But what had excited their interest and kept it on the boil was Harkness’s reaction; when he’d discovered Rus gone, he’d flown into a towering rage. Cromarty, too, had been furious. The upshot was Cromarty had offered a reward for any news of Rus, saying he knew too much about the stable’s runners, their quirks, and what made them run poorly, and they wanted to make sure he didn’t sell such secrets to their competitors.
“So he’s gone,” Patrick concluded, “but no one knows where to.”
Patrick was Irish, a stalwart of Eugenia’s small house hold. Although only six years older than Pris, his devotion to her aunt was beyond question.
She studied his impassive countenance. “Rus has to be alive. If he wasn’t, Harkness and Cromarty wouldn’t have posted a reward. Rus realized something was amiss and escaped before they could stop him. He got free and went into hiding.”
Patrick nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“Where would he hide?”
Patrick’s gaze turned rueful. “As to that, you’d have the best idea.”
Pris grimaced. Through the years Eugenia had spent at Dalloway Hall, Patrick had come to know Rus and her well; beyond herself and Albert, she would have said Patrick had the greatest understanding of her twin.
“I don’t know much about the racing business, but…” Patrick met her eyes. “Would he have stayed around here or gone to London?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. He was here three nights ago, but now? Hiding in London would be easier, and he has acquaintances there, friends from Eton and Oxford. He might think to get help with what ever he’s discovered in town.”
“I’ll check the coaches, see if he caught one to London or anywhere else.” Patrick glanced at Eugenia. “I’ll need to go to Cambridge and check there, too, in case he went across country and caught a coach from there.”
Eugenia nodded. “Go tomorrow. You concentrate on that avenue. Meanwhile, we’ll see what we can do closer to home.” She looked at Pris. Her soft voice took on a steely note. “This is clearly no lark, not a matter of your outrageous brother kicking up his heels, but something truly serious. We must do all we can to assist Rus with what ever matter he’s embroiled in. So-what can we do?”
Pris thought, then uttered a sound of frustration. “It all comes back to that
“Is there no other copy?” Patrick asked.
Pris shook her head. “And it’s closely guarded-even more so now.” She colored faintly. “I slipped back last night and looked around-searched the woods in case Rus had come back. He hadn’t, but I saw two extra guards patrolling around the building. Caxton knows Rus and I are both after the register, and he’s determined we’re not going to see it.”
Eugenia’s brows rose. “Perhaps we ought to consider ways of swaying Mr. Caxton.” She glanced at Pris. “You said he was highly eligible.”
“I also said he was more beautiful than I am, and similarly immune to ‘gentle persuasion.’”
She saw Patrick’s slashing smile flash; she directed a frown his way, but he, too, was immune.
“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you’d consider swaying Caxton as a challenge?”
Crossing her arms, she humphed. “Perhaps, but…”
That was one challenge she might not win.
“I was wondering…”
They all turned to look at Adelaide. A soft frown was creasing her brow. “I saw a lending library in the town. This is Newmarket, after all-perhaps they have a book that will tell us something about this register?”
Pris blinked. “That’s an excellent idea.” She smiled. “Well done, Adelaide! We’ll go tomorrow, and while we’re there, we’ll also search for a map. I want to find where all the common land is and whether there are any derelict cottages or abandoned stables hidden away out on the Heath.”
Patrick nodded. “Another excellent idea.”
“Well, then!” Eugenia gathered up her tatting. “We all have something to get on with tomorrow. I suggest we go to bed-there, it’s midnight.”
They stood as the clocks throughout the house chimed.
Climbing the stairs behind Eugenia, conscious of the comfort of the familiar sounds about her, Pris wondered where Rus was, whether he had any comforts at all, what the sounds surrounding him now were.
She needed to learn where he was. And whether the cold lump of fear congealing in her stomach was justified.
As it happens we do have a map showing the stables and studs.” The lady behind the counter of the lending library smiled at Pris. “I’m afraid you can’t borrow it, but you’re very welcome to study it.” She nodded across the foyer of the lending library. “It’s hanging over there.”
Pris swung around, eyes widening as she saw a very large, very detailed map covering a considerable section of the opposite wall.
Behind her, the helpful lady continued, “We get so many gentlemen calling in, trying to find their way to this stud or that stable, that we had the aldermen make that up for us.”
“Is it up-to-date?”
“Oh, yes. The town clerk drops by every year to make adjustments. He was here in July, so the details are very recent.”
“Thank you.” Pris flashed the lady a brilliant smile. Leaving the counter, she crossed the foyer that ran across the street end of bookcases stretching back into the dimness of the building. There were chairs and low tables grouped in the area, more or less in the library window. Two old ladies were sitting in armchairs, comparing novels. Pris halted before the large map mounted on the wall.
It was huge and wonderfully informative. It even showed some of the bigger stands of trees out on the Heath. She located the wood in which she and Caxton had kissed; backtracking, she found the area where Cromarty’s string exercised, then traced the route back to the stable southeast of Swaffam Prior. Even the tavern in the village was carefully marked.
Elsewhere, somewhere between the bookcases, Eugenia and Adelaide were pursuing books on the Breeding Register.
Locating the Carisbrook house, Pris scanned the major estates, the studs and famous stables ringing the town. She memorized the names and outlines of the larger properties, searching for distant sheds or disused buildings, any places Rus might be using as a refuge.
She knew he was close, still in the vicinity. While the possibility of his having gone to London had to be examined, she didn’t believe he had.
Next to a large stud labeled Cynster, she found a smaller property, an old manor with a house called Hillgate End. The name carefully lettered beneath was CAXTON. Pris took note of the surrounding lanes and woods, her mind-if not her enthusiasm-preparing for the inevitable, that she would have to approach Caxton again.
After their interlude in the wood, she absolutely definitely didn’t want to think of having to do so. Of having to risk it. Turning her mind from the prospect, she set about quartering the Heath, searching for old or disused dwellings.
Behind her, the bell above the library door jingled. An instant later, one of the assistants exclaimed, “Why, Mrs. Cynster! You’re just the person we need. I have a lady here terribly keen to learn about the register-I assume that’s the Breeding Register Mr. Caxton keeps-but we’ve no books about it, which I must say seems strange. Perhaps you could speak with her?”
Pris looked around, and beheld a vision in soft summer blue. Mrs. Cynster was a youthful matron, extremely stylish, elegantly gowned with a wealth of guinea gold curls exquisitely cropped. By her side, a young girl, perhaps ten or so, stood patiently waiting.
The young girl saw Pris. The girl’s eyes grew wide, then wider. Staring unabashedly, she blindly reached up and tugged her mother’s sleeve.
Pris turned back to the map. She was often the recipient of such stunned fascination, but in this case, given her mother, the girl had an unusually high standard for comparison.
