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. “Whoever 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 turne
d 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.
Chapter 4
The next days passed uneventfully; Flick swallowed her impatience and doggedly watched, doggedly listened. She rode morning and afternoon track work every day, then slouched about the stable for as long as she could in the mornings, and until all the stable lads left in the evenings. After three days, the only suspicious character she’d spotted had proved to be one of the lads’ cousins, visiting from the north. The only surprising information she’d heard concerned the activities of some redheaded barmaid.
As he’d intimated, Demon had attended all the track work religiously—he’d watched her religiously, too; her sensitivity to his gaze grew more acute by the day. She’d sighed with relief when, within her hearing that morning, he’d told Carruthers that he’d be spending the afternoon about the other stables looking over the competition.
So at three o’clock, she left the General nodding over his records and set off on Jessamy for the cottage—Felicity garbed in her blue velvet riding habit—feeling less trepidatious, certainly more sure of herself. No longer wary of what she might face at the stable.
Dillon was in the clearing when she rode up, the cob placidly munching nearby. She reined in and slid out of her saddle, turned on her heel and marched into the cottage to change—without a single glance at Dillon. He’d have the cob saddled and bridled, and Jessamy unsaddled and tethered, by the time she came out.
She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d learned the truth. Every time she’d come by, he’d tried to catch her eye, to smile and make amends.
Struggling out of her velvet skirts, Flick humphed. Dillon was being excessively careful around her—he could be careful for a while more. She hadn’t forgiven him for deceiving her—she hadn’t forgiven herself for being so gullible. She should have guessed; she knew he wasn’t that innocent any more, but the idea that he could have been so comprehensively stupid hadn’t entered her head.
Smoothing her curls, she crammed her cap over them. She was exceedingly tired of putting right Dillon’s wrongs, of easing his way, but . . .
She sighed. She would continue to shield Dillon if the alternative was upsetting the General. Distress wasn’t good for him, as Dr. Thurgood had made very clear. Assuring his tranquility was also one way she could repay him for all he had given her.
A home—a secure, stable place in which to grow up. A steady hand, a steadier heart, and an unwavering confidence in her.
She’d come to Hillgate End a confused seven-year-old, suddenly very much alone. Her Aunt Scroggs, with whom her parents had left her in London, had not been willing to keep her when her temporary need had turned permanent. No one had wanted her until, out of nowhere, the General, a distant connection of her father’s, had stepped in, smiled kindly upon her, and taken her into his home.
In the country, where she loved to be, close to horses—her favorite animal.
Coming to Hillgate End had changed her life forever, and all for the better. Even though she hadn’t been a pauper, as a child, who knows where she might have ended without the General’s kindness, without his care? Thanks to the General, she’d ended here, with a happy life and every opportunity. She owed him a great deal.
Drawing a deep breath, she stepped out of the lean-to. Dillon was waiting, holding the cob, saddled and bridled, close by the log she used for mounting. Flick eyed him steadily as she crossed the yard, but she refused to let him catch her eye. Despite her affection for the General, Dillon, at the moment, she simply endured.
She mounted, gathered the reins, and jogged off without a word.
At least Demon had got the truth out of Dillon. Even though she’d felt foolish for not having seen the inconsistencies in Dillon’s story, she could only be glad of Demon’s intervention. Since he’d agreed to help, despite his ridiculous insistence on watching her, she’d sensed a lightening of the weight that until his arrival had rested solely on her shoulders. He was there, sharing the load, doing, like her, whatever he could to spare the General. Regardless of anything else, it was a distinct relief.
Reaching the road, she set the cob trotting. At the stable, a lad had The Flynn saddled and waiting; she checked the girths, then with the lad’s help, jumped up to perch high on the bay’s back. He was used to her now, to the croon of her voice; with the merest urging, he trotted to the door.
Carruthers was waiting.“Take a long walk, then a gentle trot, at least six, then walk him again and bring him in.”
Flick nodded and clicked the reins. Afternoon work was always easy; not every trainer even bothered.
She paraded with the rest of the string, listening to the natter of the lads and riders about her, simultaneously scanning the nearby verges of the Heath where the watchers—the hangers-on and the touts, spying out the form for bookmakers or private clients—congregated.
As usual, she was the last to walk her mount in, so she could watch to see if any outsider tried to speak to a rider. None did; no one approached any rider in Demon’s string, nor the strings from nearby stables.
Disappointed, starting to question whether she would ever see or hear anything useful, she slid from the saddle and let the stable lad lead The Flynn away. After a moment, she followed.
She helped the lad unsaddle, then left him cleaning the manger while she fetched the feed, then the water. The lad moved on to the next horse he looked after. Flick sighed, and The Flynn turned his huge head and nudged her.
Smiling crookedly, she patted his nose. On impulse, she climbed the box wall and perched atop it, leaning her shoulder against the stable’s outer wall. She scanned the boxes, listening to the murmurs and conversations—mostly between lads and their equine charges.
The Flynn nudged her legs; she crooned at him, grinning when he hurrumphed and nodded.
“Oh, fer Gawd’s sake—take a hike! I doan wanna hear what you’ve got ter say, so just piss off, why doan yer?”
Flick straightened so abruptly that she nearly fell off the wall. The words sounded so clear—then she realized she was hearing them through the stable wall. The speaker—she recognized the dulcet tones of one of the top race jockeys—was outside.
“Now, now. If’n you’ll just hear me out—”
“I tol’ you—I doan wanna hear nuthin’ from you! Now push off, afore I set ol’ Carruthers on yer!”
“Your loss.”
The second speaker had a scratchy voice; it faded away.
Flick scrambled off the wall and tore through the stable, dodging lads with buckets and feed all the way up the alley. They swore at her. She didn’t stop. She reached the doors; hugging their edge, she peeped out.
A heavy figure in an old frieze coat was lumbering away along the edge of the Heath, a cloth cap pulled low over his face, his hands sunk in his pockets. She could see little more than Dillon had.
The man was heading for the town.
For one moment, Flick stood in the yard, juggling possibilities. Then she swung around and hurried back into the stable.
* * *
Demon ambled into his stable at the end of the working day. Soft snorts and gentle whinnies punctuated breathy sighs as stable lads closed their charges in their boxes. The reek of horse was absolute; Demon barely
noticed. He did notice the old cob quietly dozing in one corner, a few handfuls of hay and a bucket close by. Glancing left and right, Demon strolled down the alley.
He stopped by The Flynn’s box; the big bay was settled and contentedly munching. Strolling on, he came upon Carruthers, inspecting a filly’s hoof.
“Where’s Flick?”
Carruthers glanced at him, then snorted. “Gone orf, already. In a pelter, he was. Left his cob—said he’d fetch it later.” He looked down at the hoof he was tending.
Demon held back a frown. “Did he say anything else?”
“Nah!” With a deft flick, Carruthers pried a stone free. “Just like the other lads—couldn’t wait to get to the Swan and lift a pint.”
“The Swan?”
“Or the Bells.” Carruthers let the horse’s leg down and straightened. “Who knows with lads these days?”
Demon paused; Carruthers watched the filly test the hoof. “So Flick headed into town?”
“Aye—that’s what I’m saying. He usually heads off home to Lidgate, quiet as you please, but today he beetled off into town.”
“How long ago?”
Carruthers shrugged. “Twenty minutes.”
Demon bit back an oath, swung on his heel and strode out of his stable.
He didn’t find Flick in the Swan or the Bells, both respectable inns. He found her in the smoke-filled snug of the Fox and Hen, a seedy tavern down a narrow side street. Nursing a full pint pot, she sat sunk in a corner, surrounded by ale-swilling brutes three times her size.
She was trying to look inconspicuous. Thankfully, a dart game was in full swing, and many patrons were still rolling in; the rabble were presently distracted and hadn’t started looking around for likely victims.
Jaw set, Demon grabbed a pint from the harassed barman and crossed the room, his size, accentuated by his heavy greatcoat, allowing him to cleave a passage through the crowd. There were others of his ilk present, gentlemen hobnobbing with cits, rubbing shoulders with half-pay officers and racecourse riffraff; his appearance attracted no undue attention.
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