What Price Love?

14

Pris hadn’t expected Eugenia 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.”

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?”

When Dillon glanced at him, Barnaby fleetingly grinned. “You’ve looked into it, haven’t you?”

Dillon returned the grin, but then sobered. “I have, and the answer’s not heartening. The only way we can prove anything illegal is to expose the substitute for Blistering Belle immediately before the race is run. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom will be charged with attempting to perpetrate a substitution. But if Harkness was persuaded to protect Cromarty by swearing Cromarty knew nothing about it, Harkness and Crom would face jail-Newgate most likely-but Cromarty would get off with a fine and a reprimand for not paying sufficient attention to what was going on in his stable.”

“That’s all?” Pris looked shocked. “Everyone else gets away?”

Meeting her eyes, Dillon nodded. “A few fingers singed over wagers, but that’s all the effect exposing the Blistering Belle substitution will have.” He glanced at Barnaby and Rus. “There’ll be no evidence to implicate anyone else.”

“And little to no likelihood of Cromarty telling us the names of all others involved.” Disillusioned, Rus polished off his port.

“Doubly so if he knows what happened to Collier.” Leaning back in his chair, Dillon looked at the others. “I can’t see any chance of us learning anything new about Mr. X through halting the Blistering Belle substitution.”

Barnaby drained his glass, then set it down. “There has to be a better way.”

Dillon met his gaze. “We need to think of some way to reach the spider.”

The October Meeting and the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was due to be switched were still four days away. With no obvious solution to their dilemma, they agreed to take one day-twenty-four hours more-to rack their brains before deciding on their course.

They adjourned, joining the others in the drawing room in time to pass the teacups. Later, Dillon stood with Barnaby and Rus on the front steps and waved the carriage with Eugenia, Pris, and Adelaide away.

Later still, with the moon riding the sky and the fields silent about him, he rode north and east to the summer house by the lake.

Once again, they’d made no arrangement, had not even exchanged a meaningful look, but Pris was there, sitting on the sofa waiting for him.

Waiting to smile, mysterious and feminine, take his hand, and draw him down. To her. To the wonder, the magic, he found in her arms, to the wildness and thrills of a reckless ride, to the golden glory that claimed them in aftermath, to the completion that reached to his soul.

That healed him, that in some way he didn’t understand welded the two halves of him and made him whole.

Lying sprawled on his back on the sofa, more or less naked, with Pris slumped, very definitely naked, over him, he was staring into the shadows, thinking of that curious melding, mulling over it, how it felt, when she shifted, settling in his arms, turned her head to look over the lake, and murmured, “There has to be a way.”

While crossing the dark miles to the summer house, a flicker of an idea had flared; unexpected, radical, he wasn’t sure how it might pan out.

Eyes on the shadowed ceiling, he lifted one hand, caught a lock of her hair, twirled the silky curl between his fingers. “I’ve always considered that my disgrace years ago ultimately resulting in me becoming one of the elected few charged with defending the sport of kings was a monumentally ironic twist of fate.” He paused, then went on, “Now I wonder if fate had some longer-term goal in view.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “Because the racing industry is now facing a serious threat, and due to your past you have a better understanding of that threat?”

“In part. But I was thinking more of the nature, mine, that long ago led me into trouble. I’m not my father. He hasn’t a wild and reckless bone in his body. If my past trouble hadn’t happened, if I hadn’t been disgraced, hadn’t wanted to make restitution, would I have followed in his steps and later assumed his position?”

“You mean would you have been the Keeper of the Breeding Register now-the one facing the problem now?”

He glanced down at her. “Would a man like me be facing this problem.”

She lifted her head, met his eyes. Folding her hands on his chest, she rested her chin on them, and narrowed her eyes on his. “You’ve thought of something.”

Amused by her comprehension, he wished the light was strong enough to see the color of her eyes, to better appreciate the rest of her. “A possibility, a glimmer of a chance. I’m not sure.”

If, on reflection, on further development, the idea proved to be more, then his wild and reckless side would be fundamental to carrying it through, to bringing it to fruition. The same wild and reckless side she not just evoked, not just wantonly engaged with, but had somehow found a way to weld, to integrate seamlessly with his more responsible, sane, and sensible self.

When he was with her, he no longer felt torn, as if he were shifting from one persona to the other, as if he were two people within the one skin. That long-ago disgrace had caused a schism, a distrust of sorts, a wariness he’d been aware of for years-a concern that his wild and reckless side was a liability, a danger. A side he should never give free rein. Yet now…

What was fate telling him?

“Regardless of what ever we do, we need to stop Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, and slap them behind bars.” From where they would no longer be a threat to Pris, Rus, or any of their family. He knew, none better, how unprincipled those inhabiting the underside of racing could be, how they would retaliate against their chosen scapegoats. “That’s the absolute minimum we have to accomplish.”

He and Demon had both understood Vane’s injunction, to beware-to watch and shield their families, to ensure that what ever action occurred did not and could not rebound on those they cared about, those under their protection.

A justified and timely warning.

Pris continued to study his face. “Just removing Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom…all very well, but none of us are going to accept that as success.”

He refocused on her eyes, noting the determination conveyed by the set of her jaw, her lips. Wondered what gave rise to it. “As long as we remove those three, Rus will be safe.”

She snorted. “While I would be the first to rejoice in Rus’s safety, that’s hardly the end of it.” She frowned into his eyes, as if sensing the other side of his comment-the question buried in it. “Knowing this sort of evil is going on, that we know about it but haven’t done anything to end it would never sit well with either Rus or me. I can’t imagine Barnaby shrugging and letting it go either-he’s already gnashing his teeth.” Her expression turned skeptical. “And as for you-you will simply never rest. Well, how could you? It’s your calling, isn’t it?”

It was.

Within him, something quivered, resonating with her words, at the clear-sighted recognition not only implied but visible in her face. He’d never heard it-his life’s work-stated so simply, summarized so succinctly, as if it really were that obvious…

Perhaps it needed someone as uninhibited as she to simply say it. To render his purpose, his motives in facing the current threat, in such clear-cut fashion. To condense it to two words: his calling.

His because the responsibility was primarily his, not only by virtue of the position he held, but because the Committee had requested his help, handed the problem to him to solve, and were counting on him to deal with it.

Calling because that’s what it was. His wasn’t a paid position, but one conferred in recognition of what had come to be his vocation. Quite aside from the familial connection, he’d grown into the position, and it, in turn, had truly become a part of him.

And that, all of that, was why he had to do more than just remove Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, why he had to free the industry he’d served for well-nigh half his life-the industry around which his life revolved-from an evil that threatened to poison it to the core.

Her eyes, fixed on his, narrowed to gleaming slits. “What have you thought of?”

He met her gaze, then let his lips curve. “Patience-it was only a first inkling. I’ll tell you once I’ve thought it through, once I’ve worked out how it might help us.”

He’d kept his tone low, soothing. The fingers of one hand still toying with her hair, he ran his other hand up from her thigh, palm to satin skin, up over her naked bottom to her hip, skimming the side of her waist to the swell of her breast-deliberately distracting her.

Only to be distracted himself by the way her lashes fluttered, then sank, the way she all but purred with plea sure.

“Hmm…” She leaned into the caress, offering her breast more fully to his hand, then lasciviously, sinuously shifted up his body, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Deciding that in light of Vane’s injunction, distracting her was clearly his bounden duty, he released her hair, framed her face, and kissed her back.

Much to my disgust, despite racking my brains, I’ve singularly failed to discover any way to bring down our spider. We can shake his web, but…” Barnaby grimaced, and looked around the circle of faces gathered in Dillon’s study.

It was the following afternoon; since parting from Dillon in the small hours of the morning, Pris had spent all her waking hours trying to think of something that would connect Cromarty to his secretive partner, something they’d overlooked.

Like Barnaby, her travail had been in vain. Despite her cajoling, Dillon had refused to enlighten her as to even the direction of his “possibility.” Hoping against hope that his subsequent cogitations had revealed it to be real, she’d driven Adelaide and herself to Hillgate End; Adelaide was presently chatting with the General.

When Barnaby held up his hands in defeat, Pris looked at Rus in the armchair opposite hers.

Her twin caught her glance; as Dillon and Barnaby looked to him, he shook his head. “The scope of this…I’m out of my depth. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom-catching them is straightforward. But the only way we might reach further is if Cromarty not only identifies Mr. X but has evidence to prove his involvement. But if he was so careful with Collier, he’ll have been the same with Cromarty.”

His chin sunk on his chest, Barnaby nodded glumly. Lifting his head, he looked at Pris. “Any advance?”

Lips compressed, she shook her head. She looked at Dillon.

He caught her gaze, then looked at the other two as they turned to him. “I agree-exposing Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom is well within our grasp, but that won’t get us any further. It won’t attack the wider scheme, it won’t even significantly damage it. Chances are, once we remove Cromarty and company, the scheme will sprout at Doncaster and Cheltenham, and even if we manage to expose Aberdeen, the scheme will simply go to ground and reemerge next season, somewhere else.”

Barnaby heaved a dejected sigh. “So our only option is a far-from-satisfactory one. One that won’t actually address the crime.” Looking down, he studied his boots.

Pris watched Dillon, saw him hesitate. He glanced at her, then drew a breath and evenly stated, “That isn’t our only option.”

Barnaby lifted his head; he studied Dillon’s face. “You’ve thought of something. Hallelujah! What?”

They all looked inquiringly at Dillon. His expression-serious, obdurate, committed, and determined-was echoed by his tone. “I’ve thought about this from every angle. My overriding concern has to be for the industry-we should do what ever holds the best promise for the widest gain. As far as I can see, there’s only one alternative to exposing Cromarty and company before the race is run.” He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything, just hear me out to the end.” He glanced around the circle, his gaze coming to rest on Pris. “I’m going to suggest we perform a double switch, put the real Belle back in the race and let her run.”

Pris blinked; Rus and Barnaby did, too. Like her, they frowned, thinking, trying to see…

Dillon gave them a moment, then explained, “If the real Belle runs, and wins, the repercussions will be enormous. No one who’s innocent will be harmed in any way-all those who wager on her in good faith will reap their just reward. However, on the other side of the ledger, those who wager against her, or offer long odds knowing the race is supposed to be fixed, will also reap their just rewards. They’ll lose, and lose heavily.”

He paused, then went on, “It’s the only way I can think of that attacks the whole web, rather than just Cromarty. If Belle runs and wins, every strand of Mr. X’s enterprise will be burnt-almost certainly every strand will collapse. We know how vicious the underside of racing can be-it’s even more cutthroat, literally, when the betrayers are themselves betrayed. Mr. X couldn’t have grown his enterprise to the size Gabriel and Vane suspect without involving some powerful, very shadowy figures. Belle winning would obviously not be a deliberate ploy on Mr. X’s part, but to those shadowy, powerful figures that will count for nought. It’s his scheme-he’ll be blamed for its failure, for their losses. It won’t, unfortunately, put those gentlemen out of business, but it will, most assuredly, put Mr. X out of business.”

“And,” Barnaby said, his eyes lighting with dawning zeal, “what happens to Mr. X will serve as an exemplary warning to anyone thinking of trying a similar scheme.” He met Dillon’s dark gaze. “This is an absolutely brilliant idea.”

Dillon grimaced. “As with all such ideas, there’s one aspect that’s not quite so brilliant.”

Like Barnaby, Rus had been transformed, reinvigorated, but now he hesitated. “What?”

“Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom.” Dillon held Rus’s gaze, then looked at Pris. “If we switch Belle back, they won’t have committed any crime. We’ll have eradicated all evidence that they were even contemplating it.”

“They’ll get away with not even a reprimand?” Pris asked.

Dillon’s lips twisted. “Not an official one. However, they won’t escape unscathed. Cromarty will doubtless wager against Belle winning-how much losing those wagers will hurt him depends on how much he puts at risk. But the repercussions won’t stop there-he and Harkness, especially, will be in very hot water with all the other players in the game-the sharp bookmakers who quoted long odds for Belle, Mr. X himself, and even those shadowy figures. No one will understand how they could have let it happen.”

Rus was smiling widely. “Including Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom. Oh, to be near when Belle whistles past the winning post!” Green eyes afire, he met Dillon’s gaze. “Barnaby’s right-this is a brilliant idea. Even with the caveat that we’ll be erasing all evidence of the immediate crime, it’s still a brilliant idea. It achieves so much more-much, much more!”

“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded decisively. “And we won’t be doing anything illegal along the way. We’ll just be being helpful and giving Cromarty his real champion back-how can he complain?”

Rus chuckled. “Precisely.”

Dillon looked at Pris, waited. She studied his eyes, wondering why he was being, if not diffident in putting forward what they all saw as a fabulous idea, a near-perfect answer to their dilemma, then strangely careful. She could neither see nor feel any hint of his being swept along by enthusiasm, of being charged with eagerness as both Rus and Barnaby were.

Nevertheless…she smiled and nodded. “I agree-it’s a wonderful idea. It may be unconventional, but it’ll achieve what needs to be achieved.”

His dark eyes remained on her face for an instant longer, then he stirred, and glanced at Rus and Barnaby. “One thing we must ensure-Harkness, Cromarty, and Crom must have absolutely no inkling that any of us”-his gaze swept their circle-“are involved. To them, how the real Belle comes to be the horse that runs the race must remain a perfect mystery.”

Barnaby blinked, then nodded. “Yes, absolutely. No recriminations invited. Switching Belle back has to be achieved by the most complete sleight of hand.” He looked from Dillon to Rus. “So-how do we do it?”

The ensuing discussion was fast and furious, possibilities and suggestions canvassed rapidly and decisively. They all contributed. Despite Dillon’s wish to keep Rus’s involvement to a minimum-a stance Pris appreciated-there was one essential aspect in which her twin necessarily featured.

“Belle will need to be put through her paces-prepared as she normally would be before a race. Chances are, since we found her out at the cottage, she’ll have been left there without any regular runs. If they follow the same pattern they did when substituting Flyin’ Fury, they won’t bring Belle back to the string until after the race. They’ll need that time-at least four days-to bring the substitute along well enough to make a decent showing, to pass her off as the real Belle.”

Dillon held Rus’s gaze for a long moment, then grimaced. “What are you suggesting?”

“Other than Cromarty, only Harkness and Crom know of the scheme, so only they can check on Belle. I’m sure they would at least once a day, but with the meet only days away, during training times, both Harkness and Crom will be out on the Heath.” Rus glanced at Pris. “Well away from the cottage.”

He looked at Dillon. “What I’m suggesting is that during the training times, I go to the cottage and work with Belle. We’ve three days left, and she’s been stabled for nearly two. If I start working her later this afternoon, I’m sure I’ll have her raring to go come Tuesday.”

Dillon didn’t like it, but reluctantly agreed. Belle had to be prepared. It was the one true risk in their scheme-if she ran but still didn’t win.

Pris understood that; what she still didn’t understand was his underlying gravity.

“It’ll be best if I move to the Carisbrook house,” Rus said. “It’s much closer to the cottage-I won’t lose as much time going back and forth, and there’ll be less chance of anyone sighting me and reporting it to Harkness.”

Dillon grimaced, but nodded. “With one proviso-you take Patrick whenever you set foot outside the house.”

“You needn’t worry.” Pris caught Dillon’s eye, then met her brother’s. “He won’t be leaving the house alone.”

Rus grinned.

They organized for Pris to take Rus’s bags in the gig when she drove back with Adelaide. The three men would ride straight to the cottage to give Belle her first training session in days.

Satisfied Rus would be well protected, Pris accepted the arrangements with good grace. “Now, how do we go about reswitching Belle?”

That necessitated much discussion, but Dillon and Rus had more than enough knowledge of the movement and housing of horses before a race, and the scramble of activities that filled the morning of a race day, to formulate a plan.

“Cromarty’s using Figgs’s stable, just off the track.” Pulling a low table between their chairs, Dillon sketched a rough map of Newmarket and surrounds, marking in the relevant spots; they all pored over the map as he indicated Figgs’s stable with a box.

“We’ll need to bring Belle down to Hillgate End during the training session the afternoon before.” Dillon glanced at Rus, who nodded. “The best time to make the switch is just before dawn, as the day starts for the stables and all in them. I assume Crom at least will be sleeping in the stable?”

Rus nodded. “It’s usually only him from Cromarty’s, but there’s Figgs’s night watchman as well.”

“He’ll be easily distracted, at least long enough for our purposes, but Crom we don’t want to do anything with at all-nothing to trigger the slightest suspicion that anything might be going on. With the two fillies being all but identical, as long as we switch them without jolting Crom’s suspicions, it’s unlikely he’ll notice the reswitch, especially not with the usual hullabaloo of a race morning distracting him. Cromarty has three runners as well as Belle in the morning’s races. Crom will be too busy to dwell on little things like a horse’s personality. As long as he continues to believe that the horse in Belle’s stall is the substitute, that’s what he’ll see.”

Rus nodded. “I agree.”

Dillon again looked around the circle. “So here’s what we’re going to do-how we’re going to put Belle back in the race.”

Good evening, General.” Demon nodded to Dillon’s father as he walked through the doorway of Dillon’s study. It was later that evening; after dinner, Dillon and his father, alone again, had retired to the room in which they both felt most comfortable.

Noting the hardness in Demon’s blue eyes as they fixed on him, the crispness of the movement as he shut the study door, Dillon wasn’t surprised when he growled, “As for you, you infuriating whelp, what the devil do you think you’re up to?”

Having long ago learned that Demon’s bark was worse than his bite, and that that was almost always driven by concern, Dillon raised his brows mildly, and replied, “Doing what’s best for the racing fraternity.”

The words, along with his even tone, gave Demon pause. He blinked, then, frowning, grabbed the chair from behind Dillon’s desk and hauled it around to face Dillon and his father in the armchairs before the hearth. Dropping into the chair, crossing his long legs, Demon fixed Dillon with a steady, very direct gaze. “Explain.”

Then Demon’s eyes flicked to the General, briefly scanned the older man’s face. “He hasn’t told you either, has he?”

With unruffleable calm, the General smiled. “Dillon was about to explain all to me.” His gaze switched to Dillon’s face. “Do go on, m’boy.”

Dillon hadn’t been about to do any such thing-if he’d had his way, he would have shielded his father from any possible anxiety-but he appreciated his father’s tacit support and the unshakeable faith that lay beneath it.

“So what have you heard?” Setting aside his glass of port, he rose to pour one for Demon.

Demon watched him, still frowning. “Rus Dalling dropped by mid afternoon to beg off assisting Flick for the next few days. Incidentally, she’s of a mind to kiss your feet for bringing him to her attention-he’s a natural, and she’s in alt. But this afternoon she was out-Rus found me.” Demon took the glass Dillon offered him. “He told me he had to work on the real Belle, because you had some plan afoot to pull what amounts to a double substitution.”

Pausing to take a sip of port, Demon eyed Dillon as he resumed his seat. “I didn’t interrogate Dalling-in the circumstances, I thought it wiser to come and interrogate you.”

Dillon smiled, outwardly relaxed, inwardly unsure how the next few minutes would go. “This is the situation-what we now know.” Succinctly, he described the racket run by Mr. X, then outlined the options they faced.

“So I could deal with the scenario entirely as prescribed by the rule book, and achieve nothing more than removing Cromarty and Harkness from the industry. Or we can grasp the chance and shatter the entire scheme, and its perpetrator, too.”

Dillon paused, his gaze on Demon’s now seriously troubled face. He hadn’t been surprised that Rus and Pris had so readily embraced his plan; it was tailor-made to appeal to their wild and reckless natures. Barnaby, too, possessed a certain devil-take-the-hindmost streak. And Barnaby didn’t know enough of Dillon’s past to comprehend that in proposing let alone undertaking such a plan Dillon was taking a personal risk. That was something Demon and the General understood. There were, however, other issues here.

He chose his words with care, let his passion color them. “You understand what’s at stake. If we can strike at the heart of such a scheme, turn it back on itself so that the perpetrator and all his minions get badly stung rather than the gullible public they think to prey upon, that will be a more effective deterrent, one of infinitely greater magnitude, than the slight risk of a corrupt owner being exposed and tossed in jail.”

He caught Demon’s eye, faintly raised a brow. “Which of the two alternatives would you expect me to choose?”

Demon swore; he looked down at his hands, clasped about his glass. He’d listened with barely an interruption. Looking up, he scowled at Dillon. “It galls me to admit you’re right-that your tack is the right decision. However”-he grimaced-“you can’t expect me to like it.”

He tossed off his port, then looked at the General. “If anything goes wrong…”

The General smiled benignly; despite his occasional vagueness, both Dillon and Demon knew the mind behind his worn façade still functioned with considerable incisiveness. But the General possessed something neither of them yet had, a deep well of experience and understanding of the human condition, and all that encompassed.

Calmly, he nodded at Demon, acknowledging his concern. “If anything about the reswitch becomes known, it will impinge very badly on Dillon. Once the reswitch is in hand, if any learn of it, then because the reswitch will destroy all evidence of the initial substitution, it will appear that whoever is involved in the reswitch is actually carrying out a substitution.”

Turning his head, the General met Dillon’s gaze. “You’re risking your reputation-something you’ve worked for the last ten and more years to rebuild. Are you sure you want to do that?”

There was neither condemnation nor encouragement in the General’s tone-no hint of how he thought Dillon should answer.

Dillon held his father’s gaze steadily, and evenly asked, “What would my reputation be founded on if I didn’t? If I weren’t willing to do what now needs to be done for the good of the industry that’s been placed in my care?”

A warm, openly approving smile spread across the General’s face; he inclined his head, then looked at Demon, and mildly raised his brows.

Demon exhaled through his teeth. “Yes, all right. He’s right.” He frowned at Dillon. “But I want a hand in this, too.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” Even Demon’s reputation could be besmirched.

“Well, I do-think of it as a little extra protection.” Demon smiled, all teeth. “To appease me.”

Dillon read Demon’s eyes and inwardly sighed. No point arguing.

Demon didn’t wait for him to agree. “Getting Belle from here to the track on the morning of the race-walking her in as a lone horse is bound to attract attention, no matter the hour. The night watchmen at least will see and take note.” He caught Dillon’s eye. “I assume you’re planning to leave here an hour before dawn?” Dillon nodded. Demon went on, “We’d normally leave about an hour later, walking our runners to the holding stalls by the track-on that day, we’ll leave earlier. As we pass here, Belle can join our group. No one will notice an extra horse, and no one will think it odd that we might arrive a little earlier than usual to avoid the inevitable scramble.”

Dillon blinked, seeing the scenario Demon was painting. The Cynster string didn’t exercise on the Heath, but on a private track buried within Demon’s now considerable estate and thus out of bounds to the racing public. Consequently, when the day’s Cynster runners appeared at the holding stalls, touts, bookmakers, jockeys, owners, and trainers flocked to the stalls to assess what these days represented a significant portion of the competition.

Even extra early-indeed, especially if the Cynster horses made an unexpectedly early appearance-crowds would gather. Word would fly, people would come running. The ensuing melee would fix all attention on the holding stalls-away from the stables that stood just back from the track. What better cover in which to perform their reswitch?

Refocusing, Dillon found Demon watching him.

“A worthwhile addition to your plan?”

Dillon met his eyes, inclined his head. “Yes, thank you. That’ll make things much easier.”

Half an hour later, Dillon walked Demon to the front door.

“Where’s Adair?” Demon asked, as they entered the front hall.

“He had the idea of alerting our London friends to keep their ears open in the hope that in the aftermath of the race they might learn something of those involved.” Dillon halted by the door. “He was going to speak with his father and an Inspector Stokes he thinks highly of, as well as Gabriel and Vane, who will no doubt pass the word to the others in town.”

Demon nodded. “Good idea. No telling what the ripples might reveal when you drop that filly back into her race.”

Smiling, Dillon hauled open the door.

Demon stepped out, then turned back. “I will, of course, have to tell Flick all-you’ll have to take your chances on a lecture.” He paused, then added, “And you may as well warn Dalling that he’s liable to sustain a visit from her during one of the training sessions.” Turning to head down the steps, he continued, “And of course, that means I’ll have to come, too.”

Dillon grinned. He stood watching as Demon strode away across the lawn, then swung the door closed and headed for his bed.