What Price Love? (23 page)

“No. There are men searching—”

“I know. But if they come this way, they'll see the horses, tied like that. Mine, the black, is well-known about town—Harkness knows him by sight.”

Rus Dalling had been studying him in the weak and fitful light. “You're Caxton.”

Dillon nodded. “You're on my land, and that's my cottage.” Grabbing Pris, he started to push her to it; Rus, still entangled, inevitably came, too. “If anyone comes by, they'll see my horse, and the mare, at this hour outside a cottage on my land—what will they think?”

Rus Dalling's face blanked. “An assignation.”

“Precisely.” Dillon ignored the dawning suspicion in the other man's voice; dealing with that issue could wait. “They won't come close—aside from all else, Solomon is known to get testy. He'll raise the alarm.”

He managed to guide Pris and her twin into the cottage. He paused by the door. “Wait while I close the shutters, then light the lamp.”

Rus moved to do so; swiftly, Dillon crossed the front of the cottage and hauled the shutters closed. He strode back into the cottage as the tinder sparked; the instant the wick caught, he closed the door.

The lamp shed barely as much light as a candle, just enough, as they gathered around the scarred table, to illuminate their faces. Looking at Rus Dalling's, Dillon recalled Barnaby's description—a scruffy male version of Pris, a cross between Pris and Dillon. Barnaby had been very close to the mark; Rus was a few inches taller than Pris, a few inches shorter than Dillon. All three were of similar build, the only differences being the natural ones due to age and sex. The same could be said of their faces, indeed, all else about them; they were darkly, vividly handsome—at first glance, only the color of their eyes and the shade of their hair distinguished Rus and Pris from Dillon.

In those two characteristics, the twins were identical. In oth
ers…there were slight differences in their features, and more in the way they moved and reacted. Although highly similar in appearance and, he suspected, in character and personality, there would be, as was the case with Amanda and Amelia, significant differences, too. They were not one and the same person.

At present, Rus looked tousled and worn, a day's growth of black beard shading his jaw. He looked pale, tired, his eyes hunted; his clothes were of good quality but had taken a beating.

Pris, still beaming, was exuberantly hugging him, gaily whispering that Eugenia and Adelaide were there, too, that she'd told Dillon all, that Dillon would help him, that he'd turn green when he saw Dillon's horses, that neither Harkness nor Cromarty had realized she was in Newmarket, that they were looking for him…it all tumbled from her lips in a scrambled mishmash. Dillon wasn't surprised when, across the table, Rus Dalling met his eyes, sheer, stunned, incomprehension in his face.

Dragging one of the armchairs to the side of the table, Dillon seized Pris by the shoulders—by sheer surprise making her release her brother—and sat her forcefully down.

Inclined to take umbrage, she glared up at him.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “Stay there.”

Drawing out one stool, he pushed it to Rus, then subsided onto the other. “First, what's been happening here?” He met Rus's eyes. “Why were you in the tree?”

Rus glanced at Pris; her gaze was trained expectantly on his face, but her lips remained shut. He looked back at Dillon. “Harkness. He's been searching for me since I left Cromarty's stable.” He grimaced, glanced at Pris. “In fact, I left Cromarty's because I knew he'd be looking for me.”

“You learned something you weren't supposed to—we guessed that,” Pris said. “Were you in the tree because Harkness traced you here?”

Rus looked at Dillon. “I've been using what ever shelter I could find, trying to stay close enough so that I could keep an eye on the string exercising. I wanted to find proof—”

Dillon stopped him with a raised hand. “We'll get to that. Safety first.” With his eyes, he indicated Pris. “Did Harkness find you here?”

“No—at least, not in person. He and his head lad have been searching as much as they can ever since I left, so I've had to keep moving. I finally found this place and thought I was safe, but then last night they rode up. Luckily, I'd gone outside to gather kindling. I saw them and hid. They watched the cottage for some time, then went in. They searched. I crept close and listened. They didn't find my things, so they weren't sure who was using the place. They went outside and hid in the trees, and waited for a few more hours.” Rus shivered. “It was nearly dawn before they rode away. Even then, I didn't dare go back inside until I knew they'd be out with the string. With me gone, Harkness has to oversee all the training sessions.”

Dillon looked at Pris. “It was Pris who led Harkness this way. She went spying on the string, dressed as she is now. Harkness spotted her, thought she was you, shot at her, then chased her. By chance, she fled this way.”

Horrified, Rus stared at Pris, then swore—long and inventively. Dillon warmed to him even more. Pris looked bored.

“Hell and the devil!” Rus concluded. “What happened?”

“I happened,” Dillon dryly replied. “I was riding by, stopped Pris, then Harkness recognized me and decided he didn't need to chase you if it meant meeting me.”

Rus snorted. “Meeting you in suspicious circumstances would be his worst nightmare.” His gaze returned to his sister. “But what by all that's holy did you think you were about?”

Pris elevated her nose. “Looking for you.” Rus stared at her; she met his gaze levelly. “You didn't think I wouldn't, did you?”

An unanswerable question; having assessed their position, Dillon cut in, “We can't stay here—I don't even want to talk about your predicament here. The sooner we get you safely tucked away out of Harkness's reach, the better. And I know just the place.” He stood.

Rising more slowly, Rus glanced from him to Pris. “Where?”

“No.” Dillon caught Pris's eye as she came to her feet. “The less said here, the better. Get those bags, and let's go.”

Pris turned and pushed her brother toward the storeroom. “He's right. He's pigheaded and dictatorial, but in this, he's right.”

Rus cast Dillon another look, one both measuring and suspicious, but as Dillon had hoped, Pris's acceptance of his direction if not his authority persuaded her twin to fall in without argument.
Between them, they fetched the bags. Dillon took the traveling bag from Pris. “Douse the lamp.”

He hauled the door open and went out, speaking to Rus over his shoulder. “You take the mare and the saddlebags. I'll take this, and take Pris up behind me.”

It was the only arrangement that would work; the mare couldn't carry two people, and Dillon was too heavy for her. After one assessing glance, Rus assented with a nod. Pris came out, and dragged the door closed.

She turned to the mare and her brother. Rus caught her eye, with his head indicated Dillon. “Go with Caxton. I'll follow.”

Pris hesitated, making her own assessment, then turned to Dillon.

He swung up to his saddle, then kicked one boot free to allow her to use the stirrup. He reached down; she grabbed his arm, placed her boot in the stirrup and swung up. She settled behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist. Shortening the reins, he waited while Rus adjusted the mare's stirrups and mounted, then turned Solomon's head to the west. “This way. Keep close.”

Pris clung to the warmth of Dillon's back as they trotted away under the trees. Then she realized which way they were heading. She looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, “Dillon—”

“Shhh!”

She pressed her lips together and waited, but he continued along the path leading west—the same path they'd ridden in on that afternoon, the one that led to the ruined cottage. Another minute passed, and she could bear it no longer. With one finger, she poked his shoulder. “We're going the wrong way!”

She'd kept her words to a whisper; he answered on a sigh. “No, we're not.” After a moment, he added, “Just wait.”

Wait
. It was the one thing she wasn't particularly good at. As he well knew. She wriggled.

“Sit still.”

She stifled a sigh.

They reached the rock-strewn stream. Dillon eased his big black down the bank—then headed down the stream.

“Ah.” Pris leaned forward so her lips brushed Dillon's ear.

He glanced briefly back at her. “Indeed.”

Relieved that it was as she'd thought and Dillon was taking Rus
back to his house, she twisted around to look at her twin, guiding the mare in the black's wake. She caught Rus's gaze and flashed him a reassuring grin, then turned forward, tightening her arms about Dillon as he sent the black back up the stream bank, this time heading east.

Half an hour later, they clattered into the stable yard behind the manor. The stableman and a lad appeared, and took their horses.

“We'll need them both in a few hours,” Dillon said.

The stableman saluted and led the horses away.

“This way.” The traveling bag in one hand, her hand in the other, Dillon turned toward the house.

Rus, his saddlebags over his arm, paced alongside her as they crossed a wide expanse of manicured lawn. She felt him glance at her hand uncompromisingly locked in Dillon's, then he glanced across her at Dillon. “You're the Keeper of the Breeding Register, aren't you?”

Dillon glanced briefly his way. “Among other things, yes.”

Rus exhaled. “I've been trying to learn about that blasted register—”

“I know. Meanwhile I've been trying to learn who the hell you are, and why you wanted to know.”

Pris watched as Rus, his gaze on Dillon's face, grimaced.

“That was you the other night, wasn't it? At the back of the Jockey Club? The trap I walked into. Was the other one a friend of yours?'

Dillon's lips curved. He nodded. “You can apologize when you meet him. Actually, he was quite impressed by your pugilistic style—if you want to make amends, offer to teach him.”

“I will.” Rus frowned. “But what I couldn't fathom was who it was
you
went after—is there someone else trying to gain access to the register?”

“There was,” Dillon said.

“Who?” Rus asked as they reached the house.

Dillon paused before a door, and met Rus's gaze. “Guess.”

Then he looked at Pris.

R
us's reaction to learning it had been
Pris
who'd lured Dillon away to allow him to escape Dillon's trap kept brother and sister engaged in a pithy,
sotto voce
exchange long enough for Dillon to herd them into his study, leave to request a plate of bread, cold meats, and ale for Rus, and tea for Pris, give orders for a room to be made up for Rus, whose existence was to be kept a complete secret from all outside the house hold, and return.

Shutting his study door, he cut through the still-running altercation without compunction. “Enough!” His gaze touched Pris's, then he waved them both, still standing before the hearth, to the armchairs on either side. “Sit down, and let's start at the beginning.”

He waited until, still huffy, still casting irate glances at each other, they complied, then he pulled the admiral's chair from behind the desk and sank into it. He fixed his gaze on Rus's face. “What made you suspicious?”

Slumping back in the chair, Rus's gaze grew distant. “There were two horses at Cromarty's stables that weren't his. Not part of his string. They belonged to some other owner but were with Cromarty. Apparently those were the horses that Paddy O'Loughlin, the man who held the assistant stable manager position before me, had had a disagreement over and quit.”

Pris glanced at Dillon. He shook his head; he didn't want Rus
distracted with the news that Paddy had subsequently disappeared.

“Thus warned,” Rus continued, “I didn't say anything, but neither horse was being properly brought on. They were being run occasionally but not properly prepared.” Rus looked at him. “I have no idea what that means.”

“I can guess, but go on.”

Rus raised his brows. “Shortly after, amid the preparations to come to Newmarket, I heard Harkness and the head lad, Crom, a mean, vicious lump who's been with Harkness forever, talking. I'd gone into the tack room to fetch a particular bridle—I knew where it was so I didn't light a lamp. Harkness and Crom came into the stable to talk privately. They didn't know I was there.”

“This was the conversation you mentioned in your letter to Pris?”

“Yes. I didn't hear enough to know what was going on, but as they'd mentioned ‘the register' and we were coming to Newmarket, I thought I'd be able to work it out once here.”

A tap on the door heralded Jacobs with a tray. Dillon pulled a side table into the space between the chairs. Jacobs set down the tray; Pris reached for the teapot. Dillon nodded his thanks, and Jacobs retreated.

Dillon waited until Rus had fortified himself with bread and roast beef, and taken a healthy swallow of ale before prompting, “And then…?

Rus dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and sat back. “The first thing that happened was that those two extra horses were brought over to England with the string, then sent off with Crom once we docked at Liverpool. I never heard where they went. As Cromarty didn't travel with the string, I wondered if he knew what was happening. He's an owner, and knows horses, but he doesn't spend much time with them, let alone do any training himself. I assumed he was unaware of what ever was going on.”

Rus sipped, then went on, “The next thing…we had a big bay gelding, Flyin' Fury, a very good runner. Cromarty had raced him over the past two seasons, and he'd done well. We ran him in the opening meet here, and he showed the field a clean pair of heels. Naturally, he was entered for another race in the next meet, the one
three weeks ago. About a week before that, I noticed Flyin' Fury…was odd.”

Rus looked at Dillon. “Not
looked
odd—he looked exactly like…well, himself—but I'd take an oath the horse wasn't Flyin' Fury.” He grimaced. “I know it sounds nonsense, but it just wasn't the same horse. The stable lads were uncertain—the horse didn't react to them as usual, either—but it was Crom who handled Flyin' Fury, so other than me and Harkness, none of the others spent much time with him, and, of course, Crom and Harkness weren't saying anything.”

“Did you mention your suspicions?” Dillon asked.

Rus shook his head. “I said nothing, and they behaved as if Flyin' Fury was the same as ever. The real shock was that the next day, he was—meaning the real Flyin' Fury was back.”

Rus took a long swallow of ale. “That was…hard to understand. But then two days later, the imposter was back. And then came the race, and it was the other horse that ran as Flyin' Fury, and got beaten. He came fifth.”

He sighed. “I knew then, or at least guessed what had to be going on. I thought about going to the race stewards. The next morning, I went to check on the imposter, and lo and behold, it was the real Flyin' Fury again! And then Harkness decided Fury needed to be spelled, and they sent him back to Ireland.

“I was sure, then, that my suspicions were correct,
but
I didn't have an ounce of proof. Both the real Flyin' Fury and the imposter were gone, and if I said anything, it would be Harkness's and more importantly Cromarty's word against mine, and the truth is that favorites often do lose. Good runners have bad spells. There was nothing I could point to as proof of anything.”

Pris frowned. “But why were they switching the horses back and forth?'

“To have the imposter in sufficiently good condition to pass the stewards' prerace check.” Dillon glanced at her. “If a horse hasn't been prepared to a certain degree, the stewards can stop it from running, which is almost the same as losing the race, but won't have the same effect—the desired effect—wager-wise, and will also start an inquiry into the trainer's preparation, and that's the last thing a substitution racket needs. So they'll make sure the substitute horse is
reasonably prepared, and as they can't risk both horses being seen simultaneously, they switch the substitute in and out of the string in the weeks before the race.”

Pris stared at him, then looked at Rus. “So you decided to look at the Breeding Register?”

Rus shook his head. “Not then. Almost immediately, something else happened. Cromarty has a young filly, just over two years old, and she's lightning on legs. She's unbeatable in a sprint. I'd been working with her since I started with Cromarty—she's young, so needs more preparation. Blistering Belle—she went out in the first meet and left the other runners standing. In the second meet, she did even better. Then, in the week after Flyin' Fury went home, I went into the stable one morning, and it wasn't Blistering Belle.”

Rus caught Dillon's eye. “I don't know how they're doing it, but I couldn't fault a single point on that horse. Physically, she was a perfect match for Belle, only I knew she wasn't Belle.”

Dillon frowned. “Who rides Belle in training, at gallops?”

“Crom—Harkness's man.”

“So there's no one who's in any position to corroborate your view?”

Rus shook his head. “But with Belle, I don't need anyone else's opinion. I have proof.” He glanced at Pris, drawing her in. “Belle hates red apples—won't touch them—but most horses love them, of course. I tried the imposter in Belle's stall, and she lipped a ripe pippin from my palm quick smart. And that was my downfall—Harkness saw me do it. He didn't know about Belle and red apples, but he took note—nothing was more certain but that he'd mentioned it to Crom. They're thick as thieves, those two, and Crom did know—he'd see what it meant.”

“And Harkness would then know that you knew,” Pris said. “So what did you do?”

Rus drew a deep breath. “I made a much bigger mistake. I went to Cromarty—a gentleman and a peer. I was sure he wasn't involved, that it was Harkness and Crom behind what ever was going on. I knew I only had the time it would take Harkness to find Crom and ask about the apple. Cromarty was in his study in the manor—I went in and told him all I'd learned, all I suspected.

“He was shocked. Appalled and shaken.” Rus's lips twisted. “I
realize now that it was because I'd found out, but at the time his reaction fitted. He told me to leave it all to him, that he would deal with the problem immediately. I agreed, and left. I heard him give orders to have Harkness summoned.”

Rus paused, then went on, “By the time I reached the stable yard, my thumbs were pricking. Things didn't feel right—shouldn't Cromarty have tried to dismiss what I'd said? He'd just sat there and goggled at every assertion I'd made. He
never
protested. And he hadn't questioned me on any of the details.” His lips thinned. “I didn't go back to my room. I hid in the yard until I saw Harkness go in, then scooted around the house, and listened under Cromarty's study window.”

Rus blew out a breath. “I heard Cromarty tell Harkness that I knew of their scheme, and then they discussed how to get rid of me—to silence me. I didn't wait to hear their decision. I raced back, packed my things, and hied out into the night.”

“Where did you go?” Pris asked.

Rus grinned. “I spent the first night in the church at Swaffam Prior. I reasoned it was the last place Harkness and Crom would look. After that I moved either at night or during training times. But I knew I had to get proof, unequivocal proof of whatever's going on.” His gaze switched to Dillon's face. “Until I have that—enough so the authorities can arrest Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom—it's too dangerous to come out of hiding.”

Dillon held Rus's gaze and gave thanks that he, unlike his sister, had a healthy respect for the situation they were facing. A good grasp of it, too, if the fear shadowing his green eyes was any guide. Rus had cheated death by minutes, and he knew it. Thoroughbred racing was known as the sport of kings, and just like the kings who'd established it, the sport had a darker side.

Easing his shoulders against the chair's back, Dillon nodded. “So what do we have? You've witnessed one successful substitution, that of Flyin' Fury, but we have no evidence to prove it.”

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 reg
ister 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.”