Demon and Flick had hired the room, and gathered everyone involved to toast their collective success. Pausing outside the door, Dillon heard the hum of voices, the gay sound of laughter and good cheer. For most of those within, today had been their moment, and all had gone supremely well.
For himself, however, Belle streaking past the winning post was only the first battle—one they’d won through sheer impudence and the unexpectedness of their attack. If all went as they hoped, and the web collapsed and took Mr. X with it, then all would indeed be well. Until he was sure of that…
Regardless, it wasn’t hard to feel buoyed by the victories of the day.
Opening the door, he stepped inside; shutting it behind him, he looked around. The room wasn’t large, so was crowded; scanning the faces, he noted his grooms and Demon’s lads, Eugenia, Patrick, Adelaide, his father, as well as the members of their wild and reckless band.
And the three stewards of the Jockey Club, two gathered around his father, the other, Lord Sheldrake, chatting animatedly to Barnaby. The sight brought him up short. Under his breath, he swore.
Flick and Pris were standing a little way into the room; they both turned and spotted him.
“Here he is!” Her face wreathed in the most glorious smile—one Dillon drank in, and felt sink to his soul—Pris swept forward to take his arm.
“At last!” Flick swooped, took his other arm and dragged him forward. “Where’s a glass?”
Stan rushed to offer Dillon a glass of champagne; Demon strolled up with another for Flick—Pris already had a glass in her hand.
“To Dillon and the success of his plan!” Flick raised her glass.
“To a more honest future for racing!” Demon added, hoisting his glass.
“To the death of a spider!” Pris raised her glass high.
“To Blistering Belle and all who rode with her!” Rus yelled.
His easy smile in place, Dillon raised his glass. “To all our efforts, and our success today!”
Everyone cheered, then drank.
Lowering his glass, across the room Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes; one person, at least, shared his reservations.
As people returned to their conversations, he looked down at Pris, hanging on his arm, looked into her eyes, bright emerald and enchanting. Different from before; he only needed that one look to know she was—for the first time since he’d met her—carefree. As she should be.
His own smile deepening, feeling his heart lift in response to her clear happiness, he took her hand, moving her back a pace, out of the pressing crowd. “Barnaby mentioned you were nearly caught by Crom.”
Luckily, Barnaby had prefaced the news with the information that all had gone well, so he hadn’t reacted as he might have, for which small mercy he was grateful.
Pris’s smile didn’t dim, but her eyes widened. “Thank God he was there—Barnaby, I mean. He stopped Crom just before he walked in. I was halfway down the aisle with Black Rose—I would never have got out if Barnaby hadn’t intervened.”
“He’s useful in such situations. So how did it go?”
She was very happy to tell him; he listened, not just to her words but to the music in her voice, to the lighter notes in the soft brogue that never failed to mesmerize him, to the burbling lilt of happiness that made music of her joy.
It was a lighter, brighter melody he hadn’t heard from her before; the sound wrapped about his heart and warmed him in some mysterious way he couldn’t begin to describe.
“But what of you?” She opened her eyes at him. “How did you fare with Harkness?”
He told her, then, straightening, looked over the heads. “Speaking of Harkness, let’s go and talk to Barnaby—there’s more that happened later.”
Taking her hand, he led her through the crowd, stopping when she insisted he partake of the sandwiches and delicacies laid out on a table. With a plate in one hand and her by his side, they tacked through the company, pausing to acknowledge and thank those of his house hold and Demon’s lads they encountered along the way.
The three stewards each made a point of coming up to him, congratulating him, shaking his hand, thumping his shoulder. All three were not just pleased but deeply delighted at the outcome of his actions, his response to their request he investigate the rumors.
“To have struck such a blow against the felons plaguing our industry—well, m’boy, what more could we ask?” Lord Canterbury clapped him on the shoulder again. “Not even your father could have done better.”
It was clear someone had explained all to them; Dillon was left to wonder who.
The General was sitting beside Eugenia; after she added her warm congratulations, he met Dillon’s gaze and simply smiled. “Well done, m’boy. It was the right risk to take.”
Looking into his father’s old eyes, Dillon clasped his hand, held it for a moment, then with a smile, released it. If his father had told the stewards, it was because he’d felt the need to protect him—to ensure that having taken the risk, he wouldn’t face any unnecessary repercussions. An understandable action, yet…
Putting his misgivings aside, he allowed Pris to steer him to Barnaby, who was chatting with Rus, Adelaide, and Patrick.
Pris stood beside Dillon while he and the others exclaimed and exchanged comments, recounting and reliving their glorious plan. She couldn’t stop smiling; she couldn’t recall the last time her heart had felt so light—she literally felt like dancing with happiness. It took discipline not to jig.
“I can’t believe it’s all over.” Adelaide beamed at Dillon, then looked up at Rus beside her. “It’s such a relief.”
Smiling every bit as much as Pris, Rus glanced down, then tapped Adelaide’s nose. “All’s well that ends well.”
Pris laughed, and agreed. Given the light shining in Adelaide’s eyes, given that Pris knew her twin was far from blind, she was starting to suspect that Rus wasn’t as unaware of Adelaide’s plans as he pretended to be. Indeed, she was starting to wonder if he was considering falling in with them, in his own, eccentrically wild way.
She hoped he did; she’d known for the past year that Adelaide was the right lady for him. She was quieter, steadier—an anchor for his mercurial temperament—but she didn’t shock easily, nor was she weak. Her strength wasn’t the obvious, outgoing sort, but the type that endured. She would be the steadfast rock around which Rus’s life could revolve.
Glancing up, Pris met Patrick’s eyes and saw a similar speculation there. She let her own smile widen; grinning, Patrick nodded.
He turned to Rus. “You were going to introduce us to the Cynsters’ head lad.”
Distracted from his contemplation of Adelaide’s face, Rus blinked, then nodded. “Yes, indeed! Come on—he’s over there.”
Flashing a grin at Pris, Dillon, and Barnaby, Rus led the other two off.
To Pris’s surprise, Barnaby instantly sobered; the change was dramatic, as if he’d dropped a genial mask to reveal the sharp mind and hard intelligence behind it.
“What’s up?” Hard blue eyes fixed on Dillon’s face, Barnaby raised his brows.
She glanced at Dillon in time to see his lips twist, wry but deadly serious.
“I would have greatly preferred the news of our accomplishment to have remained among friends, so that any potential recriminations concentrated on Cromarty and Harkness, and reached no further. However…” Looking across the room at the three stewards, Dillon grimaced.
“But it was clearly not to be,” Barnaby returned, “and with any luck we’ll have driven Mr. X from the field sufficiently forcefully that he’ll be too busy licking his wounds to worry about lashing out at anyone.”
Barnaby’s voice faded toward the end of that sentence; Pris inwardly frowned when he glanced—ruefully?—at Dillon.
Dillon caught the glance, fleetingly raised his brows. “Precisely.” He spoke quietly. “Badly injured curs are at their most dangerous—they feel they have nothing left to lose.”
Barnaby grimaced. “To
o true.”
“However”—Dillon’s voice strengthened—“that’s apropos of what I have to report.” He met Barnaby’s instantly alert gaze. “We assumed Cromarty and Harkness, not wanting to incriminate themselves, would resist any inducements to tell us more—for instance who Mr. X is. After witnessing their reactions after Belle won, I believe we should revisit that assumption.”
Barnaby’s eyes lit. “You think they’ll talk?”
“I think that, with a little judicious persuasion, they might come to view self-incrimination as the lesser of two evils.”
“Oh-ho! Right, then.” Barnaby rubbed his hands together. “When are you thinking of paying them a visit?”
“I’ve had my race stewards invite them, separately, for an interview—they’re at the Jockey Club awaiting my return.”
“Ah.” Barnaby nodded in understanding. “In that case, let’s give them another hour or two to dwell on the future.”
“My thinking exactly.”
Pris had listened without comment, her joyful smile still in place, her tongue firmly fixed between her teeth. She longed to demand a place—at least a listening brief—at the interviews with Cromarty and Harkness, but…that wasn’t possible. Such a request would be unreasonable, too difficult to arrange…and while before, she’d felt a part of their team, now…now she’d found Rus, and he was free and no longer under any threat, her part in the adventure had ended.
And Dillon was moving on without her, as he should. He and Barnaby would pursue Mr. X as far as they could. Everyone would expect it, and of course, they would forge on…
She no longer had any part in their game. The knowledge caused a definite pang, but she quelled it. She kept her expression bright, and smiled encouragingly when Dillon glanced her way.
Demon appeared, collected as always, as if viewing the assembled celebrating multitude from a lofty but benign height. Pausing beside Dillon, he sipped, then said, “It was I who told the club stewards.”
Dillon’s gaze swung to him; he raised his brows.
Demon faintly smiled. “You were watching Cromarty and Harkness—you didn’t see how many others were watching them, too, how many others were visited by sudden suspicions. Not telling the stewards what had gone on became untenable at that point. Yegads!—Cromarty looked beyond bilious, and Harkness couldn’t crack a smile. Everyone with any nous knew something had gone on. When I reached the stewards, all three pounced on me—they were gratified to be given the true story. Of course, as Sheldrake was honest enough to say, they wouldn’t have wanted to know if your plan hadn’t worked, but as it had…at least, this way, the story that does the rounds will present the tale in the most favorable light.” Demon shrugged. “Admittedly, it would have been preferable if they said nothing at all, but we can’t hope for miracles.”
Barnaby snorted. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my short sojourn in Newmarket, it’s that this industry thrives on talk. Gossip, information, speculation. Without it, nothing would work.”
Demon and Dillon exchanged a glance, then smiled.
Pris had followed the exchange…more or less. She understood Dillon’s stance that the fewer who knew of his plan, successful or not, the better; what she couldn’t fathom was why Demon had felt it necessary to include the club stewards, who were plainly not expected to be discreet. Demon had clearly weighed up something against the stewards’ continued ignorance, but what? What had Demon decided was more important than the secrecy Dillon had tried to maintain?
Everyone was happy, indeed thrilled that his plan had succeeded so well; there was clearly no problem…yet the question, the unknown, niggled. Still smiling as Flick came bustling up to join them, Pris made a mental note to ask Dillon later…
She lifted her gaze to his face. Later when? To night?
He hadn’t come to the summer house for the past three nights. He’d been caught up with their plans, but now it was all over and triumph was theirs, would he come to night to celebrate privately with her?
Her heart leapt, her nerves tightened, her breath slowed. Realizing Flick was speaking, she hauled her wits back to the present and forced herself to pay attention.
“I’m absolutely set on it.” Flick leaned on her husband’s arm, and flashed her blue eyes and a teasing smile up at him. “And you know you agree, no matter your grumbles.”
They all glanced up as others neared—Rus with Adelaide on his arm.
“And here he is now.” Flick beamed at Rus and gave Demon a nudge.
Demon sighed, but he was smiling. He met Rus’s eyes. “What my wife wants me to say is that we’ve been thinking for some time that we need an assistant trainer, and we’d like to offer you the position.”
Rus’s face had blanked at the words “assistant trainer”; when Demon’s voice faded, Rus didn’t smile—he glowed. “Yes! I mean, I’d be honored—of course, I would!” Enthusiasm blazing in his green eyes, Rus grasped the hand Demon held out.
Watching, delight in her twin’s just reward spreading through her, Pris felt another pang—an unexpected one. A mortifying one—how could she feel jealous that Rus was finally getting everything—every chance—he’d ever dreamed of? Mentally horrified, she buried the unnatural emotion deep. Her smile had never faltered; she made it brighten. “How wonderful!”
Rus released Adelaide, who he’d embraced and who’d squeaked, and turned to her. Pris hugged him tightly, and grabbed the moment to whisper, “Even Papa will understand the honor in that.”
Rus met her eyes; his lips tightened. He hugged her back, then released her.
He swung to Flick. “You won’t regret it.” He swept her hands together between his. “You can work me as hard as you like.” His glowing gaze included Demon. “It’ll be a joy to work alongside you both.”
Pris listened to her twin babbling, and felt his happiness.
Adelaide shifted to her side. She, too, was watching Rus. “I’m so glad—this is just what he needs, isn’t it?” She glanced at Pris, who nodded. Gaze returning to Rus, Adelaide asked, “Do you think your father…?”
The thought echoed Pris’s own. “I’ll certainly do my best to make sure he understands, not just the position, but the honor, the status. He’s never seen it that way, you know.”
“I know.” Grim determination threaded through Adelaide’s gentle tones. “But he’ll have to open his eyes.”
“Eugenia will help.” Pris glanced across at her aunt, still sitting beside the General…Pris blinked, and looked closer, took in the warmth in Eugenia’s smile, and the gentle, yet appreciative light in the General’s eyes….
She glanced at Dillon. Was she the only one who’d been blind?
“Actually, I’ve been thinking.” Adelaide’s gaze was also fixed on Eugenia and the General. “Aunt Eugenia’s truly enjoyed her time here.” Adelaide’s gaze swung to Rus. “I thought I might suggest that after we go to London so we can say we swanned around there, and then go back to the Hall with you, she might want to visit here again. We all know Rus is her favorite—she’ll want to check up on him, don’t you think?”
Pris couldn’t stop her smile; Adelaide, for one, hadn’t missed a trick. She squeezed her arm. “I think that’s very likely. Indeed—”
She broke off. After a moment, Adelaide looked inquiringly her way. “Indeed what?”
Holding on to her smile, Pris shook her head. “Never mind.”
She’d been about to suggest that she, too, would be happy to return to Newmarket, then reality had struck. She and Dillon weren’t like Adelaide and Rus; even less were they similar to Eugenia and the General, whose relationship Pris judged to be one of fond companionship rather than passion. She and Dillon…
Their coming together had been a moment out of time, an engagement driven by the reckless, irresponsible, all-but-unthinking desire that sparked and arced between them. An irresistible force, it had swept them both away. Their relationship had not simply been born of passion—it was passion. Of passion.
She glanced again at Dillon. Rus, Flick, and Demon were engrossed in a discussion of horses, with Adelaide quietly listening in. Dillon and Barnaby had their heads together, no doubt plotting how best to extract all they could from Cromarty and Harkness.
Pris looked around, saw the still-smiling faces, sensed the glow of achievement, of triumph, still lingering in the air.
Everything had worked out; all their prayers had been answered, and on far more than one count. From the stewards of the Jockey Club, to the General, to Demon and Flick, Rus, Adelaide, Eugenia—even Barnaby—all had reaped the rewards of the angels.
In their different ways, all had taken a chance, and gained more than they’d asked for. Indeed, Dillon and Barnaby had yet to plumb the depths of their potential gain; they might yet unmask the villainous Mr. X.
As for her…head tilting, gaze growing distant as she looked at Dillon, she recalled her purpose in coming to Newmarket. She’d found Rus, had helped drag him free of the coil into which he’d tumbled, and now had the plea sure of seeing him succeeding in the arena that meant so much to him. That would help immeasurably in reconciling him with her father, and then her family would once again be whole. All was well in her life, except…
For the one extra thing, the unexpected gift fate had handed her.
She refocused on Dillon, let her eyes drink in his dark beauty, the starkly handsome lines that would have been too perfect if it hadn’t been for the powerful virility and sensuality that rippled like a warning beneath his smooth façade.
She looked, and felt the response within her, felt the tug that reached to her heart, and further, to her soul. Felt the connection that had grown ever stronger, that with each day, each night, each moment together had deepened and burgeoned and bloomed.
A treasure, or a curse? Which was it fate had handed her?