Her conclusion was absolute and inviolable-utterly unchangeable. She would marry with love, or not at all. She wanted to love, and be loved in return-it was that or nothing.

As for her question, it was straightforward and pertinent: Was it possible to start with desire-strong desire-and progress to love?

Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes. She felt reassured, certain of what she wanted, how to face what was to come.

If Demon wanted to marry her, wanted her to say yes when he asked for her hand, then he would need to teach her more about desire, and convince her that her question could be answered in the affirmative.

Opening her eyes, she lifted her skirts; climbing the steps, she went in to lunch.

Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he'd hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.

Unbeknown to Flick, he'd visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he'd fixed. He'd then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers' odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high-the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.

It was worth a try.

The road sped beneath his wheels. Demon's thoughts drifted back-to Flick. Impatience gripped him, a restless urge to hurry.

So he could return to Newmarket.

Lips setting, he shook aside the nagging worry-what possible trouble could she get into in two days? He would remain in London for only one night. Bletchley seemed settled; Gillies had his orders. All would be well.

His gaze fixed on the road ahead, he urged the bays on.

Three hours later, neatly garbed in her velvet riding habit and perched upon Jessamy, Flick went riding on Newmarket Heath.

Naturally, she expected to see Bletchley, idly watching the last of the morning gallops as he had for the past week.

To her consternation, she didn't see him. She couldn't find Gillies, Cross or Hills, either. Sitting straight in her saddle, she scanned the gallops-the rising stretches of turf where the last strings were pounding-then turned to survey the surrounding flats. To no avail.

"Isn't that just typical!" Gathering Jessamy's reins, she wheeled the mare and rode straight into town.

Without any idea what to do, Flick walked Jessamy down the paved street. Most of those about belonged to the racing fraternity-stable lads, grooms, trainers, jockeys. Some knew her and bobbed respectfully; all looked Jessamy over with keen professional eyes. Flick barely noticed.

Where had Bletchley been staying? She couldn't remember the inn's name. Demon had said it wasn't in Newmarket, but somewhere to the north.

But what had happened to Gillies and the others? They'd watched Bletchley for this long without mishap-could he finally have identified them and…

And what? She had no idea.

Doggedly, she headed north up the High Street, an ill-formed plan of inquiring at the inns to the north of town in mind. Halfway up the street, she came to the Rutland Arms, the main coaching inn. The mailcoach squatted like a huge black beetle before the inn's main door; she glanced at the passengers waiting to board.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye; abruptly she reined in. A curse from behind had her turning in her saddle. "Oh-I'm so sorry." Blushing, she drew Jessamy aside to let the racing string she'd impeded pass. The long file of horses with lads atop gave her useful cover; screened by them, she peered across the street.

"Yes!" Eyes lighting, Flick saw Bletchley, his red neckerchief a beacon, clamber up to the coach's roof. Then she frowned. "Why is he going to Bury St. Edmunds?"

Raising his yard, the guard blew a warning; the next instant, the coach lurched. Overloaded with men, apparently in rowdy mood, clinging to the roof, it ponderously rolled off up the High Street.

Flick stared after it. While she had no idea why Bletchley was heading to Bury St. Edmunds, it seemed unlikely he'd stop anywhere en route. There simply wasn't anywhere en route.

She had to find Gillies, and find out what had happened to him and Hills and Cross. She quickly turned Jessamy south, toward the stud farm.

And spied Gillies mounted on a hack not ten yards away. With a muttered exclamation, she trotted Jessamy over.

"Did you see?" She drew rein beside him. "Bletchley's gone off to Bury St. Edmunds."

"Aye." Gillies's gaze drifted up the street in the wake of the departing coach.

"Well"-Flick settled Jessamy as she danced-"we'd better follow him."

Gillies's gaze snapped to her face. "Follow 'im?"

"Of course." Flick frowned. "Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?"

Gillies looked uncertain.

"Where are Hills and Cross?" Flick asked impatiently.

"Hills is at the farm-he was last on watch. Cross is over there." Gillies indicated with his chin. "He was watching Bletchley this morning."

Flick located the lugubrious Cross lounging in a doorway across the street. "Yes, well, now Bletchley has made a move, we'll need to organize to follow him."

"We will?"

Flick stared at Gillies. "What is the matter with you? Didn't Demon leave you with orders to follow Bletchley?"

Gillies stared back, then, mute, shook his head.

Flick stared even more; she couldn't imagine what was going on. But Gillies and Cross were out and about. "What are your orders?"

Gillies's face fell; his eyes took on the look of a mournful spaniel's. "To follow you, miss, and keep you out of trouble."

Only the fact that they were in a crowded public place prevented Flick from giving Gillies her opinion of his master's arrogance. His overweening conceit. His ridiculous male ego.

By the time she, with Gillies and Cross in tow, had retreated to the now empty Heath, she'd calmed down-to simmering. "I don't care what orders he gave before he left, he couldn't have foreseen Bletchley leaving. But he has, so we must improvise."

Gillies remained blank-faced. "The master was most particular, miss. He said we was to hold the fort here, and not let-not make any rash moves. Anyway, there's no need to follow Bletchley to Bury-chances are, when he wants to hie back to London, he'll come back through here on the coach."

"That's not the point!" Flick declared.

"Isn't it?" Standing beside them, Cross squinted up at Flick. "I thought that was it-that we was to watch him in Newmarket and see who he talked to here."

"Not just here." Flick drew a calming breath. "We need to see who he talks to wherever he goes. He might be going to Bury to meet with his masters."

Cross blinked. "Nah, he'll be-"

Gillies coughed, succumbing to a veritable paroxysm that had both Flick and Cross looking at him in concern. Blinking, he shook his head, waving his hand back and forth in a negative gesture. "It's all right," he said to Flick, but his eyes, bright and sharp, were fixed on Cross.

Cross's expression blanked. "Oh. Ah. Right-well."

Flick frowned at him. "We must organize to pick up the watch on Bletchley when he gets to Bury. The mail coach takes hours, so we have a little time."

"Ah-it's not that simple, miss." Gillies exchanged a glance with Cross. "Both Cross here and Hills have duties on the farm-they can't simply up and leave for Bury."

"Oh." Flick looked at Cross; he nodded.