"The dance at the vicarage will be just the way to start-not too many people to overwhelm the child. Will you carry my message to the General? And, perhaps, if you could put the argument that he really needs to pay more attention to Miss Parteger's future?"

Demon met her gaze, then nodded decisively. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good!" Mrs. Pemberton beamed as Demon walked her to the door. "I'll be off, then. If you see her, do mention to Miss Parteger that I called."

Demon inclined his head as Mrs. Pemberton took her leave, considering her parting words.

He would, he decided, tell Miss Parteger she'd called, but not immediately.

Turning, he sauntered toward the library.

Half an hour later, he found Flick in the back parlor. She was ensconced amid the cushions on the settee, her legs curled under her skirts, a dish of shelled nuts on a side table beside her. She was reading a book, utterly absorbed. He watched as, without taking her eyes from the page, she reached out and picked up a nut; without missing a word, she brought the nut to her lips and popped it into her mouth, continuing to read as she crunched.

With Mrs. Pemberton's sermon ringing in his head, he scanned the round blue gown presently concealing Miss Parteger's charms. While her wardrobe would not qualify as "all the crack," there was, to his mind, nothing whatever amiss with her simple gowns. Their very simplicity enhanced, underscored and emphasized the beauty of the body within.

Which, he'd decided, was all definitely to his taste.

The body, the beauty, and her simple gowns.

Pushing away from the doorframe, he strolled into the room.

Flick looked up with a start. "Oh! Hello." She started to smile one of her innocently welcoming smiles, but as he halted before her, full awareness struck, and the tenor of her greeting changed. She still smiled in welcome, but her eyes were watchful, her smile more controlled.

He returned the gesture easily, inwardly pleased that she was, at long last, starting to see him differently. "I've finished talking horses with the General. He invited me to lunch and I've accepted. It's lovely outside-I wondered if you'd care to stroll until the gong?"

With him there, large as life, asking, she really had very little choice. While one part of Flick's mind acidly noted that fact, another part was rejoicing, eager to further explore their new, oddly thrilling, not-quite-safe interaction. She didn't understand it-she'd yet to determine where he thought he was headed. But she wanted to know. "Yes-by all means, let's stroll."

She gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. Minutes later, they were on the lawn, ambling side by side.

"Has anything happened with Bletchley?"

Demon shook his head. "All he's done is make tentative overtures toward a number of jockeys."

"Nothing else?"

Again he shook his head. "They seem to be concentrating on the Craven meeting, and that's still weeks away" I suspect the syndicate will have given Bletchley time to make the arrangements-it's possible his masters won't put in an appearance down here just yet."

"You think they'll leave it until closer to the meeting to check on Bletchley's success?"

"Closer, but not too close. It takes time to put all the players in place to milk the maximum return from a fix."

"Hmm." Pondering that fact, and the likelihood that Dillon would have to remain in the ruined cottage for some weeks yet, Flick frowned into the distance.

"Have you ever been to London?"

"London?" She blinked. "Only when I stayed with my aunt just after my parents died. I was only there for a few weeks, I think."

"I confess myself amazed that you've never succumbed to the urge to cut a dash in the capital."

She turned her head and studied him; to her surprise, he wasn't teasing-his gaze was steady, his expression open-well, as open as it ever was. "I…" She considered, then shrugged. "I've never really thought of it. It's all so far away and unknown. Indeed"-she raised her brows-"I'm not even sure what 'cutting a dash' entails."

Demon grinned. "Being noticed by society due to one's dress, or exploits."

"Or conquests?"

His smile deepened. "That, too."

"Ah, well. That explains my disinterest, then. I'm not particularly interested in any of those things."

Demon couldn't restrain his smile. "A young lady uninterested in dresses and conquests-my dear, you'll break the matchmakers' hearts."

Her expression as she shrugged said she cared not a whit.

"But," he continued, "I'm surprised you don't like dancing-most ladies who enjoy riding also enjoy a turn about the dance floor."

She grimaced. "I haven't spent much time dancing. There aren't a lot of balls around here, you know."

"But there are the usual dances. I vaguely remember my great-aunt prodding me to attend, a few many years ago."

"Well, yes-there are dances and the odd ball as one might expect. We do get cards periodically. But the General is always so busy."

"Does he even see the cards?"

Flick glanced up, but she could read nothing in his very blue eyes. Still… she tilted her chin. "I deal with his correspondence. There's no point bothering him with such invitations-he's never attended such affairs."

"Hmm." Demon glanced at her face-what he could see beneath her golden halo. Without warning, he reached for her hand; stepping swiftly, he raised it and twirled her, unsurprised that, startled though she was, she reacted smoothly, graceful and surefooted, innately responsive.

He met her wide eyes as she slowed to a halt, her billowing skirts subsiding. "I really think," he murmured, lowering her hand, "that you'll enjoy dancing."

Flick hid a frown and wondered if that remark was intended to be cryptic. Before she could pursue it, the gong for lunch echoed over the lawn.

Demon offered his arm. "Shall we join the General?"

They did. Sitting at the dining table with the General to her right and Demon opposite was a familiar, comfortable situation. Flick relaxed; her nerves, in recent times slightly tense whenever Demon was near, eased. Chatting with her usual effervescence, she felt subtlely more in control.

Until the General laid down his fork and fixed her with a direct look. "Mrs. Pemberton called this morning."

"Oh?" Flick knew she had-that was why she'd taken refuge in the back parlor. But she was genuinely surprised that the General knew-she, Foggy and Jacobs had a long standing agreement to ensure the local matrons didn't bother him with their demands.

She scanned the room, but Jacobs had withdrawn. Had Mrs. Pemberton bullied her way past their defenses?

"Hmm," the General went on. "Seems she's giving a dance for the local young people. Us older folk are allowed to come and watch." He caught Flick's startled eye. "I rather think we should attend, don't you?"

Flick didn't-she foresaw all sorts of complications. Including the likelihood of the General learning just how many similar invitations he'd refused in recent times. She glanced at Demon, and was struck by inspiration. "I really don't have anything to wear."

The General chuckled. "I thought you might say that, so I had a word with Mrs. Fogarty-she tells me there's a very good dressmaker in the High Street. She'll go with you tomorrow and see about a dress."

"Oh." Flick blinked. The General was smiling at her, a hopeful question in his eyes. "Er… thank you."

Delighted, he patted her hand. "I'm quite looking forward to the outing-haven't been about in years, it seems. Used to enjoy it when Margery was alive. Now I'm too old to dance myself, I'm looking forward to sitting and watching you take to the floor."

Flick stared at him; guilt at having deprived him of innocent enjoyment for years tickled at her mind-but she couldn't quite believe it. He didn't like socializing-he'd given his opinion on the mesdames of the district, and their entertainments, often enough. She couldn't understand what had got into his head. "But…" She grabbed her last straw. "I don't know any of the local gentlemen well enough to stand up with them."