What Price Love?
Page 4
Miss Blake smiled ingenuously. “Oh, no. She’s Pris’s aunt. I’m Lady Fowles’s goddaughter.”
Dillon glanced back at Pris—Priscilla?—in time to catch the frown she directed at Miss Blake, but when she lifted her eyes to his, they were merely mildly interested.
She arched a brow. “The register entries?”
How much to divulge—anything, or enough to tempt her further? Further to where she might reveal why she was asking, and who she was really asking for. “Each entry carries the name of the horse, the sex, color, date, and place of its foaling, its sire and dam, and their bloodlines—a horse must be a Thoroughbred to race in Jockey Club races.”
They were standing not far from the rails; as more stables sent their horses out onto the track, the would-be punters, the touts, betting agents, and the usual hangers-on crowded closer to get a better view. One man jostled Miss Blake—because he’d gone wide-eyed staring at Miss Dalling.
Gripping Miss Blake’s elbow, steadying her, Dillon caught Miss Dalling’s eye. Releasing Miss Blake, who mumbled a breathless thank-you, he waved to the area farther from the track. “Unless you’re keen to view the horses, perhaps we should retreat to more comfortable surrounds?”
Miss Dalling nodded. “Aunt Eugenia has yet to become fixated on individual animals.”
Dillon felt his lips twitch; he was aching to ask if Aunt Eugenia truly existed. Instead, he strolled between the two ladies across the well-tended lawns, angling away from the track.
Miss Dalling glanced at him. “So what else is included in the register?”
How best to whet her appetite? “There are certain other details included with each entry, but they, I’m afraid, are confidential.”
She looked ahead. “So someone wanting to race a horse on a Jockey Club track must register the horse, providing the details you mentioned, plus others, and then they receive a license?”
“Yes.”
“Is this license a physical thing, or simply in the form of a permission?”
He wished he knew why she wanted to know. “It’s a piece of paper carrying the Jockey Club crest. The owner has to produce it in order to enter his horse in a race.”
Silence followed. Glancing at her face, he saw a line etched between her brows; what ever was driving her interest in the register, it was, to her, serious.
“This piece of paper—does it carry the same information as the entry in the register?”
“No. The license simply states that the horse of that name, sex, color, and date of foaling is accepted to run in races held under the auspices of the Jockey Club.”
“So the ‘confidential details’ aren’t on the license?”
“No.”
She sighed. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will find it fascinating. She will, of course, be avidly eager to learn what the confidential details are.”
The glance she threw him plainly stated that the “confidential details” would be her next target, but then she smiled. “But who knows? Perhaps once I tell her what you’ve said, she’ll be ready to go off on some other tack.”
Dillon inwardly frowned. Her light, faintly secretive smile still playing about her distracting lips, she looked away, leaving him wondering what to make of her last statement. She’d uttered it as if reassuring him she probably wouldn’t be back to try to drag more details from him…but he wanted her to return, wanted her to try—wanted her to grow increasingly more determined, and therefore more reckless.
She was the sort to get reckless, to lose her Irish temper and toss caution to the winds—he intended to goad her to it, and then he’d learn all he wanted and needed to know.
But he wouldn’t learn anything unless she came back.
Turning to Miss Blake, he smoothly engaged her in conversation, asking what she thought of the horses, of Newmarket itself, had she tried the Twig & Bough. Anything to prolong his time in Miss Dalling’s company—anything to learn more of her and her entourage.
In that respect, saddling herself with an innocent, sweet young thing like Miss Blake wasn’t what one would expect of a clever and intelligent femme fatale. Yet Miss Dalling qualified as clever and intelligent, and her type of beauty was the epitome of fatale—the sort men died for.
Presumably Miss Blake was truly a connection, which suggested Miss Dalling was, at least in part, as she appeared—a gently bred young lady.
He glanced at her, strolling by his side, head up, scanning the stable crews on the other side of the track. Being a gently bred young lady didn’t preclude her also being an adventuress.
With his eyes, he traced her perfect profile, then realized she, and Miss Blake, too, were not idly scanning. They were searching.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?”
Pris slowly turned her head, using the moment before she met his eyes to decide how to answer. “As you know, we’re from Ireland. Aunt Eugenia said there should be a number of Irish stables here—she asked us to look and see if we noticed anyone.”
“Anyone who looked Irish,” Adelaide helpfully piped up. “Or sounded Irish.”
Pris hurried to reclaim Caxton’s attention. “Do you know which Irish stables will be running horses here over the next weeks?”
He met her eyes, then glanced across the turf. “There are Irish stables who bring horses over to compete, but most rent stables out on the Heath and bring their runners in to local stables only on the day they run. They generally use local jockeys, ones who know the course well.” He nodded toward the congregation of stable hands. “The only crew from Irish stables you’re likely to come across today are the owners and trainers, maybe a head stableman.”
“I see.” Pris was keen to close that avenue of conversation before it revealed too much.
Caxton halted. “If you wish, I could escort you that way. I wouldn’t recommend that ladies venture into that area alone, but you’ll be safe with me.”
Halting, too, she met his eyes, and wished she dared take up his offer; she was desperate to locate Rus. Failing him, she’d be happy to find any member of the Cromarty crew. But…she forced any easy smile. “Perhaps some other time. I fear we’ve dallied long enough. Aunt Eugenia will start to worry over where we are.”
She held out her hand. “Thank you for your company, sir. Aunt Eugenia will be grateful for the information you imparted.”
He grasped her hand. She was immediately conscious of warmth, of heat, of a prickling awareness that spread from where his fingers closed firmly about hers. Keeping her gaze level and unwavering, she made a mental note to avoid giving him her hand again.
“Restricted though it was?” His eyes held hers. More, he studied her, watched her.
“Indeed.” She drew back on her fingers. He held them for an instant, then let them slide from his…
She sensed the implicit warning, but was uncertain precisely what he was warning her not to do, which line he was warning her not to cross.
Neither her face nor his hinted of deeper meaning. Adelaide glowed as he turned to her; she gaily bade him farewell.
Before Pris could execute a clean parting, he asked, and Adelaide blithely volunteered that they’d driven into town, and that their gig was stabled at the Crown & Quirt on the High Street.
Pris watched him like a hawk, but he gave no indication that the information was of any particular interest to him. Smiling easily, he bowed and wished them a safe journey home.
With a regal inclination of her head, she linked her arm in Adelaide’s and resolutely drew her away. It took effort, but she refused to look back, even though she felt his dark gaze lingering on her, literally, until they passed out of his sight.
I have to find some way to locate Rus.” Pris sat at the luncheon table in the neat manor house Eugenia had rented and absentmindedly picked at a bunch of grapes. “It must be as Caxton said—Cromarty’s rented a stable out on the Heath.”
“How big is this Heath?” Eugenia had pushed back from the t
able and lifted her tatting into her lap.
Pris wrinkled her nose. “As far as I can tell, it’s enormous, and has no finite boundary. It’s an area spreading out from the town, big enough for all the strings of horses to be exercised there twice a day.”
“So finding one stable isn’t going to be easy.”
“No. But if we ride around during the training sessions—early morning and late afternoon—we might sight Cromarty’s string. Rus said he assisted with the training sessions, or at least he did in Ireland.”
Adelaide spoke from across the table. “Should we go this afternoon?”
Pris wanted to, but shook her head. “Caxton’s suspicious, although I’m sure he doesn’t know what to be suspicious about. We told him we were looking for Irish stables to sate your”—she inclined her head to Eugenia—“avid curiosity. If he sees us out hunting this afternoon, we’ll appear too eager, too urgent to locate the Irish stables. I don’t want to invite his attention any more than I already have.”
Looking up from her tatting, Eugenia bent a very direct look on Pris. “You fear him. Why?”
Pris swallowed the denial that rose to her tongue; Eugenia, she’d learned, was exceedingly clear-sighted. Eventually, she offered, “I think it’s because he’s so very handsome—just like me.” She met Eugenia’s gaze. “And just like me, people look no further than his face and figure, and forget that there’s a very good brain at work behind the mouthwatering façade.”
“He’s certainly handsome,” Adelaide averred, “but he’s rather overwhelming. He’s very dark and hard and sharp. He may be beautiful, but he’s not comfortable.”
Pris found nothing to argue with in that. Drumming her fingers on the tablecloth, she thought over all she’d learned, trying to find some way forward.
“So what are you planning to do next?” Eugenia asked.
Pris looked up and met her eyes. “We can ride out early tomorrow morning and start searching through the strings exercising on the Heath. The ostler at the inn said all strings exercise there every morning, and Caxton won’t expect us to be out at such an hour. If he’s suspicious enough to think to look for us, he’ll look at the afternoon sessions. Meanwhile…”
She frowned, then pushed back her chair. “If I could just get a look at that blasted register, I’d have a better idea what sort of scheme Harkness might be hatching. A better idea of what Rus will think to do.”
Eugenia’s lips curved. “One benefit of being twins.”
Rising to her feet, Pris managed a smile. “Indeed. If you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to take a turn about the gardens.”
I found her at the track midmorning, walking with a friend—a Miss Blake.” Sprawled in the chair behind his office desk, Dillon laced his fingers across his waistcoat. “Miss Dalling tried to learn more about the register, but that wasn’t why she was there. They were searching for someone. She said she was looking for the Irish crews, but I’m not sure if that was the truth or simply the most obvious answer to my question.”
“Did you learn where they were staying?” Barnaby sat slumped in the armchair opposite the bookcase, long legs stretched out before him, ready to share the results of his day’s sleuthing.
Dillon nodded. “I followed them home—she’d driven them into town in a gig. They’re staying at the old Carisbrook place. I asked around. There really is an aunt—a Lady Fowles—and she’s rented the house for several weeks.”
“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned at his boots. “How do you read her—Miss Dalling? Is her interest in the register really because of her eccentric aunt?”
Dillon glanced out of the window at the gathering dusk. “I think she’s a consummate liar, sticking to the truth as far as possible, inventing only where necessary.”
Barnaby’s lips twisted. “The hardest sort to catch.”
“Indeed. So what did you learn about the man interested in the register?”
“An Irishman with dark hair, tallish, lean, and younger than I’d supposed—midtwenties by all accounts. Not much more anyone could tell me, although one ancient described him as ‘gentry down on his luck.’”
Dillon frowned. “I know all the Irish owners and trainers here this season, at least by sight, and that description rings no bells.”
Barnaby waved. “In the same vein as for the lovely Miss Dalling, there’s no need for him to be associated with any stable—his connection to this might be quite otherwise.”
“True. Did you learn anything more about the break-ins?”
“Only that this place is a burglar’s delight. It sits so far back from the road with that avenue of huge trees, and”—Barnaby pointed through the window, beyond the rear of the building—“there’s a nice stand of woodland out there. It’s ridiculously easy to approach this place at night, and no one’s the wiser.”
Leaning back, he looked up at the ceiling. “The first time he came, he didn’t come prepared—he tried the windows, but couldn’t spring the locks, then had to retreat when the night watchman came around. The second time, he gained entry through the kitchen window, but the door into the building proper was bolted, so again he had to retreat. The last time, he forced a window and got into the offices down the corridor. He started searching, going through the shelves, but then knocked over a box, bringing the night watchman running, and had to flee.”
Barnaby looked at Dillon. “Incidentally, the watchman’s description, while hardly detailed, just an impression of height, build, and coloring, and age in how easily he fled, suggests the young Irishman with the questions could indeed be our burglar.”
“That suggests we have only one group we need pursue…” A minute passed, then Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes. “There’s something afoot. You, me, the Committee, we all know it, but all we have are conjecture and suspicion. We need to catch this Irishman—he’s the only person we know of who can shed light on whatever’s going on.”
Barnaby nodded. “I agree—but how?”
“You said this place was a burglar’s delight—now he’s got so close, presumably he’ll come back. What if we make it extra tempting for him to do so, wait until he makes his move…and then step in?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Last time he got into the offices, so, assuming he is indeed after the Breeding Register, he knows this wing is where he needs to concentrate.” With his head, Dillon indicated the side window. “As you pointed out, the woods are close. He’ll use them for cover, to circle the building and learn where the night watchman is, to check whether anyone is working late. This room’s at the corner—that window stands out. What if, assuming he comes to night, he sees it left just a little open?”
Barnaby grinned. “Like a moth to a flame, he’ll come up and look in, see it’s an office, and…”
Dillon smiled grimly. “Like a moth to a flame, he’ll get his wings burned.”
Late that night, Pris slid from her saddle at the edge of the woods onto which the Jockey Club backed. The moon was half-full, obscured by fitful clouds; beneath the trees, it was dark, not still so much as suspenseful—as if the trees were holding their breaths, waiting to see what would come…
Quelling a shiver, she sternly shook aside her fanciful thoughts and tethered her mare to a low-hanging branch. There were bushes and shrubs scattered beneath the trees, but they weren’t so thick she would miss seeing any man-sized shape skulking in the shadows.
She slid into the undergrowth. In breeches, boots, and jacket, with a kerchief about her neck, her hair up and severely confined, and a soft, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on her head, she could at a distance pass for a stable lad. The Lord knew there were plenty of those about Newmarket.
Carefully forging deeper into the dark wood, she scanned ahead, searching for any sign of any other person creeping up on the Jockey Club. She could see the building through the trees, the red brick dull but with glimmers from the pale mortar and pointing, the white-painted window frames gleaming in the occasional shaft of moonlight.
Perhaps that was where Caxton and his friend had last heard an Irish accent.
It would certainly seem odd to have two people with precisely the same accent—even the same inflections and tones—inquire about the register in a short space of time. No wonder they’d been suspicious.
Doubly so if they had reason to suspect some scam was being planned.
They might already suspect Rus.
She knew Caxton suspected her, at least of being peripherally involved. Regardless, she had to get a look at the register. Once she had, she would know as much as Rus did—perhaps more if he hadn’t yet seen it.
Given how tight-lipped Caxton was, given her sense of his character—potentially hard and unforgiving of errors—she wasn’t going to waste time charming his clerks. Not until she’d exhausted more direct avenues.
And entrenched in her mind was the knowledge—not a guess but a certainty—that if Rus hadn’t yet learned what the register contained, then he would pursue the same direct avenue as she.
Fingers and toes mentally crossed, she prayed Rus would come there that night. Getting a look at the register and finding her twin, reassuring herself that regardless of all else, he was hale and whole, and safe…right now, that was all she asked of the deity.
Reaching the edge of the wood, she hunkered down beside a tree; slowly, she scanned the back of the building from left to right, paying attention to the layout, aligning it with what she’d seen from inside the previous day. Caxton had referred to the register as an archive. There would be more than one tome, stored who knew where, but she felt sure at least one, the one currently in use, would be in his office, sitting in the bookshelves there.