Demon grimaced. “So there’s no reason to think her family owns a stud, or similar enterprise. However, there is some connection with horses.”
Dillon inclined his head.
“So”-Demon glanced at Flick-“we’ll leave Miss Dalling to you, my dear, at least until we know more on that front. Meanwhile”-he looked at Dillon and Barnaby-“we need to decide how best to probe the possibility a substitution scam has been operating and is set to continue during this season’s races.”
Barnaby sat forward, all nonchalance falling from him. “So you agree there’s something going on? That it’s not us overextrapolating from disconnected pieces of information that happen to have fallen into our laps?”
Dillon searched Demon’s face. The severely handsome, angular planes held a certain grimness.
“I don’t believe your concerns arise from overactive imaginations.” Demon’s lips twisted. “Indeed, much as I wish I could brush your evidence aside and assure us all that there’s really nothing in it, you’ve gathered too many pieces for them to be coincidental. And if they’re not coincidental, then there’s only one other explanation-there’s another organized racing scam under way.”
Dillon and Barnaby exchanged a glance, then Dillon looked at Demon. “So how should we proceed?”
They revisited all they’d learned. Prue and Nicholas grew restive. With a maternal smile, Flick stood; waving the men back to their seats, she herded the children to the door. “It’s time for our ride.” She nodded a farewell to Barnaby, then Dillon, and exchanged a glance with Demon. “You can tell me all later.”
Demon raised his brows, but when he turned back, there was a smile in his eyes.
After establishing all they knew, they settled on the questions they most wanted answered, then evaluated their options. One source they urgently needed to reassess was the rumors of unexpected losses over the spring season.
“If we could establish which races and which horses were involved, that would give us a place to start.”
Barnaby grimaced. “When I poked around earlier, the rumors turned to smoke and mist-no one would name names.”
Demon snorted. “Too many gentlemen think too much of how others will see them. They’ll grumble and groan, but when it comes to making specific complaints, heaven forbid! There may even be more recent losses we haven’t yet heard about. The greatest losses from such a scam occur not at the racetrack, but through the offtrack betting centered in London. That’s where the big wagers will be laid, and ‘unexpected losses’ felt most keenly. With the right encouragement, we should be able to persuade at least some of those who’ve been grumbling to be more specific.”
Clearly someone had to follow up the London rumors. However, with the autumn racing season under way, neither Dillon nor Demon could leave Newmarket. Demon could, however, alert Vane, his brother, and his cousins devil and Gabriel Cynster, all of whom were presently in town. “If we explain and identify the grumblers, they’ll know how to get those disgruntled punters to name names.”
Demon looked at Barnaby. “Are you willing to return to London and, with the others, see what you can turn up?”
Barnaby was eager. “I’ll drop a word in the pater’s ear, too.” His father was involved with the new police force. “Some of the inspectors might have heard something. I’ll head down this afternoon.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll keep my ear to the ground here.” Demon turned to Dillon. “As for you…” His predatory grin flashed. “Apropos of Flick’s direction, I doubt she’ll make any headway with Miss Dalling. A social connection, however, should give
Dillon pulled a face. “If she would only tell me what she wants to know about the register-or better yet, why-” He broke off, then shook his head. “I’m convinced she knows something, but-”
“
Demon smiled, but there was no lightness in the gesture, only a fell intent. “Simple.”
Dillon held his gaze, unimpressed. “Simple?” He allowed his skepticism full rein. “We’ll see.”
Pris chafed and swore, but forced herself to wait, to let the rest of the day, then another go by before she once again rose with the dawn and slipped out to find Lord Cromarty’s string.
She kept her eyes peeled as she streaked through the misty landscape, but detected no pursuit. If Caxton was waiting out on the Heath, with any luck he wouldn’t recognize her. Mounted on a solid but unremarkable bay gelding, she was riding astride, dressed in breeches, boots, and jacket, with her wide-brimmed hat pulled low and a muffler wound about her chin. Once she found Cromarty’s string, she intended to follow them to Rus; much easier to amble in a stable’s wake if she looked like any other stable lad.
To her relief, Cromarty’s string was exercising close to where she’d last seen them. She watched from the cover of a stand of trees, scanning the riders; Rus was not among them.
She didn’t know precisely what Rus did as assistant stableman; his duties in Newmarket might not include the morning exercises.
While Harkness put his racers through an exacting series of gallops, she thought of Rus, let his face fill her mind, remembered shared exploits that made her smile. At last Harkness called a halt. The string formed up in a long line and headed off.
She fell in, not directly behind but as far back as she dared, and to the right, always at an angle to the string’s line of travel; if anyone glanced back, she wouldn’t be obviously following them.
The string walked, jogged, then walked again. Eventually they crossed a road and turned up a lane. Pris stopped to read the signpost; SWAFFAM PRIOR was lettered on it. If she was seen, she would appear to be heading for the village; entering the lane, she ambled on.
She kept her distance from the stragglers of the string. Finally the string turned right down a narrower lane; buildings lay grouped at its end.
They appeared to be substantial. Leaving the lanes, Pris cut through the fields; circling, she found a low, wooded rise beyond the buildings and pulled up. Screened by the trees, she looked down on the establishment; it was clear this was where Lord Cromarty was stabling his horses.
Her heart lifting with anticipation, she watched the horses being unsaddled, walked, brushed down, watered. She squinted, studying every man who walked through the yard.
Not one of them was Rus.
Lord Cromarty came out of the house to speak with Harkness. After considerable discussion, Harkness sent a lad for a horse-a high-spirited black mare. The lad paraded her before Harkness and Cromarty, then at Cromarty’s nod, returned the horse to her stall.
Pris remained mounted in the shadow of the trees, anticipation fading, anxiety burgeoning as a sense of unease rose and whispered through her. Cold, chill fingers trailed her nape.
Rus wasn’t there.
She knew it in her heart, even without the evidence of her eyes.
After another futile hour, she drew away. Returning to the lane to Swaffam Prior, she debated, then turned the gelding’s nose toward the village.
She had to learn if Rus was still somewhere, somehow, in Cromarty’s domain.
Patrick Dooley, Eugenia’s devoted and trusted factotum, spent the evening in the tavern at Swaffam Prior. He returned late, with disquieting news.
Pris hadn’t even considered retiring, too strung up to relax; Eugenia had settled on the chaise in the drawing room to keep her company, and Adelaide had remained, too.
Patrick joined them. He reported that, as Pris had guessed, the stable hands from Cromarty’s stable did indeed spend their evenings at the tiny tavern. He hadn’t even had to ask after Rus; his disappearance had been the main topic of conversation. According to the stable hands, “the toff,” as they affectionately called him, had been going about his business as usual until about ten days ago. Then one morning, he simply hadn’t been there.
Their description of Rus rang true-pernickity manners but a great one with horses. None of Cromarty’s crew knew anything of any falling-out with Cromarty or Harkness; to a man they were mystified by Rus’s abrupt departure.
