What Price Love? (26 page)

Pris nodded. “I'm sure Aunt Eugenia will be delighted to join your father for dinner.”

Dillon raised his hand in a salute. “We'll see you then.”

The other two called farewells, then the three wheeled. Pris watched them spring their mounts and charge away, racing. With a sniff, she turned to the house. “I'd better go and tell Eugenia that we've arranged her evening for her.”

P
ris hadn't expected Eugenia to object to their commandeering of her evening, yet she was puzzled by how pleased her aunt was at the “invitation.”

Descending the stairs at six o'clock, ready to set out, she discovered Eugenia preening—definitely preening—before the mirror in the hall.

“Oh—there you are, dear. Tell me”—Eugenia tweaked the delicate lace collar she'd fastened about her discreet neckline—“do you think this makes me look too old?”

Pris blinked, but when Eugenia glanced her way inquiringly, she went to view her aunt in the mirror—actually looked at the soft-featured face, at the gently waving blond hair only lightly streaked with gray. At the nicely rounded figure, matronly but Rubenesquely so, at the intelligence that shone in the clear blue eyes. She shook her head. “I don't think you look old at all.”

Purely feminine plea sure lit Eugenia's smile. “Thank you, dear.” Turning, she surveyed Pris, then raised her brows. “That shade of lilac becomes you. I take it you're abandoning the severe bluestocking look?”

Straightening her amethyst skirts, Pris shrugged. “It's only Rus, Dillon, and Barnaby—it's not as if there'll be anyone there I need to fool.”

Eugenia looked much struck. “Very true.”

The twinkle in her eyes stated that she wasn't fooled, either—that she understood perfectly that there would be one male present Pris was quite happy to expose to the full force of her charms.

Adelaide came clattering down the stairs, content now she knew where Rus was, that he was safe, and thrilled to be seeing him that evening. “I'm ready.” Halting at the foot of the stairs, she looked at Pris and Eugenia, eagerness lighting her face. “Can we go?”

Pris glanced at Eugenia; Eugenia glanced at Pris. Then they both laughed.

“Come along.” Eugenia waved them to the door. “Patrick is waiting.”

The drive to Hillgate End was accomplished in an atmosphere of pleasant anticipation. The General met them at the manor door and bowed them in. Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby were waiting in the drawing room.

Walking in behind Eugenia, Pris was glad she'd seen Dillon in evening dress before; she managed not to stare, but it was only after she'd greeted him, then turned, and Rus grinned at her, that she even remembered her twin was there. She blinked, dragooned her wits into order, and moved to greet Barnaby.

What followed was the epitome of a warm, relaxed, very comfortable evening spent among good friends. The dinner was excellent, the wines light; the talk was effervescent, engaging, a simple delight. By mutual accord no one spoke of the matter that had brought them together, of the decisions that hung suspended, waiting to be made. Instead, they spoke of London, and Ireland, of scandal and news, of horses, too, but of breeding them, not racing them.

The laughter was genuine, the appreciation sincere. Rus spent time chatting quietly to Adelaide; while Barnaby entertained the General and Eugenia, Dillon and Pris exchanged opinions on card games, curricle racing, and dogs.

But when the last course was cleared and the covers drawn, the General looked around and smiled. “Perhaps, in the circumstances, Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and I will retire to the drawing room and leave you four to your deliberations.”

“Indeed.” Eugenia pushed back her chair. “But don't take too long. We'll expect you to join us for tea.”

The men stood as she did. The General offered Eugenia his arm; with Adelaide on his other side, the three left the room, already chatting.

Dillon sank back into his chair next to Pris. Barnaby remained opposite; Rus switched chairs to sit beside him. Before they could say a word, the door swung open and Jacobs entered carrying the port decanter on a tray.

He halted, blinked.

Dillon glanced at Pris, but she was frowning at the tabletop. He jogged her elbow; when she looked up, with his head he indicated Jacobs, waiting, uncertain what to do. Pris stared, then looked back at Dillon. He opened his eyes wide at her.

She realized. “Oh! Yes—do go ahead.” She waved distractedly. “What ever it is you do.”

“Pour three glasses,” Dillon instructed Jacobs, “then take the decanter to the General in the drawing room. I'm sure Lady Fowles won't mind.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jacobs set the three glasses at Dillon's elbow. He passed two to Rus and Barnaby, then lifted his and sipped.

“To success,” Barnaby said, and drank.

Rus and Dillon murmured agreement, then Dillon set down his glass. “The first thing we need to decide is: do we have the full picture? Or at least enough of the picture to act?”

Folding his arms, Barnaby leaned on the table. “Let me paint what we have so far. There's someone, possibly a single man—let's call him Mr. X—a gentleman and a hardened gamester who wagers and wins massive sums. For men like that, it's not just the money but the thrill of winning that matters, and to play at the level that gives them thrills, they have to have money. Buckets of it.

“Let's start from last autumn. Collier wagered heavily and lost. Mr. X heard of it. Over winter, he approached Collier, who was facing ruin, became his silent partner, and set up the conditions for running horse substitutions. Over the spring season, at least two substitutions were successfully run, proving for Mr. X that he had all the necessary pieces—the owners, trainers, horses, betting agents, sharp bookmakers—everything needed to generate very large sums of cash.”

“But after the season ended, he fell out with Collier.” Dillon met Barnaby's eyes. “Mr. X acted decisively to remove a threat to his scheme—he killed Collier.”

Barnaby nodded. “Mr. X might already have had Cromarty and Aberdeen lined up, but regardless, his racket rolled on without a hitch.”

“It's possible,” Dillon put in, “that changing stables every season was always a part of his plan. That makes it almost impossible for the authorities to stop his scheme—we're only alerted after the race is run, usually not until weeks later, and then it's the end of the season. Even if after this season we started monitoring Cromarty, if next season's substitutions are run by Aberdeen…the authorities will always be one very big step behind Mr. X.”

Barnaby frowned at the tabletop. “One thought occurs—given his gambling connections, did Mr. X organize for Collier, and Cromarty and Aberdeen, to be
induced
into debt so he could then recruit them?” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “I'm not saying Collier, Cromarty, and Aberdeen are angels acting wholly under duress, but their roles in Mr. X's scheme might not have been by choice.”

Dillon stared at Barnaby. “That's…a distinctly black twist. But yes, given the way owners sometimes bet on their runners, it's possible Mr. X is preying on the industry in that sense, too.”

Pris shivered. “This Mr. X seems not only black-hearted, but conscienceless, too.”

Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby shared a glance, then Barnaby went on, “So to this season. Mr. X ran a highly successful substitution early through Cromarty, here, with Flyin' Fury, netting very large sums.”

“However,” Dillon said, “running substitutions at Newmarket has side effects Mr. X might not appreciate. Because Newmarket is the home of the Jockey Club, running substitutions here strikes at the core of the industry itself. If this keeps on, there'll be anarchy. Literally. The Flyin' Fury substitution was bad enough, but substituting Blistering Belle will be immeasurably worse—a premier race in one of the premier meets at the premier racetrack. The wagering will be intense, the furor afterward commensurately enormous. The punters won't stand for it, and nor will the ton.”

“But,” Barnaby said, “regardless of the outcry, and it'll be you
and the Committee who'll have to weather the worst, there will still be no way to stop Mr. X, especially not if he keeps switching stables and tracks.”

Grimly, Dillon nodded. “Knowing a substitution scam is active doesn't make it any easier to stop.”

“Unless,” Rus put in, “you know about a substitution before it occurs. Which brings us to Blistering Belle.”

Barnaby considered, then shook his head and sat back. “Even so…”

Dillon grimaced. “Halting the substitution of Blistering Belle by stopping the substitute from running will switch some wagers to the next favorite in the race and void others entirely. Money will still be lost and won through the bookmakers, it just won't be as much. And while Mr. X won't get his accustomed and undoubtedly expected reward, he won't lose much either—certainly nothing he can't afford. Most worryingly, however, it won't shut down his scheme. He'll just shift to using Aberdeen, and even if we manage to expose Aberdeen's runners before any substitutions are affected, Mr. X will just lie low for the season.”

“Or use some other owner we've yet to link to him.” Pris frowned. After a moment, she continued, frustration clear in her tone, “There's no simple, obvious way forward, is there? No obvious ‘this is what we should do'?”

Rus and Barnaby shook their heads.

“It's the trickiest, messiest crime I've ever heard of,” Barnaby said. “Quite aside from Mr. X, there's an enormous cast of wrongdoers here, all of whom deserve some mea sure of retribution, yet even though we know of the impending crime and how to stop it, if we do, we won't touch the majority of those involved, and Mr. X and his scheme not at all.”

“He's a spider in the center of his web,” Dillon said, his gaze on his fingers slowly tapping the table. “We can break a few connections, even destroy part of the web, but that won't harm the spider. Once we retreat, he'll just crawl back out of hiding, respin his web, making new connections, and then continue to lure, catch, and devour his prey.”

They could all see the analogy; all were silent, thinking, then Barnaby stirred. He looked at Dillon. “What's our minimum here—what damage can we do if we expose Cromarty with Blistering Belle?”

When Dillon glanced at him, Barnaby fleetingly grinned. “You've looked into it, haven't you?”

Dillon returned the grin, but then sobered. “I have, and the answer's not heartening. The only way we can prove anything illegal is to expose the substitute for Blistering Belle immediately before the race is run. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom will be charged with attempting to perpetrate a substitution. But if Harkness was persuaded to protect Cromarty by swearing Cromarty knew nothing about it, Harkness and Crom would face jail—Newgate most likely—but Cromarty would get off with a fine and a reprimand for not paying sufficient attention to what was going on in his stable.”

“That's all?” Pris looked shocked. “Everyone else gets away?”

Meeting her eyes, Dillon nodded. “A few fingers singed over wagers, but that's all the effect exposing the Blistering Belle substitution will have.” He glanced at Barnaby and Rus. “There'll be no evidence to implicate anyone else.”

“And little to no likelihood of Cromarty telling us the names of all others involved.” Disillusioned, Rus polished off his port.

“Doubly so if he knows what happened to Collier.” Leaning back in his chair, Dillon looked at the others. “I can't see any chance of us learning anything new about Mr. X through halting the Blistering Belle substitution.”

Barnaby drained his glass, then set it down. “There has to be a better way.”

Dillon met his gaze. “We need to think of some way to reach the spider.”

 

T
he October Meeting and the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was due to be switched were still four days away. With no obvious solution to their dilemma, they agreed to take one day—twenty-four hours more—to rack their brains before deciding on their course.

They adjourned, joining the others in the drawing room in time to pass the teacups. Later, Dillon stood with Barnaby and Rus on the front steps and waved the carriage with Eugenia, Pris, and Adelaide away.

Later still, with the moon riding the sky and the fields silent
about him, he rode north and east to the summer house by the lake.

Once again, they'd made no arrangement, had not even exchanged a meaningful look, but Pris was there, sitting on the sofa waiting for him.

Waiting to smile, mysterious and feminine, take his hand, and draw him down. To her. To the wonder, the magic, he found in her arms, to the wildness and thrills of a reckless ride, to the golden glory that claimed them in aftermath, to the completion that reached to his soul.

That healed him, that in some way he didn't understand welded the two halves of him and made him whole.

Lying sprawled on his back on the sofa, more or less naked, with Pris slumped, very definitely naked, over him, he was staring into the shadows, thinking of that curious melding, mulling over it, how it felt, when she shifted, settling in his arms, turned her head to look over the lake, and murmured, “There has to be a way.”

While crossing the dark miles to the summer house, a flicker of an idea had flared; unexpected, radical, he wasn't sure how it might pan out.

Eyes on the shadowed ceiling, he lifted one hand, caught a lock of her hair, twirled the silky curl between his fingers. “I've always considered that my disgrace years ago ultimately resulting in me becoming one of the elected few charged with defending the sport of kings was a monumentally ironic twist of fate.” He paused, then went on, “Now I wonder if fate had some longer-term goal in view.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “Because the racing industry is now facing a serious threat, and due to your past you have a better understanding of that threat?”

“In part. But I was thinking more of the nature, mine, that long ago led me into trouble. I'm not my father. He hasn't a wild and reckless bone in his body. If my past trouble hadn't happened, if I hadn't been disgraced, hadn't wanted to make restitution, would I have followed in his steps and later assumed his position?”