A Rogues Proposal

The evidence he carried in his pocket crackled.

His chest swelled as he drew in a breath; she looked up-he met her eyes. "Let's take these to Newmarket." So they could get on with the rest of their lives.

She nodded briskly. They disengaged, straightened their clothes, then hurried out to the curricle.

By ten o'clock, they were bowling northward, the enclosed spaces of London far behind. Joyfully, Flick breathed deep, then turned her face to the sun. "We'll have to go to Hillgate End first-to tell the General and Dillon."

"I'll drive to the farm. We can leave your things there for the moment, ride to the cottage and collect Dillon, ride on to the manor and tell the General, then go straight on to the Jockey Club. I want to get that information before the Committee as soon as possible." His face hardened; he reached for the whip.

Flick wondered if his grim urgency stemmed from concern for the industry he'd so long been a part of, or from the nebulous feeling that they hadn't, yet, defeated Stratton. That feeling hadn't left her since Stratton had walked in on them last night-like a specter, it hovered at her shoulder, growing blacker, weightier. As they rounded a curve, she looked back, but there was no one there.

They drove through Newmarket in the early afternoon and headed straight for the farm. While Demon organized their horses, Flick hurried upstairs and changed into her riding habit. In less than half an hour, they were riding into the clearing behind the ruined cottage.

"It's us, Dillon," Flick called as she slid from the saddle. "Me and Demon. We're back!"

Her excitement rang in her voice. Dillon appeared through the lean-to, struggling to contain the hope lightening his haggard features.

One glance was enough to tell Demon that Dillon had changed-somewhere, somehow, he'd found some backbone. He said nothing, however, but joined Flick as she headed for the cottage.

Even before she reached him, Dillon stiffened. Demon had never seen him stand so tall, so determined. Fists clenched at his sides, he met Flick's gaze directly. "I've been to see the General."

She blinked and stopped before him. "You have?"

"I told him all about it-the whole story-so you don't need to lie for me-cover up for me-any more. I should have done that at the start."

He looked Demon straight in the eyes. "Papa and I decided to wait until tomorrow in case you found anything, but we'll be going to see the Committee regardless."

Demon met his eyes and nodded, his approval sincere.

"But we have found something." Flick gripped Dillon's arm. "We've learned who the syndicate is and we've enough proof to show the Committee!"

One hand at her back, Demon urged her in. "Let's take our revelations indoors."

Neither Dillon nor Flick argued. If they had, Demon couldn't have explained who he thought might overhear. But he was edgy, and had been since he'd looked into Stratton's cold eyes the previous evening.

That Stratton had noticed them the instant they'd regained the ballroom had him worried. Stratton was known as cold and detached-he might well prove a formidable enemy. If there had been any way to safely leave Flick somewhere well out of the action, he'd have snatched the opportunity. But there wasn't. That being so, the safest place for her was with him.

In the cottage, Dillon faced them. "I've written a detailed account of my involvement, first to last-just the bare facts." He looked grim. "It's hardly pleasant reading, but at least it's honest."

Flick smiled. Her i

Dillon looked at her, then at Demon; his expression said he hardly dared hope. "Who are they?"

"Not they-that was our error. It's a syndicate of one." Briefly, Demon explained. "I have to hand it to him-his execution was almost flawless. Only his greed-the fact he fixed too many races-brought the scheme to light. If he'd been content with the money from one or two major races a year…" He shrugged. "But Stratton's lifestyle calls for rather more blunt than that."

Reaching into his pocket, Demon drew out their evidence. "This was the key." He smoothed out a sheet on the table. Flick hadn't seen it before; together with Dillon, she crowded close.

"I gathered all the details I could about the betting on the fixed races, and my agent, Montague, worked out the amounts cleared from each one. He's a wizard. If he hadn't got it right-very close to exact-I would never have recognized the figures in Stratton's ledger."

Unfolding the sheets he'd torn from Stratton's account book, Demon laid them alongside Montague's sheet. "See?" Tapping various figures in Stratton's income column, he pointed to similar figures on the other sheet. "The dates match, too." Both Dillon and Flick glanced from one sheet to the others, nodding as they took it in.

"Can we prove these are Stratton's accounts?" Dillon looked up.

Demon pointed to certain entries in the expenditure column. "These purchases of a phaeton, and here the pair to go with it-and even more these-lost wagers paid to gentlemen of the ton-can be proved to have been Stratton. With virtually the exact money from the races listed as income on the same pages, it's hard to argue any case other than it was Stratton behind the race-fixing. These"-he gestured to the papers-"are all the evidence we need."

Heeeee-crash!

With a tearing scream, the main door flew in, kicked off its rusting hinges to slam down on the floor. The whole cottage shook. Demon grabbed Flick as they backed up, eyes watering, coughing as dust reared and washed over them.

"How exceedingly foolish of you."

The words, clipped, precise and totally devoid of all feeling, came from the man silhouetted in the doorway.

The bright sunlight outside haloed him; they couldn't see his features. Flick and Demon recognized him instantly.

Eyes on the long barrelled pistol in Stratton's right hand, Demon tried to push Flick behind him. Unfortunately, they'd backed up against the hearth with its low chimney coping.

"Just remain where you are." Stratton stepped over the threshold. He barely glanced at the papers lying scattered on the table, evidence enough to put him in Newgate, a long way from the luxury to which he was accustomed.

Demon tensed, praying Stratton would look at the papers-take his eye off him just for an instant…

Stratton hesitated, but didn't. "You've been far too clever. Much too clever for your own good. If I didn't have such a suspicious nature, you might even have succeeded, but I checked my ledger at four o'clock this morning. By six, I was on the road to Newmarket. I knew you wouldn't dally. It was just a matter of time before you appeared."

"And if we'd gone directly to the Jockey Club?"

"That," Stratton admitted, "would have been exceedingly messy. Luckily, you drove straight through. It was easy to follow you on horseback. Equally easy to guess that, if I was patient, you'd lead me to the one player still eluding me." He inclined his head toward Dillon, but the pistol, aimed directly at Flick's chest, didn't waver. He studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Such a pity, but after that little exposition, I fear I'll have to make away with you all."

"And how," Demon asked, "do you imagine explaining that?"

Stratton raised a brow. "Explaining? Why should I explain anything?"

"Others know I've been investigating you in co

"Do they now?" Stratton remained very still, his eyes steady on Demon's face, his aim never faltering from Flick's chest. Then his thin lips eased. "How unfortunate-for Bletchley."

Stratton's jaw set. He lifted his arm, straightening it, aiming the pistol at Demon-