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before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.
    “Good work.” Demon’s blue eyes held hers; he nodded curtly. “We’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late.”
    Flick’s tongue burned; she had, until now, unsaddled and brushed down The Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. “I’ll be here.” With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remem bering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance—before temptation could get the upper hand.
    Behind her, she heard Demon ask Carruthers some question—but she could still feel his gaze on her back.
     
    After seeing Flick safely away, Demon repaired to the coffeehouse in Newmarket High Street favored by the members of the Jockey Club.
    He was hailed the instant he crossed the threshold. Returning greetings right and left, he strolled to the counter, ordered a large breakfast, then joined a group comprised mostly of other owners at one of the long tables.
    “We’re exchanging predictions for the coming season.” Patrick McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort’s stable, turned to Demon as he sat. “Currently, of course, we’ve five times the number of winners as we have races.”
    “Sounds like a fresh crop,” Demon drawled. “That’ll keep the General busy.”
    McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning—if horses that hadn’t won before made it to the winner’s circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. “Ah, yes. Busy indeed.”
    He looked away up the table; Demon resisted pressing him. McGonnachie, in common with all of Newmarket, knew how close he and the General were. If there was any less-than-felicitous whisper going the rounds concerning the General, McGonnachie wouldn’t tell him.
    So he ate and listened to the chat about the table, and contributed his share. And bore with easy indifference the good-natured ribbing over his activities in London.
    “Need to change your style if you don’t want to miss your chance,” Old Arthur Trumble, one of the most respected owners, nodded down the table. “Take my advice and spend less time lifting the skirts of London’s mesdames , and more dealing with the business. The higher the standing of your stud, the more demanding it’ll be.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “And Lord knows, you look like taking the Breeder’s Cup this year.”
    Two others took immediate exception to that prediction, leaving Demon with no need to reply. He listened, but detected no further suggestion of rumors concerning the General other than McGonnachie’s earlier hesitation.
    “Mister Figgins is back—did you hear?” Buffy Jeffers leaned forward to look around McGonnachie. “Sawyer ran him in the first—he couldn’t wait to see if that leg would hold up, but it did. So your Mighty Flynn will have some decent competition. The handicaps won’t be the walk-over they might otherwise have been.”
    “Oh?” Demon chatted with Buffy about The Flynn’s chances, while his mind raced on a different track.
    He had wondered how Dillon’s syndicate had expected to fix the first race of the year. Run before the start of the spring season, the early races were used to trial horses, generally those new to racing. If that was the case, then fixing meant making sure one specific horse came first, which meant influencing how at least a handful of other horses ran. Bribing multiple jockeys required more money, and was more hazardous, than the alternative way to fix a race. But the other method required one outstanding runner—a crowd favorite.
    “Tell me,” Demon asked, when Buffy paused for breath. “Did Mister Figgins win? You didn’t say.”
    “Romped in,” Buffy replied. “Showed the pack a clean pair of heels all the way down