What Price Love?

waist. Shortening the reins, he waited while Rus adjusted the mare’s stirrups and mounted, then turned Solomon’s head to the west. “This way. Keep close.”

Pris clung to the warmth of Dillon’s back as they trotted away under the trees. Then she realized which way they were heading. She looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, “Dillon-”

“Shhh!”

She pressed her lips together and waited, but he continued along the path leading west-the same path they’d ridden in on that afternoon, the one that led to the ruined cottage. Another minute passed, and she could bear it no longer. With one finger, she poked his shoulder. “We’re going the wrong way!”

She’d kept her words to a whisper; he answered on a sigh. “No, we’re not.” After a moment, he added, “Just wait.”

Wait. It was the one thing she wasn’t particularly good at. As he well knew. She wriggled.

“Sit still.”

She stifled a sigh.

They reached the rock-strewn stream. Dillon eased his big black down the bank-then headed down the stream.

“Ah.” Pris leaned forward so her lips brushed Dillon’s ear.

He glanced briefly back at her. “Indeed.”

Relieved that it was as she’d thought and Dillon was taking Rus back to his house, she twisted around to look at her twin, guiding the mare in the black’s wake. She caught Rus’s gaze and flashed him a reassuring grin, then turned forward, tightening her arms about Dillon as he sent the black back up the stream bank, this time heading east.

Half an hour later, they clattered into the stable yard behind the manor. The stableman and a lad appeared, and took their horses.

“We’ll need them both in a few hours,” Dillon said.

The stableman saluted and led the horses away.

“This way.” The traveling bag in one hand, her hand in the other, Dillon turned toward the house.

Rus, his saddlebags over his arm, paced alongside her as they crossed a wide expanse of manicured lawn. She felt him glance at her hand uncompromisingly locked in Dillon’s, then he glanced across her at Dillon. “You’re the Keeper of the Breeding Register, aren’t you?”

Dillon glanced briefly his way. “Among other things, yes.”

Rus exhaled. “I’ve been trying to learn about that blasted register-”

“I know. Meanwhile I’ve been trying to learn who the hell you are, and why you wanted to know.”

Pris watched as Rus, his gaze on Dillon’s face, grimaced.

“That was you the other night, wasn’t it? At the back of the Jockey Club? The trap I walked into. Was the other one a friend of yours?’

Dillon’s lips curved. He nodded. “You can apologize when you meet him. Actually, he was quite impressed by your pugilistic style-if you want to make amends, offer to teach him.”

“I will.” Rus frowned. “But what I couldn’t fathom was who it was you went after-is there someone else trying to gain access to the register?”

“There was,” Dillon said.

“Who?” Rus asked as they reached the house.

Dillon paused before a door, and met Rus’s gaze. “Guess.”

Then he looked at Pris.

12

Rus’s reaction to learning it had been Pris who’d lured Dillon away to allow him to escape Dillon’s trap kept brother and sister engaged in a pithy, sotto voce exchange long enough for Dillon to herd them into his study, leave to request a plate of bread, cold meats, and ale for Rus, and tea for Pris, give orders for a room to be made up for Rus, whose existence was to be kept a complete secret from all outside the house hold, and return.

Shutting his study door, he cut through the still-running altercation without compunction. “Enough!” His gaze touched Pris’s, then he waved them both, still standing before the hearth, to the armchairs on either side. “Sit down, and let’s start at the beginning.”

He waited until, still huffy, still casting irate glances at each other, they complied, then he pulled the admiral’s chair from behind the desk and sank into it. He fixed his gaze on Rus’s face. “What made you suspicious?”

Slumping back in the chair, Rus’s gaze grew distant. “There were two horses at Cromarty’s stables that weren’t his. Not part of his string. They belonged to some other owner but were with Cromarty. Apparently those were the horses that Paddy O’Loughlin, the man who held the assistant stable manager position before me, had had a disagreement over and quit.”

Pris glanced at Dillon. He shook his head; he didn’t want Rus distracted with the news that Paddy had subsequently disappeared.

“Thus warned,” Rus continued, “I didn’t say anything, but neither horse was being properly brought on. They were being run occasionally but not properly prepared.” Rus looked at him. “I have no idea what that means.”

“I can guess, but go on.”

Rus raised his brows. “Shortly after, amid the preparations to come to Newmarket, I heard Harkness and the head lad, Crom, a mean, vicious lump who’s been with Harkness forever, talking. I’d gone into the tack room to fetch a particular bridle-I knew where it was so I didn’t light a lamp. Harkness and Crom came into the stable to talk privately. They didn’t know I was there.”

“This was the conversation you mentioned in your letter to Pris?”

“Yes. I didn’t hear enough to know what was going on, but as they’d mentioned ‘the register’ and we were coming to Newmarket, I thought I’d be able to work it out once here.”

A tap on the door heralded Jacobs with a tray. Dillon pulled a side table into the space between the chairs. Jacobs set down the tray; Pris reached for the teapot. Dillon nodded his thanks, and Jacobs retreated.

Dillon waited until Rus had fortified himself with bread and roast beef, and taken a healthy swallow of ale before prompting, “And then…?

Rus dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and sat back. “The first thing that happened was that those two extra horses were brought over to England with the string, then sent off with Crom once we docked at Liverpool. I never heard where they went. As Cromarty didn’t travel with the string, I wondered if he knew what was happening. He’s an owner, and knows horses, but he doesn’t spend much time with them, let alone do any training himself. I assumed he was unaware of what ever was going on.”

Rus sipped, then went on, “The next thing…we had a big bay gelding, Flyin’ Fury, a very good runner. Cromarty had raced him over the past two seasons, and he’d done well. We ran him in the opening meet here, and he showed the field a clean pair of heels. Naturally, he was entered for another race in the next meet, the one three weeks ago. About a week before that, I noticed Flyin’ Fury…was odd.”

Rus looked at Dillon. “Not looked odd-he looked exactly like…well, himself-but I’d take an oath the horse wasn’t Flyin’ Fury.” He grimaced. “I know it sounds nonsense, but it just wasn’t the same horse. The stable lads were uncertain-the horse didn’t react to them as usual, either-but it was Crom who handled Flyin’ Fury, so other than me and Harkness, none of the others spent much time with him, and, of course, Crom and Harkness weren’t saying anything.”

“Did you mention your suspicions?” Dillon asked.

Rus shook his head. “I said nothing, and they behaved as if Flyin’ Fury was the same as ever. The real shock was that the next day, he was-meaning the real Flyin’ Fury was back.”

Rus took a long swallow of ale. “That was…hard to understand. But then two days later, the imposter was back. And then came the race, and it was the other horse that ran as Flyin’ Fury, and got beaten. He came fifth.”