A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

Carruthers glanced at him, then snorted. "Gone orf, already. In a pelter, he was. Left his cob-said he'd fetch it later." He looked down at the hoof he was tending.

Demon held back a frown. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nah!" With a deft flick, Carruthers pried a stone free. "Just like the other lads-couldn't wait to get to the Swan and lift a pint."

"The Swan?"

"Or the Bells." Carruthers let the horse's leg down and straightened. "Who knows with lads these days?"

Demon paused; Carruthers watched the filly test the hoof. "So Flick headed into town?"

"Aye-that's what I'm saying. He usually heads off home to Lidgate, quiet as you please, but today he beetled off into town."

"How long ago?"

Carruthers shrugged. "Twenty minutes."

Demon bit back an oath, swung on his heel and strode out of his stable.

He didn't find Flick in the Swan or the Bells, both respectable inns. He found her in the smoke-filled snug of the Fox and Hen, a seedy tavern down a narrow side street. Nursing a full pint pot, she sat sunk in a corner, surrounded by ale-swilling brutes three times her size.

She was trying to look inconspicuous. Thankfully, a dart game was in full swing, and many patrons were still rolling in; the rabble were presently distracted and hadn't started looking around for likely victims.

Jaw set, Demon grabbed a pint from the harassed barman and crossed the room, his size, accentuated by his heavy greatcoat, allowing him to cleave a passage through the crowd. There were others of his ilk present, gentlemen hobnobbing with cits, rubbing shoulders with half-pay officers and racecourse riffraff; his appearance attracted no undue attention.

Reaching the corner table, he ignored Flick's huge eyes. Setting his pot down with a definite click, he sat opposite her. Then he met her gaze. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She glared at him, then flicked her gaze to the next table, then back.

Nonchalantly picking up his pint, Demon sipped, scanning the tables beside them. The nearest held two men, hunched over the table, each with a pint before him. They'd both looked up at the dart game; as Demon turned away, they looked down and resumed their conference.

Meeting Flick's eyes, Demon saw them widen meaningfully. Leaning forward, she hissed, "Listen."

It took a moment to focus his hearing through the din, but once he had, he could hear well enough.

"So which horse and race are we talking about then?" The speaker was a jockey, one Demon had never hired and only knew by distant sight. He doubted the jockey knew him other than by name, but he kept his face averted.

"Hear tell you're down to ride Rowena in the Nell Gwyn Stakes in a couple o'weeks."

The second man's voice, deep and grating, was easy to distinguish beneath the raucous din. Demon lifted his eyes and met Flick's; she nodded, then shifted her attention back to their neighbors.

The jockey took a long pull, then lowered his pot. "Aye-that's right. Where'd you hear? It's not about the course yet."

"Never you mind where I heard-what you should be concentrating on is that because I did hear, you've an opportunity before you."

"Opportunity, is it?" The jockey took another long, slow drink. "How much?"

"Four ponies on delivery."

An eruption of cheers from the dart game had both men looking around. Demon glanced at Flick; eyes wide, she was watching their man-the contact. Under the table, he nudged her boot. She looked at him; he leaned forward. "If you don't stop staring, he'll notice and stare back."

She narrowed her eyes at him, then lowered her gaze to her ale-still untouched. There was another roar from the dart game; everyone looked-even Flick. Swiftly, Demon switched their glasses, leaving his half-full pot for her to nurse. Lifting hers, he drained half; the brew at the Fox and Hen left a lot to be desired, but sitting in a snug amid this sort of crowd nursing a full pot for more than five minutes was enough to invite unwanted attention.

The dart game had concluded. The cheers died and everyone returned to their drinks and conversations.

The jockey looked into his pot as if seeking guidance. "Five ponies."

"Five?" The contact jeered. "You're a mite full of yourself, me lad."