What Price Love?

  Looking at Rus, Dillon saw Barnaby’s point. Barnaby was a golden Adonis, he himself was dark and dramatic, while Rus, a touch younger, was the epitome of devilish. He grimaced. “We’ll need to remember that.”

  Rus grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, can’t it?” Barnaby said. “How much time have you spent socializing in the ton, here or in London?”

  Rus raised his brows. “None, really. Not socializing.”

  “Well, you just wait. Take it from us—we’re old hands. It’s not safe for men like us in the ton.” Barnaby looked around for a chair. “You’re young—you’ll learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  They all looked around. The door was open; Pris stood on the threshold. Her gaze was on Barnaby; she inclined her head in greeting. Then her gaze traveled, slowly, from Barnaby to her brother, then finally to Dillon.

  Her gaze lingered, then she blinked, and stepped into the room.

  “There—see!” Barnaby turned to Rus. “Even she paused, and she’s your sister and arguably the least susceptible female in the ton. I rest my case.”

  Pris frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just trying to warn your brother of a danger he doesn’t yet appreciate he’ll face.”

  Before Barnaby could say more, Dillon waved Pris to the armchair he’d vacated and drew his admiral’s chair from the desk. Rus sat again; Barnaby pulled up a straight-backed chair and elegantly subsided.

  “Right then.” Barnaby looked at them eagerly. “Enlighten me. Start at the beginning.”

  Exchanging a glance with Pris, Dillon started at the point where she’d finally told him of Rus, described how they’d found him, then let Rus explain all he’d discovered before they’d joined forces.

  While Rus talked, Dillon studied Pris. He hadn’t been surprised by her arrival; today was the second day Rus had been hiding at the manor.

  Yesterday, she, Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick had arrived midmorning. Having made Rus’s acquaintance and heard his tale over breakfast, the General had been in excellent form, delighted to welcome the visitors to Hillgate End, to play host and sit chatting with Eugenia and Adelaide when, with Rus and Patrick, Dillon had withdrawn to discuss searching for where Harkness was concealing the substitute horses.

  If the three of them had had their way, Pris would have been excluded from that discussion; they were as one in wanting to keep her apart from what they knew to be dangerous. Regardless, their wishes had been overridden by a display of feminine will they hadn’t been able to counter. Rus had tried to argue; with her, he had the freest hand. Having listened to the needle-witted exchange, Dillon felt certain that Rus was the elder twin; he was more responsible and openly concerned for Pris’s safety. The fact he understood, indeed shared, her wild and reckless streak only sharpened his concern.

  But he hadn’t succeeded, so Pris now knew that, always late at night, Crom took the horses north and east, away from the Rigby place, farther from Newmarket and the Heath. Patrick would watch the Rigby farm until they learned what they needed to know; he hadn’t seen any activity last night.

  Pris was watching Rus and Barnaby talk, impatient to get on, accepting that Barnaby needed to know all they’d learned, yet chafing at the time necessary to inform him. While Barnaby questioned and Rus answered, Dillon let his gaze slide from Pris’s vibrant face to her figure, today elegantly gowned in forest green twill.

  He wasn’t sure which of her incarnations—the unconventional female dressed in breeches or the exquisite, faintly haughty lady—distracted him more. The former reminded him of that heated interlude in the summer house two evenings before, while the latter evoked potent memories of the night just passed—and the provocative promise arising from that.

  Last night…he’d been restless beyond bearing. Driven by he knew not what—by some impossible-to-deny impulse he hadn’t want to examine closely—he’d surrendered and, close to midnight, had saddled Solomon and ridden to the Carisbrook house.

  To the summer house. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had had no thought in his head other than simply to be near her. He’d imagined sitting on the sofa and looking over the lake, until his restlessness had faded.

  He’d been doing just that, sitting staring over the still water, when he’d seen a wraith moving through the trees. Her, in a pale gown with a shawl about her shoulders.

  They hadn’t made any arrangement; it hadn’t been an assignation. Yet she’d entered the summer house without hesitation. Showing no real surprise at finding him there, she’d walked directly to him, halted before him, and let her shawl slide from her shoulders.

  She’d spent the next hours in his arms, in an interlude unlike any other he’d ever known. She’d taken his restlessness, and shaped it, transmuted it into something else, something she’d wanted, and had taken into herself.

  Much later, at peace in a way he’d never before been, he’d walked her back to the house, seen her slip inside, then had returned to Solomon and ridden home.

  That sense of peace still lingered, even now.

  Just gazing at her somehow soothed some part of him he hadn’t before realized needed anyone’s touch.

  “So!” Barnaby turned to him. “Did your clerks find anything?”

  He shifted, refocused. “They’ve found something, but we don’t yet know what it means. The two horses Rus identified as look-alikes for Flyin’ Fury and Blistering Belle are owned by a Mr. Aberdeen. He’s a gentleman, owns a reasonable stable of runners, and employs his own trainer, yet it appears he’s sent—or is it lent?—those horses to Cromarty.”

  Barnaby frowned. “He’s not a local owner?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Based near Sheffield. He usually runs his horses at Doncaster or Cheltenham. My clerks are trying to identify the two horses Cromarty had in Ireland, that Crom took somewhere after the string landed in Liverpool. If those horses are Aberdeen’s, or are Cromarty’s but are look-alikes for two of Aberdeen’s runners, then it’s possible the groundwork for substitutions at Doncaster and Cheltenham is also in hand.”

  Barnaby looked at him. “This is not a small enterprise.”

  “No,” Dillon agreed. “And that brings us to today’s news. Yours.”

  “Indeed!” Barnaby glanced at Rus, then Pris, then looked at Dillon. “Perhaps we ought to adjourn to Demon’s house? His opinion would be useful, and it would be better if we were all there to hear it.”

  Dillon nodded. “Good idea. He was away all yesterday looking at horses. I’ve yet to introduce him to Rus or Pris, and fill him in on all we’ve learned. Flick and he were expected back this morning.”

  “Demon,” Rus said as they all rose. “Demon Cynster?”

  Recognizing the awestruck look in Rus’s eyes, Dillon grinned. “There’s only one Demon, believe me. He’s my cousin-in-law, but you can interpret that as brother-in-law. I grew up with Flick, now his wife. Demon’s stud is the neighboring estate.”

  “Oh, I know.” Rus fell in beside him as he followed Pris and Barnaby to the door. “While I was hiding in the woods, I used to fill in time by sneaking close to his paddocks and watching the horses. He’s got more prime ’uns in one place than I’ve ever set eyes on before.”

  “For Demon, horse breeding is more than a hobby—it’s his passion.” Dillon caught Pris’s eye as she glanced his way, and smiled. “After Flick, that is.”

  He didn’t hear her sniff, but was quite sure she did.

  They walked the short distance to the Cynster house, discussing various points, filling in details Rus and Dillon had skimmed over earlier. No matter how they probed, Barnaby refused to divulge anything of what he’d learned, not until they had Demon there, too.

  Both Demon and Flick were at home; both were eager to hear their news, even more so when they learned who Rus was.

  Pris hung on to her patience and waited with what decorum she could muster; what she really wanted was to pace, plan, and act. She’d assumed finding Ru
s would be the same as finding peace, yet although she’d been immensely relieved to have her twin back hale and whole, the existence of a continuing threat to his life wasn’t something she could bear with any degree of equanimity.

  She wanted that threat ended, eradicated, and she wanted that now. But she needed Dillon’s, Barnaby’s, Demon’s, and Flick’s help, so she bit her tongue and forbore to hurry them.

  At last, once Dillon had noted the as-yet-unclear involvement of Mr. Aberdeen, all eyes swung to Barnaby. She’d expected him to relish the moment; instead, he looked grave.

  “What I have to report”—he glanced around at their faces—“when added to all you’ve learned, suggests the whole is more serious, indeed blacker, than we’d thought. Gabriel and his contacts tried to trace the ten thousand pounds Collier received. Montague, who I gather you both know”—Barnaby nodded to Dillon and Demon, who nodded back—“assured me that had the transfer been made in the normal way of business, they would have found some trail, but they didn’t. Wherever that money came from, it didn’t move through any bank. Collier must have received it as cash—literally a bundle of notes. Both Gabriel and Montague suggested the most likely source was a wealthy gamester, someone who regularly handles such sums.”

  Barnaby paused; his expression grew harder. “Then Vane appeared with the latest he’d gleaned, not from the clubs but from various rather seedier locations. The latest gossip concerning the suspect race run here a few weeks ago”—Barnaby looked at Rus—“and yes, the horse involved was Flyin’ Fury, is that positively huge sums were laid against Flyin’ Fury winning.

  “Certain bookmakers are wailing and gnashing their teeth, but, of course, few have any sympathy. However, Vane learned enough to estimate the winnings solely from those bets as more than one hundred thousand pounds. The point that most interested everyone was that the individual bets weren’t large—nothing out of the ordinary, all to different people or betting agents. So while the bookmakers are certain they were stung, they have no way of knowing who to blame.”

  Demon looked grim. “If they did know who, that person would no longer be a concern.”

  “No, indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “Gabriel sent a message. He, Montague, and Vane believe that whoever’s behind this will prove deadly. This is not the usual sort of scam, but one operating on a massive scale. The monetary risks being taken are enormous, the potential gain gargantuan. Consequently, if threatened, whoever’s behind this won’t hesitate to deal death into the game.

  “I told them we believed that particular card had already been played with Collier.” Barnaby looked at Demon and Dillon. “Vane sent a message, too. Beware.”

  Demon exchanged a glance with Dillon. “Sound advice.”

  Pris got the distinct impression that to them that Beware meant something different, certainly carried more weight than the usual interpretation. She noticed Flick watching Demon, faintly narrow-eyed, but couldn’t guess the direction of her thoughts.

  Everyone paused, piecing together all they knew. Demon summarized, “So we’ve yet to find where the switched horses are hidden. Once we know that”—he met Dillon’s gaze—“we’ll have to give serious thought as to how best to proceed.”

  Dillon nodded and rose. “We’ll let you know what we discover.”

  Demon and Flick saw them to the front door. The conversation along the way revolved about the runners they were preparing for the upcoming race meet—the first October meeting, a major event in the Newmarket calendar.

  “Dillon and I feel sure that’s the meet at which they’ll switch Blistering Belle,” Rus said.

  Demon concurred. “If we can’t thrust a spoke through their wheel, they’ll make a killing.” He looked at Dillon. “In the circumstances, I don’t know what help we’ll be. We’ll both be up to our ears in preparation.”

  “Actually…” Flick eyed Rus appraisingly. “I could use an extra pair of well-trained hands, and as there’s nothing you can do at present since you must remain in hiding, and as our training track is well screened, out of bounds and out of sight to any but our most trusted lads, why don’t you slip over and lend a hand? I’ll put you to work, and you can show me what you Irish can do.”

  There was enough challenge in the words to allow Rus to grin and accept with alacrity rather than fall to his knees and kiss Flick’s feet. Pris smiled, relieved that Rus would be kept occupied, delighted that the occupation was his passion. Catching Flick’s eye, she inclined her head in thanks. Flick grinned and patted her arm.

  A moment later, they set off, walking across the fields and through the belt of woodland separating the stud from Hillgate End. Rus was in alt, his head already in the clouds.

  Dillon laughed. “Tell me—how do you see Flick? Sweet, delicate, a Botticelli angel, gentle temper, all smiles?”

  Rus looked at Dillon, shrugged. “Something like that.”

  His grin wide, Dillon clapped Rus on the shoulder. “Just wait, boyo—she’s a sergeant major around horses. I guarantee she’ll run you ragged.”

  The next morning, Pris came down to breakfast to find Patrick hovering in the dining room. She stared at him. “Did you find them?”

  He grinned. “I did.”

  She sank into her chair; ignoring Adelaide’s and Eugenia’s exclamations, she demanded, “Where?”

  Patrick told her.

  Ten minutes after she’d consumed a hasty breakfast, she was in the gig, the reins in her hands, Adelaide beside her, as she tooled them down the lanes to call on the house hold at Hillgate End.

  They switched the black fillies late last night.” Pris unfolded a map she’d drawn. “It’s a tiny cottage, more a hovel Patrick said, but there’s a lean-to stable alongside big enough to hold two horses.”

  She laid her sketch on Dillon’s desk; he, Rus, and Barnaby crowded around. The General had been present when she and Adelaide had been shown in. Dillon and Rus had frowned, signaling with their eyes; they hadn’t wanted Adelaide involved.

  She’d felt like she would burst, holding in the news while Adelaide shyly greeted them, then started chatting with Rus; he’d just returned from his first session working with Flick and seemed both exhilarated and stunned. But then the General had risen to the occasion and claimed Adelaide’s attention and her arm for a stroll about the garden. Mentally blessing him, Pris had lost no time imparting her news.

  “There.” She pointed to a cross some miles northeast of the Rigby farm. “It’s little more than four walls and a chimney on the other side of this stream.” She traced a squiggly line. “There are trees along the rise behind it.”

  “Which horse will it be?” Barnaby looked at Rus.

  He shook his head. “Sometimes it was a day between switches, at other times three.” He glanced at Dillon. “I’ll go there and check which horse it is.”

  “Not in daylight,” Pris said. “Harkness might see you out riding. Who knows what he’ll be up to?”

  Rus grinned. “Actually I do know, at least for a few hours every day. This afternoon he and Crom will be overseeing the string exercising on the Heath.”

  “Can you be sure?’ Dillon asked.

  “Without me, unless Harkness has managed to hire another assistant trainer—and how likely is that in Newmarket just before a major meet?—then he and Crom both have to attend the training sessions. Cromarty has a good few horses entered, and aside from the substitution, he doesn’t like to lose any more than any other owner.”

  “Right, then.” Dillon straightened. “This afternoon it is.”

  Pris bit her tongue; they did have to know which horse was where, and only Rus could be certain which was which—and she couldn’t think of any way to argue him out of what she, nevertheless, viewed as a dangerous journey.

  She met his eyes—amused yet understanding—and pulled a face at him. He laughed, hugged her, and wisely made no comment.

  She and Adelaide stayed for luncheon. The General seemed delighted by their presence; he confessed he missed having
young ladies around. “Flick was here for years, and even though she’s just across the fields, it’s not the same.”

  He glanced down the table at Dillon, old eyes twinkling. “I sometimes think I should invite Prudence, Flick and Demon’s daughter, to stay for a few weeks.”

  Dillon groaned. “Heaven preserve me!” To Pris and Adelaide, he explained, “Imagine a cross between Flick and Demon—a hedonistic female, convinced she’s right, and who will stop at nothing—absolutely nothing—to ensure matters fall out as she decrees they ought.” He shuddered. “She’s a terror now, and will be utterly unstoppable in a few years.”

  Barnaby nodded. “I’m just grateful that by then we’ll be ancient, and probably far distant, so she won’t turn her beady eyes on us.”

  “They aren’t beady.” Pris felt forced to defend the young girl she’d once glimpsed. “They’re quite lovely.”

  Barnaby nodded even more. “Precisely. Weapons of the highest caliber. Just wait until she uses them on Rus, then ask him whether we’re not right.”

  The conversation continued in a lighthearted vein. At the end of the meal, they made plans to meet at the Carisbrook house later that afternoon—to go for a ride. Adelaide reluctantly ruled herself out without them having to say anything; she wasn’t a sufficiently confident rider to keep up with them.

  Pris went out of her way to be extra pleasant as she drove them back, detouring to the lending library so Adelaide could find a new novel—and to check the large map on the wall. Assured she had the position of the cottage properly fixed in her mind, she drove on to the house, where Eugenia and Patrick waited.

  She and Eugenia, with Patrick trailing behind, went for a walk around the lake while she explained all they knew and their present direction.

  Eugenia nodded. “Mr. Caxton—Dillon—seems an estimable gentleman, and Mr. Adair, too—his connection with the new police force does give one confidence. While I’m hardly happy that Rus must stay in hiding, I’m glad he”—Eugenia glanced at Pris—“and you, my dear, have found yourselves in such excellent company. I’ll admit that in coming here, I feared matters might turn out far worse.”