And promptly gave the horse her head. Anything to get out of Caxton’s sight as soon as humanly—equinely—possible.
Pris rode like the wind, letting the physical exhilaration soothe her mind and settle her still-shaky senses. She was approaching the rented manor house before she felt calm enough to think.
“Hardly surprising,” she muttered, reining the mare to a walk. “It’s not every morning I’m nearly ravished.”
She knew Caxton had considered it. Considered it, then deliberately backed away and spared her.
Recalling the moment, recalling how she’d felt—been reduced to feeling—she hissed through her teeth. “He should be outlawed. If he can do that to me, inured as I am to physical charms, what effect does he have on more susceptible young ladies?”
The mare snorted and walked on.
Pris humphed. Regardless, Caxton had given her a reprieve. Like the gentleman he was, he’d declined to take advantage of her sadly misjudged attempt to manipulate him. She should have known he would prove immune, the more cautious part of her had known he might be, but she’d had to try…the reason why returned to her.
Brows rising, she considered; if she hadn’t recalled why she’d kissed him until that moment, the chances were good that he’d forgotten entirely the string she’d been watching before she’d led him on their merry chase.
Good. Indeed, excellent! That was precisely what she’d set out to do, and she’d succeeded.
But she’d lost Cromarty’s string; she hadn’t even had time to see if Rus had been on one of the horses. Caxton’s fault; it was intensely annoying, especially given her increasing anxiety—blind but even more troubling for that—over Rus’s safety.
At least she now knew the area in which Cromarty’s string worked. She’d go out and locate them again, find Rus, and all would be, if not well, then a great deal better.
As for what came next, she sincerely hoped she’d be able to avoid Caxton, arrogant rake that he was. His warning irked; worse, her temper being what it was, her nature as it was, warning her not to do something invariably left her even more tempted to take the risk, regardless.
Reaching the manor, she turned the mare’s head toward the stable. There was something about Caxton’s warning that didn’t ring true. Replaying his words, his inflections, she tried to read the emotions beneath. His reined desire she recalled clearly.
She’d dismounted in the stable yard, absentmindedly handed over the mare and was striding to the manor’s side door when the discrepancy hit her.
He’d had no real reason to utter any warning.
He’d known she’d seen the danger. If he were as truly in command as she’d thought—as he’d pretended to be…as he’d allowed her to believe him to be?—if he were half as clever as she suspected he was, he should simply have let her go.
She halted.
If she couldn’t sway him sensually, why bother warning her off?
He wanted her to tell him what she knew; if he was impervious to her, why not let her try again and simply hold her off again, using the moment to get her to tell him what he wanted to know? Manipulation of that sort worked both ways, something he, of all men, beyond question knew.
She stood in the strengthening sunshine, turning over all the possibilities in her mind. Only one fitted.
He wasn’t nearly as impervious as he’d seemed.
He didn’t want her testing him again because, next time, she might succeed in holding him to a line that wasn’t so close to the edge of the sensual cliff, might succeed in gaining enough control to have the upper hand.
Or at least have some bargaining power.
“Well, well, well.” Eyes narrowing, she considered, then mentally nodded and walked on. That was certainly something to note and remember, especially if, as she greatly feared, avoiding him proved impossible.
She’d found Cromarty’s string, and had learned of one possible chink in Caxton’s otherwise formidable armor. All in all, her morning hadn’t been a complete waste.
4
This morning, she was obviously searching for one particular string.” Sprawled in an armchair in the family parlor of Demon and Flick’s home, Dillon described all he’d learned about Miss Dalling to Demon and Flick, attended by their two eldest children.
He and Barnaby, seated on the window seat, had met midmorning; after discussing their findings, they’d decided to seek Demon’s advice. Few knew the inner workings of the racing industry better, and there was no one whose judgment Dillon trusted more when it came to racing swindles.
“When she noticed me watching her, she rode off. I followed. Once she realized she couldn’t shake me, she returned to the Carisbrook house.”
An abbreviated account, but accurate in the essentials. Dillon glanced at Flick, perched on the arm of Demon’s chair. She wasn’t wearing breeches today; she’d been spending time with her offspring rather than her husband’s Thoroughbreds. The older two children, Prudence and Nicholas, had joined their elders in the parlor as if they had the right; Nicholas, eight years old, a miniature Demon in looks and sharp as a tack, was lolling on the window seat beside Barnaby, listening for all he was worth, while Prudence, known to all as Prue, the eldest at ten years old, in looks a Cynster although the stubborn set of her chin reminded Dillon forcibly of Flick, had claimed her place on Demon’s other side. Like her mother, she deemed anything that went on in her vicinity as much her interest as anyone else’s; she was fascinated by the tale Dillon had come to share.
“I seriously doubt Miss Dalling is directly involved in whatever’s going on,” he concluded, “but she definitely knows something, something more than we do. I think she’s protecting someone, very possibly her brother.”
“She certainly reacted when you suggested it was he I’d been wrestling with,” Barnaby put in, “and what you don’t know, because I forgot to mention it, is that the bounder did indeed look like her.”
Dillon blinked. Barnaby amended, “Well, a scruffy male version of her, at any rate. In fact, he looked like a down-on-his-luck cross between her and you.”
Flick had been avidly following their exchange. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question.
Prue beat her to it. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”
They all looked at Dillon.
He hesitated, then admitted, “She’s not pretty. She’s the most stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful young lady I’ve ever set eyes on. If she goes to town without a ring on her finger and doesn’t accept an offer inside a week, the matchmaking mamas will be sharpening their knives.”
Flick’s brows rose high. “Good gracious! And this goddess is haunting Newmarket?”
A speculative gleam lit Flick’s blue eyes. Dillon studied it, then glanced at Demon, wondering what tack his powerful brother-in-law would take. Demon had very firm views on Flick getting involved in anything dangerous. Against that, he allowed her to ride his horses, so his definition of dangerous was flexible. Flexible enough for him and Flick to have remained happily married for over ten years.
Demon hadn’t even had to look at Flick to know what she was thinking. He glanced at her. “Do you think you might be able to learn more from Miss Dalling by pursuing an acquaintance socially?”
Flick grinned. “Meeting her socially will pose no problem whatsoever. However”—her gaze returned to Dillon—“extracting the necessary information might require persuasion of a sort I’m not qualified to give.” Her smile grew. “We’ll see.”
Dillon didn’t appreciate the calculation he glimpsed in Flick’s cerulean blue eyes. “Her aunt has rented the Carisbrook place. She says the aunt’s an eccentric, presently fascinated by racing, thus excusing her interest in the register.”
“Hmm.” Flick looked thoughtful. “You met her out riding—how well does she ride?”
He smiled. “Not as well as you.”
That earned him long-suffering looks from Flick, Demon, Nicholas, and Prue. Flick was the best female rider
in the land. She could give Demon a run for his money, and he, unquestionably, was the best there was. Saying Miss Dalling didn’t ride as well as Flick was saying nothing at all.
“She’s actually quite good.” He thought back, then raised his brows. “In fact, she was damned good, far better than the average lady rider.”
“So she does know horses?” Demon asked.
Dillon understood what he was suggesting. “Yes, but not as you mean. She understands horses as I do, not as the two of you do.”
Demon grimaced. “So there’s no reason to think her family owns a stud, or similar enterprise. However, there is some connection with horses.”
Dillon inclined his head.
“So”—Demon glanced at Flick—“we’ll leave Miss Dalling to you, my dear, at least until we know more on that front. Meanwhile”—he looked at Dillon and Barnaby—“we need to decide how best to probe the possibility a substitution scam has been operating and is set to continue during this season’s races.”
Barnaby sat forward, all nonchalance falling from him. “So you agree there’s something going on? That it’s not us overextrapolating from disconnected pieces of information that happen to have fallen into our laps?”
Dillon searched Demon’s face. The severely handsome, angular planes held a certain grimness.
“I don’t believe your concerns arise from overactive imaginations.” Demon’s lips twisted. “Indeed, much as I wish I could brush your evidence aside and assure us all that there’s really nothing in it, you’ve gathered too many pieces for them to be coincidental. And if they’re not coincidental, then there’s only one other explanation—there’s another organized racing scam under way.”
Dillon and Barnaby exchanged a glance, then Dillon looked at Demon. “So how should we proceed?”
They revisited all they’d learned. Prue and Nicholas grew restive. With a maternal smile, Flick stood; waving the men back to their seats, she herded the children to the door. “It’s time for our ride.” She nodded a farewell to Barnaby, then Dillon, and exchanged a glance with Demon. “You can tell me all later.”
Demon raised his brows, but when he turned back, there was a smile in his eyes.
After establishing all they knew, they settled on the questions they most wanted answered, then evaluated their options. One source they urgently needed to reassess was the rumors of unexpected losses over the spring season.
“If we could establish which races and which horses were involved, that would give us a place to start.”
Barnaby grimaced. “When I poked around earlier, the rumors turned to smoke and mist—no one would name names.”
Demon snorted. “Too many gentlemen think too much of how others will see them. They’ll grumble and groan, but when it comes to making specific complaints, heaven forbid! There may even be more recent losses we haven’t yet heard about. The greatest losses from such a scam occur not at the racetrack, but through the offtrack betting centered in London. That’s where the big wagers will be laid, and ‘unexpected losses’ felt most keenly. With the right encouragement, we should be able to persuade at least some of those who’ve been grumbling to be more specific.”
Clearly someone had to follow up the London rumors. However, with the autumn racing season under way, neither Dillon nor Demon could leave Newmarket. Demon could, however, alert Vane, his brother, and his cousins devil and Gabriel Cynster, all of whom were presently in town. “If we explain and identify the grumblers, they’ll know how to get those disgruntled punters to name names.”
Demon looked at Barnaby. “Are you willing to return to London and, with the others, see what you can turn up?”
Barnaby was eager. “I’ll drop a word in the pater’s ear, too.” His father was involved with the new police force. “Some of the inspectors might have heard something. I’ll head down this afternoon.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll keep my ear to the ground here.” Demon turned to Dillon. “As for you…” His predatory grin flashed. “Apropos of Flick’s direction, I doubt she’ll make any headway with Miss Dalling. A social connection, however, should give you more opportunity to persuade the lady to our cause.”
Dillon pulled a face. “If she would only tell me what she wants to know about the register—or better yet, why—” He broke off, then shook his head. “I’m convinced she knows something, but—”
“But,” Demon cut in, “she’s frightened to reveal what she knows, first because she doesn’t understand what it means, and second because she’s protecting someone.” He held Dillon’s gaze. “What you have to do is gain Miss Dalling’s trust. Without that, you’ll get nothing out of her—with that, she’ll tell you all.”
Demon smiled, but there was no lightness in the gesture, only a fell intent. “Simple.”
Dillon held his gaze, unimpressed. “Simple?” He allowed his skepticism full rein. “We’ll see.”
Pris chafed and swore, but forced herself to wait, to let the rest of the day, then another go by before she once again rose with the dawn and slipped out to find Lord Cromarty’s string.
She kept her eyes peeled as she streaked through the misty landscape, but detected no pursuit. If Caxton was waiting out on the Heath, with any luck he wouldn’t recognize her. Mounted on a solid but unremarkable bay gelding, she was riding astride, dressed in breeches, boots, and jacket, with her wide-brimmed hat pulled low and a muffler wound about her chin. Once she found Cromarty’s string, she intended to follow them to Rus; much easier to amble in a stable’s wake if she looked like any other stable lad.
To her relief, Cromarty’s string was exercising close to where she’d last seen them. She watched from the cover of a stand of trees, scanning the riders; Rus was not among them.
She didn’t know precisely what Rus did as assistant stableman; his duties in Newmarket might not include the morning exercises.
While Harkness put his racers through an exacting series of gallops, she thought of Rus, let his face fill her mind, remembered shared exploits that made her smile. At last Harkness called a halt. The string formed up in a long line and headed off.
She fell in, not directly behind but as far back as she dared, and to the right, always at an angle to the string’s line of travel; if anyone glanced back, she wouldn’t be obviously following them.
The string walked, jogged, then walked again. Eventually they crossed a road and turned up a lane. Pris stopped to read the signpost; SWAFFAM PRIOR was lettered on it. If she was seen, she would appear to be heading for the village; entering the lane, she ambled on.
She kept her distance from the stragglers of the string. Finally the string turned right down a narrower lane; buildings lay grouped at its end.
They appeared to be substantial. Leaving the lanes, Pris cut through the fields; circling, she found a low, wooded rise beyond the buildings and pulled up. Screened by the trees, she looked down on the establishment; it was clear this was where Lord Cromarty was stabling his horses.
Her heart lifting with anticipation, she watched the horses being unsaddled, walked, brushed down, watered. She squinted, studying every man who walked through the yard.
Not one of them was Rus.
Lord Cromarty came out of the house to speak with Harkness. After considerable discussion, Harkness sent a lad for a horse—a high-spirited black mare. The lad paraded her before Harkness and Cromarty, then at Cromarty’s nod, returned the horse to her stall.
Pris remained mounted in the shadow of the trees, anticipation fading, anxiety burgeoning as a sense of unease rose and whispered through her. Cold, chill fingers trailed her nape.
Rus wasn’t there.
She knew it in her heart, even without the evidence of her eyes.
After another futile hour, she drew away. Returning to the lane to Swaffam Prior, she debated, then turned the gelding’s nose toward the village.
She had to learn if Rus was still somewhere, somehow, in Cromarty’s domain.
Patrick Dooley, Eugenia’s devoted an
d trusted factotum, spent the evening in the tavern at Swaffam Prior. He returned late, with disquieting news.
Pris hadn’t even considered retiring, too strung up to relax; Eugenia had settled on the chaise in the drawing room to keep her company, and Adelaide had remained, too.
Patrick joined them. He reported that, as Pris had guessed, the stable hands from Cromarty’s stable did indeed spend their evenings at the tiny tavern. He hadn’t even had to ask after Rus; his disappearance had been the main topic of conversation. According to the stable hands, “the toff,” as they affectionately called him, had been going about his business as usual until about ten days ago. Then one morning, he simply hadn’t been there.
Their description of Rus rang true—pernickity manners but a great one with horses. None of Cromarty’s crew knew anything of any falling-out with Cromarty or Harkness; to a man they were mystified by Rus’s abrupt departure.
But what had excited their interest and kept it on the boil was Harkness’s reaction; when he’d discovered Rus gone, he’d flown into a towering rage. Cromarty, too, had been furious. The upshot was Cromarty had offered a reward for any news of Rus, saying he knew too much about the stable’s runners, their quirks, and what made them run poorly, and they wanted to make sure he didn’t sell such secrets to their competitors.
“So he’s gone,” Patrick concluded, “but no one knows where to.”
Patrick was Irish, a stalwart of Eugenia’s small house hold. Although only six years older than Pris, his devotion to her aunt was beyond question.
She studied his impassive countenance. “Rus has to be alive. If he wasn’t, Harkness and Cromarty wouldn’t have posted a reward. Rus realized something was amiss and escaped before they could stop him. He got free and went into hiding.”
Patrick nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“Where would he hide?”
Patrick’s gaze turned rueful. “As to that, you’d have the best idea.”