Dillon had graduated from larks to outright crime. Demon stored the insight away, and kept his lips shut.

He'd promised Flick his help; at present, that meant shielding Dillon, leaving him hidden in the ruined cottage. Helping Flick also, he knew, meant shielding the General, even if that hadn't gone unsaid. And while he and Flick were doubtless destined to clash on any number of issues in the coming days-like the details of her involvement in their investigations-he was absolutely as one with her in pledging his soul to spare the General more pain.

If the General knew where Dillon was, regardless of the details, he would be torn, driven by one loyalty-to the industry he'd served for decades-to surrender Dillon to the authorities, while at the same time compelled by the protective instincts of a parent.

Demon knew how it felt to be gripped by conflicting loyalties, but he'd rather leave the weight on his shoulders, where it presently resided, than off-load the problem onto his ageing friend. Facing the windows squarely, he looked over the neat lawns to the shade trees beyond. "I suspect that waiting for Dillon to return is the right tack. Who knows the full story? There might be reasons, mitigating circumstances. It's best to wait and see."

"You're right, of course. And, heaven knows, I've enough to keep me busy." Demon glanced around to see the General tug the heavy record book back onto the blotter. "What with you and your fellows breeding so much Irish into the stock, I've all but had to learn Gaelic."

Demon grinned. A gong sounded.

Both he and the General glanced at the door. "Time for lunch. Why not stay? You can meet Felicity and see if you agree with my assessment."

Demon hesitated. The General frequently invited him to lunch, but in recent years, he hadn't accepted, which was presumably why he'd missed seeing Felicity grow up.

He'd spent the previous evening dredging his memory for every recollection, no matter how minute, trying to find some balance in his unexpectedly tilting world. Trying to ascertain just what his role, his standing, with this new version of Felicity should be. Her age had been a pertinent consideration; physically, she could be anything from eighteen to twenty-four, but her self-confidence and maturity were telling. He'd pegged her at twenty-three.

The General had now told him Dillon was twenty-two, which meant if Flick was two years younger, then she was only twenty. He'd been three years out, but, given the General's assessment, with which he concurred, she might as well be twenty-three.

Twenty-three made her easier to deal with, given he was thirty-one. Thinking of her as twenty made him feel too much like a cradle-snatcher.

But he still couldn't understand why he hadn't sighted her in the last five years. The last time he'd seen her was when, after importing his first Irish stallion, he'd come to give the General the relevant information for the stud records. She'd opened the door to him-a short, thin, gawky schoolgirl with long braids. He'd barely glanced at her, but he had remembered her. He'd been here countless times since, but hadn't seen her. He hadn't, however, stayed for a meal in all those years.

Demon turned from the window. "Yes, why not?" The General would attribute Demon's break with long-standing habit to concern for him, and he would be half-right at that.

So he stayed.

And had the pleasure of seeing Felicity sweep imperiously into the dining parlor, then nearly trip over her toes, and her tongue, deciding how to react to him.

Which was only fair, because he had not a clue how to react to her. Or, more accurately, didn't dare react to her as his instincts suggested. She was, after all-despite all-still the General's ward.

Who had miraculously grown up.

In full light, dressed in ivory muslin sprigged with tiny green leaves, she looked like a nymph of spring come to steal mortals' hearts. Her hair, brushed and neat, glowed like polished gold, a rich frame for the distinctive, eerily angelic beauty of her face.

It was her face that held him, compelled him. The soft blue of her eyes, like a misty sky, drew him, urging him to lose himself in their gentle depths. Her nose was straight, her brow wide, her complexion flawless. Her lips begged to be kissed-delicately bowed, soft pink, the lower lip full and sensual, they were made to be covered by a man's.

By his.

The thought, so unequivocal, shocked him; he drew breath and shook free of the spell. A swift glance, a rake's appraisal of her figure, nearly had him in thrall again.

He resisted. The realization that he'd been bowled over for the first time in his life was enough to shake him to his senses. With his usual grace and an easy smile, he strolled forward and took Flick's hand.

She blinked and very nearly snatched it back.

Demon quashed the urge to raise her quivering fingers to his lips. He let his smile deepen instead. "Good afternoon, my dear. I do hope you don't mind me joining you for lunch?"

She blinked again, and shot a quick glance at the General. "No, of course not."

She blushed, very slightly; Demon forced himself to ignore the intriguing sight. Gracefully, he led her to the table. She claimed the chair by the General's left; he held it for her, then strolled around the table to the place on the General's right, directly opposite her.

The placement couldn't have been more perfect; while chatting with the General, it was perfectly natural that his gaze should frequently pass over her.

She of the swanlike neck and sweetly rounded shoulders, of the pert breasts encased in skin like ivory silk, their upper swells revealed by the scooped neckline of her gown. She was perfectly prim, perfectly proper, and perfectly delectable.

Demon's mouth watered every time he glanced her way.

Flick was very aware of his scrutiny; for some mystical reason, the touch of his gaze actually felt warm. Like a sun-kissed breeze touching her-lightly, enticingly. She tried not to let her awareness show; it was, after all, unsurprising that he found her appearance somewhat changed. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been fifteen, skinny, scrawny, with two long braids hanging down her back. He'd barely registered her existence-she'd stared at him and hadn't been able to stop.

That was the last time she'd allowed herself the liberty; thereafter she made sure that whenever he called, she kept out of his sight. Even if she glimpsed him, she'd force herself to walk the other way-precisely because her impulse lay in the opposite direction. She had far too much pride to stare at him like some silly, lovestruck schoolgirl. Despite the fact that was how he made her feel-hardly surprising, as he'd been her ideal gentleman for so many years-she had a strong aversion to the notion of mooning over him. She was quite sure he got enough of that from other lovestruck girls and all the lovestruck ladies.

She had absolutely no ambition to join their ranks.

So she forced herself to contribute to the conversation about horses and the coming season. Having grown up at Hillgate End, she knew more than enough about both subjects to hold her own. Demon twice tripped over her name, catching himself just in time; she manfully-womanfully-resisted glaring at him the second time it happened. His eyes met hers; one brow quirked and his lips curved teasingly. She pressed her lips tight shut and looked down at her plate.

"Could you pass the vinegar, m'dear."

She looked for the cruet set only to see Demon lift the bottle from the tray further down the table. He offered it to her; she took it-her fingers brushed his. A sharp shock lanced through her. Startled, she nearly dropped the bottle but managed to catch it in time. Carefully, she handed it to the General, then picked up her knife and fork and looked down at her plate. And breathed slowly in and out.