syndicate?'
Flick frowned. 'Stratton's phaeton is brand new-his horses would have done you credit.'
'Maybe so, but while Stratton's a deuced cold fish, he's also exceedingly wealthy.' Demon gestured to their surroundings. 'He inherited a massive fortune.'
Flick grimaced. 'He seemed such a promising candidate.'
'Yes, well-' Reaching the hall, Demon turned her up the stairs. 'I think we should check all the rooms.'
Other couples, flushed and subtly dishevelled, laughing breathlessly, were descending the stairs as they went up. Demon drew Flick suggestively close as they climbed-with her one step ahead of him, their bodies slid against each other as they ascended.
They reached the gallery. Flick paused and whispered breathlessly, 'Shouldn't we be checking outside? If it's not Stratton but some of his guests come to meet with Bletchley, wouldn't they use the garden?'
'It's raining-it started as I arrived. I think we can assume no meeting had taken place earlier. Now, it'll have to be held indoors-in some area open to the guests.'
They continued their search. Some of the bedrooms and suites were occupied, others were empty. While they stumbled upon meetings aplenty, none were of the type they sought. Flick's shoulders had slumped long before they reached the last door at the end of the last corridor.
Demon tested the handle, then carefully turned it fully and tried the door. 'It's locked.' He started to turn back; Flick stood in the way, frowning at the locked door.
'Why locked?' She glanced back up the corridor. 'His bedroom wasn't locked.' She looked at the door behind which two couples were engaged in an energetic romp on Stratton's huge bed. 'Nor was his dressing room or study.' She nodded at each of those doors, then turned to stare at the last door. 'Why would he lock this room and not any other in the house?'
Demon looked at her face, at her stubbornly set chin, and sighed. Placing his ear to the panel, he listened, then glanced down at the bottom of the door; no telltale strip of light showed. 'There's no one in there.'
'Let's look,' Flick urged. 'Can you unlock it?'
Demon considered reiterating that Stratton was not a good candidate for race-fixer, but her sudden excitement was infectious. He drew out the small tool he carried everywhere-a multi-pronged pick and knife useful for destoning horses' hooves. In less than a minute, he had the door open. The room within was empty; standing back, he let Flick in. Glancing back up the corridor, he confirmed it was empty, then shut the door behind them.
A warm glow suffused the room. Flick adjusted the wick on a lamp set on a wide desk, then reset the glass. They both looked around.
'An office.' Demon glanced at ledgers and books of accounts filling one bookshelf. It wasn't a large room. A padded leather chair stood behind the desk; a wooden chair faced it. One wall was filled with windows looking out over the river-they presently displayed a landscape of driving rain and thick grey clouds backlit by sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled, drawing nearer.
'Half a library, too.' Flick considered the wall of bookshelves opposite the windows. 'I wonder why he keeps them up here. The library was barely half full.'
Demon turned from the elemental rage outside and sauntered to the shelves. Scanning the titles, he found familiar volumes on various games of chance, and a few not so familiar on card-sharping techniques and ways of weighting the odds in some forms of wagering. Frowning, he looked more closely, eventually hunkering down to read the titles of the volumes on the lowest shelf. 'Interesting.'
His voice had changed-he read the titles again, then rose and turned to the desk, his frame radiating purpose.
Flick looked at him questioningly. He met her gaze as he joined her behind the desk, shrugging off his domino, slipping off his mask.
'Those'-with his head he indicated the bottom shelf of books-'are the full race records for the past two years.'
Flick blinked. 'The
Demon nodded and pulled open the top desk drawer. 'Not something one finds in your usual library.
'How?…' Without finishing her question, Flick drew out the top drawer on her side of the desk.
'A set went missing last year-never to be found. But he's also added the most recent volumes-those from last season.'
'A most useful tool for fixing races.'
'Indeed. Look for anything that even mentions horses.'
They were the ideal team for the task-they both knew the names of all recent winners, as well as those expected to win in the upcoming season. They sifted through every drawer, examined every single piece of paper.
'Nothing.' Blowing an errant curl from her forehead, Flick turned and sat on the desk.
Grimacing, Demon dropped into the padded chair. Without enthusiasm, he lifted the last item from the bottom drawer, a leather-bound ledger. Propping it on the desk, he opened it and scanned the entries. After a moment, he snorted. 'That phaeton is new, and he paid a pretty penny for it. As for the horses, he definitely paid too much.'
'Anything else?'
'Caviar's gone up two pounds an ounce in the last year-his account-keeping habits are as stultifyingly rigid as he is. He enters every single transaction-even the lost wagers he's paid.'
Studying the grim set of his face, Flick grimaced. 'No entries under race-fixing, I take it?'
Demon started to shake his head, but he froze as one particular figure danced before his eyes. Slowly straightening, he flicked back a page, then another…
'What is it?'
'Remind me we owe Montague an enormous bonus.' If it hadn't been for the agent's accuracy, he'd never have seen it. 'Those amounts we were looking for-the sums cleared from each fixed race?'
'Yes?'
'They show up here. According to this, they're his main source of income.'
'I thought you said he was rich.'
Flicking back through the ledger, Demon bit back a curse. 'He was-he must have lost it.' He tapped an entry. 'His income from the Funds was miniscule last year, then it ends. There've been huge debts paid-Hazard, at a guess.' He looked up. 'He never went to the wall-no one realized he'd been rolled up because he substituted income from race-fixing to cover his lost investment income. He's always been a lavish spender-nothing appeared to have changed. He simply carried on as he always had.'
'Except he corrupted and blackmailed Dillon, and jockeys, and goodness knows what happened to Ickley.'
'Or any others.' Demon studied the ledger. 'This is too wieldy to smuggle out.' He flicked through the pages, then laid the book on the desk and ripped out five pages.
'Will that do?'
'I think so-they show the amounts from three fixed races going in, and five major purchases that can be traced to Stratton, as well as four very large debts paid to members of the ton who I'm sure will verify from whom they received those sums. On top of that, his writing's distinctive.' He scanned the pages, then folded them and stowed them in the inner pocket of his coat. He returned the ledger to the bottom drawer. 'We'll take the pages to Newmarket tomorrow-with any luck, he won't notice they're missing.'
He shut the drawer and looked at Flick.
A board creaked in the corridor-footsteps paused, some way away-then quickly, purposefully, strode toward the office.
Chapter 22
