A Rogue's Proposal (6 page)

“Good work.” Demon’s blue eyes held hers; he nodded curtly. “We’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late.”

Flick’s tongue burned; she had, until now, unsaddled and brushed down The Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. “I’ll be here.” With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remem bering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance—before temptation could get the upper hand.

Behind her, she heard Demon ask Carruthers some question—but she could still feel his gaze on her back.

After seeing Flick safely away, Demon repaired to the coffeehouse in Newmarket High Street favored by the members of the Jockey Club.

He was hailed the instant he crossed the threshold. Returning greetings right and left, he strolled to the counter, ordered a large breakfast, then joined a group comprised mostly of other owners at one of the long tables.

“We’re exchanging predictions for the coming season.” Patrick McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort’s stable, turned to Demon as he sat. “Currently, of course, we’ve five times the number of winners as we have races.”

“Sounds like a fresh crop,” Demon drawled. “That’ll keep the General busy.”

McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning—if horses that hadn’t won before made it to the winner’s circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. “Ah, yes. Busy indeed.”

He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGonnachie, in common with all of Newmarket, knew how close he and the General were. If there was any less-than-felicitous whisper going the rounds concerning the General, McGonnachie wouldn’t tell him.

So he ate and listened to the chat about the table, and contributed his share. And bore with easy indifference the good-natured ribbing over his activities in London.

“Need to change your style if you don’t want to miss your chance,” Old Arthur Trumble, one of the most respected owners, nodded down the table. “Take my advice and spend less time lifting the skirts of London’s
mesdames
, and more dealing with the business. The higher the standing of your stud, the more demanding it’ll be.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “And Lord knows, you look like taking the Breeder’s Cup this year.”

Two others took immediate exception to that prediction, leaving Demon with no need to reply. He listened, but detected no further suggestion of rumors concerning the General other than McGonnachie’s earlier hesitation.

“Mister Figgins is back—did you hear?” Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGonnachie. “Sawyer ran him in the first—he couldn’t wait to see if that leg would hold up, but it did. So your Mighty Flynn will have some decent competition. The handicaps won’t be the walk-over they might otherwise have been.”

“Oh?” Demon chatted with Buffy about The Flynn’s chances, while his mind raced on a different track.

He had wondered how Dillon’s syndicate had expected to fix the first race of the year. Run before the start of the spring season, the early races were used to trial horses, generally those new to racing. If that was the case, then fixing meant making sure one specific horse came first, which meant influencing how at least a handful of other horses ran. Bribing multiple jockeys required more money, and was more hazardous, than the alternative way to fix a race. But the other method required one outstanding runner—a crowd favorite.

“Tell me,” Demon asked, when Buffy paused for breath. “Did Mister Figgins win? You didn’t say.”

“Romped in,” Buffy replied. “Showed the pack a clean pair of heels all the way down the straight.”

Demon smiled and let their talk drift into other spheres.

At least he now knew how the syndicate operated; they must have cursed Mister Figgins all the way down the straight. Mister Figgins was the horse the fix should have been applied to; the syndicate would have assumed he’d lose, and their tools—however many bookmakers they’d seduced into their game—would have offered good odds on Mister Figgins, taken huge bets, and, in this case, suffered mammoth losses. That was the one drawback with that method—it could seriously backfire if the bribe wasn’t in place, if the race wasn’t properly fixed.

Which explained why Dillon was in serious trouble.

After breakfast, in company with the others, Demon strolled across the street and into the Jockey Club. The hallowed precinct was as familiar as his home; he spent the next hour wandering the rooms, chatting to stewards, jockeys and the racing elite—those gentlemen like himself who formed the hub of the English racing world.

Time and again in his idle chats, he sensed a start, or hesitation—a quick skirting around some invisible truth. Long before he ran into Reginald Molesworth, Demon knew beyond doubt that there were rumors afoot.

Reggie, an old friend, didn’t wait to be asked. “I say,” he said the instant they’d exchanged their usual greetings, “are you free? Let’s go get some coffee—The Twig and Bough should be pretty quiet about now.” He caught Demon’s eye and added, “Something you need to know.”

An easy air hiding his interest, Demon acquiesced; together with Reggie, he strolled out of the club and down the street. Ducking his head, he led the way into The Twig and Bough, a coffeehouse that catered more to the genteel elements of the town than to the racing set.

Their appearance left the two serving girls gawking, but the proprietress preened. She quickly bustled out from behind her counter as they claimed seats at a table against the wall. After taking their orders, the woman bobbed and hurried away. By unspoken understanding, Demon and Reggie chatted about inconsequential, tonnish London matters until their coffee and cakes arrived, and the little waitress left them.

Reggie leaned over the table. “Thought you’d want to know.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Things are being said regarding the household at Hillgate End.”

Impassive, Demon asked, “What things?”

“Seems there’s some suspicion of races not being run the way they should. Well, there’s always talk every time a favorite loses, but recently . . .” Reggie stirred his coffee. “There was Trumpeter and The Trojan here last season, and Big Biscuits, Hail Well and The Unicorn at Doncaster. Not to mention The Prime at Ascot. Not so many that it’s certain, but it doesn’t take a man o’ business to work it out. A lot of money changed hands over those losses, and the offered odds in every case . . . well, it certainly gives one to think. And that was just the autumn season.”

Demon nodded. “Is it official?”

Reggie grimaced. “Yes and no. The Committee think there’s a definite question, and they want answers, thank you very much. At present, they’re only looking at last autumn, and it’s all been kept under wraps, which is why you might not have heard.”

Demon shook his head. “I hadn’t. Is there any reason to think it went on last spring as well?”

“I gather there is, but the evidence—meaning the offering of odds that could only be considered deliberately encouraging—is not as clear.”

“Any guesses as to the Committee’s direction?”

Reggie looked up and met Demon’s gaze. Reggie’s father was on the Committee. “Yes, well, that’s why I thought you should know. The jockeys involved, of course, are all as close as clams—they know it’s the devil of a case to prove. But it seems young Caxton’s been seen about, chatting to the jockeys involved. As he’s not previously seemed all that interested in rubbing elbows with the riders, it was noticed. The Committee, not surprisingly, wants to talk to the youngster. Trouble is”—Reggie pulled one earlobe—“the boy’s off visiting friends. Given he is the General’s son, and no one wants to unnecessarily upset the venerable old gent, the Committee decided to wait until Caxton junior got back, and take him aside on the quiet.”

Reggie sighed and continued. “Good plan, of course, but when they made it, they imagined he’d be back inside of a week. That was two weeks ago, and he’s still not back. They’re uneasy about fronting up at Hillgate End and asking the General where his son is—they’ll hold their hand as long as they can. But with the spring season in the offing, they can’t wait forever.”

Demon met Reggie’s deceptively innocent eyes. “I see.”

And he did. The message he was getting was not from Reggie, not even from Reggie’s father, but from the all-powerful Committee itself.

“You don’t have any . . . ah, insights to offer, do you?”

After a moment, Demon said, “No. But I can see the Committee’s point.”

“Hmm.” Reggie shot Demon a commiserating look. “Not hard to see, is it?”

“No, indeed.” They finished their coffee, paid, then strolled outside. Demon paused on the step.

Reggie stopped beside him. “Where are you headed?”

Demon shot him a glance. “Hillgate End, where else?” He raised his brows. “To see what the situation there is.”

“They all think I don’t know.” General Sir Gordon Caxton sat in the chair behind his desk. “But I follow the race results better than most and although I don’t get out to the paddocks much these days, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing when I do.” He snorted.

Demon, standing before the long windows, watched his longtime friend and mentor fretfully realign his already straight blotter. He’d arrived a quarter of an hour before, and, as was his habit, had come straight to the library. The General had greeted him with open delight. To Demon’s well-attuned ear, the General’s heartiness had sounded forced. When the first rush of genial exchanges had faded, he’d asked how everything was with his friend. The General’s superficial delight evaporated, and he’d made his admission.

“Whispers—and more. About Dillon, of course.” The General’s chin sank; for a long moment, he stared at the miniature of his late wife, Dillon’s mother, that stood on one side of the desk, then he sighed and shifted his gaze to his blotter once more. “Race-fixing.” The words were uttered with loathing. “He might, of course, be innocent, but . . .” He dragged in an unsteady breath, and shook his head. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The boy always lacked backbone—my fault as much as his. I should have taken a firmer stand, applied a firmer hand. But . . .” After another long moment, he sighed again. “I hadn’t expected this.”

There was a wealth of hurt, of confused pain, in the quietly spoken words. Demon’s hands fisted; he felt an urgent desire to grab hold of Dillon and iron him out, literally and figuratively, regardless of Flick’s sensitivities. The General, despite his lumbering bulk, shaggy brows and martial air, was a benign and gentle man, kindhearted and generous, respected by all who knew him. Demon had visited him regularly for twenty-five years; there had never been any lack of love, of gentle guidance for Dillon. Whatever the General might imagine, Dillon’s situation was no fault of his.

The General grimaced. “Felicity, dear girl, and Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs all try to keep it from me. I haven’t let them know there’s no need. They’d only fuss more if they knew I knew.”

Mrs. Fogarty had been the General’s housekeeper for more than thirty years, and Jacobs, the butler, had been with him at least as long. Both, like Felicity, were utterly devoted to the General.

The General looked up at Demon. “Tell me—have you heard anything beyond suspicions?”

Demon held his gaze. “No—nothing more than this.” Briefly, he stated all he’d heard in Newmarket that morning.

The General humphed. “As I said, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn Dillon was involved. He’s away staying with friends—if the Committee’s agreeable to wait until he returns, that would be best, I suspect. No need to summon him back. Truth to tell, if I did send a summons, I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t bolt.”

“It’s always been a mystery how Dillon could be so weak a character when he grew up alongside Felicity. She’s so . . .” The General stopped, then smiled fleetingly at Demon. “Well, the word ‘righteous’ comes to mind. Turning her from her path, which you may be sure she’s fully considered from all angles, is all but impossible. Always was.” He sighed fondly. “I used to put it down to her parents being missionaries, but it goes deeper than that. A true character—steadfast and unswerving. That’s my Felicity.”

His smile faded. “Would that a little of her honesty had rubbed off on Dillon. And some of her steadiness. She’s never caused me a moment’s worry, but Dillon? Even as a child he was forever in some senseless scrape. The devil of it was, he always looked to Felicity to rescue him—and she always did. Which was all very well when they were children, but Dillon’s twenty-two. He should have matured, should have grown beyond these damned larks.”

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.”