What Price Love? (27 page)

“You mean would
you
have been the Keeper of the Breeding Register now—the one facing the problem now?”

He glanced down at her. “Would a man like
me
be facing this problem.”

She lifted her head, met his eyes. Folding her hands on his chest, she rested her chin on them, and narrowed her eyes on his. “You've thought of something.”

Amused by her comprehension, he wished the light was strong enough to see the color of her eyes, to better appreciate the rest of her. “A possibility, a glimmer of a chance. I'm not sure.”

If, on reflection, on further development, the idea proved to be more, then his wild and reckless side would be fundamental to carrying it through, to bringing it to fruition. The same wild and reckless side she not just evoked, not just wantonly engaged with, but had somehow found a way to weld, to integrate seamlessly with his more responsible, sane, and sensible self.

When he was with her, he no longer felt torn, as if he were shifting from one persona to the other, as if he were two people within the one skin. That long-ago disgrace had caused a schism, a distrust of sorts, a wariness he'd been aware of for years—a concern that his wild and reckless side was a liability, a danger. A side he should never give free rein. Yet now…

What was fate telling him?

“Regardless of what ever we do, we need to stop Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, and slap them behind bars.” From where they would no longer be a threat to Pris, Rus, or any of their family. He knew, none better, how unprincipled those inhabiting the underside of racing could be, how they would retaliate against their chosen scapegoats. “That's the absolute minimum we have to accomplish.”

He and Demon had both understood Vane's injunction, to beware—to watch and shield their families, to ensure that what ever action occurred did not and could not rebound on those they cared about, those under their protection.

A justified and timely warning.

Pris continued to study his face. “Just removing Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom…all very well, but none of us are going to accept that as success.”

He refocused on her eyes, noting the determination conveyed by the set of her jaw, her lips. Wondered what gave rise to it. “As long as we remove those three, Rus will be safe.”

She snorted. “While I would be the first to rejoice in Rus's safety, that's hardly the end of it.” She frowned into his eyes, as if sensing the
other side of his comment—the question buried in it. “Knowing this sort of
evil
is going on, that we know about it but haven't done anything to end it would never sit well with either Rus or me. I can't imagine Barnaby shrugging and letting it go either—he's already gnashing his teeth.” Her expression turned skeptical. “And as for
you
—you will simply never rest. Well, how could you? It's your calling, isn't it?”

It was.

Within him, something quivered, resonating with her words, at the clear-sighted recognition not only implied but visible in her face. He'd never heard it—his life's work—stated so simply, summarized so succinctly, as if it really were that obvious…

Perhaps it needed someone as uninhibited as she to simply say it. To render his purpose, his motives in facing the current threat, in such clear-cut fashion. To condense it to two words:
his calling
.

His
because the responsibility was primarily his, not only by virtue of the position he held, but because the Committee had requested his help, handed the problem to him to solve, and were counting on him to deal with it.

Calling
because that's what it was. His wasn't a paid position, but one conferred in recognition of what had come to be his vocation. Quite aside from the familial connection, he'd grown into the position, and it, in turn, had truly become a part of him.

And that, all of that, was why he had to do more than just remove Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, why he had to free the industry he'd served for well-nigh half his life—the industry around which his life revolved—from an evil that threatened to poison it to the core.

Her eyes, fixed on his, narrowed to gleaming slits. “What have you thought of?”

He met her gaze, then let his lips curve. “Patience—it was only a first inkling. I'll tell you once I've thought it through, once I've worked out how it might help us.”

He'd kept his tone low, soothing. The fingers of one hand still toying with her hair, he ran his other hand up from her thigh, palm to satin skin, up over her naked bottom to her hip, skimming the side of her waist to the swell of her breast—deliberately distracting her.

Only to be distracted himself by the way her lashes fluttered, then sank, the way she all but purred with plea sure.

“Hmm…” She leaned into the caress, offering her breast more fully to his hand, then lasciviously, sinuously shifted up his body, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Deciding that in light of Vane's injunction, distracting her was clearly his bounden duty, he released her hair, framed her face, and kissed her back.

 

M
uch to my disgust, despite racking my brains, I've singularly failed to discover any way to bring down our spider. We can shake his web, but…” Barnaby grimaced, and looked around the circle of faces gathered in Dillon's study.

It was the following afternoon; since parting from Dillon in the small hours of the morning, Pris had spent all her waking hours trying to think of something that would connect Cromarty to his secretive partner, something they'd overlooked.

Like Barnaby, her travail had been in vain. Despite her cajoling, Dillon had refused to enlighten her as to even the direction of his “possibility.” Hoping against hope that his subsequent cogitations had revealed it to be real, she'd driven Adelaide and herself to Hillgate End; Adelaide was presently chatting with the General.

When Barnaby held up his hands in defeat, Pris looked at Rus in the armchair opposite hers.

Her twin caught her glance; as Dillon and Barnaby looked to him, he shook his head. “The scope of this…I'm out of my depth. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom—catching them is straightforward. But the only way we might reach further is if Cromarty not only identifies Mr. X but has evidence to prove his involvement. But if he was so careful with Collier, he'll have been the same with Cromarty.”

His chin sunk on his chest, Barnaby nodded glumly. Lifting his head, he looked at Pris. “Any advance?”

Lips compressed, she shook her head. She looked at Dillon.

He caught her gaze, then looked at the other two as they turned to him. “I agree—exposing Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom is well within our grasp, but that won't get us any further. It won't attack the wider scheme, it won't even significantly damage it. Chances are, once we remove Cromarty and company, the scheme will sprout at
Doncaster and Cheltenham, and even if we manage to expose Aberdeen, the scheme will simply go to ground and reemerge next season, somewhere else.”

Barnaby heaved a dejected sigh. “So our only option is a far-from-satisfactory one. One that won't actually address the crime.” Looking down, he studied his boots.

Pris watched Dillon, saw him hesitate. He glanced at her, then drew a breath and evenly stated, “That isn't our only option.”

Barnaby lifted his head; he studied Dillon's face. “You've thought of something.
Hallelujah!
What?”

They all looked inquiringly at Dillon. His expression—serious, obdurate, committed, and determined—was echoed by his tone. “I've thought about this from every angle. My overriding concern has to be for the industry—we should do what ever holds the best promise for the widest gain. As far as I can see, there's only one alternative to exposing Cromarty and company before the race is run.” He held up a hand. “Don't say anything, just hear me out to the end.” He glanced around the circle, his gaze coming to rest on Pris. “I'm going to suggest we perform a double switch, put the real Belle back in the race and let her run.”

Pris blinked; Rus and Barnaby did, too. Like her, they frowned, thinking, trying to see…

Dillon gave them a moment, then explained, “If the real Belle runs, and wins, the repercussions will be enormous. No one who's innocent will be harmed in any way—all those who wager on her in good faith will reap their just reward. However, on the other side of the ledger, those who wager against her, or offer long odds knowing the race is supposed to be fixed, will also reap their just rewards. They'll lose, and lose heavily.”

He paused, then went on, “It's the only way I can think of that attacks the whole web, rather than just Cromarty. If Belle runs and wins, every strand of Mr. X's enterprise will be burnt—almost certainly every strand will collapse. We know how vicious the underside of racing can be—it's even more cutthroat, literally, when the betrayers are themselves betrayed. Mr. X couldn't have grown his enterprise to the size Gabriel and Vane suspect without involving some powerful, very shadowy figures. Belle winning would obviously not be a deliberate ploy on Mr. X's part, but to those shadowy,
powerful figures that will count for nought. It's his scheme—he'll be blamed for its failure, for their losses. It won't, unfortunately, put those gentlemen out of business, but it will, most assuredly, put Mr. X out of business.”

“And,” Barnaby said, his eyes lighting with dawning zeal, “what happens to Mr. X will serve as an exemplary warning to anyone thinking of trying a similar scheme.” He met Dillon's dark gaze. “This is an absolutely
brilliant
idea.”

Dillon grimaced. “As with all such ideas, there's one aspect that's not quite so brilliant.”

Like Barnaby, Rus had been transformed, reinvigorated, but now he hesitated. “What?”

“Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom.” Dillon held Rus's gaze, then looked at Pris. “If we switch Belle back, they won't have committed any crime. We'll have eradicated all evidence that they were even contemplating it.”

“They'll get away with not even a reprimand?” Pris asked.

Dillon's lips twisted. “Not an official one. However, they won't escape unscathed. Cromarty will doubtless wager against Belle winning—how much losing those wagers will hurt him depends on how much he puts at risk. But the repercussions won't stop there—he and Harkness, especially, will be in very hot water with all the other players in the game—the sharp bookmakers who quoted long odds for Belle, Mr. X himself, and even those shadowy figures. No one will understand how they could have let it happen.”

Rus was smiling widely. “Including Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom. Oh, to be near when Belle whistles past the winning post!” Green eyes afire, he met Dillon's gaze. “Barnaby's right—this is a brilliant idea. Even with the caveat that we'll be erasing all evidence of the immediate crime, it's still a brilliant idea. It achieves so much more—much,
much
more!”

“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded decisively. “And we won't be doing anything illegal along the way. We'll just be being helpful and giving Cromarty his real champion back—how can he complain?”

Rus chuckled. “Precisely.”

Dillon looked at Pris, waited. She studied his eyes, wondering why he was being, if not diffident in putting forward what they all saw as a fabulous idea, a near-perfect answer to their dilemma, then
strangely careful. She could neither see nor feel any hint of his being swept along by enthusiasm, of being charged with eagerness as both Rus and Barnaby were.

Nevertheless…she smiled and nodded. “I agree—it's a wonderful idea. It may be unconventional, but it'll achieve what needs to be achieved.”

His dark eyes remained on her face for an instant longer, then he stirred, and glanced at Rus and Barnaby. “One thing we must ensure—Harkness, Cromarty, and Crom must have absolutely no inkling that any of us”—his gaze swept their circle—“are involved. To them, how the real Belle comes to be the horse that runs the race must remain a perfect mystery.”

Barnaby blinked, then nodded. “Yes, absolutely. No recriminations invited. Switching Belle back has to be achieved by the most complete sleight of hand.” He looked from Dillon to Rus. “So—how do we do it?”

The ensuing discussion was fast and furious, possibilities and suggestions canvassed rapidly and decisively. They all contributed. Despite Dillon's wish to keep Rus's involvement to a minimum—a stance Pris appreciated—there was one essential aspect in which her twin necessarily featured.

“Belle will need to be put through her paces—prepared as she normally would be before a race. Chances are, since we found her out at the cottage, she'll have been left there without any regular runs. If they follow the same pattern they did when substituting Flyin' Fury, they won't bring Belle back to the string until after the race. They'll need that time—at least four days—to bring the substitute along well enough to make a decent showing, to pass her off as the real Belle.”

Dillon held Rus's gaze for a long moment, then grimaced. “What are you suggesting?”

“Other than Cromarty, only Harkness and Crom know of the scheme, so only they can check on Belle. I'm sure they would at least once a day, but with the meet only days away, during training times, both Harkness and Crom will be out on the Heath.” Rus glanced at Pris. “Well away from the cottage.”

He looked at Dillon. “What I'm suggesting is that during the training times, I go to the cottage and work with Belle. We've three days left,
and she's been stabled for nearly two. If I start working her later this afternoon, I'm sure I'll have her raring to go come Tuesday.”

Dillon didn't like it, but reluctantly agreed. Belle had to be prepared. It was the one true risk in their scheme—if she ran but still didn't win.