'I assumed you would need to get back here.' He hadn't, but it was a good excuse. He slanted her a mildly questioning glance. 'How are you covering your absences early morning and afternoon?'
'I often go riding first thing in the morning, so that's nothing unusual. If Jessamy's missing from the stable, everyone assumes I'm somewhere about, enjoying the morning. Just as long as I'm back by lunchtime, no one would think to worry.'
Slowing as they passed into the shade of the old trees edging the lawn, Flick grimaced. 'The afternoons are more difficult, but no one's asked where I ride off to. I suspect Foggy and Jacobs know Dillon's not off with friends, but somewhere close-but if they don't ask, then they can't say if questioned.'
'I see.' He hesitated, inwardly debating whether to take her hand and place it on his sleeve, forcing her to stroll with him rather than lead the way. But she'd tensed when he'd taken her hand before, and she'd nearly dropped the vinegar. Suppressing a grin, he opted for caution. 'There's no reason you can't loiter around the stables after the morning gallops. Not having any chores should give you a freer rein.' He had no intention of rescinding the orders he'd given Carruthers. 'However, there's no sense in dallying after afternoon stables. At that time, most of the jockeys and hangers-on retire to the taverns.'
'There's no reason I can't slouch about the stables until they leave.'
Demon inwardly frowned. There was a mulishness in her tone, a sense of rigid purpose in her stance; both had been absent earlier. Earlier in the dining room, when she'd been Felicity, not Flick. Flick was the righteous crusader, Felicity the Botticelli angel.
Slowing, he considered a swath of daffodils nodding their trumpets in the breeze. The odd bluebell and harebell were interspersed, creating a spring carpet stretching under the trees and into the sunshine beyond. He nodded toward the show. 'Beautiful, aren't they?'
An angel should respond to natural beauty.
Flick barely glanced at nature's bounty. 'Hmm. Have you learned, or heard, anything yet?' She looked into his face. 'You did go into town this morning, didn't you?'
He suppressed a frown. 'Yes, yes and yes.'
She stopped and looked at him expectantly. 'Well?'
Frustrated, Demon halted and faced her. 'The Committee is waiting for Dillon to return to have a quiet word with him over a number of races last season where the suspiciously priced crowd-favorite didn't win.'
Her face blanked. 'Oh.'
'Indeed. The slumgudgeon didn't even realize that, as he hadn't made a habit of hobnobbing with the riders before, people would notice when he suddenly did.'
'But…' Flick frowned. 'The stewards haven't come asking after him.'
'Not the stewards, no. In this instance, they weren't required-any number of the Committee have probably called on the General in the last weeks. Easy enough to learn whether Dillon is here or not.'
'That's true.' Then her eyes flew wide. 'They haven't said anything to the General, have they?'
Demon glanced away. 'No, the Committee sees no reason to unnecessarily upset the General, and as yet, they have no proof-just suspicions.'
He looked back as Flick sighed with relief. 'If they hold off until Dillon can return-''
'They'll hold off as long as they can,' he cut in. 'But they won't-can't-wait forever. Dillon will have to return as soon as possible-the instant we get enough information to prove the existence of the syndicate.'
'So we need to make headway in identifying Dillon's contact. Are the rumors of race-fixing widespread?'
'No. Among the owners and trainers, yes, but amongst others, less so. Some jockeys and stable lads must have suspicions, but they're unlikely to voice them, even to each other.'
Flick started to stroll again. 'If there's no open talk, no rumors abounding, it's less likely someone will let something slip.'
Demon didn't reply; Flick didn't seem to notice. Which, to him, seemed all of a piece. Right now she didn't seem aware of him at all-she seemed to regard him as a benevolent uncle, or some creature equally benign. Which was so far from the truth it was laughable.
It was also irritating.
The Botticelli angel of the dining room, the one who had delicately shivered at his touch, and trembled when his fingers brushed hers, had vanished.
She glanced at him. 'Perhaps you could start with the jockeys whose mounts failed last season. I assume, if they've taken a bribe once, they'll be more likely to be approached again?'
'Ordinarily, yes. However, if they've been questioned, however elliptically, by the stewards, one can guarantee their lips will be sealed. With a license in the balance, no jockey's going to incriminate himself.'
'There must be some action you can take while I keep watch in your stables.'
Demon's eyes widened; he only just stopped himself from replying caustically with rather more information than she needed. 'Never mind about me. I'm sure I'll find some useful avenue to explore.' He'd already thought of several, but he had no intention of sharing his views. 'I'll make a start before I look in on the afternoon's work.'
'You could investigate any touts or hangers-on lurking about the other stables' strings.'
'Indeed.' Demon couldn't help himself-eyes hardening, his gaze openly intent, he lengthened his stride, swung to face her, and halted.
Sucking in a breath, she stopped precipitously, all but teetering in her effort not to run into him. She looked up, blue eyes widening in surprise.
He smiled down at her. 'I'll be watching you, too.' He held her gaze. 'Don't doubt it.'
She blinked; to his chagrin, not a flicker of awareness-the consciousness he was deliberately trying to evoke-showed in her soft blue eyes. Instead puzzlement filled them. She searched his face briefly, then shrugged, stepped aside and walked around him. 'As you wish, although I can't see why. You know I can handle The Flynn, and Carruthers never misses a stride.'
Swallowing a curse, Demon swung on his heel and stalked after her. It wasn't The Flynn that concerned him. Flick clearly considered him unthreatening. While he had no wish to threaten her, he definitely wanted her in his bed, which ought, in his book, to make her nervous, at least a bit wary. But no-not Flick.
Felicity was sensitive-Felicity was sensible. She had the good sense to be aware of him. Felicity had some degree of self-preservation. Flick, as far as he could tell, had none. She hadn't even recognized that he was not a benign uncle, and definitely not the sort of man to be managed by a mere chit.
'It won't,' he enunciated, regaining her side, 'be The Flynn's performance I'll be watching.'
She glanced up and met his eyes, her frown more definite. 'There's no need to watch me-I haven't parted company with my saddle for years.'
'Be that as it may,' he purred, 'I assure you that watching you-keeping my gaze firmly glued to your svelte form as you trot about perched on one of my champions-is precisely the sort of behavior that's expected of a gentleman such as I.'
'Be that as it may, watching me when you could be observing the hangers-on is silly. A wasted opportunity.'
'Not for me.'
Flick humphed and looked ahead. He was being deliberately difficult-she could sense his aggravation, cloaked though it was, but she had no idea what had caused it, or why he was making less sense than Dillon. She strolled on. And continued to ignore the fluttery sensations assailing her stomach, and the insistent flickering of her nerves. Along with the other unwanted, unwelcome remnants of her girlish obsession with him.
He'd been her ideal gentleman since she'd been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo's works in the library. She'd found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder-altogether better defined. As for the rest, she'd surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.
She hadn't, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be
