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

all that interested in rubbing elbows with the riders, it was noticed. The Committee, not surprisingly, wants to talk to the youngster. Trouble is”—Reggie pulled one earlobe—“the boy’s off visiting friends. Given he is the General’s son, and no one wants to unnecessarily upset the venerable old gent, the Committee decided to wait until Caxton junior got back, and take him aside on the quiet.”
    Reggie sighed and continued. “Good plan, of course, but when they made it, they imagined he’d be back inside of a week. That was two weeks ago, and he’s still not back. They’re uneasy about fronting up at Hillgate End and asking the General where his son is—they’ll hold their hand as long as they can. But with the spring season in the offing, they can’t wait forever.”
    Demon met Reggie’s deceptively innocent eyes. “I see.”
    And he did. The message he was getting was not from Reggie, not even from Reggie’s father, but from the all-powerful Committee itself.
    “You don’t have any . . . ah, insights to offer, do you?”
    After a moment, Demon said, “No. But I can see the Committee’s point.”
    “Hmm.” Reggie shot Demon a commiserating look. “Not hard to see, is it?”
    “No, indeed.” They finished their coffee, paid, then strolled outside. Demon paused on the step.
    Reggie stopped beside him. “Where are you headed?”
    Demon shot him a glance. “Hillgate End, where else?” He raised his brows. “To see what the situation there is.”
     
    “They all think I don’t know.” General Sir Gordon Caxton sat in the chair behind his desk. “But I follow the race results better than most and although I don’t get out to the paddocks much these days, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing when I do.” He snorted.
    Demon, standing before the long windows, watched his longtime friend and mentor fretfully realign his already straight blotter. He’d arrived a quarter of an hour before, and, as was his habit, had come straight to the library. The General had greeted him with open delight. To Demon’s well-attuned ear, the General’s heartiness had sounded forced. When the first rush of genial exchanges had faded, he’d asked how everything was with his friend. The General’s superficial delight evaporated, and he’d made his admission.
    “Whispers—and more. About Dillon, of course.” The General’s chin sank; for a long moment, he stared at the miniature of his late wife, Dillon’s mother, that stood on one side of the desk, then he sighed and shifted his gaze to his blotter once more. “Race-fixing.” The words were uttered with loathing. “He might, of course, be innocent, but . . .” He dragged in an unsteady breath, and shook his head. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The boy always lacked backbone—my fault as much as his. I should have taken a firmer stand, applied a firmer hand. But . . .” After another long moment, he sighed again. “I hadn’t expected this.”
    There was a wealth of hurt, of confused pain, in the quietly spoken words. Demon’s hands fisted; he felt an urgent desire to grab hold of Dillon and iron him out, literally and figuratively, regardless of Flick’s sensitivities. The General, despite his lumbering bulk, shaggy brows and martial air, was a benign and gentle man, kindhearted and generous, respected by all who knew him. Demon had visited him regularly for twenty-five years; there had never been any lack of love, of gentle guidance for Dillon. Whatever the General might imagine, Dillon’s situation was no fault of his.
    The General grimaced. “Felicity, dear girl, and Mrs. Fogarty and Jacobs all try to keep it from me. I haven’t let them know there’s no need. They’d only fuss more if they knew I knew.”
    Mrs. Fogarty had been the General’s housekeeper for more than thirty years, and Jacobs, the butler, had been with him at least as long. Both, like Felicity, were utterly devoted to the General.
    The General looked up at