What Price Love? (25 page)

“Dillon and I feel sure that's the meet at which they'll switch Blistering Belle,” Rus said.

Demon concurred. “If we can't thrust a spoke through their wheel, they'll make a killing.” He looked at Dillon. “In the circumstances, I don't know what help we'll be. We'll both be up to our ears in preparation.”

“Actually…” Flick eyed Rus appraisingly. “I could use an extra pair of well-trained hands, and as there's nothing you can do at present since you must remain in hiding, and as our training track is well screened, out of bounds and out of sight to any but our most trusted lads, why don't you slip over and lend a hand? I'll put you to work, and you can show me what you Irish can do.”

There was enough challenge in the words to allow Rus to grin and accept with alacrity rather than fall to his knees and kiss Flick's feet. Pris smiled, relieved that Rus would be kept occupied, delighted that the occupation was his passion. Catching Flick's eye, she inclined her head in thanks. Flick grinned and patted her arm.

A moment later, they set off, walking across the fields and through the belt of woodland separating the stud from Hillgate End. Rus was in alt, his head already in the clouds.

Dillon laughed. “Tell me—how do you see Flick? Sweet, delicate, a Botticelli angel, gentle temper, all smiles?”

Rus looked at Dillon, shrugged. “Something like that.”

His grin wide, Dillon clapped Rus on the shoulder. “Just wait, boyo—she's a sergeant major around horses. I guarantee she'll run you ragged.”

 

T
he next morning, Pris came down to breakfast to find Patrick hovering in the dining room. She stared at him. “Did you find them?”

He grinned. “I did.”

She sank into her chair; ignoring Adelaide's and Eugenia's exclamations, she demanded, “Where?”

Patrick told her.

Ten minutes after she'd consumed a hasty breakfast, she was in the gig, the reins in her hands, Adelaide beside her, as she tooled them down the lanes to call on the house hold at Hillgate End.

 

T
hey switched the black fillies late last night.” Pris unfolded a map she'd drawn. “It's a tiny cottage, more a hovel Patrick said, but there's a lean-to stable alongside big enough to hold two horses.”

She laid her sketch on Dillon's desk; he, Rus, and Barnaby crowded around. The General had been present when she and Adelaide had been shown in. Dillon and Rus had frowned, signaling with their eyes; they hadn't wanted Adelaide involved.

She'd felt like she would burst, holding in the news while Adelaide shyly greeted them, then started chatting with Rus; he'd just returned from his first session working with Flick and seemed both exhilarated and stunned. But then the General had risen to the occasion and claimed Adelaide's attention and her arm for a stroll about the garden. Mentally blessing him, Pris had lost no time imparting her news.

“There.” She pointed to a cross some miles northeast of the Rigby farm. “It's little more than four walls and a chimney on the other side of this stream.” She traced a squiggly line. “There are trees along the rise behind it.”

“Which horse will it be?” Barnaby looked at Rus.

He shook his head. “Sometimes it was a day between switches, at other times three.” He glanced at Dillon. “I'll go there and check which horse it is.”

“Not in daylight,” Pris said. “Harkness might see you out riding. Who knows what he'll be up to?”

Rus grinned. “Actually I do know, at least for a few hours every day. This afternoon he and Crom will be overseeing the string exercising on the Heath.”

“Can you be sure?' Dillon asked.

“Without me, unless Harkness has managed to hire another assistant trainer—and how likely is that in Newmarket just before a major meet?—then he and Crom both have to attend the training sessions. Cromarty has a good few horses entered, and aside from the substitution, he doesn't like to lose any more than any other owner.”

“Right, then.” Dillon straightened. “This afternoon it is.”

Pris bit her tongue; they did have to know which horse was where, and only Rus could be certain which was which—and she couldn't think of any way to argue him out of what she, nevertheless, viewed as a dangerous journey.

She met his eyes—amused yet understanding—and pulled a face at him. He laughed, hugged her, and wisely made no comment.

She and Adelaide stayed for luncheon. The General seemed delighted by their presence; he confessed he missed having young ladies around. “Flick was here for years, and even though she's just across the fields, it's not the same.”

He glanced down the table at Dillon, old eyes twinkling. “I sometimes think I should invite Prudence, Flick and Demon's daughter, to stay for a few weeks.”

Dillon groaned. “Heaven preserve me!” To Pris and Adelaide, he explained, “Imagine a cross between Flick and Demon—a hedonistic female, convinced she's right, and who will stop at nothing—absolutely nothing—to ensure matters fall out as she decrees they ought.” He shuddered. “She's a terror now, and will be utterly unstoppable in a few years.”

Barnaby nodded. “I'm just grateful that by then we'll be ancient, and probably far distant, so she won't turn her beady eyes on us.”

“They aren't beady.” Pris felt forced to defend the young girl she'd once glimpsed. “They're quite lovely.”

Barnaby nodded even more. “Precisely. Weapons of the highest caliber. Just wait until she uses them on Rus, then ask him whether we're not right.”

The conversation continued in a lighthearted vein. At the end of the meal, they made plans to meet at the Carisbrook house later that afternoon—to go for a ride. Adelaide reluctantly ruled herself out without them having to say anything; she wasn't a sufficiently confident rider to keep up with them.

Pris went out of her way to be extra pleasant as she drove them back, detouring to the lending library so Adelaide could find a new novel—and to check the large map on the wall. Assured she had the position of the cottage properly fixed in her mind, she drove on to the house, where Eugenia and Patrick waited.

She and Eugenia, with Patrick trailing behind, went for a walk around the lake while she explained all they knew and their present direction.

Eugenia nodded. “Mr. Caxton—Dillon—seems an estimable gentleman, and Mr. Adair, too—his connection with the new police force does give one confidence. While I'm hardly happy that Rus must stay in hiding, I'm glad he”—Eugenia glanced at Pris—“and you, my dear, have found yourselves in such excellent company. I'll
admit that in coming here, I feared matters might turn out far worse.”

Pris nodded. They continued to amble around the lake's shore.

“I do hope,” Eugenia continued, “that your brother curbs his enthusiasm and doesn't do anything reckless and dangerous.”

“Actually, I don't think there's much likelihood of that.” Pris described Flick's invitation, and what Rus had recounted of his first session beside her on the training track. “He hadn't realized that she, herself, rides the horses she trains. Once he found out, he thought he'd have to hold his horse back. Instead, she left him floundering.”

Smiling, Pris wondered if Flick had deliberately let the situation play out as it had, guessing how it would spur Rus on and put him on his mettle.

“Hmm,” Eugenia said. “I did think Mrs. Cynster was an exceptionally intelligent lady.”

Smile deepening, Pris strolled on.

As the afternoon ticked by, she forced herself to patience, to not look at the clock every ten minutes. Regardless, when her three coconspirators clattered into the stable yard, she was mounted and waiting.

Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick came out to wave them off. Minutes later, they were galloping across the fields—north, to the tiny cottage.

Pris held her mare alongside the three larger horses—Dillon's black, a raking bay carrying Barnaby, and the strong gray that Rus was riding. Before they'd appeared, she'd been just a little worried that, despite the arrangements, they would give the Carisbrook house a wide berth and leave her waiting “in safety.” She was pleased they hadn't, pleased with them, her mood buoyant as they raced toward the cottage.

They had to reach it, Rus had to examine the horse stabled there, then he had to get back to Hillgate End before dusk heralded an end to the day's training. So they wasted no time; letting the horses stretch out, they flew.

A rocky streambed appeared ahead, cutting through the relatively flat fields. Dillon drew rein, then swung Solomon to follow the bank. The others followed. From the opposite bank, the land rose
gently to where, tucked into the side of a rise, the tiny cottage nestled against a protective band of trees.

Finding a crossing place, Dillon sent Solomon down the bank. The big black took the opposite bank in one leap. Pris came next, waved on by Barnaby and Rus; her mare stepped daintily, picking its way, then climbed the rising bank at an angle. Barnaby and Rus quickly followed; Dillon turned and set Solomon for the cottage, surging up beside Pris's mare, already striking out for their goal.

Eyes on the cottage's door, he called, “You and I—let's head straight for the cottage. We can knock on the door—if there's anyone there, you can beg a drink of water.” He glanced at her.

She nodded to show she'd heard. Her lips curved, her eyes alight, she raced up the slope beside him.

He signaled to the other two to hold back. Facing forward again, he kept pace with Pris, tamping down the urge to recklessly race.

She was reckless enough, racing enough for them both.

She pulled up before the cottage, laughing, letting the mare circle. She waited until he halted and dismounted, then trotted the mare up and let him lift her down.

Setting her on her feet, he took her hand. “Come on.”

He led her to the cottage door, and pounded on it. They waited, both breathing quickly, sharing a long glance as a minute ticked by.

“I can't hear anything,” she mouthed.

He knocked again, louder, longer. “I say! Is anyone there? Could a lady beg a drink of water?”

Silence. Then from around the corner came a muffled whicker.

Stepping back, he studied the cottage. It had only a single story, no attic, its one small window so grimy it was impossible to see inside. “I think we're safe.” He beckoned to the other two, who'd hung back as if merely pausing on their way somewhere else.

Pris tried to slip her fingers free of his hold; he tightened his grip, scanning the surroundings as the other two rode up. Satisfied there was no one to see them, he met Pris's narrowing eyes. “All right—let's see.”

They strode around the corner. The entrance to the stable faced the rear, well screened and protected by the trees. It was in better condition than the cottage, better even than its outward appearance suggested.

Ducking beneath the heavy beam over the doorway, Dillon glanced around, taking in the bridles and reins neatly hung on one wall, the two stalls, both strong and of surprisingly good size, with half doors across their mouths. The floor was stone, clean and swept; the sweet smell of straw hung in the warm, still air.

The second stall was occupied. Pris headed for it. His fingers still locked about hers, he followed. A black filly with four even white socks and a white blaze on her chest watched them from within the stall, curious but wary, making no move to come to the half door and get acquainted.

Brisk footsteps heralded Rus, with Barnaby close behind. Rus slowed to take in the surroundings, then he met Dillon's eyes. “At least they take proper care of them.”

Dillon waved to the occupied stall, drawing Pris back. “Which is she?”

Rus stepped to the half door; the instant the filly set eyes on him, she gave a delighted whinny and came eagerly forward. She butted Rus in the chest. Laughing, he scratched between her ears, then stroked her long black nose. “This is Belle.”

The horse snuffled and butted again.

Rus reached into his pocket and drew out a ripe red pippin. He offered it; Belle literally curled her lip, snorted in disgust, and knocked his hand aside. Rus chuckled, repocketed the pippin, and drew out a lump of sugar. Appeased, Belle lipped it from his palm, blowing softly.

Then she butted him again, pressing against the front of the stall.

“No, girl,” Rus crooned, Irish accent soft and lilting. “You have to stay here, at least for a while.”

“We'd better go.” After witnessing the evidence of the apple, Barnaby had retreated beyond the stable door, keeping watch down the valley. “The sun's going down.” He glanced at Dillon. “How much longer will the training sessions last?”

Reluctantly, Rus drew away from Belle; Dillon and Pris followed him from the stable. Behind them, Belle whickered forlornly.

Dillon looked west, then out across the slope to where the shadows were lengthening. “We've just time enough for Rus to reach Hillgate End before Harkness and Crom start scouting.”

“Even if they send the string back to the Rigby place and head straight to your woods?” Pris glanced worriedly at Rus as they walked quickly back to their horses.

“Even so.” Rus grinned at her. “With the meet so close, Harkness won't be cutting corners and rushing through training.”

Pris stopped arguing, but from the way she glanced at Rus, she wasn't convinced. In the circumstances, Dillon left Rus to lift her to her saddle.

Within minutes they were across the stream and flying over the fields to the Carisbrook house.

When they clattered into the stable yard, Patrick was waiting. He caught Pris's mare. “Did you find her—the black filly?”

Rus nodded. “Blistering Belle.” He glanced at Dillon. “What now?”

“Now we think.” Dillon settled Solomon, prancing as Patrick lifted Pris down. “We can't afford a misstep.” He caught Pris's eye, then glanced at Patrick. “It's short notice, but do you think Lady Fowles will agree to an impromptu dinner at Hillgate End this evening? I know my father would be delighted, and it'll give us a chance to review what we know, consider the possibilities, and decide on our goal. Then we can make plans.”