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 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 Demon. "Tell me-have you heard anything beyond suspicions?"

Demon held his gaze. "No-nothing more than this." Briefly, he stated all he'd heard in Newmarket that morning.

The General humphed. "As I said, it wouldn't surprise me to learn Dillon was involved. He's away staying with friends-if the Committee's agreeable to wait until he returns, that would be best, I suspect. No need to summon him back. Truth to tell, if I did send a summons, I couldn't be sure he wouldn't bolt."

"It's always been a mystery how Dillon could be so weak a character when he grew up alongside Felicity. She's so…" The General stopped, then smiled fleetingly at Demon. "Well, the word 'righteous' comes to mind. Turning her from her path, which you may be sure she's fully considered from all angles, is all but impossible. Always was." He sighed fondly. "I used to put it down to her parents being missionaries, but it goes deeper than that. A true character-steadfast and unswerving. That's my Felicity."

His smile faded. "Would that a little of her honesty had rubbed off on Dillon. And some of her steadiness. She's never caused me a moment's worry, but Dillon? Even as a child he was forever in some senseless scrape. The devil of it was, he always looked to Felicity to rescue him-and she always did. Which was all very well when they were children, but Dillon's twenty-two. He should have matured, should have grown beyond these damned larks."