What Price Love? (9 page)

Patrick nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“Where would he hide?”

Patrick's gaze turned rueful. “As to that, you'd have the best idea.”

Pris grimaced. Through the years Eugenia had spent at Dalloway Hall, Patrick had come to know Rus and her well; beyond herself and Albert, she would have said Patrick had the greatest understanding of her twin.

“I don't know much about the racing business, but…” Patrick met
her eyes. “Would he have stayed around here or gone to London?”

She blinked. “I don't know. He was here three nights ago, but now? Hiding in London would be easier, and he has acquaintances there, friends from Eton and Oxford. He might think to get help with what ever he's discovered in town.”

“I'll check the coaches, see if he caught one to London or anywhere else.” Patrick glanced at Eugenia. “I'll need to go to Cambridge and check there, too, in case he went across country and caught a coach from there.”

Eugenia nodded. “Go tomorrow. You concentrate on that avenue. Meanwhile, we'll see what we can do closer to home.” She looked at Pris. Her soft voice took on a steely note. “This is clearly no lark, not a matter of your outrageous brother kicking up his heels, but something truly serious. We must do all we can to assist Rus with what ever matter he's embroiled in. So—what can we do?”

Pris thought, then uttered a sound of frustration. “It all comes back to that
bloody
register!” She glanced at Eugenia. “Sorry, but without knowing what that damned register contains, we have no clue as to what Rus might have stumbled on. We know he's after the register, or was. Learning what's in it should give us some idea of the sort of illicit doings he might have uncovered.”

“Is there no other copy?” Patrick asked.

Pris shook her head. “And it's closely guarded—even more so now.” She colored faintly. “I slipped back last night and looked around—searched the woods in case Rus had come back. He hadn't, but I saw two extra guards patrolling around the building. Caxton knows Rus and I are both after the register, and he's determined we're not going to see it.”

Eugenia's brows rose. “Perhaps we ought to consider ways of swaying Mr. Caxton.” She glanced at Pris. “You said he was highly eligible.”

“I also said he was more beautiful than I am, and similarly immune to ‘gentle persuasion.'”

She saw Patrick's slashing smile flash; she directed a frown his way, but he, too, was immune.

“I don't suppose,” he said, “that you'd consider swaying Caxton as a challenge?”

Crossing her arms, she humphed. “Perhaps, but…”

That was one challenge she might not win.

“I was wondering…”

They all turned to look at Adelaide. A soft frown was creasing her brow. “I saw a lending library in the town. This is Newmarket, after all—perhaps they have a book that will tell us something about this register?”

Pris blinked. “That's an excellent idea.” She smiled. “Well done, Adelaide! We'll go tomorrow, and while we're there, we'll also search for a map. I want to find where all the common land is and whether there are any derelict cottages or abandoned stables hidden away out on the Heath.”

Patrick nodded. “Another excellent idea.”

“Well, then!” Eugenia gathered up her tatting. “We all have something to get on with tomorrow. I suggest we go to bed—there, it's midnight.”

They stood as the clocks throughout the house chimed.

Climbing the stairs behind Eugenia, conscious of the comfort of the familiar sounds about her, Pris wondered where Rus was, whether he had any comforts at all, what the sounds surrounding him now were.

She needed to learn where he was. And whether the cold lump of fear congealing in her stomach was justified.

 

A
s it happens we do have a map showing the stables and studs.” The lady behind the counter of the lending library smiled at Pris. “I'm afraid you can't borrow it, but you're very welcome to study it.” She nodded across the foyer of the lending library. “It's hanging over there.”

Pris swung around, eyes widening as she saw a very large, very detailed map covering a considerable section of the opposite wall.

Behind her, the helpful lady continued, “We get so many gentlemen calling in, trying to find their way to this stud or that stable, that we had the aldermen make that up for us.”

“Is it up-to-date?”

“Oh, yes. The town clerk drops by every year to make adjustments. He was here in July, so the details are very recent.”

“Thank you.” Pris flashed the lady a brilliant smile. Leaving the
counter, she crossed the foyer that ran across the street end of bookcases stretching back into the dimness of the building. There were chairs and low tables grouped in the area, more or less in the library window. Two old ladies were sitting in armchairs, comparing novels. Pris halted before the large map mounted on the wall.

It was huge and wonderfully informative. It even showed some of the bigger stands of trees out on the Heath. She located the wood in which she and Caxton had kissed; backtracking, she found the area where Cromarty's string exercised, then traced the route back to the stable southeast of Swaffam Prior. Even the tavern in the village was carefully marked.

Elsewhere, somewhere between the bookcases, Eugenia and Adelaide were pursuing books on the Breeding Register.

Locating the Carisbrook house, Pris scanned the major estates, the studs and famous stables ringing the town. She memorized the names and outlines of the larger properties, searching for distant sheds or disused buildings, any places Rus might be using as a refuge.

She knew he was close, still in the vicinity. While the possibility of his having gone to London had to be examined, she didn't believe he had.

Next to a large stud labeled Cynster, she found a smaller property, an old manor with a house called Hillgate End. The name carefully lettered beneath was
CAXTON
. Pris took note of the surrounding lanes and woods, her mind—if not her enthusiasm—preparing for the inevitable, that she would have to approach Caxton again.

After their interlude in the wood, she absolutely definitely didn't want to think of having to do so. Of having to risk it. Turning her mind from the prospect, she set about quartering the Heath, searching for old or disused dwellings.

Behind her, the bell above the library door jingled. An instant later, one of the assistants exclaimed, “Why, Mrs. Cynster! You're just the person we need. I have a lady here terribly keen to learn about the register—I assume that's the Breeding Register Mr. Caxton keeps—but we've no books about it, which I must say seems strange. Perhaps you could speak with her?”

Pris looked around, and beheld a vision in soft summer blue. Mrs. Cynster was a youthful matron, extremely stylish, elegantly gowned with a wealth of guinea gold curls exquisitely cropped. By
her side, a young girl, perhaps ten or so, stood patiently waiting.

The young girl saw Pris. The girl's eyes grew wide, then wider. Staring unabashedly, she blindly reached up and tugged her mother's sleeve.

Pris turned back to the map. She was often the recipient of such stunned fascination, but in this case, given her mother, the girl had an unusually high standard for comparison.

Regarding the map, Pris considered the Cynster stud, with the smaller Hillgate End estate nestled above it. Mrs. Cynster, assuming she was
the
Mrs. Cynster, was Caxton's neighbor.

Behind her, Mrs. Cynster agreed to speak with Eugenia; the assistant led her away between the rows of bookshelves. Pris heard the young girl hushed when she tried to tell her mother about Pris, heard her scuffling footsteps as she reluctantly followed the ladies.

She had a few minutes at most to decide what to do. To decide how best to use the opportunity fate had sent their way. Mrs. Cynster might be Caxton's neighbor, yet Pris couldn't see the man who had interrogated her in his office sharing his problems—she was fairly certain he thought of her as a problem—with his neighbors, particularly not the ladies.

There was no reason Mrs. Cynster would know anything about her, let alone the motives behind her and Eugenia's quest to see the register. But if Mrs. Cynster knew anything about that blasted register, or even something useful about Caxton…

Turning from the map, Pris walked down the corridor between two bookshelves, using Eugenia's voice to guide her.

“I have to confess,” Mrs. Cynster was saying, “that although I've lived in Newmarket almost all my life, and have an interest in breeding and training horses, I really have no clue as to what, precisely, is in the Breeding Register. I know all race horses are registered, but as to why, and with what details, I've never thought to ask.”

Eugenia saw Pris and smiled. “There you are, my dear.” She glanced at the golden-haired beauty. “Mrs. Cynster—my niece, Miss Dalling. She's been so helpful trying to find answers to my questions.”

Mrs. Cynster turned. Pris met pure blue eyes, open and innocent, yet there was a quick and observant mind behind them.

Smiling, she bobbed a curtsy, then took the hand Mrs. Cynster extended. “I'm very pleased to meet you, ma'am.”

Mrs. Cynster's smile widened; she was a small woman, several inches shorter than Pris. “Not nearly as pleased as I am to meet you, Miss Dalling. I hate being behindhand with the latest, especially in Newmarket, and you're obviously the lady I've recently heard described as ‘stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful.' I had thought the description a trifle overblown, but I see I was being too cynical.”

Her dancing eyes assured Pris the compliment was genuine.

“I wonder…” Turning her blue eyes on Eugenia, and Adelaide standing quietly beside her, then glancing again at Pris, Mrs. Cynster raised her brows. “I would love to introduce you to local society—I understand you've recently come to stay at the Carisbrook house, but it will never do to hide yourselves away. Besides, although it's never the first topic of conversation with the local ladies, many of us know a great deal about horse racing.” She looked at Eugenia. “You will certainly be able to learn more.”

A smiling glance included Pris and Adelaide. “I'm hosting a tea this afternoon. I'd be delighted if you could attend. I'm sure some of us would be able to learn more details for you from our husbands if we knew what most interested you. Do say you'll come.”

Eugenia looked at Pris. She had only a heartbeat in which to decide; smiling, she nodded fractionally.

Eugenia returned her attention to Mrs. Cynster. “We would be honored to accept, my dear. I must say, all research and no play is rather wearying.”

“Excellent!” Beaming, Mrs. Cynster gave them directions, confirming she was indeed the chatelaine of the Cynster racing stud.

Which meant her husband would most likely know what details had to be supplied to enter a horse in the Breeding Register.

Pris's smile was quite genuine; anticipation rose, hope welled.

Mrs. Cynster took her leave of them, then summoned her daughter. “Come, Prue.”

Pris glanced at the young girl, an easy smile on her lips.

And met a pair of blue eyes—not the same as her mother's but harder and sharper; the expression on the girl's face was one of delighted expectation.

Pris blinked; Prue only smiled even more, turned, and followed her mother away between the bookcases. Pris caught the final, delighted glance Prue threw her before the shelves cut her off from
sight. “Well!” Eugenia straightened her shawl, then turned to leave, too. “The social avenue sounds a great deal more promising than these books. Such a lucky meeting.”

Following Eugenia and Adelaide, Pris murmured her agreement, her mind elsewhere. Why had Prudence Cynster looked so expectant?

Pris had younger sisters, had been at that stage herself not so long ago. She could remember what topics most excited girls of that age.

Stepping out into the sunshine in Eugenia and Adelaide's wake, she decided that, while attending Mrs. Cynster's afternoon tea was the obvious way forward, a degree of caution might be wise.

F
our hours later, Pris was reasonably satisfied with her entrance into Newmarket society. She'd adopted a “severe bluestocking” persona; garbed in a simple gown of gray-and-white-striped twill with her hair restrained in a tight chignon, she worked to project a quiet if not studious appearance.

The Cynster gathering had proved larger than she'd expected; a host of young ladies and a surprising number of eligible gentlemen strolled the lawn beside the house under the watchful eyes of a gaggle of matrons and older ladies, seated comfortably beneath the encircling trees.

“Thank you, Lady Kershaw.” Pris bobbed a curtsy. “I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.” With a light smile, she parted from the haughty matron.

Invitations to dinners and parties were an inevitable consequence of attending such an event, but having discovered most here had some connection to the racing industry, she was at one with Eugenia in accepting what ever invitations came their way. Who knew from whom they might learn the crucial fact? Until they found it, they would press forward on every front. She and Eugenia were earls' daughters, and Adelaide had moved all her life in similar circles; dealing with Newmarket society posed no great challenge.

Once the introductions had been made they'd gone their sepa
rate ways. Adelaide had joined the younger young ladies; charged with seeing if she could discover any word of derelict stables or the like from her peers, she was happily applying herself to the task.

Eugenia, meanwhile, was pursuing the register with duly eccentric zeal. Unfortunately, it wasn't possible to talk solely of that; when Pris had last drifted past, Eugenia had been exchanging views on the latest London scandal.

Pausing by the side of the lawn, Pris scanned the guests. Her task had been to engage the not-quite-so-young ladies as well as the gentlemen, to see what she could learn. She'd steadfastly adhered to her role of bluestocking, responding to the usual sallies her beauty provoked with blank if not openly depressing stares. Her attire hadn't helped as much as she'd hoped, but her attitude had carried the day. Her reputation was now going before her; the sallies were becoming less common, and more young ladies viewed her with interest rather than incipient jealousy.

That
was rather refreshing; she was enjoying the greater freedom the role allowed her to interact with others on a plane beyond the superficial. She'd always found people interesting, but over the last eight and more years, her beauty had become a wall, prohibiting easy, unstilted discourse.

Now, however, completing her scan of the gathered multitude and confirming she'd chatted to them all, she felt her real self stir, felt the prick of rising impatience.

A movement within the drawing room caught her eye. The doors to the lawn stood open; with the bright sunlight streaming down, the interior was full of shadows. As she watched, one moved—with a predatory grace that set mental alarms ringing.

She'd remained on guard until she'd assured herself neither Caxton nor his friend Adair were lurking among the guests. Now, senses focused, watching the shadow resolve into the shape of a man, watching him stroll out onto the sunlit steps—seeing his dark locks and sinfully dark elegance revealed—she swore.

His gaze had already fixed on her.

Pris turned and rejoined a group of guests.

Dillon watched her merge with the crowd. He hesitated at the edge of the lawn, debating his best avenue of attack.

He'd spent the last three days thinking of little else but the lovely
Miss Dalling, and while many of those thoughts had revolved about her potential role in any racing scam, some had been a great deal more private. While he understood, even agreed in principle with Demon's suggestion that given the seriousness of the situation, the potential damage to the racing industry, then using more personal persuasions to gain her trust and learn all they needed was justified, he felt strangely reluctant to pursue her in that way…or, at least, for those reasons.

After their last meeting, he was not at all sure he wished to reengage with her personally at all.

He'd warned her off. Never before had he even thought of such a thing, yet with her he'd been moved to it, for one compelling reason. No other woman had ever tempted him as she had. She'd cut through his control effortlessly, as if it hadn't been forged in the steamy hot house of ton affairs, tested by the most experienced and never before found wanting, and left him facing a side of himself he hadn't, until that fraught moment in the wood, known he possessed.

No matter how he'd made it sound, his warning had been driven by self-preservation. His, not hers.

He'd always regarded himself as sensually aloof, passionate maybe yet always in control, never at the mercy of his appetites, never driven by a need that raked and clawed. She'd shown him he'd been wrong, that with the right female, the right temptation, he could be just as driven as others—as Demon, as Gerrard, as the other Cynster males he'd spent most of the last decade around.

That was not a comforting thought, especially as it seemed he needed to “persuade” her to tell him her secrets. Getting that close to her, tempting her, dallying as far as he needed to, was going to severely strain his until-now-vaunted control, already, with her, seriously weakened.

Given his body's instant reaction to the sight of her, a delectable vision in a gown of vertical gray-and-white stripes highlighted by fine stripes of gold, standing momentarily alone, surveying the crowd—an outsider who, courtesy of her beauty, stood apart, as he often did—he seriously doubted that, in this case, familiarity would breed contempt. More likely insanity if he was constantly forced to battle his newfound demons.

Nevertheless…her equally instant reaction to him, her instinctive move to seek refuge with others, had set the ends of his lips curving. The predator in him recognized her flight for what it was. Perhaps there was hope? Perhaps “persuading” her wouldn't demand more than he could safely risk?

“There you are!”

He turned to see Flick bustling toward him. Stretching up, she planted a kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “She's over there with the Elcotts—did you see?”

“Yes.” Flick had sent word that Miss Dalling and her aunt would be attending her afternoon tea. “How long have they been here?”

“A little over an hour, so you've plenty of time. Now”—turning, Flick surveyed her guests—“would you like to meet the aunt?”

“Indeed. And after that, you can try to clear my path.” Dillon pretended not to notice the avid looks cast his way. “I have absolutely no interest in any sweet young lady—just Miss Dalling.”

Flick chuckled as she took his arm. “I agree she's not sweet, but at least she's interesting. However, my good lad, I greatly fear that regardless of
your
lack of interest, there are too many here whose interest you cannot ignore.”

He groaned, but surrendered, allowing her to lead him into the waiting throng. He exchanged greetings with various matrons, bowed over their daughters' hands, effortlessly maintaining his usual aloof distance; even while he was looking at each sweet young miss, his senses were tracking his true prey. She was circling, keeping more or less behind him as he moved through the crowd.

She'd taken his warning to heart. How to tempt her close enough to rescind it was a novel challenge.

Then Flick steered him to an older lady sitting alongside Lady Kershaw. “And this is Lady Fowles. She and her niece and goddaughter are spending some weeks at the Carisbrook place. Allow me to present my cousin, Mr. Dillon Caxton. Dillon's in charge of the famous Breeding Register.”

“Really?” Lady Fowles smiled up at him, an eagle sighting prey.

Bowing over her hand, Dillon met a pair of shrewd gray eyes.

“I've heard a great deal about you, young man. From my niece. So disobliging of you not to tell her all I wanted to know.”

Her ladyship's smile robbed the words of all offense. Dillon responded with a smile as he straightened. “I'm afraid the details of the Breeding Register are something of an industry secret.”

He wondered if her ladyship knew of her niece's late-night exploits. It seemed unlikely; for all her purported eccentricity, Lady Fowles appeared perfectly sane.

She did, however, proceed to grill him about the register. He slid around her questions, imparting instead various Jockey Club rules, ones that were public knowledge. Given his long association with the club, he could hold forth at length without any real thought.

That left his mind free to dwell on Miss Dalling, to consider how to lure her close…all he had to do was continue talking animatedly with her aunt. Miss Dalling had more than her fair share of curiosity.

Even as his senses pricked, telling him she was near, Lady Fowles looked past him, and beamed. “There you are, my dear. I've been attempting to wring information about the register from Mr. Caxton here.” Her ladyship threw him a sharp look. “Producing water from stone would be easier.”

She looked again at Miss Dalling as she joined them. Dillon turned to face her; she remained a wary few feet away.

“Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cool. She curtsied; Dillon bowed.

Eyes widening, her ladyship suggested, “Why don't you see if you can weaken his resolve, my dear? Perhaps he'll be more amenable to sharing such details with you.”

Hiding his satisfaction, Dillon looked at his prey. Her eyes, startled, lifted to his. He could almost feel for her—thrown to the lion by her aunt.

“I don't think that's at all likely, aunt.” Primly correct, she waited, expecting him to make some comment declining her company and withdraw.

He smiled charmingly, as if taken by her beauty; she wasn't fooled—sudden suspicion bloomed in her emerald eyes. “I know how devoted you are to satisfying your aunt's thirst for knowledge, Miss Dalling.” Smoothly he offered his arm. “Perhaps we should stroll, and you can test your wiles? Who knows what, in such congenial surrounds, I might let fall?”

She stared at him, then looked at his arm as if it were something
that might bite.

“Ah…” Tentatively, she reached out. “Yes. Very well.” Lifting her head, eyes narrowing, she met his gaze. “A stroll would be…pleasant.”

He felt the hesitant pressure of her fingers on his sleeve keenly; he suppressed a strong urge to cover them with his, to trap them.

They took their leave of her aunt and Lady Kershaw. Dillon turned toward the end of the lawn. “Let's go this way.”

She assented with a nod.

There were fewer guests farther down the lawn. He guided her through the groups, avoiding meeting the eyes of those who sought to engage them. “Tell me, Miss Dalling, what drives your aunt's interest in the register?”

She glanced at him, wary yet direct. “I realize you might not comprehend how it might be, but my aunt is obsessive. When she decides she must know something, she simply won't rest until her curiosity is appeased.”

“In that case, in this instance, she'll wear herself to the bone. The details of the register are not for public consumption.”

“She's hardly ‘public.' I cannot see why—” She broke off.

He glanced at her face; her expression told him little, but her eyes had widened—something had just occurred to her.

He sensed when she jettisoned all attempt at a façade; the tension in the lithe body beside his subtly altered, becoming more relaxed, more fluid, yet more focused as she shifted to attack.

“Tell me this, then.” She met his eyes, her gaze direct, challenge in the green. “
Why
are those details such a secret?”

He held her gaze, then looked ahead. They'd left the other guests behind; focused on him, she didn't notice when he turned into the yew-lined walk that led to the stable.

How far should he go? “Those details can be used to falsify races in various ways. The Jockey Club prefers not to draw attention to those ways, hence the secrecy surrounding the register's information and how it's used.”

She frowned, pacing alongside him. “So the information is used in some way to…validate race horses?”

When she looked up, he caught her gaze. Dropped all pretense, too. “I'll make a deal with you. If you tell me why you need to know
what's in the register, I'll tell you what you want to know.”

She studied his eyes for a pregnant instant, then looked ahead. “I've already told you why—more than once. My aunt wishes to know—you've spoken with her, you know that's true.”

A hint of truculent impatience roughened her brogue.

Dillon inwardly sighed. Demon was right. Gaining her trust was the only way he was going to learn her secrets.

And the only quick and certain way to get close was to seduce her.

He didn't let himself think, just acted. Halting, he faced her. Lowering his arm, he caught her hand and smoothly backed her until the thick, fine-leaved hedge stopped her.

Then he stepped closer, the movement so practiced, so polished, it shrieked of his experience.

Her eyes had widened. She stared at him—incredulous—for one fraught instant, then she glanced right and left, and realized where they were. Out of sight, alone.

Her gaze whipped back to him. “What the devil do you think you're doing?”

An irritated demand; there was not the slightest hint of panic in her tone.

Her recalcitrance acted like a spur. Bending his head, he leaned in. Raising one hand, he twined a finger in a lush, black curl that had slipped loose from her too-severe chignon and now bobbed by her ear.

The sensation of warm silk wrapping about his finger momentarily distracted him. Gently, he tugged his finger free, then realized she'd stopped breathing. He glanced at her eyes, caught her stunned stare, hesitated, then gently, languidly, with the pad of his finger traced the fine skin of her jaw.