"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 of
f 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!"