He blinked and drew in a much needed breath.
She looked like an angel, dressed in blue velvet.
A still very angry angel. She ignored Dillon and faced Demon. “I’ll keep your stables under surveillance—you can watch the other stables and other places I can’t go.”
“There’s no need—”
“The more eyes we have watching, the more likely we’ll be to see him. And I’ll hear things that you, as the owner, won’t.” She met his gaze steadily. “If they recruited Ickley, there’s a good chance they’d like to hobble one of your runners—you’ll have quite a few favorites in the races this season.”
The Flynn, among others. Demon held her gaze, and saw her chin firm, saw it tilt, saw defiance and sheer stubborn will flash in her eyes.
“That’s right,” Dillon concurred. “There’s a lot of Newmarket to cover, and Flick’s already been accepted as one of your lads.”
Demon stared, pointedly, at him; Dillon shrugged. “She’s in no danger—it’s me they’re after.”
If Demon had been closer, he would have kicked Dillon; eyes narrowing, he was tempted to do it anyway. Only the fact that he hadn’t yet determined how Flick saw Dillon—if she reserved the right to kick him to herself, and would fly to Dillon’s defense if he administered any of the punishment Dillon so richly deserved—kept him still.
Dillon glanced at Flick. “You could even try riding for some of the other stables.”
Flick looked down her nose at him. “I’ll stick to Demon’s stable—he can look over the others.”
Her tone was cold and distant; Dillon shrugged petulantly. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”
He looked down at the table and so missed the fury that poured from Flick’s eyes. “Just so we’re perfectly clear,” she stated, “I am only helping you because of the General—because of what having you taken up, without any evidence of a syndicate to redeem you in any way, will do to him. That’s why I’m helping you.”
Head high, she swung on her heel and stalked out.
Demon paused, looking at Dillon, now staring sulkily at the table. “Stay here. If you value your life, stay out of sight.”
Dillon’s eyes widened; with a curt nod, Demon followed Flick into the deep twilight.
He found her saddling Jessamy, her movements swift and jerky. He didn’t offer to help; he suspected she could saddle up blind—indeed, he wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t doing that now.
Hurt and anger poured off her; disillusionment shimmered about her. Propping his shoulders against a convenient tree, Demon glanced across the clearing to where Ivan was still standing in exactly the same pose as an hour ago—staring at his new lady love.
Brows quirking, Demon turned back to Flick. Her head was just visible over Jessamy’s back. He considered the halo of gold, the delicate features beneath.
She was furious with Dillon, hurt that he hadn’t told her the truth, and shocked by the details of that truth. But, once her fury wore thin, what then? She and Dillon were of similar age; they’d grown up together. Precisely what that meant he didn’t know, but he had to wonder how accurate her last assertion was. Was she risking her reputation only for the General? Or for Dillon as well?
He studied her, but couldn’t decide. Whatever the answer, he would shield her as best he could.
He looked up at the stars, just starting to appear, and heard a sniff, instantly suppressed. She was taking a long time with her saddle girths.
“He’s young.” Why he felt compelled to excuse Dillon he couldn’t have said.
“He’s two years older than me.”
How old did that make her? Demon wished he knew.
“What do you think happened to Ickley?”
Demon silently considered; he didn’t imagine her ensuing silence meant she didn’t expect an answer. “Either he’s gone to ground, in which case the last thing we’d want to do is flush him out, or . . . we’ll never know.”
She made a small sound, like a hum, in her throat—a muted sound of distress.
Demon straightened away from the tree; in the gathering gloom, he couldn’t see her face clearly. At that moment, she stepped back from Jessamy’s side, dusting her hands. He strolled around the mare. “You can continue at my stable for the time being—until we catch sight of this contact.” If any avenue had offered, he’d have eased her out of his stable, out of Newmarket itself until all danger was past. But . . . her stubbornness was a tangible thing.
She turned to face him. “If you try to get rid of me, I’ll just get a job in another stable. There’s more than one in Newmarket.”
None as safe as his. “Carruthers will keep you on until I say otherwise.” Which he would the instant they located Dillon’s contact. “But you’ll be restricted to riding track, morning and afternoon.”
“That’s the only time that matters, anyway. That’s the only time outsiders aren’t looked at askance about the Heath.”
She was absolutely right.
He’d been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.
Lust flashed through him like liquid heat—a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.
And not drag her back down, into his arms.
He wanted her in his bed.
The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up—and found her looking down at him.
She frowned and shook her reins. “Come on.” Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.
Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan’s reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.
And followed.
Chapter 3
Demon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops—and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but . . . the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.
So he stood in the thin mist by Carruthers’s side and watched his horses thunder by. The ground shook, the air trembled; the reverberations were as familiar as his heartbeat. The scene was a part of him, and he a part of it—and Flick was in it, too. She flew past, extending The Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon’s breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill—a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.
The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she’d known, or she wouldn’t have risked the glance. He’d been watching her almost without pause since he’d arrived, just after she’d taken to the Heath.
Luckily, cursing beneath her breath only reinforced her disguise. But she had to suppress all other signs of agitation so she didn’t communicate her sudden nervousness to The Flynn. She’d always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she’d anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this—this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She’d buried deep the suspicion it had something to do—a great deal to do—with the breath-stealing shock she’d felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon’s expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.
But riding track with him watching
proved a far greater trial than performing for Carruthers alone, despite the fact the old curmudgeon was the most exacting trainer on the Heath. There was a certain sharp assessment in Demon’s blue gaze that was absent from Carruthers’s eyes; as her nervousness grew, she had to wonder if Demon was doing it deliberately—deliberately discomposing her—so she’d make some silly error and give him a reason to send her packing.
Thankfully, all her years of riding had taught her to hide her feelings well; she and The Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.
Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.
“Good work.” Demon’s blue eyes held hers; he nodded curtly. “We’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late.”
Flick’s tongue burned; she had, until now, unsaddled and brushed down The Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. “I’ll be here.” With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remem bering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance—before temptation could get the upper hand.
Behind her, she heard Demon ask Carruthers some question—but she could still feel his gaze on her back.
After seeing Flick safely away, Demon repaired to the coffeehouse in Newmarket High Street favored by the members of the Jockey Club.
He was hailed the instant he crossed the threshold. Returning greetings right and left, he strolled to the counter, ordered a large breakfast, then joined a group comprised mostly of other owners at one of the long tables.
“We’re exchanging predictions for the coming season.” Patrick McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort’s stable, turned to Demon as he sat. “Currently, of course, we’ve five times the number of winners as we have races.”
“Sounds like a fresh crop,” Demon drawled. “That’ll keep the General busy.”
McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning—if horses that hadn’t won before made it to the winner’s circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. “Ah, yes. Busy indeed.”
He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGonnachie, in common with all of Newmarket, knew how close he and the General were. If there was any less-than-felicitous whisper going the rounds concerning the General, McGonnachie wouldn’t tell him.
So he ate and listened to the chat about the table, and contributed his share. And bore with easy indifference the good-natured ribbing over his activities in London.
“Need to change your style if you don’t want to miss your chance,” Old Arthur Trumble, one of the most respected owners, nodded down the table. “Take my advice and spend less time lifting the skirts of London’s mesdames, and more dealing with the business. The higher the standing of your stud, the more demanding it’ll be.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “And Lord knows, you look like taking the Breeder’s Cup this year.”
Two others took immediate exception to that prediction, leaving Demon with no need to reply. He listened, but detected no further suggestion of rumors concerning the General other than McGonnachie’s earlier hesitation.
“Mister Figgins is back—did you hear?” Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGonnachie. “Sawyer ran him in the first—he couldn’t wait to see if that leg would hold up, but it did. So your Mighty Flynn will have some decent competition. The handicaps won’t be the walk-over they might otherwise have been.”
“Oh?” Demon chatted with Buffy about The Flynn’s chances, while his mind raced on a different track.
He had wondered how Dillon’s syndicate had expected to fix the first race of the year. Run before the start of the spring season, the early races were used to trial horses, generally those new to racing. If that was the case, then fixing meant making sure one specific horse came first, which meant influencing how at least a handful of other horses ran. Bribing multiple jockeys required more money, and was more hazardous, than the alternative way to fix a race. But the other method required one outstanding runner—a crowd favorite.
“Tell me,” Demon asked, when Buffy paused for breath. “Did Mister Figgins win? You didn’t say.”
“Romped in,” Buffy replied. “Showed the pack a clean pair of heels all the way down the straight.”
Demon smiled and let their talk drift into other spheres.
At least he now knew how the syndicate operated; they must have cursed Mister Figgins all the way down the straight. Mister Figgins was the horse the fix should have been applied to; the syndicate would have assumed he’d lose, and their tools—however many bookmakers they’d seduced into their game—would have offered good odds on Mister Figgins, taken huge bets, and, in this case, suffered mammoth losses. That was the one drawback with that method—it could seriously backfire if the bribe wasn’t in place, if the race wasn’t properly fixed.
Which explained why Dillon was in serious trouble.
After breakfast, in company with the others, Demon strolled across the street and into the Jockey Club. The hallowed precinct was as familiar as his home; he spent the next hour wandering the rooms, chatting to stewards, jockeys and the racing elite—those gentlemen like himself who formed the hub of the English racing world.
Time and again in his idle chats, he sensed a start, or hesitation—a quick skirting around some invisible truth. Long before he ran into Reginald Molesworth, Demon knew beyond doubt that there were rumors afoot.
Reggie, an old friend, didn’t wait to be asked. “I say,” he said the instant they’d exchanged their usual greetings, “are you free? Let’s go get some coffee—The Twig and Bough should be pretty quiet about now.” He caught Demon’s eye and added, “Something you need to know.”
An easy air hiding his interest, Demon acquiesced; together with Reggie, he strolled out of the club and down the street. Ducking his head, he led the way into The Twig and Bough, a coffeehouse that catered more to the genteel elements of the town than to the racing set.
Their appearance left the two serving girls gawking, but the proprietress preened. She quickly bustled out from behind her counter as they claimed seats at a table against the wall. After taking their orders, the woman bobbed and hurried away. By unspoken understanding, Demon and Reggie chatted about inconsequential, tonnish London matters until their coffee and cakes arrived, and the little waitress left them.
Reggie leaned over the table. “Thought you’d want to know.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Things are being said regarding the household at Hillgate End.”
Impassive, Demon asked, “What things?”
“Seems there’s some suspicion of races not being run the way they should. Well, there’s always talk every time a favorite loses, but recently . . .” Reggie stirred his coffee. “There was Trumpeter and The Trojan here last season, and Big Biscuits, Hail Well and The Unicorn at Doncaster. Not to mention The Prime at Ascot. Not so many that it’s certain, but it doesn’t take a man o’ business to work it out. A lot of money changed hands over those losses, and the offered odds in every case . . . well, it certainly gives one to think. And that was just the autumn season.”
Demon nodded. “Is it official?”
Reggie grimaced. “Yes and no. The Committee think there’s a definite question, and they want answers, thank you very much. At present, they’re only looking at last autumn, and it’s all been kept under wraps, which is why you might not have heard.”
Demon shook his head. “I hadn’t. Is there any reason to think it went on last spring as well?”
“I gather there is, but the evidence—meaning the offering of odds that could only be considered deliberately encouragin
g—is not as clear.”
“Any guesses as to the Committee’s direction?”
Reggie looked up and met Demon’s gaze. Reggie’s father was on the Committee. “Yes, well, that’s why I thought you should know. The jockeys involved, of course, are all as close as clams—they know it’s the devil of a case to prove. But it seems young Caxton’s been seen about, chatting to the jockeys involved. As he’s not previously seemed all that interested in rubbing elbows with the riders, it was noticed. The Committee, not surprisingly, wants to talk to the youngster. Trouble is”—Reggie pulled one earlobe—“the boy’s off visiting friends. Given he is the General’s son, and no one wants to unnecessarily upset the venerable old gent, the Committee decided to wait until Caxton junior got back, and take him aside on the quiet.”
Reggie sighed and continued. “Good plan, of course, but when they made it, they imagined he’d be back inside of a week. That was two weeks ago, and he’s still not back. They’re uneasy about fronting up at Hillgate End and asking the General where his son is—they’ll hold their hand as long as they can. But with the spring season in the offing, they can’t wait forever.”
Demon met Reggie’s deceptively innocent eyes. “I see.”
And he did. The message he was getting was not from Reggie, not even from Reggie’s father, but from the all-powerful Committee itself.
“You don’t have any . . . ah, insights to offer, do you?”
After a moment, Demon said, “No. But I can see the Committee’s point.”
“Hmm.” Reggie shot Demon a commiserating look. “Not hard to see, is it?”
“No, indeed.” They finished their coffee, paid, then strolled outside. Demon paused on the step.
Reggie stopped beside him. “Where are you headed?”
Demon shot him a glance. “Hillgate End, where else?” He raised his brows. “To see what the situation there is.”
“They all think I don’t know.” General Sir Gordon Caxton sat in the chair behind his desk. “But I follow the race results better than most and although I don’t get out to the paddocks much these days, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing when I do.” He snorted.