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-