Reaching the corner table, he ignored Flick’s huge eyes. Setting his pot down with a definite click, he sat opposite her. Then he met her gaze. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She glared at him, then flicked her gaze to the next table, then back.
Nonchalantly picking up his pint, Demon sipped, scanning the tables beside them. The nearest held two men, hunched over the table, each with a pint before him. They’d both looked up at the dart game; as Demon turned away, they looked down and resumed their conference.
Meeting Flick’s eyes, Demon saw them widen meaningfully. Leaning forward, she hissed, “Listen.”
It took a moment to focus his hearing through the din, but once he had, he could hear well enough.
“So which horse and race are we talking about then?” The speaker was a jockey, one Demon had never hired and only knew by distant sight. He doubted the jockey knew him other than by name, but he kept his face averted.
“Hear tell you’re down to ride Rowena in the Nell Gwyn Stakes in a couple o’weeks.”
The second man’s voice, deep and grating, was easy to distinguish beneath the raucous din. Demon lifted his eyes and met Flick’s; she nodded, then shifted her attention back to their neighbors.
The jockey took a long pull, then lowered his pot. “Aye—that’s right. Where’d you hear? It’s not about the course yet.”
“Never you mind where I heard—what you should be concentrating on is that because I did hear, you’ve an opportunity before you.”
“Opportunity, is it?” The jockey took another long, slow drink. “How much?”
“Four ponies on delivery.”
An eruption of cheers from the dart game had both men looking around. Demon glanced at Flick; eyes wide, she was watching their man—the contact. Under the table, he nudged her boot. She looked at him; he leaned forward. “If you don’t stop staring, he’ll notice and stare back.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, then lowered her gaze to her ale—still untouched. There was another roar from the dart game; everyone looked—even Flick. Swiftly, Demon switched their glasses, leaving his half-full pot for her to nurse. Lifting hers, he drained half; the brew at the Fox and Hen left a lot to be desired, but sitting in a snug amid this sort of crowd nursing a full pot for more than five minutes was enough to invite unwanted attention.
The dart game had concluded. The cheers died and everyone returned to their drinks and conversations.
The jockey looked into his pot as if seeking guidance. “Five ponies.”
“Five?” The contact jeered. “You’re a mite full of yourself, me lad.”
The jockey’s expression hardened. “Five. I’m the one on Rowena’s back that race, and she’ll start it prime favorite. The bets’ll be heavy—real heavy. If you want her out of the winner’s circle, it’ll cost you five.”
“Hmm.” It was the contact’s turn to seek inspiration from his ale. “Five? If you want five, you’ll need to keep her out of the places altogether.”
“Nah.” The jockey shook his head. “Can’t do it. If she finishes outside the places, the stewards’ll be on my tail, and a whole monkey wouldn’t be worth that. I ain’t about to blow my license for you. Even bringing her in second . . . well, I can do it, but only because Cynster’s got a prime filly in the race. Rowena’s better, but I can slot her behind the Cynster filly and it’ll look all right. But unless there’s another runner we ain’t seen yet, they’re the only possible winners. No way I can drop Rowena out of the places.”
The contact frowned, then drained his pot. “All right.” He looked the jockey in the eye. “Five ponies for a no win—is it a deal?”
The jockey hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”
“Aaargh!!” A bellowed war cry erupted through the noise. Everyone turned to see a furious brute break a jug over his neighbor’s head. The jug shattered, the victim slumped. A fist swung out of nowhere, and lifted the assailant from his feet.
And it was on.
Everyone leapt to their feet; chairs crashed, pots went flying. Bodies ricochetted off each other; some thudded on the floor. The melee expanded by the second as more and more patrons launched themselves into the fray.
Demon swung back. Flick, eyes huge, was on her feet in the corner. With an oath, he swept the pots from their table and set it on its side. Reaching across, he grabbed her shoulder. “Get down!”
He forced her down behind the makeshift barricade. One hand on her cap, he pushed her fully down. “Stay there!”
The instant he removed his hand, her head popped up. He swore and reached for her; her already-wide eyes dilated.
He swung around just in time to weave back from a hefty fist. It grazed his jaw—and ignited his temper. Regaining his balance, he plowed a fist into his assailant’s gut, then followed with a solid right to the jaw.
The huge walloper teetered sideways, then back, then crashed onto his back amid the ongoing brawl.
“Demon!”
Ducking, he threw his next attacker, managing to shift his feet enough so the bruiser landed against the wall beyond Flick, rather than on top of her.
A jarvey staggered free of the central melee and swung his way. The man met his eyes and stopped, swaying on his feet, then turned and charged back into the heaving mass of bodies and flailing fists.
“Stop it, yer mongrels!” The barman jumped up on the counter, laying about him with a besom. To no avail. The brawlers were well away, enjoying themselves hugely.
Demon looked around. The only door from the snug was diagonally across from their corner, beyond the heaving mass of the fight. The wall to their left hosted two grimy sash windows; thrusting aside tables and chairs, he reached the nearest, forced the catch free, then heaved. After an initial resistance, the sash flew up.
Turning back, he grabbed Flick by the collar, unceremoniously dragged her from her hiding place, then man-handled her out of the window. She tried to climb daintily out; he grabbed her and pushed. She hissed and batted at his hands—he kept grabbing and pushing. She hesitated halfway out, deciding which foot to place where; he slapped a hand beneath her bottom and shoved.
She landed in an inelegant sprawl on the grass.
Flick dragged in a breath; curses burned her tongue, but she didn’t have breath enough to utter them. Her bottom burned, too; her cheeks were aflame. Both sets. She glanced back. Demon was halfway through the window. Swearing weakly, she scrambled to her feet, dusting her hands on her thighs—she didn’t dare touch her posterior.
The other sash window flew up, and more patrons piled out. Demon appeared beside her; grabbing her elbow, he shoved her away from the inn as others started using their escape route. An orchard rolled down an incline away from the inn—with Demon at her heels, Flick slipped between the trees. The twilight was deepening. Behind them, through the now open windows, they heard shouts, then the piercing whistles of the Watch. Glancing back, Flick saw more of the inn’s customers scrambling through the windows, hurrying to disappear down the orchard’s slope.
“Come on!” Demon grabbed her hand, taking the lead, lengthening his stride so she had to scurry to keep up. She tried to wriggle her hand free; he flung her a scowl, tightened his grip, and strode on even faster. She cursed; he must have heard but gave no sign. He dragged her, skipping, half-running, to the end of the orchard, to where a seven-foot wall blocked their way.
He released her as others joined them and immediately started climbing the wall. Flick eyed the wall, then edged closer to Demon. “Is there a gate anywhere?”
He glanced at her, then nodded to the others scrambling up and over. “Doesn’t look like it.” He hesitated, then stepped to the wall. “Come on—I’ll give you a leg up.”
Bracing one shoulder against the wall, he formed a cup with his hands. Balancing one hand on the stones, the other on his shoulder, Flick placed her boot in his hands.
He pushed her up. It should have been easy; The Flynn’s back was nearly as high as the wall. But the
top of the wall was hard and narrow, not smooth and slippery like a saddle. She managed to get half over, with the wall digging into her middle, but her legs still dangled down.
Blowing out a breath, she braced her arms, straightened her spine, and searched with her boots for purchase. But with her hips on the wrong side of the wall, if she straightened too much, she risked falling back down. And if she didn’t straighten enough, she couldn’t reach any toehold. She teetered, like a seesaw, on the top of the wall.
From beneath her came a long-suffering sigh.
Demon’s hand connected with her bottom again. He hefted her up; in the most flustered flurry of her life, cheeks all flaming again, she quickly swung one leg over the wall and sat.
And tried to catch her breath.
He grabbed the wall beside her and hauled himself up. Easily. Astride the wall, he raked her with a glance, then swung his leg over and dropped into the lane.
Flick dragged in a breath and swung her other leg over, then wriggled around and dropped down—before he felt compelled to help her again. She picked herself up and dusted her hands, aware to her toes of the assessing gaze that passed over her. Lifting her head, she met his eyes, ready to be belligerent.
He merely humphed and gestured down the lane.
She fell in beside him, and they strolled to the road. There were too many others about to risk any discussion. When they reached the road, Demon nudged her elbow and nodded up a lane leading to the High Street. “I left my curricle at the Jockey Club.”
They changed direction, leaving the others behind.
“You were supposed to send word to me the instant you learned anything.”
The words, deathly soft, lethally restrained, floated down to her.
“I would have,” she hissed back, “once I had a chance. But who could I send from your stable? Carruthers?”
“Next time, if there’s no one to send, bring the message yourself.”
“And miss the chance of learning more—like today?”
“Ah, yes. Today. And just how do you imagine you would have survived if I hadn’t arrived?” She studied the small houses lining the road.
“Hmm, let’s see.”
His purr sank deeper, sliding beneath her skin. Flick resisted an urge to wriggle.
“First we have the question of whether, quite aside from the brawl, you would have escaped notice, given you’d bought a pint and couldn’t drink it. Your disguise would have disintegrated rather quickly, revealing to all the fact that the General’s ward, Miss Felicity Parteger, was slumming in the Newmarket stews dressed as a lad.”
“It was an inn, not a stew.”
“For a lady found in it, the difference is academic.”
Flick humphed.
“And what might have happened if you’d survived the brawl, with or without being knocked senseless, and landed in the arms of the Watch? One can only wonder what they would have made of you.”
“We’ll never know,” Flick hissed. “The important thing is that we’ve identified Dillon’s contact. Did you see which way he went?”
“No.”
She halted. “Perhaps we should go back—”
Demon didn’t stop; he reached back, grabbed her arm, and hauled her forward so she marched beside him. “You are not following anyone anywhere.” The look he shot her, even muted by the gloom, still stung. “In case it’s escaped your notice, following a man like that to his customary haunts is liable to be dangerous for a gentlewoman.”
His clipped accents gave the words a definite edge. As they swung into the High Street, Flick put her nose in the air. “You got a good look at him and so did I. We should be able to find him easily, then find out who he works for, and clear up this whole mess. It’s our first real discovery.”
After a moment, he sighed. “Yes, you’re right. But leave the next step to me—or rather Gillies. I’ll have him go through the inns and taverns—our man must be putting up at one of them.”
Demon looked up as they crossed the High Street; the Jockey Club stood before them. His horses were tied to a tree under the porter’s watchful eye. “Get in. I’ll drive you back to the stable.”
Flick strolled to the curricle and climbed up. Demon went to speak to the porter, then returned, untied the reins, and stepped up to the box seat. He backed the horses, then set them trotting with an expert flick of his wrist.
As they headed down the High Street, Flick tilted her chin. “You’ll tell me the instant Gillies discovers anything?”
Demon reached for his whip. The black thong flew out and tickled his leader’s ears. The bays stepped out, power in every stride. The curricle shot forward.
Flick grabbed the rail and stifled a curse.
The whip hissed back up the handle, and the carriage rocketed along.
Demon drove back to the stable without uttering a word.
Chapter 5
After dinner that evening, Demon retired to the front parlor of his farmhouse to consider the ramifications of all they’d learned. Frowning, he paced before the fireplace, where a small blaze cheerily danced.
His thoughts were not cheery.
He was deeply mired in them when a tap sounded on the curtained window. Dismissing it as an insect or misguided sparrow, he didn’t pause, didn’t rouse from his reverie.
The tapping came again, this time more insistent.
Demon halted. Raising his head, he stared at the window, then swore and strode across the room. Jerking the curtains aside, he looked down on the face that haunted his dreams. “Dammit—what the devil are you doing here?”
Flick glared, then mouthed, “Let me in!” and gestured with her hands for him to lift the sash.
He hesitated, then, muttering a string of epithets, opened the catch and flung up the sash.
He was presented with a gloved hand. “Help me in.”
Against his better judgment, he did. She was dressed in breeches—not her stable lad attire but a pair of what looked to be Dillon’s cast-off inexpressibles, which fitted her far too well for his equanimity. Flick clambered over the sill and into the room. Releasing her hand, he lowered the sash and redrew the curtains. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down. Heaven only knows what Mrs. Shephard will think if she hears you—”
“She won’t.” With a dismissive wave, Flick stepped to the settee and sank down on one arm. “She and Shephard are in the kitchen—I checked.”
Demon stared at her—she stared ingenuously back. Deliberately, he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets—against the temptation to lay them on her. “Do you often flit through the twilight dressed like that?”
“Of course not. But I didn’t know whether I’d be able to reach you without knocking on the door. Luckily, I saw your shadow on the curtains.”
Demon clamped his lips shut. There was no point expostulating that her calmly knocking on his front door and asking his housekeeper, a matronly woman with sharp eyes, to show her into his parlor would have been unwise; she would only argue. Swinging on his heel, he strode back across the room; in the circumstances, the least he should do was put some real distance between them.
Regaining the fireplace, he turned to face her, propping his shoulders against the mantel. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I came to discuss the situation, of course.”
He raised one brow. “The situation?”
Flick held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and, with patent determination, removed her gloves. “It seems to me that what we learned today raises a number of issues.” Laying the gloves on one thigh, she raised her hands and ticked each point off on her fingers. “First and foremost, if another race is to be fixed, should we warn the authorities? However”—she proceeded to her next finger—“there’s the consideration that if we tell the stewards, they may alert the contact and he’ll simply disappear, along with all connection to the syndicate. If that happens, we’ll lose any chance of redeeming Dill
on. Even worse”—she moved to her next finger—“if we inform the stewards and they question that man, it sounds, from what Dillon said, that he’ll simply implicate him, and very likely cast him as the instigator of the scheme, thus protecting the syndicate from exposure.”
Lifting her head, she looked across the room at the long, lean figure lounging, all brooding elegance, against the mantel. If she’d harbored any doubts that he intended to curtail her involvement in their investigations, his present attitude dispelled them; resistance poured from him in waves. His eyes, his attention, were fixed on her, but he showed no inclination to respond. She tilted her chin. “So, are we going to inform the authorities?”
He continued to study her intently, unwaveringly, but he said nothing. Lips thinning, she raised a brow. “Well?”
“I haven’t yet decided.”
“Hmm.” She ignored his clipped, definitely pointed tone. “That man offered the jockey one hundred and twenty-five pounds—a small fortune for a race jockey. It seems unlikely the jockey will change his mind.”
He humphed; she took it as agreement.
“Which means your horse is almost certain to win.” Eyes wide, she met his gaze. “That places you in a rather awkward position, doesn’t it?”
He straightened; before he could speak she went on. “It’s a horrible fix—with Dillon to rescue on the one hand, and your responsibilities to the Jockey Club on the other. I suppose it’s a clash between loyalty and honor.” In the same even tone, she asked, “Which will you choose?”
Hands sunk in his pockets, he stared at her, then looked down and paced before the fire. “I don’t know.” He shot her a glance, one dark with irritation. “I was considering the matter when you came through the window.”
His look was lightened by a hint of curiosity; she grinned. “I came to help.” She ignored his derisive snort. “We need to weigh things up—consider our options.”
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