Pris nodded. They continued to amble around the lake’s shore.
“I do hope,” Eugenia continued, “that your brother curbs his enthusiasm and doesn’t do anything reckless and dangerous.”
“Actually, I don’t think there’s much likelihood of that.” Pris described Flick’s invitation, and what Rus had recounted of his first session beside her on the training track. “He hadn’t realized that she, herself, rides the horses she trains. Once he found out, he thought he’d have to hold his horse back. Instead, she left him floundering.”
Smiling, Pris wondered if Flick had deliberately let the situation play out as it had, guessing how it would spur Rus on and put him on his mettle.
“Hmm,” Eugenia said. “I did think Mrs. Cynster was an exceptionally intelligent lady.”
Smile deepening, Pris strolled on.
As the afternoon ticked by, she forced herself to patience, to not look at the clock every ten minutes. Regardless, when her three coconspirators clattered into the stable yard, she was mounted and waiting.
Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick came out to wave them off. Minutes later, they were galloping across the fields—north, to the tiny cottage.
Pris held her mare alongside the three larger horses—Dillon’s black, a raking bay carrying Barnaby, and the strong gray that Rus was riding. Before they’d appeared, she’d been just a little worried that, despite the arrangements, they would give the Carisbrook house a wide berth and leave her waiting “in safety.” She was pleased they hadn’t, pleased with them, her mood buoyant as they raced toward the cottage.
They had to reach it, Rus had to examine the horse stabled there, then he had to get back to Hillgate End before dusk heralded an end to the day’s training. So they wasted no time; letting the horses stretch out, they flew.
A rocky streambed appeared ahead, cutting through the relatively flat fields. Dillon drew rein, then swung Solomon to follow the bank. The others followed. From the opposite bank, the land rose gently to where, tucked into the side of a rise, the tiny cottage nestled against a protective band of trees.
Finding a crossing place, Dillon sent Solomon down the bank. The big black took the opposite bank in one leap. Pris came next, waved on by Barnaby and Rus; her mare stepped daintily, picking its way, then climbed the rising bank at an angle. Barnaby and Rus quickly followed; Dillon turned and set Solomon for the cottage, surging up beside Pris’s mare, already striking out for their goal.
Eyes on the cottage’s door, he called, “You and I—let’s head straight for the cottage. We can knock on the door—if there’s anyone there, you can beg a drink of water.” He glanced at her.
She nodded to show she’d heard. Her lips curved, her eyes alight, she raced up the slope beside him.
He signaled to the other two to hold back. Facing forward again, he kept pace with Pris, tamping down the urge to recklessly race.
She was reckless enough, racing enough for them both.
She pulled up before the cottage, laughing, letting the mare circle. She waited until he halted and dismounted, then trotted the mare up and let him lift her down.
Setting her on her feet, he took her hand. “Come on.”
He led her to the cottage door, and pounded on it. They waited, both breathing quickly, sharing a long glance as a minute ticked by.
“I can’t hear anything,” she mouthed.
He knocked again, louder, longer. “I say! Is anyone there? Could a lady beg a drink of water?”
Silence. Then from around the corner came a muffled whicker.
Stepping back, he studied the cottage. It had only a single story, no attic, its one small window so grimy it was impossible to see inside. “I think we’re safe.” He beckoned to the other two, who’d hung back as if merely pausing on their way somewhere else.
Pris tried to slip her fingers free of his hold; he tightened his grip, scanning the surroundings as the other two rode up. Satisfied there was no one to see them, he met Pris’s narrowing eyes. “All right—let’s see.”
They strode around the corner. The entrance to the stable faced the rear, well screened and protected by the trees. It was in better condition than the cottage, better even than its outward appearance suggested.
Ducking beneath the heavy beam over the doorway, Dillon glanced around, taking in the bridles and reins neatly hung on one wall, the two stalls, both strong and of surprisingly good size, with half doors across their mouths. The floor was stone, clean and swept; the sweet smell of straw hung in the warm, still air.
The second stall was occupied. Pris headed for it. His fingers still locked about hers, he followed. A black filly with four even white socks and a white blaze on her chest watched them from within the stall, curious but wary, making no move to come to the half door and get acquainted.
Brisk footsteps heralded Rus, with Barnaby close behind. Rus slowed to take in the surroundings, then he met Dillon’s eyes. “At least they take proper care of them.”
Dillon waved to the occupied stall, drawing Pris back. “Which is she?”
Rus stepped to the half door; the instant the filly set eyes on him, she gave a delighted whinny and came eagerly forward. She butted Rus in the chest. Laughing, he scratched between her ears, then stroked her long black nose. “This is Belle.”
The horse snuffled and butted again.
Rus reached into his pocket and drew out a ripe red pippin. He offered it; Belle literally curled her lip, snorted in disgust, and knocked his hand aside. Rus chuckled, repocketed the pippin, and drew out a lump of sugar. Appeased, Belle lipped it from his palm, blowing softly.
Then she butted him again, pressing against the front of the stall.
“No, girl,” Rus crooned, Irish accent soft and lilting. “You have to stay here, at least for a while.”
“We’d better go.” After witnessing the evidence of the apple, Barnaby had retreated beyond the stable door, keeping watch down the valley. “The sun’s going down.” He glanced at Dillon. “How much longer will the training sessions last?”
Reluctantly, Rus drew away from Belle; Dillon and Pris followed him from the stable. Behind them, Belle whickered forlornly.
Dillon looked west, then out across the slope to where the shadows were lengthening. “We’ve just time enough for Rus to reach Hillgate End before Harkness and Crom start scouting.”
“Even if they send the string back to the Rigby place and head straight to your woods?” Pris glanced worriedly at Rus as they walked quickly back to their horses.
“Even so.” Rus grinned at her. “With the meet so close, Harkness won’t be cutting corners and rushing through training.”
Pris stopped arguing, but from the way she glanced at Rus, she wasn’t convinced. In the circumstances, Dillon left Rus to lift her to her saddle.
Within minutes they were across the stream and flying over the fields to the Carisbrook house.
When they clattered into the stable yard, Patrick was waiting. He caught Pris’s mare. “Did you find her—the black filly?”
Rus nodded. “Blistering Belle.” He glanced at Dillon. “What now?”
“Now we think.” Dillon settled Solomon, prancing as Patrick lifted Pris down. “We can’t afford a misstep.” He caught Pris’s eye, then glanced at Patrick. “It’s short notice, but do you think Lady Fowles will agree to an impromptu dinner at Hillgate End this evening? I know my father would be delighted, and it’ll give us a chance to review what we know, consider the possibilities, and decide on our goal. Then we can make plans.”
Pris nodded. “I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will be delighted to join your father for dinner.”
Dillon raised his hand in a salute. “We’ll see you then.”
The other two called farewells, then the three wheeled. Pris watched them spring their mounts and charge away, racing. With a sniff, she turned to the house. “I’d better go and tell Eugenia that we’ve arranged her evening for her.”
14
Pris hadn’t expected Eug
enia to object to their commandeering of her evening, yet she was puzzled by how pleased her aunt was at the “invitation.”
Descending the stairs at six o’clock, ready to set out, she discovered Eugenia preening—definitely preening—before the mirror in the hall.
“Oh—there you are, dear. Tell me”—Eugenia tweaked the delicate lace collar she’d fastened about her discreet neckline—“do you think this makes me look too old?”
Pris blinked, but when Eugenia glanced her way inquiringly, she went to view her aunt in the mirror—actually looked at the soft-featured face, at the gently waving blond hair only lightly streaked with gray. At the nicely rounded figure, matronly but Rubenesquely so, at the intelligence that shone in the clear blue eyes. She shook her head. “I don’t think you look old at all.”
Purely feminine plea sure lit Eugenia’s smile. “Thank you, dear.” Turning, she surveyed Pris, then raised her brows. “That shade of lilac becomes you. I take it you’re abandoning the severe bluestocking look?”
Straightening her amethyst skirts, Pris shrugged. “It’s only Rus, Dillon, and Barnaby—it’s not as if there’ll be anyone there I need to fool.”
Eugenia looked much struck. “Very true.”
The twinkle in her eyes stated that she wasn’t fooled, either—that she understood perfectly that there would be one male present Pris was quite happy to expose to the full force of her charms.
Adelaide came clattering down the stairs, content now she knew where Rus was, that he was safe, and thrilled to be seeing him that evening. “I’m ready.” Halting at the foot of the stairs, she looked at Pris and Eugenia, eagerness lighting her face. “Can we go?”
Pris glanced at Eugenia; Eugenia glanced at Pris. Then they both laughed.
“Come along.” Eugenia waved them to the door. “Patrick is waiting.”
The drive to Hillgate End was accomplished in an atmosphere of pleasant anticipation. The General met them at the manor door and bowed them in. Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby were waiting in the drawing room.
Walking in behind Eugenia, Pris was glad she’d seen Dillon in evening dress before; she managed not to stare, but it was only after she’d greeted him, then turned, and Rus grinned at her, that she even remembered her twin was there. She blinked, dragooned her wits into order, and moved to greet Barnaby.
What followed was the epitome of a warm, relaxed, very comfortable evening spent among good friends. The dinner was excellent, the wines light; the talk was effervescent, engaging, a simple delight. By mutual accord no one spoke of the matter that had brought them together, of the decisions that hung suspended, waiting to be made. Instead, they spoke of London, and Ireland, of scandal and news, of horses, too, but of breeding them, not racing them.
The laughter was genuine, the appreciation sincere. Rus spent time chatting quietly to Adelaide; while Barnaby entertained the General and Eugenia, Dillon and Pris exchanged opinions on card games, curricle racing, and dogs.
But when the last course was cleared and the covers drawn, the General looked around and smiled. “Perhaps, in the circumstances, Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and I will retire to the drawing room and leave you four to your deliberations.”
“Indeed.” Eugenia pushed back her chair. “But don’t take too long. We’ll expect you to join us for tea.”
The men stood as she did. The General offered Eugenia his arm; with Adelaide on his other side, the three left the room, already chatting.
Dillon sank back into his chair next to Pris. Barnaby remained opposite; Rus switched chairs to sit beside him. Before they could say a word, the door swung open and Jacobs entered carrying the port decanter on a tray.
He halted, blinked.
Dillon glanced at Pris, but she was frowning at the tabletop. He jogged her elbow; when she looked up, with his head he indicated Jacobs, waiting, uncertain what to do. Pris stared, then looked back at Dillon. He opened his eyes wide at her.
She realized. “Oh! Yes—do go ahead.” She waved distractedly. “What ever it is you do.”
“Pour three glasses,” Dillon instructed Jacobs, “then take the decanter to the General in the drawing room. I’m sure Lady Fowles won’t mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jacobs set the three glasses at Dillon’s elbow. He passed two to Rus and Barnaby, then lifted his and sipped.
“To success,” Barnaby said, and drank.
Rus and Dillon murmured agreement, then Dillon set down his glass. “The first thing we need to decide is: do we have the full picture? Or at least enough of the picture to act?”
Folding his arms, Barnaby leaned on the table. “Let me paint what we have so far. There’s someone, possibly a single man—let’s call him Mr. X—a gentleman and a hardened gamester who wagers and wins massive sums. For men like that, it’s not just the money but the thrill of winning that matters, and to play at the level that gives them thrills, they have to have money. Buckets of it.
“Let’s start from last autumn. Collier wagered heavily and lost. Mr. X heard of it. Over winter, he approached Collier, who was facing ruin, became his silent partner, and set up the conditions for running horse substitutions. Over the spring season, at least two substitutions were successfully run, proving for Mr. X that he had all the necessary pieces—the owners, trainers, horses, betting agents, sharp bookmakers—everything needed to generate very large sums of cash.”
“But after the season ended, he fell out with Collier.” Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes. “Mr. X acted decisively to remove a threat to his scheme—he killed Collier.”
Barnaby nodded. “Mr. X might already have had Cromarty and Aberdeen lined up, but regardless, his racket rolled on without a hitch.”
“It’s possible,” Dillon put in, “that changing stables every season was always a part of his plan. That makes it almost impossible for the authorities to stop his scheme—we’re only alerted after the race is run, usually not until weeks later, and then it’s the end of the season. Even if after this season we started monitoring Cromarty, if next season’s substitutions are run by Aberdeen…the authorities will always be one very big step behind Mr. X.”
Barnaby frowned at the tabletop. “One thought occurs—given his gambling connections, did Mr. X organize for Collier, and Cromarty and Aberdeen, to be induced into debt so he could then recruit them?” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “I’m not saying Collier, Cromarty, and Aberdeen are angels acting wholly under duress, but their roles in Mr. X’s scheme might not have been by choice.”
Dillon stared at Barnaby. “That’s…a distinctly black twist. But yes, given the way owners sometimes bet on their runners, it’s possible Mr. X is preying on the industry in that sense, too.”
Pris shivered. “This Mr. X seems not only black-hearted, but conscienceless, too.”
Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby shared a glance, then Barnaby went on, “So to this season. Mr. X ran a highly successful substitution early through Cromarty, here, with Flyin’ Fury, netting very large sums.”
“However,” Dillon said, “running substitutions at Newmarket has side effects Mr. X might not appreciate. Because Newmarket is the home of the Jockey Club, running substitutions here strikes at the core of the industry itself. If this keeps on, there’ll be anarchy. Literally. The Flyin’ Fury substitution was bad enough, but substituting Blistering Belle will be immeasurably worse—a premier race in one of the premier meets at the premier racetrack. The wagering will be intense, the furor afterward commensurately enormous. The punters won’t stand for it, and nor will the ton.”
“But,” Barnaby said, “regardless of the outcry, and it’ll be you and the Committee who’ll have to weather the worst, there will still be no way to stop Mr. X, especially not if he keeps switching stables and tracks.”
Grimly, Dillon nodded. “Knowing a substitution scam is active doesn’t make it any easier to stop.”
“Unless,” Rus put in, “you know about a substitution before it occurs. Which brings us to Blistering Belle.”
br /> Barnaby considered, then shook his head and sat back. “Even so…”
Dillon grimaced. “Halting the substitution of Blistering Belle by stopping the substitute from running will switch some wagers to the next favorite in the race and void others entirely. Money will still be lost and won through the bookmakers, it just won’t be as much. And while Mr. X won’t get his accustomed and undoubtedly expected reward, he won’t lose much either—certainly nothing he can’t afford. Most worryingly, however, it won’t shut down his scheme. He’ll just shift to using Aberdeen, and even if we manage to expose Aberdeen’s runners before any substitutions are affected, Mr. X will just lie low for the season.”
“Or use some other owner we’ve yet to link to him.” Pris frowned. After a moment, she continued, frustration clear in her tone, “There’s no simple, obvious way forward, is there? No obvious ‘this is what we should do’?”
Rus and Barnaby shook their heads.
“It’s the trickiest, messiest crime I’ve ever heard of,” Barnaby said. “Quite aside from Mr. X, there’s an enormous cast of wrongdoers here, all of whom deserve some mea sure of retribution, yet even though we know of the impending crime and how to stop it, if we do, we won’t touch the majority of those involved, and Mr. X and his scheme not at all.”
“He’s a spider in the center of his web,” Dillon said, his gaze on his fingers slowly tapping the table. “We can break a few connections, even destroy part of the web, but that won’t harm the spider. Once we retreat, he’ll just crawl back out of hiding, respin his web, making new connections, and then continue to lure, catch, and devour his prey.”
They could all see the analogy; all were silent, thinking, then Barnaby stirred. He looked at Dillon. “What’s our minimum here—what damage can we do if we expose Cromarty with Blistering Belle?”