What Price Love?

10

Pris returned to the world, warm, sated, indescribably content, and feeling strangely secure.

Dillon must have carried her to the armchair opposite the bookcase; her legs, still boneless, had certainly not supported her over the requisite yards. Slumped in the chair, he was cradling her in his lap, gently, as if she were fine porcelain.

She felt fine indeed, the glory of their joining still golden in her veins, yet despite the sensual lassitude that dragged at her body, she felt mentally energized, alert.

Expectant.

Their clothes were neat again, she presumed by his doing, for which she was grateful. Before she could gather sufficient strength to wriggle around to face him, his chest, behind her shoulders, rose and fell. His breath brushed her ear in a sigh.

“The information in the register is used in many ways.” He spoke quietly, evenly. “Breeders use it-they request information on horses they’re considering using as sires or dams. It’s also used to track changes in ownership, as well as constituting the official race record-the wins and loses, the races run-for every registered horse.”

He paused, then went on, “The information is also used to verify the identity of all placegetters in races run under Jockey Club rules.”

She remembered what Rus had said in his letter-a racket run in Newmarket that somehow involved the register. Rus must have learned more, something that had made him leave Cromarty’s stable and try to get a look at the register.

Dillon had told her the register’s description was used to prevent “falsifying” winners. How did one “falsify” a winning horse?

She recalled the columns she’d recently perused, the countless details contained in each entry. Where in all that did the essential clue lie?

Dillon shifted; leaning on the opposite arm of the chair he studied her face. She felt his gaze but didn’t meet it. Did the racket Harkness was running center on breeding, racing-or did it involve falsifying winners?

“It would be easier if you told me what, exactly, you need to know.”

The quiet statement had her meeting Dillon’s dark eyes. He held her gaze steadily, and simply waited. He didn’t press, wasn’t pressing her; to her heightened senses, he seemed resigned.

She drew a breath, then stated as evenly as he, “I need to know how the register’s information can be used illegally.”

He didn’t move, yet she felt his reaction. Steel infused and hardened the muscles beneath her, turned the chest against which she rested to stone. The dark eyes that held her widening ones contained an implacability she hadn’t seen in him before.

For a moment, Dillon struggled to find words, in the end simply said, “I can’t tell you that.” His voice had flattened, grown hard. “But-”

He swallowed the unequivocal order he’d been about to utter, fought and succeeded in slamming a door on his too-violent response, succeeded in finding some degree of warrior calm. He’d known she was connected with some scam; probability had argued it was the current horse substitution one. Bad enough. That someone had shot at her had made matters worse. But to have her confirm that she was walking into the situation blind-knowingly blind-determined to protect her Irishman…!

He felt like roaring but knew better. Holding his roiling, welling emotions in check, holding her gaze, he refashioned his approach. “What ever it is you-and that Irishman-are involved in, it’s serious. Deadly serious.”

Telling her of Collier’s death, warning her that involving herself would bring her to the attention of whoever had murdered the breeder wouldn’t be wise; she’d only grow more desperate to protect her friend. But just thinking of some murderer turning his attention her way sent a surge of well-nigh-ungovernable protectiveness rushing through him.

“This is madness.” Even to his ears, his tone sounded harsh. Jettisoning wisdom, he cupped her chin in one hand; eyes narrow, he captured hers. “Some man shot at you-it was pure luck he failed to kill you! There’s other evidence those involved in this scam have already resorted to murder.” Releasing her chin, he gripped her upper arm; battling the urge to shake her, he forcefully stated, “You have to tell me what’s going on-what you know, and who’s involved.”

She stared at him; in the faint light from the distant lamp, he couldn’t read her eyes. But then she looked down, at his hand clamped about her arm.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he forced his fingers to unwrap, to let her go.

Looking away, she cleared her throat, then in a sudden burst of action, she pushed up and out of his lap.

He swore, had to fight not to grab her and haul her back as she quickly put distance between them.

The action-its implications-whipped his roiling, not entirely rational emotions to new heights. He had to sit for an instant, force his body to stillness to regain some semblance of control before, jaw clenched to hold back an unprecedented urge to roar, he rose and followed her to the desk.

Stalking in her wake, he reminded himself that she didn’t yet know she was his.

She stopped before the desk, in the same spot where they’d so recently come together. She ran her fingers lightly across the open register. “Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank you for showing me-” He cut off the sarcastic, bitter words, but not before she’d caught his meaning.

The look she bent on him was reproving, and faintly, so faint he wasn’t even sure of it except in his heart, hurt.

Just the suggestion slew his temper, deflated it. “I’m sorry. That was…”

“Uncouth.”

He muttered an oath, then raked a hand through his hair-something he’d never before done in his life. He had to resist the urge to clutch the thick locks. “How can I convince you that this is too dangerous?” Lowering his arm, he met her gaze. “That you have to tell me what’s going on before whoever’s behind it finds you?”

Folding her arms, Pris frowned at him. “You can stop swearing at me for a start.” Rounding the desk, she halted behind it and faced him across it. “If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re saying is true-that it is dangerous, and that I should tell you all. But…”

She watched the hardness reclaim his face; his expression grew stony and distant.

“But there’s someone else involved, and you still don’t trust me.”

He’d spoken with his habitual cool and even delivery. She looked at him, and equally evenly stated, “There’s someone else involved-and I need to think things through.”

Her tone declared she was not going to be swayed by any arguments, physical, cerebral, or emotional.

For several heartbeats, they remained with gazes locked, the desk and the open register-and the memory of what had so-recently transpired-filling the space between them, then he sighed and waved her to him. “Leave the register. We’d better get back to Lady Helmsley’s.”

He saw her out of the back door, then went out of the front door for the benefit of the guards. Circling the building, he rejoined her, and they headed for the wood.

She refused to let him carry her; sending him before her, she hiked up her skirts and followed at his heels. She traversed the wood without sustaining any damage; dropping her skirts, she stepped out into the weak moonlight. Side by side, they crossed the open expanse, then slipped into the Helmsleys’ gardens.

He touched her arm. “We should go back via the terrace.”

So they’d appear to have been strolling the gardens. She nodded, and let him guide her; they followed a graveled path to the terrace.

Climbing the steps, she frowned. She couldn’t see how the details in the register could have helped Rus, let alone how they might help her find him and save him.

Halting at the top of the steps, Dillon drew the delicate hand he’d held since they’d reached the gardens through his arm. He met her gaze as it rose to his face. “When are you going to tell me?”

The most urgent question he needed answered.

Her expression remained defiant. “After I’ve thought about it.”

Holding her gaze, he forced himself to incline his head, a gesture of acceptance entirely at odds with his inclinations.

He led her to the French doors left open to the night. There were other couples taking the air; he doubted any had missed them enough to view their return as anything out of the ordinary. Together, they stepped into the ballroom, back under the chandeliers’ lights.

Beside him, she cleared her throat and drew her hand from his arm. “Thank you for an enjoyable excursion, Mr. Caxton.”

Instinctively, his fingers had followed her retreating ones; grasping her hand, he captured her gaze, raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed. Looking into her eyes, he let her, for one instant, see the man within. “Think quickly.”

Her eyes widened, but then she arched her brows haughtily, slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and, head high, moved away into the crowd.

He waited until Lady Fowles’s party quit Helmsley House, then made his farewells to Lady Helmsley and left.

He drove home through the night, turning over all she’d said, reliving all he’d felt, all she made him feel…he was grateful neither Demon nor Flick had attended the party. Both knew him well enough to detect the change in him whenever Pris hove on his horizon; he was in no good mood to bear with Demon’s too-knowing ribbing, let alone Flick’s matchmaking instincts becoming aroused.

Just the thought made him shudder. With every year she spent at the feet of the older Cynster ladies, her innate tendencies grew worse.

On reaching Hillgate End, he saw a light glowing in his study. Driving to the stable, he learned that Barnaby had returned an hour ago, and subsequently a footman had been sent to fetch Demon, who had arrived fifteen minutes before.

Leaving his horses to the stableman’s care, he walked swiftly to the house. He made his way to the front hall; crossing the tiled expanse, his heels ringing on the flags, he glanced at the wide window at the rear of the hall, the small square panes dating from Elizabethan times, those set along the top bearing the family crest.

Caxtons had been here for centuries, had been a part of local life for all that time; uncles and cousins had moved away, but the principal branch had sent its roots deep and remained. He felt the connection as he always did when he passed the window. Looking ahead, he walked on to his study.

He opened the door on an unexpected sight. Not just Barnaby and Demon, but his father, too, was waiting.

The General was ensconced in a chair angled before the fire, a warm rug over his knees. Demon sat back from the blaze, facing the hearth in a straight-backed chair, while Barnaby had claimed the other armchair.

“Sir.” With a nod to his sire, Dillon closed the door, relieved to see the color in his father’s cheeks and the alert gleam in his eyes. His mind was still sharp, but his strength was waning. To night, however, he seemed in fine fettle.

Fetching another straight-backed chair, he set it down and sat. “I take it there’s news.” He looked at Barnaby. “What did you learn?”

Barnaby was unusually sober. “First, Collier was murdered, but we’ll never get proof of it. He was found at the bottom of a quarry with his neck broken. He fell from the top, and as his horse came racing home in a lather with the saddle loose, it was assumed that something had spooked the horse while he’d been riding the cliff, and he’d been thrown.

“However, Collier was an excellent horse man. The horse was a strong, well-broken, even-tempered hack, one he habitually rode. Both the lad who saddled the horse, and the stable master who was present when Collier mounted, swear the girths were tight, that there was nothing wrong with either horse or tack. Most importantly, both thought Collier rode out to meet someone. Nothing specific said, but it wasn’t the usual time he rode, the horse didn’t need the exercise, and Collier seemed preoccupied.”

“What time of day was this?” Demon asked.

“A little before three o’clock. I eventually found three people who’d seen another rider head up to the quarry. None saw him with Collier, but unless someone was in the quarry itself, or on the cliffs, if Collier met with someone there, no one could have seen them.”

Dillon stirred. “So the quarry was the perfect venue for a secret meeting.”

“The perfect venue,” the General put in, “for murder unobserved.”

“Except for those three who saw the other rider at a distance,” Barnaby said, “but none could give me any description other than he wore a long coat and rode well.”

“Did you search for any visitor to the area?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby’s sharp grin flashed. “That’s what took so long. Reasoning the man might be Collier’s unknown partner”-he nodded at Demon-“whose existence you predicted, I spoke with Collier’s solicitor. Collier had been on the ropes last year, but was saved by a sudden injection of cash-he said the loan was from a friend. After Collier’s death, the solicitor waited for the loan to be called in, but there was no attempt to claim the money. The sum was sizable, but Collier had had an excellent run with the bookmakers over the spring, and there was plenty in his kitty when he died.”

“Is that so?” Dillon exchanged a glance with Demon, then looked at Barnaby. “What did you learn about this benefactor?”

Barnaby sank back in the armchair. “Other than that he’s a gentleman? Precious little. Assuming he’d ridden a hired nag, I called at all the local stables. Only one had hired a horse that day, but other than describing the man as a London ‘gent,’ all they could tell me was that he was about as tall as I am, dark-haired, slightly heavier build, spoke like a ‘gent,’ dressed like a ‘gent,’ but was older, although how much older they couldn’t say.”

Dejected, Barnaby sighed. “With only that to go on, I can’t see any prospect of finding this ‘London gent.’ I found the inn at which he ate dinner before driving a team of post-horses south, heading down the London road.”

“His carriage?” Dillon asked.

“Hired from a large posting inn,” Barnaby replied. “No chance they’ll remember him.”

Demon was frowning. “How much was the loan?”

“The solicitor wouldn’t say, but admitted it was more than ten thousand pounds.”

“Great heavens!” The General’s eyes widened. “Imagine…”

“Interesting,” Demon drawled. “That might give us a trail to follow.”

Barnaby frowned. “How so?”

“Because money, my fine lad, comes from somewhere. No one has ten thousand pounds sitting in his dresser. If you wanted to give someone ten thousand pounds, how would you do it?”

Still puzzled, Barnaby replied, “I’d write a bank draft…” His eyes widened. “Ah.”

“Indeed.” Demon nodded. “And we know just the person to track the transaction, if it’s traceable.”

“Gabriel Cynster?”

“Not just Gabriel.” Dillon had worked closely with Gabriel over the past decade. “He has contacts that would make you salivate-and give your father nightmares.”

Barnaby instantly revived. “How fascinating.” A moment later, he said, “I rather think I’ll head down to London tomorrow. Gabriel’s there, isn’t he?”

Demon grimaced. “At this time of year, he most definitely will be. The balls are starting up again. If you promise not to mention that horrifying fact in front of Flick, I’ll write a note giving Gabriel Collier’s background, and what we need to know-stop by tomorrow morning and pick it up.”

“Excellent!” Barnaby looked around their small circle. “I’d thought we’d lost the scent, but it looks like the hounds are off again.”

Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. They all rose. Demon took his leave of them and headed home. With renewed vigor, Barnaby headed upstairs to get some sleep; taking his father’s arm, Dillon followed more slowly.

His father glanced at him as they stepped onto the landing. “And how did your evening go?”

Dillon considered as they climbed the second flight. Gaining the gallery, he answered truthfully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Pris woke late the next morning. Lying in her bed staring unseeing at the sun-dappled ceiling, she logically and carefully, without letting emotion cloud her judgment, considered what she knew and what she had to do.

She had to save Rus. She had to find him and help him get free of Harkness and what ever else threatened.

Regardless of all else, the impulse to find and rescue her twin was unwavering; recent events had only made the need more desperate, more urgent.

She’d fixed her hopes on the register. She’d naïvely supposed that seeing it would instantly reveal what scheme Rus had stumbled on, that she would see some connection between that and where he was hiding, or at least where to look for him, what he would be pursuing.

Instead…

She heaved a dispirited sigh. Beyond confirming that the register did indeed contain details pertinent to racing swindles, there’d been so many details, of so many different types; it hadn’t occurred to her until she’d read the entries just how many ways there might be to fiddle a race.

Disappointment dragged at her, but her failure wasn’t the sole source of her escalating worry. Since her arrival in Newmarket, the situation had deteriorated-or rather, she’d learned how bad it truly was. Initially, it had been possible to view Rus going into hiding as one step up from a lark. But Rus wasn’t a child; years of responsibility had matured him-if he was in hiding, it was for some compelling reason, no lark.

And Harkness…that he’d shot at her thinking she was Rus proved Rus was still about, still unharmed, but, as Dillon had forcefully pointed out, Harkness had shot to kill. Until last night, she’d managed to push that knowledge to the back of her mind, disregard it in her push to view the register.

After her success-crowned-by-failure last night, after all Dillon had let fall, she could no longer refuse to face the grim reality.

Dillon was right-this game was dangerous.

Replaying his words, hearing his tone, she grimaced, and amended that thought. This game was dangerous on more than one front.

She’d become involved with him as a means to see the register, yet in reality, Rus’s difficulties had played only a minor role in landing her in Dillon’s arms. However, now that she’d landed there, more than once, her relationship with Dillon was going to make things difficult.

Last night, she’d seen something in his eyes, had heard-very clearly-a tone in his voice that had instantly made her wary. Perhaps it was being the eldest in the family, equal with Rus-a male no one imagined anyone owned-that had made her from her earliest years totally inimical to the notion of being a man’s anything. Not a chattel, not a possession. Many wanted to view her that way; her beauty was something men coveted much as they might a work of art. She was a work of nature they wanted to own, to have in their homes to look at and feel smug that it was theirs. But not even her father “owned” her, nor could he control her, because she’d never ceded him the right.

But Dillon…

She sighed even more heavily, then stretched beneath the sheets. Sensual memory stirred; she closed her eyes, and could almost feel his hands on her body, feel him inside her.

Her mind filled in the rest, the emotional color, the niggling uncertainty over how he saw her, what he thought of her and her reasons for giving herself to him-what she’d allowed him to believe…

She couldn’t afford to let emotions distract her. Frowning, she moved on to the words they’d later exchanged. Did all men like him think they owned a lady once they’d slept with her, once she’d allowed them to…?

Was there some unwritten rule she’d never heard of?

With a snort, she opened her eyes and tossed back the covers. Standing, she shook down her nightgown, and headed for the washstand.

If Dillon harbored any thoughts of owning her, of controlling her, he would learn his error soon enough. Meanwhile, she was going to have to tell him all and engage his help on Rus’s behalf. The decision stood plainly in her mind; she hadn’t had to think hard to reach it.

She’d run herself to a standstill; she had no idea which way to turn to find her twin, and that remained her principal aim. She’d put her trust in the register, and that had proved no help, but Dillon…he would know. He would help. He was the right person to tell.

Aside from all else, given what she’d seen in his eyes, heard in his voice last night, if she didn’t tell him, and soon, he was liable to act-as men of his ilk were so fond of doing. If he thought to appeal to Eugenia…

She hadn’t told anyone about Harkness shooting at her. If Dillon told Eugenia of the dangers Rus and she, too, now faced, Eugenia would be horrified and would certainly insist she speak to the authorities.

In this case, as far as she could tell, Dillon was “the authorities.” She owed her aunt a great deal and was sincerely fond of her; it was only right she spare Eugenia the unsettling distress and speak to Dillon herself.

Her maid had already brought her washing water; Pris splashed her face, mopped it dry, then went to the armoire. Opening the double doors wide, she surveyed her wardrobe. And considered, the full circumstances being what they were, what gown she should don to most effectively deal with her lover.

Please tell Mr. Caxton that Miss Dalling wishes to speak with him.”

The clerk behind the reception desk in the foyer of the Jockey Club stared at her, then surged to his feet and bowed. “Yes, of course, miss.” He bobbed again. “At once.”

He started backing away, then, blushing, tore his eyes from her and hurried down the corridor leading to Dillon’s office.

Pris inwardly sighed; crossing her hands over the head of her parasol, the tip resting on the tiles before her feet, head high, she pretended to be oblivious of the doorman, still staring, and the other clerks who, bustling past on various errands, stumbled in their headlong rush when they set eyes on her.

Yes, she’d dressed to kill in a gown of crisp, vertical black-and-white stripes, highlighted with thin gold stripes, with a scooped neckline and ruffled hem, and a ruffled black parasol, but her intended victim was a great deal less susceptible than the norm. Indeed, she wasn’t sure he was susceptible at all.

She didn’t have to wait long to find out; Dillon strode around the corner, the clerk in his wake.

“Miss Dalling.” With not the slightest indication he even noticed her attire, he took the hand she offered, bowed over it, then waved to the front door. “Come-let’s stroll.”

Futile to gnash her teeth at his immunity to feminine wiles. She spoke quietly, aware of the clerk slipping back behind his desk. “Given the subject I wish to speak of, I would feel more comfortable discussing it in your office.”

Dillon trapped her eyes, equally quietly stated, “To keep our meeting and its subject from anyone connected with racing, we should cast our interaction as purely social.”

She held his gaze, swiftly debated. While she remained in town, she risked being seen by Harkness or Cromarty. She’d had Patrick drive her there in a hired closed carriage; he was waiting outside. Neither she nor he had thought it at all wise for her to appear on the High Street.

And here was Dillon proposing precisely that.

She opened her mouth to insist she could only speak in his office.

He murmured, “At this time of day, the coffee room”-with his head he indicated a corridor leading in the opposite direction to his office-“is full of owners and trainers, many not members of the club itself, but who use its amenities. Luckily, they use another entrance. However, the clerks going back and forth are often dealing with those in the coffee room. If I take you to my office, that fact will spread like wildfire via the clerks to the coffee room. Speculation will run rife as to what club business you’ve come to discuss.”

He quietly added, “If I stroll out with you, the clerks won’t gossip-they’ll assume our meeting is personal, and therefore of no interest to them.”

Slowly, she nodded. “There are two people-an owner and a trainer-who mustn’t see me. Can we stroll somewhere they’d be unlikely to go?”

He nodded. “Come on.”

They left the building; descending the shallow steps, Pris unfurled her parasol, as she did indicating the carriage and Patrick, visible through the trees flanking the path. Dillon looked, then took her arm. “This way.”

He led her away from the club, parallel to the High Street, but in the opposite direction to the Helmsleys’. The wood on that side had been thinned; it was easy to stroll beneath the trees. On some, the leaves were turning, golden and russet amid the green, summer giving way to autumn.

The wood ended at a graveled path running behind a series of properties. Dillon turned away from the High Street.

Pris relaxed. “This doesn’t look like the sort of area the racing fraternity frequent.”

“It isn’t. This is the residential area where the townsfolk live.” He indicated a space between properties farther along the path. “That’s a small park-we can talk there without risk of being observed or overheard.”

The park was neat and quiet, a place where well-to-do merchants’ and guildmasters’ nannies could take their charges. An oval pond stood at its center, while birches bordered both sides. The flagstone path wended around sections of lawn and between occasional flower beds. It was clearly a place apart from the central industry of the town, the racing folk, and all the associated visitors.

Dillon guided her to a wooden seat set beneath one of the birches. Pris sat and drew in her skirts.

As Dillon sat beside her, high-pitched voices and gurgling laughter drew her gaze to three young children tumbling on the lawn nearby, under the benevolent eye of a nanny. The children-a girl and two boys-reminded Pris of herself, Rus, and Albert when they’d been just as young and exuberant.

Just as innocent.

It seemed the right moment to say, “The Irishman who tried to break into your office was my twin brother, Rus.”

Dillon’s gaze touched her face; when she didn’t meet it, he murmured, “Russell Dalling.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. She and Rus often used Dalling when they wanted to conceal their identity; if someone called him Dalling, he’d respond. There seemed little sense in unnecessarily involving the family name, the earldom, and even less their father in what ever was to come. “I came to England, to Newmarket, looking for Rus.”

Opening her reticule, she drew out the letter she’d received before leaving Ireland. “I got this.” Handing it to Dillon, she watched him unfold it and read. “But even before that…”

She recounted the entire story with few omissions, concealing only the family name. Her tale ended with her hopes for the register, for what it would reveal, now dashed. “So.” She drew in a breath. “I have no alternative but to tell you all, and hope you can make better sense of the pieces of the jigsaw than I can.” Her fingers clenched on her parasol’s handle. “Above all, I have to find Rus.”

Turning her head, she met Dillon’s gaze, unsurprised to find it hard and unforgiving.

“You should have told me all before-from the first.”

The words were condemnatory, bitten off; she raised her brows and stared him down. “I would have if it hadn’t involved Rus. I would never willingly do anything that might harm him.”

Slowly he raised his brows back. “So what made you change your mind?”

His voice had lowered; for an instant, the sensual undercurrents between them surged and lapped.

She ignored them and simply stated, “When I first met you, I had no idea whether you would understand that Rus was innocent of any crime, but might have become unintentionally involved. I couldn’t risk simply telling you and hoping for the best. So I had to try to find him myself. I’ve tried everything, followed any and every clue that might tell me where he is, and what threatens him. But I haven’t been able to find him, and…”

His eyes narrowed even more. “And Harkness shot at you.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then muttered an expletive and looked away. “Harkness thought you were your brother. That’s why he shot at you-and that means that as far as Harkness is concerned, Rus is still close, and needs to be eliminated.”

Lips thinning, she nodded. “Yes.” And Harkness shot at me wasn’t what she’d been about to say, but if he didn’t need to hear that she’d come to trust him, that would do.

Dillon leaned back against the seat. “Tell me all you know of Cromarty and Harkness.”

She related their backgrounds, stressing that she had to avoid them. “If they see me, they’ll know they can track Rus through me, that if they just watch me, then eventually either Rus will find me, or I’ll find him.”

Dillon’s blood ran cold as another alternative blossomed in his brain. An alternative Harkness and Cromarty could well be, or become, sufficiently desperate to employ. If they took Pris hostage…she’d left Ireland, traveled to Newmarket, had even given herself to him in order to find her twin; wouldn’t Russell Dalling do as much?

Dillon was aware of the special link between twins; he’d observed it often enough with Amanda and Amelia, the Cynster twins. If Cromarty and Harkness wanted Russell Dalling, all they had to do was seize Pris.

Abruptly, he sat up. “You’re right. The first thing we have to do is locate your brother.”

She blinked. “I’m fairly certain he’s still close.”

Grasping her hand, he stood and drew her to her feet, aware his expression was tending grim. “In that case, he’s still close. Come on.”

Winding her arm with his, he started toward the front of the park, where it gave onto one of the main side streets. “We’re going to have to risk crossing the High Street, but the chances of running into Cromarty or Harkness at this hour around here are low.”

She glanced at him. “Where are we going?”

“To the lending library. Their map is the best in town.”