What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  Pausing in the foyer, she glanced back at him, an innately haughty glance over her shoulder. Despite the dictates of his intellect, he felt his body react, yet as he met those direct and challenging eyes, he had to wonder if she, her actions, her glances, were truly calculated or simply instinctive.

  And which of those options posed the bigger danger to him.

  With a distant, noncommittal smile, he gestured down the corridor to the left. “My office is this way.”

  She held his gaze for a heartbeat, apparently oblivious of Barnaby at his shoulder. “And the register?”

  The suggestion in her tone had him fighting a grin. She wasn’t just fabulously beautiful; she had wit and a tongue to match. “The latest volume is there.”

  She consented to walk down the corridor. He followed by her shoulder, half a stride behind. Far enough to be able to appreciate her figure, her tiny waist and the curvaceous hips the prevailing fashion for slightly raised waistlines did nothing to disguise, to imagine the length of leg necessary to run from those evocatively swaying hips to the surprisingly dainty half boots he’d glimpsed beneath the hems of her emerald green skirts.

  A small flat hat sporting a dyed feather sat amid the thick curls at the back of her head. From the front, only the tip of the feather was visible, curling above her right ear.

  He knew enough of feminine fashion to identify both gown and hat as of recent vintage, almost certainly from London. Whoever the lady was, she was neither penniless nor, he suspected, his social inferior.

  “The next door to the right.” He was looking forward to having her in his office, in the chair before his desk, where he could examine and interrogate her.

  She halted before the door; he reached past her and set it swinging wide. With a regal dip of her head, she moved into the room. He followed, waving her to the chair facing his desk. Rounding the wide desk set between two tall windows, he took the chair behind it.

  Barnaby quietly closed the door, then retreated to an armchair set to one side, opposite the bookcase in which the latest volume of the Breeding Register resided. Briefly meeting Barnaby’s eyes, Dillon understood he intended being the proverbial fly on the wall, leaving the questions to him, concentrating instead on watching Miss…

  Returning his gaze to her, he smiled. “Your name, Miss…?”

  Apparently at ease in the straight-backed chair, comfortably padded with arms on which she’d rested hers, she smiled back. “Dalling. Miss Dalling. I confess I’ve no real idea of, nor interest in racing or race horses, but I was hoping to view this register one hears so much about. The doorman gave me to understand that you are the guardian of this famous tome. I’d imagined it was on public display, like the Births and Deaths Register, but apparently that’s not the case.”

  She had a melodic, almost hypnotic voice, not so much sirenlike as that of a storyteller, luring you to believe, to accept, and to respond.

  Dillon fought the compulsion, forced himself to listen dispassionately, sought, found, and clung to his usual aloof distance. Although uttered as statements, he sensed her sentences were questions. “The register you’re referring to is known as the Breeding Register, and no, it’s not a public document. It’s an archive of the Jockey Club. In effect, it’s a listing of the horses approved to run on those racetracks overseen by the club.”

  She was drinking in his every word. “I see. So…if one wished to verify that a particular horse was approved to race on such tracks, one would consult the Breeding Register.”

  Another question parading as a statement. “Yes.”

  “So it is possible to view the Breeding Register.”

  “No.” He smiled, deliberately a touch patronizingly, when she frowned. “If you wish to know if a particular horse is approved to race, you need to apply for the information.”

  “Apply?”

  At last a straight, unadorned question; he let his smile grow more intent. “You fill out a form, and one of the register clerks will provide you with the required information.”

  She looked disgusted. “A form.” She flicked the fingers of one hand. “I suppose this is England, after all.”

  He made no reply. When it became clear he wasn’t going to rise to that bait, she tried another tack.

  She leaned forward, just a little. Confidingly fixed her big green eyes on his face, simultaneously drawing attention to her really quite impressive breasts, not overly large, yet on her slight frame deliciously tempting.

  Having already taken stock, he managed to keep his gaze steady on her face.

  She smiled slightly, invitingly. “Surely you could allow me to view the register—just a glance.”

  Her emerald eyes held his; he fell under her spell. Again. That voice, not sultry but something even more deeply stirring, threatened, again, to draw him under; he had to fight to shake free of the mesmerizing effect.

  Suppressing his frown took yet more effort. “No.” He shifted, and softened the edict. “That’s not possible, I’m afraid.”

  She frowned, the expression entirely genuine. “Why not? I just want to look.”

  “Why? What’s the nature of your interest in the Breeding Register, Miss Dalling? No, wait.” He let his eyes harden, let his deepening suspicions show. “You’ve already told us you have no real interest in such things. Why, then, is viewing the register so important to you?”

  She held his gaze unwaveringly. A moment ticked by, then she sighed and, still entirely relaxed, leaned back in the chair. “It’s for my aunt.”

  When he looked his surprise, she airily waved. “She’s eccentric. Her latest passion is racehorses—that’s why we’re here. She’s curious about every little thing to do with horse racing. She stumbled on mention of this register somewhere, and now nothing will do but for her to know all about it.”

  She heaved an artistic sigh. “I didn’t think those here would appreciate a fluttery, dotty old dear haunting your foyer, so I came.” Fixing her disturbing green eyes on him, she went on, “And that’s why I would like to take a look at this Breeding Register. Just a peek.”

  That last was said almost tauntingly. Dillon considered how to reply.

  He could walk over to the bookcase, retrieve the current volume of the register, and lay it on the desk before her. Caution argued against showing her where the register was, even what it looked like. He could tell her what information was included in each register entry, but even that might be tempting fate in the guise of someone allied with those planning substitutions. That risk was too serious to ignore.

  Perhaps he should call her bluff and suggest she bring her aunt into his office, but no matter how intently he searched her eyes, he couldn’t be sure she was lying about her aunt. It was possible her tale, fanciful though it was, was the unvarnished truth. That might result in him breaking the until-now-inviolate rule that no one but he and the register clerks were ever allowed to view the Breeding Register for some fussy old dear.

  Who could not be counted on not to spread the word.

  “I’m afraid, Miss Dalling, that all I can tell you is that the entries in the register comprise a listing of licenses granted to individual horses to race under Jockey Club rules.” He spread his hands in commiseration. “That’s really all I’m at liberty to divulge.”

  Her green eyes had grown crystalline, hard. “How very mysterious.”

  He smiled faintly. “You have to allow us our secrets.”

  The distance between them was too great for him to be sure, but he thought her eyes snapped. For an instant, the outcome hung in the balance—whether she would retreat, or try some other, possibly more high-handed means of persuasion—but then she sighed again, lifted her reticule from her lap, and smoothly rose.

  Dillon rose, too, surprised by a very real impulse to do something to prolong her visit. But then rounding the desk, he drew close enough to see the expression in her eyes. There was temper there—an Irish temper to match her accent. It was presently leashed, but she was definitely irrita
ted and annoyed with him.

  Because she hadn’t been able to bend him to her will.

  He felt his lips curve, saw annoyance coalesce and intensify in her eyes. She really ought to have known just by looking that he wasn’t likely to fall victim to her charms.

  Manifold and very real though they were.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cold, a shivery coolness, the most her soft brogue would allow. “I’ll inform my aunt that she’ll have to live with her questions unanswered.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint an old lady, however…” He shrugged lightly. “Rules are rules, and there for a good reason.”

  He watched for her reaction, for some sign, however slight, of comprehension, but she merely raised her brows in patent disbelief and, with every indication of miffed disappointment, turned away.

  “I’ll see you to the front door.” He went with her to the door of his room, opened it.

  “No need.” Briefly, she met his eyes as she swept past him. “I’m sure I can find my way.”

  “Nevertheless.” He followed her into the corridor.

  The rigidity of her spine declared she was offended he hadn’t trusted her to go straight back to the front foyer if left to herself. But they both knew she wouldn’t have, that if he’d set her free she’d have roamed, trusting her beauty to extract her from any difficulty should she be caught where she shouldn’t be.

  She didn’t look back when she reached the foyer and sailed on toward the front doors. “Good-bye, Mr. Caxton.”

  The cool words drifted over her shoulder. Halting in the mouth of the corridor, he watched the doorman, still bedazzled, leap to swing open the door. She stepped through, disappearing into the bright sunshine; the doors swung shut, and he could see her no more.

  He returned to his office to find Barnaby peering out of the corner window.

  “Sweeping away in a regal snit.” Turning from the window, Barnaby took the chair she’d vacated. “What did you make of that?”

  Dillon resumed his seat. “A very interesting performance. Or rather, a performance of great interest to me.”

  “Indeed. But how did you read it? Do you think the Irishman sent her?”

  Slumping back, his long legs stretched before him, fingers lightly drumming his desk, he considered it. “I don’t think so. For a start, she’s gentry at least, more likely aristocracy. That indefinable confidence was there. So I doubt she’s directly involved with the Irishman asking questions in hedge taverns. However, were you to ask me if the Irishman’s master sent her, that, I think, is a real possibility.”

  “But why ask just to look at the register? Just a peek, she said.”

  Dillon met Barnaby’s gaze. “When she first encountered us and the doorman said one of us was Mr. Caxton, she hoped it was you. You saw her. How many males do you think would have remained immune to her persuasions, the persuasions she might have brought to bear?”

  “I wasn’t swayed.”

  “No, but you were on guard the instant you heard she was interested in the register, and even more once she’d spoken. But she, and whoever sent her, wouldn’t have expected that.”

  Barnaby humphed; he regarded Dillon. “But you’re immune, impervious, and unimpressionable in that regard.” His lips quirked. “Having set eyes on you, hearing that you were Caxton, guardian of the register, must have been a most unwelcome shock.”

  Dillon recalled the moment; a shock, yes, but unwelcome? In one respect, perhaps, but otherwise?

  What he had detected in that first moment of strange and unexpected recognition had been an element of flaring curiosity. One that had affected him in precisely the same degree.

  “But I take your point,” Barnaby went on. “After one peek, why not two? And after two, well, why not let the darling girl pore over the register for an hour or two. No harm if it’s in your office—and no great misery to have to watch her while she pores.”

  “Indeed.” Dillon’s tone was dry. “I imagine that’s more or less how matters would have transpired had I been more susceptible.”

  “Regardless, her advent now gives us two immediate avenues to pursue. The Irishman and the attempts to break in here, and the startlingly beautiful Miss Dalling.”

  Energized, Barnaby looked at Dillon, then grimaced. “In light of the tendencies Miss Dalling has already displayed, I’d better play safe and leave you to investigate her. I’ll focus on the unknown Irishman and anyone who can tell me anything about people loitering after dark in this vicinity.”

  Dillon nodded. “We can meet tomorrow afternoon and share what we’ve learned.”

  Barnaby rose. Meeting his eyes, Dillon smiled wryly. “While trawling through the hedge taverns, you can console yourself with the thought that following Miss Dalling will almost certainly result in my attending precisely those social events I would prefer to avoid like the plague.”

  Barnaby grinned. “Each to our own sacrifices.” He snapped off a jaunty salute, and left.

  Seated behind his desk, his gaze on the now-empty chair, Dillon thought again of Miss Dalling, and all he now wanted to know.

  2

  I can’t see Rus anywhere.” Pris scanned the throng of horses and jockeys, trainers, strappers, and lads engaged in a practice session on Newmarket racetrack. A minor race meet was approaching; many stables took the opportunity of a practice session to trial their runners on the track itself, or so the ostler at the Crown & Quirt had informed her. Such practice sessions also helped whip up enthusiasm for the various runners.

  That, Pris thought, explained the large number of the racing public who, like Adelaide and she, were standing behind the rails on the opposite side of the track, studying the horses. At least the milling crowd provided camouflage.

  Adelaide squinted across the track. “Can you see anyone from Lord Cromarty’s stables?”

  “No.” Pris examined the motley crew, jockeys circling on mounts eager to be off, raucous comments flying between them and the trainers and lads on the ground. “But I’m not sure I would recognize anyone other than Cromarty himself. He’s short, and as round as he’s tall—he’s definitely not there. I’ve seen his head stableman, Harkness, once. He’s big and dark, rather fearsome-looking. There are one or two similar over there, but I don’t think they’re him. Not dark enough—or fierce enough, come to that.”

  She looked around. “Let’s walk. Perhaps Rus or Cromarty are on this side of the track, talking to others.”

  Unfurling their parasols, deploying them to deflect the morning sun, they paraded along the sward, attracting not a little attention.

  Pris was aware of the appraising glances thrown their way, but she’d long grown inured to such awestruck looks. Indeed, she tended to view those who stared, stunned and occasionally slavering, with dismissive contempt.

  She and Adelaide tacked through the crowd, surreptitiously searching. Then, rounding a large group of genial gentlemen comparing notes on the various runners, she saw, standing some yards directly ahead, a tall, lean, dramatically dark figure.

  Caxton’s dark gaze was fixed on her.

  She quelled an impulse to take Adelaide’s arm, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. She wished she could do so, but the move would inflame Caxton’s unwelcome suspicions, quite aside from smacking of cowardice.

  That he could and did affect her to the extent that beating a retreat was her preferred option irritated enough to have her elevating her nose as she and Adelaide approached him.

  He waited until she halted before him, before allowing a slight smile to show. A smile that made her want to kick him—and herself. She should have halted some paces away and made him come to her.

  At least he bowed and spoke first. “Good morning, Miss Dalling. Out surveying the field?”

  “Indeed.” She refused to react to the subtle emphasis that suggested he wasn’t sure which field she was eyeing. It had been years since she’d played such games; she was rusty. Better she stick t
o the shockingly direct. “This is Miss Blake, a close friend.”

  Dillon bowed over Miss Blake’s hand and exchanged the usual greetings. Miss Blake was a pretty young lady with burnished blond-brown hair and bright hazel eyes; in most company she would shine, yet beside Miss Dalling, Miss Blake appeared washed-out, faded, so much less alive. “Is this your first visit to Newmarket?”

  He glanced at Miss Dalling, including her in the question. She hadn’t offered him her hand; indeed, she’d kept both hands wrapped about her parasol’s handle.

  It was the Irish princess who answered. “Yes.” With a swish of her skirts, today a vivid blue, she turned to the track as a bevy of horses thundered past. “And when in Newmarket…” She gestured to the track, then glanced at him. “Tell me, do all the stables trial their runners? Is it obligatory?”

  He wondered why she wanted to know. “No. Trainers can prepare their horses in what ever way they wish. That said, most take advantage of the days the track is made available, if nothing else to give their runners a feel for the course. Each track is different. Different length, different shape—different in the running.”

  Her brows rose. “I must tell Aunt Eugenia.”

  “I thought she was racing-mad—surely she would know.”

  “Oh, her passion for racing is a recent thing, which is why she’s so keen to learn more.” She surveyed him as if deciding how useful he might be.

  He met her gaze, knew she was gauging how best to manipulate him, if she could…he let his knowledge show.

  She read his eyes, understood his message; to his surprise, she considered it—as if debating whether to challenge him to withstand her wiles—before opting to ask, perfectly directly, “As you wouldn’t let me see the register, perhaps you can tell me what exactly the entries in it contain, so I may tell my aunt and fill in at least that part of the puzzle for her.”

  He held her gaze, then, aware of Miss Blake standing beside them, her gaze flicking from one face to the other, he turned to address her. “Is the lady your aunt, too?”