tracy glanced around at the huge, packed black cavern. "We're safe here." She looked at him, curious. "It must be important."
"It is." He leaned closer to her. "A wealthy client is eager to acquire a certain painting. It's a Goya, called Puerto. He'll pay whoever can obtain it for him half a million dollars in cash. That's above my commission."
Tracy was thoughtful. "Are there others trying?"
"Frankly, yes. In my opinion, the chances of success are limited." "Where is the painting?"
"In the Prado Museum in Madrid."
"The Prado!" The word that flashed through Tracy's mind was impossible.
He was leaning very close, speaking into her ear, ignoring the chattering going on around them as the arena filled up. "This will take a great deal of ingenuity. That is why I thought of you, my dear Tracy."
"I'm flattered," Tracy said. "Half a million dollars?" "Free and clear."
The show began, and there was a sudden hush. Slowly, invisible bulbs began to glow and music filled the enormous cavern. The center of the stage was a large lake in front of the seated audience, and on it, from behind a stalagmite, a gondola appeared, lighted by hidden spotlights. An organist was in the boat, filling the air with a melodic serenade that echoed across the water. The spectators watched, rapt, as the colored lights rainbowed the darkness, and the boat slowly crossed the lake and finally disappeared, as the music faded.
"Fantastic," Gunther said. "It was worth traveling here j to see this."
"I love traveling," Tracy said. "And do you know what i I've always wanted to see, Gunther? Madrid."
**********
Standing at the exit to the caves, Daniel Cooper watt Tracy Whitney come out.
She was alone.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 28
The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy- looking.
The assistant manager escorted her to the suite she had requested, 411- 412, in the south wing of the hotel on Calle Felipe V.
"I trust this will be satisfactory, Miss Whitney."
Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. "This will do nicely, thank you."
The suite was filled with the blaring sounds of the heavy traffic from the streets below, but it had what she wanted: a bird's-eye view of the Prado.
Tracy ordered a light dinner in her room and retired early. When she got into the bed, she decided that trying to sleep in it had to be a modern form of medieval torture.
At midnight a detective stationed in the lobby was relieved by a colleague. "She hasn't left her room. I think she's settled in for the night."
**********
In Madrid, Dirección General de Seguridad, police headquarters, is located in the Puerto del Sol and takes up an entire city block. It is a gray building with red brick, boasting a large clock tower at the top.
Over the main entrance the red-and-yellow Spanish flag flies, and there is always a policeman at the door, wearing a beige uniform and a dark- brown beret, and equipped with a machine gun, a billy club, a small gun, and handcuffs. It is at this headquarters that liaison with Interpol is maintained.
On the previous day an X-D Urgent cable had come in for Santiago Ramiro, the police commandant in Madrid, informing him of Tracy Whitney's impending arrival. The commandant had read the final sentence of the cable twice and then telephoned Inspector André Trignant at Interpol headquarters in Paris.
"I do not comprehend your message," Ramiro had said. "You ask me to extend my department's full cooperation to an American who is not even a policeman? For what reason?"
"Commandant, I think you will find Mr. Cooper most useful. He understands Miss Whitney."
"What is there to understand?" the commandant retorted. "She is a criminal. Ingenious, perhaps, but Spanish prisons are full of ingenious criminals. This one will not slip through our net."
"Bon. And you will consult with Mr. Cooper?"
The commandant said grudgingly, "If you say he can be useful, I have no objection."
"Merci, monsieur." "De nada, señor."
**********
Commandant Ramiro, like his counterpart in Paris, was not fond of Americans. He found them rude, materialistic, and naive. This one, he thought, may be different. I will probably like him.
He hated Daniel Cooper on sight.
"She's outsmarted half the police forces in Europe," Daniel Cooper asserted, as he entered the commandant's office. "And she'll probably do the same to you."
It was all the commandant could do to control himself. "Señor, we do not need anyone to tell us our business. Señorita Whitney has been under surveillance from the moment she arrived at Barajas Airport this morning. I assure you that if someone drops even a pin on the street and your Miss Whitney picks it up, she will be whisked to jail. She has not dealt with the Spanish police before."
"She's not here to pick up a pin on the street." "Why do you think she is here?"
"I'm not sure. I can only tell you that it will be something big."
Commandant Ramiro said smugly, "The bigger the better. We will watch her every move."
**********
When Tracy awakened in the morning, groggy from a torturous night's sleep in the bed designed by Tomás de Torquemada, she ordered a light breakfast and hot, black coffee, and walked over to the window overlooking the Prado. It was an imposing fortress, built of stone and red bricks from the native soil, and was surrounded by grass and trees. Two Doric columns stood in front, and, on either side, twin staircases led up to the front entrance. At the street level were two side entrances. Schoolchildren and tourists from a dozen countries were lined up in front of the museum, and at exactly 10:00 A.M., the two large front doors were opened by guards, and the visitors began to move through the revolving door in the center and through the two side passages at ground level.
The telephone rang, startling Tracy. No one except Gunther Hartog knew she was in Madrid. She picked up the telephone. "Hello?"
"Buenos dias, señorita." It was a familiar voice. "I'm calling for the Madrid Chamber of Commerce, and they have instructed me to do everything I can to make sure you have an exciting time in our city."
"How did you know I was in Madrid, Jeff?"
"Señorita, the Chamber of Commerce knows everything. Is this your first time here?"
"Yes."
"¡Bueno! Then I can show you a few places. How long do you plan to be here, Tracy?"
It was a leading question. "I'm not sure," she said lightly "Just long enough to do a little shopping and sightseeing. What are you doing in Madrid?"
"The same." His tone matched hers. "Shopping and sightseeing."
Tracy did not believe in coincidence. Jeff Stevens was there for the same reason she was: to steal the Puerto.
He asked, "Are you free for dinner?" It was a dare. "Yes."
"Good. I'll make a reservation at the Jockey."
**********
Tracy certainly had no illusions about Jeff, but when she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and saw him standing there waiting for her, she was unreasonably pleased to see him.
Jeff took her hand in his. "iFantástico, querida! You look lovely." She had dressed carefully. She wore a Valentino navy-blue suit with a
Russian sable flung around her neck, Maud Frizon pumps, and she carried a navy purse emblazoned with the Hermes H.
Daniel Cooper, seated at a small round table in a corner of the lobby with a glass of Perrier before him, watched Tracy as she greeted her escort, and he felt a sense of enormous power: Justice is mine, sayeth the Lord, and I am His sword and his instrument of vengeance. My life is a penance, and you shall help me pay. I'm going to punish you.
Cooper knew that no police force in the world was clever enough to catch Tracy Whitney. But I am, Cooper thought She belongs to me.
**********
Tracy had become more than an assignment to Daniel Cooper: She had become an obsession. He carried her photographs and file with him everywhere, and at night before he went to sleep, he lovingly pored over them. He had arrived in Biarritz too late to catch her, and she had eluded him in Majorca, but now that Interpol had picked up her trail again, Cooper was determined not to lose it.
He dreamed about Tracy at night. She was in a giant cage, naked, pleading with him to set her free. l love you, he said, but I'll never set you free.
**********
The Jockey was a small, elegant restaurant on Amador de los Ríos. "The food here is superb," Jeff promised.
He was looking particularly handsome, Tracy thought. There was an inner excitement about him that matched Tracy's, and she knew why: They were competing with each other, matching wits in a game for high stakes. But I'm going to win, Tracy thought. I'm going to find a way to steal that painting from the Prado before he does.
"There's a strange rumor around," Jeff was saying.
She focused her attention on him. "What kind of rumor?"
"Have you ever heard of Daniel Cooper? He's an insurance investigator, very bright."
"No. What about him?"
"Be careful. He's dangerous. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you." "Don't worry."
"But I have been, Tracy." She laughed. "About me? Why?"
He put a hand over hers and said lightly, "You're very special. Life is more interesting with you around, my love."
He's so damned convincing; Tracy thought. If I didn't know better, I'd believe him.
"Let's order," Tracy said. "I'm starved."
**********
In the days that followed, Jeff and Tracy explored Madrid. They were never alone. Two of Commandant Ramiro's men followed them everywhere, accompanied by the strange American. Ramiro had given permission for Cooper to be a part of the surveillance team simply to keep the man out of his hair. The American was loco, convinced that the Whitney woman was somehow going to steal some great treasure from under the noses of the police. iQue ridículo!
**********
Tracy and Jeff dined at Madrid's classic restaurants--- Horcher, the Príncipe de Viana, and Casa Botín--- but Jeff also knew the places undiscovered by tourists: Casa Paco and La Chuletta and El Lacón, where he and Tracy dined on delicious native stews like cocido madrileño and olla podrida, and then visited a small bar where they had delicious tapas.
Wherever they went, Daniel Cooper and the two detectives were never far behind.
Watching them from a careful distance, Daniel Cooper was puzzled by Jeff Stevens's role in the drama that was being played out. Who was he?
Tracy's next victim? Or were they plotting something together?
Cooper talked to Commandant Ramiro. "What information do you have on Jeff Stevens?" Cooper asked.
"Nada. He has no criminal record and is registered as a tourist. I think he is just a companion the lady picked up."
Cooper's instincts told him differently. But it was not Jeff Stevens he was after. Tracy, he thought. I want you, Tracy.
When Tracy and Jeff returned to the Ritz at the end of a late evening, Jeff escorted Tracy to her door. "Why don't I come in for a nightcap?" he suggested.
Tracy was almost tempted. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Think of me as your sister, Jeff."
"What's your position on incest?" But she had closed the door.
A few minutes later he telephoned her from his room. "How would you like to spend tomorrow with me in Segovia? It's a fascinating old city just a few hours outside of Madrid."
"It sounds wonderful. Thanks for a lovely evening," Tracy. said. "Good night, Jeff."
She lay awake a long time, her mind filled with thoughts she had no right to be thinking. It had been so long since she had been emotionally involved with a man. Charles had hurt her badly, and she had no wish to be hurt again. Jeff Stevens was an amusing companion, but she knew she must never allow him to become any more than that. It would be easy to fall in love with him. And foolish.
Ruinous.
Fun.
Tracy had difficulty falling asleep.
**********
The trip to Segovia was perfect. Jeff had rented a small car, and they drove out of the city into the beautiful wine country of Spain. An unmarked Seat trailed behind them during the entire day, but it was not an ordinary car.
The Seat is the only automobile manufactured in Spain, and it is the official car of the Spanish police. The regular model has only 100 horsepower, but the ones sold to the Policía Nacional and the Guardia Civil are souped up to 150 horsepower, so there was no danger that Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens would elude Daniel Cooper and the two detectives.
Tracy and Jeff arrived at Segovia in time for lunch and dined at a charming restaurant in the main square under the shadow of the two-
thousand-year-old aqueduct built by the Romans. After lunch they wandered around the medieval city and visited the old Cathedral of Santa Maria and the Renaissance town hall, and then drove up to the Alcázar, the old Roman fortress perched on a rocky spur high over the city. The view was breathtaking.
"I'll bet if we stayed here long enough, we'd see Don Quixote and Sancho Panza riding along the plains below," Jeff said.
She studied him. "You enjoy tilting at windmills, don't you?"
"Depends on the shape of the windmill," he said softly. He moved closer to her.
Tracy stepped away from the edge of the cliff. "Tell me more about Segovia."
And the spell was broken.
Jeff was an enthusiastic guide, knowledgeable about history, archaeology, and architecture, and Tracy had to keep reminding herself that he was also a con artist. It was the most pleasant day Tracy could remember.
One of the Spanish detectives, José Pereira, grumbled to Cooper, "The only thing they're stealing is our time. They're just two people in love, can't you see that? Are you sure she's planning something?"
"I'm sure," Cooper snarled. He was puzzled by his own reactions. All he wanted was to catch Tracy Whitney, to punish her, as she deserved. She was just another criminal, an assignment. Yet, every time Tracy's companion took her arm, Cooper found himself stung with fury.
When Tracy and Jeff arrived back in Madrid, Jeff said, "If you're not too exhausted, I know a special place for dinner."
"Lovely." Tracy did not want the day to end. I'll give myself this day, this one day to be like other women.
**********
Madrileños dine late, and few restaurants open for dinner before 9:00
P.M. Jeff made a reservation for 10:00 at the Zalacaín, an elegant restaurant where the food was superb and perfectly served. Tracy ordered no dessert, but the captain brought a delicate flaky pastry that was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She sat back in her chair, sated and happy.
"It was a wonderful dinner. Thank you."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. This is the place to bnng people if you want to impress them."
She studied him. "Are you trying to impress me, Jeff?"
He grinned. "You bet I am. Wait until you see what's next."
What was next was an unprepossessing bodega, a smoky café filled with leather jacketed Spanish workmen drinking at the bar and at the dozen tables in the room. At one end was a tablado, a slightly elevated platform, where two men strummed guitars. Tracy and Jeff were seated at a small table near the platform.
"Do you know anything about flamenco?" Jeff asked. He had to raise his voice over the noise level in the bar.
"Only that it's a Spanish dance."
"Gypsy, originally. You can go to fancy nightclubs in Madrid and see imitations of flamenco, but tonight you'll see the real thing."
Tracy smiled at the enthusiasm in Jeff's voice.
"You're going to see a classic cuadro flamenco. That's a group of singers, dancers, and guitarists. First they perform together, then each one takes his turn."
Watching Tracy and Jeff from a table in the corner near the kitchen, Daniel Cooper wondered what they were discussing intently.
"The dance is very subtle, because everything has to work together--- movements, music, costumes, the building of the rhythm. "
"How do you know so much about it?" Tracy asked. "I used to know a flamenco dancer."
Naturally, Tracy thought.
The lights in the bodega dimmed, and the small stage was lit by spotlights. Then the magic began. It started slowly. A group of performers casually ascended to the platform. The women wore colorful skirts and blouses, and high combs with flowers banked on their beautiful Andalusian coiffures. The male dancers were dressed in the traditional tight trousers and vests and wore gleaming cordovan-leather half boots.
The guitarists strummed a wistful melody, while one of the seated women sang in Spanish.
Yo quería dejar A mi amante,
Pero antes de que pudiera, Hacerlo ella me abandonó Y destrozó mi corazón.
"Do you understand what she's saying?" Tracy whispered.
"Yes. 'I wanted to leave my lover, but before I could, he left me and he broke my heart.' "
A dancer moved to the center of the stage. She started with a simple zapateado, a beginning stamping step, gradually pushed faster and faster by the pulsating guitars. The rhythm grew, and the dancing became a form of sensual violence, variations on steps that had been born in gypsy caves a hundred years earlier. As the music mounted in intensity and excitement, moving through the classic figures of the dance, from alegría to fandanguillo to zambra to seguiriya, and as the frantic pace increased, there were shouts of encouragement from the performers at the side of the stage.
Cries of "Olé tu madre," and "Olé tus santos," and "Ands, anda," the traditional jaleos and piropos, or shouts of encouragement, goaded the dancers on to wilder, more frantic rhythms.
When the music and dancing ended abruptly, a silence roared through the bar, and then there was a loud burst of applause.
"She's marvelous!" Tracy exclaimed. "Wait," Jeff told her.
A second woman stepped to the center of the stage. She had a dark, classical Castilian beauty and seemed deeply aloof, completely unaware of the audience. The guitars began to play a bolero, plaintive and low key, an Oriental-sounding canto. A male dancer joined her, and the castanets began to click in a steady, driving beat.
The seated performers joined in with the jaleo, and the handclaps that accompany the flamenco dance, and the rhythmic beat of the palms enhanced the music and dancing, lifting it, building it, until the room began to rock with the echo of the zapateado, the hypnotic beat of the half toe, the heel, and the full sole clacking out an endless variation of tone and rhythmic sensations.
Their bodies moved apart and came together in a growing frenzy of desire, until they were making mad, violent, animal love without ever touching, moving to a wild, passionate climax that had the audience screaming. As the lights blacked out and came on again, the crowd roared, and Tracy found herself screaming with the others. To her embarrassment, she was sexually aroused. She was afraid to meet Jeff's eyes. The air between them vibrated with tension. Tracy looked down at the table, at his strong, tanned hands, and she could feel them caressing her body, slowly, swiftly, urgently, and she quickly put her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.
They said very little during the ride back to the hotel. At the door to Tracy's room, she turned and said, "It's been---"
Jeff's lips were on hers, and her arms went around him, and she held him tightly to her.
"Tracy-?"
The word on her lips was yes, and it took the last ounce of her willpower to say, "It's been a long day, Jeff. I'm a sleepy lady."
"Oh."
"I think I'll just stay in my room tomorrow and rest."
His voice was level when he answered. "Good idea. I'll probably do the same."
Neither of them believed the other.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 29
At 10:40 the following morning Tracy was standing in the long line at the entrance to the Prado Museum. As the doors opened, a uniformed guard operated a turnstile that admitted one visitor at a time.
Tracy purchased a ticket and moved with the crowd going into the large rotunda. Daniel Cooper and Detective Pereira stayed well behind her, and Cooper began to feel a growing excitement. He was certain that Tracy Whitney was not there as a visitor. Whatever her plan was, it was beginning.
Tracy moved from room to room, walking slowly through the salons filled with Rubens paintings and Titians, Tintorettos, Bosches, and paintings by Domenikos Theotokopoulos, who became famous as El Greco. The Goyas were exhibited in a special gallery below, on the ground floor.
Tracy noted that a uniformed guard was stationed at the entrance to each room, and at his elbow was a red alarm button. She knew that the moment the alarm sounded, all entrances and exits to the museum would be sealed off, and there would be no chance of escape.
She sat on the bench in the center of the Muses room, filled with eighteenth-century Flemish masters, and let her gaze wander toward the floor. She could see a round access fixture on each side of the doorway. That would be the infrared beams that were turned on at night. In other museums Tracy had visited, the guards had been sleepy and bored, paying little attention to the stream of chattering tourists, but here the guards were alert. Works of art were being defaced by fanatics in museums around the world, and the Prado was taking no chance that it could happen there.
In a dozen different rooms artists had set up their easels and were assiduously at work copying paintings of the masters. The museum permitted it, but Tracy noticed that the guards kept a close eye even on the copiers.
When Tracy had finished with the rooms on the main floor, she took the stairs to the ground floor, to the Francisco de Goya exhibition.
Detective Pereira said to Cooper, "See, she's not doing anything but looking. She---"
"You're wrong." Cooper started down the stairs in a run.
It seemed to Tracy that the Goya exhibition was more heavily guarded than the others, and it well deserved to be. Wall after wall was filled with an incredible display of timeless beauty, and Tracy moved from canvas to canvas, caught up in the genius of the man. Goya's Self-Portrait, making him look like a middle-aged Pan... the exquisitely colored portrait of The Family of Charles IV... The Clothed Maja and the famed Nude Maja.
And there, next to The Witches' Sabbath, was the Puerto. Tracy stopped and stared at it, her heart beginning to pound. In the foreground of the painting were a dozen beautifully dressed men and women standing in front of a stone wall, while in the background, seen through a luminous mist, were fishing boats in a harbor and a distant lighthouse. In the lower left-hand corner of the picture was Goya's signature.
This was the target. Half a million dollars.
Tracy glanced around. A guard stood at the entrance. Beyond him, through the long corridor leading to other rooms, Tracy could see more guards.
She stood there a long time, studying the Puerto. As she started to move away, a group of tourists was coming down the stairs. In the middle of them was Jeff Stevens. Tracy averted her head and hurried out the side entrance before he could see her.
It's going to be a race, Mr. Stevens, and I'm going to win it.
**********
"She's planning to steal a painting from the Prado."
Commandant Ramiro looked at Daniel Cooper incredulously. "Cagajón! No one can steal a painting from the Prado."
Cooper said stubbornly, "She was there all morning."
"There has never been a theft at the Prado, and there never will be. And do you know why? Because it is impossible."
"She's not going to try any of the usual ways. You must have the museum vents protected, in case of a gas attack. If the guards drink coffee on the job, find out where they get it and if it can be drugged. Check the drinking water---"
The limits of Commandant Ramiro's patience were exhausted. It was bad enough that he had had to put up with this rude, unattractive American for the past week, and that he had wasted valuable manpower having Tracy Whitney follow around the clock, when his Policía Nacional was already
working under an austerity budget; but now, confronted by pito, telling him how to run his police department, he could stand no more.
"In my opinion, the lady is in Madrid on a holiday. I calling off the surveillance."
Cooper was stunned. "No! You can't do that. Tracy Whitney is---"
Commandant Ramiro rose to his full height. "You will kindly refrain from telling me what I can do, señor. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I am a very busy man."
Cooper stood there, filled with frustration. "I'd like to continue alone, then."
The commandant smiled. "To keep the Prado Museum safe from the terrible threat of this woman? Of course, Señor Cooper. Now I can sleep nights."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 30
The chances of success are extremely limited, Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. It will take a great deal of ingenuity.
That is the understatement of the century, Tracy thought.
She was staring out the window of her suite, down at the skylight roof of the Prado, mentally reviewing everything she had learned about the museum. It was open from 10:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening, and during that time the alarms were off, but guards were stationed at each entrance and in every room.
Even if one could manage to take a painting off the wall, Tracy thought, there's no way to smuggle it out. All packages had to be checked at the door.
She studied the roof of the Prado and considered a night foray. There were several drawbacks: The first one was the high visibility. Tracy had watched as the spotlights came on at night, flooding the roof, making it visible for miles around. Even if it were possible to get into the building unseen, there were still the infrared beams inside the building and the night watchmen.
The Prado seemed to be impregnable.
What was Jeff planning? Tracy was certain he was going to make a try for the Goya. I'd give anything to know what he has in his crafty little mind. Of one thing Tracy was sure: She was not going to let him get there ahead of her. She had to find a way.
She returned to the Prado the next morning.
Nothing had changed except the faces of the visitors. Tracy kept a careful lookout for Jeff, but he did not appear.
Tracy thought, He's already figured out how he's going to steal it. The bastard. All this charm he's been using was just to try to distract me, and keep me from getting the painting first.
She suppressed her anger and replaced it with clear, cold logic.
Tracy walked over to the Puerto again, and her eyes wandered over the nearby canvases, the alert guards, the amateur painters sitting on stools in front of their easels, the crowds, flowing in and out of the room, and as she looked around, Tracy's heart suddenly began to beat faster.
I know how I'm going to do it!
**********
She made a telephone call from a public booth on the Gran Vía, and Daniel Cooper, who stood in a coffee shop doorway watching, would have given a year's pay to know whom Tracy was calling. He was sure it was an overseas call and that she was phoning collect, so that there would be no record of it. He was aware of the lime-green linen dress that he had not seen before and that her legs were bare. So that men can stare at them, he thought. Whore.
He was filled with rage.
In the telephone booth, Tracy was ending her conversation. "Just make sure he's fast, Gunther. He'll have only about two minutes. Everything will depend on speed."
To: J. J. Reynolds File No. Y-72-830-412
FROM: Daniel Cooper CONFIDENTIAL
SUBJECT: Tracy Whitney
It is my opinion that the subject is in Madrid to carry out a major criminal endeavor. The likely target is the Prado Museum. The Spanish police are being uncooperative, but I will personally keep the subject under surveillance and apprehend her at the appropriate time.
**********
Two days later, at 9:00 A.M., Tracy was seated on a bench in the gardens of the Retiro, the beautiful park running through the center of Madrid, feeding the pigeons. The Retiro, with its lake and graceful trees and well-kept grass, and miniature stages with shows for children, was a magnet for the Madrileños.
Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gay-haired man with a slight hunchback, walked along the park path, and when he reached the bench, he sat down beside Tracy, opened a paper sack, and began throwing out bread crumbs to the birds. "Buenos días, señorita."
"Buenos días. Do you see any problems?"
"None, señorita. All I need is the time and the date." "I don't have it yet," Tracy told him. "Soon."
He smiled, a toothless smile. "The police will go crazy. No one has ever tried anything like this before."
"That's why it's going to work," Tracy said. "You'll hear from ma." She tossed out a last crumb to the pigeons and rose. She walked away, her silk dress swaying provocatively around her knees.
**********
While Tracy was in the park meeting with Cesar Porretta, Daniel Cooper was searching her hotel room. He had watched from the lobby as Tracy left the hotel and headed for the park. She had not ordered anything from room service, and Cooper had decided that she was going out to breakfast. He had given himself thirty minutes. Entering her suite had been a simple matter of avoiding the floor maids and using a lock pick. He knew what he was looking for: a copy of a painting. He had no idea how Tracy planned to substitute it, but he was sure it had to be her scheme.
He searched the suite with swift, silent efficiency, missing nothing and saving the bedroom for last. He looked through her closet, examining her dresses, and then the bureau. He opened the drawers, one by one. They were filled with panties and bras and pantyhose. He picked up a pair of pink underpants and rubbed them against his cheek and imagined her sweet- smelling flesh in them. The scent of her was suddenly everywhere. He replaced the garment and quickly looked through the other drawers. No painting.
Cooper walked into the bathroom. There were drops of water in the tub. Her body had lain there, covered with water as warm as the womb, and Cooper could visualize Tracy lying in it, naked, the water caressing her breasts as her hips undulated up and down. He felt an erection begin. He picked up the damp washcloth from the tub and brought it to his lips. The odor of her body swirled around him as he unzipped his trousers. He rubbed a cake of damp soap onto the washcloth and began stroking himself with it, facing the mirror, looking into his blazing eyes.
A few minutes later he left, as quietly as he had arrived, and headed directly for a nearby church.
**********
The following morning when Tracy left the Ritz Hotel, Daniel Cooper followed her. There was an intimacy between them that had not existed
before. He knew her smell; he had seen her in her bath, had watched her naked body writhing in the warm water. She belonged completely to him; she was his to destroy. He watched her as she wandered along the Gran Vía, examining the merchandise in the shops, and he followed her into a large department store, careful to remain out of sight. He saw her speak to a clerk, then head for the ladies' room. Cooper stood near the door, frustrated. It was the one place he could not follow her.
If Cooper had been able to go inside, he would have seen Tracy talking to a grossly overweight, middle-aged woman.
"Mañana," Tracy said, as she applied fresh lipstick before the mirror. "Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock."
The woman shook her head. "No, señorita. He will not like that. You could not choose a worse day. Tomorrow the Prince, of Luxembourg arrives on a state visit, and the newspapers say he will be taken on a tour of the Prado. There will be extra security guards and police all over the museum."
"The more the better. Tomorrow."
Tracy walked out the door, and the woman looked after her muttering, "La cucha es loca. "
**********
The royal party was scheduled to appear at the Prado at exactly 11:00 A.M., and the streets around the Prado had been roped off by the Guardia Civil. Because of a delay in the ceremony at the presidential palace, the entourage did not arrive until close to noon. There were the screams of sirens as police motorcycles came into view, escorting a procession of half a dozen black limousines to the front steps of the Prado.
At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Machada, nervously awaited the arrival of His Highness.
Machada had made a careful morning inspection to be sure everything was in order, and the guards had been forewarned to be especially alert. The director was proud of his museum, and he wanted to make a good impression on the prince.
It never hurts to have friends in high places, Machada thought. ¿Quién sabe? I might even be invited to dine with His Highness this evening at the presidential palace.
Christian Machada's only regret was that there was no way to stop the hordes of tourists that wandered about. But the prince's bodyguards and the museum's security guards would ensure that the prince was protected. Everything was in readiness for him.
The royal tour began upstairs, on the main floor. The director greeted His Highness with an effusive welcome and escorted him, followed by the armed guards, through the rotunda and into the rooms where the sixteenth-
century Spanish painters were on exhibit: Juan de Juanes, Pedro Machuca, Fernando Yáñez.
The prince moved slowly, enjoying the visual feast spread before him. He was a patron of the arts and genuinely loved the painters who could make the past come alive and remain eternal. Having no talent for painting himself, the prince, as he looked around the rooms, nonetheless envied the painters who stood before their easels trying to snatch sparks of genius from the masters.
When the official party had visited the upstairs salons, Christian Machado said proudly, "And now, if Your Highness will permit me, I will take you downstairs to our Goya exhibit."
**********
Tracy had spent a nerve-racking morning. When the prince had not arrived at the Prado at 11:00 as scheduled, she had begun to panic. All her arrangements had been made and timed to the second, but she needed the prince in order to make them work.
She moved from room to room, mixing with the crowds, trying to avoid attracting attention. He's not coming, Tracy thought finally. I'm going to have to call it off. And at that moment, she had heard the sound of approaching sirens from the street.
Watching Tracy from a vantage point in the next room, Daniel Cooper, too, was aware of the sirens. His reason told him it was impossible for anyone to steal a painting from the museum, but his instinct told him that Tracy was going to try it, and Cooper trusted his instinct. He moved closer to her, letting the crowds conceal him from view. He intended to keep her in sight every moment.
Tracy was in the room next to the salon where the Puerto was being exhibited. Through the open doorway she could see the hunchback, Cesar Porreta, seated before an easel, copying Goya's Clothed Maja, which hung next to the Puerto. A guard stood three feet away. In the room with Tracy, a woman painter stood at her easel, studiously copying The Milkmaid of Bordeaux, trying to capture the brilliant browns and greens of Goya's canvas.
A group of Japanese tourists fluttered into the salon, chattering like a flock of exotic birds. Now! Tracy told herself. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid the guard could hear it. She moved out of the path of the approaching Japanese tour group, backing toward the woman painter. As a Japanese man brushed in front of Tracy, Tracy fell backward, as if pushed, bumping the artist and sending her, the easel, canvas, and paints flying to the ground.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Tracy exclaimed. "Let me help you."
As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy's heels stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who
had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.
The guard rushed over, calling out, "¿Qué pasa? ¿Qué pasa?"
The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, "¡Sergio! iVen acá! iPronto!"
Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.
Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were dying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.
"Get the director," Sergio yelled. "¡En seguida!"
The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ¡Qué4 birria! What a mess!
Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look ad screamed, "Get some cleaning women down here--- Quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ¡Pronto!"
A young aide rushed to do his bidding.
Machada turned to Sergio, "Get back to your post," he snapped. "Yes, sir."
Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.
Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.
Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.
He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. "I have reason to believe," Cooper blurted out, "that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes."
Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. "What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm."
"I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for real one."
The director gave him a tolerant smile. "There is one small thing wrong with your theory, señor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall--- which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting--- the alarm would instantly sound."
Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. "Could your alarm be disconnected?"
"No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Señor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools."
Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?
Cooper would not give up. "Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I'll be at my hotel."
There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.
At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. "I have personally made an inspection, señor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum."
So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.
**********
Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.
"You're looking especially radiant this evening," Jeff complimented her. "Thank you. I feel absolutely wonderful."
"It's the company. Come with me to Barcelona next week, Tracy. It's a fascinating city. You'd love---"
"I'm sorry, Jeff. I can't. I'm leaving Spain." "Really?" His voice was filled with regret. "When?" "In a few days."
"Ah. I'm disappointed."
You're going to be more disappointed, Tracy thought, when you learn I've stolen the Puerto. She wondered how he had planned to steal the painting.
Not that it mattered any longer. I've outwitted clever Jeff Stevens. Yet, for some inexplicable reason Tracy felt a faint trace of regret.
**********
Christian Machada was seated in his office enjoying his morning cup of strong black coffee and congratulating himself on what a success the prince's visit had been. Except for the regrettable incident of the spilled paints, everything had gone off precisely as planned. He was grateful that the prince and his retinue had been diverted until the mess could be cleaned up. The director smiled when he thought about the idiot American investigator who had tried to convince him that someone had stolen a painting from the Prado. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow, he thought smugly.
His secretary walked into the office. "Excuse me, sir. There is a gentleman to see you. He asked me to give you this."
She handed the director a letter. It was on the letterhead of the Kunsthaus Museum in Zurich:
My Esteemed Colleague:
This letter will serve to introduce Monsieur Henri Rendell, our senior art expert. Monsieur Rendell is making a tour of world museums and is particularly eager to see your incomparable collection. I would greatly appreciate any courtesies you extend him.
The letter was signed by the curator of the museum.
Sooner or later, the director thought happily, everyone comes to me. "Send him in."
Henri Rendell was a tall, distinguished-looking, balding man with a heavy Swiss accent. When they shook hands, Machada noticed that the index finger on the right hand of his visitor was missing.
Henri Rendell said, "I appreciate this. It is the first opportunity I have had to visit Madrid, and I am looking forward to seeing your renowned works of art."
Christian Machada said modestly, "I do not think you will be disappointed, Monsieur Rendell. Please come with me. I shall personally escort you."
They moved slowly, walking through the rotunda with its Flemish masters, and Rubens and his followers, and they visited the central gallery, filled with Spanish masters, and Henri Rendell studied each painting carefully. The two men spoke as one expert to another, evaluating the various artists' style and perspective and color sense.
"Now," the director declared, "for the pride of Spain." He led his visitor downstairs, into the gallery filled with Goyas.
"It is a feast for the eyes!" Rendell exclaimed, overwhelmed. "Please! Let me just stand and look."
Christian Machada waited, enjoying the man's awe.
"Never have I seen anything so magnificent," Rendell declared. He walked slowly through the salon, studying each painting in turn. "The Witches' Sabbath," Rendell said. "Brilliant!"
They moved on.
"Goya's Self-Portrait--- fantastic!" Christian Machada beamed.
Rendell paused in front of the Puerto. "A nice fake." He started to move on.
The director grabbed his arm. "What? What was it you said, señor?" "I said it is a nice fake."
"You are very much mistaken." He was filled with indignation. "I do not think so."
"You most certainly are," Machada said stiffly. "I assure you, it is genuine. I have its provenance."
Henri Rendell stepped up to the picture and examined it more closely. "Then its provenance has also been faked. This was done by Goya's disciple, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla. You must be aware, of course, that Lucas painted hundreds of fake Goyas."
"Certainly I am aware of that," Machada snapped. "But this is not one of them."
Rendell shrugged. "I bow to your judgment." He started to move on.
"I personally purchased this painting. It has passed the spectrograph test, the pigment test---"
"I do not doubt it. Lucas painted in the same period as Goya, and used the same materials." Henri Rendell bent down to examine the signature at the bottom of the painting. "You can reassure yourself very simply, if you wish. Take the painting back to your restoration room and test the signature." He chuckled with amusement. "Lucas's ego made him sign his own paintings, but his pocketbook forced him to forge Goya's name over his own, increasing the price enormously." Rendell glanced at his watch. "You must forgive me. I'm afraid I am late for an engagement. Thank you so much for sharing your treasures with me."
"Not at all," the director said coldly. The man is obviously a fool, he thought.
"I am at the Villa Magna, if I can be of service. And thank you again, señor." Henri Rendell departed.
Christian Machada watched him leave. How dare that Swiss idiot imply that the precious Goya was a fake!
He turned to look at the painting again. It was beautiful, a masterpiece. He leaned down to examine Goya's signature. Perfectly normal. But still, was it possible? The tiny seed of doubt would not go away. Everyone knew that Goya's contemporary, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla, had painted hundreds of fake Goyas, making a career out of forging the master. Machada had paid $3.5 million for the Goya Puerto. If he had been deceived, it would be a terrible black mark against him, something he could not bear to think about.
Henri Rendell had said one thing that made sense: There was, indeed, a simple way to ascertain its authenticity. He would test the signature and then telephone Rendell and suggest most politely that perhaps he should seek a more suitable vocation.
The director summoned his assistant and ordered the Puerto moved to the restoration room.
**********
The testing of a masterpiece is a very delicate operation, for if it is done carelessly, it can destroy something both priceless and irreplaceable. The restorers at the Prado were experts. Most of them were unsuccessful painters who had taken up restoration work so they could remain close to their beloved art. They started as apprentices, studying under master restorers, and worked for years before they became assistants and were allowed to handle masterpieces, always under the supervision of senior craftsmen.
Juan Delgado, the man in charge of art restoration at the Prado, placed the Puerto on a special wooden rack, as Christian Machada watched.
"I want you to test the signature," the director informed him. Delgado kept his surprise to himself. "Sí, Senor Director."
He poured isopropyl alcohol onto a small cotton ball and set it on the table next to the painting. On a second cotton ball he poured petroleum distillate, the neutralizing agent.
"I am ready, señor."
"Go ahead then. But be careful!"
Machada found that it was suddenly difficult for him to breathe. He watched Delgado. lift the first cotton ball and gently touch it to the G
in Goya's signature. Instantly, Delgado picked up the second cotton ball and neutralized the area, so that the alcohol could not penetrate too deeply. The two men examined the canvas.
Delgado was frowning. "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell yet," he said. "I must use a stronger solvent."
"Do it," the director commanded.
Delgado opened another bottle. He carefully poured dimenthyl petone onto a fresh cotton ball and with it touched the first letter of the signature again, instantly applying the second cotton ball. The room was filled with a sharp, pungent odor from the chemicals. Christian Machada stood there staring at the painting, unable to believe what he was seeing. The G in Goya's name was fading, and in its place was a clearly visible L.
Delgado turned to him, his face pale. "Shall--- shall I go on?" "Yes," Machada said hoarsely. "Go on."
Slowly, letter by letter, Goya's signature faded under the application of the solvent, and the signature of Lucas materialized. Each letter was a blow to Machada's stomach. He, the head of one of the most important museums in the world, had been deceived. The board of directors would hear of it; the King of Spain would hear of it; the world would hear of it. He was ruined.
He stumbled back to his office and telephoned Henri Rendell.
**********
The two men were seated in Machada's office.
"You were right," the director said heavily. "It is a Lucas. When word of this gets out, I shall be a laughing stock."
"Lucas has deceived many experts," Rendell said comfortingly. "His forgeries happen to be a hobby of mine."
"I paid three and a half million dollars for that painting." Rendell shrugged. "Can you get your money back?"
The director shook his head in despair. "I purchased it directly from a widow who claimed it had been in her husband's family for three generations. If I sued her, the case would drag on through the courts and it would be bad publicity. Everything in this museum would become suspect."
Henri Rendell was thinking hard. "There is really no reason for the publicity at all. Why don't you explain to your superiors what has happened, and quietly get rid of the Lucas? You could send the painting to Sotheby's or Christie's and let them auction it off."
Machada shook his head. "No. Then the whole world would learn the story."
Rendell's face brightened. "You may be in luck. I might have a client who would be willing to purchase the Lucas. He collects them. He is a man of discretion."
"I would be glad to get rid of it. I never want to see it again. A fake among my beautiful treasures. I'd like to give it away," he added bitterly.
"That will not be necessary. My client would probably be willing to pay you, say, fifty thousand dollars for it. Shall I make a telephone call?"
"That would be most kind of you, Señor Rendell."
**********
At a hastily held meeting the stunned board of directors decided that the exposure of one of the Prado's prize paintings as a forgery had to be avoided at any cost. It was agreed that the prudent course of action would be to get rid of the painting as quietly and as quickly as possible. The dark-suited men filed out of the room silently. No one spoke a word to Machada, who stood there, sweltering in his misery.
That afternoon a deal was struck. Henri Rendell went to the Bank of Spain and returned with a certified check for $50,000, and the Eugenio Lucas y Padilla was handed over to him, wrapped in an inconspicuous piece of burlap.
"The board of directors would be very upset if this incident were to become public," Machada said delicately, "but I assured them that your client is a man of discretion."
"You can count on it," Rendell promised.
When Henri Rendell left the museum, he took a taxi to a residential area in the northern end of Madrid, carried the canvas up some stairs to a third-floor apartment, and knocked on the door. It was opened by Tracy. In back of her stood Cesar Porretta. Tracy looked at Rendell questioningly, and he grinned:
"They couldn't wait to get this off their handsl" Henri Rendell gloated. Tracy hugged him. "Come in."
Porretta took the painting and placed it on a table.
"Now," the hunchback said, "you are going to see a miracle--- a Goya brought back to life."
He reached for a bottle of mentholated spirits and opened it. The pungent odor instantly filled the room. As Tracy and Rendell looked on, Porretta poured some of the spirits onto a piece of cotton and very gently touched
the cotton to Lucas's signature, one letter at a time. Gradually the signature of Lucas began to fade. Under it was the signature of Goya.
Rendell stared at it in awe. "Brilliant!"
"It was Miss Whitney's idea," the hunchback admitted. "She asked whether it would be possible to cover up the original artist's signature with a fake signature and then cover that with the original name."
"He figured out how it could be done," Tracy smiled.
Porretta said modestly, "It was ridiculously simple. Took fewer than two minutes. The trick was in the paints I used. First, I covered Goya's signature with a layer of super-refined white French polish, to protect it. Then, over that I painted Lucas's name with a quick-drying acrylic- based paint. On top of that I painted in Goya's name with an oil-based paint with a light picture varnish. When the top signature was removed, Lucas's name appeared. If they had gone further, they would have discovered that Goya's original signature was hidden underneath. But of course, they didn't."
Tracy handed each man a fat envelope and said, "I want to thank you both."
"Anytime you need an art expert," Henri Rendell winked.
Porretta asked, "How do you plan to carry the painting out of the country?"
"I'm having a messenger collect it here. Wait for him." She shook the hands of both men and walked out.
On her way back to the Ritz, Tracy was filled with a sense of exhilaration. Everything is a matter of psychology, she thought. From the beginning she had seen that it would be impossible to steal the painting from the Prado, so she had had to trick them, to put them in a frame of mind where they wanted to get rid of it. Tracy visualized Jeff Stevens's face when he learned how he had been outwitted, and she laughed aloud.
**********
She waited in her hotel suite for the messenger, and when he arrived, Tracy telephoned Cesar Porretta.
"The messenger is here now," Tracy said. "I'm sending him over to pick up the painting. See that he---"
"What? What are you talking about?" Porretta screamed. "Your messenger picked up the painting half an hour ago."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 31
Paris
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9--- NOON
In a private office off the Rue Matignon, Gunther Hartog said, "I understand how you feel about what happened in Madrid, Tracy, but Jeff Stevens got there first."
"No," Tracy corrected him bitterly. "I got there first. He got there last."
"But Jeff delivered it. The Puerto is already on its way to my client."
After all her planning and scheming, Jeff Stevens had outwitted her. He had sat back and let her do the work and take all the risks, and at the last moment he had calmly walked off with the prize. How he must have been laughing at her all the time! You're a very special lady, Tracy. She could not bear the waves of humiliation that washed over her when she thought of the night of the flamenco dancing. My God, what a fool I almost made of myself.
**********
"I never thought I could kill anyone," Tracy told Gunther, "but I could happily slaughter Jeff Stevens."
Gunther said mildly, "Oh, dear. Not in this room, I hope. He's on his way here."
"He's what?" Tracy jumped to her feet.
"I told you I have a proposition for you. It will require a partner. In my opinion, he is the only one who---"
"I'd rather starve first!" Tracy snapped. "Jeff Stevens is the most contemptible---"
"Ah, did I hear my name mentioned?" He stood in the doorway, beaming. "Tracy, darling, you look even more stunning than usual. Gunther, my friend, how are you?"
The two men shook hands. Tracy stood there, filled with a cold fury. Jeff looked at her and sighed. "You're probably upset with me." "Upset! I--- " She could not find the words.
"Tracy, if I may say so, I thought your plan was brilliant. I mean it. Really brilliant. You made only one little mistake. Never trust a Swiss with a missing index finger."
She took deep breaths, trying to control herself. She turned to Gunther. "I'll talk to you later, Gunther."
"Tracy---"
"No. Whatever it is, I want no part of it. Not if he's involved." Gunther said, "Would you at least listen to it?"
"There's no point. I---"
"In three days De Beers is shipping a four-million-dollar packet of diamonds from Paris to Amsterdam on an Air France cargo plane. I have a client who's eager to acquire those stones."
"Why don't you hijack them on the way to the airport? Your friend here is an expert on hijacking." She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
By God, she's magnificent when she's angry, Jeff thought.
Gunther said, "The diamonds are too well guarded. We're going to hijack the diamonds during the flight."
Tracy looked at him in surprise. "During the flight? In a cargo plane?"
"We need someone small enough to hide inside one of the containers. When the plane is in the air, all that person has to do is step out of the crate, open the De Beers container, remove the package of diamonds, replace the package with a duplicate, which will have been prepared, and get back in the other crate."
"And I'm small enough to fit in a crate."
Gunther said, "It's much more than that, Tracy. We need someone who's bright and has nerve."
Tracy stood there, thinking. "I tike the plan, Gunther. What I don't like is the idea of working with him. This person is a crook."
Jeff grinned. "Aren't we all, dear heart? Gunther is offering us a million dollars if we can pull this off."
Tracy stared at Gunther. "A million dollars?" He nodded. "Half a million for each of you."
"The reason it can work," Jeff explained, "is that I have a contact at the loading dock at the airport. He'll help us set it up. He can be trusted."
"Unlike you," Tracy retorted. "Good-bye, Gunther." She sailed out of the room.
Gunther looked after her. "She's really upset with you about Madrid, Jeff. I'm afraid she's not going to do this."
"You're wrong," Jeff said cheerfully. "I know Tracy. She won't be able to resist it."
**********
"The pallets are sealed before they are loaded onto the plane," Ramon Vauban was explaining. The speaker was a young Frenchman, with an old face that had nothing to do with his years and black, dead eyes. He was a dispatcher with Air France Cargo, and the key to the success of the plan.
Vauban, Tracy, Jeff, and Gunther were seated at a rail-side table on the Bateau Mouche, the sightseeing boat that cruises the Seine, circling Paris.
"If the pallet is sealed," Tracy asked, her voice crisp, "how do I get into it?"
"For last-minute shipments," Vauban replied, "the company uses what we call soft pallets, large wooden crates with canvas on one side, fastened down only with rope. For security reasons, valuable cargo like diamonds always arrives at the last minute so it is the last to go on and the first to come off."
Tracy said, "So the diamonds would be in a soft pallet?"
"That is correct, mademoiselle. As would you. I would arrange for the container with you in it to be placed next to the pallet with the diamonds. All you have to do when the plane is in flight is cut the ropes, open the pallet with the diamonds, exchange a box identical to theirs, get back in your container, and close it up again."
Gunther added, "When the plane lands in Amsterdam, the guards will pick up the substitute box of diamonds and deliver it to the diamond cutters. By the time they discover the substitution, we'll have you on an airplane out of the country. Believe me, nothing can go wrong."
A sentence that chilled Tracy's heart. "Wouldn't I freeze to death up there?" she asked.
Vauban smiled. "Mademoiselle, these days, cargo planes are heated. They often carry livestock and pets. No, you will be quite comfortable. A little cramped, perhaps, but otherwise fine."
Tracy had finally agreed to listen to their idea. A half million dollars for a few hours' discomfort. She had examined the scheme from every angle. It can work, Tracy thought. If only Jeff Stevens were not involved!
Her feelings about him were such a roiling mixture of emotions that she was confused and angry with herself. He had done what he did in Madrid
for the fun of outwitting her. He had betrayed her, cheated her, and now he was secretly laughing at her.
The three men were watching her, waiting for her answer. The boat was passing under the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, which the contrary French insisted on calling the New Bridge. Across the river, two lovers embraced on the edge of the embankment, and Tracy could see the blissful look on the face of the girl. She's a fool, Tracy thought. She made her decision. She looked straight into Jeff's eyes as she said, "All right. I'll go along with it," and she could feel the tension at the table dissipate.
"We don't have much time," Vauban was saying. His dead eyes turned to Tracy. "My brother works for a shipping agent, and he will let us load the soft container with you in it at his warehouse. I hope mademoiselle does not have claustrophobia."
"Don't worry about me.... How long will the trip take?"
"You will spend a few minutes in the loading area and one hour flying to Amsterdam."
"How large is the container?"
"Large enough for you to sit down. There will be other things in it to conceal you--- just in case."
Nothing can go wrong, they had promised. But just in case....
"I have a list of the things you'll need," Jeff told her. "I've already arranged for them."
The smug bastard. He had been so sure she would say yes.
"Vauban, here, will see to it that your passport has the proper exit and entrance stamps, so you can leave Holland without any problem."
The boat began docking at its quay.
"We can go over the final plans in the morning," Ramon Vauban said. "Now I have to get back to work. Au revoir." he left.
Jeff asked, "Why don't we all have dinner together to celebrate?" "I'm sorry," Gunther apologized, "but I have a previous engagement." Jeff turned to Tracy. "Would---"
"No, thanks. I'm tired," she said quickly.
It was an excuse to avoid being with Jeff, but even as Tracy said it, she realized she really was exhausted. It was probably the strain of the excitement she had been going through for so long. She was feeling
lightheaded. When this is over, she promised herself, I'm going back to London for a long rest. Her head was beginning to throb. I really must.
"I brought you a little present," Jeff told her. He handed her a gaily wrapped box. In it was an exquisite silk scarf with the initials TW stitched in one corner.
"Thank you." He can afford it, Tracy thought angrily. He bought it with my half million dollars.
"Sure you won't change your mind about dinner?" "I'm positive."
**********
In Paris, Tracy stayed at the classic Plaza Athénée, in a lovely old suite that overlooked the garden restaurant. There was an elegant restaurant inside the hotel, with soft piano music, but on this evening Tracy was too tired to change into a more formal dress. She went into the Relais, the hotel's small café, and ordered a bowl of soup. She pushed the plate away, half-finished, and left for her suite.
Daniel Cooper, seated at the other end of the room, noted the time.
**********
Daniel Cooper had a problem. Upon his return to Paris, he had asked for a meeting with Inspector Trignant. The head of Interpol had been less than cordial. He had just spent an hour on the telephone listening to Commandant Ramiro's complaints about the American.
"He is loco!" the commandant had exploded. "I wasted men and money and time following this Tracy Whitney, who he insisted was going to rob the Prado, and she turned out to be a harmless tourist just as I said she was."
The conversation had led Inspector Trignant to believe that Daniel Cooper could have been wrong about Tracy in the first place. There was not one shred of evidence against the woman. The fact that she had been in various cities at the times the crimes were committed was not evidence.
And so, when Daniel Cooper had gone to see the inspector and said, "Tracy Whitney is in Paris. I would like her placed on twenty-four-hour surveillance," the inspector had replied, "Unless you can present me with some proof that this woman is planning to commit a specific crime, there is nothing I can do."
Cooper had fixed him with his blazing brown eyes and said, "You're a fool," and had found himself being unceremoniously ushered out of the office.
That was when Cooper had begun his one-man surveillance. He trailed Tracy everywhere: to shops and restaurants, through the streets of Paris. He
went without sleep and often without food. Daniel Cooper could not permit Tracy Whitney to defeat him. His assignment would not be finished until he had put her in prison.
**********
Tracy lay in bed that night, reviewing the next day's plan. She wished her head felt better. She had taken aspirin, but the throbbing was worse. She was perspiring, and the room seemed unbearably hot. Tomorrow it will be over. Switzerland. That's where I'll go. To the cool mountains of Switzerland. To the château.
She set the alarm for 5:00 A.M., and when the bell rang she was in her prison cell and Old Iron Pants was yelling, "Time to get dressed. Move it," and the corridor echoed with the clanging of the bell. Tracy awakened. Her chest felt tight, and the light hurt her eyes. She forced herself into the bathroom. Her face looked blotchy and flushed in the mirror. I can't get sick now, Tracy thought. Not today. There's too much to do.
She dressed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head. She put on black overalls with deep pockets, rubber-soled shoes, and a Basque beret. Her heart seemed to beat erratically, but she was not sure whether it was from excitement or the malaise that gripped her. She was dizzy and weak. Her throat felt sore and scratchy. bn her table she saw the scarf Jeff had given her. She picked it up and wrapped it around her neck.
**********
The main entrance to the Hôtel Plaza Athénée is on Avenue Montaigne, but the service entrance is on Rue du Boccador, around the corner. A discreet sign reads ENTREE DE SERVICE, and the passageway goes from a back hallway of the lobby through a narrow corridor lined with garbage cans leading to the street. Daniel Cooper, who had taken up an observation post near the main entrance, did not see Tracy leave through the service door, but inexplicably, the moment she was gone, he sensed it. He hurried out to the avenue and looked up and down the street. Tracy was nowhere in sight.
The gray Renault that picked up Tracy at the side entrance to the hotel headed for the Étoile. There was little traffic at that hour, and the driver, a pimply-faced youth who apparently spoke no English, raced into one of the twelve avenues that form the spokes of the Étoile. I wish he would slow down, Tracy thought. The motion was making her carsick.
Thirty minutes later the car slammed to a stop in front of a warehouse. The sign over the door read BRUCERE ET CIE. Tracy remembered that this was where Ramon Vauban's brother worked.
The youth opened the car door and murmured, "Vite!"
A middle-aged man with a quick, furtive manner appeared as Tracy stepped out of the car. "Follow me," he said. "Hurry."
Tracy stumbled after him to the back of the warehouse, where there were half a dozen containers, most of them filled and sealed, ready to be taken to the airport. There was one soft container with a canvas side, half-filled with furniture.
"Get in. Quick! We have no time."
Tracy felt faint. She looked at the box and thought, I can't get in there. I'll die.
The man was looking at her strangely. "Avez-vous mal?"
Now was the time to back out, to put a stop to this. "I'm all right," Tracy mumbled. It would be over soon. In a few hours she would be on her way to Switzerland.
"Bon. Take this." He handed her a double-edged knife, a long coil of heavy rope, a flashlight, and a small blue jewel box with a red ribbon around it.
"This is the duplicate of the jewel box you will exchange."
Tracy took a deep breath, stepped into the container, and sat down. Seconds later a large piece of canvas dropped down over the opening. She could hear ropes being tied around the canvas to hold it in place.
She barely heard his voice through the canvas. "From now on, no talking, no moving, no smoking."
"I don't smoke," Tracy tried to say, but she did not have the energy.
"Bonne chance. I've cut some holes in the side of the box so you can breathe. Don't forget to breathe." He laughed at his joke, and she heard his footsteps fading away. She was alone in the dark.
The box was narrow and cramped, and a set of dining-room chairs took up most of the space. Tracy felt as though she were on fire. Her skin was hot to the touch, and she had difficulty breathing. I've caught some kind of virus, she thought, but it's going to have to wait. l have work to do. Think about something else.
Gunther's voice: You've nothing to worry about, Tracy. When they unload the cargo in Amsterdam, your pallet will be taken to a private garage near the airport. Jeff will meet you there. Give him the jewels.and return to the airport. There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter. Get out of Amsterdam as fast as you can. As soon as the police learn of the robbery, they'll close up the city tight. Nothing wilt go wrong, but just in case, here is the address and the key to a safe house in Amsterdam. It is unoccupied.
She must have dozed, for she awakened with a start as the container as jerked into the air. Tracy felt herself swinging through space, and she clung to the sides for support. The container settled down on something
hard. There was a slam of a car door, an engine roared into life, and a moment later the truck was moving.
They were on their way to the airport.
The scheme had been worked out on a split-second schedule. The container with Tracy inside was due to reach the cargo shipping area within a few minutes of the time the De Beers pallet was to arrive. The driver of the truck carrying Tracy had his instructions: Keep it at a steady fifty miles an hour.
Traffic on the road to the airport seemed heavier than usual that morning, but the driver was not worried. The pallet would make the plane in time, and he would be in possession of a bonus of 50,000 francs, enough to take his wife and two children on a vacation. America, he thought. We'll go to Disney World.
He looked at the dashboard clock and grinned to himself. No problem. The airport was only three miles away, and he had ten minutes to get there.
Exactly on schedule, he reached the turnoff for Air France Cargo headquarters at the Fertnord sign and drove past the low gray building at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, away from the passenger entrance, where barbed-wire fences separated the roadway from the cargo area. As he headed toward the enclosure holding the enormous warehouse, which occupied three blocks and was filled with boxes and packages and containers piled on doilies, there was a sudden explosive sound as the wheel jerked in his hand and the truck began to vibrate. Foutre! he thought. A fucking blowout.
**********
The giant 747 Air France cargo plane was in the process of being loaded. The nose had been raised, revealing rows of tracks. The cargo containers were on a platform level with the opening, ready to slide across a bridge into the hold of the plane. There were thirty-eight pallets, twenty-eight of them on the main deck and ten of them in the belly holds. On the ceiling an exposed heating pipe ran from one end of the huge cabin to the other, and the wires and cables that controlled the transport were visible on the ceiling. There were no frills on this plane.
The loading had almost been completed. Ramon Vauban looked at his watch again and cursed. The truck was late. The De Beers consignment had already been loaded into its pallet, and the canvas sides fastened down with a crisscross of ropes. Vauban had daubed the side of it with red paint so the woman would have no trouble identifying it. He watched now as the pallet moved along the tracks into the plane and was locked into place. There was room next to it for one more pallet, before the plane took off. There were three more containers on the dock waiting to be loaded. Where in God's name was the woman?
The loadmaster inside the plane called, "Let's go, Ramon. What's holding us up?"
"A minute," Vauban answered. He hurried toward the entrance to the loading area. No sign of the truck.
"Vauban! What's the problem?" He turned. A senior supervisor was approaching. "Finish loading and get this cargo in the air."
"Yes, sir. I was just waiting for---"
At that moment the truck from Brucère et Cie raced into the warehouse and came to a screaming halt in front of Vauban.
"Here's the last of the cargo," Vauban announced. "Well, get it aboard," the supervisor snapped.
Vauban supervised the unloading of the container from the truck and sent it onto the bridge leading to the plane.
He waved to the loadmaster. "It's all yours."
Moments later the cargo was aboard, and the nose of the plane was lowered into place. Vauban watched as the jets were fired up and the giant plane started rolling toward the runway, and he thought, Now it's up to the woman.
**********
There was a fierce storm. A giant wave had struck the ship and it was sinking. I'm drowning, Tracy thought. I've got to get out of here.
She flung out her arms and hit something. It was the side of a lifeboat, rocking and swaying. She tried to stand up and cracked her head on the leg of a table. In a moment of clarity she remembered where she was. Her face and hair dripped with perspiration. She felt giddy, and her body was burning up. How long had she been unconscious? It was only an hour's flight. Was the plane about to land? No, she thought. It's all right. I'm having a nightmare. I'm in my bed in London, asleep. I'll call for a doctor. She could not breathe. She struggled upward to reach for a telephone, then immediately sank down, her body leaden. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and Tracy was thrown against the side of the box.
She lay there, dazed, desperately trying to concentrate. How much time do I have? She wavered between a hellish dream and painful reality. The diamonds. Somehow she had to get the diamonds. But first... first, she had to cut herself out of the pallet.
She touched the knife in her coveralls and found that it was at terrible effort to lift it. Not enough air, Tracy thought. l must have air. She reached around the edge of the canvas, fumbled for one of the outside ropes, found it, and cut it. It seemed to take an eternity. The canvas opened wider. She cut another rope, and there was room enough to slip outside of the container into the belly of the cargo plane. The air outside the box was cold. She was freezing. Her whole body began to shake, and the constant jolting of the plane increased her nausea. I've
got to hold on, Tracy thought. She forced herself to concentrate. What am I doing here? Something important... Yes... Diamonds.
Tracy's vision was blurred, and everything was moving in and out of focus. I'm not going to make it.
The plane dipped suddenly, and Tracy was hurled to the floor, scraping her hands on the sharp metal tracks. She held on while the plane bucked, and when it had settled down, she forced herself to her feet again. The roaring of the jet engines was mixed with the roaring in her head. The diamonds. I must find the diamonds.
She stumbled among the containers, squinting at each one, looking for the red paint. Thank God! There it was, on the third container. She stood there, trying to remember what to do next. It was such an effort to concentrate. If I could just lie down and sleep for a few minutes, I'd be fine. All I need is some sleep. But there was no time. They could be landing in Amsterdam at any moment. Tracy took the knife and slashed at the ropes of the container. "One good cut will do it," they had told her.
She barely had the strength to hold the knife in her grasp. l can't fail now, Tracy thought. She began shivering again, and shook so hard that she dropped the knife. It's not going to work. They're going to catch me and put me back in prison.
She hesitated indecisively, clinging to the rope, wanting desperately to crawl back into her box where she could sleep, safely hidden until it was all over. It would be so easy. Then, slowly, moving carefully against the fierce pounding in her head, Tracy reached for the knife and picked it up. She began to slash at the heavy rope.
It finally gave way. Tracy pulled back the canvas and stared into the gloomy interior of the container. She could see nothing. She pulled out the flashlight and, at that moment, she felt a sudden change of pressure in her ears.
The plane was coming down for a landing.
Tracy thought, I've got to hurry. But her body refused to respond. She stood there, dazed. Move, her mind said.
She shone the flashlight into the interior of the box. It was crammed with packages and envelopes and small cases, and on top of a crate were two little blue boxes with red ribbons around them. Two of them! There was only supposed to be--- She blinked, and the two boxes merged into one. Everything seemed to have 'a bright aura around it.
She reached for the box and took the duplicate out of her pocket. Holding the two of them in her hand, an overwhelming nausea swept over her, racking her body. She squeezed her eyes together, fighting against it.
She started to place the substitute box on top of the case and suddenly realized that she was no longer sure which box was which. She stared at the two identical boxes. Was it the one in her left hand or her right hand?
The plane began a steeper angle of descent. It would touch down at any moment. She had to make a decision. She set down one of the boxes, prayed that it was the right one, and moved away from the container. She fumbled an uncut coil of rope out of her coveralls. There's something I must do with the rope. The roaring in her head made it impossible to think. She remembered: After you cut the rope, put it in your pocket, replace it with the new rope. Don't leave anything around that wilt make them suspicious.
It had sounded so easy then, sitting in the warm sun on the deck of the Bateau Mouche. Now it was impossible. She had no more strength left. The guards would find the cut rope and the cargo would be searched, and she would be caught. Something deep inside her screamed, No! No! No!
With a herculean effort, Tracy began to wind the uncut rope around the container. She felt a jolt beneath her feet as the plane touched the ground, and then another, and she was slammed backward as the jets were thrust into reverse. Her head smashed against the floor and she blacked out.
The 747 was picking up speed now, taxiing along the runway toward the terminal. Tracy lay crumpled on the floor of the plane with her hair fanning over her white, white face. It was the silence of the engines that brought her back to consciousness. The plane had stopped. She propped herself up on an elbow and slowly forced herself to her knees. She stood up, reeling, hanging on to the container to keep from falling. The new rope was in place. She clasped the jewel box to her chest and began to weave her way back to her pallet. She pushed her body through the canvas opening and flopped down, panting, her body beaded with perspiration. I've done it. But there was something more she had to do. Something important. What? Tape up the rope on your pallet.
She reached into the pocket of her coveralls for the roll of masking tape. It was gone. Her breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and the sound deafened her. She thought she heard voices and forced herself to stop breathing and listen. Yes. There they were again. Someone laughed. Any second now the cargo door would open, and the men would begin unloading. They would see the cut rope, look inside the pallet, and discover her. She had to find a way to hold the rope together. She got to her knees, and as she did she felt the hard roll of masking tape, which had fallen from her pocket sometime during the turbulence of the flight. She lifted the canvas and fumbled around to find the two ends of cut rope, and held them together while she clumsily tried to wrap the tape around them.
She could not see. The perspiration pouring down her face was blinding her. She pulled the scarf from her throat and wiped her face. Better. She finished taping the rope and dropped the canvas back in place; there was nothing to do now but wait. She felt her forehead again, and it seemed hotter than before.
l must get out of the sun, Tracy thought. Tropical suns can be dangerous.
She was on holiday somewhere in the Caribbean. Jeff had come here to bring her some diamonds, but he had jumped into the sea and disappeared. She reached out to save him, but he slipped from her grasp. The water was over her head. She was choking, drowning.
She heard the sound of workmen entering the plane. "Help!" she screamed. "Please help me."
But her scream was a whisper, and no one heard.
The giant containers began rolling out of the plane.
Tracy was unconscious when they loaded her container onto a Brucère et Cie truck. Left behind, on the floor of the cargo plane, was the scarf Jeff had given her.
**********
Tracy was awakened by the slash of light hitting the inside of the truck as someone raised the canvas. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The truck was in a warehouse.
Jeff was standing there, grinning at her. "You made it!" he said. "You're a marvel. Let's have the box."
She watched, dully, as he picked up the box from her side. "See you in Lisbon." He turned to leave, then stopped and looked down at her. "You look terrible, Tracy. You all right?"
She could hardly speak. "Jeff, I---" But he was gone.
Tracy had only the haziest recollection of what happened next. There was a change of clothes for her in back of the warehouse, and some woman said, "You look ill, mademoiselle. Do you wish me to call a doctor?"
"No doctors," Tracy whispered.
There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter. Get out of Amsterdam as fast as you can. As soon as the police learn of the robbery, they'll close up the city tight. Nothing will go wrong, but just in case, here is the address and the key to a safe house in Amsterdam. It is unoccupied.
The airport. She had to get to the airport. "Taxi," she mumbled. "Taxi."
The woman hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "All right. I will call one. Wait here."
She was floating higher and higher now, ever closer to the sun. "Your taxi is here," a man was saying.
She wished people would stop bothering her. She wanted only to sleep. The driver said, "Where do you wish to go, mademoiselle?"
There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter.
She was too ill to board a plane. They would stop her, summon a doctor. She would be questioned. All she needed was to sleep for a few minutes, then she would be fine.
The voice was getting impatient. "Where to, please?"
She had no place to go. She gave the taxi driver the address of the safe house.
**********
The police were cross-examining her about the diamonds, and when she refused to answer them, they became very angry and put her in a room by herself and turned up the heat until the room was boiling hot. When it became unbearable, they dropped the temperature down, until icicles began to form on the walls.
Tracy pushed her way up through the cold and opened her eyes. She was on a bed, shivering uncontrollably. There was a blanket beneath her, but she did not have the strength to get under it. Her dress was soaked through, and her face and neck were wet.
I'm going to die here. Where was here?
The safe house. I'm in the safe house. And the phrase struck her as so funny that she started to laugh, and the laughter turned into a paroxysm of coughing. It had all gone wrong. She had not gotten away after all. By now the police would be combing Amsterdam for her: Mademoiselle Whitney had a ticket on Swissair and did not use it? Then she still must be in Amsterdam.
She wondered how long she had been in this bed. She lifted her wrist to look at her watch, but the numbers were blurred. She was seeing everything double. There were two beds in the small room and two dressers and four chairs. The shivering stopped, and her body was burning up. She needed to open a window, but she was too weak to move. The room was freezing again.
She was back on the airplane, locked in the crate, screaming for help. You've made it! You're a marvel. Let's have the box.
Jeff had taken the diamonds, and he was probably on his way to Brazil with her share of the money. He would be enjoying himself with one of his women, laughing at her. He had beaten her once more. She hated him. No.
She didn't. Yes, she did. She despised him.
She was in and out of delirium. The hard pelota ball was hurtling toward her, and Jeff grabbed her in his arms and pushed her to the ground, and his lips were very close to hers, and then they were having dinner at Zalacaín. Do you know how special you are, Tracy?
I offer you a draw, Boris Melnikov said.
Her body was trembling again, out of control, and she was on an express train whirling through a dark tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel she knew she was going to die. All the other passengers had gotten off except Alberto Fornati. He was angry with her, shaking her and screaming at her.
"For Christ's sake!" he yelled. "Open your eyes! Look at me!"
With a superhuman effort, Tracy opened her eyes, and Jeff was standing over her. His face was white, and there was fury in his voice. Of course, it was all a part of her dream.
"How long have you been like this?" "You're in Brazil," Tracy mumbled. After that, she remembered nothing more.
**********
When Inspector Trignant was given the scarf with the initials TW on it, found on the floor of the Air France cargo plane, he stared at it for a long time.
Then he said, "Get me Daniel Cooper."
BOOK THREE
Chapter 32
The picturesque village of Alkmaar, on the northwest coast of Holland facing the North Sea, is a popular tourist attraction, but there is a quarter in the eastern section that tourists seldom visit. Jeff Stevens had vacationed there several times with a stewardess from KLM who had taught him the language. He remembered the area well, a place where the residents minded their own business and were not unduly curious about visitors. It was a perfect place to hide out.
Jeff's first impulse had been to rush Tracy to a hospital, but that was too dangerous. It was also risky for her to remain in Amsterdam a minute longer. He had wrapped her in blankets and carried her out to the car, where she had remained unconscious during the drive to Alkmaar. Her pulse was erratic and her breathing shallow.
In Alkmaar, Jeff checked into a small inn. The innkeeper watched curiously as Jeff carried Tracy upstairs to her room.
"We're honeymooners," Jeff explained. "My wife became ill--- a slight respiratory disturbance. She needs rest."
"Would you like a doctor?"
Jeff was not certain of the answer himself. "I'll let you know."
The first thing he had to do was try to bring down Tracy's fever. Jeff lowered her onto the large double bed in the room and began to strip off her clothes, sodden with perspiration. He held her up in a sitting position and lifted her dress over her head. Shoes next, then pantyhose. Her body was hot to the touch. Jeff wet a towel with cool water and gently bathed her from head to foot. He covered her with a blanket and sat at the bedside listening to her uneven breathing.
If she's not better by morning, Jeff decided, I'll have to bring in a doctor.
**********
In the morning the bedclothes were soaked again. Tracy was still unconscious, but it seemed to Jeff that her breathing was a little easier. He was afraid to let the maid see Tracy; it would lead to too many questions. Instead, he asked the housekeeper for a change of linens and took them inside the room. He washed Tracy's body with a moist towel, changed the sheets on the bed the way he had seen nurses do in hospitals, without disturbing the patient, and covered her up again.
Jeff put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and went looking for the nearest pharmacy. He bought aspirin, a thermometer, a sponge, and rubbing alcohol. When he returned to the room, Tracy was still not awake. Jeff took her temperature: 104 degrees. He sponged her body with the cool alcohol, and her fever dropped.
An hour later her temperature was up again. He was going to have to call a doctor. The problem was that the doctor would insist Tracy be taken to a hospital. Questions would be asked. Jeff had no idea whether the police were looking for them, but if they were, they would both be taken into custody. He had to do something. He mashed up four aspirins, placed the powder between Tracy's lips, and gently spooned water into her mouth until she finally swallowed. Once again he bathed her body. After he had finished drying her, it seemed to him that her skin was not as hot as it had been. He checked her pulse once more. It seemed steadier. He put his head to her chest and listened. Was her breathing less congested? He could not be certain. He was sure of only one thing, and he repeated it over and over until it became a litany: "You're going to get well." He kissed her gently on the forehead.
Jeff had not slept in forty-eight hours, and he was exhausted and hollow- eyed. I'll sleep later, he promised himself. I'll close my eyes to rest them a moment.
He slept.
**********
When Tracy opened her eyes and watched the ceiling slowly come into focus, she had no idea where she was. It took long minutes for awareness to seep into her consciousness. Her body felt battered and sore, and she had the feeling that she had returned from a long, wearying journey.
Drowsily, she looked around the unfamiliar room, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Jeff was slumped in an armchair near the window, asleep. It was impossible. The last time she had seen him, he had taken the diamonds and left. What was he doing here? And with a sudden, sinking sensation, Tracy knew the answer: She had given him the wrong box--- the box with the fake diamonds--- and Jeff thought she had cheated him. He must have picked her up at the safe house and taken her to wherever this place was.
As she sat up, Jeff stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw Tracy looking at him, a slow, happy grin lit his face.
"Welcome back." There was a note of such intense relief in his voice that Tracy was confused.
"I'm sorry," Tracy said. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "I gave you the wrong box."
"What?"'
"I mixed up the boxes."
He walked over to her and said gently, "No, Tracy. You gave me the real diamonds. They're on their way to Gunther."
She looked at him in bewilderment. "Then--- why--- why are you here?"
He sat on the edge of the bed. "When you handed me the diamonds, you looked like death. I decided I'd better wait at the airport to make sure you caught your flight. You didn't show up, and I knew you were in trouble. I went to the safe house and found you. I couldn't just let you die there," he said lightly. "It would have been a clue for the police."
She was watching him, puzzled. "Tell me the real reason you came back for me."
"Time to take your temperature," he said briskly.
"Not bad," he told her a few minutes later. "Little over a hundred. You're a wonderful patient."
"Jeff---"
"Trust me," he said. "Hungry?"
Tracy was suddenly ravenous. "Starved." "Good. I'll bring something in."
**********
He returned from shopping with a bag full of orange juice, milk, and fresh fruit, and large Dutch broodjes, rolls filled with different kinds of cheese, meat, and fish.
"This seems to be the Dutch version of chicken soup, but it should do the trick. Now, eat slowly."
He helped her sit up, and fed her. He was careful and tender, and Tracy thought, warily, He's after something.
As they were eating, Jeff said, "While I was out, I telephoned Gunther. He received the diamonds. He deposited your share of the money in your Swiss bank account."
She could not keep herself from asking, "Why didn't you keep it all?"
When Jeff answered, his tone was serious. "Because it's time we stopped playing games with each other, Tracy. Okay?"
It was another one of his tricks, of course, but she was too tired to worry about it. "Okay."
"If you'll tell me your sizes," Jeff said, "I'll go out and buy some clothes for you. The Dutch are liberal, but I think if you walked around like that they might be shocked."
Tracy pulled the covers up closer around her, suddenly aware of her nakedness. She had a vague impression of Jeff's undressing her and bathing her. He had risked his own safety to nurse her. Why? She had believed she understood him. I don't understand him at all, Tracy thought. Not at all.
She slept.
**********
In the afternoon Jeff brought back two suitcases filled with robes and nightgowns, underwear, dresses, and shoes, and a makeup kit and a comb and brush and hair dryer, toothbrushes and toothpaste. He also had purchased several changes of clothes for himself and brought back the International Herald Tribune. On the front page was a story about the diamond hijacking; the police had figured out how it had been committed, but according to the newspaper, the thieves had left no clues.
Jeff said cheerfully, "We're home free! Now all we have to do is get you well."
**********
It was Daniel Cooper who had suggested that the scarf with the initials TW be kept from the press. "We know," he had told Inspector Trignant, "who it belongs to, but it's not enough evidence for an indictment. Her lawyers would produce every woman in Europe with the same initials and make fools of you."
In Cooper's opinion, the police had already made fools of themselves. God will give her to me.
He sat in the darkness of the small church, on a hard wooden bench, and he prayed: Oh, make her mine, Father. Give her to me to punish so that I may wash myself of my sins. The evil in her spirit shall be exorcised, and her naked body shall bef fagellated.... And he thought about Tracy's naked body in his power and felt himself getting an erection. He hurried from the church in terror that God would see and inflict further punishment on him.
**********
When Tracy awoke, it was dark. She sat up and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. She was alone. He had gone. A feeling of panic washed over her. She had allowed herself to grow dependent on Jeff, and that had been a stupid mistake. It serves me right, Tracy thought bitterly. "Trust me," Jeff had said, and she had. He had taken care of her only to protect himself, not for any other reason. She had come to believe that he felt something for her. She had wanted to trust him, wanted to feel that she meant something to him. She lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes, thinking, I'm going to miss him. Heaven help me, I'm going to miss him.
God had played a cosmic joke on her. Why did it have to be him? she wondered, but the reason did not matter. She would have to make plans to leave this place as soon as possible, find someplace where she could get well, where she could feel safe. Oh, you bloody fool, she thought. You---
There was the sound of the door opening, and Jeff's voice called out, "Tracy, are you awake? I brought you some books and magazines. I thought you might---" He stopped as he saw the expression on her face. "Hey! Is something wrong?"
"Not now," Tracy whispered. "Not now."
The following morning Tracy's fever was gone.
"I'd like to get out," she said. "Do you think we could go for a walk, Jeff?"
They were a curiosity in the lobby. The couple who owned the hotel were delighted by Tracy's recovery. "Your husband was so wonderful. He insisted on doing everything for you himself. He was so worried. A woman is lucky to have a man who loves her so much."
Tracy looked at Jeff, and she could have sworn he was blushing.
Outside, Tracy said, "They're very sweet." "Sentimentalists," Jeff retorted.
**********
Jeff had arranged for a cot to sleep on, placed next to Tracy's bed. As Tracy lay in bed that night, she remembered again how Jeff had taken care of her, tended to her needs, and nursed her and bathed her naked body.
She was powerfully aware of his presence. It made her feel protected. It made her feel nervous.
**********
Slowly, as Tracy grew stronger, she and Jeff spent more time exploring the quaint little town. They walked to the Alkmaarder Meer, along winding, cobblestone streets that dated from the Middle Ages, and spent hours at the tulip fields on the outskirts of the city. They visited the cheese market and the old weighing house, and went through the municipal museum. To Tracy's surprise, Jeff spoke to the townspeople in Dutch.
"Where did you learn that?" Tracy asked. "I used to know a Dutch girl."
She was sorry she had asked.
As the days passed Tracy's healthy young body gradually healed itself. When Jeff felt that Tracy was strong enough, he rented bicycles, and they visited the windmills that dotted the countryside. Each day was a lovely holiday, and Tracy wanted it never to end.
Jeff was a constant surprise. He treated Tracy with a concern and tenderness that melted her defenses against him, yet he made no sexual advances. He was an enigma to Tracy. She thought of the beautiful women with whom she had seen him, and she was sure he could have had any of them. Why was he staying by her side in this tiny backwater of the world?
Tracy found herself talking about things she had thought she would never discuss with anyone. She told Jeff about Joe Romano and Tony Orsatti, and about Ernestine Littlechap and Big Bertha and little Amy Brannigan. Jeff was by turns outraged and distressed and sympathetic. Jeff told her about his stepmother and his Uncle Willie and about his carnival days and his marriage to Louise. Tracy had never felt so close to anyone.
Suddenly it was time to leave.
One morning Jeff said, "The police aren't looking for us, Tracy. I think we should be moving on."
Tracy felt a stab of disappointment. "All right. When?" "Tomorrow."
She nodded. "I'll pack in the morning."
**********
That night Tracy lay awake, unable to sleep. Jeff's presence seemed to fill the room as never before. This had been an unforgettable period in her life, and it was coming to an end. She looked over at the cot where Jeff lay.
"Are you asleep?" Tracy whispered. "No..."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Tomorrow. Leaving this place. I'll miss it."
"I'm going to miss you, Jeff." The words were out before she could stop herself.
Jeff sat up slowly and looked at her. "How much?" he asked softly. "Terribly."
A moment later he was at her bedside. "Tracy---"
"Shhh. Don't talk. Just put your arms around me. Hold me."
It started slowly, a velvet touching and stroking and feeling, a caressing and gentle exploring of the senses. And it began to build and swell in a frenzied, frantic rhythm, until it became a bacchanal, an orgy of pleasure, wild and savage. His hard organ stroked her and pounded her and filled her until she wanted to scream with the unbearable joy. She was at the center of a rainbow. She felt herself being swept up on a tidal wave that lifted her higher and higher, and there was a sudden molten explosion within her, and her whole body began to shudder.
Gradually, the tempest subsided. She closed her eyes. She felt Jeff's lips move down her body, down, down to the center of her being, and she was caught up in another fierce wave of blissful sensation.
She pulled Jeff to her and held him close, feeling his heart beat against hers. She strained against him, but still she could not get close enough. She crept to the foot of the bed and touched her lips to his body with soft, tender kisses, moving upward until she felt his hard maleness in her hand. She stroked it softly and slid it into her mouth, and listened to his moans of pleasure. Then Jeff rolled on top of her and was inside her and it began again, more exciting than before, a fountain spilling over with unbearable pleasure, and Tracy thought, Now I know. For the first time, I know. But I must remember that this is just for tonight, a lovely farewell present.
All through the night they made love and talked about everything and nothing, and it was as though some long-locked floodgates had opened for
both of them. At dawn, as the canals began to sparkle with the beginning day, Jeff said, "Marry me, Tracy."
She was sure she had misunderstood him, but the words came again, and Tracy knew that it was crazy and impossible, and it could never work, and it was deliriously wonderful, and of course it would work. And she whispered, "Yes. Oh, yes!"
She began to cry, gripped tightly in the safety of his arms. I'll never be lonely again, Tracy thought. We belong to each other. Jeff is a part of all my tomorrows.
Tomorrow had come.
**********
A long time later Tracy asked, "When did you know, Jeff?"
"When I saw you in that house and I thought you were dying. I was half out of my mind."
"I thought you had run away with the diamonds," Tracy confessed.
He took her in his arms again. "Tracy, what I did in Madrid wasn't for the money. It was for the game--- the challenge. That's why we're both in the business we're in, isn't it? You're given a puzzle that can't possibly be solved, and then you begin to wonder if there isn't some way."
Tracy nodded. "I know. At first it was because I needed the money. And then it became something else; I've given away quite a bit of money. I love matching wits against people who are successful and bright and unscrupulous. I love living on the cutting edge of danger."
After a long silence, Jeff said, "Tracy... how would you feel about giving it up?"
She looked at him, puzzled. "Giving it up? Whys"
"We were each on our own before. Now, everything has changed. I couldn't bear it if anything happened. Why take any more risks? We have all the money we'll ever need. Why don't we consider ourselves retired?"
"What would we do, Jeff?"
He grinned. "We'll think of something."
"Seriously, darling, how would we spend our lives?"
"Doing anything we like, my love. We'll travel, indulge ourselves in hobbies. I've always been fascinated by archaeology. I'd like to go on a dig in Tunisia. I made a promise once to an old friend. We can finance our own digs. We'll travel all over the world."
"It sounds exciting." "Then what do you say?"
She looked at him for along moment. "If that's what you want," Tracy said softly.
He hugged her and began laughing. "I wonder if we should send a formal announcement to the police?"
Tracy joined in his laughter.
**********
The churches were older than any Cooper had ever known before. Some dated back to the pagan days, and at times he was not certain whether he was praying to the devil or to God. He sat with bowed head in the ancient Beguine Court Church and in St. Bavokerk and Pieterskerk and the Nieuwekerk at Delft, and each time his prayer was the same: Let me make her suffer as I suffer.
**********
The telephone call from Gunther Hartog came the next day, while Jeff was out.
"How are you feeling?" Gunther asked. "I feel wonderful," Tracy assured him.
Gunther had telephoned every day after he had heard what had happened to her. Tracy decided not to tell him the news about Jeff and herself, not yet. She wanted to hug it to herself for a while, take it out and examine it, cherish it.
"Are you and Jeff getting along all right together?" She smiled. "We're getting along splendidly." "Would you consider working together again?"
Now she had to tell him. "Gunther... we're... quitting." There was a momentary silence. "I don't understand."
"Jeff and I are--- as they used to say in the old James Cagney movies--- going straight."
"What? But... why?"
"It was Jeff's idea, and I agreed to it. No more risks."
"Supposing I told you that the jab I have in mind is worth two million dollars to you and there are no risks?"
"I'd laugh a lot, Gunther."
"I'm serious, my dear. You would travel to Amsterdam, which is only an hour from where you are now, and---"
"You'll have to find someone else."
He sighed. "I'm afraid there is no one else who could handle this. Will you at least discuss the possibility with Jeff?"
"All right, but it won't do any good." "I will call back this evening."
When Jeff returned, Tracy reported the conversation. "Didn't you tell him we've become law-abiding citizens?" "Of course, darling, I told him to find someone else." "But he doesn't want to," Jeff guessed.
"He insisted he needed us. He said there's no risk and that we could pick up two million dollars for a little bit of effort."
"Which means that whatever he has in mind must be guarded like Fort Knox."
"Or the Prado," Tracy said mischievously.
Jeff grinned. "That was really a neat plan, sweetheart. You know, I think that's when I started to fall in love with you."
"I think when you stole my Goya is when I began to hate you." "Be fair," Jeff admonished. "You started to hate me before that." "True. What do we tell Gunther?"
"You've already told him. We're not in that line of work anymore." "Shouldn't we at least find out what he's thinking?"
"Tracy, we agreed that---"
"We're going to Amsterdam anyway, aren't we?" "Yes, but---"
"Well, while we're there, darling, why don't we just listen to what he has to say?"
Jeff studied her suspiciously. "You want to do it, don't you?"
"Certainly not! But it can't hurt to hear what he has to say "
**********
They drove to Amsterdam the following day and checked into the Amstel Hotel. Gunther Hartog flew in from London to meet them.
They managed to sit together, as casual tourists, on a Plas Motor launch cruising the Amstel River.
"I'm delighted that you two are getting married," Gunther said. "My warmest congratulations."
"Thank you, Gunther." Tracy knew that he was sincere.
"I respect your wishes about retiring, but I have come across a situation so unique that I felt I had to call it to your attention. It could be a very rewarding swan song."
"We're listening," Tracy said.
Gunther leaned forward and began talking, his voice low. When he had finished, he said, "Two million dollars if you can pull it off."
"It's impossible," Jeff declared flatly. "Tracy "
But Tracy was not listening. She was busily figuring out how it could be done.
**********
Amsterdam's police headquarters, at the corner of Marnix Straat and Elandsgracht, is a gracious old five-story, brownbrick building with a long white-stucco corridor on the ground floor and a marble staircase leading to the upper floors. In a meeting room upstairs, the Gemeentepolitie were in conference. There were six Dutch detectives in the room. The lone foreigner was Daniel Cooper.
Inspector Joop van Duren was a giant of a man, larger than life, with a beefy face adorned by a flowing mustache, and a roaring basso voice. He was addressing Toon Willems, the neat, crisp, efficient chief commissioner, head of the city's police force.
"Tracy Whitney arrived in Amsterdam this morning, Chief Commissioner. Interpol is certain she was responsible for the De Beers hijacking. Mr. Cooper, here, feels she has come to Holland to cgmmit another felony."
Chief Commissioner Willems turned to Cooper. "Do you have any proof of this, Mr. Cooper?"
Daniel Cooper did not need proof. He knew Tracy Whitney, body and soul. Of course she was here to carry out a crime, something outrageous,.
something beyond the scope of their tiny imaginations. He forced himself to remain calm.
"No proof. That's why she must be caught red-handed." "And just how do you propose that we do that?"
"By not letting the woman out of our sight."
The use of the pronoun our disturbed the chief commissioner. He had spoken with Inspector Trignant in Paris about Cooper. He's obnoxious, but he knows what he's about. If we had listened to him, we would have caught the Whitney woman red-handed. It was the same phrase Cooper had just used.
Toon Willems made his decision, and it was based partly on the well- publicized failure of the French police to apprehend the hijackers of the De Beers diamonds. Where the French police had failed, the Dutch police would succeed.
"Very well," the chief commissioner said. "If the lady has come to Holland to test the efficiency of our police force, we shall accommodate her." He turned to Inspector van Duren. "Take whatever measures you think necessary."
**********
The city of Amsterdam is divided into six police districts, with each district responsible for its own territory. On orders from Inspector Joop van Duren, the boundaries were ignored, and detectives from different districts were assigned to surveillance teams. "I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Don't let her out of your sight."
Inspector van Duren turned to Daniel Cooper. "Well, Mr. Cooper, are you satisfied?"
"Not until we have her."
"We will," the inspector assured him. "You see, Mr. Cooper, we pride ourselves on having the best police force in the world."
**********
Amsterdam is a tourist's paradise, a city of windmills and dams and row upon row of gabled houses leaning crazily against one another along a network of tree-lined canals filled with houseboats decorated by boxes of geraniums and plants, and laundry flying in the breeze. The Dutch were the friendliest people Tracy had ever met.
"They all seem so happy," Tracy said.
"Remember, they're the original flower people. Tulips."
Tracy laughed and took Jeff's arm. She felt such joy in being with him. He's so wonderful. And Jeff was looking at her and thinking, I'm the luckiest fellow in the world.
Tracy and Jeff did all the usual sightseeing things tourists do. They strolled along Albert Cuyp Straat, the open-air market that stretches block after block and is filled with stands of antiques, fruits and vegetables, flowers, and clothing, and wandered through Dam Square, where young people gathered to listen to itinerant singers and punk bands. They visited Volendam, the old picturesque fishing village on the Zuider Zee, and Madurodam, Holland in miniature. As they drove past the bustling Schiphol Airport, Jeff said, "Not long ago, all that land the airport stands on was the North Sea. Schiphol means 'cemetery of ships.' "
Tracy nestled closer to him. "I'm impressed. It's nice to be in love with such a smart fellow."
"You ain't heard nothin' yet. Twenty-five percent of the Netherlands is reclaimed land. The whole country is sixteen feet below sea level."
"Sounds scary."
"Not to worry. We're perfectly safe as long as that little kid keeps his finger in the dyke."
Everywhere Tracy and Jeff went, they were followed by the Gemeetepolitie, and each evening Daniel Cooper studied the written reports submitted to Inspector van Duren. There was nothing unusual in them, but Cooper's suspicions were not allayed. She's up to something, he told himself, something big. I wonder if she knows she's being followed? I wonder if she knows I'm going to destroy her?
As far as the detectives could see, Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens were merely tourists.
Inspector van Duren said to Cooper, "Isn't it possible you're wrong? They could be in Holland just to have a good time."
"No," Cooper said stubbornly. "I'm not wrong. Stay with her." He had an ominous feeling that time was running out, that if Tracy Whitney did not make a move soon, the police surveillance would be called off again. That could not be allowed to happen. He joined the detectives who were keeping Tracy under observation.
**********
Tracy and Jeff had connecting rooms at the Amstel. "For the sake of respectability," Jeff had told Tracy, "but I won't let you get far from me."
"Promise?"
Each night Jeff stayed with her until early dawn, and they made love far into the night. He was a protean lover, by turns tender and considerate, wild and feral.
"It's the first time," Tracy whispered, "that I've really known what my body was for. Thank you, my love."
"The pleasure's all mine." "Only half."
They roamed the city in an apparently aimless manner. They had lunch at the Excelsior in the Hôtel de l'Europe and dinner at the Bowedery, and ate all twenty-two courses served at the Indonesian Bali. They had erwtensoep, Holland's famous pea soup; sampled kutspot, potatoes, carrots, and onions; and boerenkool met worst, made from thirteen vegetables and smoked sausage. They walked through the walletjes, the redlight district of Amsterdam, where fat, kimono-clad whores sat on the street windows displaying their ample wares; each evening the written report submitted to Inspector Joop van Duren ended with the same note: Nothing suspicious.
Patience, Daniel Cooper told himself. Patience.
At the urging of Cooper, Inspector van Duren went to Chief Commissioner Willems to ask permission to place electronic eavesdropping devices in the hotel rooms of the two suspects. Permission was denied.
"When you have more substantial grounds for your suspicions," the chief commissioner said, "come back to me. Until then, I cannot permit you to eavesdrop on people who are so far guilty only of touring Holland."
**********
That conversation had taken place on Friday. On Monday morning Tracy and Jeff went to Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, the diamond center of Amsterdam, to visit the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Daniel Cooper was a part of the surveillance team. The factory was crowded with tourists. An English-speaking guide conducted them around the factory, explaining each operation in the cutting process, and at the end of the tour led the group to a large display room, where showcases filled with a variety of diamonds for sale lined the walls. This of course was the ultimate reason visitors were given a tour of the factory. In the center of the room stood a glass case dramatically mounted on a tall, black pedestal, and inside the case was the most exquisite diamond Tracy had ever seen.
The guide announced proudly, "And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the famous Lucullan diamond you have all read about. It was once purchased by a stage actor for his movie star wife and is valued at ten million dollars. It is a perfect stone, one of the finest diamonds in the world."
"That must be quite a target for jewel thieves," Jeff said aloud.
Daniel Cooper moved forward so he could hear better.
The guide smiled indulgently. "Nee, mijnheer." He nodded toward the armed guard standing near the exhibit. "This stone is more closely guarded than the jewels in the Tower of London. There is no danger. If anyone touches that glass case, an alarm rings--- en onmiddellijk!--- and every window and door in this room is instantly sealed off. At night electronic beams are on, and if someone enters the room, an alarm sounds at police headquarters."
Jeff looked at Tracy and said, "I guess no one's ever going to steal that diamond."
Cooper exchanged a look with one of the detectives. That afternoon Inspector van Duren was given a report of the conversation.
**********
The following day Tracy and Jeff visited the Rijksmuseum. At the entrance, Jeff purchased a directory plan of the museum, and he and Tracy passed through the main hall to the Gallery of Honor, filled with Fra Angelicos, Murillos, Rubenses, Van Dycks, and Tiepolos. They moved slowly, pausing in front of each painting, and then walked into the Night Watch Room, where Rembrandt's most famous painting hung. There they stayed. And the attractive Constable First-Class Fien Hauer, who was following them, thought to herself, Oh, my God!
The official title of the painting is The Company of Captain Franc Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburch, and it portrays, with extraordinary clarity and composition, a group of soldiers preparing to go on their watch, under the command of their colorfully uniformed captain. The area around the portrait was roped off with velvet cords, and a guard stood nearby.
"It's hard to believe," Jeff told Tracy, "but Rembrandt caught hell for this painting."
"But why? It's fantastic."
"His patron--- the captain in the painting--- didn't like the attention Rembrandt paid to the other figures." Jeff turned to the guard. "I hope this is well protected."
"Ja, mijnheer. Anyone who tries to steal anything from this museum would have to get by electronic beams, security cameras, and, at night, two guards with patrol dogs."
Jeff smiled easily. "I guess this painting is going to stay here forever."
Late that afternoon the exchange was reported to Van Duren. "The Night Watch!" he exclaimed. "Alstublieft, impossible!"
Daniel Cooper merely blinked at him with his wild, myopic eyes.
**********
At the Amsterdam Convention Center, there was a meeting of philatelists, and Tracy and Jeff were among the first to arrive. The hall was heavily guarded, for many of the stamps were priceless. Cooper and a Dutch detective watched as the two visitors wandered through the rare-stamp collection. Tracy and Jeff paused in front of the British Guiana, an unattractive magenta, six-sided stamp.
"What an ugly stamp," Tracy observed.
"Don't knock it, darling. It's the only stamp of its kind in the world." "What's it worth?"
"One million dollars."
The attendant nodded. "That is correct, sir. Most people would have no idea, just looking at it. But I see that you, sir, love these stamps, as I do. The history of the world is in them."
Tracy and Jeff moved on to the next case and looked at an Inverted Jenny stamp that portrayed an airplane flying upside down.
"That's an interesting one," Tracy said.
The attendant guarding the stamp case said, "It's worth---" "Seventy-five thousand dollars," Jeff remarked.
"Yes, sir. Exactly."
They moved on to a Hawaiian Missionary two-cent blue.
"That's worth a quarter of a million dollars," Jeff told Tracy. Cooper was following closely behind them now, mingling with the crowd.
Jeff pointed to another stamp. "Here's a rare one. The one-pence Mauritius post office. Instead of 'postpaid,' some daydreaming engraver printed 'post office.' It's worth a lot of pence today."
"They all seem so small and vulnerable," Tracy said, "and so easy to walk away with."
The guard at the counter smiled. "A thief wouldn't get very far, miss. The cases are all electronically wired, and armed guards patrol the convention center day and night."
"That's a great relief," Jeff said earnestly. "One can't be too careful these days, can one?"
That afternoon Daniel Cooper and Inspector Joop van Duren called on Chief Commissioner Willems together. Van Duren placed the surveillance reports on the commissioner's desk and waited.
"There's nothing definite here," the chief commissioner finally said, "but I'll admit that your suspects seem to be sniffing around some very lucrative targets. All right, Inspector. Go ahead. You have official permission to place listening devices in their hotel rooms."
Daniel Cooper was elated. There would be no more privacy for Tracy Whitney. From this point on, he would know everything she was thinking, saying, and doing. He thought about Tracy and Jeff together in bed, and remembered the feel of Tracy's underwear against his cheek. So soft, so sweet-smelling.
That afternoon he went to church.
**********
When Tracy and Jeff left the hotel for dinner that evening, a team of police technicians went to work, planting tiny wireless transmitters in Tracy's and Jeff's suites, concealing them behind pictures, in lamps, and under bedside tables.
Inspector Joop van Duren had commandeered the suite on the floor directly above, and there a technician installed a radio receiver with an antenna and plugged in a recorder.
"It's voice activated," the technician explained. "No one has to be here to monitor it. When someone speaks, it wi automatically begin to record."
But Daniel Cooper wanted to be there. He had to be then It was God's will.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 33
Early the following morning Daniel Cooper, Inspector Joop van Duren, and his young assistant, Detective Constable Witkamp, were in the upstairs suite listening to the conversation below.
"More coffee?" Jeff's voice.
"No, thank you, darling." Tracy's voice. "Try this cheese that room service sent up. It's really wonderful."
A short silence. "Mmmm. Delicious. What would you like to do today, Tracy? We could take a drive to Rotterdam."
"Why don't we just stay in and relax?"
"Sounds good."
Daniel Cooper knew what they meant by "relax," and his mouth tightened. "The queen is dedicating a new home for orphans."
"Nice. I think the Dutch are the most hospitable, generous people in the world. They're iconoclasts. They hate rules and regulations."
A laugh. "Of course. That's why we both like them so much."
Ordinary morning conversation between lovers. They're so free and easy with each other, Cooper thought. But how she would pay!
"Speaking of generous"--- Jeff's voice--- "guess who's staying at this hotel? The elusive Maximilian Pierpont. I missed him on the QE Two."
"And I missed him on the Orient Express."
"He's probably here to rape another company. Now that we've found him again, Tracy, we really should do something about him. I mean, as long as he's in the neighborhood..."
Tracy's laughter. "I couldn't agree more, darling."
"I understand our friend is in the habit of carrying priceless artifacts with him. I have an idea that---"
Another voice, female. "Dag, mijnheer, dag, mevrouw. Would you care for your room to be made up now?"
Van Duren turned to Detective Constable Witkamp. "I want a surveillance team on Maximilian Pierpont. The moment Whitney or Stevens makes any kind of contact with him, I want to know it."
**********
Inspector van Duren was reporting to Chief Commissioner Toon Willems.
"They could be after any number of targets, Chief Commissioner. They're showing a great deal of interest in a wealthy American here named Maximilian Pierpont, they attended the philatelist convention, they visited the Lucullan diamond at the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory, and spent two hours at The Night Watch---"
"Een diefstal van de Nachtwacht? Nee! Impossible!"
The chief commissioner sat back in his chair and wondered whether he was recklessly wasting valuable time and manpower. There was too much speculation and not enough facts. "So at the moment you have no idea what their target is."
"No, Chief Commissioner. I'm not certain they themselves have decided. But the moment they do, they will inform us."
Willems frowned. "Inform you?"
"The bugs," Van Duren explained. "They have no idea they are being bugged."
**********
The breakthrough for the police came at 9:00 A.M. the following morning. Tracy and Jeff were finishing breakfast in Tracy's suite. At the listening post upstairs were Daniel Cooper, Inspector Joop van Duren, and Detective Constable Witkamp. They heard the sound of coffee being poured.
"Here's an interesting item, Tracy. Our friend was right. Listen to this: 'Amro Bank is shipping five million dollars in gold bullion to the Dutch West Indies.' "
In the suite on the floor above, Detective Constable Witkamp said, "There's no way---"
"Shh!"
They listened.
"I wonder how much five million dollars in gold would weigh?" Tracy's voice.
"I can tell you exactly, my darling. One thousand six hundred seventy-two pounds, about sixty-seven gold bars. The wonderful thing about gold is that it's so beautifully anonymous. You melt it down and it could belong to anybody. Of course, it wouldn't be easy to get those bars out of Holland."
"Even if we could, how would we get hold of them in the first place? Just walk into the bank and pick them up?"
"Something like that." "You're joking."
"I never joke about that kind of money. Why don't we just stroll by the Amro Bank, Tracy, and have a little look?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"I'll tell you all about it on the way."
There was the sound of a door closing, and the voices ended.
Inspector van Duren was fiercely twisting his mustache. "Nee! There is no way they could get their hands on that gold. I, myself, approved those security arrangements."
Daniel Cooper announced flatly, "If there's a flaw in the bank's security system, Tracy Whitney will find it."
It was all Inspector van Duren could do to control his hair-trigger temper. The odd-looking American had been an abomination ever since his arrival. It was his God-given sense of superiority that was so difficult to tolerate. But Inspector van Duren was a policeman first and last; and he had been ordered to cooperate with the weird little man.
The inspector turned to Witkamp. "I want you to increase the surveillance unit. Immediately. I want every contact photographed and questioned.
Clear?"
"Yes, Inspector."
"And very discreetly, mind you. They must not know they are being watched."
"Yes, Inspector."
Van Duren looked at Cooper. "There. Does that make you feel better?" Cooper did not bother to reply.
**********
During the next five days Tracy and Jeff kept Inspector van Duren's men busy, and Daniel Cooper carefully examined all the daily reports. At night, when the other detectives left the listening post, Cooper lingered. He listened for the sounds of lovemaking that he knew was going on below. He could hear nothing, but in his mind Tracy was moaning, "Oh, yes, darling, yes, yes. Oh, God, I can't stand it... it's so wonderful.... Now, oh, now.."
Then the long, shuddering sigh and the soft, velvety silence. And it was all for him.
Soon you'll belong to me, Cooper thought. No one else will have you.
During the day, Tracy and Jeff went their separate ways, and wherever they went they were followed. Jeff visited a printing shop near Leidseplein, and two detectives watched from the street as he held an earnest conversation with the printer. When Jeff left, one of the detectives followed him. The other went into the shop and showed the printer his plastic-coated police identity card with the official stamp, photograph, and the diagonal red, white, and blue stripes.
"The man who just left here. What did he want?"
"He's run out of business cards. He wants me to print some more for him." "Let me see."
The printer showed him a handwritten form:
Amsterdam Security Services Cornelius Wilson, Chief Investigator
The following day Constable First-Class Fien Hauer waited outside a pet shop on Leidseplein as Tracy went in. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, Fien Hauer entered the shop and showed her identification.
"That lady who just left, what did she want?"
"She purchased a bowl of goldfish, two lovebirds, a canary, and a pigeon."
A strange combination. "A pigeon, you said? You mean an ordinary pigeon?"
"Yes, but no pet store stocks them. I told her we would have to locate one for her."
"Where are you sending these pets?" "To her hotel, the Amstel."
On the other side of town, Jeff was speaking to the vice-president of the Amro Bank. They were closeted together for thirty minutes, and when Jeff left the bank, a detective went into the manager's office.
"The man who just walked out. Please tell me why he was here."
"Mr. Wilson? He's chief investigator for the security company our bank uses. They're revising the security system."
"Did he ask you to discuss the present security arrangements with him?" "Why, yes, as a matter of fact, he did."
"And you told him?"
"Of course. But naturally I first took the precaution of telephoning to make sure his credentials were in order."
"Whom did you telephone?"
"The security service--- the number was printed on his identification card."
At 3:00 that afternoon an armored truck pulled up outside the Amro Bank. From across the street, Jeff snapped a picture of the truck, while in a doorway a few yards away a detective photographed Jeff.
**********
At police headquarters at Elandsgracht Inspector van Duren was spreading out the rapidly accumulating evidence on the desk of Chief Commissioner Toon Willems.
"What does all this signify?" the chief commissioner asked in his dry, thin voice.
Daniel Cooper spoke. "I'll tell you what she's planning." His voice was heavy with conviction. "She's planning to hijack the gold shipment."
They were all staring at him.
Commissioner Willems said, "And I suppose you know how she intends to accomplish this miracle?"
"Yes." He knew something they did not know. He knew Tracy Whitney's heart and soul and mind. He had put himself inside her, so that he could think like her, plan like her... and anticipate her every move.
"By using a fake security truck and getting to the bank before the real truck, and driving off with the bullion."
"That sounds rather farfetched, Mr. Cooper."
Inspector van Duren broke in. "I don't know what their scheme is, but they are planning something, Chief Commissioner. We have their voices on tape."
Daniel Cooper remembered the other sounds he had imagined: the night whispers, the cries and moans. She was behaving like a bitch in heat. Well, where he would put her, no man would ever touch her again.
The inspector was saying, "They learned the security routine of the bank. They know what time the armored truck makes its pickup and---"
The chief commissioner was studying the report in front of him. "Lovebirds, a pigeon, goldfish, a canary--- do you think any of this nonsense has something to do with the robbery?"
"No," Van Duren said. "Yes," Cooper said.
**********
Constable First-Class Fien Hauer, dressed in an aqua polyester slack suit, trailed Tracy Whitney down Prinsengracht, across the Magere Bridge, and when Tracy reached the other side of the canal, Fien Hauer looked on in frustration as Tracy stepped into a public telephone booth and spoke into the phone for five minutes. The constable would have been just as unenlightened if she could have heard the conversation.
Gunther Hartog, in London, was saying, "We can depend on Margo, but she'll need time--- at least two more weeks." He listened a moment. "I
understand. When everything is ready, I will get in touch with you. Be careful. And give my regards to Jeff."
Tracy replaced the receiver and stepped out of the booth. She gave a friendly nod to the woman in the aqua pantsuit who stood waiting to use the telephone.
At 11:00 the following morning a detective reported to Inspector van Duren, "I'm at the Wolters Truck Rental Company, Inspector. Jeff Stevens has just rented a truck from them."
"What kind of truck?"
"A service truck, Inspector."
"Get the dimensions. I'll hold on."
A few minutes later the detective was back on the phone. "I have them. The truck is---"
Inspector van Duren said, "A step van, twenty feet long, seven feet wide, six feet high, dual axles."
There was an astonished pause. "Yes, Inspector. How did you know?" "Never mind. What color is it?"
"Blue."
"Who's following Stevens?" "Jacobs."
"Goed. Report back here."
Joop van Duren replaced the receiver. He looked up at Daniel Cooper. "You were right. Except that the van is blue."
"He'll take it to an auto paint shop."
**********
The paint shop was located in a garage on the Damrak. Two men sprayed the truck a gun-metal gray, while Jeff stood by. On the roof of the garage a detective shot photographs through the skylight.
The pictures were on Inspector van Duren's desk one hour later.
He shoved them toward Daniel Cooper. "It's being painted the identical color of the real security truck. We could pick them up now, you know."
"On what charges? Having some false business cards printed and painting a truck? The only way to make the charges stick is to catch them when they pick up the bullion."
The little prick acts like he's running the department. "What do you think he'll do next?"
Cooper was carefully studying the photograph. "This truck won't take the weight of the gold. They'll have to reinforce the floorboards."
**********
It was a small, out-of-the-way garage on Muider Straat. "Goede morgen, mijnheer. How may I serve you?"
"I'm going to be carrying some scrap iron in this truck," Jeff explained, "and I'm not sure the floorboards are strong enough to take the weight.
I'd like them reinforced with metal braces. Can you do that?"
The mechanic walked over to the truck and examined it. "Ja. No problem." "Good."
"I can have it ready vrijdag--- Friday." "I was hoping to have it tomorrow." "Morgen? Nee. Ik---"
"I'll pay you double." "Donderdag--- Thursday." "Tomorrow. I'll pay you triple."
The mechanic scratched his chin thoughtfully. "What time tomorrow?" "Noon."
"Ja. Okay." "Dank je wel." "Tot uw dienst."
Moments after Jeff left the garage a detective was interrogating the mechanic.
On the same morning the team of surveillance experts assigned to Tracy followed her to the Oude Schans Canal, where she spent half an hour in conversation with the owner of a barge. When Tracy left, one of the detectives stepped aboard the barge. He identified himself to the owner, who was sipping a large bessenjenever, the potent red-currant gin. "What did the young lady want?"
"She and her husband are going to take a tour of the canals. She's rented my barge for a week."
"Beginning when?"
"Friday. It's a beautiful vacation, mijnheer. If you and your wife would be interested in---"
The detective was gone.
**********
The pigeon Tracy had ordered from the pet shop was delivered to her hotel in a birdcage. Daniel Cooper returned to the pet shop and questioned the owner.
"What kind of pigeon did you send her?" "Oh, you know, an ordinary pigeon." "Are you sure it's not a homing pigeon?"
"No." The man giggled. "The reason I know it's not a homing pigeon is because I caught it last night in Vondelpark."
A thousand pounds of gold and an ordinary pigeon? Why? Daniel Cooper wondered.
**********
Five days before the transfer of bullion from the Amro Bank was to take place, a large pile of photographs had accumulated on Inspector Joop van Duren's desk.
Each picture is a link in the chain that is going to trap her, Daniel Cooper thought. The Amsterdam police had no imagination. but Cooper had to give them credit for being thorough. Every step leading to the forthcoming crime was photographed and documented. There was no way Tracy Whitney could escape justice.
Her punishment will be my redemption.
**********
On the day Jeff picked up the newly painted truck he drove it to a small garage he had rented near the Oude Zijds Kolk, the oldest part of Amsterdam. Six empty wooden boxes stamped MACHINERY were also delivered to the garage.
A photograph of the boxes lay on Inspector van Duren's desk as he listened to the latest tape.
Jeff's voice: "When you drive the truck from the bank to the barge, stay within the speed limit. I want to know exactly how long the trip takes. Here's a stopwatch."
"Aren't you coming with me, darling?" "No. I'm going to be busy."
"What about Monty?"
"He'll arrive Thursday night."
"Who is this Monty?" Inspector van Duren asked.
"He's probably the man who's going to pose as the second security guard," Cooper said. "They're going to need uniforms."
**********
The costume store was on Pieter Cornelisz Hooft Straat, in a shopping center.
"I need two uniforms for a costume party," Jeff explained to the clerk. "Similar to the one you have in the window."
One hour later Inspector van Duren was looking at a photograph of a guard's uniform.
"He ordered two of these. He told the clerk he would pick them up Thursday."
The size of the second uniform indicated that it was for a man much larger than Jeff Stevens. The inspector said, "Our friend Monty would be about six-three and weigh around two hundred twenty pounds. We'll have Interpol put that through their computers," he assured Daniel Cooper, "and we'll get an identification on him."
In the private garage Jeff had rented, he was perched on top of the truck, and Tracy was in the driver's seat.
"Are you ready?" Jeff called. "Now."
Tracy pressed a button on the dashboard. A large piece of canvas rolled down each side of the truck, spelling out HEINEKEN HOLLAND BEER.
"It works!" Jeff cheered.
**********
'Heineken beer? Alstublieft!" Inspector van Duren looked around at the detectives gathered in his office. A series of blown-up photographs and memos were tacked all around the walls.
Daniel Cooper sat in the back of the room, silent. As far as Cooper was concerned, this meeting was a waste of time. He had long since anticipated every move Tracy Whitney and her lover would make. They had walked into a trap, and the trap was closing in on them. While the detectives in the office were filled with a growing excitement, Cooper felt an odd sense of anticlimax.
"All the pieces have fallen into place," Inspector van Duren was saying. "The suspects know what time the real armored truck is due at the bank. They plan to arrive about half an hour earlier, posing as security guards. By the time the real truck arrives, they'll be gone." Van Duren pointed to the photograph of an armored car. "They will drive away from the bank looking like this, but a block away, on some side street"--- he indicated the Heineken beer truck photograph--- "the truck will suddenly look like this."
A detective from the back of the room spoke up. "Do you know how they plan to get the gold out of the country, Inspector?"
Van Duren pointed to a picture of Tracy stepping onto the barge. "First, by barge. Holland is so crisscrossed with canals and waterways that they could lose themselves indefinitely." He indicated an aerial photograph of the truck speeding along the edge of the canal. "They've timed the run to see how long if takes to get from the bank to their barge. Plenty of time to load the gold onto the barge and be on their way before anyone suspects anything is wrong." Van Duren walked over to the last photograph on the wall, an enlarged picture of a freighter. "Two days ago Jeff Stevens reserved cargo space on the Oresta, sailing from Rotterdam next week. The cargo was listed as machinery, destination Hong Kong."
He turned to face the men in the room. "Well, gentlemen, we're making a slight change in their plans. We're going to let them remove the gold bullion from the bank and load it into the truck." He looked at Daniel Cooper and smiled. "Red-handed. We're going to catch these clever people red-handed."
**********
A detective followed Tracy into the American Express office, where she picked up a medium-sized package; she returned immediately to her hotel.
"No way of knowing what was in the package," Inspector van Duren told Cooper. "We searched both their suites when they left, and there was nothing new in either of them."
**********
Interpol's computers were unable to furnish any information on the 220- pound Monty.
**********
At the Amstel late Thursday evening, Daniel Cooper, Inspector van Duren, and Detective Constable Witkamp were in the room above Tracy's, listening to the voices from below.
Jeff's voice: "If we get to the bank exactly thirty minutes before the guards are due, that will give us plenty of time to load the gold and move out. By the time the real truck arrives, we'll be stowing the gold onto the barge."
Tracy's voice: "I've had the mechanic check the truck and fill it with gas. It's ready."
Detective Constable Witkamp said, "One must almost admire them. They don't leave a thing to chance."
"They all slip up sooner or later," Inspector van Duren said curtly. Daniel Cooper was silent, listening.
"Tracy, when this is over, how would you like to go on that dig we talked about?"
"Tunisia? Sounds like heaven, darling."
"Good. I'll arrange it. From now on we'll do nothing but relax and enjoy life."
Inspector van Duren murmured, "I'd say their next twenty years are pretty well taken care of." He rose and stretched. "Well, I think we can go to bed. Everything is set for tomorrow morning, and we can all use a good night's sleep."
**********
Daniel Cooper was unable to sleep. He visualized Tracy being grabbed and manhandled by the police, and he could see the terror on her face. It excited him. He went into the bathroom and ran a very hot bath. He removed his glasses, took off his pajamas, and lay back in the steaming water. It was almost over, and she would pay, as he had made other whores pay. By this time tomorrow he would be on his way home. No, not home, Daniel Cooper corrected himself. To my apartment. Home was a warm, safe place where his mother loved him more than she loved anyone else in the world.
**********
"You're my little man," she said. "I don't know what I would do without you."
Daniel's father disappeared when Daniel was four years old, and at first he blamed himself, but his mother explained that it was because of another woman. He hated that other woman, because she made his mother cry. He had never seen her, but he knew she was a whore because he had heard his mother call her that. Later, he was happy that the woman had
taken his father away, for now he had his mother all to himself. The Minnesota winters were cold, and Daniel's mother allowed him to crawl into bed with her and snuggle under the warm blankets.
"I'm going to marry you one day," Daniel promised, and his mother laughed and stroked his hair.
Daniel was always at the head of his class in school. He wanted his mother to be proud of him.
What a brilliant little boy you have, Mrs. Cooper. I know. No one is as clever as my little man.
When Daniel was seven years old, his mother started inviting their neighbor, a huge, hairy man, over to their house for dinner, and Daniel became ill. He was in bed for a week with a dangerously high fever, and his mother promised she would never do that again. I don't need anyone in the world but you, Daniel.
No one could have been as happy as Daniel. His mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. When she was out of the house, Daniel would go into her bedroom and open the drawers of her dresser. He would take out her lingerie and rub the soft material against his cheek. They smelled oh, so wonderful.
He lay back in the warm tub in the Amsterdam hotel, his eyes closed, remembering the terrible day of his mother's murder. It was on his twelfth birthday. He was sent home from school early because he had an earache. He pretended it was worse than it was, because he wanted to be home where his mother would soothe him and put him into her bed and fuss over him. Daniel walked into the house and went to his mother's bedroom, and she was lying naked in their bed, but she was not alone. She was doing unspeakable things to the man who lived next door. Daniel watched as she began to kiss the matted chest and the bloated stomach, and her kisses trailed downward toward the huge red weapon between the man's legs. Before she took it into her mouth, Daniel heard his mother moan, "Oh, I love you!"
And that was the most unspeakable thing of all. Daniel ran to his bathroom and vomited all over himself. He carefully undressed and cleaned himself up because his mother had taught him to be neat. His earache was really bad now. He heard voices from the hallway and listened.
His mother was saying, "You'd better go now, darling. I've got to bathe and get dressed. Daniel will be home from school soon. I'm giving him a birthday party. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."
There was the noise of the front door closing, and then the sound of running water from his mother's bathroom. Except that she was no longer his mother She was a whore who did dirty things in bed with men, things she had never done with him.
He walked into her bathroom, naked, and she was in the tub, her whore's face smiling. She turned her head and saw him and said, "Daniel, darling! What are you---?"
He carried a pair of heavy dressmaker's shears in his hand.
"Daniel---" Her mouth was opened into a pink-lined O, but there was no sound until he made the first stab into the breast of the stranger in the tub. He accompanied her screams with his own. "Whore! Whore! Whore!"
They sang a deadly duet together, until finally there was his voice alone. "Whore... whore..."
He was spattered all over with her blood. He stepped into her shower and scrubbed himself until his skin felt raw.
That man next door had killed his mother, and that man would have to pay.
After that, everything seemed to happen with a supernal clarity, in a curious kind of slow motion. Daniel wiped the fingerprints off the shears with a washcloth and threw them into the bathtub. They clanked dully against the enamel. He dressed and telephoned the police. Two police cars arrived, with sirens screaming, and then another car filled with detectives, and they asked Daniel questions, and he told them how he had been sent home from school early and about seeing their next-door neighbor, Fred Zimmer, leaving through the side door. When they questioned the man, he admitted being the lover of Daniel's mother, but denied killing her. It was Daniel's testimony in court that convicted Zimmer.
"When you arrived home from school, you saw your neighbor, Fred Zimmer, running out the side door?"
"Yes, sir."
"Could you see him clearly?"
"Yes, sir. There was blood all over his hands." "What did you do then, Daniel?"
"I--- I was so scared. I knew something awful had happened to my mother." "Then did you go into the house?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what happened?"
"I called out, 'Mother!' And she didn't answer, so I went into her bathroom and---"
At this point the young boy broke into hysterical sobs and had to be led from the stand.
Fred Zimmer was executed thirteen months later.
In the meantime young Daniel had been sent to live with a distant relative in Texas, Aunt Mattie, whom he had never met. She was a stern woman, a hard-shelled Baptist filled with a vehement righteousness and the conviction that hell's fire awaited all sinners. It was a house without love or joy or pity, and Daniel grew up in that atmosphere, terrified by the secret knowledge of his guilt and the damnation that awaited him. Shortly after his mother's murder Daniel began to have trouble with his vision. The doctors called the problem psychosomatic.
"He's blocking out something he doesn't want to see," the doctors said. The lenses on his glasses grew thicker.
At seventeen Daniel ran away from Aunt Mattie and Texas forever. He hitchhiked to New York, where he was hired a messenger boy by the International Insurance Protection Association. Within three years he was promoted to an investigator. He became the best they had. He never demanded raise in salary or better working conditions. He was oblivious to those things. He was the Lord's right arm, his scourge, punishing the wicked.
**********
Daniel Cooper rose from his bath and prepared for bed. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow will be the whore's day of retribution.
He wished his mother could be there to see it.
BOOK THREE
Chapter 34
Amsterdam
FRIDAY, AUGUST 22--- 8:OO A.M.
Daniel Cooper and the two detectives assigned to the listening post heard Tracy and Jeff at breakfast.
"Sweet roll, Jeff? Coffee?" "No, thanks."
Daniel Cooper thought, It's the last breakfast they'll ever have together.
"Do you know what I'm excited about? Our barge trip."
"This is the big day, and you're excited about a trip on a barge? Why?"
"Because it will be just the two of us. Do you think I'm crazy?" "Absolutely. But you're my crazy."
"Kiss."
The sound of a kiss.
She should be more nervous, Cooper thought. I want her to be nervous. "In a way, I'll be sorry to leave here, Jeff."
"Look at it this way, darling. We won't be any the poorer for the experience."
Tracy's laughter. "You're right."
At 9:00 A.M. the conversation was still going on, and Cooper thought, They should be getting ready. They should be making their last-minute plans. What about Monty? Where are they meeting him?
Jeff was saying, "Darling, would you take care of the concierge before you check us out? I'm going to be rather busy."
"Of course. He's been wonderful. Why don't they have concierges in the States?"
"I guess it's just a European custom. Do you know how it started?" "No."
"In France, in 1627, King Hugh built a prison in Paris and put a nobleman in charge of it. He gave him the title of comte des cierges, or concierge, meaning 'count of the candles.' His pay was two pounds and the ashes from the king's fireplace. Later, anyone in charge of a prison or a castle became known as a concierge, and finally, this included those working in hotels."
What the hell are they talking about? Cooper wondered. It's nine-thirty. Time for them to be leaving.
Tracy's voice: "Don't tell me where you learned that--- you used to go with a beautiful concierge."
A strange female voice: "Goede morgen, mevrouw, mijnheer." Jeff's voice: "There are no beautiful concierges."
The female voice, puzzled: "Ik begrijp het niet." Tracy's voice: "I'll bet if there were, you'd find them." "What the hell is going on down there?" Cooper demanded.
The detectives looked baffled. "I don't know. The maid's on the phone calling the housekeeper. She came in to clean, but she says she doesn't understand--- she hears voices, but she doesn' see anybody."
"What?" Cooper was on his feet, racing toward the door, flying down the stairs. Moments later he and the other detectives burst into Tracy's suite. Except for the confused maid, it was empty. On a coffee table in front of a couch a tape recorder was playing.
Jeff's voice: "I think I'll change my mind about that coffee. Is it still hot?"
Tracy's voice: "Uh-huh."
Cooper and the detectives were staring in disbelief.
"I--- I don't understand," one of the detectives stammered. Cooper snapped, "What's the police emergency number?" "Twenty-two-twenty-two-twenty-two."
Cooper hurried over to the phone and dialed.
Jeff's voice on the tape recorder was saying, "You know, I really think their coffee is better than ours. I wonder how they do it."
Cooper screamed into the phone, "This is Daniel Cooper. Get hold of Inspector van Duren. Tell him Whitney and Stevens have disappeared. Have him check the garage and see if their truck is gone. I'm on my way to the bank!" He slammed down the receiver.
Tracy's voice was saying, "Have you ever had coffee brewed with eggshells in it? It's really quite---"
Cooper was out the door.
**********
Inspector van Duren said, "It's all right. The truck has left their garage. They're on their way here."
Van Duren, Cooper, and two detectives were at a police command post on the roof of a building across from the Amro Bank.
The inspector said, "They probably decided to move up their plans when they learned they were being bugged, but relax, my friend. Look." He pushed Cooper toward the wide-angle telescope on the roof. On the street below, a man dressed in janitor's clothes was meticulously polishing the brass nameplate of the bank... a street cleaner was sweeping the streets... a newspaper vendor stood on a corner... three repairmen were at work. All were equipped with miniature walkie-talkies.
Van Duren spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Point A?" The janitor said, "I read you, Inspector."
"Point B?"
"You're coming in, sir." This from the street cleaner. "Point C?"
The news vendor looked up and nodded. "Point D?"
The repairmen stopped their work, and one of them spoke into the walkie- talkie. "Everything's ready here, sir."
The inspector turned to Cooper. "Don't worry. The gold is still safely in the bank. The only way they can get their hands on it is to come for it. The moment they enter the bank, both ends of the street will be barricaded. There's-no way they can escape." He consulted his watch. "The truck should be in sight any moment now."
**********
Inside the bank, the tension was growing. The employees had been briefed, and the guards ordered to help load the gold into the armored truck when it arrived. Everyone was to cooperate fully.
The disguised detectives outside the bank kept working, surreptitiously watching the street for a sign of the truck.
On the roof, Inspector van Duren asked, for the tenth time, "Any sign of the damned truck yet?"
"Nee."
Detective Constable Witkamp looked at his watch. "They're thirteen goddamn minutes overdue. If they---"
The walkie-talkie crackled into life. "Inspector! The truck just came into sight! It's crossing Rozengracht, heading for the bank. You should be able to see it from the roof in a minute."
The air was suddenly charged with electricity.
Inspector van Duren spoke rapidly into the walkie-talkie. "Attention, all units. The fish are in the net. Let them swim in."
A gray armored truck moved to the entrance of the bank and stopped. As Cooper and Van Duren watched, two men wearing the uniforms of security guards got out of the truck and walked into the bank.
"Where is she? Where's Tracy Whitney?" Daniel Cooper spoke aloud.
"It doesn't matter," Inspector van Duren assured him. "She won't be far from the gold."
And even if she is, Daniel Cooper thought, it's not important. The tapes are going to convict her.
**********
Nervous employees helped the two uniformed men load the gold bullion from the vault onto dollies and wheel them out to the armored truck. Cooper and Van Duren watched the distant figures from the roof across the street.
The loading took eight minutes. When the back of the truck was locked, and the two men started to climb into the front seat, Inspector van Duren yelled into his walkie-talkie, "Vlug! Pas op! All units close in! Close in!"
Pandemonium erupted. The janitor, the news vendor, the workers in overalls, and a swarm of other detectives raced to the armored truck and surrounded it, guns drawn. The street was cordoned off from all traffic in either direction.
Inspector van Duren turned to Daniel Cooper and grinned. "Is this red- handed enough for you? Let's wrap it up."
It's over at last, Cooper thought.
They hurried down to the street. The two uniformed men were facing the wall, hands raised, surrounded by a circle of armed detectives. Daniel Cooper and Inspector van Duren pushed their way through.
Van Duren said, "You can turn around now. You're under arrest."
The two men, ashen-faced, turned to face the group. Daniel Cooper and Inspector van Duren stared at them in shock. They were total strangers.
"Who--- who are you?" Inspector van Duren demanded.
"We--- we're the guards for the security company," one of them stammered. "Don't shoot. Please don't shoot."
Inspector van Duren turned to Cooper. "Their plan went wrong." His voice held a note of hysteria. "They called it off."
There was a green bile in the pit of Daniel Cooper's stomach, and it slowly began to rise up into his chest and throat, so that when he could finally speak, his voice was choked. "No. Nothing went wrong."
"What are you talking about?"
"They were never after the gold. This whole setup was a decoy."
"That's impossible! I mean, the truck, the barge, the uniforms--- we have photographs. "
"Don't you understand? They knew it. They knew we were on to them all the time!"
Inspector van Duren's face went white. "Oh my God! Zijn ze?--- where are they?"
**********
On Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, Tracy and Jeff were approaching the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Jeff wore a beard and mustache, and had altered the shape of his cheeks and nose with foam sponges. He was dressed in a sport outfit and carried a rucksack. Tracy wore a black wig, a maternity dress and padding, heavy makeup, and dark sunglasses. She carried a large briefcase and a round package wrapped in brown paper. The two of them entered the reception room and joined a busload of tourists listening to a guide. "...and now, if you will follow me, ladies and gentlemen, you will see our diamond cutters at work and have an opportunity to purchase some of our fine diamonds."
With the guide leading the way, the crowd entered the doors that led inside the factory. Tracy moved along with them, while Jeff lingered behind. When the others had gone, Jeff turned and hurried down a flight of stairs that led to a basement. He opened his rucksack and took out a pair of oil-stained coveralls and a small box of tools. He donned the coveralls, walked over to the fuse box, and looked at his watch.
Upstairs, Tracy stayed with the group as it moved from room to room while the guide showed them the various processes that went into making polished gems out of raw diamonds. From time to time Tracy glanced at her watch. The tour was five minutes behind schedule. She wished the guide would move faster.
At last, as the tour ended, they reached the display room. The guide walked over to the roped-off pedestal.
"In this glass case," he announced proudly, "is the Lucullan diamond, one of the most valuable diamonds in the world. It was once purchased by a famous stage actor for his movie-star wife. It is valued at ten million dollars and is protected by the most modern "
The lights went out. Instantly, an alarm sounded and steel shutters slammed down in front of the windows and doors, sealing all the exits. Some of the tourists began to scream.
"Please!" the guide shouted above the noise. "There is no need for concern. It is a simple electrical failure. In a moment the emergency generator will---" The lights came on again.
"You see?" the guide reassured them. "There is nothing to worry about."
A German tourist in lederhosen pointed to the steel shutters. "What are those?"
"A safety precaution," the guide explained. He took out an odd-shaped key, inserted it in a slot in the wall, and turned it. The steel shutters over the doors and windows retracted. The telephone on the desk rang, and the guide picked it up.
"Hendrik, here. Thank you, Captain. No, everything is fine. It was a false alarm. Probably an electrical short. I will have it checked out at once. Yes, sir." He replaced the receiver and turned to the group. "My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. With something as valuable as this stone, one can't be too careful. Now, for those of you who would like to purchase some of our very fine diamonds---"
The lights went out again. The alarm bell rang, and the steel shutters slammed down once more.
A woman in the crowd cried, "Let's get out of here, Harry." "Will you just shut up, Diane?" her husband growled.
In the basement downstairs, Jeff stood in front of the fuse box, listening to the cries of the tourists upstairs. He waited a few moments, then reconnected the switch. The lights upstairs flickered on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the guide yelled over the uproar. "It is just a technical difficulty." He took out the key again and inserted it into the wall slot. The steel shutters rose.
The telephone rang. The guide hurried over and picked it up. "Hendrik, here. No, Captain. Yes. We will have it fixed as quickly as possible. Thank you."
A door to the room opened and Jeff came in, carrying the tool case, his worker's cap pushed back on his head.
He singled out the guide.
"What's the problem? Someone reported trouble with the electrical circuits."
"The lights keep flashing off and on," the guide explained. "See if you can fix it quickly, please." He turned to the tourists, a forced smile on his lips. "Why don't we step over here where you can select some fine diamonds at very reasonable prices?"
The group of tourists began to move toward the showcases. Jeff, unobserved in the press of the crowd, slipped a small cylindrical object from his overalls, pulled the pin, and tossed the device behind the pedestal that held the Lucullan diamond. The contrivance began to emit smoke and sparks.
Jeff called out to the guide, "Hey! There's your problem. There's a short in the wire under the floor."
A woman tourist screamed, "Fire!"
"Please, everybody!" the guide yelled. "No need to panic. Just keep calm." He turned to Jeff and hissed, ."Fix it! Fix it!"
"No problem," Jeff said easily. He moved toward the velvet ropes around the pedestal.
"Nee!" the guard called. "You can't go near that!"
Jeff snrugged. "Fine with me. You fix it." He turned to leave.
Smoke was pouring out faster now. The people were beginning to panic again.
"Wait!" the guide pleaded. "Just a minute." He hurried over to the telephone and dialed a number. "Captain? Hendrik, here. I'll have to ask you to shut off all the alarms; we're having a little problem. Yes, sir." He looked over at Jeff. "How long will you need them off?"
"Five minutes," Jeff said.
"Five minutes," the guide repeated into the phone. "Dank je wel." He replaced the receiver. "The alarms will be off in ten seconds. For God's sake, hurry! We never shut off the alarm!"
"I've only got two hands, friend." Jeff waited ten seconds, then moved inside the ropes and walked up to the pedestal. Hendrik signaled to the armed guard, and the guard nodded and fixed his eyes on Jeff.
Jeff was working in back of the pedestal. The frustrated guide turned to the group. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, over here we have a selection of fine diamonds at bargain prices. We accept credit cards, traveler's checks"--- he gave a little chuckle--- "and even cash."
Tracy was standing in front of the counter. "Do you buy diamonds?" she asked in a loud voice.
The guide stared at her. "What?"
"My husband is a prospector. He just returned from South Africa, and he wants me to sell these."
As she spoke, she opened the briefcase she carried, but she was holding it upside down, and a torrent of flashing diamonds cascaded down and danced all over the floor.
"My diamonds!" Tracy cried. "Help me!"
There was one frozen moment of silence, and then all hell broke loose. The polite crowd became a mob. They scrambled for the diamonds on their hands and knees, knocking one another out of the way.
"I've got some..."
"Grab a handful, John. "
"Let go of that, it's mine "
The guide and the guard were beyond speech. They were hurled aside in a sea of scrambling, greedy human beings, filling their pockets and purses with the diamonds.
The guard screamed, "Stand back! Stop that!" and was knocked to the floor.
A busload of Italian tourists entered, and when they saw what was happening, they joined in the frantic scramble.
The guard tried to get to his feet to sound the alarm, but the human tide made it impossible. They were trampling over him. The world had suddenly gone mad. It was a nightmare that seemed to have no end.
When the dazed guard finally managed to stagger to his feet, he pushed his way through the bedlam, reached the pedestal, and stood there, staring in disbelief.
The Lucullan diamond had disappeared.
So had the pregnant lady and the electrician.
**********
Tracy removed her disguise in a stall in the public washroom in Oosterpark, blocks away from the factory. Carrying the package wrapped in brown paper, she headed for a park bench. Everything was moving perfectly. She thought about the mob of people scrambling for the worthless zircons and laughed aloud. She saw Jeff approaching, wearing a dark gray suit; the beard and mustache had vanished. Tracy leapt to her feet. Jeff walked up to her and grinned. "I love you," he said. He slipped the Lucullan diamond out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Tracy. "Feed this to your friend, darling. See you later."
Tracy watched him as he strolled away. Her eyes were shining. They belonged to each other. They would take separate planes and meet in Brazil, and after that, they would be together for the rest of their lives.
Tracy looked around to make sure no one was observing, then she unwrapped the package she held. Inside was a small cage holding a slate-gray pigeon. When it had arrived at the American Express office three days earlier, Tracy had taken it to her suite and released the other pigeon out the window and watched it clumsily flutter away. Now, Tracy took a
small chamois sack from her purse and placed the diamond in it. She removed the pigeon from its cage and held it while she care fully tied the sack to the bird's leg.
"Good girl, Margo. Take it home."
A uniformed policeman appeared from nowhere. "Hold it! What do you think you're doing?"
Tracy's heart skipped a beat. "What's--- what's the trouble, officer?"
His eyes were on the cage, and he was angry. "You know what the trouble is. It's one thing to feed these pigeons, but it's against the law to trap them and put them in cages. Now, you just let it go before i place you under arrest."
Tracy swallowed and took a deep breath. "If you say so, Officer." She lifted her arms and tossed the pigeon into the air. A lovely smile lit her face as she watched the pigeon soar, higher and higher. It circled once, then headed in the direction of London, 230 miles to the west. A homing pigeon averaged forty miles an hour, Gunther had told her, so Margo would reach him within six hours.
"Don't ever try that again," the officer warned Tracy. "I won't," Tracy promised solemnly. "Never again."
**********
Late that afternoon, Tracy was at Schiphol Airport, moving toward the gate from which she would board a plane bound for Brazil. Daniel Cooper stood off in a corner, watching her, his eyes bitter. Tracy Whitney had stolen the Lucullan diamond. Cooper had known it the moment he heard the report., It was her style, daring and imaginative. Yet, there was nothing that could be done about it. Inspector van Duren had shown photographs of Tracy and Jeff to the museum guard. "Nee. Never seen either of them. The thief had a beard and a mustache and his cheeks and nose were much fatter, and the lady with the diamonds was dark-haired and pregnant."
Nor was there any trace of the diamond. Jeff's and Tracy's persons and baggage had been thoroughly searched.
"The diamond is still in Amsterdam," Inspector van Duren swore to Cooper. "We'll find it."
No, you won't, Cooper thought angrily. She had switched pigeons. The diamond had been carried out of the country by a homing pigeon.
Cooper watched helplessly as Tracy Whitney made her way across the concourse. She was the first person who had ever defeated him. He would go to hell because of her.
As Tracy reached the boarding gate, she hesitated a moment, then turned and looked straight into Cooper's eyes. She had been aware that he had
been following her all over Europe, like some kind of nemesis. There was something bizarre about him, frightening and at the same time pathetic. Inexplicably, Tracy felt sorry for him. She gave him a small farewell wave, then turned and boarded her plane.
Daniel Cooper touched the letter of resignation in his pocket.
**********
It was a luxurious Pan American 747, and Tracy was seated in Seat 4B on the aisle in first class. She was excited. In a few hours she would be with Jeff. They would be married in Brazil. No more capers, Tracy thought, but I won't miss them. I know I won't. Life will be thrilling enough just being Mrs. Jeff Stevens.
"Excuse me."
Tracy looked up. A puffy, dissipated-looking middle-aged man was standing over her. He indicated the window seat. "That's my seat, honey."
Tracy twisted aside so he could get past her. As her skirt slid up, he eyed her legs appreciatively.
"Great day for a flight, huh?" There was a leer in his voice.
Tracy turned away. She had no interest in getting into a conversation with a fellow passenger. She had too much to think about. A whole new life. They would settle down somewhere and be model citizens. The ullrarespectable Mr. and Mrs. Jeff Stevens.
Her companion nudged her. "Since we're gonna be seat mates on this flight, little lady, why don't you and I get acquainted? My name is Maximilian Pierport
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Rescue efforts are continuing as Spain endures its worst flooding disaster in decades, with at least 95 people confirmed dead and dozens more missing after huge rains swept the eastern province of Valenica and beyond.
Torrential rain on Tuesday triggered flash floods which swept away bridges and buildings and forced people to climb on to roofs or cling to trees to survive.
Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez has declared three days of national mourning as the extreme conditions continue, restricting some rescue efforts.
The death toll is feared to climb as "there are many missing people", the government says.At least 92 deaths were recorded in Valencia, with another two in Castilla-La Mancha to Valencia's west and one in Málaga - a 71-year-old British man who died in hospital after being rescued from his home.
The flooding death toll is the country's worst since 1973, when at least 150 people were estimated to have died in the nation's worst-ever floods in the south-east.
In his national address on Wednesday, Sánchez urged citizens to remain vigilant and pledged a full recovery, telling victims: “The whole of Spain weeps with you… we won’t abandon you.”
One of the first towns affected near Valencia, Chiva, reported one year's worth of rainfall on Tuesday in just a period of eight hours, according to national weather agency Aemet.
As Spanish army and emergency crews rushed to carry out rescues on Wednesday morning - including winching people to safety from balconies and car rooftops - survivors in Valencia recounted the horror of the floods on Tuesday night.
Sudden surges turned streets and roads into rivers, catching many motorists unaware.
Guillermo Serrano Pérez, 21, from Paiporta near Valencia, said the water had rushed down a highway “like a tsunami”, forcing him and his parents to abandon their car and climb on to a bridge to survive.Another witness recounted a scene when motorway drivers realised a torrent of water was heading towards them and formed a human chain to escape along a raised central reservation.
“Thank goodness no one slipped because if anyone had fallen, the current would have dragged them away,” Patricia Rodriguez, 45, told El País newspaper.
One resident of La Torre told the BBC some of his friends had lost their homes, and on Tuesday night he "saw cars floating in the water" and the tides "breaking through some walls."
Meanwhile, the mayor of Horno de Alcedo, a town just outside Valencia, told BBC Newshour how the water levels rose by more than a metre in just a matter of minutes.
"The currents were so quick – and we called the emergency services who started rescuing some people who had water up to their necks", Consuelo Tarazon said.There are widespread accusations in Spain that in many cases, disaster relief authorities were too slow to act with warnings, meaning people could not get off roads or seek higher ground.
The civil protection agency, deployed during national disasters, did not issue an alert until 20:15 on Tuesday evening local time – but by then, Chiva and several other towns had already been flooded for at least two hours.
Valencia’s regional government has also been forced to defend its decision to scrap the Valencia Emergency Unit, which had been set up by the previous government to tackle natural disasters such as flooding and wildfires.Spain deployed more than 1,000 troops to help with rescue efforts on Wednesday, but many crews remain cut off from towns by flooded roads and downed communication and power lines.
The European Union's chief, Ursula von der Leyen, said it had activated its Copernicus satellite system to help co-ordinate Spanish rescue teams. Other European neighbours have also offered to send reinforcements.
Spain's Defence Minister Margarita Robles had said earlier on Wednesday the flooding across the region was "an unprecedented phenomenon".
The downpour eased in the country's central-east on Wednesday, but weather officials warned the rains were moving north-east to the Catalonia region. Weather warnings have also been issued across several other parts of the country, urging people to brace for floods and take shelter.
Many factors contribute to flooding, but a warming atmosphere caused by climate change makes extreme rainfall more likely.
Weather researchers have identified the likely main cause of the intense rainfall as a “gota fria” – a natural weather event that hits Spain in autumn and winter when cold air descends on warmer waters over the Mediterranean.
However, the increase in global temperatures had led to the clouds carrying more rain, scientists“With every fraction of a degree of fossil fuel warming, the atmosphere can hold more moisture, leading to heavier bursts of rainfall,” said Dr Friederike Otto, from Imperial College London, who leads an international group of scientists who try to understand the role that warming plays in these type of events.
“No doubt about it, these explosive downpours were intensified by climate change.”
The world has already warmed by about 1.1C since the industrial era began and temperatures will keep rising unless governments around the world make steep cuts to emissions.
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“When the water started to rise, it came as a wave,” said Guillermo Serrano Pérez. “It was like a tsunami.”
The 21-year old from Paiporta, near Valencia, is one of the thousands of people who experienced Tuesday night’s flash floods which engulfed the region and killed at least 95 people.
He was driving on the motorway with his parents on Tuesday evening when the water rushed in. They survived by climbing on a bridge and abandoning their car to the fury of the floodwater.
Although heavy rain had been battering the area for hours, many, like Guillermo Serrano Pérez and his family, were caught unawares by the force of the floods.Yet the signs had been there.
On Tuesday morning at about 07:00 (06:00 GMT), Spain's meteorological agency Aemet warned that torrential rains were forecast for the region of Valencia.
"Be very careful! The danger is extreme! Do not travel unless absolutely necessary," it said on X, before issuing a "maximum red alert".
Throughout the day, more alerts were put out, warning local authorities to prevent people from approaching the river banks.
By 15:20, the regional emergencies co-ordination centre was already publishing images of heavily flooded streets in the La Fuente and Utiel municipalities, west of Valencia.
A few hours later, it said several rivers in the area were swelling up and urged people to move away from the banks.
But in most places, it was already too late.
Chiva - about 20km away - was among the first to experience the full fury of the flash floods.
The deep ravine which traverses the town had reportedly been filling with water since Tuesday afternoon following heavy rains.
By 18:00 the town's streets had turned into raging rivers, with the force of the water dragging away cars, street lamps and benches.
Emergency services scrambled to bring assistance across the region, but the speed at which the water filled the streets was unprecedented.“A very strong downpour came from above very suddenly... and the water rose a metre or a metre and a half in a few minutes," said the mayor of the town of Riba-roja de Túria.
Elsewhere in the region, news that people were missing after being swept away by floodwaters began to emerge.
Yet the civil protection did not send a warning to residents of the Valencia region to warn them not to travel on the roads until more than two hours later, after 20:00.
Many have questioned the timing of that warning, which arrived more than 12 hours after the Spanish meteorological agency had issued its first red alert.
Some say that it arrived too late for people to seek refuge on the higher floors or to get off the roads, which were busy with commuters returning home after work.
Paco had been driving from Valencia to nearby Picassent when he was caught by surprise by the flash floods that swallowed up the roads.
He told El Mundo newspaper "the speed of the water was insane" as it dragged cars away: "The pressure was tremendous. I managed to get out of the car and the water pushed me against a fence that I managed to grab on to, but I couldn't move."
"It wouldn't let me. It ripped my clothes off," he said.
Patricia Rodríguez, from Sedaví, was also caught by the flooding as she drove home from work.
She told local media that water started to rise as she sat in a line of traffic near Paiporta and the cars started floating.
“We were afraid the river was going to burst its banks because we were right in the line of fire,” she said. She managed to escape on foot with the help of another driver and watched, terrified, as a young man nearby carried a new-born baby to safety.
“It was just as well that nobody slipped, because if we had, the current would have taken us away,” she said.
Social media posts help to paint a picture of the chaos that engulfed the region as night fell.In one video shared on X, wheelchair-bound residents of a care home in Paiporta could be seen trapped in a dining room with brown floodwater coming up to their knees.
Rut Moyano, a resident of Benetússer, near Valencia, chronicled the increasingly desperate situation in her town on X. Pleading for help, she said she was sheltering with neighbours on the upper floors of her building when one of them suffered a heart attack and died.
“The Civil Guard has arrived on foot but they can't access the property because there is a car stuck in the entrance,” she wrote in the early hours of Wednesday morning. “Can anyone tell me if someone else can help?”
The morning brought its own set of challenges. Daylight revealed the full extent of the devastation, with dozens of cars piled up on top of one another, destroyed businesses and entire towns covered in mud and debris.
In Valencia, a man called Juliano Sánchez was rescued with symptoms of hypothermia after clinging on to palm trees for seven hours.
“I didn't want to die,” he told El Periódico. “I grabbed onto some palm trees and held on with all my strength so the river wouldn't sweep me away.”
But many were less fortunate.
Dozens of people are still missing across the region, while those who survived have described being helpless in the face of horrific destruction.
"We saw two cars being swept away by the current and we don't know if there were people inside," a man told Las Provincias. "We'd never seen anything like it."
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North Korea has fired an intercontinental ballistic missile, which flew for 86 minutes - the longest flight recorded yet - and over 1,000km, before falling into waters off its east coast, South Korea and Japan said.
The ICBM was fired at a sharply-raised angle and reached as high as 7,000km (4,350 miles). This means that it if were launched horizontally, it would have covered a further distance.
The launch on Thursday comes at a time of deteriorating relations between the two Koreas and Pyongyang's increasingly aggresive rhetoric towards Seoul.
South Korea had also warned on Wednesday that the North was preparing to fire its ICBM close to the US presidential election on 5 November.Seoul's defence ministry said the test was intended to develop weapons that "fire farther and higher".
South Korea said it would impose fresh sanctions on the North in response to the launch.
The US called Thursday's launch a "flagrant violation of multiple UN Security Council resolutions".
"It only demonstrates that [North Korea] continues to prioritise its unlawful weapons of mass destruction and ballistic missile programmes over the well-being of its people," the White House's National Security Council spokesman Sean Savett said in a statement.
Pyongyang last fired an ICBM in December 2023, in defiance of long-standing and crippling UN sanctions. That missile travelled for 73 minutes and covered about 1,000km.
In a rare same-day report on state media, North Korean leader Kim Jong Un said Thursday's launch shows "our will to respond to our enemies" and described it as "appropriate military action".
"I affirm that [North Korea] will never change its line of bolstering up its nuclear forces," Kim said.
North Korea experts believe the launch was aimed at increasing its missiles' payload.
Pyongyang has been developing missiles that can "hit the US mainland even if it carries a larger and heavier warhead" or even multiple warheads, said Kim Dong-yup, an assistant professor at the University of North Korean Studies.
Neighbouring Japan said it monitored Thursday's launch.
South Korean and US officials met after the launch and agreed to "take strong and varied response measures", the South's military said in a statement.
"Our military maintains full readiness as we closely share North Korean ballistic information with US and Japanese authorities," it added.
Thursday's launch comes after South Korea and US accused North Korea of sending troops to Russia to support Vladimir Putin's war in Ukraine.
The Pentagon estimates that around 10,000 North Korean soldiers have been deployed to train in eastern Russia. A "small number" has been sent to Kursk in Russia's west, with several thousand more on their way, the US said earlier this week.
The alleged presence of North Korean troops in Russia has added to growing concerns over deepening ties between Putin and Kim.
Pyongyang and Moscow have neither confirmed nor denied these allegations.
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Every country has its ghost stories, its mythical monsters and its ghoulish urban legends. But the United Kingdom – the home of the Gothic novel and the birthplace of paranormal investigation – may stake a claim to being the most haunted country on Earth.
With one of the world's highest concentrations of castles and no shortage of centuries-old pubs and coaching inns, there are plenty of reputedly haunted places to enjoy a drink or a meal, or even lay your head for the night – if you're feeling brave.
In addition, the country's relatively small size means it's possible to combine several of these places into one ghost-heavy itinerary. Here's where travellers with a penchant for the paranormal should head to get spooked this Halloween.1. Skirrid Inn, Abergavenny, Wales
With a history going back 900 years, the Skirrid Inn in the eastern fringes of Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Beacons) National Park is the oldest pub in Wales. If you believe the locals, it's also the most haunted. The building's ghostly associations go back to its former life as a courthouse and jail, which saw hundreds of prisoners executed by hanging from a wooden beam that still sits behind the bar.Reports over the centuries tell of glasses flying across the bar, creepy laughter echoing from the upstairs rooms and sudden drops in temperature. Ghost hunt evenings are held here several times a month, and you can also stay in one of the guestrooms, which are as cosy and traditional as the pub downstairs, with its stone hearths, log fires and hearty home-cooked food. It's also a lovely base for walks in nearby Coed y Cerrig, a wooded glacial valley tucked away in the Black Mountains.2. Chillingham Castle, Northumberland
In the remote reaches of rural Northumberland – one of England's most beautiful yet under-appreciated corners – lies Chillingham, reputedly the country's most haunted historic castle. Beginning life as a monastery in the 12th Century, Chillingham frequently came under attack by raiders from Scotland, whose border is barely 15 miles from here. The monastery was fortified into a castle in 1344 as it was strategically important for the English armies heading north – King Edward I, for example, stayed here in 1298 while en route to fight Sir William "Braveheart" Wallace.
Throughout the medieval period, Chillingham harboured many prisoners, the most unfortunate of whom came under the dubious care of John Sage, a torturer with the well-earned sobriquet "Butcher of the Scots". Today, replicas of Sage's fearsome torture devices – spiked chairs, twisting racks, iron maidens and the like – are on display in the castle's dungeon. Evening ghost tours of the castle, meanwhile, tell of some of the wandering spirits said to roam its corridors, including the "Blue Boy", a glowing apparition of a child said to haunt one of the corridors; another often reported is a ghostly lady said to stalk one of the courtyards at night, begging passersby for water.
For the full Chillingham experience, though, stay overnight in one of the castle's historic guestrooms: modern self-catering apartments housed in the former dairy, guard quarters and lookout tower, among other sections of the building. Be sure to explore the grounds, too: a snow-white herd of rare, primeval cattle, unchanged since medieval times, complement the ghostly aesthetic.3. Whitby, North Yorkshire
Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was Irish, not British – but it was the English coastal town of Whitby that inspired him to write his seminal novel, which went on to underpin the modern vampire myth. It's hard to imagine a more strikingly located building than the 7th-Century Whitby Abbey, the remains of which stand, skeletal and ragged, atop a windblown cliff. The ghost of the monastery's founder, Saint Hilda, is said to stalk the ruins, along with that of Constance de Beverley, a nun who broke her vow of chastity and was bricked up in the abbey walls.
The beach below the abbey is the spot where Stoker chose to introduce Count Dracula, who comes ashore here in the form of a beastly dog, padding up the 199 steps to St Mary’s Church, which still stands next to the abbey ruins.
Horror fans may wish to make Whitby the endpoint of a walk across the nearby North York Moors, a desolately beautiful national park of heather-carpeted upland that was the setting for another creepy classic: An American Werewolf in London. The opening scene of the cult comedy-horror sees two backpackers lose their way across the moors, meeting strange locals and even stranger beasts beneath the light of a full moon.
Ideally, time your visit to coincide with the Whitby Goth Weekend, a celebration of goth culture held twice a year, in late April and early November.. Ancient Ram Inn, Gloucestershire
Gloucestershire's sleepy market town of Wotton-under-Edge is home to what some say is Britain's most haunted pub, the Ancient Ram Inn. As befits its name, the inn is extremely old, dating from 1492, and it looks it, too: a low, squat, ivy-strewn half-timbered Tudor building that age has warped and bent, giving the eerie impression that you're looking at it from inside a hall of mirrors.
The otherworldly atmosphere only ramps up once you're inside. At first glance it looks like any other atmospheric old country pub, with rough-hewn stone walls, ornamental horse brasses, roaring fireplaces and wooden beams. But look closer and you'll see strange artefacts: a ram's head affixed to a wall, a mummified cat in a glass case, and, by the dart board, a grill across the stone floor marking the spot where the bodies of a woman and two children were found – victims, so the story goes, of a human sacrifice.Ghostly monks and Civil War soldiers, strange orbs of light and flitting shadows are among the odd phenomena that have been reported here for centuries. You can come to your own conclusions after an overnight ghost tour, led by expert guides armed with Ouija boards, ghost-hunting instruments and all manner of spooky stories.5. Edinburgh Castle, Scotland
Not all of Britain's haunted locations are found in sleepy villages and rural inns. London has a huge concentration of ghost stories, but so too does Scotland's capital, Edinburgh – with the most haunted spot in the city said to be its most famous building, Edinburgh Castle. Looming above the city from its seat on Castle Rock, a vast volcanic hill, Edinburgh Castle has existed in some form for almost 1,000 years, and it's accumulated plenty of myths and legends in that time.
Like many British castles and stately homes, the ghost of a Grey Lady has often been spotted here – in this instance, the spirit of Janet Douglas who was burned at the stake outside the castle in 1537. Other ghosts bear echoes of the Anglo-Scottish Civil War: one spirit sometimes reported is that of a headless drummer, who struck up a march in 1650 to warn of the oncoming threat of Oliver Cromwell, and is sometimes still spotted today drumming on the castle's battlements.
A ghostly black dog has also been seen roaming the castle. Most bizarre, though, is the spectre of a former prisoner who attempted to escape by hiding in a wheelbarrow full of manure – which was then tipped from a great height from the castle's battlements, sending him to an untimely death. This hapless prisoner is not just one of Britain’s more eccentric ghosts; he may be the only one who you smell before you see.
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The Chinese electric vehicle giant BYD has seen its quarterly revenues soar, beating Tesla's for the first time.
It posted more than 200bn yuan ($28.2bn, £21.8bn) in revenues between July and September. This is a 24% jump from the same period last year, and more than Elon Musk's company whose quarterly revenue was $25.2bn.
However, Tesla still sold more electric vehicle (EVs) than BYD in the third quarter.
It comes as EV sales in China have been getting a boost from government subsidies to encourage consumers to trade their petrol-powered cars for EVs or hybrids.BYD also notched a monthly sales record in the last month of the quarter, in a sign that momentum continues to build for China's bestselling car maker.
But there is a growing backlash abroad against the Chinese government's support for domestic car makers like BYD.
Earlier this week, European Union tariffs of up to 45.3% on imports of Chinese made EVs came into force across the bloc.
Chinese EV makers were already facing a 100% tax from the United States and Canada.
The tariffs are in response to alleged unfair state subsidisation of China's car industry.
As of last week, official data showed 1.57 million applications had been submitted for a national subsidy of $2,800 per each older vehicle traded in for a greener one.
That's on top of other government incentives already in place.
China has been counting on high-tech products to help revive its flagging economy, and the EU is the largest overseas market for the country's electric car industry.
Its domestic car industry has grown rapidly over the past two decades and its brands, such as BYD, have begun moving into international markets, prompting fears from the likes of the EU that its own companies will be unable to compete with the cheaper prices.
