Free A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens Page B

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.”
    The jockey’s expression hardened. “Five. I’m the one on Rowena’s back that race, and she’ll start it prime favorite. The bets’ll be heavy—real heavy. If you want her out of the winner’s circle, it’ll cost you five.”
    “Hmm.” It was the contact’s turn to seek inspiration from his ale. “Five? If you want five, you’ll need to keep her out of the places altogether.”
    “Nah.” The jockey shook his head. “Can’t do it. If she finishes outside the places, the stewards’ll be on my tail, and a whole monkey wouldn’t be worth that. I ain’t about to blow my license for you. Even bringing her in second . . . well, I can do it, but only because Cynster’s got a prime filly in the race. Rowena’s better, but I can slot her behind the Cynster filly and it’ll look all right. But unless there’s another runner we ain’t seen yet, they’re the only possible winners. No way I can drop Rowena out of the places.”
    The contact frowned, then drained his pot. “All right.” He looked the jockey in the eye. “Five ponies for a no win—is it a deal?”
    The jockey hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”
    “ Aaargh!! ” A bellowed war cry erupted through the noise. Everyone turned to see a furious brute break a jug over his neighbor’s head. The jug shattered, the victim slumped. A fist swung out of nowhere, and lifted the assailant from his feet.
    And it was on.
    Everyone leapt to their feet; chairs crashed, pots went flying. Bodies ricochetted off each other; some thudded on the floor. The melee expanded by the second as more and more patrons launched themselves into the fray.
    Demon swung back. Flick, eyes huge, was on her feet in the corner. With an oath, he swept the pots from their table and set it on its side. Reaching across, he grabbed her shoulder. “Get down!”
    He forced her down behind the makeshift barricade. One hand on her cap, he pushed her fully down. “Stay there!”
    The instant he removed his hand, her head popped up. He swore and reached for her; her already-wide eyes dilated.
    He swung around just in time to weave back from a hefty fist. It grazed his