aside her book. “Did you learn anything?”
Grimly stripping off her gloves, Pris headed for the ladies’ desk by the windows. “I have to write to Rus immediately.”
Eugenia lowered her needles. “From which I take it you discovered something disturbing. What?”
Pris dropped her gloves on the desk, swung the heavy skirts of her habit around, and sat in the chair angled before the desk. Both Eugenia and Adelaide knew where she’d gone, and why. “I’d expected to hear that Paddy had had a fight with the head stableman, or something of the sort. I’d hoped his reason for leaving Cromarty’s would be simple and innocuous. Unfortunately, it’s not.”
Across the faded splendor of the Aubusson rug, Pris met Eugenia’s wise eyes. “Paddy spoke of something going on at Cromarty’s that he couldn’t stomach-that’s why he left. And now he’s disappeared-his friends think he’s been done away with.”
Eugenia’s brown eyes widened. “Great heavens!”
“Oh, dear!” Hand rising to her throat, Adelaide stared.
Turning to the desk, Pris opened the drawer. “I’m going to write to Rus and tell him he has to leave Cromarty’s employ at once. If there’s something bad happening with the horses-well, you know Rus. He’ll get involved trying to put it right. But I don’t want him in any danger, not if it’s the sort where people disappear, never to be heard of again. If he can’t bear to come home and deal with Papa, then he’ll have to look for work training horses for someone else.”
To her horror, her voice threatened to quaver; she paused to draw a steadying breath.
Rus had always been horse-mad. His one burning ambition was to train an Irish Derby champion. While she didn’t share his enthusiasm, Pris fully understood the fervor of his dreams. Unfortunately, their father, Denham Dalloway, Earl of Kentland, had rigid views on what constituted an appropriate occupation for his son and heir, namely the care and management of the family estates. Breeding and training horses was all very well for others, the implication being others of lesser degree, but was an unacceptable occupation for the next Earl of Kentland.
Of the earl’s three sons, Rus was the least likely to be satisfied with the role of county landowner as his sole focus in life. Like Pris, he took after their mother, more Celt than English, wild and dramatic and mercurially alive. Both twins could see the benefit in the estate being well managed, but estate management lacked allure. Luckily, their nearest brother, Albert, now twenty-one, took after their father-solid, dependable, stoic; Albert delighted in and would unquestionably excel at all aspects of estate management.
Pris, Rus, and Albert had always been close, as indeed all the Dalloway children were, but the other three, Margaret, Rupert, and Aileen, were much younger-twelve, ten, and seven years old, respectively-more to be protected than viewed as coconspirators. Even before their mother had died, the three eldest siblings had made a pact: Rus would do as their father wished and look after the estate until Albert returned from university in Dublin, then they would put their plan to their sire, that Albert should manage the estate in Rus’s name while Rus devoted himself to establishing and running a racing stud.
It was a prescription for the future the three of them could happily follow and make work.
Two months ago, Albert had returned from Dublin, his studies at an end. Once he’d reacquainted himself with the estate, the three had duly put their plan to the earl-who had rejected it out of hand.
Rus would continue to manage the estate. If he had a mind to it, Albert could assist him. Regardless, however, no Dalloway would ever stoop to indulging in horse breeding on a commercial scale.
So declared the earl.
Rus had exploded. Pris and Albert quite saw his point; he’d curbed his driving desire and done everything their father had asked of him for seven years, and now felt he was owed a chance to live the life he yearned to live.
The earl had curled his lip and refused point-blank to even consider their scheme.
Words had been exchanged, things said, wounds dealt on both sides. Pushed beyond bearing, Rus had stormed out of Dalloway Hall in a wild fury. He’d taken nothing more than what he could cram in his saddlebags, and ridden away.
Seven days later, just over three weeks ago, Pris had received a letter to say he’d found work at Lord Cromarty’s stables, one of the major racing establishments in neighboring County Wexford.
The schism between her father and brother was now deeper than it had ever been. Pris was determined to repair the rupture in her family, but the wounds would take time to heal. She accepted that. But with Rus gone, out of her world for the first time in her life, she felt truly alone, truly bereft, as if some part of her had been excised, cut away. The feeling was much more intense than when her mother had died; then she’d had Rus beside her.
She’d gone looking for Paddy seeking reassurance, something to soothe her growing uneasiness over Rus’s safety. Instead, she’d learned Rus was in a situation where his life might come under threat.
Pulling a sheet of paper from the drawer, she laid it on the blotter. “If I write a note immediately, Patrick can ride over and deliver it this evening.”
“Actually, my dear, before you write I daresay you should read this.”
Pris turned to see Eugenia extracting a letter from beneath the endless fall of her tatting.
Eugenia held out the missive. “From Rus. It was delivered with the post after lunch. When he couldn’t find you, Bradley gave it to me rather than leave it on the salver in the hall.”
Where their father might see it. Bradley was their butler; like most of the house hold, his sympathies lay with Rus.
Rising, Pris took the letter. Returning to the desk, she broke her brother’s seal, then, sinking onto the chair, unfolded the sheets, smoothed them, and read.
The only sounds in the room were the repetitive clack of Eugenia’s needles, counterpointed by the tick of the mantelpiece clock.
“Oh, no! What is it? What’s happened?”
Adelaide’s agitated questions snapped Pris back to the present. Glancing at Adelaide, then at Eugenia, taking in their worried expressions, she realized her own must reflect her mounting horror.
“Rus has gone to England-to Newmarket-with the Cromarty racing string.” She licked her suddenly dry lips and looked again at the pages in her hand. “He says…” She paused to steady her voice. “He says he thinks Harkness, the head stableman, is planning to run some racket that somehow revolves about horse breeding while in Newmarket. He overheard Harkness explaining to the head lad-Rus says he’s a villainous sort-about how the illicit undertaking worked, and that it involves some register. He, Rus, didn’t hear enough to understand the scheme, but he thinks the register Harkness was referring to is the register of all horses entitled by their breeding to race on English tracks.”
She flipped over a page, scanned, then reported, “Rus says he knows nothing of the details in the register, but if he’s ever going to become a breeder of race horses, he should obviously learn more about it regardless, and he’ll be able to follow it up as that register is kept at the Jockey Club in Newmarket.”
She turned the last page, then made a disgusted sound. “The rest is full of platitudes assuring me he’ll be safe, that it’ll all be perfectly fine, that even if there
Tossing the letter on the desk, she faced Eugenia and Adelaide. “I’ll have to go to Newmarket.”
Adelaide’s chin firmed. “
Pris sent her a fleeting smile, then looked at Eugenia.
Her aunt studied her, then nodded, and calmly folded her tatting. “Indeed, dear. I see no alternative. Much as I love Rus, we cannot leave him to deal with what ever this is alone, and if there is some illicit scheme being hatched, you cannot, to my mind, risk even a letter to warn him, in case it falls into the wrong hands. You will need to speak with him. So!”
Folding her hands on the pile of tatting in her lap, Eugenia looked inquiringly at Pris. “What tale are we going to tell your father to explain our sudden need for a sojourn in England?”
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