What Price Love?

16

The thunder of heavy hooves, the roar of the crowd-noise filled Dillon’s ears, swamped his mind as he strained to see down the track. Along with the race officials, he moved out to stand on the starting line itself. This race was run on the straight, a long sprint to the finishing post in front of the stand; from the starting line he shouldn’t have been able to be sure of the winner-except that a black horse was showing the rest of the field a clean pair of heels!

He couldn’t breathe; he stared down the track at the dwindling black streak, so far in front and forging farther ahead that she seemed to be shrinking against the rest of the horses.

His heart raced along with her; for one giddy instant, he felt as if he were teetering on some edge. Not even in the days he’d bet heavily on the nags had he been this involved. This time his emotions were engaged; never had he had so much riding on a race.

The stand erupted; yells, whoops, and whistles reached them-they could see people cheering and waving wildly as the crowd favorite came romping home. And then she was there, flashing past the winning post; the ecstatic punters roared, then turned, laughing, to hug their friends, to thump each other on the shoulder, grinning widely.

Eyes fixed on the row at the top of the stand, Dillon could just make out Pris and Rus, dancing about, hugging each other and Patrick and Barnaby.

“Well, then.”

Dillon glanced around to find Smythe by his elbow.

Smiling widely, the head steward surveyed the outpourings of joy all along the track. “It’s good to see a favorite win. Gives the punters heart.”

“Indeed.” Dillon was finding it near impossible to keep his own smile within bounds. “We’d better get down there. I want the checks to be beyond question on this one.”

“That they’ll be,” Smythe assured him. “There’ll be no questions to dim the mood.”

“For everyone except the bookmakers.” Dillon paced beside Smythe as they strode down the track, the other race stewards following.

“Aye.” Smythe shook his head. “There were some offering ridiculously long odds on that filly. Why was beyond me-her form’s been excellent, and whoever Cromarty’s had training her has brought her along well. Perhaps they thought that like that other runner of his, this one would take a breather-more fool them. They’ll have had their fingers burnt, no mistake.”

Dillon certainly hoped so.

The crowd about the dismounting yard was twenty deep as gleeful racegoers pressed close to call congratulations to Fanning and get a better look at the latest racing legend in the making. Flick, with Demon protectively hovering, was in the front row; beaming, she caught Dillon’s hand, and tugged him down to whisper, “I’d congratulate you, but she’s not your horse. But she was magnificent!”

“Which means”-Demon leaned near as Dillon straightened-“that we have to buy her.” He glanced at his wife; she was staring at Belle with the rapt attention of a lover.

Dillon’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

He turned as a cheer heralded the appearance of the winner’s owner and trainer-Cromarty, with Harkness behind him, both looking stunned, both struggling not to look like their world had ended while people called congratulations, grabbed their hands to pump them, and thumped them on the back. Cromarty looked green; Harkness’s expression was utterly blank.

Making no effort to hide his smile, Dillon crossed to speak with them. “Congratulations, my lord.” He held out his hand.

After blinking at him, Cromarty clasped it, gripped. “Ah-yes. An…” He tugged at his neckcloth as if it were too tight. “An amazing win.”

“I don’t know about amazing.” Dillon nodded to Harkness. “Good training will show.”

Already pale, Harkness blanched.

A flicker of an idea teased; his pleasant façade in place, Dillon watched Cromarty and Harkness closely-noted the surreptitious, disbelievingly horrified glances they exchanged while the three jockeys, Belle, and both placegetters were put through the various postrace assessments.

Then Smythe returned. Offering Dillon the race sheet, with the details duly noted, Smythe nodded at Cromarty. “Excellent win, my lord. And all’s right here, so you’d best be on your way to the winner’s circle.”

Cromarty managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Dillon initialed the race sheet, then handed it back to Smythe. “I’ll catch up with you at the starting post for the next.”

Smythe went on his way. Dillon turned to Cromarty. “Well, my lord-shall we? The Committee will be waiting to make the presentation.”

Cromarty looked as if he were reeling. “Ah…yes. Of course.”

Draped with a blanket and led by Crom, also stunned and subdued, with Fanning walking beside her, Belle stepped daintily along a narrow corridor that opened up through the adoring crowd. The filly accepted the accolades as her due, content now she’d had her run and left every other contender in the dust.

Dillon glanced at Cromarty as, side by side, they followed in her wake. His complexion was ashen; he was starting to sweat.

That tantalizing flicker of a possibility strengthened.

The winner’s circle, an arena before the stand that the crowd obligingly drew back from, opened ahead of them. Delivering the hapless Cromarty to Lord Crichton, the Committee member officiating that day, waiting with a beaming Lady Helmsley to present the trophy, a silver cup, Dillon walked to the edge of the circle, then turned.

Cromarty was barely coherent. He stumbled through the presentation, the strained smile he’d plastered across his face frequently slipping. Those unfamiliar with such moments might imagine his odd behavior to be due to befuddled yet still-gratified astonishment. Those with more insight would start wondering why the owner of a filly already known to be an up-and-coming champion should be so staggered, even given the nature of the win.

Dillon looked at Harkness and saw the same turmoil, not just in the trainer’s black-featured face, but in his stance, in his stilted, forced responses to well-wishers in the crowd. That Cromarty might have had so much riding on Blistering Belle losing that he was now facing ruin wasn’t hard to believe. Why Harkness would feel the same…that suggested he knew that Blistering Belle winning posed a danger much more potent than mere financial ruin.

Unobtrusively, Dillon left the winner’s circle, found two of his senior race stewards, and drew them aside.

“Lord Cromarty and his trainer, Harkness.” He didn’t need to say more; suspicion hardened in both stewards’ eyes. They knew the industry they worked for, knew the games played. Dillon kept his expression impassive. “Give them time to enjoy the adulation, then approach them, but separately. John, you speak to Harkness first. Tell him, politely, that the Committee and I would like to ask him a few questions.” Such a request wasn’t one any trainer could refuse. Nevertheless…“Make sure you have two others with you. Ask him to go with you to the club. Keep him there in one of the smaller rooms until I return. Don’t let him speak with anyone in between.”

Turning to the other steward, Dillon continued, “Mike-wait until Harkness is on his way to the club, then tell Cromarty the same thing. I don’t mind if they see each other in the distance, but I don’t want them to have a chance to talk privately, not until after I’ve finished with them.”

“Indeed, sir.” Mike Connor exchanged a meaningful glance with John Oak. “We’ll keep them at the club-how long will you be?”

Dillon smiled. “I doubt I’ll be there before mid afternoon.” His smile took on an edge. “Let them wait. Alone.”

“Yes, sir.” Both stewards saluted and turned back to the crowd.

Glancing up at the stand, Dillon found himself smiling widely; he raised a hand, resisting the urge to wave as wildly as Pris was waving at him. He hesitated, but it was nearly time for the next race. He didn’t always officiate at the starting post, but given his declaration to the jockeys that morning, many would expect to see him there.

Besides, he needed to think, to further develop that tantalizing possibility that what Cromarty’s and Harkness’s reactions suggested might be there for the grasping. If he joined the others now, joined their celebrations, the one thing he was sure of was that he wouldn’t be able to think; drawing in a breath, he saluted the group at the top of the stand, then swung around and headed for the starting post.

After the last race of the morning, something of an anticlimax after the excitement of the third, after the winner had been declared, the trophy presented, and the crowd started to disperse, Dillon made his way to the back of the stand, to the private room tucked beneath the large structure, and the party to which one of Demon’s lads had summoned him.

Demon and Flick had hired the room, and gathered everyone involved to toast their collective success. Pausing outside the door, Dillon heard the hum of voices, the gay sound of laughter and good cheer. For most of those within, today had been their moment, and all had gone supremely well.

For himself, however, Belle streaking past the winning post was only the first battle-one they’d won through sheer impudence and the unexpectedness of their attack. If all went as they hoped, and the web collapsed and took Mr. X with it, then all would indeed be well. Until he was sure of that…

Regardless, it wasn’t hard to feel buoyed by the victories of the day.

Opening the door, he stepped inside; shutting it behind him, he looked around. The room wasn’t large, so was crowded; scanning the faces, he noted his grooms and Demon’s lads, Eugenia, Patrick, Adelaide, his father, as well as the members of their wild and reckless band.

And the three stewards of the Jockey Club, two gathered around his father, the other, Lord Sheldrake, chatting animatedly to Barnaby. The sight brought him up short. Under his breath, he swore.

Flick and Pris were standing a little way into the room; they both turned and spotted him.

“Here he is!” Her face wreathed in the most glorious smile-one Dillon drank in, and felt sink to his soul-Pris swept forward to take his arm.

“At last!” Flick swooped, took his other arm and dragged him forward. “Where’s a glass?”

Stan rushed to offer Dillon a glass of champagne; Demon strolled up with another for Flick-Pris already had a glass in her hand.

“To Dillon and the success of his plan!” Flick raised her glass.

“To a more honest future for racing!” Demon added, hoisting his glass.

“To the death of a spider!” Pris raised her glass high.

“To Blistering Belle and all who rode with her!” Rus yelled.

His easy smile in place, Dillon raised his glass. “To all our efforts, and our success today!”

Everyone cheered, then drank.

Lowering his glass, across the room Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes; one person, at least, shared his reservations.

As people returned to their conversations, he looked down at Pris, hanging on his arm, looked into her eyes, bright emerald and enchanting. Different from before; he only needed that one look to know she was-for the first time since he’d met her-carefree. As she should be.

His own smile deepening, feeling his heart lift in response to her clear happiness, he took her hand, moving her back a pace, out of the pressing crowd. “Barnaby mentioned you were nearly caught by Crom.”

Luckily, Barnaby had prefaced the news with the information that all had gone well, so he hadn’t reacted as he might have, for which small mercy he was grateful.

Pris’s smile didn’t dim, but her eyes widened. “Thank God he was there-Barnaby, I mean. He stopped Crom just before he walked in. I was halfway down the aisle with Black Rose-I would never have got out if Barnaby hadn’t intervened.”

“He’s useful in such situations. So how did it go?”

She was very happy to tell him; he listened, not just to her words but to the music in her voice, to the lighter notes in the soft brogue that never failed to mesmerize him, to the burbling lilt of happiness that made music of her joy.

It was a lighter, brighter melody he hadn’t heard from her before; the sound wrapped about his heart and warmed him in some mysterious way he couldn’t begin to describe.

“But what of you?” She opened her eyes at him. “How did you fare with Harkness?”

He told her, then, straightening, looked over the heads. “Speaking of Harkness, let’s go and talk to Barnaby-there’s more that happened later.”

Taking her hand, he led her through the crowd, stopping when she insisted he partake of the sandwiches and delicacies laid out on a table. With a plate in one hand and her by his side, they tacked through the company, pausing to acknowledge and thank those of his house hold and Demon’s lads they encountered along the way.

The three stewards each made a point of coming up to him, congratulating him, shaking his hand, thumping his shoulder. All three were not just pleased but deeply delighted at the outcome of his actions, his response to their request he investigate the rumors.

“To have struck such a blow against the felons plaguing our industry-well, m’boy, what more could we ask?” Lord Canterbury clapped him on the shoulder again. “Not even your father could have done better.”

It was clear someone had explained all to them; Dillon was left to wonder who.

The General was sitting beside Eugenia; after she added her warm congratulations, he met Dillon’s gaze and simply smiled. “Well done, m’boy. It was the right risk to take.”

Looking into his father’s old eyes, Dillon clasped his hand, held it for a moment, then with a smile, released it. If his father had told the stewards, it was because he’d felt the need to protect him-to ensure that having taken the risk, he wouldn’t face any unnecessary repercussions. An understandable action, yet…

Putting his misgivings aside, he allowed Pris to steer him to Barnaby, who was chatting with Rus, Adelaide, and Patrick.

Pris stood beside Dillon while he and the others exclaimed and exchanged comments, recounting and reliving their glorious plan. She couldn’t stop smiling; she couldn’t recall the last time her heart had felt so light-she literally felt like dancing with happiness. It took discipline not to jig.

“I can’t believe it’s all over.” Adelaide beamed at Dillon, then looked up at Rus beside her. “It’s such a relief.”

Smiling every bit as much as Pris, Rus glanced down, then tapped Adelaide’s nose. “All’s well that ends well.”

Pris laughed, and agreed. Given the light shining in Adelaide’s eyes, given that Pris knew her twin was far from blind, she was starting to suspect that Rus wasn’t as unaware of Adelaide’s plans as he pretended to be. Indeed, she was starting to wonder if he was considering falling in with them, in his own, eccentrically wild way.

She hoped he did; she’d known for the past year that Adelaide was the right lady for him. She was quieter, steadier-an anchor for his mercurial temperament-but she didn’t shock easily, nor was she weak. Her strength wasn’t the obvious, outgoing sort, but the type that endured. She would be the steadfast rock around which Rus’s life could revolve.

Glancing up, Pris met Patrick’s eyes and saw a similar speculation there. She let her own smile widen; grinning, Patrick nodded.

He turned to Rus. “You were going to introduce us to the Cynsters’ head lad.”

Distracted from his contemplation of Adelaide’s face, Rus blinked, then nodded. “Yes, indeed! Come on-he’s over there.”

Flashing a grin at Pris, Dillon, and Barnaby, Rus led the other two off.

To Pris’s surprise, Barnaby instantly sobered; the change was dramatic, as if he’d dropped a genial mask to reveal the sharp mind and hard intelligence behind it.

“What’s up?” Hard blue eyes fixed on Dillon’s face, Barnaby raised his brows.

She glanced at Dillon in time to see his lips twist, wry but deadly serious.

“I would have greatly preferred the news of our accomplishment to have remained among friends, so that any potential recriminations concentrated on Cromarty and Harkness, and reached no further. However…” Looking across the room at the three stewards, Dillon grimaced.

“But it was clearly not to be,” Barnaby returned, “and with any luck we’ll have driven Mr. X from the field sufficiently forcefully that he’ll be too busy licking his wounds to worry about lashing out at anyone.”

Barnaby’s voice faded toward the end of that sentence; Pris inwardly frowned when he glanced-ruefully?-at Dillon.

Dillon caught the glance, fleetingly raised his brows. “Precisely.” He spoke quietly. “Badly injured curs are at their most dangerous-they feel they have nothing left to lose.”

Barnaby grimaced. “Too true.”

“However”-Dillon’s voice strengthened-“that’s apropos of what I have to report.” He met Barnaby’s instantly alert gaze. “We assumed Cromarty and Harkness, not wanting to incriminate themselves, would resist any inducements to tell us more-for instance who Mr. X is. After witnessing their reactions after Belle won, I believe we should revisit that assumption.”

Barnaby’s eyes lit. “You think they’ll talk?”

“I think that, with a little judicious persuasion, they might come to view self-incrimination as the lesser of two evils.”

“Oh-ho! Right, then.” Barnaby rubbed his hands together. “When are you thinking of paying them a visit?”

“I’ve had my race stewards invite them, separately, for an interview-they’re at the Jockey Club awaiting my return.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded in understanding. “In that case, let’s give them another hour or two to dwell on the future.”

“My thinking exactly.”

Pris had listened without comment, her joyful smile still in place, her tongue firmly fixed between her teeth. She longed to demand a place-at least a listening brief-at the interviews with Cromarty and Harkness, but…that wasn’t possible. Such a request would be unreasonable, too difficult to arrange…and while before, she’d felt a part of their team, now…now she’d found Rus, and he was free and no longer under any threat, her part in the adventure had ended.

And Dillon was moving on without her, as he should. He and Barnaby would pursue Mr. X as far as they could. Everyone would expect it, and of course, they would forge on…

She no longer had any part in their game. The knowledge caused a definite pang, but she quelled it. She kept her expression bright, and smiled encouragingly when Dillon glanced her way.

Demon appeared, collected as always, as if viewing the assembled celebrating multitude from a lofty but benign height. Pausing beside Dillon, he sipped, then said, “It was I who told the club stewards.”

Dillon’s gaze swung to him; he raised his brows.

Demon faintly smiled. “You were watching Cromarty and Harkness-you didn’t see how many others were watching them, too, how many others were visited by sudden suspicions. Not telling the stewards what had gone on became untenable at that point. Yegads!-Cromarty looked beyond bilious, and Harkness couldn’t crack a smile. Everyone with any nous knew something had gone on. When I reached the stewards, all three pounced on me-they were gratified to be given the true story. Of course, as Sheldrake was honest enough to say, they wouldn’t have wanted to know if your plan hadn’t worked, but as it had…at least, this way, the story that does the rounds will present the tale in the most favorable light.” Demon shrugged. “Admittedly, it would have been preferable if they said nothing at all, but we can’t hope for miracles.”

Barnaby snorted. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my short sojourn in Newmarket, it’s that this industry thrives on talk. Gossip, information, speculation. Without it, nothing would work.”

Demon and Dillon exchanged a glance, then smiled.

Pris had followed the exchange…more or less. She understood Dillon’s stance that the fewer who knew of his plan, successful or not, the better; what she couldn’t fathom was why Demon had felt it necessary to include the club stewards, who were plainly not expected to be discreet. Demon had clearly weighed up something against the stewards’ continued ignorance, but what? What had Demon decided was more important than the secrecy Dillon had tried to maintain?

Everyone was happy, indeed thrilled that his plan had succeeded so well; there was clearly no problem…yet the question, the unknown, niggled. Still smiling as Flick came bustling up to join them, Pris made a mental note to ask Dillon later…

She lifted her gaze to his face. Later when? To night?

He hadn’t come to the summer house for the past three nights. He’d been caught up with their plans, but now it was all over and triumph was theirs, would he come to night to celebrate privately with her?

Her heart leapt, her nerves tightened, her breath slowed. Realizing Flick was speaking, she hauled her wits back to the present and forced herself to pay attention.

“I’m absolutely set on it.” Flick leaned on her husband’s arm, and flashed her blue eyes and a teasing smile up at him. “And you know you agree, no matter your grumbles.”

They all glanced up as others neared-Rus with Adelaide on his arm.

“And here he is now.” Flick beamed at Rus and gave Demon a nudge.

Demon sighed, but he was smiling. He met Rus’s eyes. “What my wife wants me to say is that we’ve been thinking for some time that we need an assistant trainer, and we’d like to offer you the position.”

Rus’s face had blanked at the words “assistant trainer”; when Demon’s voice faded, Rus didn’t smile-he glowed. “Yes! I mean, I’d be honored-of course, I would!” Enthusiasm blazing in his green eyes, Rus grasped the hand Demon held out.

Watching, delight in her twin’s just reward spreading through her, Pris felt another pang-an unexpected one. A mortifying one-how could she feel jealous that Rus was finally getting everything-every chance-he’d ever dreamed of? Mentally horrified, she buried the unnatural emotion deep. Her smile had never faltered; she made it brighten. “How wonderful!”

Rus released Adelaide, who he’d embraced and who’d squeaked, and turned to her. Pris hugged him tightly, and grabbed the moment to whisper, “Even Papa will understand the honor in that.”

Rus met her eyes; his lips tightened. He hugged her back, then released her.

He swung to Flick. “You won’t regret it.” He swept her hands together between his. “You can work me as hard as you like.” His glowing gaze included Demon. “It’ll be a joy to work alongside you both.”

Pris listened to her twin babbling, and felt his happiness.

Adelaide shifted to her side. She, too, was watching Rus. “I’m so glad-this is just what he needs, isn’t it?” She glanced at Pris, who nodded. Gaze returning to Rus, Adelaide asked, “Do you think your father…?”

The thought echoed Pris’s own. “I’ll certainly do my best to make sure he understands, not just the position, but the honor, the status. He’s never seen it that way, you know.”

“I know.” Grim determination threaded through Adelaide’s gentle tones. “But he’ll have to open his eyes.”

“Eugenia will help.” Pris glanced across at her aunt, still sitting beside the General…Pris blinked, and looked closer, took in the warmth in Eugenia’s smile, and the gentle, yet appreciative light in the General’s eyes…

She glanced at Dillon. Was she the only one who’d been blind?

“Actually, I’ve been thinking.” Adelaide’s gaze was also fixed on Eugenia and the General. “Aunt Eugenia’s truly enjoyed her time here.” Adelaide’s gaze swung to Rus. “I thought I might suggest that after we go to London so we can say we swanned around there, and then go back to the Hall with you, she might want to visit here again. We all know Rus is her favorite-she’ll want to check up on him, don’t you think?”

Pris couldn’t stop her smile; Adelaide, for one, hadn’t missed a trick. She squeezed her arm. “I think that’s very likely. Indeed-”

She broke off. After a moment, Adelaide looked inquiringly her way. “Indeed what?”

Holding on to her smile, Pris shook her head. “Never mind.”

She’d been about to suggest that she, too, would be happy to return to Newmarket, then reality had struck. She and Dillon weren’t like Adelaide and Rus; even less were they similar to Eugenia and the General, whose relationship Pris judged to be one of fond companionship rather than passion. She and Dillon…

Their coming together had been a moment out of time, an engagement driven by the reckless, irresponsible, all-but-unthinking desire that sparked and arced between them. An irresistible force, it had swept them both away. Their relationship had not simply been born of passion-it was passion. Of passion.

Ephemeral. Insubstantial. Something that with time would surely fade.

She glanced again at Dillon. Rus, Flick, and Demon were engrossed in a discussion of horses, with Adelaide quietly listening in. Dillon and Barnaby had their heads together, no doubt plotting how best to extract all they could from Cromarty and Harkness.

Pris looked around, saw the still-smiling faces, sensed the glow of achievement, of triumph, still lingering in the air.

Everything had worked out; all their prayers had been answered, and on far more than one count. From the stewards of the Jockey Club, to the General, to Demon and Flick, Rus, Adelaide, Eugenia-even Barnaby-all had reaped the rewards of the angels.

In their different ways, all had taken a chance, and gained more than they’d asked for. Indeed, Dillon and Barnaby had yet to plumb the depths of their potential gain; they might yet unmask the villainous Mr. X.

As for her…head tilting, gaze growing distant as she looked at Dillon, she recalled her purpose in coming to Newmarket. She’d found Rus, had helped drag him free of the coil into which he’d tumbled, and now had the plea sure of seeing him succeeding in the arena that meant so much to him. That would help immeasurably in reconciling him with her father, and then her family would once again be whole. All was well in her life, except…

For the one extra thing, the unexpected gift fate had handed her.

She refocused on Dillon, let her eyes drink in his dark beauty, the starkly handsome lines that would have been too perfect if it hadn’t been for the powerful virility and sensuality that rippled like a warning beneath his smooth façade.

She looked, and felt the response within her, felt the tug that reached to her heart, and further, to her soul. Felt the connection that had grown ever stronger, that with each day, each night, each moment together had deepened and burgeoned and bloomed.

A treasure, or a curse? Which was it fate had handed her?

When this was over and they were apart, which would she name it?

Had fate blessed her or damned her? Only time would tell.

And time for her, for them, had run out.

Amid the pervasive happiness, the festive cheer, her heart suddenly felt like lead.

As if he sensed it, Dillon looked up-looked at her, met her gaze, his own suddenly intent.

She summoned a light smile, forced her lungs to work and drag in a breath, then moved past Adelaide to join him and Barnaby. “Have you decided how to approach them?”

She tried to sound eager; Barnaby grinned, and answered.

Dillon continued to study her; she didn’t dare try to read his dark eyes in case he read hers. She didn’t know what he was thinking, why he’d suddenly looked at her like that, why he was now so quiet, leaving Barnaby to outline their plan. “Do you really think they’ll give you Mr. X’s name?”

“Not readily,” Barnaby quipped. “But persuasion is my middle name.”

She managed a laugh, then turned as Rus came up, Adelaide on his arm. He was still bubbling with delight, still barely able to believe his good fortune.

Dillon watched Pris twit Rus on his unbounded enthusiasm, laughing when he jokingly attempted to disclaim, saying he was only behaving so in order not to hurt Flick’s feelings. He listened as she, Rus, and Adelaide turned their attention once more to Barnaby and the upcoming interrogations…he’d almost convinced himself nothing was wrong-that the disturbance he’d sensed, some nebulous elemental ruffling of his instincts, had had no foundation-when he caught Rus glancing at Pris, and saw the same uncertain anxiety he himself felt mirrored in her twin’s green eyes.

He focused more intently on Pris, but no more than Rus could he see past the shield she’d erected, one of easy good cheer, of transparent happiness that was simply too bright, too polished, to be true.

Something was troubling her, and she was hiding it from him. From Rus, too, but he didn’t care about that. What he did care about was that she was doing it deliberately, that she was shutting him out of her life-he didn’t care how small the matter bothering her was.

Barnaby turned to him. “We should go. If we manage to get a name, I’ll head straight to London-we’d better get to it so I can be away before dark.”

Dillon blinked, looked at Barnaby, then nodded. “Right.”

Stepping back as Barnaby turned to the door, he glanced once more at Pris, but she was looking beyond Barnaby, toward the door…

He waited. She looked his way, and her smile was back-but that wasn’t what he wanted to see.

A chill touched his soul. He didn’t know what she was thinking, feeling-how she thought and felt about him, about them. He’d assumed…but he knew better than to assume he understood how women thought.

Summoning a smile, he inclined his head to her. He was about to turn and leave, then suddenly knew he couldn’t. Not without…

Rus and Adelaide had turned away; stepping closer to Pris, he caught her green gaze. “To night?”

Her eyes, fixed on his, widened. For an instant, she ceased to breathe. Then she did, and whispered, “Yes. To night.”

Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fleeting instant, then she turned away.

He forced himself to do the same, and follow Barnaby to the door.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. What man?”

Belligerent and bellicose, Harkness glared at them.

They’d spoken to him first; he was the greater villain, therefore more likely to grab what he could from the situation. However, he’d got his second wind and had reverted to denying any part in any wrongdoing what ever.

Dillon ambled to the wooden table behind which Barnaby sat studying Harkness, seated in a hard chair on the other side; he touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Leave him. Let’s go and chat with Cromarty and see what he has to say.”

Harkness’s beady eyes blinked. Until then, he hadn’t known they’d brought Cromarty in for questioning, too.

Glancing back as he followed Barnaby from the room, Dillon saw Harkness, staring straight ahead, start to gnaw a fingernail.

Leaving his stewards watching over Harkness, he and Barnaby walked to another of the small rooms reserved for interviews with jockeys, trainers, owners, and occasionally the constabulary.

He followed Barnaby in. As with Harkness, he introduced Barnaby as a gentleman with connections to the metropolitan police. All perfectly true, although from the way Cromarty, seated on a similar chair to Harkness, before a similar table, blanched, he’d leapt to the conclusion that Barnaby wielded all sorts of unspecified powers. Precisely what they wanted him to think.

“Good afternoon, Lord Cromarty.” Sitting behind the desk, Barnaby placed an open notebook upon it. Withdrawing a pencil from his coat pocket, he tapped the point on the page, then looked at his lordship. “Now then, my lord. This gentleman who went into partnership with you-your silent partner. What’s his name?”

Cromarty looked acutely uncomfortable. “Ah…what did Harkness say? You’ve asked him, haven’t you?”

Barnaby didn’t blink. He let two seconds tick by, then said, “This gentleman’s name, my lord?”

Cromarty shifted; he darted a glance at Dillon. “I…um.” He swallowed. “I’m…er, bound by privilege.” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, that’s it-bound by commercial privilege not to divulge the gentleman’s name.”

Barnaby’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He looked down at his notebook, tapped the pencil twice, then looked at Dillon. “What do you think?”

Dillon met his gaze for an instant, then looked at Lord Cromarty. “Perhaps, my lord, I should tell you a story.”

Cromarty blinked. “A story?”

Pacing slowly behind Barnaby’s chair, Dillon nodded. “Indeed. The story of another owner who had dealings with this same fine gentleman.”

He had Cromarty’s full attention; he continued to pace. “This owner’s name was Collier-you might have met him. He was registered and raced for more than twenty years.”

Cromarty frowned. “Midlands? Races out of Doncaster mostly?”

“That’s him. Or was him, I should say.”

Cromarty swallowed. “Was?”

His fear was almost palpable. Dillon inclined his head. “Collier…

He told Collier’s tale, using his voice, his tone, to deepen Cromarty’s unease. Cromarty stared, pale as a sheet, the whites of his eyes increasingly prominent. Concluding with a description of Collier’s body being found in the quarry, Dillon met Cromarty’s starting eyes. “Dead. Quite dead.”

The only sound in the room for the next several seconds was Dillon’s footsteps as he continued to pace.

Once the full implications had sunk into Cromarty’s panicking brain, Barnaby said in his most reasonable tone, “That’s why, my lord, given the outcome of today’s race, we would most strongly advise you to tell us all you know about this gentleman, most especially his name.”

Cromarty had dragged his gaze from Dillon to Barnaby; he swallowed, then, in the tones of a man facing the hangman, simply said, “Gilbert Martin.” Cromarty looked at Dillon. “He’s Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”

Fifteen minutes later, they had what amounted to a full confession from Cromarty, extracted by Dillon, assisted by Barnaby’s musings on the likely reaction of the less-reputable bookmakers once they fully absorbed the dimension of the calamity that had befallen them; Cromarty had told them everything they’d wanted to know.

Thus armed, they returned to Harkness. His resistance lasted only as long as it took Dillon to inform him that Cromarty had told them all. Harkness confirmed Gilbert’s name and direction, and also the man’s description-tonnish, well turned out, tall, dark-haired, of heavier build than Barnaby.

Harkness confirmed their reading of him as the more experienced villain; unlike Cromarty, he didn’t beg for leniency but dourly stated that if there was a choice between Newgate and transportation to the colonies, he’d rather transportation.

About to leave, Barnaby cocked a brow his way. Harkness simply said, “More chance of surviving on the other side of the world.”

In the corridor, Dillon motioned to the constables sent by the magistrate, who he’d notified earlier. Leaving them to deal with Cromarty and Harkness, he led Barnaby to his office.

Sprawling in the chair behind his desk, he watched as Barnaby subsided into the armchair, a silly, beatific smile on his face. Dillon grinned. “What?”

Barnaby flashed that smile his way. “I didn’t believe we’d get a name-I hadn’t let myself believe it. Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.” Barnaby shrugged. “But he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Tonnish gentlemen have a tendency to overestimate their cleverness.”

“Speaking as a tonnish gentleman?”

Barnaby grinned.

Dillon glanced out of the window. It was nearly four o’clock; soon the sun would sink and the light would dim. “Are you still set on starting for London immediately?”

“Absolutely.” Barnaby sprang to his feet. “It just seemed right to spend a few minutes here, where this more or less started.”

Dillon rose, too, and came out from behind his desk. “What are your plans once you reach town?”

“Home.” Barnaby flung the word over his shoulder as he made for the door. “The pater’s there-he’ll be the first I tell. Tomorrow, I’ll call on Stokes. He’s already very interested in the whole business-I’m sure he’ll be keen to be in on the kill.”

Flashing Dillon another smile-this one of predatory intent-Barnaby led the way out of the door. “Who knows? Once we catch our spider, we might discover there’s even more to his web than we already know.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Dillon followed Barnaby into the corridor. “I’ve had a surfeit of our spider’s coils. I’m just glad to be free of them.”

At last. As he strode from the Jockey Club by Barnaby’s side, Dillon let that fact sink in, let himself embrace the notion of devoting his mind, and all his considerable energies, to dealing with coils of an entirely different sort.

Those he could use to bind one wild and recklessly passionate female irreversibly to him.