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 cockfight."
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 it." Dillon paused, then offered, "I think that means someone they have some hold over, because he said, bold as brass, that if I didn't agree they'd tell the authorities what I'd done, and make sure everyone knew I was the General's son. Well, I did it. Took the message. And the money. And then I got sick."
Demon could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. The flies in the ointment were the General, and Flick's sniff of disillusionment that came from behind him.
After a moment, Dillon wearily straightened. "That's all of it." He met Demon's gaze. "I swear. If you'll believe me."
Demon didn't answer. Forearms on the table, he steepled his fingers; it was time to take charge. "As I see it, we have two objectives-one, to keep you out of the syndicate's way until, two, we've identified your contact, traced him back to his masters-the syndicate-and unmasked at least one member of said syndicate, and have enough proof for you to take to the magistrate, so that, in turning yourself in as a witless pawn caught up in a greater game, you can plead for leniency."
He looked up; Dillon blanched, but met his gaze. A moment passed, and Demon raised his brows.
Dillon swallowed, and nodded. "Yes, all right."
"So we need to identify your contact. Flick said you never saw him clearly."
Dillon shook his head. "He was always careful-he'd come up to me as 1 was leaving the pit in the dark, or come sidling up in the shadows."
"What's his height, his build?"
"Medium to tall, heavy build." Dillon's frown lifted. "One thing recognizable is his voice-it's oddly rough, like his throat is scratched, and he has a London accent."
Demon nodded, considering. Then he refocused. "Flick's idea is the only reasonable way forward-we'll have to keep watch about the tracks and stables to see who approaches the race jockeys. I'll handle that."
"I'll help."
The statement came from behind him; Demon glanced around, then rose spontaneously to his feet. Luckily, Flick was coldly glaring at Dillon, which allowed him to get his expression back under control before she glanced at him.
When she did, he met her gaze impassively, but he remained standing.