A Rogue's Proposal (9 page)

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.”

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 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.”