What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  Their interludes to date had been largely illicit—private meetings at night or in surroundings that freed them of social restraint. Perhaps that was why she felt such a thrill when she saw his dark head through the crowd.

  Returning her gaze to Lord Matlock, she kept her attention fastened on him.

  “My high-perch phaeton will do nicely as a viewing platform,” Matlock appealed to her. “What say you, Miss Dalling? Are you game?”

  She lightly grimaced. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t see my aunt permitting it.” She softened the rejection with a smile. “If truth be told, Miss Blake and I are indifferent followers of the Turf.”

  The gentlemen politely ribbed her, pointing out that no real lady truly followed the nags. Smiling, she returned their sallies, her gaze on them while her senses twitched and tugged her attention to Dillon, drawing steadily nearer.

  And then he was there, bowing over her hand, claiming the position by her side. He bowed to Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, and nodded to the gentlemen. “Matlock. Hastings. Markham. Cummings.”

  Immediately he became the focus of all attention. The young ladies, predictably, hung on his every word, but the gentlemen’s reactions were more revealing; in their eyes, Dillon, a few years older, with his aura of hardness, of experience, was an enigma, but one they admired.

  Given the figure he cut in the austere black-and-white of evening dress, his dramatic handsomeness only more enhanced, Pris fully comprehended the admiration of both male and female. Visually speaking, he was a pattern card depicting all an aristocratic gentleman should be.

  The other men were exceedingly polite, respectful as they asked his opinion of certain runners in the upcoming races.

  “I say, is there any truth in the rumor that some race here a few weeks ago was…” Mr. Markham had spoken impulsively; belatedly realizing to whom he spoke, he glanced at the others, color rising in his cheeks. “Well,” he rather lamely concluded, “in some way suspect?”

  Suspect? Pris looked at Dillon’s face; his polite, faintly aloof expression told her nothing.

  “I really can’t comment at this point.” Summoning a distant smile, Dillon reached for Pris’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ve been dispatched to fetch Miss Dalling to meet Lady Amberfield.”

  “Oh. Ah…yes, of course.” Lord Matlock bowed, as did the other gentlemen.

  Once Pris had taken leave of them and the young ladies, Dillon led her into the crowd.

  Lady Helmsley’s L-shaped drawing room was large, but the number of guests crammed into the space made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. He guided Pris through the throng, grateful that the crush limited people’s view of them. She was eye-catching, as always, despite the severe style of her figured silk gown. The color matched her eyes and was an excellent foil for her black hair, to night wound high at the back of her head; the style should have looked austere, but instead evoked fantasies of the mass unraveling. The silk clung lovingly to her figure, the heart-shaped neckline displaying her breasts and the deep cleft between as well as the seductively vulnerable line of her exposed nape.

  Again, she’d done her best to mute the effect with a heavily fringed, jade-and-black-patterned silk shawl; again, it hadn’t worked.

  His eyes feasting, he wondered at his sudden susceptibility to such heretofore undistracting feminine charms. Cynically resigned, he steered her to the end of the shorter arm of the room.

  She glanced around. “Who’s Lady Amberfield?”

  “A local gorgon.”

  Pris frowned. “Why does she want to meet me?”

  “She doesn’t.” Tacking through the last of the crowd, he halted her before a minor door in the end wall.

  She considered the door. “Ah. I see.”

  He opened it; without a word, she slipped through, into a long, unlit corridor. Glancing briefly at the guests—all otherwise engaged—he followed, closing the door on the noise.

  Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “I don’t think anyone saw us leave. Are you willing to risk disappearing for an hour or so?”

  She raised her brows. “To see the register? Of course.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then waved her on. “We can cut through the gardens. It’s not far to the back of the club.”

  He was familiar with the house and gardens; once outside, they walked briskly through the shrubbery, through a door in the garden wall, out onto a stretch of cleared land, screened from the High Street by the backs of other properties and a line of trees; across the open stretch lay the wood at the back of the Jockey Club.

  “That way?” She pointed at the wood.

  He nodded. Lifting her hems free of the short grass, she stepped out.

  Instinctively scanning the shadows beneath the trees, he fell in beside her. “I’ll leave you at the back door, then go around and deal with the guards.”

  “Do you often drop by late at night?”

  “Occasionally. Sometimes things occur to me, especially after I’ve been talking with my father.”

  “You said he was the Keeper of the Stud Book.”

  “He was.” He glanced at her. “That’s part of the position I now hold. You could say it’s become a family interest. My grandfather was involved in developing the records of the racing industry back in his day.”

  The outliers of the wood rose before them. He glanced at her feet and was relieved to see she was wearing proper shoes, albeit ones with a sizable heel. Flimsy dance slippers would have already been sodden, and traipsing through the wood…

  Reaching for her arm, he halted her at the edge of the trees. He looked into the shadows, grimaced. “Briars.”

  “Oh.” She glanced down at her skirts and the trailing fringe of her shawl.

  He stepped back, stooped, and swung her up into his arms.

  She swallowed a shriek, then muttered an Irish oath—one he knew.

  Hiding a grin, he hefted her, settling her weight. “Gather up the shawl.”

  Still muttering ungratefully, she piled the fringe in her lap.

  Ducking under a branch, he carried her into the wood. There were no defined paths, but the undergrowth wasn’t dense; it was easy enough to tack around the few bushes in his path.

  Although she said no more, he got the impression she chafed at being so much in his control, at being so dependent on him. At having to rely on him.

  The thought slid through his brain; his response was unequivocal. He might understand, but she’d have to get used to it.

  Around them, the wood was alive with a muted chorus of rustlings, scratches, and snaps, but there was no hint of any person skulking in the shadows. He was aware she scanned, peering about as much as she could; clearly she didn’t know if her “acquaintance” was still set on breaking into the club.

  The point reminded him of how serious matters were, reminded him why he was about to break his until-now-inflexible rule and show her the register.

  They reached the edge of the wood; she immediately wriggled. He set her down. She brushed her skirts down, twitched her shawl back into place, then looked across the swath of open ground at the club. “Thank you.”

  He grinned and looked along the side of the building toward the front. There was no one in sight. He reached for her hand. “Come on.”

  He led her across the drive, then over the trimmed grass to the path that led to the rear of the club. The back door was protected by a shallow porch. He whisked her into it. “Wait here,” he murmured. “I’ll go around and let you in.”

  She nodded, and he left her, walking back around the corner, then along the side of the building and around to the front door.

  The two guards, chatting over a brazier, looked up. They recognized him and grinned in greeting. One tapped the bill of his cap. “Mr. Caxton.”

  Fishing his keys out of his waistcoat pocket, Dillon nodded back. “I’m going in for a while. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Right you are, sir.”


  He started up the steps. “I’m supposedly at Lady Helmsley’s—I came across through the wood. All’s quiet that way.”

  As he’d hoped, the older of the guards grasped his meaning. “Well, then—Joe here was about to go off on another round, but seeing as it’s all clear, we might as well just sit tight for a while.”

  “Indeed. I’ll be at least an hour.” Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and went in. Relocking it, he strode across the hall.

  The night watchman inhabited a small booth to one side. He stuck his head out; Dillon waved. The man snapped off a salute and retreated; he was used to Dillon’s nocturnal visits.

  Dillon headed down the corridor, then diverted to the rear door. The instant he opened it, Pris pushed through, brushing past him.

  She shivered, then drew her shawl tighter; he assumed he was supposed to think she’d been cold. He relocked the door, then turned to discover her wandering along the corridor, peering into rooms.

  Catching up with her, he took her elbow. Leaning close, he whispered, “This way.”

  She shivered again, not from any chill.

  Aware that his libido, already aroused to a heightened state simply because she was near—let alone that they were private and alone after he’d carried her through the wood—needed no further encouragement, he steered her directly to his office.

  Releasing her, he closed the door, then crossed to the large window. “Stay where you are.”

  He pulled the heavy curtains across, plunging the room into stygian darkness, but he knew the place like the back of his hand. Moving to the desk, he picked up the tinderbox lying beside his pen tray and struck a spark.

  Lighting the large lamp on the corner of his desk, he adjusted the wick, then set the glass in place. Light spilled out across the room. He saw she’d gone to the bookcase and was scanning the volumes. “It’s the missing tome.”

  There was a gap on the third shelf. She turned to him, brows rising.

  “It’s in the clerks’ room. Wait here while I fetch it.”

  Pris frowned at the bookcase. “Is there only one book?”

  Almost at the door, he paused, then turned to face her. “Do you need to see ‘the register’—any volume—or one particular volume of the register?”

  She stared at him; she had no idea.

  He sighed, and explained, “Each volume of the Breeding Register lists the horses born in any one year that are subsequently registered for racing under Jockey Club rules. Horses aren’t accepted to race until they’re two years old, so this year’s register lists all horses who by the first of May—the anniversary date for horses—were eligible as two-year-olds and have been formally registered. Last year’s register lists all the horses who are now three-year-olds, and any new three-year-olds registered for the first time get added to that register.”

  She frowned. “Any register should do, but perhaps the most recent…?”

  What ever Rus was involved in was happening now, so presumably the latest volume would contain what ever he was looking for.

  Dillon studied her face, then nodded and left the room.

  Pris wandered back to the desk. Letting her shawl slip from her shoulders, she folded and set it aside. The room wasn’t cold. The prickling beneath her skin, the flickering of her nerves, owed their existence to expectation, anticipation.

  Within minutes she would see what Rus was so urgently seeking. Folding her arms, she stared unseeing at the desk and prayed she’d be able to understand, to deduce from the information in the register what sort of scheme was afoot, what sort of threat Rus was facing.

  Her mind rolled back over recent events, over her quest to view the register—over her clashes with Dillon, culminating in their interlude last night.

  Her fall from grace, albeit in a worthy cause.

  Her lips twitched; her mind blankly refused to allow her to pretend, to delude herself that she’d given herself to Dillon Caxton in order to secure a sight of the elusive register and thus to save her twin.

  Her only regret was that Dillon thought she had.

  Just an instant of memory and she could feel again the thrill, taste the excitement of their wild and reckless ride. Of the storm they’d created, unleashed, then gloried in. Of the sensual sharing, the pleasures and delight.

  She glanced at the door, in the distance heard some other door close.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she slowly let it out. Lying, deceit, even misleading by omission had never come easily to her; only the fact that Rus was involved had allowed her to so blatantly deceive their father, let alone countenance involving Eugenia and Adelaide in her scheme. She was too confident, too sure of her own self to feel the need to hide any part of her; she’d always asked the world to come to terms with her as she was and had defiantly faced what ever storms had ensued.

  Footsteps, long masculine strides, drew steadily nearer.

  She stared at the door. Letting Dillon—the man she knew him to be—guess the truth of her feelings, guess why she’d so wantonly given herself to him, wouldn’t be wise. Instinct told her so, in terms absolute and unequivocal; rational intelligence concurred. If he knew…she wasn’t sure what he might do. She wasn’t even sure what she would want him to do.

  The door knob turned. Unfolding her arms, she straightened. She would examine the register, work out what Rus was involved in, discover some way to find him and pull him free of the mess, then Eugenia, Rus, Adelaide, and she would leave Newmarket. And that would be that.

  There could be no future for her and Dillon Caxton; aside from all else, he didn’t know who she really was, and in the present circumstances, that was a secret she would do well to keep from him.

  The door opened; he entered, carrying a large tome.

  Eyes immediately drawn to it, she felt her nerves tighten, felt expectation well.

  He shut the door, then came to the desk. “It’s heavy—let me set it down.”

  She shifted to the side. He slid the register—a ledger more than six inches thick, more than a foot long, and nearly half again as wide—onto the desk; it settled with a solid thump.

  Hand on the cover, he glanced at her as she moved closer. “Any particular entry?”

  She shook her head. “I just need to see what information is listed.”

  He raised the cover, opening the book to a page filled with entries; with a wave, he gestured to it, then stepped back.

  Pris stared at the fine writing crowded on the page. She glanced at the lamp; Dillon was already thumbing the wheel, increasing the light. Shifting to stand directly in front of the ledger, placing her hands on the desk, she leaned over it and studied the wide pages.

  Columns marched across the double width, some narrow, the last on the right-hand page taking up half that page’s width. Each entry was at least a few inches deep, neatly ruled to separate it from its neighbors.

  The first column gave the horse’s name, the second listed the date and place of foaling, the third gave the dam and her lineage, taking up many more lines. Next came the sire and his lineage, again in considerable detail.

  From there, the minutiae dramatically increased. The last two columns took up nearly the entire right-hand page, one a physical description complete to the most minute color splash, the last a listing of “points.” Pris knew enough about horses to understand what she was reading, but how could such details be illegally used? If Rus saw such entries, what would they tell him?

  She read on, searching for some hint of the clue she was convinced must be there.

  From alongside the desk, Dillon studied her face. Saw concentration claim her, watched her eyes track the small, precise lettering of his clerks.

  What was she searching for? Would he know when she found it?

  Would she?

  That last question hung in his mind. Reaching the end of one entry, she paused, then, frown deepening, the worry clouding her lovely eyes darkening, she tracked back across the page, and started on the next.

  His res
tlessness increased; stirring, he walked to the bookcase and stared at that instead. And forced himself to some semblance of patience.

  Last night, he’d decided there was only one way forward, one clear and obvious path. He had unequivocal plans for Pris Dalling, but before he could implement them, he needed to free her, and himself, from the tangled knot her involvement with a racing scam it was his duty to eradicate had created. While she remained caught up in what ever it was, regardless of how innocently, his loyalties were compromised, and that he couldn’t afford.

  That was what he told himself, how he rationalized his actions. How he tried to excuse the compulsion that gnawed at him, that had had him offering to show her the register in flagrant violation of his until-then-absolute rule.

  All lies. Or if not an outright lie, than less than half the truth.

  Behind him, he heard her turn a page. Glancing around, he watched her smooth the page, then lean over to read, her profile limned by the golden lamplight.

  He drifted nearer, drawn to where he could see her expression. The look on her face, unguarded, spoke clearly of anxiety, of escalating concern.

  Of confusion and ultimately fear.

  The sight struck like a lance through his shields, impelled him to draw closer.

  The truth was…in his heart, in his soul, in his bones, rescuing her came first. That was his number one priority; he had to eliminate all that threatened her.

  Not for one instant had he forgotten there was danger—real danger—involved. Danger from a man who had shot at her, danger as evidenced by Collier’s demise. What ever was going on, whoever was involved, they weren’t above stooping to murder, and she, with her as-yet-unexplained interest, had stepped into the arena.

  He was prepared to do what ever proved necessary to remove her from the field, to sequester her safely away. Then he’d deal with whoever the villains were, and then he’d deal with her.

  He’d make a deal with her, what ever it took.

  Her attention remained on the ledger’s page. He drew nearer, then, halting behind her, a little to the side, unable to help himself he slid one hand around her waist. Distracted, she glanced briefly back and up at him, then looked again at the page.