Stephanie Laurens: What Price Love?

In the peace of the Twig & Bough, he’d related the details of three separate attempts to break into the Jockey Club, along with reports of some man asking about “the register” in local ale houses, rough taverns catering to the dregs of the town.

They’d just finished discussing what was known of the inquisitive man-an Irishman by his accent-when the influx of ladies had rousted them. Dillon’s office in the Jockey Club was their current goal, the only place they might conclude their sensitive discussion in some degree of privacy.

But it was slow going. Escaping Mrs. Cartwell, they fell victim to Lady Hemmings. As they left her ladyship, Dillon seized the chance created by two groups of ladies becoming distracted by their own gossip to quickly steer Barnaby between two carriages and across the street. They lengthened their strides; by the time the ladies noticed they’d slipped sideways and escaped, they were turning into the long avenue flanked by tall trees that led to the front door of the Jockey Club.

“Phew!” Barnaby shot him a glance. “I see what you mean. It’s worse than in London-there are few others about to draw their fire.”

Dillon nodded. “Luckily, we’re now safe. The only females ever glimpsed within these hallowed precincts are of the horse-mad sorority, not the husband-hunting packs.”

There were no others, male or female, presently on the path leading to the front door; easing his pace, he returned to their interrupted discussion. “These break-ins-if someone’s asking about ‘a register,’ odds are they mean the Breeding Register, presumably the target of our would-be thief. Nothing else within the Jockey Club has any real value.”

Slowing to an amble, Barnaby looked at the red brick building standing squarely at the end of the shady avenue. “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.