What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  Rus nodded.

  “You know of another substitution, one that’s in the process of being set up. Blistering Belle, and I know just which race they’ll change her in—the October Handicap.”

  “Precisely. By then, she’ll have run three races and won by miles in each. She’ll start favorite, without a doubt.”

  “But this time, we have proof—a way you can tell the real Belle apart from her double.”

  “But,” Rus cut in, “we need both horses to demonstrate the substitution. Just pointing to one horse, whether it be Belle or the other, proves nothing. And we haven’t got both horses. I’ve been trying to find where Harkness and Crom are hiding the substitutes and the real champions when they’re away from the stable. I know which direction they head off in, but without a horse, I haven’t been able to follow.”

  Dillon nodded. “That’s something we can investigate.”

  After a moment, he glanced up and saw Rus frowning at him; he raised his brows.

  “You seem predisposed to believing me. To taking this seriously.” Rus glanced at Pris, then back at Dillon. “Why? It’s an amazing tale, and could be just that for all you know.”

  Dillon smiled. “Quite aside from your sister dragooning me into rescuing you, what you’ve discovered is the other half of what we—myself and others—have already been investigating.” Briefly, he described the rumors about the races in the spring season, how he’d been asked to investigate, how the initial inquiries Barnaby made had turned up little, then how, ironically, Rus’s efforts to gain access to the register had spurred them to push harder.

  What they’d subsequently uncovered—the likelihood of substitutions, Collier’s involvement and his suspicious death, his elusive partner, and the rumors of a suspect race run at Newmarket a few weeks ago—made Rus sit up. “That had to be Flyin’ Fury.”

  “We should have confirmation from London soon.” Dillon eyed Rus. “Did you ever hear mention of Cromarty having a partner?”

  Rus shook his head. “He’s been in the game for decades. I’ve not heard any whisper that he’s hard-pressed.” Then he grimaced. “Of course, a man like Cromarty wouldn’t trumpet such a thing. Who knows?”

  “My thinking entirely. So it’s possible.”

  After a moment, Rus looked at Dillon. “This register—is there any information in it we could use as proof? To help with proof?”

  Pris snorted. “It’s full of information, but proof?” She met Dillon’s eyes, and prayed she wouldn’t blush.

  His lips curved, but then he looked at Rus. “If there was any point on which the substitutes and the real champions differed, yes, the register would help—it lists the points used to verify horses’ identities, and if I so decree the stewards could do a full check on any horse before any race. However, if the horses are as alike as you say, that won’t help.”

  Rus nodded. “Can we look through the register to identify the substitutes? They’re Thoroughbreds, and by no means poor specimens. Chances are they’ll be in the same age groups as Flyin’ Fury and Blistering Belle. I’m thinking that whoever owns them could be asked to explain.”

  “Assuming that’s not Cromarty himself.” Dillon considered. “It’s not illegal to own two very similar horses. However, if he does own both those champions and their look-alikes, it would certainly give us reason to focus a great deal more attention on him and his runners.”

  Reaching across his desk, he pulled a sheet of paper to him. Selecting a pen, he dipped it in the inkpot; resting the paper on the flat of his chair’s arm, he scrawled.

  Craning her neck, Pris read Flyin’ Fury and Blistering Belle.

  “Tell me all you can about these horses.” Dillon glanced at Rus. “I’ll set my clerks scanning the register tomorrow morning—let’s see what we turn up.”

  Rus gave a general description, then a more technical listing of the horses’ points. Pris sat back, thinking rather than listening. When Dillon and Rus finished, she asked, “How are we going to find where they’re hiding Blistering Belle and her imposter?”

  Both Dillon and Rus looked at her, then exchanged a glance.

  Dillon sat back, met her eyes. “We aren’t. None of us can. We’re all too recognizable.”

  She frowned. He went on, “The last thing we need is for Cromarty and Harkness to know we’re watching them. They know Rus has guessed enough to raise questions, but having seen me with you”—Dillon angled his head at her—“they’ll assume Rus has already spoken with me, but I’ve taken no action and it’s been three days, so presumably he failed to convince me of anything. With luck they’ll feel safe again, enough to go ahead with the Blistering Belle substitution. If they run scared and don’t, then we—myself and the authorities—won’t have any chance to catch them and shut the racket down.”

  Dillon paused, considering, then looked again at her. “Exactly how best to handle this situation…I admit I don’t know, especially when you add in the possibility of a ‘silent partner’ lurking in the background. I want to expose him, too, not just bring Cromarty down. If his actions with Collier are any guide, at the first hint of trouble, this man will eradicate any link to himself and simply switch the substitutions to some other stable next season.”

  He looked at Rus. “I don’t want to act precipitously and show the villain our hand before we’re ready to act, before we’ve identified him. And we’re not in any position to do anything yet—we need more information, then we’ll plan.”

  Rus was nodding. Dillon switched his gaze to Pris. “So we’ll find out who owns the imposters, and we’ll have someone track Crom to learn where they’re hiding the switched horses. One of my grooms—”

  “Patrick.” She sat forward. “He’s at the Carisbrook house, much closer to the Rigby farm, and he’ll understand and be careful.”

  Dillon nodded. “Good idea.”

  Rus was frowning. “Patrick’s here?” Then he grimaced. “I suppose he would be, if Eugenia is.” He shook his head. “I still can’t take it in that you all upped stakes and came after me.”

  Pris regarded him with affectionate scorn. “I can’t believe you ever imagined we wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, well.” Dillon glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “It’s late—we need to get you back to Lady Fowles.” He glanced at Rus as he stood. “I’ll introduce you to Jacobs—he’ll show you your room. Other than our staff, all of whom have been with us forever, the only one here is my father, and he already knows the official side of this.”

  “He was the Keeper of the Stud Book before Dillon.” Pris rose as Rus got to his feet.

  Dillon led the way to the door, then paused and turned around. He studied her for a moment, then looked at Rus. “Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and Miss Dalling will no doubt be keen to visit you. Luckily, our recent social appearances will serve as an excuse—no one will be surprised to see your aunt’s carriage turn into the Hillgate End drive, or to find Lady Fowles taking tea with my father.” He glanced at her, and smiled. “The perfect camouflage.”

  She saw the fleeting gleam in his eyes, part amusement, part…was it male satisfaction? She wished she could read what was going on in his brain. “We’ll call tomorrow morning.” Stretching up, she kissed Rus’s rough cheek, then hugged him hard. “Patrick will come, too, and you can tell him about Crom, and in which direction he takes the horses to be hidden.”

  Rus kissed her back, patted her shoulder. Then he looked at Dillon and held out his hand. “Thank you. It might be your duty to investigate this matter, yet I’m still in your debt.”

  Dillon caught the flick of Rus’s eyes Pris’s way; lips curving, he grasped Rus’s hand. “Don’t worry—when we get to the end of this, the shoe might well be on the other foot.”

  A nicely ambiguous statement; from the look in Rus’s eyes, he caught both meanings. With Rus handed into Jacobs’s care, Dillon ushered Pris away; he felt Rus’s gaze on his back as he steered Pris down the corridor, heading for the stables and the long ride acros
s the moonlit fields to the Carisbrook house.

  Even before they left the stable yard, Pris’s relief, until then deflected by their talk, was welling, threatening to spill over. Dillon saw her mounted, then turned away. Swinging up to Solomon’s back, he looked across—and saw her cavorting giddily, letting the mare prance and dance as her emotion communicated itself to her flighty mount. “Pris!”

  She flashed him a glorious smile—a wild, reckless and dangerous smile. “Come on—let’s ride!”

  A light tap to the mare’s flanks was all it took to send her racing; jaw setting, Dillon sent Solomon surging after her. He caught up before she’d left the manor drive; she laughed and matched him, stride for stride. The pounding of flying hooves on the packed gravel, an insistent tattoo, was a drumbeat they both responded to.

  They shot out of the drive and the fields lay before them. Dark, deserted, all theirs. With a whoop, Pris whirled her quirt and raced on.

  Dangerous, reckless, and wild.

  Mentally gritting his teeth, Dillon herded her. He was too wise—understood too well the reckless passion that had her in its grip—to try to head her, to hold her back. To restrain her. Instead, using Solomon’s bulk and strength, and his own knowledge of every foot, every yard of the surrounding land, he guided the mare in her headlong dash, through the physical outpouring of Pris’s joy.

  Finding her brother, knowing he was safe—touching him, seeing him—had released a dam of pent-up emotions, of stresses and strains, worries and cares. Pris wasn’t just free, she was soaring—carefree, lighthearted.

  Light-headed; he was certain of that. She seemed breathless, her laughter spilling out, the silvery notes falling like fairy dust all around them. They thundered through the night; every faculty stretched, he picked their route, keeping to well-beaten tracks that in the darkness only showed in his mind.

  Over fields, through paddocks, flying over low fences, they streaked through the night. Anyone seeing them would have sworn they were mad; he knew they were both sane, just out of control.

  Or at least, she was; he was doing his best to remain levelheaded, not to let her infect him with her wild and reckless passion. Having to concentrate helped; knowing that any error of judgment on his part could see her thrown and injured helped more.

  Then the Carisbrook house loomed ahead, a dark monolith rising up out of the shadowy landscape. The mare was tiring, but far from blown; she was as game as her rider. He was about to correct course for the yard behind the house when Pris called a challenge; dropping her reins, she caught the mare’s flying mane, crouched low, and put on a turn of speed that in less than a minute left Solomon two lengths behind.

  And on a wrong heading. Dillon cursed, checked, and went after her. Pushing Solomon on, he closed the gap, but then they burst through the bushes lining the drive, crossed it in a lunge, and swept into the scattered trees beyond.

  They had to tack this way and that around the trees, slowing them both, for which he was grateful. But then the mare reached a path and leapt forward again. And he knew where she was going—where she was leading him.

  His sane self cursed; this was not a good idea.

  Most of him, that side of him she never failed to speak to, was already with her.

  With her, close on her heels as she pulled the mare to a halt beside the summer house, tumbled out of her saddle, looping the reins about the stair rail before, laughing giddily, she raced up the steps.

  With her, mere steps behind her as she flew across the summerhouse straight for the central pole. With her as she reached it, wrapped both hands around it and, leaping high, exuberantly swung herself around. Dropping back to the floor, she faced him, her smile brighter, more glorious, than the sun.

  “We found him!”

  She flung herself at him.

  Caught his face between her hands and fused her lips to his.

  He caught her, staggered back, steadied, then pressed her back until her spine hit the pole.

  And devoured.

  Took all she not just offered but pressed on him, that she lavished and tempted and defied him to take.

  He didn’t take control of the kiss—it took control of him. And her. They fed from each other, hungered and burned until all either knew was a desperate want. An urgent need to conquer and surrender, to seize, to possess, to simply have.

  Her mouth was his, his tongue was hers, their breaths beyond ragged and urgent. Fire flashed and raced through them; desire swelled and crashed through them. Passion rose in a tidal wave and swept them both away.

  Madness. It gripped them. Wild, reckless, dangerous.

  It whipped them, consumed them, drove them. Harried every breath, every gasp, every too-desperate touch.

  He wrenched open the shirt she’d worn under her jacket, found the ties of her chemise and yanked it down, wrapped his palm about her breast and nearly groaned. He flexed his fingers and she did; he kneaded possessively and she gave voice to their hunger, even as her hands worked desperately at his waist, hauling up his shirt, then sliding beneath to spread hungrily over his chest.

  Clothes flew. Her boots skidded across the floor, dispensed with so he could tug her breeches down and off her legs. His jacket and shirt disappeared, eaten, for all he knew, by her greedy hands.

  Hot, grasping, urgent.

  Needy, greedy, and wanting.

  Heat throbbed beneath every inch of his skin. When she pushed aside the flap of his breeches and, reaching within, wrapped her hand around him, for one instant he thought he might die.

  The desperation was that great.

  His need was even greater.

  As was hers.

  Her tongue was in his mouth, taunting and pleading even while her fingers played.

  His hand was on her naked bottom, gripping, possessing. His other hand toyed with one swollen breast, almost idly stroking the tightly furled nipple.

  She tightened her grip, then with her nails lightly scored.

  He couldn’t breathe. Releasing her breast, he slid both hands down, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her.

  With a surprised gasp, she released her hold, but even before he pinned her to the pole, she was winding her long bare legs about his hips. Before he pressed closer, she pulled him to her.

  He thrust deep inside her.

  Drew back and thrust again, harder, farther.

  She broke from the kiss gasping; head back, she wriggled, adjusted about him, then she tightened her legs, holding him close, urging him into a deep, steady, forceful rhythm. One that rocked them both. One designed to fuse them beyond recall.

  He caught the pole above her head and pushed her higher, pushed deeper and still deeper into her.

  She caught her breath on a sob, found his head with her hands, tipped his face to hers, bent her head, and kissed him.

  And they were lost.

  Lost to the tempest, to the roiling turbulent need that rose up and swamped them. To the fire and hunger that roared through their veins, igniting flames beneath every inch of skin, spreading and searing, consuming the last shreds of sanity, the last vestiges of reservation, the last shadows of inhibition.

  Until they knew only this.

  This need, this want, this desperation.

  The wild, the reckless, the dangerous—the all-consuming. The elemental power that poured through them both.

  That gripped them, ripped them apart, and offered their souls to some higher power as ecstasy swept through them.

  As it shattered them, battered them, then flung them, boneless, into some limitless sea.

  Into the balm of aftermath that sealed them, healed them.

  That finally, uncounted minutes later, receded, and left them clinging to each other in the dark of the night, in the cool shadows of the summer house by the lake.

  13

  Hel-lo! What have we here?”

  Comfortably seated in his study opposite Rus Dalling, Dillon looked up to see Barnaby framed in the doorway. Barnaby’s gaze had locked on R
us—whom he’d last seen in the moonlight behind the Jockey Club.

  Rus had recognized Barnaby; cocking a brow at Dillon, he slowly rose to his feet.

  Dillon did the same, waving Barnaby in. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, allow me to present Russell Dalling. And yes,” he added, seeing the speculation in Barnaby’s eyes, “Rus is Miss Dalling’s twin.”

  Rus offered his hand. “My apologies for the nature of our previous encounter. I had no idea who you were, and I had good reason not to dally to find out.”

  Strolling forward, Barnaby glanced at Dillon, then gripped Rus’s hand. “I take it you’ve thrown in your lot with us—on the side of the angels, as it were.”

  Rus’s brilliant smile flashed. “I was always on that side. I just didn’t know who else was, who I could trust.”

  Barnaby rubbed his jaw; the bruise there had almost faded from sight. “Speaking of trust, you could earn mine by showing me some of those maneuvers you used. I’ve been in brawls aplenty, but that was something new. And effective.”

  Rus exchanged a smile with Dillon, then glanced back at Barnaby. “He said you’d say that.”

  “Yes, well, predictable, that’s me.” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “So you succeeded in persuading Miss Dalling to tell you all?”

  “Not without considerable effort. Eventually she ran out of options and elected, at last, to tell me about Rus, and what she knew of his problems. Once you hear, you’ll understand, but it was immediately apparent Rus was seeking to expose the same swindle we’re pursuing.”

  “From the other end, as it were,” Rus said.

  “Excellent…” Barnaby’s voice died away. Consternation dawning, he glanced from Rus to Dillon.

  “What?” Dillon asked.

  Barnaby nodded at Rus. “You’ve scrubbed up well—I do hope you’re in hiding?”

  Dillon frowned. “He is, but you haven’t yet heard the reason why.”

  “I can see a damned good reason why,” Barnaby returned. “Just look at us. One sighting by the local mamas of the three of us together and the news will be out in a flash. Well—you saw how it was when it was just you and me. Add Rus here, and I guarantee the news will reach London within hours.”