What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  He quietly added, “If I stroll out with you, the clerks won’t gossip—they’ll assume our meeting is personal, and therefore of no interest to them.”

  Slowly, she nodded. “There are two people—an owner and a trainer—who mustn’t see me. Can we stroll somewhere they’d be unlikely to go?”

  He nodded. “Come on.”

  They left the building; descending the shallow steps, Pris unfurled her parasol, as she did indicating the carriage and Patrick, visible through the trees flanking the path. Dillon looked, then took her arm. “This way.”

  He led her away from the club, parallel to the High Street, but in the opposite direction to the Helmsleys’. The wood on that side had been thinned; it was easy to stroll beneath the trees. On some, the leaves were turning, golden and russet amid the green, summer giving way to autumn.

  The wood ended at a graveled path running behind a series of properties. Dillon turned away from the High Street.

  Pris relaxed. “This doesn’t look like the sort of area the racing fraternity frequent.”

  “It isn’t. This is the residential area where the townsfolk live.” He indicated a space between properties farther along the path. “That’s a small park—we can talk there without risk of being observed or overheard.”

  The park was neat and quiet, a place where well-to-do merchants’ and guildmasters’ nannies could take their charges. An oval pond stood at its center, while birches bordered both sides. The flagstone path wended around sections of lawn and between occasional flower beds. It was clearly a place apart from the central industry of the town, the racing folk, and all the associated visitors.

  Dillon guided her to a wooden seat set beneath one of the birches. Pris sat and drew in her skirts.

  As Dillon sat beside her, high-pitched voices and gurgling laughter drew her gaze to three young children tumbling on the lawn nearby, under the benevolent eye of a nanny. The children—a girl and two boys—reminded Pris of herself, Rus, and Albert when they’d been just as young and exuberant.

  Just as innocent.

  It seemed the right moment to say, “The Irishman who tried to break into your office was my twin brother, Rus.”

  Dillon’s gaze touched her face; when she didn’t meet it, he murmured, “Russell Dalling.”

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. She and Rus often used Dalling when they wanted to conceal their identity; if someone called him Dalling, he’d respond. There seemed little sense in unnecessarily involving the family name, the earldom, and even less their father in what ever was to come. “I came to England, to Newmarket, looking for Rus.”

  Opening her reticule, she drew out the letter she’d received before leaving Ireland. “I got this.” Handing it to Dillon, she watched him unfold it and read. “But even before that…”

  She recounted the entire story with few omissions, concealing only the family name. Her tale ended with her hopes for the register, for what it would reveal, now dashed. “So.” She drew in a breath. “I have no alternative but to tell you all, and hope you can make better sense of the pieces of the jigsaw than I can.” Her fingers clenched on her parasol’s handle. “Above all, I have to find Rus.”

  Turning her head, she met Dillon’s gaze, unsurprised to find it hard and unforgiving.

  “You should have told me all before—from the first.”

  The words were condemnatory, bitten off; she raised her brows and stared him down. “I would have if it hadn’t involved Rus. I would never willingly do anything that might harm him.”

  Slowly he raised his brows back. “So what made you change your mind?”

  His voice had lowered; for an instant, the sensual undercurrents between them surged and lapped.

  She ignored them and simply stated, “When I first met you, I had no idea whether you would understand that Rus was innocent of any crime, but might have become unintentionally involved. I couldn’t risk simply telling you and hoping for the best. So I had to try to find him myself. I’ve tried everything, followed any and every clue that might tell me where he is, and what threatens him. But I haven’t been able to find him, and…”

  His eyes narrowed even more. “And Harkness shot at you.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then muttered an expletive and looked away. “Harkness thought you were your brother. That’s why he shot at you—and that means that as far as Harkness is concerned, Rus is still close, and needs to be eliminated.”

  Lips thinning, she nodded. “Yes.” And Harkness shot at me wasn’t what she’d been about to say, but if he didn’t need to hear that she’d come to trust him, that would do.

  Dillon leaned back against the seat. “Tell me all you know of Cromarty and Harkness.”

  She related their backgrounds, stressing that she had to avoid them. “If they see me, they’ll know they can track Rus through me, that if they just watch me, then eventually either Rus will find me, or I’ll find him.”

  Dillon’s blood ran cold as another alternative blossomed in his brain. An alternative Harkness and Cromarty could well be, or become, sufficiently desperate to employ. If they took Pris hostage…she’d left Ireland, traveled to Newmarket, had even given herself to him in order to find her twin; wouldn’t Russell Dalling do as much?

  Dillon was aware of the special link between twins; he’d observed it often enough with Amanda and Amelia, the Cynster twins. If Cromarty and Harkness wanted Russell Dalling, all they had to do was seize Pris.

  Abruptly, he sat up. “You’re right. The first thing we have to do is locate your brother.”

  She blinked. “I’m fairly certain he’s still close.”

  Grasping her hand, he stood and drew her to her feet, aware his expression was tending grim. “In that case, he’s still close. Come on.”

  Winding her arm with his, he started toward the front of the park, where it gave onto one of the main side streets. “We’re going to have to risk crossing the High Street, but the chances of running into Cromarty or Harkness at this hour around here are low.”

  She glanced at him. “Where are we going?”

  “To the lending library. Their map is the best in town.”

  11

  Where does the Cromarty string exercise?” In the lending library, Dillon stood beside Pris, shielding her from the street while they studied the huge map.

  “About here.” With the tip of her parasol, she pointed to an area on the Heath, then moved the parasol tip north and west. “This farmhouse is where they’re quartered.”

  “The old Rigby place.” Eyes scanning the areas around the farm, and down in an arc to where the string exercised, Dillon mentally filled in what the map didn’t show.

  Pris’s gaze was on his face. “You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?”

  “Born and raised here. Spent all my boyhood and youth here.”

  “You know all the abandoned buildings, the shacks—all the places Rus might hide.” Excitement was creeping into her voice.

  He glanced at her. “I know of a few places he might be using as a bolt-hole.” Turning, he started to escort her back to the door, then stopped. “Your coachman’s name is Patrick?”

  “Yes, but he’s rather more than a coachman.”

  Dillon looked around. “Wait here—I’ll fetch him and your carriage. There’s no sense parading you along the High Street. Go and look at some novels.”

  He lifted her hand from his sleeve, was about to release it when she twisted her fingers and gripped his, hard. He met her green eyes; they held an implacable expression.

  “You are not—absolutely not—going to look for Rus without me.”

  She’d spoken softly, but steel rang in her tone.

  He sighed. “All right.” He rejigged his plans. “I’ll send your coach this way, then fetch my horse. Get into the coach and wait here until I join you. I’ll ride out to the Carisbrook place with you—after you change, we’ll go for a nice, social ride on the Heath.”

  She assessed
his plan, then nodded. “Tell Patrick I’ll be waiting.”

  A nice, social ride on the Heath.

  The reality was somewhat different. On horse back, Priscilla Dalling was as reckless a rider as she was in other spheres; luckily for Dillon’s peace of mind, he already knew she could manage her horse.

  And Solomon, his black gelding, Cynster-bred and trained, was more than a match for her flighty mare.

  Thundering north and west beside her, streaking across the Heath, he scanned the open grassland for other riders while updating his mental file on Pris and Rus Dalling.

  Joining her in the carriage on the drive to the Carisbrook house, he’d encouraged her to tell him more about her brother and, consequently, her family and herself.

  At twenty-four years old, she and her twin were the eldest children. She’d said nothing of what had brought her brother to Newmarket, but he’d caught her hesitation in mentioning their father; he suspected some falling-out. Yet any thoughts that Rus Dalling might need to earn his keep were rendered ineligible by Pris’s frequent and unconscious citings of nannies, governesses, tutors, and grooms.

  An only child himself, he’d felt a pang of envy over some of the childhood exploits she’d described; she’d always shared everything with her twin—she’d had someone with her, someone who thought like she did, who reacted as she did, throughout her life.

  Until now. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d eventually fallen silent, then, as they’d reached the Carisbrook drive, she’d glanced at him, and asked, “You believe Rus is innocent, don’t you?”

  Looking into her eyes, understanding in that moment not just why she’d asked but what his answer would mean to her, he’d found himself unexpectedly grateful for his past. “I know what it’s like to get caught up in such a scheme. Innocent or not-so-innocent, as was the case with me, there comes a time when such an enterprise threatens to consume you. Your brother had the sense, and the strength, to pull back of his own accord, and for that I can only admire him.”

  In his case, he’d needed Flick’s and Demon’s help to break free; it seemed entirely fitting that he should aid Russell Dalling.

  Reaching the house, they’d discovered that Lady Fowles and Adelaide were attending Lady Morton’s at-home. He’d kicked his heels in the parlor while Pris exchanged her mesmerizing black-and-white gown for her riding habit, that vivid confection in emerald velvet, the vibrant hue intensified by the crisp white of her blouse, with an enticing ruffle that led the eye to the deep valley between her breasts. Said valley might have been decorously concealed by thick velvet, but that hadn’t stopped his imagination from eagerly following the track.

  They’d left the house and headed for the fields around Swaffam Prior.

  Approaching the village, he took the lead; circling the cottages, he led Pris to an outlying barn. They dismounted and went in, but there was no one there.

  It was the first of many such buildings they checked, all potential bolt-holes. Every distant barn, every shack, abandoned cottage, or ruin. They swept the area around the Rigby farm; halting on a nearby rise, Pris pointed out Harkness examining a black horse. A carriage rattled up; Cromarty got out. He paused to look at the horse, then entered the house.

  Tightening Solomon’s reins, Dillon steadied the restive gelding. “I’ve been introduced to Cromarty, seen him around the coffee rooms and the club. Harkness”—his tone hardened—“I’ve never met.”

  “Your gain.” Pris turned her mare away. “He’s an outright bully and a brute besides.”

  Delivered in her soft brogue, the condemnation lacked force. Dillon studied Harkness for a moment longer, then followed Pris down the rise.

  They continued their search as the day waxed, then waned. In a wide arc, they swept south across the Heath, turning aside into the bordering woodlands to check woodcutters’ huts and abandoned cottages.

  Pris had had the foresight to pack sandwiches, cheese, and apples; they paused within sight of the area Harkness favored for exercising Cromarty’s string to consume the impromptu meal but didn’t dally.

  As cottage after barn after shack fell behind them, Dillon expected Pris to grow disheartened. Instead, she seemed unperturbed, still eager as they rode on. As he led her onto the northern fringes of Demon’s stud, nearing the logical limit of their search, she caught his puzzled gaze, and raised a brow.

  He hesitated, then said, “If our theory of your brother hiding close enough to spy on Cromarty’s horses is correct, then we’re nearing the last few places he might be.”

  “I know.” Anticipation rang in her voice. She considered him for a moment, then looked ahead. “All the places we’ve searched—I know Rus never stayed there. Don’t ask me how I know—I just do. But while we haven’t crossed his path, I know—feel—that he’s…somewhere near.”

  She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know it sounds strange…it’s just a feeling.”

  He held her gaze for an instant, then faced forward, holding Solomon to a walk. “I know another set of twins—girls. They’ve been together all their lives until recently. Now they’re married, one lives in Lincolnshire and the other in Derbyshire. I know their husbands well—neither is the fanciful sort, yet both swear that when their wife’s twin gave birth, their wife knew it. Not to the hour or the day, but to the minute, the instant, despite being separated by all those miles.” He glanced at Pris. “I don’t understand how that can be, but I accept it happened exactly as Luc and Martin claim.” He smiled. “Against that, you being certain your twin hasn’t been in a room recently is easy to swallow.”

  Pris smiled back, then glimpsed a dilapidated cottage through the trees. “Is that where we’re going?”

  Dillon nodded. He set his black trotting as, excited, she urged her mare on. She felt a building expectation, a funny, deeply familiar ruffling of her senses, still distant but…they’d been drawing nearer to Rus, or at least to where he’d been, for the last little while.

  Dillon waved to the cottage’s rear. They swung that way, then dismounted. Pris studied the cottage, what was left of it. The roof had collapsed at the front and over one side. Walls were missing planks or stones; some had disintegrated entirely.

  Tying their reins to a fallen tree, Dillon glanced at the cottage. “I hid here eleven years ago. Despite its appearance, the area around the hearth is dry and half a room is habitable.” Raising his brows, he took Pris’s hand. “Or was.”

  She let him go ahead, following close behind, her hand locked in his. Mice, even rats, seemed likely.

  As they ducked beneath some fallen timbers, a sudden scurrying had her jumping, tightening her grip on Dillon’s hand. He glanced back at her; his smile deepened as he faced forward again, but he had enough wit to keep his lips shut.

  They had to clamber over debris; releasing his hand, hiking the skirts of her habit high, she stepped gingerly along a rubble-strewn corridor, then Dillon drew her into the structure proper, and she saw he’d been right. The area around the stone fireplace and hearth was clear. An old table sat before the hearth, along with a rickety stool. “The table’s clean, not dusty.”

  Dillon turned to look, then grunted. “There’s a constant stream of vagrants through Newmarket—some look for work, others look and move on.” He examined the rest of the area. “Someone’s been here, but whether it was your brother…” He glanced questioningly at her.

  She scanned the room, let her senses absorb…when she saw the split logs stacked beside the hearth, her heart leapt. The lowest layer went one way, the next laid precisely across it, then the following layer—the three pieces remaining—sat parallel to the first. “Rus was here.”

  Dillon turned to her. She pointed at the pile. “He always stacks wood like that. And this place seems too neat for an abandoned ruin.”

  “Is Rus neat?”

  “Neater than I am, and I don’t like clutter and mess around me.”

  Dillon continued his visual search. “I see no sign of anyone staying here now.”


  “No.” She could see no baggage. “I can’t imagine Rus leaving Cromarty’s without his saddlebags. He left his horse back in Ireland, so if he hasn’t a horse, where are his saddlebags? If he’s out spying, he wouldn’t be lugging them with him—” She broke off as another thought occurred.

  Dillon read her mind. “I haven’t heard of any horse being stolen, and there’s a very efficient grapevine about such happenings in this town.”

  Moving through the fallen beams, he peered into less clear areas of the cottage, but she could see the undisturbed dust from where she stood.

  She was disappointed, but not disheartened. “Rus was here, not long ago, but he’s not staying here now. I don’t”—she wrinkled her nose—“feel him about enough for that.”

  Dillon looked at her, nodded, then waved her to retreat. They made their way back out, into the afternoon sunshine.

  Reaching the horses, Pris halted and faced him. “That isn’t the last place he could be—it can’t be.”

  He studied her eyes, saw hope glowing strongly, lighting the emerald green. The ruined cottage was the last likely place, but…“There’s one other place, but it’s a little way to the east, and not easy to find. Itinerants rarely stumble on it.” He hesitated, then asked, “You’re sure he’s close, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, the feather in her riding cap bobbing over her ear. The sight made him smile. Standing beside her mare, with a look of impatience, she motioned commandingly for him to lift her up. Smile widening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist—then pulled her into him and kissed her. Thoroughly.

  Eventually lifting his head, he looked down into her face; her lashes fluttered, then rose. “It’s the last place—our final throw. It’s an unlikely chance, but…let’s see.”

  He stepped back, lifted her to her saddle, then held her stirrup for her. By the time he swung up to Solomon’s back, she’d wheeled the mare and was urging her east, under the trees and into the fields beyond.