A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 3

Demon 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.

"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, remembering 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."

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.

She felt Demon's gaze on her face, on her shoulders, then he turned to the General. "The Mighty Flynn's shaping well. I'm expecting to have another two wins at least from him this season."

"Indeed?"

The General was instantly distracted; Flick breathed a touch easier.

Demon kept the conversation rolling, not a difficult task. Much more difficult was keeping his gaze from Flick; his attention, of course, remained riveted. Ridiculous, of course-she was twenty, for heaven's sake.

But she was there, and utterly fascinating.

He told himself it was the contrast between Flick the righteous, who dressed as a stable lad and single-handedly set out to expose a race-fixing syndicate, and Felicity, the delicate and determinedly proper Botticelli angel.

It was a contrast designed to intrigue him.

"Perhaps," he said as they all stood, the light luncheon disposed of, "Felicity would care to take a turn about the lawns?"

He deliberately phrased the question to give the General an opening to support him. He needn't have bothered. Flick's head came up; she met his gaze.

"That would be pleasant." She glanced at the General. "If you don't need me, sir?"

"No, no!" The General beamed. "I must get back to my books. You go along."

He shooed them toward the open French doors; Demon caught his eye. "I'll drop by if I have any news."

The General's eyes dimmed. "Yes, do." Then he glanced at Flick and his smile returned. Nodding benignly, he headed for the door.

Leaving Flick by her chair, staring at Demon. He raised a brow, and gestured to the French doors. "Shall we?"

She came around the table but didn't pause by his side, didn't wait for him to offer his arm. Instead, she walked straight past, out of the open doors. Demon stared at her back, then shook his head and followed.

She'd paused on the terrace; as soon as he appeared, she led the way down the steps. With his longer stride, he easily caught up with her as she strolled the well-tended lawn. He fell in beside her, sauntering slowly, trying to decide what gambit would work best with an angel. Before he could decide, she spoke.

"How am I supposed to hear any comments or see anyone approaching the riders in your stables when I barely spend a moment in them?" She cast a darkling glance his way. "I arrived this morning to discover The Flynn already saddled. Carruthers sent me straight out to take The Flynn around for an extended warm-up"-her eyes narrowed-"so he wouldn't still be restless at the end. And then you bundled me out of the stable as soon as I rode back in."

"I assumed you would need to get back here." He hadn't, but it was a good excuse. He slanted her a mildly questioning glance. "How are you covering your absences early morning and afternoon?"

"I often go riding first thing in the morning, so that's nothing unusual. If Jessamy's missing from the stable, everyone assumes I'm somewhere about, enjoying the morning. Just as long as I'm back by lunchtime, no one would think to worry."

Slowing as they passed into the shade of the old trees edging the lawn, Flick grimaced. "The afternoons are more difficult, but no one's asked where I ride off to. I suspect Foggy and Jacobs know Dillon's not off with friends, but somewhere close-but if they don't ask, then they can't say if questioned."

"I see." He hesitated, inwardly debating whether to take her hand and place it on his sleeve, forcing her to stroll with him rather than lead the way. But she'd tensed when he'd taken her hand before, and she'd nearly dropped the vinegar. Suppressing a grin, he opted for caution. "There's no reason you can't loiter around the stables after the morning gallops. Not having any chores should give you a freer rein." He had no intention of rescinding the orders he'd given Carruthers. "However, there's no sense in dallying after afternoon stables. At that time, most of the jockeys and hangers-on retire to the taverns."

"There's no reason I can't slouch about the stables until they leave."

Demon inwardly frowned. There was a mulishness in her tone, a sense of rigid purpose in her stance; both had been absent earlier. Earlier in the dining room, when she'd been Felicity, not Flick. Flick was the righteous crusader, Felicity the Botticelli angel.

Slowing, he considered a swath of daffodils nodding their trumpets in the breeze. The odd bluebell and harebell were interspersed, creating a spring carpet stretching under the trees and into the sunshine beyond. He nodded toward the show. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

An angel should respond to natural beauty.

Flick barely glanced at nature's bounty. "Hmm. Have you learned, or heard, anything yet?" She looked into his face. "You did go into town this morning, didn't you?"

He suppressed a frown. "Yes, yes and yes."

She stopped and looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

Frustrated, Demon halted and faced her. "The Committee is waiting for Dillon to return to have a quiet word with him over a number of races last season where the suspiciously priced crowd-favorite didn't win."

Her face blanked. "Oh."

"Indeed. The slumgudgeon didn't even realize that, as he hadn't made a habit of hobnobbing with the riders before, people would notice when he suddenly did."

"But…" Flick frowned. "The stewards haven't come asking after him."

"Not the stewards, no. In this instance, they weren't required-any number of the Committee have probably called on the General in the last weeks. Easy enough to learn whether Dillon is here or not."

"That's true." Then her eyes flew wide. "They haven't said anything to the General, have they?"

Demon glanced away. "No, the Committee sees no reason to unnecessarily upset the General, and as yet, they have no proof-just suspicions."

He looked back as Flick sighed with relief. "If they hold off until Dillon can return-"'

"They'll hold off as long as they can," he cut in. "But they won't-can't-wait forever. Dillon will have to return as soon as possible-the instant we get enough information to prove the existence of the syndicate."

"So we need to make headway in identifying Dillon's contact. Are the rumors of race-fixing widespread?"

"No. Among the owners and trainers, yes, but amongst others, less so. Some jockeys and stable lads must have suspicions, but they're unlikely to voice them, even to each other."

Flick started to stroll again. "If there's no open talk, no rumors abounding, it's less likely someone will let something slip."

Demon didn't reply; Flick didn't seem to notice. Which, to him, seemed all of a piece. Right now she didn't seem aware of him at all-she seemed to regard him as a benevolent uncle, or some creature equally benign. Which was so far from the truth it was laughable.

It was also irritating.

The Botticelli angel of the dining room, the one who had delicately shivered at his touch, and trembled when his fingers brushed hers, had vanished.

She glanced at him. "Perhaps you could start with the jockeys whose mounts failed last season. I assume, if they've taken a bribe once, they'll be more likely to be approached again?"

"Ordinarily, yes. However, if they've been questioned, however elliptically, by the stewards, one can guarantee their lips will be sealed. With a license in the balance, no jockey's going to incriminate himself."

"There must be some action you can take while I keep watch in your stables."

Demon's eyes widened; he only just stopped himself from replying caustically with rather more information than she needed. "Never mind about me. I'm sure I'll find some useful avenue to explore." He'd already thought of several, but he had no intention of sharing his views. "I'll make a start before I look in on the afternoon's work."

"You could investigate any touts or hangers-on lurking about the other stables' strings."

"Indeed." Demon couldn't help himself-eyes hardening, his gaze openly intent, he lengthened his stride, swung to face her, and halted.

Sucking in a breath, she stopped precipitously, all but teetering in her effort not to run into him. She looked up, blue eyes widening in surprise.

He smiled down at her. "I'll be watching you, too." He held her gaze. "Don't doubt it."

She blinked; to his chagrin, not a flicker of awareness-the consciousness he was deliberately trying to evoke-showed in her soft blue eyes. Instead puzzlement filled them. She searched his face briefly, then shrugged, stepped aside and walked around him. "As you wish, although I can't see why. You know I can handle The Flynn, and Carruthers never misses a stride."

Swallowing a curse, Demon swung on his heel and stalked after her. It wasn't The Flynn that concerned him. Flick clearly considered him unthreatening. While he had no wish to threaten her, he definitely wanted her in his bed, which ought, in his book, to make her nervous, at least a bit wary. But no-not Flick.

Felicity was sensitive-Felicity was sensible. She had the good sense to be aware of him. Felicity had some degree of self-preservation. Flick, as far as he could tell, had none. She hadn't even recognized that he was not a benign uncle, and definitely not the sort of man to be managed by a mere chit.

"It won't," he enunciated, regaining her side, "be The Flynn's performance I'll be watching."

She glanced up and met his eyes, her frown more definite. "There's no need to watch me-I haven't parted company with my saddle for years."

"Be that as it may," he purred, "I assure you that watching you-keeping my gaze firmly glued to your svelte form as you trot about perched on one of my champions-is precisely the sort of behavior that's expected of a gentleman such as I."

"Be that as it may, watching me when you could be observing the hangers-on is silly. A wasted opportunity."

"Not for me."

Flick humphed and looked ahead. He was being deliberately difficult-she could sense his aggravation, cloaked though it was, but she had no idea what had caused it, or why he was making less sense than Dillon. She strolled on. And continued to ignore the fluttery sensations assailing her stomach, and the insistent flickering of her nerves. Along with the other unwanted, unwelcome remnants of her girlish obsession with him.

He'd been her ideal gentleman since she'd been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo's works in the library. She'd found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder-altogether better defined. As for the rest, she'd surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.

She hadn't, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be foolish beyond permission to imagine he would ever look at her. But she would marry one day-one day soon; she was very ready to love and be loved. She was already twenty, waiting, hoping. And if she had her way, she would marry a gentleman exactly like Demon. He, however, was an unattainable idol, entirely beyond her reach.

"This"-she gestured-"shady contact of Dillon's. Presumably he's not a local. Perhaps a search of the hotels and inns-'

"I've already got that in hand."

"Oh." She glanced up and met Demon's gaze; for a moment, his blue eyes remained sharp, keen, then he looked ahead.

"I'll check, but it's unlikely we'll find much by that route. This is, after all, Newmarket, a place that abounds in inns and taverns, and that attracts its fair share of shady characters, most of whom aren't local."

Flick grimaced and looked forward-they'd ambled through the gardens. The stables lay ahead, framed by a series of wooden arches over which wisteria grew. Stepping onto the path leading beneath the arches, she mused, "This contact-who would he be? One of the syndicate, or another pawn?"

"Not one of the syndicate." Demon strolled beside her, his strides long and lazy, his hands, somewhat surprisingly, in his trouser pockets. His gaze was on the gravel. "Who ever they are, the syndicate won't want for money, and the last thing they'd risk is exposure. No-the man will be a hireling. Perhaps a permanent employee. That, for us, would be best."

"So once we identify him, we'll have the best chance of following him back to his masters?"

Demon nodded. Then he looked up and stopped. They'd reached the end of the arches.

Flick glanced up, squinting into the sunlight that shone from over his shoulder. He was looking at her; she couldn't see his features, but she could feel his gaze, could sense his sheer physical presence through every pore. She was used to working with large horses; standing near him reminded her of them-he exuded the same aura of potent physical power, which could, if provoked, be dangerous. Luckily, neither horses nor he posed any danger to her. Inwardly lamenting her continuing sensitivity, she raised a hand and shaded her eyes.

And looked into his.

Her breath caught; for an instant, she felt disoriented-unclear who she was, who he was, and how things really were. Then something shifted in the blue; she blinked, and regained her mental footing. Yet he continued to look at her-not precisely seriously, but intently, the expression in his eyes one she neither recognized nor understood.

She was about to raise a brow when, his gaze still steady on her face, he asked, "Now you know the full story of Dillon's involvement, do you regret agreeing to help him?"

"Regret?" Considering the question, she raised both brows. "I don't think the concept applies. I've always helped him-he's made something of a career of getting into unexpectedly complicated scrapes." She shrugged. "I always imagined he'd grow out of them eventually. He hasn't yet."

Demon considered her face, her open expression, the honesty in her soft blue eyes. They didn't tell him how she felt about Dillon; given her apparent resistance to him, he had to wonder if Dillon was the cause. When she and Dillon were together, she was the dominant party-the one in charge. She'd grown accustomed to Dillon being dependent on her-it was possible she liked it that way. There was no doubt she liked to lead.

Which was all very well, but…

"So," she blinked up at him, "what do you imagine will happen next?"

He raised his brows. "Probably not a lot." At least, not in his stables. "However, if you do stumble on any clue, I will, of course, expect to be notified immediately."

"Of course." She lowered her hand and turned toward the stables. "Where will you be?"

Investigating far and wide. "Send a message to the farm-the Shephards always know where to find me."

"I'll send word if I hear anything." She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out her hand. "I'll see you at the stable in a few hours."

Demon took her hand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes-and fell into the blue. Her fingers lay, trusting, quiescent in his grasp. He considered raising them, considered brushing a lingering kiss upon them, considered…

Madness and uncertainty clashed.

The moment passed.

He released her hand. With an elegant nod, he turned and, jaw setting, strode for the stables, more conscious with every stride of a demonic desire to capture a Botticelli angel-and take her to his bed.