A Rogues Proposal

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 cockfight.'

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.'

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 1 was leaving the pit in the dark, or