What Price Love? (5 page)

Looking up from her tatting, Eugenia bent a very direct look on Pris. “You fear him. Why?”

Pris swallowed the denial that rose to her tongue; Eugenia, she'd learned, was exceedingly clear-sighted. Eventually, she offered, “I think it's because he's so very handsome—just like me.” She met Eu
genia's gaze. “And just like me, people look no further than his face and figure, and forget that there's a very good brain at work behind the mouthwatering façade.”

“He's certainly handsome,” Adelaide averred, “but he's rather overwhelming. He's very dark and hard and sharp. He may be beautiful, but he's not comfortable.”

Pris found nothing to argue with in that. Drumming her fingers on the tablecloth, she thought over all she'd learned, trying to find some way forward.

“So what are you planning to do next?” Eugenia asked.

Pris looked up and met her eyes. “We can ride out early tomorrow morning and start searching through the strings exercising on the Heath. The ostler at the inn said all strings exercise there every morning, and Caxton won't expect us to be out at such an hour. If he's suspicious enough to think to look for us, he'll look at the afternoon sessions. Meanwhile…”

She frowned, then pushed back her chair. “If I could just get a look at that blasted register, I'd have a better idea what sort of scheme Harkness might be hatching. A better idea of what Rus will think to do.”

Eugenia's lips curved. “One benefit of being twins.”

Rising to her feet, Pris managed a smile. “Indeed. If you'll both excuse me, I'm going to take a turn about the gardens.”

 

I
found her at the track midmorning, walking with a friend—a Miss Blake.” Sprawled in the chair behind his office desk, Dillon laced his fingers across his waistcoat. “Miss Dalling tried to learn more about the register, but that wasn't why she was there. They were searching for someone. She said she was looking for the Irish crews, but I'm not sure if that was the truth or simply the most obvious answer to my question.”

“Did you learn where they were staying?” Barnaby sat slumped in the armchair opposite the bookcase, long legs stretched out before him, ready to share the results of his day's sleuthing.

Dillon nodded. “I followed them home—she'd driven them into town in a gig. They're staying at the old Carisbrook place. I asked around. There really is an aunt—a Lady Fowles—and she's rented
the house for several weeks.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned at his boots. “How do you read her—Miss Dalling? Is her interest in the register really because of her eccentric aunt?”

Dillon glanced out of the window at the gathering dusk. “I think she's a consummate liar, sticking to the truth as far as possible, inventing only where necessary.”

Barnaby's lips twisted. “The hardest sort to catch.”

“Indeed. So what did you learn about the man interested in the register?”

“An Irishman with dark hair, tallish, lean, and younger than I'd supposed—midtwenties by all accounts. Not much more anyone could tell me, although one ancient described him as ‘gentry down on his luck.'”

Dillon frowned. “I know all the Irish owners and trainers here this season, at least by sight, and that description rings no bells.”

Barnaby waved. “In the same vein as for the lovely Miss Dalling, there's no need for him to be associated with any stable—his connection to this might be quite otherwise.”

“True. Did you learn anything more about the break-ins?”

“Only that this place is a burglar's delight. It sits so far back from the road with that avenue of huge trees, and”—Barnaby pointed through the window, beyond the rear of the building—“there's a nice stand of woodland out there. It's ridiculously easy to approach this place at night, and no one's the wiser.”

Leaning back, he looked up at the ceiling. “The first time he came, he didn't come prepared—he tried the windows, but couldn't spring the locks, then had to retreat when the night watchman came around. The second time, he gained entry through the kitchen window, but the door into the building proper was bolted, so again he had to retreat. The last time, he forced a window and got into the offices down the corridor. He started searching, going through the shelves, but then knocked over a box, bringing the night watchman running, and had to flee.”

Barnaby looked at Dillon. “Incidentally, the watchman's description, while hardly detailed, just an impression of height, build, and coloring, and age in how easily he fled, suggests the young Irishman with the questions could indeed be our burglar.”

“That suggests we have only one group we need pursue…” A minute passed, then Dillon met Barnaby's eyes. “There's something afoot. You, me, the Committee, we all know it, but all we have are conjecture and suspicion. We need to catch this Irishman—he's the only person we know of who can shed light on whatever's going on.”

Barnaby nodded. “I agree—but how?”

“You said this place was a burglar's delight—now he's got so close, presumably he'll come back. What if we make it extra tempting for him to do so, wait until he makes his move…and then step in?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Last time he got into the offices, so, assuming he is indeed after the Breeding Register, he knows this wing is where he needs to concentrate.” With his head, Dillon indicated the side window. “As you pointed out, the woods are close. He'll use them for cover, to circle the building and learn where the night watchman is, to check whether anyone is working late. This room's at the corner—that window stands out. What if, assuming he comes to night, he sees it left just a little open?”

Barnaby grinned. “Like a moth to a flame, he'll come up and look in, see it's an office, and…”

Dillon smiled grimly. “Like a moth to a flame, he'll get his wings burned.”

 

L
ate that night, Pris slid from her saddle at the edge of the woods onto which the Jockey Club backed. The moon was half-full, obscured by fitful clouds; beneath the trees, it was dark, not still so much as suspenseful—as if the trees were holding their breaths, waiting to see what would come…

Quelling a shiver, she sternly shook aside her fanciful thoughts and tethered her mare to a low-hanging branch. There were bushes and shrubs scattered beneath the trees, but they weren't so thick she would miss seeing any man-sized shape skulking in the shadows.

She slid into the undergrowth. In breeches, boots, and jacket, with a kerchief about her neck, her hair up and severely confined, and a soft, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on her head, she could at a distance pass for a stable lad. The Lord knew there were plenty of
those about Newmarket.

Carefully forging deeper into the dark wood, she scanned ahead, searching for any sign of any other person creeping up on the Jockey Club. She could see the building through the trees, the red brick dull but with glimmers from the pale mortar and pointing, the white-painted window frames gleaming in the occasional shaft of moonlight.

Her words to Eugenia over the luncheon table had reminded her; she did, indeed, know how Rus thought. When he'd written his last letter to her, he hadn't known what the register was, not in detail, nor how it related to what ever illicit scheme Harkness was planning. Rus had intended to learn about the register. He'd known it was kept at the Jockey Club; presumably, he'd gone there and asked, as she had.

Perhaps that was where Caxton and his friend had last heard an Irish accent.

It would certainly seem odd to have two people with precisely the same accent—even the same inflections and tones—inquire about the register in a short space of time. No wonder they'd been suspicious.

Doubly so if they had reason to suspect some scam was being planned.

They might already suspect Rus.

She knew Caxton suspected her, at least of being peripherally involved. Regardless, she had to get a look at the register. Once she had, she would know as much as Rus did—perhaps more if he hadn't yet seen it.

Given how tight-lipped Caxton was, given her sense of his character—potentially hard and unforgiving of errors—she wasn't going to waste time charming his clerks. Not until she'd exhausted more direct avenues.

And entrenched in her mind was the knowledge—not a guess but a certainty—that if Rus hadn't yet learned what the register contained, then he would pursue the same direct avenue as she.

Fingers and toes mentally crossed, she prayed Rus would come there that night. Getting a look at the register and finding her twin, reassuring herself that regardless of all else, he was hale and whole, and safe…right now, that was all she asked of the deity.

Reaching the edge of the wood, she hunkered down beside a tree; slowly, she scanned the back of the building from left to right,
paying attention to the layout, aligning it with what she'd seen from inside the previous day. Caxton had referred to the register as an archive. There would be more than one tome, stored who knew where, but she felt sure at least one, the one currently in use, would be in his office, sitting in the bookshelves there.

All she needed was one glance, just enough to see what those “confidential details” were.

A window to the right of the building, at the corner closest to her, had been left a tantalizing few inches open. Her eyes fixed on the darker gap; a second later her mind caught up. She'd been gauging the distance from the center of the building where the foyer was, along the corridor she'd traveled to Caxton's office…that's where the open window was.

She eyed the sight with burgeoning suspicion. Her words to Eugenia rang in her mind. She knew better than to underestimate a man with a beautiful face.

She stared at the window; her unease only grew. She simply could not imagine Caxton leaving that window open
accidentally
.

Furtive movement at the far end of the building caught her eye—a flitting shadow that instantly merged into the dim wood. She glanced again at the open window and remained where she was, stilling, breathing evenly, becoming one with the night.

The open window was a trap. But was the shadow she'd seen Rus, or Caxton keeping watch? Despite his sophisticated elegance, she wouldn't put it past him to skulk among the bushes at midnight, ready and very willing to tangle with an intruder; his civilizing veneer wasn't thick.

She reached with every sense, straining to hear any telltale sound, any crackle, any snap, squinting through the darkness to try to distinguish any movement, any shifting shape.

And detected a figure quietly, stealthily, making its—his—way in her direction.

Wits racing, she held her position. If it was Rus, would he realize the open window was a trap?

Even if he did, was he desperate enough, reckless enough, to chance it regardless?

Silence, complete and absolute, fell. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears. She could no longer hear nor see any sign of the man. The
minutes stretched. Her eyes started watering; she blinked.

A figure rose from the bushes fifteen yards away. The man strode quickly out into the cleared space directly behind the building.

Pris cursed. The moon was playing hide-and-seek in the clouds; there wasn't enough light to see the man's face, and his clothes were too loose for her to be sure…

Slowing, the man glanced around, slipping both hands into his pockets.

And Pris knew.

Starting up, she opened her mouth to hail her twin—

Another man—one with golden hair—burst from hiding and charged toward Rus.

Pris gasped, but Rus had heard the man's footsteps, was already pivoting to meet him.

Rus lashed out with a boot and caught Caxton's friend in the ribs. He staggered, but then gamely flung himself on Rus.

Pris knew Rus, judged he'd win the fight, so she held still in the shadows, waiting for him to break away.

A curse and a sudden movement to her right had her swinging that way. Her heart leapt to her throat.

Another man had been hiding in the wood farther along.
Caxton
. Pris watched him rush to help his friend subdue Rus.

Without thought, she whirled, leapt, and crashed around in the shadows. A quick glance showed her the distraction had worked; Caxton had stopped midway between the wood and the pair wrestling before the open window. He stared into the wood.

She had a split second in which to decide whether to yell something—anything, Rus would recognize her voice—to let her twin know she was there, in Newmarket, not Ireland. But Rus was fully engaged with Caxton's friend. Hearing her voice would distract him; knowing she was close, pursued by Caxton…Rus might do something stupid and get caught.

Caxton was still staring, unsure what he'd seen. Lips firmly shut, Pris darted back and forth, then saw his clenched hands relax. He started after her.

She turned and fled.

She knew where she was going. She told herself that was advantage enough. She was quick and nimble; she would be faster than he was darting through the trees. Once she reached her horse, she'd be safe.

He gained on her steadily.

Her heart was in her mouth, her breath sawing in and out, her lungs burning by the time she saw the faint light ahead where the trees ended and the sward began. Where her horse was tethered.

Caxton's heavy footfalls hit the ground, it seemed mere yards behind her; she could feel the reverberations through her soles.

Desperate, she burst from the shadow of the trees and raced, gasping, flat out toward the mare—

A huge weight struck her in the middle of her back.

She went down.

Dillon knew the instant he locked his arms about the figure who it was. He'd played rugger in his school days; he'd launched the flying tackle without real thought.

But as his weight bore her down she struggled furiously and managed to half turn in his instinctively loosening hold.