A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  Flick frowned. “He came in and all but shooed me off—said he’d settle The Flynn and I should get on home without delay.”

  “I mentioned that I knew your sick mother and how she’d worry—I instructed Carruthers that you shouldn’t pull duties that will keep you late, and that you should leave in plenty of time to reach home before dark.”

  Although he was examining the scenery and not looking at her, Demon still felt Flick’s suspicious glance. It confirmed his opinion that she didn’t need to know about the other instructions he’d issued to his trainer. Carruthers, thankfully not an imaginative or garrulous sort, had stared at him, then shrugged and acquiesced.

  They left the road and turned into a sunken track between two fields. The cob, sensing home and dinner, broke into a trot; Ivan, forced to remain alongside, accepted the edict with typical bad grace, tossing his head and jerking his reins every few yards.

  “He’s obviously in need of exercise,” Flick remarked.

  “I’ll give him a run later.”

  “I’m surprised you let him get into such a bad temper.”

  Demon stifled an acid retort. “He’s been here, I’ve been in London, and no one can ride him but me.”

  “Oh.”

  Lifting her gaze, Flick looked ahead to where the track wended into a small wood; she fell to studying the trees.

  From under his lashes, Demon studied her. She’d examined his horse so thoroughly she probably knew his every line, yet she’d barely glanced at him. Ivan was indeed a handsome beast, as were all his cattle, but he wasn’t used to taking second place to his mount. Which might seem arrogant, but he knew women—girls and ladies, females of any description—well.

  It wasn’t simply that she hadn’t looked. His senses, well honed through his years on the prowl, could detect not the slightest flicker of consciousness—the minutest suggestion of awareness—in the female riding beside him.

  Which, in his experience, was odd. Distinctly odd.

  The fact that her lack of awareness was focusing his to a remarkable degree hadn’t escaped him. It didn’t surprise him; he was a born hunter. When the prey didn’t take cover, he—at least that part of him that operated on instinct first, logic second—saw it as a challenge.

  Which was, in this case, ridiculous.

  There was no reason a girl like Flick, raised quietly in the country, should be aware, in any sexual sense, of a gentleman like him—especially one she’d known all her life.

  Demon frowned, tightening the reins as Ivan tried to surge. Disgusted, the big grey snorted; Demon managed not to do the same.

  He still had no idea precisely how old she was. He glanced her way, covertly confirming details he’d instinctively noted. She’d always been petite, although he hadn’t seen her in recent years. In her present incarnation, he’d only seen her atop a horse, but he doubted her head would clear his shoulder. Her figure remained a mystery, except for her definitely feminine bottom—a classic inverted heart, sleekly rounded. The rest of her was amply disguised by her stable lad’s garb. Whether she wore bands about her breasts, as did many devoted female riders, he couldn’t tell, but her overall proportions were nice. Slim, slender—she might well be delectable.

  On the way back to the stables, she’d tugged her muffler up over her nose and chin so the swath hid most of her face. As for her hair, she’d stuffed it under her cap so thoroughly that, beyond the fact it was as brightly golden as he recalled, he couldn’t tell how she wore it. A few short strands had slipped free at her nape, sheening against her collar like spun gold.

  Looking forward, he inwardly frowned. It wasn’t simply that there were lots of things he didn’t yet know about her that bothered him. The very fact he wanted to know bothered him. This was Flick, the General’s ward.

  General Sir Gordon Caxton had been his mentor in all matters pertaining to horses since he’d been six. That was when, while visiting with his late great-aunt Charlotte, he’d first met the General. Thereafter, whenever he’d been in the locality, he’d spent as much time as possible with the General, learning everything he could about breeding Thoroughbreds. It was due to the General, to his knowledge freely shared and his unstinting encouragement, that he, Demon, was now one of the preeminent breeders of quality horseflesh in the British Isles.

  He owed the General a great deal.

  A fact he could never forget. He comforted himself with that thought as he trotted beside Flick into the trees beyond which stood the old cottage.

  Once a tenant farmer’s home, it was now one step away from a ruin. From the rutted lane meandering up to its warped and sagging door, the structure looked uninhabitable. Only on closer inspection could one discern that the roof of the main room was still mostly intact, the four walls enclosing it still standing.

  With an imperious gesture, Flick led the way around the cottage. Briefly raising his eyes to the skies, Demon followed, entering a grassy clearing enclosed by trees. A sharp whinny greeted them. Eagerly, Flick urged the cob on. Looking across the clearing, Demon saw Jessamy, a pretty golden-coated mare with pale mane and tail and the most exquisite conformation he’d ever seen. She was tethered on a long rein.

  Ivan saw Jessamy, too, and concurred with Demon’s assessment. Still held on tight rein, Ivan reared and trumpeted. Only excellent reflexes saved Demon from an embarrassing unseating. Smothering an oath, he wrestled Ivan down, then forced him to the other side of the clearing, ignoring the combined, slightly insulted stares of Flick, Jessamy and the cob.

  Dismounting, Demon double-tied Ivan’s reins to a large tree. “Behave yourself,” he ordered, then turned away, leaving the stallion, head up, staring with complete and absolute absorption across the clearing.

  Having turned the cob loose, Flick dumped her saddle on a convenient log and gave Jessamy, who clearly adored her, a fond pat. Then, with another imperious, beckoning wave, she led the way around the far side of the cottage.

  Muttering beneath his breath, Demon strode after her.

  He rounded the cottage—Flick was nowhere in sight. A lean-to had been tacked onto the cottage on that side. The lean-to hadn’t survived as well as the cottage—its outer wall was crumbling and half its roof had disappeared. Flick had ducked through an opening, a door that had never been planned. Hearing her voice in the main room beyond, Demon ducked beneath the canted beams; easing his shoulders through the narrow space, he stepped silently through the debris and entered the cottage proper.

  And saw Flick standing beside Dillon Caxton, who was sitting at one end of an old table, blankets wrapped about his shoulders. She was bent over him; as Demon entered, she straightened, frowning, her hand on Dillon’s brow. “You don’t have any sign of a fever.”

  Dillon didn’t respond, his eyes, large and dark, framed by long black lashes, fixed on Demon. Then he coughed, glanced at Flick, then at Demon. “Ah . . . hello. Come in! I’m afraid it’s rather cold in here—we daren’t light a fire.”

  Mentally noting that the cottage was his property, Demon merely nodded. In such flat countryside, smoke could easily be traced, and smoke rising from an area thought to be uninhabited would certainly attract attention. Holding Dillon’s increasingly wary gaze, he strolled the few paces to the other end of the table, to a stool that appeared sufficiently robust to support his weight. “Flick mentioned that there were gentlemen about whose company you were keen to avoid.”

  Color flooded Dillon’s pale cheeks. “Ah, yes. Flick said you’d agreed to help.” With one long-fingered hand, he combed back the thick lock of dark hair that fell, in perfect Byronic imitation, across his brow, and he smiled engagingly. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  Demon held Dillon’s impossibly innocent gaze for a moment, then hitched up the stool and sat, declining to mention that it was for the General’s sake, and Flick’s, that he was involving himself in a mess that, as an owner of racing Thoroughbreds, he’d much rather hand straight to the magistrates.

  Dillon glanced up
at Flick; she was frowning slightly at Demon. “Flick didn’t say how much she’s told you—”

  “Enough for me to understand what’s been going on.” Resting his arms on the table, Demon looked at Dillon and didn’t like what he saw. The fact that Flick was hovering protectively at Dillon’s shoulder contributed to his assessment only marginally; much more telling were his memories, observations made over the years, and the facts of the current imbroglio, not as Flick had innocently described them but as he knew they must be.

  He didn’t doubt she’d faithfully recounted all she’d been told; the truth, he knew, was more damning than that.

  His smile held the right degree of male camaraderie to appeal to a youth like Dillon. “I’d like to hear your observations direct. Let’s start with your meeting with this character who asked you to carry a message.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The how, the when, the where. The words.”

  “Well, the when was nearly three weeks ago, just before the first race of the year.”

  “Just before?”

  Dillon nodded. “Two days before.”

  “Two days?” Demon raised his brows. “That seems awfully short notice to arrange a fix, don’t you think? The general consensus is that these syndicates lay their plans well in advance. It’s something of an imperative, given the number of bookmakers and other supporting characters necessarily involved.”

  Dillon’s eyes blanked. “Oh?” Then his smile flashed. “Actually, the man did say they’d had another messenger—Ickley—he used to work at your stables—lined up to do the job, but he’d changed his mind. So they needed someone else.”

  “And so they came to you. Why?”

  The single word startled Dillon, then he shrugged. “I don’t know—I suppose they were looking for someone who knew their way about. Knew the jockeys, and the places to go to rub the right shoulders.”

  Flick settled onto a stool. She was frowning more definitely, but her frown was now aimed at Dillon.

  “Why did you imagine this man didn’t just ask you to point out the particular jockey and speak to him himself?”

  Dillon’s brows drew down sharply; after a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

  “Surely you wondered why it was necessary for this man to have a messenger at all?” Demon trapped Dillon’s gaze. “If the messages were innocent, why did the man need to hire you—or anyone—to deliver them?”

  Dillon’s trademark smile flashed. “Ah, but the messages weren’t innocent, you see.”

  “Oh, I do see,” Demon assured him. “But you didn’t know that before they hired you, did you?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “So why didn’t you simply tell this man where he could find the jockey? Why be his go-between?”

  “Well, because . . . I suppose I thought he might not want to be seen . . . well, no.”

  Demon recaptured Dillon’s gaze. “No, indeed. How much did they pay you?”

  Every drop of blood drained from Dillon’s face; his eyes grew darker, wilder. “I—don’t know what you mean.”

  Demon held his gaze unblinkingly. “This would not, I suggest, be a good time to lie. How much did they pay you?”

  Dillon flushed.

  Flick sprang to her feet. “You took money?” Behind her, the stool clattered on the flags. “You took money to carry a message to fix a race?”

  The accusation in her tone would have made the Devil flinch; Dillon did not. “It was only two ponies—just for the one message. I wasn’t going to do it any more. That’s why they got Ickley.”

  “Any more?” Flick stared at him. “What do you mean ‘any more’?”

  Dillon’s expression turned mulish; Flick leaned both hands on the table and looked him in the eye. “Dillon—how long? How long have you been taking money to carry messages for these men?”

  He tried to keep silent, tried to withstand the demand in her tone, the scorn in her eyes.“Since last summer.”

  “Last summer?” Flick straightened, shoving the table in her agitation. “Good God! Why?” She stared at Dillon. “What on earth possessed you?”

  Demon held silent; as an avenging angel, Flick had a distinct advantage.

  Turning sulky, Dillon pushed back from the table. “It was the money, of course.” He attempted a sneer, but it bounced off Flick’s righteous fury.

  “The General gives you a very generous allowance—why would you want more?”

  Dillon laughed brittlely and leaned his arms on the table. He avoided Flick’s outraged stare.

  Which did nothing to soothe her temper. “And if you needed more, you know you only had to ask. I always have plenty . . .” Her words trailed away; she blinked, then her eyes blazed. She refocused on Dillon. “You’ve been gambling at the cockfights again, haven’t you?” Scorn—raw disgust—poured through her words. “Your father forbade it, but you couldn’t leave it be. And now—!” Sheer fury choked her; she gestured wildly.

  “Cockfighting’s not that bad,” Dillon countered, still sulky. “It’s not as if it’s something other gentlemen don’t do.” He glanced at Demon.

  “Don’t look at me,” Demon returned. “Not my style at all.”

  “It’s disgusting!” Flick looked directly at Dillon. “You’re disgusting, too.” She whirled and swooped on a pile of clothes set on an old chest. “I’m going to change.”

  Demon glimpsed the blue velvet skirts of a stylish riding habit as she stormed past him out into the ruined lean-to.

  Silence descended in the main room; Demon let it stretch. He watched Dillon squirm, then stiffen his spine, only to wilt again. When he judged it was time, he quietly said, “I rather think you’d better tell us the whole of it.”

  Eyes on the table, on the fingertip with which he traced circles on the scratched surface, Dillon drew a shaky breath. “I ran messages the whole autumn season. I owed a cent-per-cent in Bury St. Edmunds—he said I had to pay up before year’s end or he’d come and see the General. I had to get the money somewhere. Then the man—the one who brings the messages—found me.” He paused, but didn’t look up. “I always thought it was the cent-per-cent who nudged him my way, to ensure I’d be in a position to pay.”

  Demon thought that very likely.

  Dillon shrugged. “Anyway, it was easy enough—easy money, I thought.”

  A choking sound came from the lean-to; Dillon flushed. “Well, it was easy last year. Then, when the man brought the messages for the last few weeks of races, I told him I wouldn’t do it any more. He said, ‘We’ll see,’ and I left it at that. I didn’t expect to see him again, but two nights before the first race this year, he found me. At a cock-fight.”

  The sound from the lean-to was eloquent—mingled disbelief, frustration and fury.

  Dillon grimaced. “He told me Ickley had balked, and that I’d have to do the job until they could find a ‘suitable replacement.’ That’s how he phrased it.” Dillon paused, then offered, “I think that means someone they have some hold over, because he said, bold as brass, that if I didn’t agree they’d tell the authorities what I’d done, and make sure everyone knew I was the General’s son. Well, I did it. Took the message. And the money. And then I got sick.”

  Demon could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. The flies in the ointment were the General, and Flick’s sniff of disillusionment that came from behind him.

  After a moment, Dillon wearily straightened. “That’s all of it.” He met Demon’s gaze. “I swear. If you’ll believe me.”

  Demon didn’t answer. Forearms on the table, he steepled his fingers; it was time to take charge. “As I see it, we have two objectives—one, to keep you out of the syndicate’s way until, two, we’ve identified your contact, traced him back to his masters—the syndicate—and unmasked at least one member of said syndicate, and have enough proof for you to take to the magistrate, so that, in turning yourself in as a witless pawn caught up in a greater game, you can plead for leniency.�
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  He looked up; Dillon blanched, but met his gaze. A moment passed, and Demon raised his brows.

  Dillon swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  “So we need to identify your contact. Flick said you never saw him clearly.”

  Dillon shook his head. “He was always careful—he’d come up to me as I was leaving the pit in the dark, or come sidling up in the shadows.”

  “What’s his height, his build?”

  “Medium to tall, heavy build.” Dillon’s frown lifted. “One thing recognizable is his voice—it’s oddly rough, like his throat is scratched, and he has a London accent.”

  Demon nodded, considering. Then he refocused. “Flick’s idea is the only reasonable way forward—we’ll have to keep watch about the tracks and stables to see who approaches the race jockeys. I’ll handle that.”

  “I’ll help.”

  The statement came from behind him; Demon glanced around, then rose spontaneously to his feet. Luckily, Flick was coldly glaring at Dillon, which allowed him to get his expression back under control before she glanced at him.

  When she did, he met her gaze impassively, but he remained standing.

  He’d guessed right—her head didn’t top his shoulder. Bright, guinea-gold curls formed an aureole about her face; without muffler or cap, he could see the whole clearly, and it took his breath away. Her figure, neat and trim in blue velvet, met with his instant approval. Sleek and svelte, but with firm curves in all the right places. He could now take an oath that she must have worn tight bands to appear as she had before; the swells of her breasts filled the habit’s tightly fitting bodice in a distinctly feminine way.

  She swept forward with an easy, confident grace, then bent to place her neatly folded stable lad’s outfit on the chest, in the process giving him a reminder of why he’d first seen through her disguise.