What Price Love?

“Surely there are cups, plates, medallions-things that would be worth something if melted down? Isn’t it more likely a thief would be after those?”

“Most of the trophies are plated. Their value lies more in what they represent, not in their commercial worth. And this thief’s not a professional, but he is determined. Besides, it’s too coincidental-someone asking about ‘the register,’ and shortly after, someone tries to break into the club where the one item referred to in Newmarket as ‘the register’ resides.”

“True,” Barnaby conceded. “So how is the Breeding Register valuable? Ransom?”

Dillon raised his brows. “I hadn’t thought of that, but such a tack would be dangerous. Loss of the Breeding Register would stop all racing, so using it in such a way, essentially holding the entire racing fraternity to ransom, would very likely prove an unhealthy experiment. If the Breeding Register disappeared, I would expect to see it magically reappear within three days.” He glanced at Barnaby. “This industry isn’t short of those prepared to take the law into their own hands, especially over a matter like that.”

Barnaby frowned. “But I thought you said it was the Breeding Register our would-be thief was after?”

“Not the register itself-the set of books-but the information it contains. That’s where the gold lies.”

“How so?”

“That,” Dillon admitted, “is something I’m not precisely sure of-it’s a function of what the information is to be used for. However, in light of our earlier rumors, one possible use leaps to mind.”

He met Barnaby’s blue eyes. “Horse substitution. It used to be prevalent decades ago, before they implemented the present system. One horse would gain a reputation for winning, then, in one race, the owners would substitute another horse, passing it off as the previous winner, and the punters would lose. The owners would be in league with certain bookmakers, and would pocket a nice cut from the lost bets, as well as pocketing even more from bets they or their friends laid against their ‘champion’ winning.”

“Aha!” Barnaby’s eyes narrowed. “Unexpected losses-as have been rumored to have occurred over the spring season.”

“Just so. And that’s where the Breeding Register comes in. It’s an obligatory listing of a horse’s bloodlines confirming its right to race on English tracks under Jockey Club rules. Bloodlines are fully documented in the Stud Book, while the register is essentially a licensing listing-every horse has to be approved and entered before being allowed in any race at any track operating under the auspices of the Jockey Club. However, along with the horse’s name and general details, each register entry contains a physical description supposedly sufficient to ensure that a given horse, with given name, age, bloodlines, and racing clearance, can be distinguished from any other horse.”

Dillon snorted. “Impossible to be a hundred percent certain always, yet armed with those descriptions, the race stewards at the tracks monitor all the starters before every race, and reexamine and verify all the placegetters after the race has been run. That’s why horses have to be entered for races weeks in advance, so the stewards can be issued with copies of the descriptions each starter should match.”

“And those descriptions come from the Breeding Register held here in Newmarket?”

“Making the stewards’ copies is what my register clerks do, at least during the racing seasons.”

“So why would our would-be thief be interested in the descriptions contained in this register? How would it benefit him?”

“I can think of two ways.” Dillon looked ahead; they were nearly at the Jockey Club’s door. “First, if his master was planning to substitute for a champion he owned, he’d need to be sure what points feature most highly in the register description, because the substitute horse would absolutely have to possess those points to make the substitution work.”

Halting before the pair of shallow stone steps leading up to the club’s double doors, he faced Barnaby. “The second possibility is that whoever has sent our thief is planning a new substitution, but hasn’t yet located a suitable substitute horse. Scanning the descriptions in the register would take time, but would unquestionably identify the best possible match for a substitution.”

He paused, then added, “Bear in mind that in a substitution racket, the substitute only has to pass the prerace check, which is the least detailed. Because the substitute finishes out of the places, it’s not subjected to the more stringent check conducted after the race.”

Barnaby frowned. “So what we might have here is an already established racket that ran certain substitutions last spring and escaped detection, plus an Irishman, presumably acting for some owner, looking to gain access to the Breeding Register to facilitate further substitutions.”

Dillon nodded. “And as to whether the former is directly linked to the latter, logically there’s no reason it has to be. But I’d lay odds they’re connected.”

Barnaby softly snorted. “It certainly has that feeling.”

They turned to the club’s front door. Both paused as through the central glass pane they glimpsed the club’s doorman, inside, hurrying to reach for the latch.

Sweeping the doors wide, the doorman bowed obsequiously, almost tripping over his toes as he stepped aside to allow a lady to pass through.

Not just any lady. A vibrant vision in emerald green, she halted on the top step, taken aback at finding herself facing a masculine wall.

Her head, crowned with a silky tumble of blue-black curls, instinctively rose. Eyes, an even more intense emerald than her elegant gown, rose, too; widening, they locked with Dillon’s.

Barnaby murmured an apology and stepped back.

Dillon didn’t move.

For one incalculable moment, all he could see-all he knew of the world-was that face.

Those eyes.

Brilliant green, glinting gold, they lured and promised.

She was of average height; standing two steps up, her glorious eyes were level with his. He was dimly aware of the classical symmetry of her heart-shaped face, of perfect, very white skin, fine, almost translucent, of delicately arched brows, lush black lashes, a straight little nose, and a mouth a touch too wide. Her lips were full and blatantly sensual, yet instead of disrupting the perfection of her beauty, those distracting lips brought her face alive.

Like a callow youth, he stood and stared.

Wide-eyed, Pris stared back and tried to catch her breath. She felt like one of her brothers had punched her in the stomach; every muscle had contracted and locked, and she couldn’t get them to relax.

Beside her, the helpful doorman beamed. “Why, here’s Mr. Caxton, miss.”

Her mind whirled.

To the gentlemen, he said, “This lady was asking after the register, sir. We explained she had to speak with you.”

Which one was Caxton? Please don’t let it be him.

Tearing her gaze from the dark eyes into which she’d somehow fallen, she looked hopefully at the Greek god, but fickle fate wasn’t that kind. The Greek god was looking at his sinfully dark companion. Reluctantly, she did the same.

His dark, very dark brown eyes that before had appeared as startled as she felt-she doubted he often met ladies as dramatically beautiful as he-had now hardened. As she watched, they fractionally narrowed.

“Indeed?”

The precise diction, the arrogantly superior tone, told her all she needed to know of his social rank and background. The flick of inherent power brought her head up, brought the earl’s daughter to the fore. She smiled, assured. “I was hoping to view the register, if that’s possible?”

Instantly, she sensed a dramatic heightening of their interest-a focusing that owed nothing to the quality of her smile. Her gaze locked on Caxton, on the dark eyes in which, unless she was sorely mistaken, suspicion was now blooming, she mentally replayed her words, but could see nothing to explain their reaction. Glancing at the Greek god, she saw the alert look he sent Caxton…it was her accent that had triggered their response.

Like all the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, she spoke perfect English, but no amount of elocution lessons would ever remove the soft burr of her brogue, the stamp of Ireland on her tongue.

And Rus, naturally, was the same.

Tamping down the sudden surge of emotion-trepidation and expectation combined-she looked again at Caxton. Meeting his eyes, she arched a brow. “Perhaps, now you’ve returned, sir, you could help me with my