A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 2

She tilted her chin-a delicate, pointy little chin. Set as it was, it looked decidedly stubborn.

"I'm masquerading as a stable lad, in your stables, so-"

"What a damn fool lark! What the devil-"

"It's not a lark!" Her blue eyes flashed; her expression turned belligerent. "I'm doing it for the General!"

"The General?" General Sir Gordon Caxton was Demon's neighbor and mentor, and Felicity's-Flick's-guardian. Demon scowled. "You're not going to tell me the General knows about this?"

"Of course not!"

The Flynn shifted; tight-lipped, Demon waited while Flick quieted the big bay.

Her gaze flickered over him, irritated and considering in equal measure, then steadied on his face.

"It's all because of Dillon."

"Dillon?" Dillon was the General's son. Flick and Dillon were of similar age. Demon's most recent memories of Dillon were of a dark-haired youth, swaggering about the General's house, Hillgate End, giving himself airs and undeserved graces.

"Dillon's in trouble."

Demon got the distinct impression she only just avoided adding "again."

"He became involved-inadvertently-with a race-fixing racket."

"What?" He bit off the word, then had to settle his mount. The words "race-fixing" sent a chill down his spine.

Flick frowned at him. "That's when jockeys are paid to ease back on a horse, or cause a disruption, or-"

He glared at her. "I know what race-fixing entails. That doesn't explain what you're doing mixed up in it."

"I'm not!" Indignation colored her cheeks.

"What are you doing masquerading as a lad, then?"

Her soft blue eyes flashed. "If you'd stop interrupting, I'd be able to tell you!"

Demon reined in his temper, set his jaw, and pointedly waited. After a moment's fraught silence, blue eyes locked with blue, Flick nodded and put her pert nose in the air.

"Dillon was approached some weeks ago by a man and asked to take a message to a jockey about the first race of the season. He didn't see any reason he shouldn't, so he agreed. I suspect he thought it would be a lark-or that it made him more involved with the racing-but he agreed to carry the message to the jockey, then didn't. Couldn't. He got a chill and Mrs. Fogarty and I insisted he stay in bed-we took away his clothes, so he had to. Of course, he didn't say why he kept trying to struggle up. Not then."

She drew breath. "So the message didn't get passed on. It was an instruction to fix the race, so the race, therefore, wasn't fixed. It now seems that the man who approached Dillon was working for some sort of syndicate-a group of some description-and because the race wasn't fixed and they didn't know it, they lost a lot of money."

"Men came looking for Dillon-rough men. Luckily, Jacobs and Mrs. Fogarty didn't like their style-they said Dillon was away. So now he's in hiding and fears for his life."

Demon exhaled and sat back in his saddle. From what he knew of the unsavory types involved in race-fixing, Dillon had good cause to worry. He studied Flick. "Where's he hiding?"

She straightened, and fixed him with a very direct look. "I can't tell you-not unless you're willing to help us."

Demon returned her gaze with one even more severe, and distinctly more aggravated. "Of course I'm going to help you!" What did she think he was? Beneath his breath, he swore. "How's the General going to take it if his only son is charged with race-fixing?"

Flick's expression immediately eased; Demon knew he couldn't have said anything more convincing-not to her. More devoted than a daughter, she was intensely protective of the ageing General. She thought the world of him, as did he. She actually nodded approvingly.

"Precisely. And that, I'm afraid, is one of the things we especially fear, because the man who hired Dillon definitely knew he was the General's son."

Demon inwardly grimaced. The General was the preeminent authority on English and Irish Thoroughbreds and revered throughout the racing industry. The syndicate had planned well. "So where's Dillon hiding?"

Flick considered him, one last measuring glance. "In the tumbledown cottage on the far corner of your land."

"My land?"

"It was safer than anywhere on the Caxton estate."

He couldn't argue-the Caxton estate comprised just the house and its surrounding park. The General had a fortune invested in the Funds and needed no farms to distract him. He'd sold off his acres years ago-Demon had bought some of the land himself. He shot a glance at Flick, sitting comfortably astride The Flynn. "My horses, my cottage-what else have you been making free with?"

She blushed slightly but didn't reply. Demon couldn't help but notice how fine her skin was, unblemished ivory silk now tinged a delicate rose. She was a painter's dream; she would have had Botticelli slavering. The idea brought to mind the painter's diaphanously clad angels; in a blink of his mental eye, he had Flick similarly clothed. And the tantalizing question of how that ivory skin, which he'd wager would extend all over her, would look when flushed with passion formed in the forefront of his brain.

Abruptly, he refocused. Good God-what was he thinking? Flick was the General's ward, and not much more than a child. How old was she? He frowned at her. "None of what you've said explains what you're doing here, dressed like that, working my latest champion."

"I'm hoping to identify the man who contacted Dillon. Dillon only met him at night-he never saw him well enough to recognize or describe. Now Dillon's not available to act as his messenger, the man will have to contact someone else, someone who can easily speak to the race jockeys."

"So you're hanging around my stables morning and afternoon, hoping this man approaches you?" Aghast, he stared at her.

"Not me. One of the others-the older lads who know all the race jockeys. I'm there to keep watch and overhear anything I can."

He continued to stare at her while considering all the holes in her story. Clearly, he'd have to fill them in one by one. "How the hell did you persuade Carruthers to hire you? Or doesn't he know?"

"Of course he doesn't know. No one does. But it wasn't difficult to get hired. I heard Ickley had disappeared-Dillon was told Ickley had agreed to act as messenger for this season, but changed his mind at the last. That's why they approached Dillon. So I knew Carruthers was short-handed."

Demon's lips thinned. Flick continued. "So I dressed appropriately"-with a sweeping gesture, she indicated her garb-"and went to see Carruthers. Everyone in Newmarket knows Carruthers can't see well close to, so I didn't think I'd have any difficulty. All I had to do was ride for him and he'd take me on."

Demon swallowed a snort. "What about the others-the other lads, the jockeys? They're not all half-blind."

The look Flick bent on him was the epitome of feminine condescension. "Have you ever stood in a working stable and watched how often the men-lads or trainers-look at each other? The horses, yes, but they never do more than glance at the humans working alongside. The others see me all the time, but they never look. You're the only one who looked."

Accusation colored her tone. Demon swallowed his retort that he'd have to have been dead not to look. He also resisted the urge to inform her she should be grateful he had; just the thought of what she'd blithely got herself into, squaring up to expose a race-fixing syndicate, chilled him.

Race-fixing syndicates were dangerous, controlled by men to whom the lives of others meant little. The lives of people like Ickley. Demon made a mental note to find out what had happened to Ickley. The idea that Flick had set herself up as Ickley's replacement was enough to turn his hair grey. Gazing at her face, on her openly determined expression, it was on the tip of his tongue to terminate her employment immediately.

Recollection of how her chin had set earlier made him hold the words back. Pretty little chin, delicately tapered. And too stubborn by half.

There was a great deal he did not yet know, a great deal he didn't as yet understand.

The horses were cooling, the sun slowly sinking. His mount shifted, coat flickering. Demon drew breath. "Let's get back, then I'll go and see Dillon."

Flick nodded, urging The Flynn into a walk. "I'll come, too. Well, I have to. That's where I change clothes and switch horses."

"Horses?"

She threw him a wary glance. "I couldn't turn up for work riding Jessamy-that they'd certainly notice."

Jessamy, Demon recalled, was a dainty mare with exceptional bloodlines; the General had bought her last year. Apparently for Flick. He glanced at her. "So?…"

She drew breath and looked ahead. "So I borrow the old cob you let run on your back paddock. I don't ride him above a canter, if that. I'm very careful of him."

She looked up. He trapped her gaze. "Anything else you've borrowed?"

Big blue eyes blinked wide. "I don't think so."

"All right. We'll ride these two back, then you climb on the cob and head off. I'll leave in my curricle. I'll drive home, then ride out and join you. I'll meet you by the split oak on the road to Lidgate."

She nodded. "Very well. But we'll need to hurry now. Come on." She leaned forward, effortlessly shifting The Flynn from walk, to trot, to canter.

And left him staring after her. With a curse, he dug in his heels and set out in her wake.

He reached the split oak before her.

By the time she appeared, trotting the old cob, long past his prime, down the middle of the road, Demon had decided that, whatever transpired with Dillon, he would ensure that one point was made clear.

He was in charge from now on. She'd asked for his help; she would get it, but on his terms.

From now on, he'd lead and she could follow.

As she neared, her gaze slid from him to his mount, a raking grey hunter who went by the revealing name of Ivan the Terrible. He was a proud and princely beast with a foul, dangerous, potentially lethal temper. As the cob drew closer, Ivan rolled one eye and stamped.

The cob was too old to pay the slightest attention. Flick's brows, however, rose; her gaze passed knowledgeably over Ivan's more positive points as she reined in. "I know I haven't seen him before."

Demon made no reply. He waited-and waited-until she finished examining his horse and lifted her gaze to his face. Then he smiled. "I bought him late last year." Flick's eyes, suddenly riveted on his face, widened slightly. She mouthed an "Oh," and looked away.

Side by side, they rode on, the cob doggedly plodding, Ivan placing his hooves with restless disdain. "What did you tell Carruthers?" Flick asked with a sidelong glance. When they'd returned to the stable, Flick had been in the lead. Carruthers had been standing, hands on hips, in the stable door. From behind Flick, Demon had signalled him away; Carruthers had stared, but, as Flick had trotted The Flynn up, he'd stood aside and let her pass without question. By that time, Carruthers and the nightwatchman, a retired jockey, had been the only ones left in the stable.

Handing his mount to the nightwatchman to unsaddle, Demon had set about mollifying Carruthers.

"I told him I knew you as a brat from near Lidgate, and you'd feared that, recognizing you, I'd terminate your employment immediately." The twilight was deepening; they jogged along as fast as the cob could manage. "However, having seen you ride, and being convinced of your fervent wish to work my horses, I said I'd agreed to let you stay on."

Flick frowned. "He came in and all but shooed me off-said he'd settle The Flynn and I should get on home without delay."

"I mentioned that I knew your sick mother and how she'd worry-I instructed Carruthers that you shouldn't pull duties that will keep you late, and that you should leave in plenty of time to reach home before dark."

Although he was examining the scenery and not looking at her, Demon still felt Flick's suspicious glance. It confirmed his opinion that she didn't need to know about the other instructions he'd issued to his trainer. Carruthers, thankfully not an imaginative or garrulous son, had stared at him, then shrugged and acquiesced.

They left the road and turned into a sunken track between two fields. The cob, sensing home and dinner, broke into a trot; Ivan, forced to remain alongside, accepted the edict with typical bad grace, tossing his head and jerking his reins every few yards.

"He's obviously in need of exercise," Flick remarked.

"I'll give him a run later."

"I'm surprised you let him get into such a bad temper."

Demon stifled an acid retort. "He's been here, I've been in London, and no one can ride him but me."

"Oh."

Lifting her gaze, Flick looked ahead to where the track wended into a small wood; she fell to studying the trees.

From under his lashes, Demon studied her. She'd examined his horse so thoroughly she probably knew his every line, yet she'd barely glanced at him. Ivan was indeed a handsome beast, as were all his cattle, but he wasn't used to taking second place to his mount. Which might seem arrogant, but he knew women-girls and ladies, females of any description-well.

It wasn't simply that she hadn't looked. His senses, well honed through his years on the prowl, could detect not the slightest flicker of consciousness-the minutest suggestion of awareness-in the female riding beside him.

Which, in his experience, was odd. Distinctly odd.

The fact that her lack of awareness was focusing his to a remarkable degree hadn't escaped him. It didn't surprise him; he was a born hunter. When the prey didn't take cover, he-at least that part of him that operated on instinct first, logic second-saw it as a challenge.

Which was, in this case, ridiculous.

There was no reason a girl like Flick, raised quietly in the country, should be aware, in any sexual sense, of a gentleman like him-especially one she'd known all her life.

Demon frowned, tightening the reins as Ivan tried to surge. Disgusted, the big grey snorted; Demon managed not to do the same.

He still had no idea precisely how old she was. He glanced her way, covertly confirming details he'd instinctively noted. She'd always been petite, although he hadn't seen her in recent years. In her present incarnation, he'd only seen her atop a horse, but he doubted her head would clear his shoulder. Her figure remained a mystery, except for her definitely feminine bottom-a classic inverted heart, sleekly rounded. The rest of her was amply disguised by her stable lad's garb. Whether she wore bands about her breasts, as did many devoted female riders, he couldn't tell, but her overall proportions were nice. Slim, slender-she might well be delectable.

On the way back to the stables, she'd tugged her muffler up over her nose and chin so the swath hid most of her face. As for her hair, she'd stuffed it under her cap so thoroughly that, beyond the fact it was as brightly golden as he recalled, he couldn't tell how she wore it. A few short strands had slipped free at her nape, sheening against her collar like spun gold.

Looking forward, he inwardly frowned. It wasn't simply that there were lots of things he didn't yet know about her that bothered him. The very fact he wanted to know bothered him. This was Flick, the General's ward.

General Sir Gordon Caxton had been his mentor in all matters pertaining to horses since he'd been six. That was when, while visiting with his late great-aunt Charlotte, he'd first met the General. Thereafter, whenever he'd been in the locality, he'd spent as much time as possible with the General, learning everything he could about breeding Thoroughbreds. It was due to the General, to his knowledge freely shared and his unstinting encouragement, that he, Demon, was now one of the preeminent breeders of quality horseflesh in the British Isles.

He owed the General a great deal.

A fact he could never forget. He comforted himself with that thought as he trotted beside Flick into the trees beyond which stood the old cottage.

Once a tenant farmer's home, it was now one step away from a ruin. From the rutted lane meandering up to its warped and sagging door, the structure looked uninhabitable. Only on closer inspection could one discern that the roof of the main room was still mostly intact, the four walls enclosing it still standing.

With an imperious gesture, Flick led the way around the cottage. Briefly raising his eyes to the skies, Demon followed, entering a grassy clearing enclosed by trees. A sharp whinny greeted them. Eagerly, Flick urged the cob on. Looking across the clearing, Demon saw Jessamy, a pretty golden-coated mare with pale mane and tail and the most exquisite conformation he'd ever seen. She was tethered on a long rein.

Ivan saw Jessamy, too, and concurred with Demon's assessment. Still held on tight rein, Ivan reared and trumpeted. Only excellent reflexes saved Demon from an embarrassing unseating. Smothering an oath, he wrestled Ivan down, then forced him to the other side of the clearing, ignoring the combined, slightly insulted stares of Flick, Jessamy and the cob.

Dismounting, Demon double-tied Ivan's reins to a large tree. "Behave yourself," he ordered, then turned away, leaving the stallion, head up, staring with complete and absolute absorption across the clearing.

Having turned the cob loose, Flick dumped her saddle on a convenient log and gave Jessamy, who clearly adored her, a fond pat. Then, with another imperious, beckoning wave, she led the way around the far side of the cottage.

Muttering beneath his breath, Demon strode after her.

He rounded the cottage-Flick was nowhere in sight. A lean-to had been tacked onto the cottage on that side. The lean-to hadn't survived as well as the cottage-its outer wall was crumbling and half its roof had disappeared. Flick had ducked through an opening, a door that had never been planned. Hearing her voice in the main room beyond, Demon ducked beneath the canted beams; easing his shoulders through the narrow space, he stepped silently through the debris and entered the cottage proper.

And saw Flick standing beside Dillon Caxton, who was sitting at one end of an old table, blankets wrapped about his shoulders. She was bent over him; as Demon entered, she straightened, frowning, her hand on Dillon's brow. "You don't have any sign of a fever."

Dillon didn't respond, his eyes, large and dark, framed by long black lashes, fixed on Demon. Then he coughed, glanced at Flick, then at Demon. "Ah… hello. Come in! I'm afraid it's rather cold in here-we daren't light a fire."

Mentally noting that the cottage was his property, Demon merely nodded. In such flat countryside, smoke could easily be traced, and smoke rising from an area thought to be uninhabited would certainly attract attention. Holding Dillon's increasingly wary gaze, he strolled the few paces to the other end of the table, to a stool that appeared sufficiently robust to support his weight. "Flick mentioned that there were gentlemen about whose company you were keen to avoid."

Color flooded Dillon's pale cheeks. "Ah, yes. Flick said you'd agreed to help." With one long-fingered hand, he combed back the thick lock of dark hair that fell, in perfect Byronic imitation, across his brow, and he smiled engagingly. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

Demon held Dillon's impossibly innocent gaze for a moment, then hitched up the stool and sat, declining to mention that it was for the General's sake, and Flick's, that he was involving himself in a mess that, as an owner of racing Thoroughbreds, he'd much rather hand straight to the magistrates.

Dillon glanced up at Flick; she was frowning slightly at Demon. "Flick didn't say how much she's told you-

"Enough for me to understand what's been going on." Resting his arms on the table, Demon looked at Dillon and didn't like what he saw. The fact that Flick was hovering protectively at Dillon's shoulder contributed to his assessment only marginally; much more telling were his memories, observations made over the years, and the facts of the current imbroglio, not as Flick had innocently described them but as he knew they must be.

He didn't doubt she'd faithfully recounted all she'd been told; the truth, he knew, was more damning than that.

His smile held the right degree of male camaraderie to appeal to a youth like Dillon. "I'd like to hear your observations direct. Let's start with your meeting with this character who asked you to carry a message."

"What do you want to know?"

"The how, the when, the where. The words."

"Well, the when was nearly three weeks ago, just before the first race of the year."

"Just before?"

Dillon nodded. "Two days before."

"Two days?" Demon raised his brows. "That seems awfully short notice to arrange a fix, don't you think? The general consensus is that these syndicates lay their plans well in advance. It's something of an imperative, given the number of bookmakers and other supporting characters necessarily involved."

Dillon's eyes blanked. "Oh?" Then his smile flashed. "Actually, the man did say they'd had another messenger-Ickley-he used to work at your stables-lined up to do the job, but he'd changed his mind. So they needed someone else."

"And so they came to you. Why?"

The single word startled Dillon, then he shrugged. "I don't know-I suppose they were looking for someone who knew their way about. Knew the jockeys, and the places to go to rub the right shoulders."

Flick settled onto a stool. She was frowning more definitely, but her frown was now aimed at Dillon.

"Why did you imagine this man didn't just ask you to point out the particular jockey and speak to him himself?"

Dillon's brows drew down sharply; after a moment, he shook his head. "I don't follow."

"Surely you wondered why it was necessary for this man to have a messenger at all?" Demon trapped Dillon's gaze. "If the messages were innocent, why did the man need to hire you-or anyone-to deliver them?"

Dillon's trademark smile flashed. "Ah, but the messages weren't innocent, you see."

"Oh, I do see," Demon assured him. "But you didn't know that before they hired you, did you?"

"Well…no."

"So why didn't you simply tell this man where he could find the jockey? Why be his go-between?"

"Well, because… I suppose I thought he might not want to be seen… well, no."

Demon recaptured Dillon's gaze. "No, indeed. How much did they pay you?"

Every drop of blood drained from Dillon's face; his eyes grew darker, wilder. "I-don't know what you mean."

Demon held his gaze unblinkingly. "This would not, I suggest, be a good time to lie. How much did they pay you?"

Dillon flushed.

Flick sprang to her feet. "You took money?" Behind her, the stool clattered on the flags. "You took money to carry a message to fix a race?"

The accusation in her tone would have made the Devil flinch; Dillon did not. "It was only two ponies-just for the one message. I wasn't going to do it any more. That's why they got Ickley."

"Any more?" Flick stared at him. "What do you mean 'any more'?"

Dillon's expression turned mulish; Flick leaned both hands on the table and looked him in the eye. "Dillon-how long? How long have you been taking money to carry messages for these men?"

He tried to keep silent, tried to withstand the demand in her tone, the scorn in her eyes."Since last summer."

"Last summer?" Flick straightened, shoving the table in her agitation. "Good God! Why?" She stared at Dillon. "What on earth possessed you?"

Demon held silent; as an avenging angel, Flick had a distinct advantage.

Turning sulky, Dillon pushed back from the table. "It was the money, of course." He attempted a sneer, but it bounced off Flick's righteous fury.

"The General gives you a very generous allowance-why would you want more?"

Dillon laughed brittlely and leaned his arms on the table. He avoided Flick's outraged stare.

Which did nothing to soothe her temper. "And if you needed more, you know you only had to ask. I always have plenty…" Her words trailed away; she blinked, then her eyes blazed. She refocused on Dillon. "You've been gambling at the cockfights again, haven't you?" Scorn-raw disgust-poured through her words. "Your father forbade it, but you couldn't leave it be. And now-!" Sheer fury choked her; she gestured wildly.

"Cockfighting's not that bad," Dillon countered, still sulky. "It's not as if it's something other gentlemen don't do." He glanced at Demon.

"Don't look at me," Demon returned. "Not my style at all."

"It's disgusting!" Flick looked directly at Dillon. "You're disgusting, too." She whirled and swooped on a pile of clothes set on an old chest. "I'm going to change."

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 cockfight."

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 1 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.