A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Page A

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