“So you say.”
“He’s a felon who’s been trying to burgle the Jockey Club.”
“Really?”
Dillon could almost believe the arrested look that went with that, as if he’d told her something she hadn’t known. “You know him, because you deliberately distracted me from helping Barnaby-Mr. Adair-apprehend him. You knew he’d overcome one man, but not two. You’re his accomplice-you helped him get away. Presumably you were his lookout.”
She sat back in the chair, outwardly as at ease, as comfortable and assured as she’d been in her emerald gown. Arms resting on the chair’s arms, she met his gaze directly. “That’s a fascinating hypothesis.”
“It’s the truth, or something close to it.”
“You have an excellent imagination.”
“My dear Miss Dalling, what do you imagine will happen if we deliver you to the constable and tell him we discovered you, dressed as you are, hiding in the wood behind the Jockey Club, just as a man seeking to break into the club fled the scene?”
Once again, she opened her eyes wide; this time, a gentle, subtly mocking smile played about her mobile, thoroughly distracting lips. “Why, that the poor constable will curse his luck and be made to feel terribly uncomfortable, for as we’ve already established, skulking about in the woods is no crime, your assertion that I know the man is pure conjecture, conjecture I absolutely deny, and as for being dressed as I am, I believe you’ll discover that, too, is not against the law.”
The poor constable would be mesmerized by her voice. If she spoke more than two phrases, it required a conscious exercise of will not to fall under her spell. And, of course, in this case, she spoke the unvarnished truth. Sitting back in his chair, Dillon studied her, deliberately let the moment stretch.
She met his gaze; her lips curved, just a little-enough for him to know she knew what he was attempting, that she wasn’t susceptible, wasn’t going to feel compelled to fill the silence.
Despite his intention not to shift his gaze, he found himself glancing at her attire. In a town like Newmarket, the sight of ladies in breeches, while not socially acceptable, was hardly rare. An increasing number of females-Flick being one-were involved in one way or another with preparing race horses, and riding such animals in skirts was simply too dangerous. When he called on Flick, he was as likely to find her in breeches as in skirts.
It was his familiarity with ladies’ breeches that prodded his mind. Miss Dalling’s weren’t made for her; they didn’t fit well enough, being a touch too big, the legs a trifle long. Likewise the jacket; the shoulders were too wide, and the cuffs fell across the backs of her hands.
Her boots were her own-her feet were small and dainty-but the clothes hadn’t been hers originally. Most likely a brother’s…
Lifting his gaze, he captured hers. “Miss Dalling, can you tell me you
Her fine brows arched haughtily. “My dear Mr. Caxton, I have no intention of telling you anything at all.”
“Is he your brother?”
Her lashes flickered, but she held his gaze, direct and unflinching. “My brothers are in Ireland.”
Her tone had gone flat. He knew he’d hit a nerve, but he’d also hit a wall. She would tell him nothing more, at all. Inwardly sighing, he rose, with a wave gestured to the door. “I would thank you for assisting us, Miss Dalling, however…”
With a look of cool contempt, she rose. Turning, she paused, studying Barnaby. “I’m sorry you were injured, Mr. Adair. Might I suggest ice packs would help with those bruises?”
She accorded him a regal nod, then, lifting her head, walked to the door.
Dillon watched her, noting the swaying hips, the supreme confidence in her walk, then he rounded the desk and went after her.
Even now, especially now, he wasn’t about to let her wander the corridors of the Jockey Club alone.
Damn it, Rus, where
Holding her frisky bay mare on a tight rein, Pris scanned the gently undulating grassland that formed Newmarket Heath. Here and there between the scattered trees and copses, strings of horses were being put through the daily round of exercises that kept them in peak condition. Horsey breaths fogged in the crisp morning air. Dawn had just broken; it was cold and misty. Beyond the practicing strings, wholly absorbed with their activities, the Heath was largely empty; other than herself, there were few observers about.
More would gather as the sun rose higher; she intended to be gone before too many gentlemen rode out to view the runners for the race meet tomorrow.
The string she’d been observing from a safe distance wasn’t Irish. Straining her ears, she could just pick up the orders and comments tossed back and forth. This group was English, definitely not Lord Cromarty’s string.
Suppressing her disappointment, doing her best to ignore her mounting anxiety, she set the mare cantering on to the next string.
It was the second morning she’d ridden out. Yesterday, Adelaide had accompanied her, but Adelaide wasn’t a confident rider; Pris had spent as much time watching over her as she had scanning the sward. This morning, she’d risen earlier, donned her emerald velvet riding habit, and slipped out of the house in the dark, leaving Adelaide dreaming.
Of Rus, no doubt. In their unwavering devotion, Adelaide and she were alike, albeit for different reasons.
Two nights before, she’d truthfully told Caxton her brothers were in Ireland. Rus wasn’t her brother-he was her
With every day that passed, the net drew tighter.
She had to find Rus, had to help him break free of what ever it was that threatened him. Nothing else mattered, not until that was done.
Catching sight of another string, she turned the mare in that direction. The horse was still fresh; Pris let her stretch out in an easy gallop, but given that she was riding sidesaddle over unfamiliar ground, she kept the reins taut.
The sting of cold air burned her cheeks. Exhilarated, she pulled up on a slight rise and looked down on the exercising string.
Settling the mare, she squinted at the distant horse men. She couldn’t get too close; she might not recognize Harkness, but given he’d been working with Rus, he would almost certainly recognize her.
She needed to locate Lord Cromarty’s string, but until she knew more, she didn’t want anyone from his lordship’s stables other than Rus knowing she was in Newmarket.
Straining her ears, she listened, but was too far away. Twitching the mare’s reins, she trotted around to a knoll closer to the string but more directly downwind.
Again she sat and listened. This time, she heard. Closing her eyes, she concentrated.
Familiar lilting accents, a gently burred brogue, rolled across her senses.
Breath catching, she opened her eyes and eagerly scanned the men before her. She fixed on the large man directing the exercises. Harkness. Big, dark, and fearsome. Her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her-she’d found Lord Cromarty’s string!
Her heart lifting, she studied the two men beside Harkness; neither was Rus. She was about to shift her focus to the circling riders-so much harder to study as they rose and fell with their horses’ gaits-when a shifting shadow in the clump of trees to her right drew her eye.
A horse man sat on a powerful black standing in the lee of the trees. He wasn’t watching the exercising horses; his attention was fixed on her.
Pris cursed. Even before she took in the lean build and broad shoulders, and the dramatically dark, wind-ruffled hair, she knew who he was.
Abruptly, she wheeled the mare, tapped her heel to the glossy flank and took off. She raced down the knoll, gave the mare her head, and flew, hooves pounding, away across the Heath.
He would follow, she felt sure. The damn man had doubtless been following her all morning, perhaps even all yesterday morning. By now he would know she was searching for one particular string. Thank the saints she’d noticed him before she’d done anything to distinguish Cromarty’s string from all the others she’d observed.
