What Price Love?

4

This morning, she was obviously searching for one particular string.” Sprawled in an armchair in the family parlor of Demon and Flick’s home, Dillon described all he’d learned about Miss Dalling to Demon and Flick, attended by their two eldest children.

He and Barnaby, seated on the window seat, had met midmorning; after discussing their findings, they’d decided to seek Demon’s advice. Few knew the inner workings of the racing industry better, and there was no one whose judgment Dillon trusted more when it came to racing swindles.

“When she noticed me watching her, she rode off. I followed. Once she realized she couldn’t shake me, she returned to the Carisbrook house.”

An abbreviated account, but accurate in the essentials. Dillon glanced at Flick, perched on the arm of Demon’s chair. She wasn’t wearing breeches today; she’d been spending time with her offspring rather than her husband’s Thoroughbreds. The older two children, Prudence and Nicholas, had joined their elders in the parlor as if they had the right; Nicholas, eight years old, a miniature Demon in looks and sharp as a tack, was lolling on the window seat beside Barnaby, listening for all he was worth, while Prudence, known to all as Prue, the eldest at ten years old, in looks a Cynster although the stubborn set of her chin reminded Dillon forcibly of Flick, had claimed her place on Demon’s other side. Like her mother, she deemed anything that went on in her vicinity as much her interest as anyone else’s; she was fascinated by the tale Dillon had come to share.

“I seriously doubt Miss Dalling is directly involved in whatever’s going on,” he concluded, “but she definitely knows something, something more than we do. I think she’s protecting someone, very possibly her brother.”

“She certainly reacted when you suggested it was he I’d been wrestling with,” Barnaby put in, “and what you don’t know, because I forgot to mention it, is that the bounder did indeed look like her.”

Dillon blinked. Barnaby amended, “Well, a scruffy male version of her, at any rate. In fact, he looked like a down-on-his-luck cross between her and you.”

Flick had been avidly following their exchange. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question.

Prue beat her to it. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

They all looked at Dillon.

He hesitated, then admitted, “She’s not pretty. She’s the most stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful young lady I’ve ever set eyes on. If she goes to town without a ring on her finger and doesn’t accept an offer inside a week, the matchmaking mamas will be sharpening their knives.”

Flick’s brows rose high. “Good gracious! And this goddess is haunting Newmarket?”

A speculative gleam lit Flick’s blue eyes. Dillon studied it, then glanced at Demon, wondering what tack his powerful brother-in-law would take. Demon had very firm views on Flick getting involved in anything dangerous. Against that, he allowed her to ride his horses, so his definition of dangerous was flexible. Flexible enough for him and Flick to have remained happily married for over ten years.

Demon hadn’t even had to look at Flick to know what she was thinking. He glanced at her. “Do you think you might be able to learn more from Miss Dalling by pursuing an acquaintance socially?”

Flick grinned. “Meeting her socially will pose no problem whatsoever. However”-her gaze returned to Dillon-“extracting the necessary information might require persuasion of a sort I’m not qualified to give.” Her smile grew. “We’ll see.”

Dillon didn’t appreciate the calculation he glimpsed in Flick’s cerulean blue eyes. “Her aunt has rented the Carisbrook place. She says the aunt’s an eccentric, presently fascinated by racing, thus excusing her interest in the register.”

“Hmm.” Flick looked thoughtful. “You met her out riding-how well does she ride?”

He smiled. “Not as well as you.”

That earned him long-suffering looks from Flick, Demon, Nicholas, and Prue. Flick was the best female rider in the land. She could give Demon a run for his money, and he, unquestionably, was the best there was. Saying Miss Dalling didn’t ride as well as Flick was saying nothing at all.

“She’s actually quite good.” He thought back, then raised his brows. “In fact, she was damned good, far better than the average lady rider.”

“So she does know horses?” Demon asked.

Dillon understood what he was suggesting. “Yes, but not as you mean. She understands horses as I do, not as the two of you do.”

Demon grimaced. “So there’s no reason to think her family owns a stud, or similar enterprise. However, there is some connection with horses.”

Dillon inclined his head.

“So”-Demon glanced at Flick-“we’ll leave Miss Dalling to you, my dear, at least until we know more on that front. Meanwhile”-he looked at Dillon and Barnaby-“we need to decide how best to probe the possibility a substitution scam has been operating and is set to continue during this season’s races.”

Barnaby sat forward, all nonchalance falling from him. “So you agree there’s something going on? That it’s not us overextrapolating from disconnected pieces of information that happen to have fallen into our laps?”

Dillon searched Demon’s face. The severely handsome, angular planes held a certain grimness.

“I don’t believe your concerns arise from overactive imaginations.” Demon’s lips twisted. “Indeed, much as I wish I could brush your evidence aside and assure us all that there’s really nothing in it, you’ve gathered too many pieces for them to be coincidental. And if they’re not coincidental, then there’s only one other explanation-there’s another organized racing scam under way.”

Dillon and Barnaby exchanged a glance, then Dillon looked at Demon. “So how should we proceed?”

They revisited all they’d learned. Prue and Nicholas grew restive. With a maternal smile, Flick stood; waving the men back to their seats, she herded the children to the door. “It’s time for our ride.” She nodded a farewell to Barnaby, then Dillon, and exchanged a glance with Demon. “You can tell me all later.”

Demon raised his brows, but when he turned back, there was a smile in his eyes.

After establishing all they knew, they settled on the questions they most wanted answered, then evaluated their options. One source they urgently needed to reassess was the rumors of unexpected losses over the spring season.

“If we could establish which races and which horses were involved, that would give us a place to start.”

Barnaby grimaced. “When I poked around earlier, the rumors turned to smoke and mist-no one would name names.”

Demon snorted. “Too many gentlemen think too much of how others will see them. They’ll grumble and groan, but when it comes to making specific complaints, heaven forbid! There may even be more recent losses we haven’t yet heard about. The greatest losses from such a scam occur not at the racetrack, but through the offtrack betting centered in London. That’s where the big wagers will be laid, and ‘unexpected losses’ felt most keenly. With the right encouragement, we should be able to persuade at least some of those who’ve been grumbling to be more specific.”

Clearly someone had to follow up the London rumors. However, with the autumn racing season under way, neither Dillon nor Demon could leave Newmarket. Demon could, however, alert Vane, his brother, and his cousins devil and Gabriel Cynster, all of whom were presently in town. “If we explain and identify the grumblers, they’ll know how to get those disgruntled punters to name names.”

Demon looked at Barnaby. “Are you willing to return to London and, with the others, see what you can turn up?”

Barnaby was eager. “I’ll drop a word in the pater’s ear, too.” His father was involved with the new police force. “Some of the inspectors might have heard something. I’ll head down this afternoon.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll keep my ear to the ground here.” Demon turned to Dillon. “As for you…” His predatory grin flashed. “Apropos of Flick’s direction, I doubt she’ll make any headway with Miss Dalling. A social connection, however, should give you more opportunity to persuade the lady to our cause.”

Dillon pulled a face. “If she would only tell me what she wants to know about the register-or better yet, why-” He broke off, then shook his head. “I’m convinced she knows something, but-”

“But,” Demon cut in, “she’s frightened to reveal what she knows, first because she doesn’t understand what it means, and second because she’s protecting someone.” He held Dillon’s gaze. “What you have to do is gain Miss Dalling’s trust. Without that, you’ll get nothing out of her-with that, she’ll tell you all.”

Demon smiled, but there was no lightness in the gesture, only a fell intent. “Simple.”

Dillon held his gaze, unimpressed. “Simple?” He allowed his skepticism full rein. “We’ll see.”

Pris chafed and swore, but forced herself to wait, to let the rest of the day, then another go by before she once again rose with the dawn and slipped out to find Lord Cromarty’s string.

She kept her eyes peeled as she streaked through the misty landscape, but detected no pursuit. If Caxton was waiting out on the Heath, with any luck he wouldn’t recognize her. Mounted on a solid but unremarkable bay gelding, she was riding astride, dressed in breeches, boots, and jacket, with her wide-brimmed hat pulled low and a muffler wound about her chin. Once she found Cromarty’s string, she intended to follow them to Rus; much easier to amble in a stable’s wake if she looked like any other stable lad.

To her relief, Cromarty’s string was exercising close to where she’d last seen them. She watched from the cover of a stand of trees, scanning the riders; Rus was not among them.

She didn’t know precisely what Rus did as assistant stableman; his duties in Newmarket might not include the morning exercises.

While Harkness put his racers through an exacting series of gallops, she thought of Rus, let his face fill her mind, remembered shared exploits that made her smile. At last Harkness called a halt. The string formed up in a long line and headed off.

She fell in, not directly behind but as far back as she dared, and to the right, always at an angle to the string’s line of travel; if anyone glanced back, she wouldn’t be obviously following them.

The string walked, jogged, then walked again. Eventually they crossed a road and turned up a lane. Pris stopped to read the signpost; SWAFFAM PRIOR was lettered on it. If she was seen, she would appear to be heading for the village; entering the lane, she ambled on.

She kept her distance from the stragglers of the string. Finally the string turned right down a narrower lane; buildings lay grouped at its end.

They appeared to be substantial. Leaving the lanes, Pris cut through the fields; circling, she found a low, wooded rise beyond the buildings and pulled up. Screened by the trees, she looked down on the establishment; it was clear this was where Lord Cromarty was stabling his horses.

Her heart lifting with anticipation, she watched the horses being unsaddled, walked, brushed down, watered. She squinted, studying every man who walked through the yard.

Not one of them was Rus.

Lord Cromarty came out of the house to speak with Harkness. After considerable discussion, Harkness sent a lad for a horse-a high-spirited black mare. The lad paraded her before Harkness and Cromarty, then at Cromarty’s nod, returned the horse to her stall.

Pris remained mounted in the shadow of the trees, anticipation fading, anxiety burgeoning as a sense of unease rose and whispered through her. Cold, chill fingers trailed her nape.

Rus wasn’t there.

She knew it in her heart, even without the evidence of her eyes.

After another futile hour, she drew away. Returning to the lane to Swaffam Prior, she debated, then turned the gelding’s nose toward the village.

She had to learn if Rus was still somewhere, somehow, in Cromarty’s domain.

Patrick Dooley, Eugenia’s devoted and trusted factotum, spent the evening in the tavern at Swaffam Prior. He returned late, with disquieting news.

Pris hadn’t even considered retiring, too strung up to relax; Eugenia had settled on the chaise in the drawing room to keep her company, and Adelaide had remained, too.

Patrick joined them. He reported that, as Pris had guessed, the stable hands from Cromarty’s stable did indeed spend their evenings at the tiny tavern. He hadn’t even had to ask after Rus; his disappearance had been the main topic of conversation. According to the stable hands, “the toff,” as they affectionately called him, had been going about his business as usual until about ten days ago. Then one morning, he simply hadn’t been there.

Their description of Rus rang true-pernickity manners but a great one with horses. None of Cromarty’s crew knew anything of any falling-out with Cromarty or Harkness; to a man they were mystified by Rus’s abrupt departure.

But what had excited their interest and kept it on the boil was Harkness’s reaction; when he’d discovered Rus gone, he’d flown into a towering rage. Cromarty, too, had been furious. The upshot was Cromarty had offered a reward for any news of Rus, saying he knew too much about the stable’s runners, their quirks, and what made them run poorly, and they wanted to make sure he didn’t sell such secrets to their competitors.

“So he’s gone,” Patrick concluded, “but no one knows where to.”

Patrick was Irish, a stalwart of Eugenia’s small house hold. Although only six years older than Pris, his devotion to her aunt was beyond question.

She studied his impassive countenance. “Rus has to be alive. If he wasn’t, Harkness and Cromarty wouldn’t have posted a reward. Rus realized something was amiss and escaped before they could stop him. He got free and went into hiding.”

Patrick nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“Where would he hide?”

Patrick’s gaze turned rueful. “As to that, you’d have the best idea.”

Pris grimaced. Through the years Eugenia had spent at Dalloway Hall, Patrick had come to know Rus and her well; beyond herself and Albert, she would have said Patrick had the greatest understanding of her twin.

“I don’t know much about the racing business, but…” Patrick met her eyes. “Would he have stayed around here or gone to London?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. He was here three nights ago, but now? Hiding in London would be easier, and he has acquaintances there, friends from Eton and Oxford. He might think to get help with what ever he’s discovered in town.”

“I’ll check the coaches, see if he caught one to London or anywhere else.” Patrick glanced at Eugenia. “I’ll need to go to Cambridge and check there, too, in case he went across country and caught a coach from there.”

Eugenia nodded. “Go tomorrow. You concentrate on that avenue. Meanwhile, we’ll see what we can do closer to home.” She looked at Pris. Her soft voice took on a steely note. “This is clearly no lark, not a matter of your outrageous brother kicking up his heels, but something truly serious. We must do all we can to assist Rus with what ever matter he’s embroiled in. So-what can we do?”

Pris thought, then uttered a sound of frustration. “It all comes back to that bloody register!” She glanced at Eugenia. “Sorry, but without knowing what that damned register contains, we have no clue as to what Rus might have stumbled on. We know he’s after the register, or was. Learning what’s in it should give us some idea of the sort of illicit doings he might have uncovered.”

“Is there no other copy?” Patrick asked.

Pris shook her head. “And it’s closely guarded-even more so now.” She colored faintly. “I slipped back last night and looked around-searched the woods in case Rus had come back. He hadn’t, but I saw two extra guards patrolling around the building. Caxton knows Rus and I are both after the register, and he’s determined we’re not going to see it.”

Eugenia’s brows rose. “Perhaps we ought to consider ways of swaying Mr. Caxton.” She glanced at Pris. “You said he was highly eligible.”

“I also said he was more beautiful than I am, and similarly immune to ‘gentle persuasion.’”

She saw Patrick’s slashing smile flash; she directed a frown his way, but he, too, was immune.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you’d consider swaying Caxton as a challenge?”

Crossing her arms, she humphed. “Perhaps, but…”

That was one challenge she might not win.

“I was wondering…”

They all turned to look at Adelaide. A soft frown was creasing her brow. “I saw a lending library in the town. This is Newmarket, after all-perhaps they have a book that will tell us something about this register?”

Pris blinked. “That’s an excellent idea.” She smiled. “Well done, Adelaide! We’ll go tomorrow, and while we’re there, we’ll also search for a map. I want to find where all the common land is and whether there are any derelict cottages or abandoned stables hidden away out on the Heath.”

Patrick nodded. “Another excellent idea.”

“Well, then!” Eugenia gathered up her tatting. “We all have something to get on with tomorrow. I suggest we go to bed-there, it’s midnight.”

They stood as the clocks throughout the house chimed.

Climbing the stairs behind Eugenia, conscious of the comfort of the familiar sounds about her, Pris wondered where Rus was, whether he had any comforts at all, what the sounds surrounding him now were.

She needed to learn where he was. And whether the cold lump of fear congealing in her stomach was justified.

As it happens we do have a map showing the stables and studs.” The lady behind the counter of the lending library smiled at Pris. “I’m afraid you can’t borrow it, but you’re very welcome to study it.” She nodded across the foyer of the lending library. “It’s hanging over there.”

Pris swung around, eyes widening as she saw a very large, very detailed map covering a considerable section of the opposite wall.

Behind her, the helpful lady continued, “We get so many gentlemen calling in, trying to find their way to this stud or that stable, that we had the aldermen make that up for us.”

“Is it up-to-date?”

“Oh, yes. The town clerk drops by every year to make adjustments. He was here in July, so the details are very recent.”

“Thank you.” Pris flashed the lady a brilliant smile. Leaving the counter, she crossed the foyer that ran across the street end of bookcases stretching back into the dimness of the building. There were chairs and low tables grouped in the area, more or less in the library window. Two old ladies were sitting in armchairs, comparing novels. Pris halted before the large map mounted on the wall.

It was huge and wonderfully informative. It even showed some of the bigger stands of trees out on the Heath. She located the wood in which she and Caxton had kissed; backtracking, she found the area where Cromarty’s string exercised, then traced the route back to the stable southeast of Swaffam Prior. Even the tavern in the village was carefully marked.

Elsewhere, somewhere between the bookcases, Eugenia and Adelaide were pursuing books on the Breeding Register.

Locating the Carisbrook house, Pris scanned the major estates, the studs and famous stables ringing the town. She memorized the names and outlines of the larger properties, searching for distant sheds or disused buildings, any places Rus might be using as a refuge.

She knew he was close, still in the vicinity. While the possibility of his having gone to London had to be examined, she didn’t believe he had.

Next to a large stud labeled Cynster, she found a smaller property, an old manor with a house called Hillgate End. The name carefully lettered beneath was CAXTON. Pris took note of the surrounding lanes and woods, her mind-if not her enthusiasm-preparing for the inevitable, that she would have to approach Caxton again.

After their interlude in the wood, she absolutely definitely didn’t want to think of having to do so. Of having to risk it. Turning her mind from the prospect, she set about quartering the Heath, searching for old or disused dwellings.

Behind her, the bell above the library door jingled. An instant later, one of the assistants exclaimed, “Why, Mrs. Cynster! You’re just the person we need. I have a lady here terribly keen to learn about the register-I assume that’s the Breeding Register Mr. Caxton keeps-but we’ve no books about it, which I must say seems strange. Perhaps you could speak with her?”

Pris looked around, and beheld a vision in soft summer blue. Mrs. Cynster was a youthful matron, extremely stylish, elegantly gowned with a wealth of guinea gold curls exquisitely cropped. By her side, a young girl, perhaps ten or so, stood patiently waiting.

The young girl saw Pris. The girl’s eyes grew wide, then wider. Staring unabashedly, she blindly reached up and tugged her mother’s sleeve.

Pris turned back to the map. She was often the recipient of such stunned fascination, but in this case, given her mother, the girl had an unusually high standard for comparison.

Regarding the map, Pris considered the Cynster stud, with the smaller Hillgate End estate nestled above it. Mrs. Cynster, assuming she was the Mrs. Cynster, was Caxton’s neighbor.

Behind her, Mrs. Cynster agreed to speak with Eugenia; the assistant led her away between the rows of bookshelves. Pris heard the young girl hushed when she tried to tell her mother about Pris, heard her scuffling footsteps as she reluctantly followed the ladies.

She had a few minutes at most to decide what to do. To decide how best to use the opportunity fate had sent their way. Mrs. Cynster might be Caxton’s neighbor, yet Pris couldn’t see the man who had interrogated her in his office sharing his problems-she was fairly certain he thought of her as a problem-with his neighbors, particularly not the ladies.

There was no reason Mrs. Cynster would know anything about her, let alone the motives behind her and Eugenia’s quest to see the register. But if Mrs. Cynster knew anything about that blasted register, or even something useful about Caxton…

Turning from the map, Pris walked down the corridor between two bookshelves, using Eugenia’s voice to guide her.

“I have to confess,” Mrs. Cynster was saying, “that although I’ve lived in Newmarket almost all my life, and have an interest in breeding and training horses, I really have no clue as to what, precisely, is in the Breeding Register. I know all race horses are registered, but as to why, and with what details, I’ve never thought to ask.”

Eugenia saw Pris and smiled. “There you are, my dear.” She glanced at the golden-haired beauty. “Mrs. Cynster-my niece, Miss Dalling. She’s been so helpful trying to find answers to my questions.”

Mrs. Cynster turned. Pris met pure blue eyes, open and innocent, yet there was a quick and observant mind behind them.

Smiling, she bobbed a curtsy, then took the hand Mrs. Cynster extended. “I’m very pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Cynster’s smile widened; she was a small woman, several inches shorter than Pris. “Not nearly as pleased as I am to meet you, Miss Dalling. I hate being behindhand with the latest, especially in Newmarket, and you’re obviously the lady I’ve recently heard described as ‘stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful.’ I had thought the description a trifle overblown, but I see I was being too cynical.”

Her dancing eyes assured Pris the compliment was genuine.

“I wonder…” Turning her blue eyes on Eugenia, and Adelaide standing quietly beside her, then glancing again at Pris, Mrs. Cynster raised her brows. “I would love to introduce you to local society-I understand you’ve recently come to stay at the Carisbrook house, but it will never do to hide yourselves away. Besides, although it’s never the first topic of conversation with the local ladies, many of us know a great deal about horse racing.” She looked at Eugenia. “You will certainly be able to learn more.”

A smiling glance included Pris and Adelaide. “I’m hosting a tea this afternoon. I’d be delighted if you could attend. I’m sure some of us would be able to learn more details for you from our husbands if we knew what most interested you. Do say you’ll come.”

Eugenia looked at Pris. She had only a heartbeat in which to decide; smiling, she nodded fractionally.

Eugenia returned her attention to Mrs. Cynster. “We would be honored to accept, my dear. I must say, all research and no play is rather wearying.”

“Excellent!” Beaming, Mrs. Cynster gave them directions, confirming she was indeed the chatelaine of the Cynster racing stud.

Which meant her husband would most likely know what details had to be supplied to enter a horse in the Breeding Register.

Pris’s smile was quite genuine; anticipation rose, hope welled.

Mrs. Cynster took her leave of them, then summoned her daughter. “Come, Prue.”

Pris glanced at the young girl, an easy smile on her lips.

And met a pair of blue eyes-not the same as her mother’s but harder and sharper; the expression on the girl’s face was one of delighted expectation.

Pris blinked; Prue only smiled even more, turned, and followed her mother away between the bookcases. Pris caught the final, delighted glance Prue threw her before the shelves cut her off from sight. “Well!” Eugenia straightened her shawl, then turned to leave, too. “The social avenue sounds a great deal more promising than these books. Such a lucky meeting.”

Following Eugenia and Adelaide, Pris murmured her agreement, her mind elsewhere. Why had Prudence Cynster looked so expectant?

Pris had younger sisters, had been at that stage herself not so long ago. She could remember what topics most excited girls of that age.

Stepping out into the sunshine in Eugenia and Adelaide’s wake, she decided that, while attending Mrs. Cynster’s afternoon tea was the obvious way forward, a degree of caution might be wise.