Free A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Page A

speaker—she recognized the dulcet tones of one of the top race jockeys—was outside.
    “Now, now. If’n you’ll just hear me out—”
    “I tol’ you—I doan wanna hear nuthin’ from you! Now push off, afore I set ol’ Carruthers on yer!”
    “Your loss.”
    The second speaker had a scratchy voice; it faded away.
    Flick scrambled off the wall and tore through the stable, dodging lads with buckets and feed all the way up the alley. They swore at her. She didn’t stop. She reached the doors; hugging their edge, she peeped out.
    A heavy figure in an old frieze coat was lumbering away along the edge of the Heath, a cloth cap pulled low over his face, his hands sunk in his pockets. She could see little more than Dillon had.
    The man was heading for the town.
    For one moment, Flick stood in the yard, juggling possibilities. Then she swung around and hurried back into the stable.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Demon ambled into his stable at the end of the working day. Soft snorts and gentle whinnies punctuated breathy sighs as stable lads closed their charges in their boxes. The reek of horse was absolute; Demon barely noticed. He did notice the old cob quietly dozing in one corner, a few handfuls of hay and a bucket close by. Glancing left and right, Demon strolled down the alley.
    He stopped by The Flynn’s box; the big bay was settled and contentedly munching. Strolling on, he came upon Carruthers, inspecting a filly’s hoof.
    “Where’s Flick?”
    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?”