What Price Love? (28 page)

Pris understood that; what she still didn't understand was his underlying gravity.

“It'll be best if I move to the Carisbrook house,” Rus said. “It's much closer to the cottage—I won't lose as much time going back and forth, and there'll be less chance of anyone sighting me and reporting it to Harkness.”

Dillon grimaced, but nodded. “With one proviso—you take Patrick whenever you set foot outside the house.”

“You needn't worry.” Pris caught Dillon's eye, then met her brother's. “He won't be leaving the house alone.”

Rus grinned.

They organized for Pris to take Rus's bags in the gig when she drove back with Adelaide. The three men would ride straight to the cottage to give Belle her first training session in days.

Satisfied Rus would be well protected, Pris accepted the arrangements with good grace. “Now, how do we go about reswitching Belle?”

That necessitated much discussion, but Dillon and Rus had more than enough knowledge of the movement and housing of horses before a race, and the scramble of activities that filled the morning of a race day, to formulate a plan.

“Cromarty's using Figgs's stable, just off the track.” Pulling a low table between their chairs, Dillon sketched a rough map of Newmarket and surrounds, marking in the relevant spots; they all pored over the map as he indicated Figgs's stable with a box.

“We'll need to bring Belle down to Hillgate End during the training session the afternoon before.” Dillon glanced at Rus, who nodded. “The best time to make the switch is just before dawn, as the day starts for the stables and all in them. I assume Crom at least will be sleeping in the stable?”

Rus nodded. “It's usually only him from Cromarty's, but there's Figgs's night watchman as well.”

“He'll be easily distracted, at least long enough for our purposes,
but Crom we don't want to do anything with at all—nothing to trigger the slightest suspicion that anything might be going on. With the two fillies being all but identical, as long as we switch them
without
jolting Crom's suspicions, it's unlikely he'll notice the reswitch, especially not with the usual hullabaloo of a race morning distracting him. Cromarty has three runners as well as Belle in the morning's races. Crom will be too busy to dwell on little things like a horse's personality. As long as he continues to believe that the horse in Belle's stall is the substitute, that's what he'll see.”

Rus nodded. “I agree.”

Dillon again looked around the circle. “So here's what we're going to do—how we're going to put Belle back in the race.”

 

G
ood evening, General.” Demon nodded to Dillon's father as he walked through the doorway of Dillon's study. It was later that evening; after dinner, Dillon and his father, alone again, had retired to the room in which they both felt most comfortable.

Noting the hardness in Demon's blue eyes as they fixed on him, the crispness of the movement as he shut the study door, Dillon wasn't surprised when he growled, “As for you, you infuriating whelp, what the devil do you think you're up to?”

Having long ago learned that Demon's bark was worse than his bite, and that that was almost always driven by concern, Dillon raised his brows mildly, and replied, “Doing what's best for the racing fraternity.”

The words, along with his even tone, gave Demon pause. He blinked, then, frowning, grabbed the chair from behind Dillon's desk and hauled it around to face Dillon and his father in the armchairs before the hearth. Dropping into the chair, crossing his long legs, Demon fixed Dillon with a steady, very direct gaze. “Explain.”

Then Demon's eyes flicked to the General, briefly scanned the older man's face. “He hasn't told you either, has he?”

With unruffleable calm, the General smiled. “Dillon was about to explain all to me.” His gaze switched to Dillon's face. “Do go on, m'boy.”

Dillon hadn't been about to do any such thing—if he'd had his
way, he would have shielded his father from any possible anxiety—but he appreciated his father's tacit support and the unshakeable faith that lay beneath it.

“So what have you heard?” Setting aside his glass of port, he rose to pour one for Demon.

Demon watched him, still frowning. “Rus Dalling dropped by mid afternoon to beg off assisting Flick for the next few days. Incidentally, she's of a mind to kiss your feet for bringing him to her attention—he's a natural, and she's in alt. But this afternoon she was out—Rus found me.” Demon took the glass Dillon offered him. “He told me he had to work on the real Belle, because you had some plan afoot to pull what amounts to a double substitution.”

Pausing to take a sip of port, Demon eyed Dillon as he resumed his seat. “I didn't interrogate Dalling—in the circumstances, I thought it wiser to come and interrogate you.”

Dillon smiled, outwardly relaxed, inwardly unsure how the next few minutes would go. “This is the situation—what we now know.” Succinctly, he described the racket run by Mr. X, then outlined the options they faced.

“So I could deal with the scenario entirely as prescribed by the rule book, and achieve nothing more than removing Cromarty and Harkness from the industry. Or we can grasp the chance and shatter the entire scheme, and its perpetrator, too.”

Dillon paused, his gaze on Demon's now seriously troubled face. He hadn't been surprised that Rus and Pris had so readily embraced his plan; it was tailor-made to appeal to their wild and reckless natures. Barnaby, too, possessed a certain devil-take-the-hindmost streak. And Barnaby didn't know enough of Dillon's past to comprehend that in proposing let alone undertaking such a plan Dillon was taking a personal risk. That was something Demon and the General understood. There were, however, other issues here.

He chose his words with care, let his passion color them. “You understand what's at stake. If we can strike at the heart of such a scheme, turn it back on itself so that the perpetrator and all his minions get badly stung rather than the gullible public they think to prey upon, that will be a more effective deterrent, one of infinitely greater magnitude, than the slight risk of a corrupt owner being exposed and tossed in jail.”

He caught Demon's eye, faintly raised a brow. “Which of the two alternatives would you expect me to choose?”

Demon swore; he looked down at his hands, clasped about his glass. He'd listened with barely an interruption. Looking up, he scowled at Dillon. “It galls me to admit you're right—that your tack
is
the right decision. However”—he grimaced—“you can't expect me to like it.”

He tossed off his port, then looked at the General. “If anything goes wrong…”

The General smiled benignly; despite his occasional vagueness, both Dillon and Demon knew the mind behind his worn façade still functioned with considerable incisiveness. But the General possessed something neither of them yet had, a deep well of experience and understanding of the human condition, and all that encompassed.

Calmly, he nodded at Demon, acknowledging his concern. “If anything about the reswitch becomes known, it will impinge very badly on Dillon. Once the reswitch is in hand, if any learn of it, then because the reswitch will destroy all evidence of the initial substitution, it will appear that whoever is involved in the reswitch is actually carrying out a substitution.”

Turning his head, the General met Dillon's gaze. “You're risking your reputation—something you've worked for the last ten and more years to rebuild. Are you sure you want to do that?”

There was neither condemnation nor encouragement in the General's tone—no hint of how he thought Dillon should answer.

Dillon held his father's gaze steadily, and evenly asked, “What would my reputation be founded on if I didn't? If I weren't willing to do what now needs to be done for the good of the industry that's been placed in my care?”

A warm, openly approving smile spread across the General's face; he inclined his head, then looked at Demon, and mildly raised his brows.

Demon exhaled through his teeth. “Yes, all right. He's right.” He frowned at Dillon. “But I want a hand in this, too.”

“I don't think that's wise.” Even Demon's reputation could be besmirched.

“Well, I do—think of it as a little extra protection.” Demon smiled, all teeth. “To appease me.”

Dillon read Demon's eyes and inwardly sighed. No point arguing.

Demon didn't wait for him to agree. “Getting Belle from here to the track on the morning of the race—walking her in as a lone horse is bound to attract attention, no matter the hour. The night watchmen at least will see and take note.” He caught Dillon's eye. “I assume you're planning to leave here an hour before dawn?” Dillon nodded. Demon went on, “We'd normally leave about an hour later, walking our runners to the holding stalls by the track—on that day, we'll leave earlier. As we pass here, Belle can join our group. No one will notice an extra horse, and no one will think it odd that we might arrive a little earlier than usual to avoid the inevitable scramble.”

Dillon blinked, seeing the scenario Demon was painting. The Cynster string didn't exercise on the Heath, but on a private track buried within Demon's now considerable estate and thus out of bounds to the racing public. Consequently, when the day's Cynster runners appeared at the holding stalls, touts, bookmakers, jockeys, owners, and trainers flocked to the stalls to assess what these days represented a significant portion of the competition.

Even extra early—indeed, especially if the Cynster horses made an unexpectedly early appearance—crowds would gather. Word would fly, people would come running. The ensuing melee would fix all attention on the holding stalls—away from the stables that stood just back from the track. What better cover in which to perform their reswitch?

Refocusing, Dillon found Demon watching him.

“A worthwhile addition to your plan?”

Dillon met his eyes, inclined his head. “Yes, thank you. That'll make things much easier.”

 

H
alf an hour later, Dillon walked Demon to the front door.

“Where's Adair?” Demon asked, as they entered the front hall.

“He had the idea of alerting our London friends to keep their ears open in the hope that in the aftermath of the race they might learn something of those involved.” Dillon halted by the door. “He was going to speak with his father and an Inspector Stokes he thinks highly of, as well as Gabriel and Vane, who will no doubt pass the word to the others in town.”

Demon nodded. “Good idea. No telling what the ripples might reveal when you drop that filly back into her race.”

Smiling, Dillon hauled open the door.

Demon stepped out, then turned back. “I will, of course, have to tell Flick all—you'll have to take your chances on a lecture.” He paused, then added, “And you may as well warn Dalling that he's liable to sustain a visit from her during one of the training sessions.” Turning to head down the steps, he continued, “And of course, that means I'll have to come, too.”

Dillon grinned. He stood watching as Demon strode away across the lawn, then swung the door closed and headed for his bed.

O
ver the next days, their plan evolved, was refined and polished. With Rus staying at the Carisbrook house, Dillon curtailed his nocturnal visits to the summer house by the lake. He had too much respect for the connectedness between twins to risk it.

What Rus would make of his liaison with Pris he didn't know, but now—while all three of them were immersed in a highly secret and dangerous endeavor—wasn't the time to find out. However, he made a vow to, at the earliest opportunity, make his intentions, the honorable nature of them, clear to Pris's twin. No sense courting any unnecessary misunderstandings.

Their social connection had excused Pris and Adelaide calling at Hillgate End; now it excused him frequently visiting the Carisbrook house and spending hours there. Barnaby returned from London fired with zeal, carrying good wishes from all involved, including Inspector Stokes; everyone had agreed that the opportunity to shatter the entire scheme was too valuable a chance to pass up.

Pris and Patrick remained adamant that Rus shouldn't visit the isolated cottage alone; all three rode forth every morning and afternoon, as soon as they judged Harkness and Crom would have left for the Heath. As Demon had prophesied, Flick rode up one morning in breeches and coat, Demon beside her. She'd taken charge of the training session, put Belle through her paces, then glowingly commended Rus, giving him encouragement and various tips.

When he saw Dillon later, Demon had growled that Rus had all but groveled at his wife's dainty feet—a position, Dillon knew, Demon reserved for himself.

They were all committed, heart and soul and in some cases reputation, and increasingly confident their plan would work. Flick's frank assessment that she'd never seen any two-year-old faster than Blistering Belle went a long way to easing the unvoiced fear that despite their best efforts, Belle might, in the end, lose her race.

Rus had remained unswervingly certain Belle would lead the field; Flick's endorsement brought relief to all other minds.

After finalizing the details of how they would effect the switch, Dillon spent hours drilling the Hillgate End stable lads and grooms. It had been agreed they were the best small army to use; all were familiar faces around the racetrack, the associated holding stalls, and nearby stables. No one would even register their presence on a race day morning, yet unlike Demon's lads, none had any actual job to perform.

In addition, all were, to a man, unswervingly loyal to the Caxtons.

That last was vital. It was impossible to conceal from such necessary minor players that the intent proposed would normally be viewed as illegal, yet when Dillon outlined what he needed them to do, their reactions made it clear they took it for granted that his reasons were sound, that despite appearances, he hadn't stirred one inch from the path of the angels.

He was grateful for their unquestioning support, but also humbled. Their blind faith left him only more determined to ensure that, by noon on the second day of the October meeting, the substitution scam would be in ruins.

He and his father had discussed at length whether or not to tell the three stewards of the Jockey Club—the Committee who oversaw the running of the club and its regulations. Despite the risk, they decided against it; neither felt sure the three stewards could be counted on to keep their lips shut.

Not even for a few hours on the morning of the race.

The first day of the October meeting dawned fine and clear. The races on that day were showcase events for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds, followed by a series of privately sponsored challenges.
With the weather cooperating, a carnival-like atmosphere prevailed. Dillon, the General, Flick, and Demon spent most of the day at the track. They were local identities, making their absence too notable to risk.

For that first day, Pris, Rus, and Patrick were strictly forbidden even the environs of Newmarket, the former two because, with the influx of visitors, many from London and also Ireland, the chance that someone might recognize them had escalated. Patrick was delegated to ensure that the wild and reckless duo didn't conspire to egg each other on in some foolhardy scheme to join the crowds.

As the hours of Monday ticked by, there wasn't one of their band who didn't feel the spur of impatience, who wasn't eager to see the next day dawn.

A slew of trophy races, including the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was scheduled to feature, were slated for the second day. The morning session would comprise five races, all with outstanding fields—all certain to generate considerable excitement among the hordes of gentlemen and the select group of ladies who had descended on Newmarket, home to the sport of kings.

At last, the sun went down, and the end of Monday was nigh. Night fell over Newmarket, leaving the town a bright sea of lamps as parties and dinners and all manner of entertainments kept the crowds amused. But beyond the town, beyond the houses, out around the track and all over the Heath, quiet darkness descended, and enveloped all.

 

T
he hour before dawn was the chilliest, and the darkest. On that Tuesday morning, the Cynster runners left their warm stable at the ungodly hour of four o'clock; watched over by Demon, with Flick mounted beside him, they started their slow, ambling walk to the holding stalls beside the track. Accustomed to early-morning track work, the horses were unperturbed, content enough to walk slowly along between the mounts of their stable lads, riding beside them, leading reins in hand.

As the cavalcade of six runners, their accompanying crew, and sundry other accompanying horses drew level with the Hillgate End gates, another pair of horses emerged from the shadows and became
one with the larger group.

Lips tightening, Demon nodded to the slight figure atop one of Flick's older hacks; disheveled, a cloth cap pulled low over her eyes, a woollen muffler wound about her throat and chin, Pris held Blistering Belle's reins loosely in one hand. Slightly slouched, at first glance indistinguishable from the stable lads leading Demon's and Flick's runners, she led the horse all their hopes rode upon toward the track.

Her position in their plan had very nearly brought the whole undone. Dillon, Rus, Patrick, Barnaby, and Demon himself had all argued hotly against her taking the role of Blistering Belle's “lad,” leading the horse to the track, then into the stable and performing the actual switch before leading the other black filly away. It was the most dangerous as well as the most vital role of all.

They'd ranted and raved, only to have the wind taken from their sails by Flick's acerbic comment that Pris was the only one who could do what needed to be done. Acceptance of that truth had been painful, for Rus and Dillon most of all, but there'd been no other choice.

Blistering Belle had formed a close bond with Rus; she trusted him implicitly and would follow him anywhere. Unfortunately, she didn't like Rus leaving her; every time he did, she whinnied, kicked her stall, did everything in her female equine repertoire to bring him back.

Rus couldn't lead her into Figgs's stable and switch her for the other filly. Belle wouldn't stand for it—she'd create such a ruckus that everyone, led by Crom, would come running. However, as Rus couldn't risk being seen by Harkness or Crom anyway, especially not with Belle or her look-alike, he hadn't been a contender for the role.

Initially, no one had seen the problem looming, but when they'd tried to get Belle to allow one of Dillon's grooms to lead her, they'd discovered she'd grown wary of being led by anyone she didn't trust. She hadn't liked being stuck in the isolated stable and was now not prepared to let just anyone lead her away.

They'd tried everyone, even Barnaby. The only one Belle would accept was Pris, almost certainly because she could lower her voice to an approximation of her twin's, and the cadences of their speech as well as their accents were strikingly similar—even, it seemed, to
equine ears.

Belle recognized Pris as a friend. She would happily walk with Pris leading her; most importantly, she would with perfect equanimity allow Pris to put her in a stall and leave her, even when Pris took out another horse instead.

Pris leaving her was acceptable; Rus leaving her was not.

The male mutterings such feminine perversity provoked had lasted for hours, but nothing could change the hard fact that Pris it had to be.

Last night, she'd remained at the stud, being coached by Demon, Flick, Rus, and Dillon as to what she might expect, how to behave in various situations. Eyeing her as they ambled along, Demon uttered a silent prayer that they'd covered all possible eventualities. He glanced at Flick riding beside him. Although it went against the grain, he would have preferred her in Pris's position; Flick had grown up about Newmarket racetrack, knew everything there was to know about the stables and race mornings—she knew everything Pris didn't.

The road reached the edge of the Heath; instead of continuing along the beaten surface, the cavalcade took to the turf, taking the most direct line to the track, the shortest distance for their runners to walk. The steady
clop
of iron-shod hooves changed to a muted
thud
.

Away from the trees, the air seemed colder, the wreathing mists damper, chillier. Demon lifted his head, scented the faint breeze, studied the clouds overhead. The day would be fine; once the sun rose, the mists would burn off. It would be another perfect day for racing.

He glanced again at Pris and saw her shiver. He was wearing a thick greatcoat; Flick was well wrapped in a warm pelisse. Pris wore a threadbare ancient jacket, not thick enough to keep the morning chill at bay, but she had to appear to be the stable lad she was emulating. Jaw setting, Demon forced himself to look away.

Pris wasn't sure that the shivers that rippled through her had anything to do with the misty chill. She was so tense, it was a wonder her horse wasn't jibbing and shifting and dancing with impatience. And nerves; hers were stretched tighter than they'd ever been.

Beside her, Belle plodded along, content to be among her kind again. Her head lifted now and again as she looked ahead, almost as if she could sense the track. While watching Rus train her over the last days, Pris had learned that some horses simply loved to run, and Belle was one; she seemed eager to race, to run, to win.

Everything hung on her doing so, but after the last days, that was the least of Pris's worries. Getting Belle into the stable and the other horse out without Crom knowing, and without Rus doing anything to call attention to himself along the way, loomed as the biggest hurdle.

Other than the odd comment between the lads, the occasional breathy snort of a horse and the muted jangle of a harness, the cavalcade advanced in silence across the wide green sward.

Eventually, the first of the stables dotted around the track materialized through the thinning mist. Searching the area behind it, Pris saw mounted figures waiting—a gentleman in a greatcoat, and three lads with three racing Thoroughbreds on leading reins.

She glanced at Demon, riding on the other side of Belle.

He caught her gaze. “Wait until we're closer.”

She nodded. The cavalcade advanced on a line that would take them along the front of the stable and on toward the track.

“Now.”

At Demon's quiet command, she turned her mount and Belle; the lads alongside slowed their charges to let her draw away from the group. Keeping to the same steady pace, she headed for the riders behind the stable; Demon's timing had ensured that she and Belle were visible as separate from the cavalcade for only the minute it took them to walk down the screening side of the stable and around the corner to join the other group.

Dillon was waiting, as was Rus. Her twin briefly smiled, the gesture one more of relief than excitement. She smiled back, rather tightly. Rus set his mount walking, leading one of the three retired race horses Demon and Flick had provided. Their still-elegant lines made them perfect camouflage for Belle; they closed around her. Falling in behind Rus, the group made their way along the rear of a succession of blocklike stables that stood in a wide arc a little back from the track, an outer ring behind the inner ring of holding stalls. To any who sighted them, they would appear to be a small group of
runners walking in from an outlying stable for the day.

A few lads and touts slinking around the stables saw them, but all attention quickly diverted to the holding stalls as the news that the Cynster runners had arrived early spread. Everyone rushed to take a look.

No one gave the small band trudging along a second glance.

Dillon, as ever on his black, rode beside her. Other than meeting her eyes, exchanging one powerful, very direct glance, he'd merely turned to ride beside her, on the outside of the group. No smile; his face could have been granite, his expression carved from stone. He was dressed for a day at the track. His role was, as himself, to watch over every stage in the execution of their plan, and if something went awry, to step in and wield his authority to deflect attention as required.

At their final meeting last night, he'd briefly outlined what they—meaning he—would do once Belle was safely exchanged and in place. While for the rest of them, their active roles ended at that point, his continued, at least until Belle's race was run.

They clopped slowly along; Pris struggled to drag air into her lungs—it felt like a lead weight was pressing on her chest. She felt compelled to try to look every way at once, watching for Harkness or Cromarty even though she knew both had retreated to the Rigby farm last night and were unlikely to appear for at least another hour.

Dillon had had stable lads and grooms out and about all day yesterday, keeping watch on those whose movements they'd needed to know. It had been a piece of luck that Harkness had gone out to check on Blistering Belle yesterday at noon, before returning to the track; that had left them free to bring Belle down to the Cynster stud by a circuitous route during the afternoon, train her on the private track under Flick's expert eye, then walk her across to the Hillgate End stables, where she'd spent the night.