Stephanie Laurens - What Price Love?

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 femme fatale . Yet Miss Dalling qualified as clever and intelligent, and her type of beauty was the epitome of fatale -the sort men died for.

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 some other time. I fear we’ve dallied long enough. Aunt Eugenia will start to worry over where we are.”

She held out her hand. “Thank you for your company, sir. Aunt Eugenia will be grateful for the information you imparted.”

He grasped her hand. She was immediately conscious of warmth, of heat, of a prickling awareness that spread from where his fingers closed firmly about hers. Keeping her gaze level and unwavering, she made a mental note to avoid giving him her hand again.

“Restricted though it was?” His eyes held hers. More, he studied her, watched her.

“Indeed.” She drew back on her fingers. He held them for an instant, then let them slide from his…

She sensed the implicit warning, but was uncertain precisely what he was warning her not to do, which line he was warning her not to cross.

Neither her face nor his hinted of deeper meaning. Adelaide glowed as he turned to her; she gaily bade him farewell.

Before Pris could execute a clean parting, he asked, and Adelaide blithely volunteered that they’d driven into town, and that their gig was stabled at the Crown & Quirt on the High Street.

Pris watched him like a hawk, but he gave no indication that the information was of any particular interest to him. Smiling easily, he bowed and wished them a safe journey home.

With a regal inclination of her head, she linked her arm in Adelaide’s and resolutely drew her away. It took effort, but she refused to look back, even though she felt his dark gaze lingering on her, literally, until they passed out of his sight.

Ihave to find some way to locate Rus.” Pris sat at the luncheon table in the neat manor house Eugenia had rented and absentmindedly picked at a bunch of grapes. “It must be as Caxton said-Cromarty’s rented a stable out on the Heath.”

“How big is this Heath?” Eugenia had pushed back from the table and lifted her tatting into her lap.

Pris wrinkled her nose. “As far as I can tell, it’s enormous, and has no finite boundary. It’s an area spreading out from the town, big enough for all the strings of horses to be exercised there twice a day.”

“So finding one stable isn’t going to be easy.”

“No. But if we ride around during the training sessions-early morning and late afternoon-we might sight Cromarty’s string. Rus said he assisted with the training sessions, or at least he did in Ireland.”

Adelaide spoke from across the table. “Should we go this afternoon?”

Pris wanted to, but shook her head. “Caxton’s suspicious, although I’m sure he doesn’t know what to be suspicious about. We told him we were looking for Irish stables to sate your”-she inclined her head to Eugenia-“avid curiosity. If he sees us out hunting this afternoon, we’ll appear too eager, too urgent to locate the Irish stables. I don’t want to invite his attention any more than I already have.”

Looking up from her tatting, Eugenia bent a very direct look on Pris. “You fear him. Why?”

Pris swallowed the denial that rose to her tongue; Eugenia, she’d learned, was exceedingly clear-sighted. Eventually, she offered, “I think it’s because he’s so very handsome-just like me.” She met Eugenia’s gaze. “And just like me, people look no further than his face and figure, and forget that there’s a very good brain at work behind the mouthwatering façade.”