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 Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon's breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill-a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.
The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she'd known, or she wouldn't have risked the glance. He'd been watching her almost without pause since he'd arrived, just after she'd taken to the Heath.
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 Flynn. She'd always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she'd anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this-this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She'd buried deep the suspicion it had something to do-a great deal to do-with the breath-stealing shock she'd felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon's expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.
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 Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.
Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.
'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 Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. 'I'll be here.' With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remembering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance-before temptation could get the upper hand.
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 McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort's stable, turned to Demon as he sat. 'Currently, of course, we've five times the number of winners as we have races.'
'Sounds like a fresh crop,' Demon drawled. 'That'll keep the General busy.'
McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning-if horses that hadn't won before made it to the winner's circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. 'Ah, yes. Busy indeed.'
He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGonnachie, in common with all of Newmarket, knew how close he and the General were. If there was any less-than-felicitous whisper going the rounds concerning the General, McGonnachie wouldn't tell him.
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
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 McGonnachie's earlier hesitation.
'Mister Figgins is back-did you hear?' Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGonnachie. 'Sawyer ran him in the first-he couldn't wait to see if that leg would hold up, but it did. So your Mighty Flynn will have some decent competition. The handicaps won't be the walk-over they might otherwise have been.'
'Oh?' Demon chatted with Buffy about The Flynn's chances, while his mind raced on a different track.
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 runner-a crowd favorite.
'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.
Time and again in his idle chats, he sensed a start, or hesitation-a quick skirting around some invisible truth. Long before he ran into Reginald Molesworth, Demon knew beyond doubt that there were rumors afoot.
Reggie, an old friend, didn't wait to be asked. 'I say,' he said the instant they'd exchanged their usual greetings, 'are you free? Let's go get some coffee-The Twig and Bough should be pretty quiet about now.' He caught Demon's eye and added, 'Something you need to know.'
An easy air hiding his interest, Demon acquiesced; together with Reggie, he strolled out of the club and down the street. Ducking his head, he led the way into The Twig and Bough, a coffeehouse that catered more to the genteel elements of the town than to the racing set.
Their appearance left the two serving girls gawking, but the proprietress preened. She quickly bustled out from behind her counter as they claimed seats at a table against the wall. After taking their orders, the woman bobbed and hurried away. By unspoken understanding, Demon and Reggie chatted about inconsequential, tonnish London matters until their coffee and cakes arrived, and the little waitress left them.
Reggie leaned over the table. 'Thought you'd want to know.' He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Things are being said regarding the household at Hillgate End.'
Impassive, Demon asked, 'What things?'
'Seems there's some suspicion of races not being run the way they should. Well, there's always talk every time a favorite loses, but recently…' Reggie stirred his coffee. 'There was Trumpeter and The Trojan here last
