eyeing. It had been years since she’d played such games; she was rusty. Better she stick to the shockingly direct. “This is Miss Blake, a close friend.”
Dillon bowed over Miss Blake’s hand and exchanged the usual greetings. Miss Blake was a pretty young lady with burnished blond-brown hair and bright hazel eyes; in most company she would shine, yet beside Miss Dalling, Miss Blake appeared washed-out, faded, so much less alive. “Is this your first visit to Newmarket?”
He glanced at Miss Dalling, including her in the question. She hadn’t offered him her hand; indeed, she’d kept both hands wrapped about her parasol’s handle.
It was the Irish princess who answered. “Yes.” With a swish of her skirts, today a vivid blue, she turned to the track as a bevy of horses thundered past. “And when in Newmarket…” She gestured to the track, then glanced at him. “Tell me, do all the stables trial their runners? Is it obligatory?”
He wondered why she wanted to know. “No. Trainers can prepare their horses in what ever way they wish. That said, most take advantage of the days the track is made available, if nothing else to give their runners a feel for the course. Each track is different. Different length, different shape-different in the running.”
Her brows rose. “I must tell Aunt Eugenia.”
“I thought she was racing-mad-surely she would know.”
“Oh, her passion for racing is a recent thing, which is why she’s so keen to learn more.” She surveyed him as if deciding how useful he might be.
He met her gaze, knew she was gauging how best to manipulate him, if she could…he let his knowledge show.
She read his eyes, understood his message; to his surprise, she considered it-as if debating whether to challenge him to withstand her wiles-before opting to ask, perfectly directly, “As you wouldn’t let me see the register, perhaps you can tell me what exactly the entries in it contain, so I may tell my aunt and fill in at least that part of the puzzle for her.”
He held her gaze, then, aware of Miss Blake standing beside them, her gaze flicking from one face to the other, he turned to address her. “Is the lady your aunt, too?”
Miss Blake smiled ingenuously. “Oh, no. She’s Pris’s aunt. I’m Lady Fowles’s goddaughter.”
Dillon glanced back at Pris-Priscilla?-in time to catch the frown she directed at Miss Blake, but when she lifted her eyes to his, they were merely mildly interested.
She arched a brow. “The register entries?”
How much to divulge-anything, or enough to tempt her further? Further to where she might reveal why she was asking, and who she was really asking for. “Each entry carries the name of the horse, the sex, color, date, and place of its foaling, its sire and dam, and their bloodlines-a horse must be a Thoroughbred to race in Jockey Club races.”
They were standing not far from the rails; as more stables sent their horses out onto the track, the would-be punters, the touts, betting agents, and the usual hangers-on crowded closer to get a better view. One man jostled Miss Blake-because he’d gone wide-eyed staring at Miss Dalling.
Gripping Miss Blake’s elbow, steadying her, Dillon caught Miss Dalling’s eye. Releasing Miss Blake, who mumbled a breathless thank-you, he waved to the area farther from the track. “Unless you’re keen to view the horses, perhaps we should retreat to more comfortable surrounds?”
Miss Dalling nodded. “Aunt Eugenia has yet to become fixated on individual animals.”
Dillon felt his lips twitch; he was aching to ask if Aunt Eugenia truly existed. Instead, he strolled between the two ladies across the well-tended lawns, angling away from the track.
Miss Dalling glanced at him. “So what else is included in the register?”
How best to whet her appetite? “There are certain other details included with each entry, but they, I’m afraid, are confidential.”
She looked ahead. “So someone wanting to race a horse on a Jockey Club track must register the horse, providing the details you mentioned, plus others, and then they receive a license?”
“Yes.”
“Is this license a physical thing, or simply in the form of a permission?”
He wished he knew why she wanted to know. “It’s a piece of paper carrying the Jockey Club crest. The owner has to produce it in order to enter his horse in a race.”
Silence followed. Glancing at her face, he saw a line etched between her brows; what ever was driving her interest in the register, it was, to her, serious.
“This piece of paper-does it carry the same information as the entry in the register?”
“No. The license simply states that the horse of that name, sex, color, and date of foaling is accepted to run in races held under the auspices of the Jockey Club.”
“So the ‘confidential details’ aren’t on the license?”
“No.”
She sighed. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will find it fascinating. She will, of course, be avidly eager to learn what the confidential details are.”
The glance she threw him plainly stated that the “confidential details” would be her next target, but then she smiled. “But who knows? Perhaps once I tell her what you’ve said, she’ll be ready to go off on some other tack.”
Dillon inwardly frowned. Her light, faintly secretive smile still playing about her distracting lips, she looked away, leaving him wondering what to make of her last statement. She’d uttered it as if reassuring him she probably wouldn’t be back to try to drag more details from him…but he wanted her to return, wanted her to try-wanted her to grow increasingly more determined, and therefore more reckless.
She was the sort to get reckless, to lose her Irish temper and toss caution to the winds-he intended to goad her to it, and then he’d learn all he wanted and needed to know.
But he wouldn’t learn anything unless she came back.
Turning to Miss Blake, he smoothly engaged her in conversation, asking what she thought of the horses, of Newmarket itself, had she tried the Twig & Bough. Anything to prolong his time in Miss Dalling’s company- anything to learn more of her and her entourage.
In that respect, saddling herself with an innocent, sweet young thing like Miss Blake wasn’t what one would expect of a clever and intelligent
Presumably Miss Blake was truly a connection, which suggested Miss Dalling was, at least in part, as she appeared-a gently bred young lady.
He glanced at her, strolling by his side, head up, scanning the stable crews on the other side of the track. Being a gently bred young lady didn’t preclude her also being an adventuress.
With his eyes, he traced her perfect profile, then realized she, and Miss Blake, too, were not idly scanning. They were searching.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?”
Pris slowly turned her head, using the moment before she met his eyes to decide how to answer. “As you know, we’re from Ireland. Aunt Eugenia said there should be a number of Irish stables here-she asked us to look and see if we noticed anyone.”
“Anyone who looked Irish,” Adelaide helpfully piped up. “Or sounded Irish.”
Pris hurried to reclaim Caxton’s attention. “Do you know which Irish stables will be running horses here over the next weeks?”
He met her eyes, then glanced across the turf. “There are Irish stables who bring horses over to compete, but most rent stables out on the Heath and bring their runners in to local stables only on the day they run. They generally use local jockeys, ones who know the course well.” He nodded toward the congregation of stable hands. “The only crew from Irish stables you’re likely to come across today are the owners and trainers, maybe a head stableman.”
“I see.” Pris was keen to close that avenue of conversation before it revealed too much.
Caxton halted. “If you wish, I could escort you that way. I wouldn’t recommend that ladies venture into that area alone, but you’ll be safe with me.”
Halting, too, she met his eyes, and wished she dared take up his offer; she was desperate to locate Rus. Failing him, she’d be happy to find any member of the Cromarty crew. But…she forced any easy smile. “Perhaps
