A Rogue's Proposal (5 page)

Demon glimpsed the blue velvet skirts of a stylish riding habit as she stormed past him out into the ruined lean-to.

Silence descended in the main room; Demon let it stretch. He watched Dillon squirm, then stiffen his spine, only to wilt again. When he judged it was time, he quietly said, “I rather think you’d better tell us the whole of it.”

Eyes on the table, on the fingertip with which he traced circles on the scratched surface, Dillon drew a shaky breath. “I ran messages the whole autumn season. I owed a cent-per-cent in Bury St. Edmunds—he said I had to pay up before year’s end or he’d come and see the General. I had to get the money somewhere. Then the man—the one who brings the messages—found me.” He paused, but didn’t look up. “I always thought it was the cent-per-cent who nudged him my way, to ensure I’d be in a position to pay.”

Demon thought that very likely.

Dillon shrugged. “Anyway, it was easy enough—easy money, I thought.”

A choking sound came from the lean-to; Dillon flushed. “Well, it was easy last year. Then, when the man brought the messages for the last few weeks of races, I told him I wouldn’t do it any more. He said, ‘We’ll see,’ and I left it at that. I didn’t expect to see him again, but two nights before the first race this year, he found me. At a cock-fight.”

The sound from the lean-to was eloquent—mingled disbelief, frustration and fury.

Dillon grimaced. “He told me Ickley had balked, and that I’d have to do the job until they could find a ‘suitable replacement.’ That’s how he phrased it.” Dillon paused, then offered, “I think that means someone they have some hold over, because he said, bold as brass, that if I didn’t agree they’d tell the authorities what I’d done, and make sure everyone knew I was the General’s son. Well, I did it. Took the message. And the money. And then I got sick.”

Demon could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. The flies in the ointment were the General, and Flick’s sniff of disillusionment that came from behind him.

After a moment, Dillon wearily straightened. “That’s all of it.” He met Demon’s gaze. “I swear. If you’ll believe me.”

Demon didn’t answer. Forearms on the table, he steepled his fingers; it was time to take charge. “As I see it, we have two objectives—one, to keep you out of the syndicate’s way until, two, we’ve identified your contact, traced him back to his masters—the syndicate—and unmasked at least one member of said syndicate, and have enough proof for you to take to the magistrate, so that, in turning yourself in as a witless pawn caught up in a greater game, you can plead for leniency.”

He looked up; Dillon blanched, but met his gaze. A moment passed, and Demon raised his brows.

Dillon swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, all right.”

“So we need to identify your contact. Flick said you never saw him clearly.”

Dillon shook his head. “He was always careful—he’d come up to me as I was leaving the pit in the dark, or come sidling up in the shadows.”

“What’s his height, his build?”

“Medium to tall, heavy build.” Dillon’s frown lifted. “One thing recognizable is his voice—it’s oddly rough, like his throat is scratched, and he has a London accent.”

Demon nodded, considering. Then he refocused. “Flick’s idea is the only reasonable way forward—we’ll have to keep watch about the tracks and stables to see who approaches the race jockeys. I’ll handle that.”

“I’ll help.”

The statement came from behind him; Demon glanced around, then rose spontaneously to his feet. Luckily, Flick was coldly glaring at Dillon, which allowed him to get his expression back under control before she glanced at him.

When she did, he met her gaze impassively, but he remained standing.

He’d guessed right—her head didn’t top his shoulder. Bright, guinea-gold curls formed an aureole about her face; without muffler or cap, he could see the whole clearly, and it took his breath away. Her figure, neat and trim in blue velvet, met with his instant approval. Sleek and svelte, but with firm curves in all the right places. He could now take an oath that she must have worn tight bands to appear as she had before; the swells of her breasts filled the habit’s tightly fitting bodice in a distinctly feminine way.

She swept forward with an easy, confident grace, then bent to place her neatly folded stable lad’s outfit on the chest, in the process giving him a reminder of why he’d first seen through her disguise.

He blinked and drew in a much needed breath.

She looked like an angel, dressed in blue velvet.

A still very angry angel. She ignored Dillon and faced Demon. “I’ll keep your stables under surveillance—you can watch the other stables and other places I can’t go.”

“There’s no need—”

“The more eyes we have watching, the more likely we’ll be to see him. And I’ll hear things that you, as the owner, won’t.” She met his gaze steadily. “If they recruited Ickley, there’s a good chance they’d like to hobble one of your runners—you’ll have quite a few favorites in the races this season.”

The Flynn, among others. Demon held her gaze, and saw her chin firm, saw it tilt, saw defiance and sheer stubborn will flash in her eyes.

“That’s right,” Dillon concurred. “There’s a lot of Newmarket to cover, and Flick’s already been accepted as one of your lads.”

Demon stared, pointedly, at him; Dillon shrugged. “She’s in no danger—it’s me they’re after.”

If Demon had been closer, he would have kicked Dillon; eyes narrowing, he was tempted to do it anyway. Only the fact that he hadn’t yet determined how Flick saw Dillon—if she reserved the right to kick him to herself, and would fly to Dillon’s defense if he administered any of the punishment Dillon so richly deserved—kept him still.

Dillon glanced at Flick. “You could even try riding for some of the other stables.”

Flick looked down her nose at him. “I’ll stick to Demon’s stable—he can look over the others.”

Her tone was cold and distant; Dillon shrugged petulantly. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

He looked down at the table and so missed the fury that poured from Flick’s eyes. “Just so we’re perfectly clear,” she stated, “I am only helping you because of the General—because of what having you taken up, without any evidence of a syndicate to redeem you in any way, will do to him.
That’s
why I’m helping you.”

Head high, she swung on her heel and stalked out.

Demon paused, looking at Dillon, now staring sulkily at the table. “Stay here. If you value your life, stay out of sight.”

Dillon’s eyes widened; with a curt nod, Demon followed Flick into the deep twilight.

He found her saddling Jessamy, her movements swift and jerky. He didn’t offer to help; he suspected she could saddle up blind—indeed, he wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t doing that now.

Hurt and anger poured off her; disillusionment shimmered about her. Propping his shoulders against a convenient tree, Demon glanced across the clearing to where Ivan was still standing in exactly the same pose as an hour ago—staring at his new lady love.

Brows quirking, Demon turned back to Flick. Her head was just visible over Jessamy’s back. He considered the halo of gold, the delicate features beneath.

She was furious with Dillon, hurt that he hadn’t told her the truth, and shocked by the details of that truth. But, once her fury wore thin, what then? She and Dillon were of similar age; they’d grown up together. Precisely what that meant he didn’t know, but he had to wonder how accurate her last assertion was. Was she risking her reputation
only
for the General? Or for Dillon as well?

He studied her, but couldn’t decide. Whatever the answer, he would shield her as best he could.

He looked up at the stars, just starting to appear, and heard a sniff, instantly suppressed. She was taking a long time with her saddle girths.

“He’s young.” Why he felt compelled to excuse Dillon he couldn’t have said.

“He’s two years older than me.”

How old did that make her? Demon wished he knew.

“What do you think happened to Ickley?”

Demon silently considered; he didn’t imagine her ensuing silence meant she didn’t expect an answer. “Either he’s gone to ground, in which case the last thing we’d want to do is flush him out, or . . . we’ll never know.”

She made a small sound, like a hum, in her throat—a muted sound of distress.

Demon straightened away from the tree; in the gathering gloom, he couldn’t see her face clearly. At that moment, she stepped back from Jessamy’s side, dusting her hands. He strolled around the mare. “You can continue at my stable for the time being—until we catch sight of this contact.” If any avenue had offered, he’d have eased her out of his stable, out of Newmarket itself until all danger was past. But . . . her stubbornness was a tangible thing.

She turned to face him. “If you try to get rid of me, I’ll just get a job in another stable. There’s more than one in Newmarket.”

None as safe as his. “Carruthers will keep you on until I say otherwise.” Which he would the instant they located Dillon’s contact. “But you’ll be restricted to riding track, morning and afternoon.”

“That’s the only time that matters, anyway. That’s the only time outsiders aren’t looked at askance about the Heath.”

She was absolutely right.

He’d been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.

Lust flashed through him like liquid heat—a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.

And not drag her back down, into his arms.

He wanted her in his bed.

The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up—and found her looking down at him.

She frowned and shook her reins. “Come on.” Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.

Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan’s reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.

And followed.

D
emon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops—and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but . . . the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.

So he stood in the thin mist by Carruthers’s side and watched his horses thunder by. The ground shook, the air trembled; the reverberations were as familiar as his heartbeat. The scene was a part of him, and he a part of it—and Flick was in it, too. She flew past, extending The Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon’s breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill—a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.

The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she’d known, or she wouldn’t have risked the glance. He’d been watching her almost without pause since he’d arrived, just after she’d taken to the Heath.

Luckily, cursing beneath her breath only reinforced her disguise. But she had to suppress all other signs of agitation so she didn’t communicate her sudden nervousness to The Flynn. She’d always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she’d anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this—this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She’d buried deep the suspicion it had something to do—a great deal to do—with the breath-stealing shock she’d felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon’s expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.

But riding track with him watching proved a far greater trial than performing for Carruthers alone, despite the fact the old curmudgeon was the most exacting trainer on the Heath. There was a certain sharp assessment in Demon’s blue gaze that was absent from Carruthers’s eyes; as her nervousness grew, she had to wonder if Demon was doing it deliberately—deliberately discomposing her—so she’d make some silly error and give him a reason to send her packing.

Thankfully, all her years of riding had taught her to hide her feelings well; she and The Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.

Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.