A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Page B

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

     
    A fter 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,