Stephanie Laurens - What Price Love?

“He’s certainly handsome,” Adelaide averred, “but he’s rather overwhelming. He’s very dark and hard and sharp. He may be beautiful, but he’s not comfortable.”

Pris found nothing to argue with in that. Drumming her fingers on the tablecloth, she thought over all she’d learned, trying to find some way forward.

“So what are you planning to do next?” Eugenia asked.

Pris looked up and met her eyes. “We can ride out early tomorrow morning and start searching through the strings exercising on the Heath. The ostler at the inn said all strings exercise there every morning, and Caxton won’t expect us to be out at such an hour. If he’s suspicious enough to think to look for us, he’ll look at the afternoon sessions. Meanwhile…”

She frowned, then pushed back her chair. “If I could just get a look at that blasted register, I’d have a better idea what sort of scheme Harkness might be hatching. A better idea of what Rus will think to do.”

Eugenia’s lips curved. “One benefit of being twins.”

Rising to her feet, Pris managed a smile. “Indeed. If you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to take a turn about the gardens.”

Ifound her at the track midmorning, walking with a friend-a Miss Blake.” Sprawled in the chair behind his office desk, Dillon laced his fingers across his waistcoat. “Miss Dalling tried to learn more about the register, but that wasn’t why she was there. They were searching for someone. She said she was looking for the Irish crews, but I’m not sure if that was the truth or simply the most obvious answer to my question.”

“Did you learn where they were staying?” Barnaby sat slumped in the armchair opposite the bookcase, long legs stretched out before him, ready to share the results of his day’s sleuthing.

Dillon nodded. “I followed them home-she’d driven them into town in a gig. They’re staying at the old Carisbrook place. I asked around. There really is an aunt-a Lady Fowles-and she’s rented the house for several weeks.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned at his boots. “How do you read her-Miss Dalling? Is her interest in the register really because of her eccentric aunt?”

Dillon glanced out of the window at the gathering dusk. “I think she’s a consummate liar, sticking to the truth as far as possible, inventing only where necessary.”

Barnaby’s lips twisted. “The hardest sort to catch.”

“Indeed. So what did you learn about the man interested in the register?”

“An Irishman with dark hair, tallish, lean, and younger than I’d supposed-midtwenties by all accounts. Not much more anyone could tell me, although one ancient described him as ‘gentry down on his luck.’”

Dillon frowned. “I know all the Irish owners and trainers here this season, at least by sight, and that description rings no bells.”

Barnaby waved. “In the same vein as for the lovely Miss Dalling, there’s no need for him to be associated with any stable-his connection to this might be quite otherwise.”

“True. Did you learn anything more about the break-ins?”

“Only that this place is a burglar’s delight. It sits so far back from the road with that avenue of huge trees, and”-Barnaby pointed through the window, beyond the rear of the building-“there’s a nice stand of woodland out there. It’s ridiculously easy to approach this place at night, and no one’s the wiser.”

Leaning back, he looked up at the ceiling. “The first time he came, he didn’t come prepared-he tried the windows, but couldn’t spring the locks, then had to retreat when the night watchman came around. The second time, he gained entry through the kitchen window, but the door into the building proper was bolted, so again he had to retreat. The last time, he forced a window and got into the offices down the corridor. He started searching, going through the shelves, but then knocked over a box, bringing the night watchman running, and had to flee.”

Barnaby looked at Dillon. “Incidentally, the watchman’s description, while hardly detailed, just an impression of height, build, and coloring, and age in how easily he fled, suggests the young Irishman with the questions could indeed be our burglar.”

“That suggests we have only one group we need pursue…” A minute passed, then Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes. “There’s something afoot. You, me, the Committee, we all know it, but all we have are conjecture and suspicion. We need to catch this Irishman-he’s the only person we know of who can shed light on whatever’s going on.”

Barnaby nodded. “I agree-but how?”

“You said this place was a burglar’s delight-now he’s got so close, presumably he’ll come back. What if we make it extra tempting for him to do so, wait until he makes his move…and then step in?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Last time he got into the offices, so, assuming he is indeed after the Breeding Register, he knows this wing is where he needs to concentrate.” With his head, Dillon indicated the side window. “As you pointed out, the woods are close. He’ll use them for cover, to circle the building and learn where the night watchman is, to check whether anyone is working late. This room’s at the corner-that window stands out. What if, assuming he comes to night, he sees it left just a little open?”

Barnaby grinned. “Like a moth to a flame, he’ll come up and look in, see it’s an office, and…”

Dillon smiled grimly. “Like a moth to a flame, he’ll get his wings burned.”

Late that night, Pris slid from her saddle at the edge of the woods onto which the Jockey Club backed. The moon was half-full, obscured by fitful clouds; beneath the trees, it was dark, not still so much as suspenseful-as if the trees were holding their breaths, waiting to see what would come…

Quelling a shiver, she sternly shook aside her fanciful thoughts and tethered her mare to a low-hanging branch. There were bushes and shrubs scattered beneath the trees, but they weren’t so thick she would miss seeing any man-sized shape skulking in the shadows.

She slid into the undergrowth. In breeches, boots, and jacket, with a kerchief about her neck, her hair up and severely confined, and a soft, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on her head, she could at a distance pass for a stable lad. The Lord knew there were plenty of those about Newmarket.

Carefully forging deeper into the dark wood, she scanned ahead, searching for any sign of any other person creeping up on the Jockey Club. She could see the building through the trees, the red brick dull but with glimmers from the pale mortar and pointing, the white-painted window frames gleaming in the occasional shaft of moonlight.

Her words to Eugenia over the luncheon table had reminded her; she did, indeed, know how Rus thought. When he’d written his last letter to her, he hadn’t known what the register was, not in detail, nor how it related to what ever illicit scheme Harkness was planning. Rus had intended to learn about the register. He’d known it was kept at the Jockey Club; presumably, he’d gone there and asked, as she had.

Perhaps that was where Caxton and his friend had last heard an Irish accent.

It would certainly seem odd to have two people with precisely the same accent-even the same inflections and tones-inquire about the register in a short space of time. No wonder they’d been suspicious.

Doubly so if they had reason to suspect some scam was being planned.

They might already suspect Rus.

She knew Caxton suspected her, at least of being peripherally involved. Regardless, she had to get a look at the register. Once she had, she would know as much as Rus did-perhaps more if he hadn’t yet seen it.

Given how tight-lipped Caxton was, given her sense of his character-potentially hard and unforgiving of errors-she wasn’t going to waste time charming his clerks. Not until she’d exhausted more direct avenues.