More specifically, what Flick thought she was doing-he doubted Gillies was behind this escapade. He had, however, given his henchman strict instructions not to let Flick out of his sight; it appeared Gillies was following those instructions to the letter.
Which was some small comfort.
After checking with the Shephards, who knew nothing, he paused only to consign the bays into the hands of his head stableman before swinging up to Ivan's back and riding out
into the night. Both Hills and Cross lived in cottages north of the Heath-if he had to, he'd track them down, but first he'd check with Dillon.
If something had happened in his absence, it was possible that Flick had sought counsel with Dillon. Whatever had happened might even involve Dillon-he might be the reason Flick had needed a carriage. A host of possible scenarios, none of which he liked, fought for prominence in his mind. He pressed Ivan as fast as he dared over the rough trail to the cottage.
He glimpsed a faint light as he entered the clearing; it disappeared by the time he dismounted.
"It's me-Demon."
The glow returned, guiding him through the derelict lean-to and into the cottage proper. Dillon was standing by the table, his hands on the lamp; he looked up, his expression open and eager.
Demon met his eyes. "Where's Flick?"
Dillon grinned. "She's off gallivanting after Bletchley." Dropping into his chair, he waved to a stool. "She's convinced, this time, that Bletchley's going to meet with the syndicate."
Icy fingers clutched Demon's spine. Ignoring the stool, he halted by the table; blank-faced, he looked down at Dillon. "And what do you think?"
Dillon opened his eyes wide. "This time, she might be right." He glanced up as Demon's gloves hit the table; his engaging grin flashed. "A pity you weren't here, but Flick'll be there to see-"
A sound like a growl issued from Demon's throat. He grabbed Dillon by his shirtfront, plucked him out of the chair, shook him like a rat, then took one step and slammed him back against the cottage wall.
The chair crashed, the sound echoing in the stillness. The wall shook.
Wide-eyed, unable to breathe, Dillon stared.
Into Demon's slitted eyes.
Dillon was only a few inches shorter, but he was a great deal slighter. There was nine years between them, and it was measured in muscle. Demon knew he could crush Dillon's windpipe with one forearm-from the look in Dillon's eyes, Dillon knew that, too.
"Where is she?" His words were low, slow and very distinct. "Where is this supposed meeting to take place?"
"Bury," Dillon gasped. His chest heaved. "Bletchley went there-she followed. She was going to try to get a room at The Angel."
"Try to?" The Angel was a very large house.
Dillon licked his lips. "Prizefight."
Demon couldn't believe his ears. "Prizefight!"
Dillon tried to nod but couldn't. "Flick thought it was the obvious-the most likely place for the syndicate to meet with Bletchley. Heaps of bucks and blades up from London-all the riffraff and the Fancy, too. Well, you know-" He ran out of breath and wheezed, "It seemed like sound reasoning."
"What did Gillies say?"
Dillon glanced at Demon's eyes and paled even more. He dropped his gaze.
When he didn't answer, Demon tensed the muscles in his arms.
Dillon caught his breath in a rush. "He didn't want her to go-he said you wouldn't like it."
"And you? What did you say?"
Dillon tried to shrug. "Well, it seemed like a sensible idea-"
"You call letting a gently reared, twenty-year-old girl go waltzing out to spend the night in an inn filled to the rafters with a prizefight crowd sensible?"