"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.