"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.
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 hea
r 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.
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 nailing 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 manhandled 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.
A Rogues Proposal c-4 Page 6
