Belle lifted her head, then lowered it—twice. Pris’s heart leapt into her mouth—was Belle going to be difficult? Was she going to rear?
Instead, Belle nudged forward; Pris snapped her mouth shut and quickly led the champion filly into the stall. She turned her, then slipped the bridle and reins off the sleek black head.
Belle snorted, and nodded twice.
Pris wished she could sigh in relief, but she was too tense—her stomach felt cinched into hard, tight knots. She patted Belle one last time, then slipped out of the stall and latched the door.
Stuffing Belle’s reins and bridle into her pocket, she returned to Black Rose and tugged the filly’s reins free. Her heart thudding in her chest, she set out for the door at the end of the aisle.
“Here—you! Yes, you.”
Barnaby’s voice brought her up short. His voice, but not his usual drawling accent; he sounded like a London tough. She froze, then glanced back at the main doors—but there was no one there.
From over her stall door, Belle looked inquiringly at her.
“I was wondering…” Barnaby’s voice lowered, became indistinct.
He was talking to someone just outside the main doors. Crom, or the night watchman.
Pris looked down. The aisle was beaten earth and straw. They had no option anyway; hauling in a tortured breath, she held it and quickly led Black Rose on. The aisle seemed much longer than before; they went faster and faster as they neared the end, then the door swung open and daylight lay ahead. She led Black Rose straight through. Stan swung the door shut behind them, silently latched it, then scrambled to catch up as she trotted Black Rose on—not to the back of the stable where they’d waited but straight into the group of horses Rus and the other groom were leading along.
In seconds, Black Rose was concealed within the group. Rus, who’d been leading his and Pris’s horses, boosted her into her saddle, then swung up to his. Slouching, they took the reins the grooms handed them, then settled to lead their plodding charges on.
“Where’s Harkness?” Pris asked, when she’d caught enough breath to speak, when her thundering heart had subsided out of her throat so she could form the words.
“I don’t know.” From beneath the brim of his cap, Rus was searching in all directions. After a moment, he said, “We trust Dillon and follow the plan, at least until we know otherwise.”
She nodded. Ten paces farther on, they crossed into the open as they ambled past the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next. They all looked toward the track—to the open area before Figgs’s stable—but the only people about were strangers.
It took discipline to keep to their slow walk; even a trot would have attracted attention. They reached the next stable and were about to pass out of the most risky area; Pris glanced back at the last moment, just before the stable would block her view—and saw Barnaby taking a few steps backward, apparently parting from someone standing before Figgs’s main doors.
Looking ahead, she drew in a breath.
And told herself not to jinx anything, to stay alert until they reached the Heath proper and the wood in which they were to take cover after that.
Thirty nerve-racking minutes later, she, Rus, Stan, and Mike, the other groom, entered the small wood to the east of Newmarket, beyond the town’s fringes and the outlying fields. Pris drew rein—then took what felt like her first real breath of the morning.
She glanced at Rus and met his eyes. Felt a smile spread across her face. “We did it!”
With a whoop, she sent her cap soaring. Rus, grinning fit to burst, did the same, as did Stan and Mike.
Once they’d quieted, however, they were eager to get on. Stan and Mike would return the Cynster horses to the stud, then would rejoin the crowd at the track. Pris and Rus would ride north, taking Black Rose with them; they’d stow the look-alike in the isolated stable for Harkness or Crom to find.
“Then,” Rus said, as he wheeled his horse, “we’ll head back to the Carisbrook house, get changed, and get ourselves back to the track in time to watch Belle win.”
Pris had no argument with that plan; with a giddy laugh, she urged her mount on.
As I’m sure you’ve heard, there have been rumors concerning suspect race results over the spring, and again a few weeks ago, here at Newmarket.” Dillon looked around the sea of faces watching him with varying degrees of suspicion, caution, and trepidation. He’d had all the jockeys scheduled to ride that day herded into the weighing room for a special address.
“In response to this threat to the good name of the sport, the Committee has decreed that on at least one day of every meet more stringent checks than usual will be carried out by the race stewards.” His suggestion, but the Committee had been very ready to agree. Anything to dampen the rumors and the consequent speculation.
Dillon waited until the inevitable groans died away. “Nothing too onerous, but there will be more stewards watching each race. Their particular aim today will be to verify that you all ride your horses to their best.”
Scanning the room, he saw resigned shrugs, no hint of a grimace or any other indication the extra watch would discompose someone’s plans. He’d expected as much, but had wanted to ensure the jockey riding Blistering Belle—an experienced jockey named Fanning—would have every incentive to urge Belle to give her best.
With a nod, he concluded, “I wish you all good riding, and every success.”
The morning crawled. Barnaby had joined Dillon after he’d trailed Harkness back to Figgs’s stable and watched the man enter. Barnaby reported that despite a close call with Crom, he assumed the switch had been successfully accomplished; he’d glimpsed the group of horses clustered around a set of black legs disappearing around the next stable. The lack of any subsequent drama seemed a clear enough indication that Belle was back in her appointed stall.
Later, he’d walked the holding stalls with the race stewards conducting the first prerace check; each horse’s points were matched to those listed in the register. A black filly was in Blistering Belle’s stall; Dillon studied her while the stewards checked her over. He thought she was the champion Rus had been training, but he couldn’t be sure.
After addressing the jockeys in the weighing room, he retreated to his customary position before the stand, talking with the various owners and members who sought him out while waiting for the first race to get under way.
Eventually, a horn sounded; excusing himself, he returned to the track, joining the race stewards by the starting post.
As each horse was led up, a more stringent survey of points was done. At last, all the runners were cleared, ready, and in line—then with a deafening roar, the race was on.
The next hour went in confirming the winner and placegetters by applying the most stringent of checks, including having a veterinarian check each horse’s teeth to confirm age. When all the assessments were completed and weight confirmed, the winner and placegetters were declared, and paraded before the stand to the applause of the assembled members.
Trophy presented, gratified owner duly congratulated, and then it was time to repeat the process with the horses for the second race.
One of Demon’s runners took that prize—the Anniversary Plate. While the horse was being paraded, Dillon scanned the top row of the stand and saw Pris. She was wearing a veil, but he knew it was her. Rus sat alongside, a hat shading his features, with Patrick next to him and Barnaby beside Pris.
The twins had been banished to the heights, forbidden to descend until the third race had not just been run, but the winner declared, paraded, and the trophy awarded. Barnaby and Patrick had strict instructions to ensure that edict was followed. The chances of Cromarty or Harkness catching sight of the pair were slight, but all had agreed that there was no reason for either villain to know the part Rus and Pris—or indeed anyone else—had played in the unraveling of their grand scheme.
Mr. X’s grand scheme.
None of them had forgotten Mr. X; letting his gaze slide ove
r the wealthy, aristocratic crowd filling the stand, Dillon wondered if Mr. X was there, watching. He truly hoped he was.
“Time to head back, sir.”
Dillon glanced around to find his head race steward waiting to walk back to the starting line. He smiled in almost feral anticipation. “Indeed, Smythe—let’s go.”
The starting post for the two-year-olds was closer; once there, they waited while the first of the runners was brought up. Dillon could barely harness his impatience. He’d never felt so…focused, intent—so stretched in his life. He had more riding on Blistering Belle than in any wager he’d ever made.
When she came clopping up, alert and clearly keen, her attention already on the winning post, he had to fight to remain outwardly impassive; fists clenched in his greatcoat pockets, he stood back and observed while Smythe and another steward checked her over, then waved her on.
He barely registered the seven horses that followed her into line.
As the lads stepped back and the jockeys took control, he glanced up at the distant stand, to the top row.
He focused on Pris, wondered what she was feeling, whether her lungs were tight, her heart thumping, whether her palms were as clammy as his were.
The white cloth was waved. He looked down as it was released; he watched as it fluttered to the ground.
Then it touched—and they were off.
16
The thunder of heavy hooves, the roar of the crowd—noise filled Dillon’s ears, swamped his mind as he strained to see down the track. Along with the race officials, he moved out to stand on the starting line itself. This race was run on the straight, a long sprint to the finishing post in front of the stand; from the starting line he shouldn’t have been able to be sure of the winner—except that a black horse was showing the rest of the field a clean pair of heels!
He couldn’t breathe; he stared down the track at the dwindling black streak, so far in front and forging farther ahead that she seemed to be shrinking against the rest of the horses.
His heart raced along with her; for one giddy instant, he felt as if he were teetering on some edge. Not even in the days he’d bet heavily on the nags had he been this involved. This time his emotions were engaged; never had he had so much riding on a race.
The stand erupted; yells, whoops, and whistles reached them—they could see people cheering and waving wildly as the crowd favorite came romping home. And then she was there, flashing past the winning post; the ecstatic punters roared, then turned, laughing, to hug their friends, to thump each other on the shoulder, grinning widely.
Eyes fixed on the row at the top of the stand, Dillon could just make out Pris and Rus, dancing about, hugging each other and Patrick and Barnaby.
“Well, then.”
Dillon glanced around to find Smythe by his elbow.
Smiling widely, the head steward surveyed the outpourings of joy all along the track. “It’s good to see a favorite win. Gives the punters heart.”
“Indeed.” Dillon was finding it near impossible to keep his own smile within bounds. “We’d better get down there. I want the checks to be beyond question on this one.”
“That they’ll be,” Smythe assured him. “There’ll be no questions to dim the mood.”
“For everyone except the bookmakers.” Dillon paced beside Smythe as they strode down the track, the other race stewards following.
“Aye.” Smythe shook his head. “There were some offering ridiculously long odds on that filly. Why was beyond me—her form’s been excellent, and whoever Cromarty’s had training her has brought her along well. Perhaps they thought that like that other runner of his, this one would take a breather—more fool them. They’ll have had their fingers burnt, no mistake.”
Dillon certainly hoped so.
The crowd about the dismounting yard was twenty deep as gleeful racegoers pressed close to call congratulations to Fanning and get a better look at the latest racing legend in the making. Flick, with Demon protectively hovering, was in the front row; beaming, she caught Dillon’s hand, and tugged him down to whisper, “I’d congratulate you, but she’s not your horse. But she was magnificent!”
“Which means”—Demon leaned near as Dillon straightened—“that we have to buy her.” He glanced at his wife; she was staring at Belle with the rapt attention of a lover.
Dillon’s lips twitched. “Of course.”
He turned as a cheer heralded the appearance of the winner’s owner and trainer—Cromarty, with Harkness behind him, both looking stunned, both struggling not to look like their world had ended while people called congratulations, grabbed their hands to pump them, and thumped them on the back. Cromarty looked green; Harkness’s expression was utterly blank.
Making no effort to hide his smile, Dillon crossed to speak with them. “Congratulations, my lord.” He held out his hand.
After blinking at him, Cromarty clasped it, gripped. “Ah—yes. An…” He tugged at his neckcloth as if it were too tight. “An amazing win.”
“I don’t know about amazing.” Dillon nodded to Harkness. “Good training will show.”
Already pale, Harkness blanched.
A flicker of an idea teased; his pleasant façade in place, Dillon watched Cromarty and Harkness closely—noted the surreptitious, disbelievingly horrified glances they exchanged while the three jockeys, Belle, and both placegetters were put through the various postrace assessments.
Then Smythe returned. Offering Dillon the race sheet, with the details duly noted, Smythe nodded at Cromarty. “Excellent win, my lord. And all’s right here, so you’d best be on your way to the winner’s circle.”
Cromarty managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”
Dillon initialed the race sheet, then handed it back to Smythe. “I’ll catch up with you at the starting post for the next.”
Smythe went on his way. Dillon turned to Cromarty. “Well, my lord—shall we? The Committee will be waiting to make the presentation.”
Cromarty looked as if he were reeling. “Ah…yes. Of course.”
Draped with a blanket and led by Crom, also stunned and subdued, with Fanning walking beside her, Belle stepped daintily along a narrow corridor that opened up through the adoring crowd. The filly accepted the accolades as her due, content now she’d had her run and left every other contender in the dust.
Dillon glanced at Cromarty as, side by side, they followed in her wake. His complexion was ashen; he was starting to sweat.
That tantalizing flicker of a possibility strengthened.
The winner’s circle, an arena before the stand that the crowd obligingly drew back from, opened ahead of them. Delivering the hapless Cromarty to Lord Crichton, the Committee member officiating that day, waiting with a beaming Lady Helmsley to present the trophy, a silver cup, Dillon walked to the edge of the circle, then turned.
Cromarty was barely coherent. He stumbled through the presentation, the strained smile he’d plastered across his face frequently slipping. Those unfamiliar with such moments might imagine his odd behavior to be due to befuddled yet still-gratified astonishment. Those with more insight would start wondering why the owner of a filly already known to be an up-and-coming champion should be so staggered, even given the nature of the win.
Dillon looked at Harkness and saw the same turmoil, not just in the trainer’s black-featured face, but in his stance, in his stilted, forced responses to well-wishers in the crowd. That Cromarty might have had so much riding on Blistering Belle losing that he was now facing ruin wasn’t hard to believe. Why Harkness would feel the same…that suggested he knew that Blistering Belle winning posed a danger much more potent than mere financial ruin.
Unobtrusively, Dillon left the winner’s circle, found two of his senior race stewards, and drew them aside.
“Lord Cromarty and his trainer, Harkness.” He didn’t need to say more; suspicion hardened in both stewards’ eyes. They knew the industry they worked for, knew the games played. Dillon kept his expression impassive. “
Give them time to enjoy the adulation, then approach them, but separately. John, you speak to Harkness first. Tell him, politely, that the Committee and I would like to ask him a few questions.” Such a request wasn’t one any trainer could refuse. Nevertheless…“Make sure you have two others with you. Ask him to go with you to the club. Keep him there in one of the smaller rooms until I return. Don’t let him speak with anyone in between.”
Turning to the other steward, Dillon continued, “Mike—wait until Harkness is on his way to the club, then tell Cromarty the same thing. I don’t mind if they see each other in the distance, but I don’t want them to have a chance to talk privately, not until after I’ve finished with them.”
“Indeed, sir.” Mike Connor exchanged a meaningful glance with John Oak. “We’ll keep them at the club—how long will you be?”
Dillon smiled. “I doubt I’ll be there before mid afternoon.” His smile took on an edge. “Let them wait. Alone.”
“Yes, sir.” Both stewards saluted and turned back to the crowd.
Glancing up at the stand, Dillon found himself smiling widely; he raised a hand, resisting the urge to wave as wildly as Pris was waving at him. He hesitated, but it was nearly time for the next race. He didn’t always officiate at the starting post, but given his declaration to the jockeys that morning, many would expect to see him there.
Besides, he needed to think, to further develop that tantalizing possibility that what Cromarty’s and Harkness’s reactions suggested might be there for the grasping. If he joined the others now, joined their celebrations, the one thing he was sure of was that he wouldn’t be able to think; drawing in a breath, he saluted the group at the top of the stand, then swung around and headed for the starting post.
After the last race of the morning, something of an anticlimax after the excitement of the third, after the winner had been declared, the trophy presented, and the crowd started to disperse, Dillon made his way to the back of the stand, to the private room tucked beneath the large structure, and the party to which one of Demon’s lads had summoned him.
What Price Love? Page 28
