A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online

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 season, and Big Biscuits, Hail Well and The Unicorn at Doncaster. Not to mention The Prime at Ascot. Not so many that it’s certain, but it doesn’t take a man o’ business to work it out. A lot of money changed hands over those losses, and the offered odds in every case . . . well, it certainly gives one to think. And that was just the autumn season.”
    Demon nodded. “Is it official?”
    Reggie grimaced. “Yes and no. The Committee think there’s a definite question, and they want answers, thank you very much. At present, they’re only looking at last autumn, and it’s all been kept under wraps, which is why you might not have heard.”
    Demon shook his head. “I hadn’t. Is there any reason to think it went on last spring as well?”
    “I gather there is, but the evidence—meaning the offering of odds that could only be considered deliberately encouraging—is not as clear.”
    “Any guesses as to the Committee’s direction?”
    Reggie looked up and met Demon’s gaze. Reggie’s father was on the Committee. “Yes, well, that’s why I thought you should know. The jockeys involved, of course, are all as close as clams—they know it’s the devil of a case to prove. But it seems young Caxton’s been seen about, chatting to the jockeys involved. As he’s not previously seemed