What Price Love?

7

You’re absolutely sure?” Seated in an armchair in Demon’s study, Dillon stared at Barnaby; he didn’t know what to think.

Earlier that afternoon, Barnaby had returned from London, found him in his office, and insisted on dragging him out to the Cynster stud to share his discoveries simultaneously with Demon and Flick.

Perched on the window seat, Barnaby nodded. “No question at all-Vane and I had the same story from different sources. The spring races the rumors concerned were the New Plate at Goodwood, and the Cadbury Stakes at Doncaster, and in both cases, the losses were sustained on runners from the same stable-horses whose runs were completely inconsistent with their previous form. That stable is Collier’s, near Grantham.”

Seated behind his desk, Flick as usual perched on the arm of his chair, Demon looked at Dillon. “Collier’s dead.”

His gaze still on Barnaby, Dillon nodded. “Yes. I know.”

Barnaby’s face fell. “Dead?” He looked from Dillon to Demon.

“Definitely,” Demon said. “It created quite a stir. Collier was well-known. He’d been in the business for decades and had some fine horses. Apparently he was riding by a local quarry, something spooked his horse, and he was thrown down the quarry cliff. His neck was broken.” Demon looked at Dillon. “What happened to the stable? Who inherited?”

“His daughter. She had no interest in the stable or the horses-she sold them off. I saw the paperwork crossing my clerks’ desks.”

“Who bought them-any particular party?”

“Most went in singles or pairs to different stables.”

Demon frowned. “No mention of a partner?”

Dillon studied Demon’s face. “No. Why?”

“Collier got into difficulties at the end of the autumn season last year-he bet on some of his own runners and lost heavily. I’d wondered if he’d be racing again, but after the winter break he returned, not only with no cuts to his string, but with two very classy new runners.”

“Not Catch-the-wind and Irritable?” Barnaby asked. “Those were the horses involved in the suspect races.”

Demon described the two horses; Dillon agreed to check. He looked at Barnaby. “Was there any suggestion the horses were stopped-that the jockeys held them back?”

“No. All those complaining seemed certain the jockeys did their best-they didn’t want to implicate them, but couldn’t see how else it was done.”

Demon and Dillon exchanged a look. “How it was done,” Dillon said, “we can guess. Who benefited is the question.”

“Actually,” Demon said, “the first question might be: how did Collier die? Was it an accident, or…”

“Or given the rumors”-Dillon’s voice hardened-“and the likelihood someone would eventually look into them, as we are, was Collier silenced?”

“Silenced? Why?” Barnaby asked.

“So he couldn’t implicate whoever had funded the substitutions,” Flick replied.

Barnaby looked puzzled. Flick explained, “The other way to fix a race and make a great deal of money is to run a particular horse that does well until it establishes a sound reputation-excellent form-and then, for one race, switch another horse for it. Your ‘favorite’ then loses. After the race, you switch the real horse back. By the time any inquiry is afoot and the stewards think to examine the horse that unexpectedly lost, it’s the right horse, and there’s no evidence of any wrongdoing.”

Barnaby nodded. “But why couldn’t it just have been Collier behind it, with his death an accident as presently thought?”

“Because,” Dillon said, “finding substitute horses is expensive. They have to be specific matches, and Thoroughbreds as well.”

“So,” Flick said, “if Collier was hard-pressed, there must have been someone else involved.”

“More”-Demon caught Barnaby’s eye-“someone had to have bailed Collier out.”

Barnaby’s brows rose. “On condition he train and race-and arrange, however it’s done-the substitutions?”

Dillon nodded. “That seems likely.”

“I see.” Barnaby looked at Demon, then Dillon. “It looks like a visit to Grantham should be my next jaunt.”

Dillon rose. “I’ll get the details of Collier’s stable from the register, and we can check that the horses Demon remembers were the suspect runners. When are you thinking of leaving?”

“There’s a ball at Lady Swalesdale’s to night.” Standing, Flick shook out her skirts. “I’m sure her ladyship would be delighted to have you join us.”

“Ah…” Barnaby looked at her, then Dillon. “I’ll be off north at first light. I’ll need to spell my horses. I rather think I’ll give Lady Swalesdale’s a miss.”

Demon coughed to hide a laugh.

Flick leveled a severe glance at Barnaby.

Dillon scoffed, “Coward.”

Barnaby grinned. “You’re just sorry you can’t escape, too.”

In that, Barnaby had been wrong; Dillon hadn’t been interested in escaping Lady Swalesdale’s ball. Quite the opposite-he’d been looking forward to observing the lovely Miss Dalling coping with her smitten swains. If he was any judge of her temper, they’d soften her up nicely-for him.

Leaning against the wall of an alcove, concealed by the shadows cast by a large palm, he watched Priscilla Dalling captivate-and, whenever she noticed him watching, flirt with-a tribe of local gentlemen, one and all besotted by her bounteous charms.

While he appreciated the picture she made in her lavender silk gown with its keyhole neckline that, far from being decorous, drew attention even more provocatively to the deep valley between her breasts, while his eyes drank in the sleek yet curvaceous figure her well-cut gown so lovingly revealed, while his gaze was drawn to the exposed curve of her nape, to the vulnerable line highlighted by the black curls cascading from the knot on her head to bob seductively alongside one ear, it wasn’t her physical beauty that held his interest.

She did. The animation in her face, the grace with which she moved, the laugh he occasionally heard over the rumble of voices, the life he sensed within her.

Beauty had never meant much to him-it was just the outer casing. What was inside mattered more. When he looked at her, he saw a fiery spirit, a feminine reflection of himself. It was that that lured him, that drew him to her.

He continued to watch cynically as she dealt with her admirers. The outcome of her flirting was already trying her temper-serve her right. The gentlemen were a boon in his eyes; they had her corralled; she couldn’t slip from his sight without them giving warning.

Two days had passed since he’d encountered her racing for her very life over the Heath. Two days since he’d discovered some man had come far too close to ending her life.

The draining of all color from her face when he’d shown her the hole in her hat still haunted him. She hadn’t known how close to death she’d come.

He’d ridden his own temper hard and kept away for the rest of the day, and the next, knowing he’d meet her to night. He’d seen her at a distance in town; since he’d escorted her back to the Carisbrook house, she’d left it only in the company of her aunt and Miss Blake. No one had come to visit her, and she hadn’t slipped away to any illicit meeting; he’d had four of his stable lads on special duty, watching the house day and night.

Through the palm fronds, he studied her face-the set of her chin, her eyes-and decided she hadn’t yet softened enough for his purpose. It wasn’t yet time to offer her an escape.

He’d left Barnaby armed with the direction of Collier’s stable, east of Grantham. They’d confirmed Collier’s classy new runners had been the horses involved in the suspect races. Over dinner, Barnaby had remembered to mention that Vane had stumbled on similar whispers about a race run at Newmarket a few weeks before, early in the autumn season.

That had been most unwelcome news. Vane and Gabriel were hunting for more details.

The earlier suspect races had been at Goodwood and Doncaster, under Jockey Club rules, true, but not the same as a race at Newmarket, run under the Club’s collective nose. If it was part of the same scheme, the perpetrators were arrogant and cocksure. And there would almost certainly be more to come.

Dillon knew the scheme wasn’t targeted at him personally, yet as the Keeper of the Breeding Register and Stud Book, the office responsible for the verification of horses’ identities, the scheme was a direct challenge to his authority. More, the Committee had asked him to investigate and deal with the problem, setting said problem squarely in his lap. His past indiscretion, even if now history, only compounded the pressure.

The scheme might not have been conceived with a personal aspect, yet for him it had assumed one; he felt as if he were facing an as-yet-unsighted enemy who had a lethal arrow nocked and aimed at him-he had to cut the bowstring before the arrow could be loosed.

He refocused on Pris Dalling. Far from being on the side of his enemy, he was convinced she was presently standing somewhere in the mists between him and the opposition.

A moment passed, then he stirred, impatient to act, wishing she’d dismiss all the others and come his way.

She started edging from her admirers. He straightened. Watching more intently, he noted her sudden nervousness, the way she sidled to keep the shoulders of her attentive swains between her and someone farther up the ballroom.

Dillon scanned the guests. Lady Swaledale had assembled a small multitude, all the locals of note as well as many owners who belonged to the ton. He glanced again at Pris; to his educated eye, panic was rising beneath her glib surface, but who was inciting it was impossible to guess.

He was about to quit his sanctuary when she acted. Brightly smiling, she dismissed two gentlemen; the instant they left, she excused herself to the remaining three-judging by the wilting hand she raised to her brow, unimaginatively claiming a sudden indisposition.

The three were disheartened, but in her hands so malleable. They bowed; with what Dillon knew would be perfectly sincere thanks, she left them and headed his way.

She walked purposefully, casting swift, sharp glances up the room, taking good care to remain screened from that direction. She drew near the alcove, then to his surprise, stepped into the shadowed opening, simultaneously beckoning a nearby footman to attend her.

The footman came hurrying to bow before her. “Ma’am-miss?’

“I’m Miss Dalling. I wish you to take a message to my aunt, Lady Fowles. She’s seated on a chaise at the top of the room. She’s wearing a pale green gown and has ostrich feathers in her hair. Tell Lady Fowles that I’ve been called away and am returning home. I would rather she remain and enjoy the evening-she shouldn’t return early on my account. Please convey that to her immediately.”

Pris listened while the footman repeated the message, and nodded.

“Do you wish me to summon your carriage, miss?”

“No, thank you. Just deliver my message.” She bestowed a brilliant smile on the footman; he bowed and all but charged off on his quest. She glanced up the room, drew in a breath, and slipped out of the shadows.

Quickly, as unobtrusively as she could, she tacked through the guests at this end of the room and slipped out through a secondary door. The corridor beyond was presently empty, but the ball was barely an hour old; guests were still trickling in through the main ballroom doors farther down the corridor, near the front hall.

Those main ballroom doors were propped wide; she couldn’t risk walking past them-couldn’t risk Lord Cromarty seeing her. The last glimpse she’d had of him he’d been standing with a group of similar gentlemen, unfortunately facing those doors.

Until he’d walked in, it hadn’t occurred to her that in going about in Newmarket society she risked meeting him. Cromarty had met her, exchanged a few words with her; Rus had been with her at the time, less than a year ago.

There were drawbacks to being so physically notable; it made her very recognizable. She couldn’t risk Cromarty getting even a glimpse.

She hadn’t forgotten a single word of Rus’s letter; if he’d found anything untoward in what Harkness was doing, Rus would have gone to Cromarty. While she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions regarding Cromarty, neither was she willing to endanger Rus by letting Cromarty know she was there.

If Cromarty was involved, he’d know she’d either find Rus, or he’d find her. All Cromarty needed to do was watch her, and eventually he’d have Rus.

Partly hidden by a tall lamp, she hovered in the hallway until another footman crossed to the ballroom. Stepping into plain sight, she beckoned imperiously. “My cape, if you please. It’s lavender velvet, waist-length, with gold frogging.”

The footman blushed, stammered, but quickly fetched the cape. She allowed him to set it about her shoulders, then dismissed him, giving the impression she was waiting for someone.

The instant the footman passed into the ballroom, she turned and hurried down the corridor, away from the ballroom and its lurking danger, deeper into the body of the house.

At the end of the corridor, she found a secondary staircase; descending to the ground floor, she peered out of a window and saw a side garden with paved paths leading away toward a band of trees.

Swaledale Hall was only a mile or so from the Carisbrook house. She knew the direction; the moon was rising, shedding enough light for her to see her way.

Who knew? She might even bump into Rus; she knew her twin was out there somewhere. Alone.

The thought cut at her. Finding a door to the garden, she pushed it open and stepped outside.

She glanced around, but there was no one else about. Closing the door, she took her bearings. A cool breeze ruffled the creeper that grew on the walls. Selecting the most likely path from the five that led from the door, she set out, walking along the silvered flagstones toward the shelter of the trees.

In the open, less than halfway to the trees, a sudden premonition that there was someone behind her washed like an icy wave down her spine.

Even while her mind was reassuring her that she was imagining things, she was turning to look.

At the man who was sauntering silently in her wake.

A scream rose to her throat-she struggled to swallow it as the moonlight revealed who he was.

Her relief was so profound, she fleetingly closed her eyes-then snapped them open; she’d stopped walking-he hadn’t.

He eventually halted with a single pace between them.

By then her temper had flown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, following me? And, what’s more, in a manner guaranteed to scare me out of my wits!”

What wits were left to her; at least half were fully occupied drinking in his presence-the width of his shoulders, the lean tautness of his chest, the long, strong lines of his rider’s legs, his brand of masculine grace even more pronounced when cloaked in the crisp black-and-white of evening dress. A lock of dark hair showed ink black against his forehead; in the sharp contrast created by the moonlight, he appeared a dark and dangerous creature, one conjured from her deepest fantasies and rendered in hot muscle and steel.

He was tempting enough in daylight; in the light of the moon, he was sin personified.

Her accusations had sounded shrill, even to her ears.

He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

If she’d thought he was laughing at her, she’d have verbally flayed him, but there was sincerity in his tone, a touch of honesty she knew was real. She humphed and crossed her arms. With effort refrained from tapping her toe while she waited for him to say something, or better still, turn around and leave her.

When he simply stood there, looking down at her, she hauled in a breath, nodded regally, and swung around once more. “I’ll bid you a good night, Mr. Caxton.”

She started walking.

From behind her, she heard a sigh. “Dillon.”

She didn’t need to look to know he was following her.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. The Carisbrook place.”

“Why?”

She didn’t reply.

“Or”-the tenor of his voice subtly altered-“more to the point, who arrived in the ballroom that you didn’t want to meet?”

“No one.”

“Priscilla, allow me to inform you that you’re a terrible liar.”

She bit her lip, told herself he was deliberately goading her. “Whom I choose to meet is none of your damned business.”

“Actually, in this case, I suspect it is.”

They’d reached the trees. She didn’t fear him, not in the sense that he wished her harm, but she, and her nerves, were not up to the strain of marching through a dark wood with him prowling at her heels. Tempting fate was one thing-that would be madness.

Halting, head high, she turned, and tried to stare him down-difficult given she had to look up to meet his shadowed eyes. “Good night, Dillon.”

He looked down at her for a long moment-long enough for her to have to deliberately will her senses to behave-then he looked past her, toward the trees. “You do know it’s more than a mile to the Carisbrook place?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin higher. “I might prefer to ride a horse, but I’m not unaccustomed to using shank’s mare.”

His lips twitched; he glanced at her. She got the impression he was about to say something, then thought better of it. Said instead, “More than a mile cross-country. Through the fields.” He looked down all the way to her hem. “You’re going to ruin that new gown, and your slippers.”

She was, and was inwardly cursing the necessary sacrifice.

“I drove here in my curricle. Come to the stable, and I’ll get my horses put to and drive you home.”

He made the offer evenly, straightforwardly, as if it were simply the gentlemanly thing to do. She stared at his face, but couldn’t read it; the light was too weak. Crossing the fields alone in the dark, or sitting beside him in his curricle for the few minutes required to travel a mere mile-which was the more dangerous?

Eyes on his face, she willed him to promise not to bite. When he simply waited, unmoved, she stifled a sigh and inclined her head. “Thank you.”

He didn’t gloat, but elegantly waved to another path following the tree line. “We can reach the stable that way.”

She set out, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her shorter ones. He made no attempt to take her arm, for which she was grateful. Their last meeting, and the manner of their parting, was high in her mind, combining with her memories of their encounter previous to that, when he’d tried to blind her with passion. Hardly surprising that her nerves had stretched taut, and her senses were jangling.

She felt it when he glanced at her.

“Are you enjoying your stay here?”

The words were diffident; he might have been making polite conversation, yet she sensed he wasn’t.

“I’m enjoying the town well enough. It’s an interesting place.”

“And the occupants? You appear to have made quite a few conquests.”

Something in his suave tone, a hint of steely displeasure, struck a nerve. She sniffed disparagingly. “But they’re so easily conquered.”

She heard the catty dismissiveness, the underlying rancor, and inwardly sighed. “I apologize, that wasn’t fair. I daresay they’re nice enough, but…” She shrugged, and kept her gaze fixed ahead.

“But you’d rather they didn’t fall at your feet.” Cynical empathy laced the words. “No need to apologize. I understand perfectly.”

She glanced at him, but they were moving through the shadows; she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she’d seen him in the ballroom, dodging the importunings of a small army of young ladies; later he’d disappeared, and she’d known a pang of envy that she hadn’t been able to do the same.

He did understand.

That was such an odd situation, to meet a man who faced the same problem she routinely did, the same problem that drove Rus demented. As they walked through the shrouding dark, it seemed possible to ask, “Why do they do it? I’ve never understood.”

He didn’t immediately answer, but as the stable appeared before them, he softly said, “Because they don’t see us clearly. They see the glamor, and not the person.” They paused at the edge of the gravel court before the stable. Through the moonlight, he caught her gaze. “They don’t see who we are, nor what we really are, and as we’re not as inhumanly perfect as we appear, that’s a very real problem.”

A groom came out of the stable; Dillon turned his way. “Wait here. I’ll get my curricle.”

In a matter of minutes, he was handing her into a stylish equipage, drawn by a pair of blacks that took her breath away.

Oh, Rus-if only you could see…

Joining her on the box, he glanced at her; sitting beside her, he gathered the reins. “You appreciate horses.”

Not a question. “Yes. I have a brother who’s horse-mad-who lives and breathes and even dreams of horses.”

“I see.” There was a smile and real understanding in his tone. “You’ve met Flick-Felicity Cynster, my cousin. She was horse-mad from infancy, and her husband, Demon, who I’ve known as long, is even worse.” They rattled down the drive. “I don’t think you’ve met him yet.”

“No.” She hung on to the curricle’s rail as he turned out into the lane in style. “It’s a form of obsession, I think.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

The rattle of the wheels, counterpointed by the sharp clop of hooves, settled to a steady beat. The night about them was quiet and still, the breeze nothing more than a gentle caress.

“Are you going to tell me who you’re running from to night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because I can’t. Because I don’t dare. Because it isn’t my secret to share. She shifted on the seat, very conscious of him close beside her, the warm solid reality of him. His sleek elegance disguised how large he was; he was taller, broader, much heavier than she, much stronger, much more powerful.

Seated side by side on the curricle’s narrow seat, his presence surrounded her.

What she couldn’t understand was why it made her feel safe, when she knew beyond doubt that he was the biggest threat to her-to herself, to her peace of mind-that she’d ever faced.

“The man who tried to break into the Jockey Club.” She turned her head to view him as they rolled briskly along. “Have you found him yet?”

She needed to keep her mind on her goal and not allow him to distract her, to lure her to trust when it might prove too dangerous.

Dillon glanced briefly at her, then looked back at his horses. “No.” He considered the opening, decided to offer more. “He’s Irish-just like you.”

“Is he?”

She didn’t even bother to pretend she hadn’t known. He glanced at her again. She caught his gaze, opened her eyes wide. “How difficult could it be to find one Irishman in Newmarket?”

Despite her attempt to make the question a taunt, he knew it was real-she actually wanted to know.

Lips curving cynically, he looked to his horses. “As you’ve no doubt discovered, Priscilla, finding an Irishman in Newmarket is no problem at all. But finding one particular Irishman? Given the number of Irish lads and jockeys working here, let alone those over for the racing, locating any particular one is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

She didn’t reply. He shot her a glance, and found her expression serious, almost brooding.

“Who is he?” The question was out before he’d thought. She looked at him; he added, “Perhaps I could help.”

She held his gaze for an instant, then shook her head and faced forward. “I can’t tell you.”

He checked his blacks for the turn into the Carisbrook drive. At least she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t looking for some Irishman. He’d suggested brother, and she’d denied it. If not brother, then…lover?

He didn’t like the thought, but forced himself to examine it. She was gently bred, of that he was sure, but she wouldn’t be the first gentleman’s daughter to lose her heart to some charismatic horse fancier. Against that, however, stood her aunt’s involvement. Lady Fowles was simply too familiar a type of lady for him to believe she would ever be a party to Pris chasing after some dissolute, or even merely unsuitable, lover.

It came back to a brother.

Or a cousin. Flick, after all, had stood by him, had done things that even now gave him nightmares in order to help him break free.

“I was once involved in a race-fixing swindle.”

Her head swung around so fast her ringlets flew. “What?”

He met her stunned gaze, then, glancing around, slowed his horses. The drive was a long one; they were only halfway to the house. If he was going to reveal even that to persuade her to trust him, they needed somewhere to talk. If he remembered aright…

He found the track a little way along, almost grassed over. Turning the horses onto it, he set them walking.

“Where…?” She was peering ahead, over the lawn to where a line of trees crossed their path.

“Just wait.”

Guiding the blacks through the trees, he drove them up to the summer house standing beyond the end of the elongated ornamental lake before the house.

Reining in, he stepped down. Playing out the reins, he tethered the pair so they could stand and graze. The curricle rocked as Pris clambered down; he glimpsed slender ankles amid a froth of skirts.

She walked to him, puzzlement in her face. “What did you say?”

He waved to the summer house. “Let’s go inside.”

She led the way, plainly familiar with the wide, open room tucked under the domed roof. Of painted white wood, the summerhouse was simply furnished with a wicker sofa and one matching armchair, both liberally padded, placed to look down the vista of the lake to the distant house.

Pris sat in one corner of the sofa. She was not just intrigued but captured, not just eager but urgent to hear what he’d meant. And what he intended-why he’d volunteered to speak of such a thing.

But she needed to see his face, so the safety of the armchair wasn’t an option. Outside, the moonlight cast a pearly sheen, but within the summer house, it was considerably dimmer. At her wave, he sat beside her. She studied his face; she could discern his features, but not the emotions in his eyes.

“I can’t believe you-the Keeper of the Breeding Register-were ever involved in anything illicit. At least not about racing.”

He met her gaze. After a moment, asked, “Can’t you?”

It was as if he’d deliberately let his glamor fall, completely and utterly, so that she was suddenly looking at the real man, without any protective screen at all. She looked, examined; gradually it came to her.

She blew out a breath. Curling her legs, she shifted so she could fix her gaze on his face. “All right. Perhaps I can imagine it. You were wild as a youth, and-”

“Not just wild. Reckless.” He paused, his eyes steady on hers; after a moment, he asked, “Isn’t that what it takes?”

She didn’t reply.

A pregnant moment ticked by, then he faced forward, settling his shoulders against the sofa’s back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked across the smooth surface of the lake to the distant glimmer that was the house; his lips curved, not cynically but in self-deprecation.

“Wild, reckless, and game for any lark.” His tone suggested he viewed his younger self from a considerable distance, a separation in time and place. “Hedonistic, conceited, and selfish, and, naturally, immature. I had everything-name, money, every comfort. But I wanted more. No-I craved more. I needed excitement and thrills. My father tried, as fathers do, to rein me in, but in those days neither of us understood what drove the other.” He paused, then baldly stated, “I became involved in betting on cockfights, got deeply in debt, which then left me-as the only son of the wealthy Keeper of the Stud Book, a revered member of the Jockey Club-open to blackmail.”

He paused, gazing unseeing down the lake, then went on, his voice even but with darker currents rippling beneath. “They wanted me to act as a runner, organizing jockeys to hold back their mounts-a common enough scam in those days. I was just…cowardly enough to convince myself that falling in with their plan was my only choice.”

This time, his pause lasted longer, the emotions ran deeper; Pris could find no adequate words to break it, so she waited.

Eventually, he stirred and glanced briefly at her. “Flick stood by me. She got Demon to help, and together they pulled me free of it. They exposed the race-fixing racket and the gentleman behind it-and forced me to, gave me the opportunity to, grow up.”

“What happened to the cowardly streak?” When he glanced at her, she pointed out, “You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you weren’t sure you’d grown out of it.”

His teeth flashed in a brief, cynically acknowledging smile before he looked back at the lake. “The coward in me died the instant the blackguard behind the scheme pointed a pistol at Flick.” His gaze shifted over the silent water. A moment passed before he said, “It was strange-a moment when my life truly changed, when I suddenly saw what was important and what wasn’t. To have someone I loved suffer because of something I’d foolishly done…I couldn’t-absolutely and beyond question could not-face that.”

“What happened? Was she shot?”

He shook his head. “No.”

He said nothing more. She frowned, analyzing, then it came to her, like a premonition, only more certain. “You got shot instead.”

Without looking at her, he shrugged. “Only reasonable in the circumstances. I survived.”

A penance, a payment he didn’t want to discuss. She had a good idea why he’d told her what he had, and where he was steering their conversation-in a direction she didn’t want it to go. “The wild and reckless.”

She waited until he looked at her, met her eyes. “Being wild and reckless is part of your soul.” She knew that as well as she knew her own. “You can’t lose characteristics like that, so where are they now? What do you do to satisfy the craving for excitement and thrills?”

She was curious; his eyes traveled her face, and she suspected he understood. That he saw that that was a question to which she’d yet to find an answer herself.

The smile that curled the ends of his lips suggested a certain sympathy. “Back then, I wondered-feared-that I’d become addicted to gambling, but to my relief, I found that wasn’t so. I am”-he tilted his head her way in wry acknowledgment-“addicted, but to the rush of excitement, the thrill that comes with…success, I suppose. In winning, in succeeding, in beating the odds.” He glanced briefly at her. “Luckily, my addiction didn’t care in which endeavor I succeeded-it was the achievement that counted.”

“So which endeavors have you been succeeding in?” She opened her eyes wide. “I can’t imagine tending the Breeding Register for the Jockey Club qualifies.”

Dillon grinned. “Not on its best day. My position there is more a long-term interest, almost a hereditary one. No, through Demon and the rest of his family, the Cynsters, I became involved in investing.”

“Not the Funds, I take it?”

The dryness of her comment made him smile. “Having been educated by the best in the field, some of my wealth is of course deposited in the Funds, but you’re right-the excitement and thrills come from the rest. The ferreting out of new opportunities, the evaluating, the projections, the possibilities-it’s a wager of sorts, but on a much grander scale, with many more factors to take into account, but if you learn the right skills and use them well, the chances of success are immeasurably greater than in gaming-and the thrills and excitement commensurately more intense.”

She looked at the lake and sighed. “And therefore more satisfying.”

He eyed her profile. He wasn’t entirely certain why he’d told her so much, but the telling had only reinforced his sense of obligation. He owed so much to so many-to Flick most of all, but also to Demon and the Cynsters in general. When he’d been in trouble, they’d freely and openly given him the aid he’d needed to reclaim his life. Through them, he’d made friends, acquaintances, and connections that he valued immensely, that were fundamentally important to who he now was.

Others had given him a great deal when he’d been in need.

Now Pris Dalling, and whoever she was protecting, needed help; he couldn’t walk away, couldn’t not offer his aid in turn.

“I told you about my past so you’d understand that, if you or whoever you’re protecting has become embroiled in any illicit scheme and are finding it difficult to break free, then I, of all people, will understand.” He waited until she turned her head and faced him, he sensed reluctantly. “If they’re in trouble and need help, I’m prepared to give it, but in order to do so, you’ll have to tell me who they are and what’s going on.”

Holding his gaze, Pris found herself facing the crux of her problem. She knew in her heart Rus would never willingly have become embroiled in any illicit scheme, but why hadn’t he come forward and reported what ever it was he’d learned? Why was he hiding?

She didn’t know; until she did…grimacing, she looked back at the lake. “I can’t tell you.”

Despite her best efforts, the words rang with real reluctance; despite her loyalty to Rus, the urge to grasp the hand Dillon held out was surprisingly strong-especially after that incident with Harkness, compounded by Cromarty’s appearance that evening.

Since sighting Rus on the night he’d tried to break into the Jockey Club, she’d learned nothing more of his whereabouts. And with Harkness stalking the Heath and Cromarty swaggering about the ballrooms, her ability to search was becoming restricted.

She needed help, but…

Dillon moved, drawing his hands from his pockets and shifting to face her.

He was regrouping to press her further; she struck before he could, offense being infinitely preferable to defense, especially where he was concerned. She looked at him, let their gazes clash and lock-suddenly very aware of him, large, dark and dangerous, one muscled arm draped along the sofa’s back. “I need to know the implications of what I’m telling you before I do. If you’ll tell me what’s in the register…?”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then inflexibly replied, “I can’t.”

Where the compulsion came from she didn’t know-part aggression, part rising fear, and partly that wild and reckless craving for excitement and thrills that was as intrinsic a part of her as it was of him.

“Perhaps I can persuade you…?” The words fell from her lips, sultry and low.

Before he could react, raising her hands to frame his face, she leaned forward and kissed him.