Pris, Rus, and Albert had always been close, as indeed all the Dalloway children were, but the other three, Margaret, Rupert, and Aileen, were much younger-twelve, ten, and seven years old, respectively-more to be protected than viewed as coconspirators. Even before their mother had died, the three eldest siblings had made a pact: Rus would do as their father wished and look after the estate until Albert returned from university in Dublin, then they would put their plan to their sire, that Albert should manage the estate in Rus’s name while Rus devoted himself to establishing and running a racing stud.

It was a prescription for the future the three of them could happily follow and make work.

Two months ago, Albert had returned from Dublin, his studies at an end. Once he’d reacquainted himself with the estate, the three had duly put their plan to the earl-who had rejected it out of hand.

Rus would continue to manage the estate. If he had a mind to it, Albert could assist him. Regardless, however, no Dalloway would ever stoop to indulging in horse breeding on a commercial scale.

So declared the earl.

Rus had exploded. Pris and Albert quite saw his point; he’d curbed his driving desire and done everything their father had asked of him for seven years, and now felt he was owed a chance to live the life he yearned to live.

The earl had curled his lip and refused point-blank to even consider their scheme.

Words had been exchanged, things said, wounds dealt on both sides. Pushed beyond bearing, Rus had stormed out of Dalloway Hall in a wild fury. He’d taken nothing more than what he could cram in his saddlebags, and ridden away.

Seven days later, just over three weeks ago, Pris had received a letter to say he’d found work at Lord Cromarty’s stables, one of the major racing establishments in neighboring County Wexford.

The schism between her father and brother was now deeper than it had ever been. Pris was determined to repair the rupture in her family, but the wounds would take time to heal. She accepted that. But with Rus gone, out of her world for the first time in her life, she felt truly alone, truly bereft, as if some part of her had been excised, cut away. The feeling was much more intense than when her mother had died; then she’d had Rus beside her.

She’d gone looking for Paddy seeking reassurance, something to soothe her growing uneasiness over Rus’s safety. Instead, she’d learned Rus was in a situation where his life might come under threat.

Pulling a sheet of paper from the drawer, she laid it on the blotter. “If I write a note immediately, Patrick can ride over and deliver it this evening.”

“Actually, my dear, before you write I daresay you should read this.”

Pris turned to see Eugenia extracting a letter from beneath the endless fall of her tatting.

Eugenia held out the missive. “From Rus. It was delivered with the post after lunch. When he couldn’t find you, Bradley gave it to me rather than leave it on the salver in the hall.”

Where their father might see it. Bradley was their butler; like most of the house hold, his sympathies lay with Rus.

Rising, Pris took the letter. Returning to the desk, she broke her brother’s seal, then, sinking onto the chair, unfolded the sheets, smoothed them, and read.

The only sounds in the room were the repetitive clack of Eugenia’s needles, counterpointed by the tick of the mantelpiece clock.

“Oh, no! What is it? What’s happened?”

Adelaide’s agitated questions snapped Pris back to the present. Glancing at Adelaide, then at Eugenia, taking in their worried expressions, she realized her own must reflect her mounting horror.

“Rus has gone to England-to Newmarket-with the Cromarty racing string.” She licked her suddenly dry lips and looked again at the pages in her hand. “He says…” She paused to steady her voice. “He says he thinks Harkness, the head stableman, is planning to run some racket that somehow revolves about horse breeding while in Newmarket. He overheard Harkness explaining to the head lad-Rus says he’s a villainous sort-about how the illicit undertaking worked, and that it involves some register. He, Rus, didn’t hear enough to understand the scheme, but he thinks the register Harkness was referring to is the register of all horses entitled by their breeding to race on English tracks.”

She flipped over a page, scanned, then reported, “Rus says he knows nothing of the details in the register, but if he’s ever going to become a breeder of race horses, he should obviously learn more about it regardless, and he’ll be able to follow it up as that register is kept at the Jockey Club in Newmarket.”

She turned the last page, then made a disgusted sound. “The rest is full of platitudes assuring me he’ll be safe, that it’ll all be perfectly fine, that even if there is anything wrong, all he has to do is tell Lord Cromarty, and it’ll all be right as rain, don’t worry…and then he signs himself ‘your loving brother off on an adventure’!”

Tossing the letter on the desk, she faced Eugenia and Adelaide. “I’ll have to go to Newmarket.”

Adelaide’s chin firmed. “We’ll go to Newmarket-you can’t go alone.”

Pris sent her a fleeting smile, then looked at Eugenia.

Her aunt studied her, then nodded, and calmly folded her tatting. “Indeed, dear. I see no alternative. Much as I love Rus, we cannot leave him to deal with what ever this is alone, and if there is some illicit scheme being hatched, you cannot, to my mind, risk even a letter to warn him, in case it falls into the wrong hands. You will need to speak with him. So!”

Folding her hands on the pile of tatting in her lap, Eugenia looked inquiringly at Pris. “What tale are we going to tell your father to explain our sudden need for a sojourn in England?”

1

September 1831

Newmarket, Suffolk

I had hoped we’d have longer in reasonable privacy.” Letting the door of the Twig & Bough coffee shop on Newmarket High Street swing shut behind him, Dillon Caxton stepped down to the pavement beside Barnaby Adair. “Unfortunately, the sunshine has brought the ladies and their daughters out in force.”

Scanning the conveyances thronging the High Street, Dillon was forced to smile and acknowledge two matrons, each with beaming daughters. Tapping Barnaby’s arm, he started strolling. “If we stand still, we’ll invite attack.”

Chuckling, Barnaby fell in beside him. “You sound even more disenchanted with the sweet young things than Gerrard was.”

“Living in London, you’re doubtless accustomed to far worse, but spare a thought for us who value our bucolic existence. To us, even the Little Season is an unwanted reminder of that which we fervently wish to avoid.”

“At least with this latest mystery you have something to distract you. An excellent excuse to be elsewhere, doing other things.”

Seeing a matron instructing her coachman to draw her landau to the curb ten paces farther on, Dillon swore beneath his breath. “Unfortunately, as our mystery must remain a strict secret, I fear Lady Kershaw is going to draw first blood.”

Her ladyship, a local high stickler, beckoned imperiously. There was no help for it; Dillon strolled on to her now-stationary carriage. He exchanged greetings with her ladyship and her daughter, Margot, then introduced Barnaby. They stood chatting for five minutes. From the corner of his eye, Dillon noted how many arrested glances they drew, how many other matrons were now jockeying for position farther along the curb.

Glancing at Barnaby, doing his best to live up to Miss Kershaw’s expectations, Dillon inwardly grimaced. He could imagine the picture they made, he with his dark, dramatic looks most commonly described as Byronic, with Barnaby, a golden Adonis with curly hair and bright blue eyes, by his side, the perfect foil. They were both tall, well set up, and elegantly and fashionably turned out. In the restricted society of Newmarket, it was no wonder the ladies were lining up to accost them. Unfortunately, their destination-the Jockey Club-lay some hundred yards distant; they had to run the gauntlet.

They proceeded to do so with the glib assurance that came from untold hours spent in ton ballrooms. Despite his preference for the bucolic, courtesy of his cousin Flick-Felicity Cynster-over the last decade Dillon had spent his fair share of time in the whirl of the ton, in London and elsewhere, as Flick put it, keeping in practice.

In practice for what was a question to which he was no longer sure he knew the answer. Before his fall from grace and the scandal that had shaken his life, he’d always assumed he would marry, have a family, and all the rest. Yet while spending the last decade putting his life to rights, repaying his debts of social and moral obligation, and reestablishing himself, his honor, in the eyes of all those who mattered to him, he’d grown accustomed to his solitary existence, to the life of an unencumbered gentleman.

Smiling at Lady Kennedy, the third matron to detain them, he extricated himself and Barnaby and strolled on, casting his eye along the line of waiting carriages and their fair burdens. Not one stirred the remotest interest in him. Not one sweet face even moved him to curiosity.

Unfortunately, becoming known as a gentleman with a hardened heart, one unsusceptible to feminine enticements, had piled additional fuel on the bonfire of the ladies’ aspirations. Too many now viewed him as a challenge, a recalcitrant male they were determined to bring to heel. As for their mothers, with every year that passed he was forced to exercise greater care, to keep his eyes ever open for social snares, those traps certain matrons set for the unwary.