What Price Love? (4 page)

I
can't see Rus anywhere.” Pris scanned the throng of horses and jockeys, trainers, strappers, and lads engaged in a practice session on Newmarket racetrack. A minor race meet was approaching; many stables took the opportunity of a practice session to trial their runners on the track itself, or so the ostler at the Crown & Quirt had informed her. Such practice sessions also helped whip up enthusiasm for the various runners.

That, Pris thought, explained the large number of the racing public who, like Adelaide and she, were standing behind the rails on the opposite side of the track, studying the horses. At least the milling crowd provided camouflage.

Adelaide squinted across the track. “Can you see anyone from Lord Cromarty's stables?”

“No.” Pris examined the motley crew, jockeys circling on mounts eager to be off, raucous comments flying between them and the trainers and lads on the ground. “But I'm not sure I would recognize anyone other than Cromarty himself. He's short, and as round as he's tall—he's definitely not there. I've seen his head stableman, Harkness, once. He's big and dark, rather fearsome-looking. There are one or two similar over there, but I don't think they're him. Not dark enough—or fierce enough, come to that.”

She looked around. “Let's walk. Perhaps Rus or Cromarty are on this side of the track, talking to others.”

Unfurling their parasols, deploying them to deflect the morning sun, they paraded along the sward, attracting not a little attention.

Pris was aware of the appraising glances thrown their way, but she'd long grown inured to such awestruck looks. Indeed, she tended to view those who stared, stunned and occasionally slavering, with dismissive contempt.

She and Adelaide tacked through the crowd, surreptitiously searching. Then, rounding a large group of genial gentlemen comparing notes on the various runners, she saw, standing some yards directly ahead, a tall, lean, dramatically dark figure.

Caxton's dark gaze was fixed on her.

She quelled an impulse to take Adelaide's arm, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. She wished she could do so, but the move would inflame Caxton's unwelcome suspicions, quite aside from smacking of cowardice.

That he could and did affect her to the extent that beating a retreat was her preferred option irritated enough to have her elevating her nose as she and Adelaide approached him.

He waited until she halted before him, before allowing a slight smile to show. A smile that made her want to kick him—and herself. She should have halted some paces away and made him come to her.

At least he bowed and spoke first. “Good morning, Miss Dalling. Out surveying the field?”

“Indeed.” She refused to react to the subtle emphasis that suggested he wasn't sure which field she was eyeing. It had been years since she'd played such games; she was rusty. Better she stick to the shockingly direct. “This is Miss Blake, a close friend.”

Dillon bowed over Miss Blake's hand and exchanged the usual greetings. Miss Blake was a pretty young lady with burnished blond-brown hair and bright hazel eyes; in most company she would shine, yet beside Miss Dalling, Miss Blake appeared washed-out, faded, so much less alive. “Is this your first visit to Newmarket?”

He glanced at Miss Dalling, including her in the question. She hadn't offered him her hand; indeed, she'd kept both hands wrapped about her parasol's handle.

It was the Irish princess who answered. “Yes.” With a swish of her skirts, today a vivid blue, she turned to the track as a bevy of
horses thundered past. “And when in Newmarket…” She gestured to the track, then glanced at him. “Tell me, do all the stables trial their runners? Is it obligatory?”

He wondered why she wanted to know. “No. Trainers can prepare their horses in what ever way they wish. That said, most take advantage of the days the track is made available, if nothing else to give their runners a feel for the course. Each track is different. Different length, different shape—different in the running.”

Her brows rose. “I must tell Aunt Eugenia.”

“I thought she was racing-mad—surely she would know.”

“Oh, her passion for racing is a recent thing, which is why she's so keen to learn more.” She surveyed him as if deciding how useful he might be.

He met her gaze, knew she was gauging how best to manipulate him, if she could…he let his knowledge show.

She read his eyes, understood his message; to his surprise, she considered it—as if debating whether to challenge him to withstand her wiles—before opting to ask, perfectly directly, “As you wouldn't let me see the register, perhaps you can tell me what exactly the entries in it contain, so I may tell my aunt and fill in at least that part of the puzzle for her.”

He held her gaze, then, aware of Miss Blake standing beside them, her gaze flicking from one face to the other, he turned to address her. “Is the lady your aunt, too?”

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, bet
ting 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 table 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.”