A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

She blinked and stopped before him. "You have?"

"I told him all about it-the whole story-so you don't need to lie for me-cover up for me-any more. I should have done that at the start."

He looked Demon straight in the eyes. "Papa and I decided to wait until tomorrow in case you found anything, but we'll be going to see the Committee regardless."

Demon met his eyes and nodded, his approval sincere.

"But we have found something." Flick gripped Dillon's arm. "We've learned who the syndicate is and we've enough proof to show the Committee!"

One hand at her back, Dem

on urged her in. "Let's take our revelations indoors."

Neither Dillon nor Flick argued. If they had, Demon couldn't have explained who he thought might overhear. But he was edgy, and had been since he'd looked into Stratton's cold eyes the previous evening.

That Stratton had noticed them the instant they'd regained the ballroom had him worried. Stratton was known as cold and detached-he might well prove a formidable enemy. If there had been any way to safely leave Flick somewhere well out of the action, he'd have snatched the opportunity. But there wasn't. That being so, the safest place for her was with him.

In the cottage, Dillon faced them. "I've written a detailed account of my involvement, first to last-just the bare facts." He looked grim. "It's hardly pleasant reading, but at least it's honest."

Flick smiled. Her inner happiness radiated from her, all but lighting up the cottage. She laid a hand on Dillon's arm. "We've proof of the syndicate."

Dillon looked at her, then at Demon; his expression said he hardly dared hope. "Who are they?"

"Not they-that was our error. It's a syndicate of one." Briefly, Demon explained. "I have to hand it to him-his execution was almost flawless. Only his greed-the fact he fixed too many races-brought the scheme to light. If he'd been content with the money from one or two major races a year…" He shrugged. "But Stratton's lifestyle calls for rather more blunt than that."

Reaching into his pocket, Demon drew out their evidence. "This was the key." He smoothed out a sheet on the table. Flick hadn't seen it before; together with Dillon, she crowded close.

"I gathered all the details I could about the betting on the fixed races, and my agent, Montague, worked out the amounts cleared from each one. He's a wizard. If he hadn't got it right-very close to exact-I would never have recognized the figures in Stratton's ledger."

Unfolding the sheets he'd torn from Stratton's account book, Demon laid them alongside Montague's sheet. "See?" Tapping various figures in Stratton's income column, he pointed to similar figures on the other sheet. "The dates match, too." Both Dillon and Flick glanced from one sheet to the others, nodding as they took it in.

"Can we prove these are Stratton's accounts?" Dillon looked up.

Demon pointed to certain entries in the expenditure column. "These purchases of a phaeton, and here the pair to go with it-and even more these-lost wagers paid to gentlemen of the ton-can be proved to have been Stratton. With virtually the exact money from the races listed as income on the same pages, it's hard to argue any case other than it was Stratton behind the race-fixing. These"-he gestured to the papers-"are all the evidence we need."

Heeeee-crash!

With a tearing scream, the main door flew in, kicked off its rusting hinges to slam down on the floor. The whole cottage shook. Demon grabbed Flick as they backed up, eyes watering, coughing as dust reared and washed over them.

"How exceedingly foolish of you."

The words, clipped, precise and totally devoid of all feeling, came from the man silhouetted in the doorway.

The bright sunlight outside haloed him; they couldn't see his features. Flick and Demon recognized him instantly.

Eyes on the long barrelled pistol in Stratton's right hand, Demon tried to push Flick behind him. Unfortunately, they'd backed up against the hearth with its low chimney coping.

"Just remain where you are." Stratton stepped over the threshold. He barely glanced at the papers lying scattered on the table, evidence enough to put him in Newgate, a long way from the luxury to which he was accustomed.

Demon tensed, praying Stratton would look at the papers-take his eye off him just for an instant…

Stratton hesitated, but didn't. "You've been far too clever. Much too clever for your own good. If I didn't have such a suspicious nature, you might even have succeeded, but I checked my ledger at four o'clock this morning. By six, I was on the road to Newmarket. I knew you wouldn't dally. It was just a matter of time before you appeared."

"And if we'd gone directly to the Jockey Club?"

"That," Stratton admitted, "would have been exceedingly messy. Luckily, you drove straight through. It was easy to follow you on horseback. Equally easy to guess that, if I was patient, you'd lead me to the one player still eluding me." He inclined his head toward Dillon, but the pistol, aimed directly at Flick's chest, didn't waver. He studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Such a pity, but after that little exposition, I fear I'll have to make away with you all."

"And how," Demon asked, "do you imagine explaining that?"