A Rogue's Proposal (14 page)

Breaking off the kiss, Demon breathed a curse.

Flick blinked, but he didn’t shift, didn’t let her down.

“No—don’t turn,” he hissed as she went to twist her head.

“Who is it?”

His lips, presently at eye level, twisted into a grim grimace. “Another jockey.” Disappointment laced his tone.

“Perhaps he has a message from the syndicate.”

“Shssh. Listen.”

Balanced against him, she strained her ears.

“Let’s see if I got this straight.”

That had to be the jockey; the voice was clear, not scratchy.

“You’ll give me three ponies the day before the Stakes, an’ two ponies the day after, if I bring Cyclone in out o’ the places. That right?”

“Aye—that’s the deal,” Bletchley grated. “Take it or leave it.”

The jockey was silent, presumably ruminating; Demon looked down at her, then his arm slid further around her, better supporting her against him.

“Relax,” he breathed. His lips brushed hers in the lightest of caresses, then the jockey spoke again.

“I’ll take it.”

“Done.”

“That’s our cue,” Demon said
sotto voce
.

The next instant, he laughed aloud; his arm tightening about her, he swung her around and stood her on her feet. He grinned. “Come along, sweetheart. Wouldn’t do for the local gabblemongers to start wondering where we’ve got to. Let alone what we’ve been doing.”

He spoke loudly enough for Bletchley and the jockey to hear. Flick blushed and ignored their audience completely; locking both hands about her parasol handle, she turned back to the Heath with a swish of her skirts.

With another demonic laugh—one of triumph—Demon, his hand lying proprietorially on her back just a little lower than her waist, ushered her around the stable, back into the safety of the racing throng.

The instant they rounded the corner of the stable, Flick wriggled to dislodge his hand. It only pressed closer.

“We can’t drop our roles yet.” Demon’s murmur stirred the curls above her ear. “Bletchley’s following. While he can see us, we’ll need to preserve our act.”

She shot him a suspicious, distracted look; her bottom was heating.

He smiled, all wolf. “Who knows? An established disguise might come in handy in the following days.”

Following
days
? Flick hoped she didn’t look as scandalized as she felt; the laughing, teasing look in Demon’s eyes suggested otherwise.

To her consternation, Bletchley returned to stand under the oak beside the Heath—and proceeded to watch the exercising strings for the next hour.

So they watched him, while Demon lived up to his nickname and exercised his rakish talents, using ploy after ploy to ruffle her composure. To make her blush and skitter, and act the besotted miss.

Whether it was due to his expertise or otherwise, it grew increasingly easy to act besotted. To relax and laugh and smile. And blush.

He knew just how to tease her, just how to catch her eye and invite her to laugh—at him, at them, at herself. Knew just how to touch her—lightly, fleetingly—so that her senses leapt and her heart galloped faster than any horse on the Heath. When Bletchley, after approaching one other jockey and getting short shrift, finally headed back into the town, she’d blushed more than she ever had before.

Clinging to her parasol as if it were a weapon, and her last defense, she met Demon’s eye. “I’ll leave you now—I’m sure you can keep him in sight for the rest of the afternoon.”

His eyes held hers, their expression difficult to read; for one instant, she thought it was reluctance she glimpsed in the blue—reluctance to set aside their roles.

“I don’t need to follow him.” Demon looked to the edge of the Heath and raised his hand. Gillies, lounging against a post, nodded and slipped off in Bletchley’s wake.

Demon looked back at his companion of the afternoon. “Come—I’ll drive you home.”

Her gaze trapped in his, she waved to the nearby road. “I have the groom with the gig.”

“We can send him on ahead.” He raised one brow and reached for her hand. “Surely you’d rather be driven home behind my bays than the nag harnessed to the gig?”

As one who appreciated good horseflesh, her choice was a foregone conclusion. With an inclination of her head that was almost regal, she consented to his scheme, consented to let him hold her by him—to enjoy her freshness—for just a little while more.

He was seated in the armchair before the fire in his front parlor, staring at the flames and seeing her angelic face, her soft blue eyes, and the curious, considering light that flashed in them from time to time, when, once again, she came tapping on his windowpane. Lips setting, he didn’t even bother swearing—just rose, set aside the brandy balloon he’d been cradling, and crossed to the window.

This time, when he pulled the curtains aside, he was relieved to see she was wearing skirts—to whit, her riding habit. He raised the sash. “Don’t you ever use the door?”

The glance she levelled at him was reproving. “I came to invite you to accompany me to see Dillon.”

“I thought we’d agreed not to see him at all.”

“That was before. Now we know Bletchley’s the contact, and that he’s wandering about the Heath, we should warn Dillon and bring him up to date, so he doesn’t do anything rash.”

Dillon would never put himself to so much bother. The observation burned Demon’s tongue, but he swallowed the words. He wasn’t at all happy at the notion of Flick riding about the county alone at night, but he knew there was no point trying to talk her out if it. Mentally locating his riding gloves, he reached for the sash. “I’ll meet you by the stable.”

Pointy chin resolute, she nodded, then slid into the shadows.

Demon closed the window and went to warn the Shephards he was going out for a few hours.

Atop Jessamy, Flick was waiting by the main stable. Demon hauled open the door. In the dimness inside, lit by the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the door, he located his tack and carried it to Ivan’s box. The big stallion was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be saddled and led out. Luckily, before Ivan could consider and decide to protest, he set eyes on Jessamy.

Noting the stallion’s fixed stare, Demon grunted and swung up to his saddle. At least he wouldn’t have to exercise his talents on Ivan during their ride through the moonlight—Ivan would follow, intent, in Flick’s wake.

She, of course, led the way.

They crossed his fields, the night black velvet about them. The cottage appeared deserted, a denser bulk in the deep shadows between the trees. Flick rode into the clearing behind it and dismounted. Demon followed, tethering Ivan well clear of the mare.

A twig cracked.

Flick whirled, squinting at the cottage. “It’s us. Me and Demon.”

“Oh,” came a rather shaky voice from the dark. After a moment, Dillon asked, “Are you coming in?”

“Of course.” Flick started for the cottage just as Demon reached her; he followed close on her heels.

“We thought,” she said, ducking through the lean-to and stepping into the main room, “that you’d want to know what we’ve learned.”

Dillon looked up, his face lit by the glow of the lantern he’d set alight. “You’ve identified one of the syndicate?”

Wild hope colored his tone; settling onto a stool by the table, Flick grimaced. “No—not yet.”

“Oh.” Dillon’s face fell. He slumped down in the chair at the table’s end.

Drawing off his gloves at the table’s other end, Demon studied Dillon, noting his pallor and the lines the last week had etched in his cheeks. It was as if the reality of his situation, now fully realized, and the consequent worry of apprehension and exposure, were eating away at his childish self-absorption. If that was so, then it was all to the good. Drawing out the last rickety stool, Demon sat. “We’ve discovered your elusive contact.”

Dillon looked up, hope gleaming in his eyes. Demon raised his brows at Flick, wondering if she wanted to tell Dillon herself. Instead, she nodded for him to continue. He looked back at Dillon. “Your man’s name is Bletchley—he’s a Londoner.” Briefly, he described their quarry.

Dillon nodded. “Yes—that’s him—the man who recruited me. He used to bring me the lists of horses and jockeys.”

Flick leaned forward. “And the money?”

Dillon glanced at her, then colored, but continued to meet her eyes. “Yes. He always had my fee.”

“No, I mean the money for the jockeys. How did they get paid? Did Bletchley give you their money?”

Dillon frowned. “I don’t know how they got paid—I wasn’t involved. That’s not how it worked when I did it.”

“Then how did you do the organizing?” Demon asked.

Dillon shrugged. “It was simple—the list of jockeys told me how much to offer each one. I did, and then reported if they’d accepted. I wasn’t involved in getting their money to them after the race.”

“After the race,” Flick repeated. “What about the payments before the race?”

Dillon’s puzzled frown grew. “Before?”

“As a down payment,” Demon explained.

Dillon shook his head. “There
weren’t
any payments before the race—only the one payment after the deed was done. And someone else took care of that, not me.”

Flick frowned. “They’ve changed their ways.”

“That’s understandable,” Demon said. “They’re presently targeting races during the Craven meeting, one of the premier meetings in the calendar. The betting on those races is enormous—one or two fixed races, and they’ll make a major killing. That’s something the jockeys will know. They’ll also know that the risk of being questioned by the stewards is greater—more attention is always paid to the major races during the major meets.”

Dillon frowned. “Last season, they didn’t try to fix any truly major races.”

“It’s possible they’ve been building up to this season—or that they’ve grown more cocky, more assured, and are now willing to take greater risks in the hope of greater rewards. Regardless, the jockeys for the Spring Carnival races would obviously demand more to pull their mounts.” Demon glanced at Dillon. “The going rate for the two races we’ve heard fixed is five ponies.”

“
Five
?” Dillon’s brows flew up. “I was only once directed to offer three.”

“So the price has gone up, and they’re locking the jockeys in by offering some now, some later. Once the first payment’s accepted, the jockey’s more or less committed, which is less risky for the syndicate.” Demon looked at Dillon. “They would, I fancy, be happy to make a down payment to avoid a repetition of what happened in the first race this year.”

Dillon slowly nodded. “Yes, I see. This way, the fix is more or less certain.”

“Hmm.” Flick frowned. “Did you ever hear anything from the jockeys you organized about how they got paid?”

Dillon paled. “Only from one, early last season.” He glanced at Demon. “The jockey wasn’t too happy—his money was left at his mother’s cottage. He didn’t feel easy about the syndicate knowing where to find his old mum.”

Demon met Dillon’s gaze. He didn’t like what he was learning. The syndicate sounded disturbingly intelligent—an evil, ruthless and
intelligent
opponent was, in his book, the worst. More of a challenge, but infinitely more dangerous.

That, of course, would normally whet his appetite, stir his Cynster blood. In this case, he only had to look at Flick to inwardly curse and wish the whole damned syndicate to hell. Unfortunately, the way the situation was shaping, it was going to fall to him to escort them there, while simultaneously protecting an angel from the consequences of her almost certain involvement in the syndicate’s fall.

While the thought of the syndicate didn’t stir his blood, Flick did—in quite a different way, a way he hadn’t experienced before. This was not mere lust. He was well acquainted with that demon, and while it was certainly in the chorus, its voice wasn’t the loudest. That distinction currently belonged to the impulse to protect her; if he complied with his inner promptings, he’d tie her up, cart her off to a high tower with a single door bearing a large and effective lock, and incarcerate her there until he had slain the dragon she was determined to flush out.

Unfortunately . . .

“We’d better go.” She gathered her gloves and stood, her stool grating on the floor.

He rose more slowly, watching the interaction between Flick and Dillon.

Dillon was looking earnestly at her; she tugged on her gloves, then met his gaze. “We’ll let you know what we discover—when we discover something. Until then, it’s best that you stay out of sight.”

Dillon nodded. Reaching out, he caught her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”

She humphed and shook free, but without any heat. “I told you I’m only doing this for the General.”

The statement lacked the force of her earlier rendering; Demon doubted even she believed it.

Dillon’s lips twisted rather ruefully. “Even so.” He looked at Demon and stood. “I owe you a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

His expression impassive, Demon met his gaze. “I’ll think of something, never fear.”

Dillon’s eyes widened at his tone; with a curt nod, Demon turned to Flick.

Frowning, she glanced back at Dillon. “We’ll look in in a few days.” Then she turned and led the way out.

Following on her heels, Demon breathed deeply as they emerged into the night. A quick glance at the sky revealed a black pall—the moon had been engulfed by dark clouds. Within the cottage, the light of the lantern dimmed, then died. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Demon looked around as he strode across the clearing; no other human was anywhere about—just the two of them alone in the night.

Flick didn’t wait for help but scrambled into her saddle. Untying Ivan’s reins, Demon quickly mounted, holding the stallion steady as Flick trotted Jessamy over.

“I’ll ride home through the park. I’ll see you on the Heath tomorrow afternoon.”

“No.”

Surprised, she stared at him. Before she could scowl, he clarified, “I’ll ride back to Hillgate End with you. It’s after midnight—you shouldn’t be out riding alone.”

She didn’t scowl, but he sensed her resistance. She studied him, then opened her mouth, doubtless to argue, when a breeze wafted through the clearing and set the trees shivering. It moaned, softly, eerily, through the branches, then died away on a sigh, an expiring banshee leaving only the rustling leaves slowly stilling in the deep darkness.