They’d tried everyone, even Barnaby. The only one Belle would accept was Pris, almost certainly because she could lower her voice to an approximation of her twin’s, and the cadences of their speech as well as their accents were strikingly similar—even, it seemed, to equine ears.
Belle recognized Pris as a friend. She would happily walk with Pris leading her; most importantly, she would with perfect equanimity allow Pris to put her in a stall and leave her, even when Pris took out another horse instead.
Pris leaving her was acceptable; Rus leaving her was not.
The male mutterings such feminine perversity provoked had lasted for hours, but nothing could change the hard fact that Pris it had to be.
Last night, she’d remained at the stud, being coached by Demon, Flick, Rus, and Dillon as to what she might expect, how to behave in various situations. Eyeing her as they ambled along, Demon uttered a silent prayer that they’d covered all possible eventualities. He glanced at Flick riding beside him. Although it went against the grain, he would have preferred her in Pris’s position; Flick had grown up about Newmarket racetrack, knew everything there was to know about the stables and race mornings—she knew everything Pris didn’t.
The road reached the edge of the Heath; instead of continuing along the beaten surface, the cavalcade took to the turf, taking the most direct line to the track, the shortest distance for their runners to walk. The steady clop of iron-shod hooves changed to a muted thud.
Away from the trees, the air seemed colder, the wreathing mists damper, chillier. Demon lifted his head, scented the faint breeze, studied the clouds overhead. The day would be fine; once the sun rose, the mists would burn off. It would be another perfect day for racing.
He glanced again at Pris and saw her shiver. He was wearing a thick greatcoat; Flick was well wrapped in a warm pelisse. Pris wore a threadbare ancient jacket, not thick enough to keep the morning chill at bay, but she had to appear to be the stable lad she was emulating. Jaw setting, Demon forced himself to look away.
Pris wasn’t sure that the shivers that rippled through her had anything to do with the misty chill. She was so tense, it was a wonder her horse wasn’t jibbing and shifting and dancing with impatience. And nerves; hers were stretched tighter than they’d ever been.
Beside her, Belle plodded along, content to be among her kind again. Her head lifted now and again as she looked ahead, almost as if she could sense the track. While watching Rus train her over the last days, Pris had learned that some horses simply loved to run, and Belle was one; she seemed eager to race, to run, to win.
Everything hung on her doing so, but after the last days, that was the least of Pris’s worries. Getting Belle into the stable and the other horse out without Crom knowing, and without Rus doing anything to call attention to himself along the way, loomed as the biggest hurdle.
Other than the odd comment between the lads, the occasional breathy snort of a horse and the muted jangle of a harness, the cavalcade advanced in silence across the wide green sward.
Eventually, the first of the stables dotted around the track materialized through the thinning mist. Searching the area behind it, Pris saw mounted figures waiting—a gentleman in a greatcoat, and three lads with three racing Thoroughbreds on leading reins.
She glanced at Demon, riding on the other side of Belle.
He caught her gaze. “Wait until we’re closer.”
She nodded. The cavalcade advanced on a line that would take them along the front of the stable and on toward the track.
“Now.”
At Demon’s quiet command, she turned her mount and Belle; the lads alongside slowed their charges to let her draw away from the group. Keeping to the same steady pace, she headed for the riders behind the stable; Demon’s timing had ensured that she and Belle were visible as separate from the cavalcade for only the minute it took them to walk down the screening side of the stable and around the corner to join the other group.
Dillon was waiting, as was Rus. Her twin briefly smiled, the gesture one more of relief than excitement. She smiled back, rather tightly. Rus set his mount walking, leading one of the three retired race horses Demon and Flick had provided. Their still-elegant lines made them perfect camouflage for Belle; they closed around her. Falling in behind Rus, the group made their way along the rear of a succession of blocklike stables that stood in a wide arc a little back from the track, an outer ring behind the inner ring of holding stalls. To any who sighted them, they would appear to be a small group of runners walking in from an outlying stable for the day.
A few lads and touts slinking around the stables saw them, but all attention quickly diverted to the holding stalls as the news that the Cynster runners had arrived early spread. Everyone rushed to take a look.
No one gave the small band trudging along a second glance.
Dillon, as ever on his black, rode beside her. Other than meeting her eyes, exchanging one powerful, very direct glance, he’d merely turned to ride beside her, on the outside of the group. No smile; his face could have been granite, his expression carved from stone. He was dressed for a day at the track. His role was, as himself, to watch over every stage in the execution of their plan, and if something went awry, to step in and wield his authority to deflect attention as required.
At their final meeting last night, he’d briefly outlined what they—meaning he—would do once Belle was safely exchanged and in place. While for the rest of them, their active roles ended at that point, his continued, at least until Belle’s race was run.
They clopped slowly along; Pris struggled to drag air into her lungs—it felt like a lead weight was pressing on her chest. She felt compelled to try to look every way at once, watching for Harkness or Cromarty even though she knew both had retreated to the Rigby farm last night and were unlikely to appear for at least another hour.
Dillon had had stable lads and grooms out and about all day yesterday, keeping watch on those whose movements they’d needed to know. It had been a piece of luck that Harkness had gone out to check on Blistering Belle yesterday at noon, before returning to the track; that had left them free to bring Belle down to the Cynster stud by a circuitous route during the afternoon, train her on the private track under Flick’s expert eye, then walk her across to the Hillgate End stables, where she’d spent the night.
The sky started to lighten, shifting from black to indigo, to gray. They passed another stable, slowly working their way around to Figgs’s stable, where Cromarty’s runners for today’s races had been stabled for the night.
That had been another fortunate factor. Having rented cheaper premises farther from the Heath, Cromarty couldn’t walk his runners in on race day. He had to bring them in the afternoon before and quarter them overnight at one of the stables that specialized in such housing. If that hadn’t been so, their window of time in which to switch Belle for her look-alike would have narrowed to the almost impossible.
As it was…drawing in a tight breath as Figgs’s stable loomed just beyond the one they were nearing, Pris prayed she would have enough time—that all that everyone did left her enough time—to get Belle into the stable, and the other filly out, without any of Cromarty’s crew noticing.
Dillon eased Solomon forward; Rus glanced his way, met his gaze, and slowed. They halted behind the stable next to Figgs’s. Everyone dismounted, handing their reins to Dillon’s grooms, the other two “lads” with them; the pair remained with the horses, keeping the larger older horses screening Belle, while Rus, Pris, and Dillon went to the corner of the building.
A quick glance and they shifted around the corner, but stopped just beyond it. Pris and Rus lounged back against the stable’s side, giving every appearance of lads wasting time until they were summoned to work. Dillon stood before them, apparently chatting; hanging open from his shoulders, his greatcoat, long enough to brush his calves, gave both Pris and Rus some cover. From where they’d stopped, they could see along the front of Figgs’s stable, angled slightly t
o the one they stood against. Unfortunately, they couldn’t see the main stable doors, only the forecourt immediately before, but couldn’t risk getting a better angle by moving farther down the sidewall; that would make them more visible—too visible.
Aside from the main double doors facing the track, located along the stable’s front at the end farthest from them, Figgs’s stable, like most, had another door in the sidewall at this end, fifteen yards from where they stood. No more than the main doors would that door be locked—fire was too real a threat and race horses too valuable—which was why the stables employed night watchmen, and owners renting stalls had employees sleep with their charges, as Crom had done last night and the night before.
Glancing over his shoulder, Dillon scanned the area before the stable, noting two of his grooms ambling about, idling—ready to intervene if needed. Barnaby would be watching from the shadows of the next stable along; disguised as a tout, his role was to coordinate any intervention or distraction necessary to keep Crom and the night watchman away from Figgs’s stable long enough for Pris to switch Belle and get away.
They were all in position, all ready to act—all they needed was for Crom and the night watchman to wake and leave the stable.
Dillon could feel impatience riding him, lashing with invisible whips. He could sense the same rising tension in the other two, yet this was the point where caution had to rule, where one moment of inattention or one impulsive act could wreck their plans.
About them, the environs of the track stirred and came to life. The sky lightened, the dark gray of predawn giving way to streaks of pink and silver, the rising sun tinting the clouds. The light strengthened, not yet direct sunlight but sufficient to cast the scene in crisp clarity.
The shadows were gone. And still they waited.
“At last,” Pris breathed, peeking around his shoulder. “There goes the night watchman.”
Dillon glanced around; sure enough, the night watchman, a grizzled veteran jockey too old to ride, came shuffling from the stable, scratching and yawning and stretching. He paused in the forecourt, blinking, looking around, then stumbled off in the direction of the nearby latrines.
Glancing at one of the idlers—the majority of those loitering near Figgs’s stable were members of their “army”—Dillon saw the groom look in Barnaby’s direction, then push away from the stall against which he’d been leaning and head after the night watchman.
If the old boy headed back to his post before they’d passed the “all clear,” the groom would delay him, and if that didn’t last long enough, there was another pair stationed closer to the latrines with orders to intervene.
The night watchman was taken care of.
Dillon turned back to Pris and Rus. “Now for Crom.”
It was still early, even in race day terms; except for those keen to get a glimpse of the runners as they arrived at the holding stalls—and they were fully occupied studying the Cynster horses—all others were bleary-eyed, just starting their day. Not at their best, not sharply observant.
“Damn!” Rus stiffened, then swore. “Harkness! What the devil’s he doing here this early?”
Dillon swung to look in the direction Rus was staring—past the back of Figgs’s stable to the open area beyond—simultaneously shifting closer to Pris so she remained concealed.
Harkness—big, burly, and black-haired—was striding up from one of the roped lines where racegoers could leave their nags. His attention was fixed on Figgs’s stable, clearly his goal.
Dillon grabbed Pris’s arm, half dragged, half shoved her, gathering Rus on the way, back around the corner to the safety of the milling horses. “Wait here.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’ll take care of him. You two stick to the plan!”
Without waiting for any acknowledgment, he swung on his heel, quickly strode back around the corner and across onto the forecourt of Figgs’s stable, then slowed to a walk. He passed the main doors, now propped wide; he glimpsed activity within—it looked like Crom was stirring. Reaching the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next—glimpsing Barnaby lounging against a holding stall farther on, staring, frowning, at him—Dillon paused; lifting his head, he looked past the holding stalls to the track beyond, as if surveying his domain and finding all well.
Harkness was coming up from behind, approaching through the gap between Figgs’s stable and the next. Dillon had stopped at a point where Harkness would pass him. As the man’s heavy footsteps neared, Dillon turned. Expression easy, he glanced at Harkness, mildly inclined his head in a polite but vague gesture—an action Harkness warily mirrored—then walked on.
Dillon took two paces, halted, and glanced back. “Harkness, isn’t it?”
Harkness stopped, and looked around.
Dillon smiled easily. “You train for Cromarty, don’t you?”
Slowly, Harkness faced him. “Aye.”
Dillon retraced his steps, a slight frown in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask—how have his lordship and you found the going this season?”
Harkness’s face was closed, his expression rigid, his beady black eyes watchful. Dillon kept his questioning gaze steady on his face; after a moment, Harkness shrugged. “Much as last season, more or less.”
“Hmm.” Dillon glanced down, as if considering his words. “No problems with staff, then?”
Looking up, he caught a flash of fear in Harkness’s eyes; he’d definitely recognized Dillon with Pris—who he’d thought was Rus—on the Heath days ago.
Dillon waited, gaze still inquiring. Harkness shifted his heavy frame, then said, “Not really—nothing major.”
“Ah.” Dillon nodded, as if accepting completely what Harkness was saying. “I did wonder—I had a young Irishman come to me with some convoluted tale. Used to be your assistant, I believe. I gather he left under a cloud—naturally, I listened to his story with that in mind. We all know what it’s like to have troublesome staff. Indeed, the man’s tale was so nonsensical it was clear he was simply intending to cause trouble.”
Meeting Harkness’s eyes, Dillon smiled genially. “I just thought I’d let Lord Cromarty know that I wasn’t taken in by the man’s tale.”
Despite the harshness of his face, the hardness of his expression, Harkness’s relief was obvious. His lips eased; he bobbed his head. “Thank you, sir. One never knows with people like that. I’ll be sure to tell his lordship.”
Behind Harkness, Dillon saw a wizened gnome come out of Figgs’s stable. Crom. He glanced about; noticing Harkness talking to Dillon, he hesitated, then hitched up his belt and lumbered off to the latrines. There was no reason Crom or Harkness would think their runners were under any threat. All activity around the stable was following the usual pattern of a racing morning, with the usual lads, jockeys, and hangers-on drifting past.
Crom lumbered across the gap between Figgs’s stable and the one behind which Pris and Rus were waiting. They would see him; within seconds, Pris would be in Figgs’s stable with Belle. Two Belles.
His genial smile in place, Dillon swung toward the increasingly noisy gathering farther along the arc of holding stalls. As if just realizing what it meant, he murmured, “I heard the Cynster runners had come in early.”
He glanced at Harkness. “I haven’t seen them yet—but you must be keen to cast your eye over the competition.” Looking back at the milling crowd, he grinned. “It looks like half the trainers with runners in the morning’s races are already there.”
They were; Dillon gave thanks for Demon’s foresight in creating such a useful diversion. Meeting Harkness’s black gaze, he inclined his head toward the crowd. “I must take a look—coming?”
Harkness might have been a villain, but he was a trainer first and last; he didn’t need to be persuaded to legitimately spy on the competition.
With absolutely no suspicion that anything was going on, Harkness accompanied Dillon to the Cynster stalls.
From the corner of the stable where he’d been keeping watch, Rus turned back and
met Pris’s eyes. He hesitated, clearly torn, then nodded. “Go!”
She immediately stepped out, head down, Belle’s reins in her hand. Beside her, Stan, Dillon’s groom, kept pace. As they approached the side of Figgs’s stable, Stan loped ahead. He opened the single door, took a quick look in, then stood back and held the door wide for her to lead Belle through.
Without hesitation, Pris did—as if Belle and she belonged in that stable.
Stan closed the door, leaving it open a sliver, keeping watch, ready to let her and the other filly, Black Rose, out again.
Abruptly enveloped in the warm gloom of the stable, Pris waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, and said a quick prayer. Blinking, she stepped out, scanning each stall, each horse, looking for Black Rose—praying she’d be closer to this end than the other, that, nightmare of nightmares, she wouldn’t be in one of the stalls facing the open main doors.
Fate smiled; she found the black filly looking inquisitively out of a stall midway down the line. Giving thanks, she quickly led Belle nearer, then looped her reins about a convenient post. She’d brought another leading bridle for Black Rose; taking a precious moment to croon to the filly and stroke her nose, she slipped into the stall and quickly fitted the bridle.
Black Rose was a much more even-tempered horse than Belle; Pris sensed it immediately—wondered if that edge of temper was a necessary element in the makeup of a champion.
She scoffed at herself, amazed she could even think. She was so keyed up, her brain felt like it was literally racing, along with her heart. Her senses were fractured, scattered, trying to keep track of so many things—alert to any hint of danger—while she quickly led Black Rose out of the stall, tethered her farther down the aisle, then turned to Belle, and the most fraught moment in their entire plan.
Belle looked down her long black nose at her while she tugged the reins loose. Pris looked back, into the large, intelligent eyes. “Good girl. Now let’s get you into the stall, and then later you’ll get to race.”
What Price Love? Page 27