A Rogue's Proposal Read Online Free PDF

Dillon’s face; his eyes grew darker, wilder. “I—don’t know what you mean.”
    Demon held his gaze unblinkingly. “This would not, I suggest, be a good time to lie. How much did they pay you?”
    Dillon flushed.
    Flick sprang to her feet. “You took money ?” Behind her, the stool clattered on the flags. “You took money to carry a message to fix a race?”
    The accusation in her tone would have made the Devil flinch; Dillon did not. “It was only two ponies—just for the one message. I wasn’t going to do it any more. That’s why they got Ickley.”
    “Any more ?” Flick stared at him. “What do you mean ‘any more’?”
    Dillon’s expression turned mulish; Flick leaned both hands on the table and looked him in the eye. “Dillon— how long ? How long have you been taking money to carry messages for these men?”
    He tried to keep silent, tried to withstand the demand in her tone, the scorn in her eyes.“Since last summer.”
    “Last summer ?” Flick straightened, shoving the table in her agitation. “Good God! Why ?” She stared at Dillon. “What on earth possessed you?”
    Demon held silent; as an avenging angel, Flick had a distinct advantage.
    Turning sulky, Dillon pushed back from the table. “It was the money, of course.” He attempted a sneer, but it bounced off Flick’s righteous fury.
    “The General gives you a very generous allowance—why would you want more?”
    Dillon laughed brittlely and leaned his arms on the table. He avoided Flick’s outraged stare.
    Which did nothing to soothe her temper. “And if you needed more, you know you only had to ask. I always have plenty . . .” Her words trailed away; she blinked, then her eyes blazed. She refocused on Dillon. “You’ve been gambling at the cockfights again, haven’t you?” Scorn—raw disgust—poured through her words. “Your father forbade it, but you couldn’t leave it be. And now —!” Sheer fury choked her; she gestured wildly.
    “Cockfighting’s not that bad,” Dillon countered, still sulky. “It’s not as if it’s something other gentlemen don’t do.” He glanced at Demon.
    “Don’t look at me,” Demon returned. “Not my style at all.”
    “It’s disgusting!” Flick looked directly at Dillon. “You’re disgusting, too.” She whirled and swooped on a pile of clothes set on an old chest. “I’m going to change.”
    Demon glimpsed the blue velvet skirts of a stylish riding habit as she stormed past him out into the ruined lean-to.
    Silence descended in the main room; Demon let it stretch. He watched Dillon squirm, then stiffen his spine, only to wilt again. When he judged it was time, he quietly said, “I rather think you’d better tell us the whole of it.”
    Eyes on the table, on the fingertip with which he traced circles on the scratched surface, Dillon drew a shaky breath. “I ran messages the whole autumn season. I owed a cent-per-cent in Bury St. Edmunds—he said I had to pay up before year’s end or he’d come and see the General. I had to get the money somewhere. Then the man—the one who brings the messages—found me.” He paused, but didn’t look up. “I always thought it was the cent-per-cent who nudged him my way, to ensure I’d be in a position to pay.”
    Demon thought that very likely.
    Dillon shrugged. “Anyway, it was easy enough—easy money, I thought.”
    A choking sound came from the lean-to; Dillon flushed. “Well, it was easy last year. Then, when the man brought the messages for the last few weeks of races, I told him I wouldn’t do it any more. He said, ‘We’ll see,’ and I left it at that. I didn’t expect to see him again, but two nights before the first race this year, he found me. At a cock-fight.”
    The sound from the lean-to was eloquent—mingled disbelief, frustration and fury.
    Dillon grimaced. “He told me Ickley had balked, and that I’d have to do the job until they could find a ‘suitable replacement.’ That’s how he phrased