A Rogues Proposal

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 Fly

The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Fly

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 Fly

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 Fly

Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Fly

"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 Fly

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 McGo

"Sounds like a fresh crop," Demon drawled. "That'll keep the General busy."

McGo

He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGo

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 McGo

"Mister Figgins is back-did you hear?" Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGo

"Oh?" Demon chatted with Buffy about The Fly

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 ru

"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.