“Ah.” Dillon nodded, as if accepting completely what Harkness was saying. “I did wonder-I had a young Irishman come to me with some convoluted tale. Used to be your assistant, I believe. I gather he left under a cloud-naturally, I listened to his story with that in mind. We all know what it’s like to have troublesome staff. Indeed, the man’s tale was so nonsensical it was clear he was simply intending to cause trouble.”
Meeting Harkness’s eyes, Dillon smiled genially. “I just thought I’d let Lord Cromarty know that I wasn’t taken in by the man’s tale.”
Despite the harshness of his face, the hardness of his expression, Harkness’s relief was obvious. His lips eased; he bobbed his head. “Thank you, sir. One never knows with people like that. I’ll be sure to tell his lordship.”
Behind Harkness, Dillon saw a wizened gnome come out of Figgs’s stable. Crom. He glanced about; noticing Harkness talking to Dillon, he hesitated, then hitched up his belt and lumbered off to the latrines. There was no reason Crom or Harkness would think their runners were under any threat. All activity around the stable was following the usual pattern of a racing morning, with the usual lads, jockeys, and hangers-on drifting past.
Crom lumbered across the gap between Figgs’s stable and the one behind which Pris and Rus were waiting. They would see him; within seconds, Pris would be in Figgs’s stable with Belle. Two Belles.
His genial smile in place, Dillon swung toward the increasingly noisy gathering farther along the arc of holding stalls. As if just realizing what it meant, he murmured, “I heard the Cynster runners had come in early.”
He glanced at Harkness. “I haven’t seen them yet-but you must be keen to cast your eye over the competition.” Looking back at the milling crowd, he grinned. “It looks like half the trainers with runners in the morning’s races are already there.”
They were; Dillon gave thanks for Demon’s foresight in creating such a useful diversion. Meeting Harkness’s black gaze, he inclined his head toward the crowd. “I must take a look-coming?”
Harkness might have been a villain, but he was a trainer first and last; he didn’t need to be persuaded to legitimately spy on the competition.
With absolutely no suspicion that anything was going on, Harkness accompanied Dillon to the Cynster stalls.
From the corner of the stable where he’d been keeping watch, Rus turned back and met Pris’s eyes. He hesitated, clearly torn, then nodded. “Go!”
She immediately stepped out, head down, Belle’s reins in her hand. Beside her, Stan, Dillon’s groom, kept pace. As they approached the side of Figgs’s stable, Stan loped ahead. He opened the single door, took a quick look in, then stood back and held the door wide for her to lead Belle through.
Without hesitation, Pris did-as if Belle and she belonged in that stable.
Stan closed the door, leaving it open a sliver, keeping watch, ready to let her and the other filly, Black Rose, out again.
Abruptly enveloped in the warm gloom of the stable, Pris waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, and said a quick prayer. Blinking, she stepped out, scanning each stall, each horse, looking for Black Rose-praying she’d be closer to this end than the other, that, nightmare of nightmares, she wouldn’t be in one of the stalls facing the open main doors.
Fate smiled; she found the black filly looking inquisitively out of a stall midway down the line. Giving thanks, she quickly led Belle nearer, then looped her reins about a convenient post. She’d brought another leading bridle for Black Rose; taking a precious moment to croon to the filly and stroke her nose, she slipped into the stall and quickly fitted the bridle.
Black Rose was a much more even-tempered horse than Belle; Pris sensed it immediately-wondered if that edge of temper was a necessary element in the makeup of a champion.
She scoffed at herself, amazed she could even think. She was so keyed up, her brain felt like it was literally racing, along with her heart. Her senses were fractured, scattered, trying to keep track of so many things-alert to any hint of danger-while she quickly led Black Rose out of the stall, tethered her farther down the aisle, then turned to Belle, and the most fraught moment in their entire plan.
Belle looked down her long black nose at her while she tugged the reins loose. Pris looked back, into the large, intelligent eyes. “Good girl. Now let’s get you into the stall, and then later you’ll get to race.”
Belle lifted her head, then lowered it-twice. Pris’s heart leapt into her mouth-was Belle going to be difficult? Was she going to rear?
Instead, Belle nudged forward; Pris snapped her mouth shut and quickly led the champion filly into the stall. She turned her, then slipped the bridle and reins off the sleek black head.
Belle snorted, and nodded twice.
Pris wished she could sigh in relief, but she was too tense-her stomach felt cinched into hard, tight knots. She patted Belle one last time, then slipped out of the stall and latched the door.
Stuffing Belle’s reins and bridle into her pocket, she returned to Black Rose and tugged the filly’s reins free. Her heart thudding in her chest, she set out for the door at the end of the aisle.
“Here-you! Yes,
Barnaby’s voice brought her up short. His voice, but not his usual drawling accent; he sounded like a London tough. She froze, then glanced back at the main doors-but there was no one there.
From over her stall door, Belle looked inquiringly at her.
“I was wondering…” Barnaby’s voice lowered, became indistinct.
He was talking to someone just outside the main doors. Crom, or the night watchman.
Pris looked down. The aisle was beaten earth and straw. They had no option anyway; hauling in a tortured breath, she held it and quickly led Black Rose on. The aisle seemed much longer than before; they went faster and faster as they neared the end, then the door swung open and daylight lay ahead. She led Black Rose straight through. Stan swung the door shut behind them, silently latched it, then scrambled to catch up as she trotted Black Rose on-not to the back of the stable where they’d waited but straight into the group of horses Rus and the other groom were leading along.
In seconds, Black Rose was concealed within the group. Rus, who’d been leading his and Pris’s horses, boosted her into her saddle, then swung up to his. Slouching, they took the reins the grooms handed them, then settled to lead their plodding charges on.
“Where’s Harkness?” Pris asked, when she’d caught enough breath to speak, when her thundering heart had subsided out of her throat so she could form the words.
“I don’t know.” From beneath the brim of his cap, Rus was searching in all directions. After a moment, he said, “We trust Dillon and follow the plan, at least until we know otherwise.”
She nodded. Ten paces farther on, they crossed into the open as they ambled past the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next. They all looked toward the track-to the open area before Figgs’s stable-but the only people about were strangers.
It took discipline to keep to their slow walk; even a trot would have attracted attention. They reached the next stable and were about to pass out of the most risky area; Pris glanced back at the last moment, just before the stable would block her view-and saw Barnaby taking a few steps backward, apparently parting from someone standing before Figgs’s main doors.
Looking ahead, she drew in a breath.
And told herself not to jinx anything, to stay alert until they reached the Heath proper and the wood in which they were to take cover after that.
Thirty nerve-racking minutes later, she, Rus, Stan, and Mike, the other groom, entered the small wood to the east of Newmarket, beyond the town’s fringes and the outlying fields. Pris drew rein-then took what felt like her first real breath of the morning.
She glanced at Rus and met his eyes. Felt a smile spread across her face. “We did it!”
With a whoop, she sent her cap soaring. Rus, grinning fit to burst, did the same, as did Stan and Mike.
Once they’d quieted, however, they were eager to get on. Stan and Mike would return the Cynster horses to the stud, then would rejoin the crowd at the track. Pris and Rus would ride north, taking Black Rose with them; they’d stow the look-alike in the isolated stable for Harkness or Crom to find.
“Then,” Rus said, as he wheeled his horse, “we’ll head back to the Carisbrook house, get changed, and get ourselves back to the track in time to watch Belle win.”
Pris had no argument with that plan; with a giddy laugh, she urged her mount on.
