What Price Love?

15

Over the next days, their plan evolved, was refined and polished. With Rus staying at the Carisbrook house, Dillon curtailed his nocturnal visits to the summer house by the lake. He had too much respect for the connectedness between twins to risk it.

What Rus would make of his liaison with Pris he didn’t know, but now-while all three of them were immersed in a highly secret and dangerous endeavor-wasn’t the time to find out. However, he made a vow to, at the earliest opportunity, make his intentions, the honorable nature of them, clear to Pris’s twin. No sense courting any unnecessary misunderstandings.

Their social connection had excused Pris and Adelaide calling at Hillgate End; now it excused him frequently visiting the Carisbrook house and spending hours there. Barnaby returned from London fired with zeal, carrying good wishes from all involved, including Inspector Stokes; everyone had agreed that the opportunity to shatter the entire scheme was too valuable a chance to pass up.

Pris and Patrick remained adamant that Rus shouldn’t visit the isolated cottage alone; all three rode forth every morning and afternoon, as soon as they judged Harkness and Crom would have left for the Heath. As Demon had prophesied, Flick rode up one morning in breeches and coat, Demon beside her. She’d taken charge of the training session, put Belle through her paces, then glowingly commended Rus, giving him encouragement and various tips.

When he saw Dillon later, Demon had growled that Rus had all but groveled at his wife’s dainty feet-a position, Dillon knew, Demon reserved for himself.

They were all committed, heart and soul and in some cases reputation, and increasingly confident their plan would work. Flick’s frank assessment that she’d never seen any two-year-old faster than Blistering Belle went a long way to easing the unvoiced fear that despite their best efforts, Belle might, in the end, lose her race.

Rus had remained unswervingly certain Belle would lead the field; Flick’s endorsement brought relief to all other minds.

After finalizing the details of how they would effect the switch, Dillon spent hours drilling the Hillgate End stable lads and grooms. It had been agreed they were the best small army to use; all were familiar faces around the racetrack, the associated holding stalls, and nearby stables. No one would even register their presence on a race day morning, yet unlike Demon’s lads, none had any actual job to perform.

In addition, all were, to a man, unswervingly loyal to the Caxtons.

That last was vital. It was impossible to conceal from such necessary minor players that the intent proposed would normally be viewed as illegal, yet when Dillon outlined what he needed them to do, their reactions made it clear they took it for granted that his reasons were sound, that despite appearances, he hadn’t stirred one inch from the path of the angels.

He was grateful for their unquestioning support, but also humbled. Their blind faith left him only more determined to ensure that, by noon on the second day of the October meeting, the substitution scam would be in ruins.

He and his father had discussed at length whether or not to tell the three stewards of the Jockey Club-the Committee who oversaw the running of the club and its regulations. Despite the risk, they decided against it; neither felt sure the three stewards could be counted on to keep their lips shut.

Not even for a few hours on the morning of the race.

The first day of the October meeting dawned fine and clear. The races on that day were showcase events for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds, followed by a series of privately sponsored challenges. With the weather cooperating, a carnival-like atmosphere prevailed. Dillon, the General, Flick, and Demon spent most of the day at the track. They were local identities, making their absence too notable to risk.

For that first day, Pris, Rus, and Patrick were strictly forbidden even the environs of Newmarket, the former two because, with the influx of visitors, many from London and also Ireland, the chance that someone might recognize them had escalated. Patrick was delegated to ensure that the wild and reckless duo didn’t conspire to egg each other on in some foolhardy scheme to join the crowds.

As the hours of Monday ticked by, there wasn’t one of their band who didn’t feel the spur of impatience, who wasn’t eager to see the next day dawn.

A slew of trophy races, including the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was scheduled to feature, were slated for the second day. The morning session would comprise five races, all with outstanding fields-all certain to generate considerable excitement among the hordes of gentlemen and the select group of ladies who had descended on Newmarket, home to the sport of kings.

At last, the sun went down, and the end of Monday was nigh. Night fell over Newmarket, leaving the town a bright sea of lamps as parties and dinners and all manner of entertainments kept the crowds amused. But beyond the town, beyond the houses, out around the track and all over the Heath, quiet darkness descended, and enveloped all.

The hour before dawn was the chilliest, and the darkest. On that Tuesday morning, the Cynster runners left their warm stable at the ungodly hour of four o’clock; watched over by Demon, with Flick mounted beside him, they started their slow, ambling walk to the holding stalls beside the track. Accustomed to early-morning track work, the horses were unperturbed, content enough to walk slowly along between the mounts of their stable lads, riding beside them, leading reins in hand.

As the cavalcade of six runners, their accompanying crew, and sundry other accompanying horses drew level with the Hillgate End gates, another pair of horses emerged from the shadows and became one with the larger group.

Lips tightening, Demon nodded to the slight figure atop one of Flick’s older hacks; disheveled, a cloth cap pulled low over her eyes, a woollen muffler wound about her throat and chin, Pris held Blistering Belle’s reins loosely in one hand. Slightly slouched, at first glance indistinguishable from the stable lads leading Demon’s and Flick’s runners, she led the horse all their hopes rode upon toward the track.

Her position in their plan had very nearly brought the whole undone. Dillon, Rus, Patrick, Barnaby, and Demon himself had all argued hotly against her taking the role of Blistering Belle’s “lad,” leading the horse to the track, then into the stable and performing the actual switch before leading the other black filly away. It was the most dangerous as well as the most vital role of all.

They’d ranted and raved, only to have the wind taken from their sails by Flick’s acerbic comment that Pris was the only one who could do what needed to be done. Acceptance of that truth had been painful, for Rus and Dillon most of all, but there’d been no other choice.

Blistering Belle had formed a close bond with Rus; she trusted him implicitly and would follow him anywhere. Unfortunately, she didn’t like Rus leaving her; every time he did, she whinnied, kicked her stall, did everything in her female equine repertoire to bring him back.

Rus couldn’t lead her into Figgs’s stable and switch her for the other filly. Belle wouldn’t stand for it-she’d create such a ruckus that everyone, led by Crom, would come running. However, as Rus couldn’t risk being seen by Harkness or Crom anyway, especially not with Belle or her look-alike, he hadn’t been a contender for the role.

Initially, no one had seen the problem looming, but when they’d tried to get Belle to allow one of Dillon’s grooms to lead her, they’d discovered she’d grown wary of being led by anyone she didn’t trust. She hadn’t liked being stuck in the isolated stable and was now not prepared to let just anyone lead her away.

They’d tried everyone, even Barnaby. The only one Belle would accept was Pris, almost certainly because she could lower her voice to an approximation of her twin’s, and the cadences of their speech as well as their accents were strikingly similar-even, it seemed, to equine ears.

Belle recognized Pris as a friend. She would happily walk with Pris leading her; most importantly, she would with perfect equanimity allow Pris to put her in a stall and leave her, even when Pris took out another horse instead.

Pris leaving her was acceptable; Rus leaving her was not.

The male mutterings such feminine perversity provoked had lasted for hours, but nothing could change the hard fact that Pris it had to be.

Last night, she’d remained at the stud, being coached by Demon, Flick, Rus, and Dillon as to what she might expect, how to behave in various situations. Eyeing her as they ambled along, Demon uttered a silent prayer that they’d covered all possible eventualities. He glanced at Flick riding beside him. Although it went against the grain, he would have preferred her in Pris’s position; Flick had grown up about Newmarket racetrack, knew everything there was to know about the stables and race mornings-she knew everything Pris didn’t.

The road reached the edge of the Heath; instead of continuing along the beaten surface, the cavalcade took to the turf, taking the most direct line to the track, the shortest distance for their runners to walk. The steady clop of iron-shod hooves changed to a muted thud.

Away from the trees, the air seemed colder, the wreathing mists damper, chillier. Demon lifted his head, scented the faint breeze, studied the clouds overhead. The day would be fine; once the sun rose, the mists would burn off. It would be another perfect day for racing.

He glanced again at Pris and saw her shiver. He was wearing a thick greatcoat; Flick was well wrapped in a warm pelisse. Pris wore a threadbare ancient jacket, not thick enough to keep the morning chill at bay, but she had to appear to be the stable lad she was emulating. Jaw setting, Demon forced himself to look away.

Pris wasn’t sure that the shivers that rippled through her had anything to do with the misty chill. She was so tense, it was a wonder her horse wasn’t jibbing and shifting and dancing with impatience. And nerves; hers were stretched tighter than they’d ever been.

Beside her, Belle plodded along, content to be among her kind again. Her head lifted now and again as she looked ahead, almost as if she could sense the track. While watching Rus train her over the last days, Pris had learned that some horses simply loved to run, and Belle was one; she seemed eager to race, to run, to win.

Everything hung on her doing so, but after the last days, that was the least of Pris’s worries. Getting Belle into the stable and the other horse out without Crom knowing, and without Rus doing anything to call attention to himself along the way, loomed as the biggest hurdle.

Other than the odd comment between the lads, the occasional breathy snort of a horse and the muted jangle of a harness, the cavalcade advanced in silence across the wide green sward.

Eventually, the first of the stables dotted around the track materialized through the thinning mist. Searching the area behind it, Pris saw mounted figures waiting-a gentleman in a greatcoat, and three lads with three racing Thoroughbreds on leading reins.

She glanced at Demon, riding on the other side of Belle.

He caught her gaze. “Wait until we’re closer.”

She nodded. The cavalcade advanced on a line that would take them along the front of the stable and on toward the track.

“Now.”

At Demon’s quiet command, she turned her mount and Belle; the lads alongside slowed their charges to let her draw away from the group. Keeping to the same steady pace, she headed for the riders behind the stable; Demon’s timing had ensured that she and Belle were visible as separate from the cavalcade for only the minute it took them to walk down the screening side of the stable and around the corner to join the other group.

Dillon was waiting, as was Rus. Her twin briefly smiled, the gesture one more of relief than excitement. She smiled back, rather tightly. Rus set his mount walking, leading one of the three retired race horses Demon and Flick had provided. Their still-elegant lines made them perfect camouflage for Belle; they closed around her. Falling in behind Rus, the group made their way along the rear of a succession of blocklike stables that stood in a wide arc a little back from the track, an outer ring behind the inner ring of holding stalls. To any who sighted them, they would appear to be a small group of runners walking in from an outlying stable for the day.

A few lads and touts slinking around the stables saw them, but all attention quickly diverted to the holding stalls as the news that the Cynster runners had arrived early spread. Everyone rushed to take a look.

No one gave the small band trudging along a second glance.

Dillon, as ever on his black, rode beside her. Other than meeting her eyes, exchanging one powerful, very direct glance, he’d merely turned to ride beside her, on the outside of the group. No smile; his face could have been granite, his expression carved from stone. He was dressed for a day at the track. His role was, as himself, to watch over every stage in the execution of their plan, and if something went awry, to step in and wield his authority to deflect attention as required.

At their final meeting last night, he’d briefly outlined what they-meaning he-would do once Belle was safely exchanged and in place. While for the rest of them, their active roles ended at that point, his continued, at least until Belle’s race was run.

They clopped slowly along; Pris struggled to drag air into her lungs-it felt like a lead weight was pressing on her chest. She felt compelled to try to look every way at once, watching for Harkness or Cromarty even though she knew both had retreated to the Rigby farm last night and were unlikely to appear for at least another hour.

Dillon had had stable lads and grooms out and about all day yesterday, keeping watch on those whose movements they’d needed to know. It had been a piece of luck that Harkness had gone out to check on Blistering Belle yesterday at noon, before returning to the track; that had left them free to bring Belle down to the Cynster stud by a circuitous route during the afternoon, train her on the private track under Flick’s expert eye, then walk her across to the Hillgate End stables, where she’d spent the night.

The sky started to lighten, shifting from black to indigo, to gray. They passed another stable, slowly working their way around to Figgs’s stable, where Cromarty’s runners for today’s races had been stabled for the night.

That had been another fortunate factor. Having rented cheaper premises farther from the Heath, Cromarty couldn’t walk his runners in on race day. He had to bring them in the afternoon before and quarter them overnight at one of the stables that specialized in such housing. If that hadn’t been so, their window of time in which to switch Belle for her look-alike would have narrowed to the almost impossible.

As it was…drawing in a tight breath as Figgs’s stable loomed just beyond the one they were nearing, Pris prayed she would have enough time-that all that everyone did left her enough time-to get Belle into the stable, and the other filly out, without any of Cromarty’s crew noticing.

Dillon eased Solomon forward; Rus glanced his way, met his gaze, and slowed. They halted behind the stable next to Figgs’s. Everyone dismounted, handing their reins to Dillon’s grooms, the other two “lads” with them; the pair remained with the horses, keeping the larger older horses screening Belle, while Rus, Pris, and Dillon went to the corner of the building.

A quick glance and they shifted around the corner, but stopped just beyond it. Pris and Rus lounged back against the stable’s side, giving every appearance of lads wasting time until they were summoned to work. Dillon stood before them, apparently chatting; hanging open from his shoulders, his greatcoat, long enough to brush his calves, gave both Pris and Rus some cover. From where they’d stopped, they could see along the front of Figgs’s stable, angled slightly to the one they stood against. Unfortunately, they couldn’t see the main stable doors, only the forecourt immediately before, but couldn’t risk getting a better angle by moving farther down the sidewall; that would make them more visible-too visible.

Aside from the main double doors facing the track, located along the stable’s front at the end farthest from them, Figgs’s stable, like most, had another door in the sidewall at this end, fifteen yards from where they stood. No more than the main doors would that door be locked-fire was too real a threat and race horses too valuable-which was why the stables employed night watchmen, and owners renting stalls had employees sleep with their charges, as Crom had done last night and the night before.

Glancing over his shoulder, Dillon scanned the area before the stable, noting two of his grooms ambling about, idling-ready to intervene if needed. Barnaby would be watching from the shadows of the next stable along; disguised as a tout, his role was to coordinate any intervention or distraction necessary to keep Crom and the night watchman away from Figgs’s stable long enough for Pris to switch Belle and get away.

They were all in position, all ready to act-all they needed was for Crom and the night watchman to wake and leave the stable.

Dillon could feel impatience riding him, lashing with invisible whips. He could sense the same rising tension in the other two, yet this was the point where caution had to rule, where one moment of inattention or one impulsive act could wreck their plans.

About them, the environs of the track stirred and came to life. The sky lightened, the dark gray of predawn giving way to streaks of pink and silver, the rising sun tinting the clouds. The light strengthened, not yet direct sunlight but sufficient to cast the scene in crisp clarity.

The shadows were gone. And still they waited.

“At last,” Pris breathed, peeking around his shoulder. “There goes the night watchman.”

Dillon glanced around; sure enough, the night watchman, a grizzled veteran jockey too old to ride, came shuffling from the stable, scratching and yawning and stretching. He paused in the forecourt, blinking, looking around, then stumbled off in the direction of the nearby latrines.

Glancing at one of the idlers-the majority of those loitering near Figgs’s stable were members of their “army”-Dillon saw the groom look in Barnaby’s direction, then push away from the stall against which he’d been leaning and head after the night watchman.

If the old boy headed back to his post before they’d passed the “all clear,” the groom would delay him, and if that didn’t last long enough, there was another pair stationed closer to the latrines with orders to intervene.

The night watchman was taken care of.

Dillon turned back to Pris and Rus. “Now for Crom.”

It was still early, even in race day terms; except for those keen to get a glimpse of the runners as they arrived at the holding stalls-and they were fully occupied studying the Cynster horses-all others were bleary-eyed, just starting their day. Not at their best, not sharply observant.

“Damn!” Rus stiffened, then swore. “Harkness! What the devil’s he doing here this early?”

Dillon swung to look in the direction Rus was staring-past the back of Figgs’s stable to the open area beyond-simultaneously shifting closer to Pris so she remained concealed.

Harkness-big, burly, and black-haired-was striding up from one of the roped lines where racegoers could leave their nags. His attention was fixed on Figgs’s stable, clearly his goal.

Dillon grabbed Pris’s arm, half dragged, half shoved her, gathering Rus on the way, back around the corner to the safety of the milling horses. “Wait here.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’ll take care of him. You two stick to the plan!”

Without waiting for any acknowledgment, he swung on his heel, quickly strode back around the corner and across onto the forecourt of Figgs’s stable, then slowed to a walk. He passed the main doors, now propped wide; he glimpsed activity within-it looked like Crom was stirring. Reaching the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next-glimpsing Barnaby lounging against a holding stall farther on, staring, frowning, at him-Dillon paused; lifting his head, he looked past the holding stalls to the track beyond, as if surveying his domain and finding all well.

Harkness was coming up from behind, approaching through the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next. Dillon had stopped at a point where Harkness would pass him. As the man’s heavy footsteps neared, Dillon turned. Expression easy, he glanced at Harkness, mildly inclined his head in a polite but vague gesture-an action Harkness warily mirrored-then walked on.

Dillon took two paces, halted, and glanced back. “Harkness, isn’t it?”

Harkness stopped, and looked around.

Dillon smiled easily. “You train for Cromarty, don’t you?”

Slowly, Harkness faced him. “Aye.”

Dillon retraced his steps, a slight frown in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask-how have his lordship and you found the going this season?”

Harkness’s face was closed, his expression rigid, his beady black eyes watchful. Dillon kept his questioning gaze steady on his face; after a moment, Harkness shrugged. “Much as last season, more or less.”

“Hmm.” Dillon glanced down, as if considering his words. “No problems with staff, then?”

Looking up, he caught a flash of fear in Harkness’s eyes; he’d definitely recognized Dillon with Pris-who he’d thought was Rus-on the Heath days ago.

Dillon waited, gaze still inquiring. Harkness shifted his heavy frame, then said, “Not really-nothing major.”

“Ah.” Dillon nodded, as if accepting completely what Harkness was saying. “I did wonder-I had a young Irishman come to me with some convoluted tale. Used to be your assistant, I believe. I gather he left under a cloud-naturally, I listened to his story with that in mind. We all know what it’s like to have troublesome staff. Indeed, the man’s tale was so nonsensical it was clear he was simply intending to cause trouble.”

Meeting Harkness’s eyes, Dillon smiled genially. “I just thought I’d let Lord Cromarty know that I wasn’t taken in by the man’s tale.”

Despite the harshness of his face, the hardness of his expression, Harkness’s relief was obvious. His lips eased; he bobbed his head. “Thank you, sir. One never knows with people like that. I’ll be sure to tell his lordship.”

Behind Harkness, Dillon saw a wizened gnome come out of Figgs’s stable. Crom. He glanced about; noticing Harkness talking to Dillon, he hesitated, then hitched up his belt and lumbered off to the latrines. There was no reason Crom or Harkness would think their runners were under any threat. All activity around the stable was following the usual pattern of a racing morning, with the usual lads, jockeys, and hangers-on drifting past.

Crom lumbered across the gap between Figgs’s stable and the one behind which Pris and Rus were waiting. They would see him; within seconds, Pris would be in Figgs’s stable with Belle. Two Belles.

His genial smile in place, Dillon swung toward the increasingly noisy gathering farther along the arc of holding stalls. As if just realizing what it meant, he murmured, “I heard the Cynster runners had come in early.”

He glanced at Harkness. “I haven’t seen them yet-but you must be keen to cast your eye over the competition.” Looking back at the milling crowd, he grinned. “It looks like half the trainers with runners in the morning’s races are already there.”

They were; Dillon gave thanks for Demon’s foresight in creating such a useful diversion. Meeting Harkness’s black gaze, he inclined his head toward the crowd. “I must take a look-coming?”

Harkness might have been a villain, but he was a trainer first and last; he didn’t need to be persuaded to legitimately spy on the competition.

With absolutely no suspicion that anything was going on, Harkness accompanied Dillon to the Cynster stalls.

From the corner of the stable where he’d been keeping watch, Rus turned back and met Pris’s eyes. He hesitated, clearly torn, then nodded. “Go!”

She immediately stepped out, head down, Belle’s reins in her hand. Beside her, Stan, Dillon’s groom, kept pace. As they approached the side of Figgs’s stable, Stan loped ahead. He opened the single door, took a quick look in, then stood back and held the door wide for her to lead Belle through.

Without hesitation, Pris did-as if Belle and she belonged in that stable.

Stan closed the door, leaving it open a sliver, keeping watch, ready to let her and the other filly, Black Rose, out again.

Abruptly enveloped in the warm gloom of the stable, Pris waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, and said a quick prayer. Blinking, she stepped out, scanning each stall, each horse, looking for Black Rose-praying she’d be closer to this end than the other, that, nightmare of nightmares, she wouldn’t be in one of the stalls facing the open main doors.

Fate smiled; she found the black filly looking inquisitively out of a stall midway down the line. Giving thanks, she quickly led Belle nearer, then looped her reins about a convenient post. She’d brought another leading bridle for Black Rose; taking a precious moment to croon to the filly and stroke her nose, she slipped into the stall and quickly fitted the bridle.

Black Rose was a much more even-tempered horse than Belle; Pris sensed it immediately-wondered if that edge of temper was a necessary element in the makeup of a champion.

She scoffed at herself, amazed she could even think. She was so keyed up, her brain felt like it was literally racing, along with her heart. Her senses were fractured, scattered, trying to keep track of so many things-alert to any hint of danger-while she quickly led Black Rose out of the stall, tethered her farther down the aisle, then turned to Belle, and the most fraught moment in their entire plan.

Belle looked down her long black nose at her while she tugged the reins loose. Pris looked back, into the large, intelligent eyes. “Good girl. Now let’s get you into the stall, and then later you’ll get to race.”

Belle lifted her head, then lowered it-twice. Pris’s heart leapt into her mouth-was Belle going to be difficult? Was she going to rear?

Instead, Belle nudged forward; Pris snapped her mouth shut and quickly led the champion filly into the stall. She turned her, then slipped the bridle and reins off the sleek black head.

Belle snorted, and nodded twice.

Pris wished she could sigh in relief, but she was too tense-her stomach felt cinched into hard, tight knots. She patted Belle one last time, then slipped out of the stall and latched the door.

Stuffing Belle’s reins and bridle into her pocket, she returned to Black Rose and tugged the filly’s reins free. Her heart thudding in her chest, she set out for the door at the end of the aisle.

“Here-you! Yes, you.”

Barnaby’s voice brought her up short. His voice, but not his usual drawling accent; he sounded like a London tough. She froze, then glanced back at the main doors-but there was no one there.

From over her stall door, Belle looked inquiringly at her.

“I was wondering…” Barnaby’s voice lowered, became indistinct.

He was talking to someone just outside the main doors. Crom, or the night watchman.

Pris looked down. The aisle was beaten earth and straw. They had no option anyway; hauling in a tortured breath, she held it and quickly led Black Rose on. The aisle seemed much longer than before; they went faster and faster as they neared the end, then the door swung open and daylight lay ahead. She led Black Rose straight through. Stan swung the door shut behind them, silently latched it, then scrambled to catch up as she trotted Black Rose on-not to the back of the stable where they’d waited but straight into the group of horses Rus and the other groom were leading along.

In seconds, Black Rose was concealed within the group. Rus, who’d been leading his and Pris’s horses, boosted her into her saddle, then swung up to his. Slouching, they took the reins the grooms handed them, then settled to lead their plodding charges on.

“Where’s Harkness?” Pris asked, when she’d caught enough breath to speak, when her thundering heart had subsided out of her throat so she could form the words.

“I don’t know.” From beneath the brim of his cap, Rus was searching in all directions. After a moment, he said, “We trust Dillon and follow the plan, at least until we know otherwise.”

She nodded. Ten paces farther on, they crossed into the open as they ambled past the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next. They all looked toward the track-to the open area before Figgs’s stable-but the only people about were strangers.

It took discipline to keep to their slow walk; even a trot would have attracted attention. They reached the next stable and were about to pass out of the most risky area; Pris glanced back at the last moment, just before the stable would block her view-and saw Barnaby taking a few steps backward, apparently parting from someone standing before Figgs’s main doors.

Looking ahead, she drew in a breath.

And told herself not to jinx anything, to stay alert until they reached the Heath proper and the wood in which they were to take cover after that.

Thirty nerve-racking minutes later, she, Rus, Stan, and Mike, the other groom, entered the small wood to the east of Newmarket, beyond the town’s fringes and the outlying fields. Pris drew rein-then took what felt like her first real breath of the morning.

She glanced at Rus and met his eyes. Felt a smile spread across her face. “We did it!”

With a whoop, she sent her cap soaring. Rus, grinning fit to burst, did the same, as did Stan and Mike.

Once they’d quieted, however, they were eager to get on. Stan and Mike would return the Cynster horses to the stud, then would rejoin the crowd at the track. Pris and Rus would ride north, taking Black Rose with them; they’d stow the look-alike in the isolated stable for Harkness or Crom to find.

“Then,” Rus said, as he wheeled his horse, “we’ll head back to the Carisbrook house, get changed, and get ourselves back to the track in time to watch Belle win.”

Pris had no argument with that plan; with a giddy laugh, she urged her mount on.

As I’m sure you’ve heard, there have been rumors concerning suspect race results over the spring, and again a few weeks ago, here at Newmarket.” Dillon looked around the sea of faces watching him with varying degrees of suspicion, caution, and trepidation. He’d had all the jockeys scheduled to ride that day herded into the weighing room for a special address.

“In response to this threat to the good name of the sport, the Committee has decreed that on at least one day of every meet more stringent checks than usual will be carried out by the race stewards.” His suggestion, but the Committee had been very ready to agree. Anything to dampen the rumors and the consequent speculation.

Dillon waited until the inevitable groans died away. “Nothing too onerous, but there will be more stewards watching each race. Their particular aim today will be to verify that you all ride your horses to their best.”

Scanning the room, he saw resigned shrugs, no hint of a grimace or any other indication the extra watch would discompose someone’s plans. He’d expected as much, but had wanted to ensure the jockey riding Blistering Belle-an experienced jockey named Fanning-would have every incentive to urge Belle to give her best.

With a nod, he concluded, “I wish you all good riding, and every success.”

The morning crawled. Barnaby had joined Dillon after he’d trailed Harkness back to Figgs’s stable and watched the man enter. Barnaby reported that despite a close call with Crom, he assumed the switch had been successfully accomplished; he’d glimpsed the group of horses clustered around a set of black legs disappearing around the next stable. The lack of any subsequent drama seemed a clear enough indication that Belle was back in her appointed stall.

Later, he’d walked the holding stalls with the race stewards conducting the first prerace check; each horse’s points were matched to those listed in the register. A black filly was in Blistering Belle’s stall; Dillon studied her while the stewards checked her over. He thought she was the champion Rus had been training, but he couldn’t be sure.

After addressing the jockeys in the weighing room, he retreated to his customary position before the stand, talking with the various owners and members who sought him out while waiting for the first race to get under way.

Eventually, a horn sounded; excusing himself, he returned to the track, joining the race stewards by the starting post.

As each horse was led up, a more stringent survey of points was done. At last, all the runners were cleared, ready, and in line-then with a deafening roar, the race was on.

The next hour went in confirming the winner and placegetters by applying the most stringent of checks, including having a veterinarian check each horse’s teeth to confirm age. When all the assessments were completed and weight confirmed, the winner and placegetters were declared, and paraded before the stand to the applause of the assembled members.

Trophy presented, gratified owner duly congratulated, and then it was time to repeat the process with the horses for the second race.

One of Demon’s runners took that prize-the Anniversary Plate. While the horse was being paraded, Dillon scanned the top row of the stand and saw Pris. She was wearing a veil, but he knew it was her. Rus sat alongside, a hat shading his features, with Patrick next to him and Barnaby beside Pris.

The twins had been banished to the heights, forbidden to descend until the third race had not just been run, but the winner declared, paraded, and the trophy awarded. Barnaby and Patrick had strict instructions to ensure that edict was followed. The chances of Cromarty or Harkness catching sight of the pair were slight, but all had agreed that there was no reason for either villain to know the part Rus and Pris-or indeed anyone else-had played in the unraveling of their grand scheme.

Mr. X’s grand scheme.

None of them had forgotten Mr. X; letting his gaze slide over the wealthy, aristocratic crowd filling the stand, Dillon wondered if Mr. X was there, watching. He truly hoped he was.

“Time to head back, sir.”

Dillon glanced around to find his head race steward waiting to walk back to the starting line. He smiled in almost feral anticipation. “Indeed, Smythe-let’s go.”

The starting post for the two-year-olds was closer; once there, they waited while the first of the runners was brought up. Dillon could barely harness his impatience. He’d never felt so…focused, intent-so stretched in his life. He had more riding on Blistering Belle than in any wager he’d ever made.

When she came clopping up, alert and clearly keen, her attention already on the winning post, he had to fight to remain outwardly impassive; fists clenched in his greatcoat pockets, he stood back and observed while Smythe and another steward checked her over, then waved her on.

He barely registered the seven horses that followed her into line.

As the lads stepped back and the jockeys took control, he glanced up at the distant stand, to the top row.

He focused on Pris, wondered what she was feeling, whether her lungs were tight, her heart thumping, whether her palms were as clammy as his were.

The white cloth was waved. He looked down as it was released; he watched as it fluttered to the ground.

Then it touched-and they were off.