Barnaby nodded. “But why couldn’t it just have been Collier behind it, with his death an accident as presently thought?”
“Because,” Dillon said, “finding substitute horses is expensive. They have to be specific matches, and Thoroughbreds as well.”
“So,” Flick said, “if Collier was hard-pressed, there must have been someone else involved.”
“More”—Demon caught Barnaby’s eye—“someone had to have bailed Collier out.”
Barnaby’s brows rose. “On condition he train and race—and arrange, however it’s done—the substitutions?”
Dillon nodded. “That seems likely.”
“I see.” Barnaby looked at Demon, then Dillon. “It looks like a visit to Grantham should be my next jaunt.”
Dillon rose. “I’ll get the details of Collier’s stable from the register, and we can check that the horses Demon remembers were the suspect runners. When are you thinking of leaving?”
“There’s a ball at Lady Swalesdale’s to night.” Standing, Flick shook out her skirts. “I’m sure her ladyship would be delighted to have you join us.”
“Ah…” Barnaby looked at her, then Dillon. “I’ll be off north at first light. I’ll need to spell my horses. I rather think I’ll give Lady Swalesdale’s a miss.”
Demon coughed to hide a laugh.
Flick leveled a severe glance at Barnaby.
Dillon scoffed, “Coward.”
Barnaby grinned. “You’re just sorry you can’t escape, too.”
In that, Barnaby had been wrong; Dillon hadn’t been interested in escaping Lady Swalesdale’s ball. Quite the opposite—he’d been looking forward to observing the lovely Miss Dalling coping with her smitten swains. If he was any judge of her temper, they’d soften her up nicely—for him.
Leaning against the wall of an alcove, concealed by the shadows cast by a large palm, he watched Priscilla Dalling captivate—and, whenever she noticed him watching, flirt with—a tribe of local gentlemen, one and all besotted by her bounteous charms.
While he appreciated the picture she made in her lavender silk gown with its keyhole neckline that, far from being decorous, drew attention even more provocatively to the deep valley between her breasts, while his eyes drank in the sleek yet curvaceous figure her well-cut gown so lovingly revealed, while his gaze was drawn to the exposed curve of her nape, to the vulnerable line highlighted by the black curls cascading from the knot on her head to bob seductively alongside one ear, it wasn’t her physical beauty that held his interest.
She did. The animation in her face, the grace with which she moved, the laugh he occasionally heard over the rumble of voices, the life he sensed within her.
Beauty had never meant much to him—it was just the outer casing. What was inside mattered more. When he looked at her, he saw a fiery spirit, a feminine reflection of himself. It was that that lured him, that drew him to her.
He continued to watch cynically as she dealt with her admirers. The outcome of her flirting was already trying her temper—serve her right. The gentlemen were a boon in his eyes; they had her corralled; she couldn’t slip from his sight without them giving warning.
Two days had passed since he’d encountered her racing for her very life over the Heath. Two days since he’d discovered some man had come far too close to ending her life.
The draining of all color from her face when he’d shown her the hole in her hat still haunted him. She hadn’t known how close to death she’d come.
He’d ridden his own temper hard and kept away for the rest of the day, and the next, knowing he’d meet her to night. He’d seen her at a distance in town; since he’d escorted her back to the Carisbrook house, she’d left it only in the company of her aunt and Miss Blake. No one had come to visit her, and she hadn’t slipped away to any illicit meeting; he’d had four of his stable lads on special duty, watching the house day and night.
Through the palm fronds, he studied her face—the set of her chin, her eyes—and decided she hadn’t yet softened enough for his purpose. It wasn’t yet time to offer her an escape.
He’d left Barnaby armed with the direction of Collier’s stable, east of Grantham. They’d confirmed Collier’s classy new runners had been the horses involved in the suspect races. Over dinner, Barnaby had remembered to mention that Vane had stumbled on similar whispers about a race run at Newmarket a few weeks before, early in the autumn season.
That had been most unwelcome news. Vane and Gabriel were hunting for more details.
The earlier suspect races had been at Goodwood and Doncaster, under Jockey Club rules, true, but not the same as a race at Newmarket, run under the Club’s collective nose. If it was part of the same scheme, the perpetrators were arrogant and cocksure. And there would almost certainly be more to come.
Dillon knew the scheme wasn’t targeted at him personally, yet as the Keeper of the Breeding Register and Stud Book, the office responsible for the verification of horses’ identities, the scheme was a direct challenge to his authority. More, the Committee had asked him to investigate and deal with the problem, setting said problem squarely in his lap. His past indiscretion, even if now history, only compounded the pressure.
The scheme might not have been conceived with a personal aspect, yet for him it had assumed one; he felt as if he were facing an as-yet-unsighted enemy who had a lethal arrow nocked and aimed at him—he had to cut the bowstring before the arrow could be loosed.
He refocused on Pris Dalling. Far from being on the side of his enemy, he was convinced she was presently standing somewhere in the mists between him and the opposition.
A moment passed, then he stirred, impatient to act, wishing she’d dismiss all the others and come his way.
She started edging from her admirers. He straightened. Watching more intently, he noted her sudden nervousness, the way she sidled to keep the shoulders of her attentive swains between her and someone farther up the ballroom.
Dillon scanned the guests. Lady Swaledale had assembled a small multitude, all the locals of note as well as many owners who belonged to the ton. He glanced again at Pris; to his educated eye, panic was rising beneath her glib surface, but who was inciting it was impossible to guess.
He was about to quit his sanctuary when she acted. Brightly smiling, she dismissed two gentlemen; the instant they left, she excused herself to the remaining three—judging by the wilting hand she raised to her brow, unimaginatively claiming a sudden indisposition.
The three were disheartened, but in her hands so malleable. They bowed; with what Dillon knew would be perfectly sincere thanks, she left them and headed his way.
She walked purposefully, casting swift, sharp glances up the room, taking good care to remain screened from that direction. She drew near the alcove, then to his surprise, stepped into the shadowed opening, simultaneously beckoning a nearby footman to attend her.
The footman came hurrying to bow before her. “Ma’am—miss?’
“I’m Miss Dalling. I wish you to take a message to my aunt, Lady Fowles. She’s seated on a chaise at the top of the room. She’s wearing a pale green gown and has ostrich feathers in her hair. Tell Lady Fowles that I’ve been called away and am returning home. I would rather she remain and enjoy the evening—she shouldn’t return early on my account. Please convey that to her immediately.”
Pris listened while the footman repeated the message, and nodded.
“Do you wish me to summon your carriage, miss?”
“No, thank you. Just deliver my message.” She bestowed a brilliant smile on the footman; he bowed and all but charged off on his quest. She glanced up the room, drew in a breath, and slipped out of the shadows.
Quickly, as unobtrusively as she could, she tacked through the guests at this end of the room and slipped out through a secondary door. The corridor beyond was presently empty, but the ball was barely an hour old; guests were still trickling in through the main ballroom doors farther down the corridor, near the front hall.
/> Those main ballroom doors were propped wide; she couldn’t risk walking past them—couldn’t risk Lord Cromarty seeing her. The last glimpse she’d had of him he’d been standing with a group of similar gentlemen, unfortunately facing those doors.
Until he’d walked in, it hadn’t occurred to her that in going about in Newmarket society she risked meeting him. Cromarty had met her, exchanged a few words with her; Rus had been with her at the time, less than a year ago.
There were drawbacks to being so physically notable; it made her very recognizable. She couldn’t risk Cromarty getting even a glimpse.
She hadn’t forgotten a single word of Rus’s letter; if he’d found anything untoward in what Harkness was doing, Rus would have gone to Cromarty. While she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions regarding Cromarty, neither was she willing to endanger Rus by letting Cromarty know she was there.
If Cromarty was involved, he’d know she’d either find Rus, or he’d find her. All Cromarty needed to do was watch her, and eventually he’d have Rus.
Partly hidden by a tall lamp, she hovered in the hallway until another footman crossed to the ballroom. Stepping into plain sight, she beckoned imperiously. “My cape, if you please. It’s lavender velvet, waist-length, with gold frogging.”
The footman blushed, stammered, but quickly fetched the cape. She allowed him to set it about her shoulders, then dismissed him, giving the impression she was waiting for someone.
The instant the footman passed into the ballroom, she turned and hurried down the corridor, away from the ballroom and its lurking danger, deeper into the body of the house.
At the end of the corridor, she found a secondary staircase; descending to the ground floor, she peered out of a window and saw a side garden with paved paths leading away toward a band of trees.
Swaledale Hall was only a mile or so from the Carisbrook house. She knew the direction; the moon was rising, shedding enough light for her to see her way.
Who knew? She might even bump into Rus; she knew her twin was out there somewhere. Alone.
The thought cut at her. Finding a door to the garden, she pushed it open and stepped outside.
She glanced around, but there was no one else about. Closing the door, she took her bearings. A cool breeze ruffled the creeper that grew on the walls. Selecting the most likely path from the five that led from the door, she set out, walking along the silvered flagstones toward the shelter of the trees.
In the open, less than halfway to the trees, a sudden premonition that there was someone behind her washed like an icy wave down her spine.
Even while her mind was reassuring her that she was imagining things, she was turning to look.
At the man who was sauntering silently in her wake.
A scream rose to her throat—she struggled to swallow it as the moonlight revealed who he was.
Her relief was so profound, she fleetingly closed her eyes—then snapped them open; she’d stopped walking—he hadn’t.
He eventually halted with a single pace between them.
By then her temper had flown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, following me? And, what’s more, in a manner guaranteed to scare me out of my wits!”
What wits were left to her; at least half were fully occupied drinking in his presence—the width of his shoulders, the lean tautness of his chest, the long, strong lines of his rider’s legs, his brand of masculine grace even more pronounced when cloaked in the crisp black-and-white of evening dress. A lock of dark hair showed ink black against his forehead; in the sharp contrast created by the moonlight, he appeared a dark and dangerous creature, one conjured from her deepest fantasies and rendered in hot muscle and steel.
He was tempting enough in daylight; in the light of the moon, he was sin personified.
Her accusations had sounded shrill, even to her ears.
He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
If she’d thought he was laughing at her, she’d have verbally flayed him, but there was sincerity in his tone, a touch of honesty she knew was real. She humphed and crossed her arms. With effort refrained from tapping her toe while she waited for him to say something, or better still, turn around and leave her.
When he simply stood there, looking down at her, she hauled in a breath, nodded regally, and swung around once more. “I’ll bid you a good night, Mr. Caxton.”
She started walking.
From behind her, she heard a sigh. “Dillon.”
She didn’t need to look to know he was following her.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. The Carisbrook place.”
“Why?”
She didn’t reply.
“Or”—the tenor of his voice subtly altered—“more to the point, who arrived in the ballroom that you didn’t want to meet?”
“No one.”
“Priscilla, allow me to inform you that you’re a terrible liar.”
She bit her lip, told herself he was deliberately goading her. “Whom I choose to meet is none of your damned business.”
“Actually, in this case, I suspect it is.”
They’d reached the trees. She didn’t fear him, not in the sense that he wished her harm, but she, and her nerves, were not up to the strain of marching through a dark wood with him prowling at her heels. Tempting fate was one thing—that would be madness.
Halting, head high, she turned, and tried to stare him down—difficult given she had to look up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Good night, Dillon.”
He looked down at her for a long moment—long enough for her to have to deliberately will her senses to behave—then he looked past her, toward the trees. “You do know it’s more than a mile to the Carisbrook place?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin higher. “I might prefer to ride a horse, but I’m not unaccustomed to using shank’s mare.”
His lips twitched; he glanced at her. She got the impression he was about to say something, then thought better of it. Said instead, “More than a mile cross-country. Through the fields.” He looked down all the way to her hem. “You’re going to ruin that new gown, and your slippers.”
She was, and was inwardly cursing the necessary sacrifice.
“I drove here in my curricle. Come to the stable, and I’ll get my horses put to and drive you home.”
He made the offer evenly, straightforwardly, as if it were simply the gentlemanly thing to do. She stared at his face, but couldn’t read it; the light was too weak. Crossing the fields alone in the dark, or sitting beside him in his curricle for the few minutes required to travel a mere mile—which was the more dangerous?
Eyes on his face, she willed him to promise not to bite. When he simply waited, unmoved, she stifled a sigh and inclined her head. “Thank you.”
He didn’t gloat, but elegantly waved to another path following the tree line. “We can reach the stable that way.”
She set out, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her shorter ones. He made no attempt to take her arm, for which she was grateful. Their last meeting, and the manner of their parting, was high in her mind, combining with her memories of their encounter previous to that, when he’d tried to blind her with passion. Hardly surprising that her nerves had stretched taut, and her senses were jangling.
She felt it when he glanced at her.
“Are you enjoying your stay here?”
The words were diffident; he might have been making polite conversation, yet she sensed he wasn’t.
“I’m enjoying the town well enough. It’s an interesting place.”
“And the occupants? You appear to have made quite a few conquests.”
Something in his suave tone, a hint of steely displeasure, struck a nerve. She sniffed disparagingly. “But they’re so easily conquered.”
She heard the catty dismissiveness, the underlying rancor, and inwardly sighed. “I apologize, that wasn’t fair. I daresay they’re nice enough, b
ut…” She shrugged, and kept her gaze fixed ahead.
“But you’d rather they didn’t fall at your feet.” Cynical empathy laced the words. “No need to apologize. I understand perfectly.”
She glanced at him, but they were moving through the shadows; she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she’d seen him in the ballroom, dodging the importunings of a small army of young ladies; later he’d disappeared, and she’d known a pang of envy that she hadn’t been able to do the same.
He did understand.
That was such an odd situation, to meet a man who faced the same problem she routinely did, the same problem that drove Rus demented. As they walked through the shrouding dark, it seemed possible to ask, “Why do they do it? I’ve never understood.”
He didn’t immediately answer, but as the stable appeared before them, he softly said, “Because they don’t see us clearly. They see the glamor, and not the person.” They paused at the edge of the gravel court before the stable. Through the moonlight, he caught her gaze. “They don’t see who we are, nor what we really are, and as we’re not as inhumanly perfect as we appear, that’s a very real problem.”
A groom came out of the stable; Dillon turned his way. “Wait here. I’ll get my curricle.”
In a matter of minutes, he was handing her into a stylish equipage, drawn by a pair of blacks that took her breath away.
Oh, Rus—if only you could see…
Joining her on the box, he glanced at her; sitting beside her, he gathered the reins. “You appreciate horses.”
Not a question. “Yes. I have a brother who’s horse-mad—who lives and breathes and even dreams of horses.”
“I see.” There was a smile and real understanding in his tone. “You’ve met Flick—Felicity Cynster, my cousin. She was horse-mad from infancy, and her husband, Demon, who I’ve known as long, is even worse.” They rattled down the drive. “I don’t think you’ve met him yet.”
What Price Love? Page 12
