Telling her of Collier’s death, warning her that involving herself would bring her to the attention of whoever had murdered the breeder wouldn’t be wise; she’d only grow more desperate to protect her friend. But just thinking of some murderer turning his attention her way sent a surge of well-nigh-ungovernable protectiveness rushing through him.

“This is madness.” Even to his ears, his tone sounded harsh. Jettisoning wisdom, he cupped her chin in one hand; eyes narrow, he captured hers. “Some man shot at you-it was pure luck he failed to kill you! There’s other evidence those involved in this scam have already resorted to murder.” Releasing her chin, he gripped her upper arm; battling the urge to shake her, he forcefully stated, “You have to tell me what’s going on-what you know, and who’s involved.”

She stared at him; in the faint light from the distant lamp, he couldn’t read her eyes. But then she looked down, at his hand clamped about her arm.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he forced his fingers to unwrap, to let her go.

Looking away, she cleared her throat, then in a sudden burst of action, she pushed up and out of his lap.

He swore, had to fight not to grab her and haul her back as she quickly put distance between them.

The action-its implications-whipped his roiling, not entirely rational emotions to new heights. He had to sit for an instant, force his body to stillness to regain some semblance of control before, jaw clenched to hold back an unprecedented urge to roar, he rose and followed her to the desk.

Stalking in her wake, he reminded himself that she didn’t yet know she was his.

She stopped before the desk, in the same spot where they’d so recently come together. She ran her fingers lightly across the open register. “Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank you for showing me-” He cut off the sarcastic, bitter words, but not before she’d caught his meaning.

The look she bent on him was reproving, and faintly, so faint he wasn’t even sure of it except in his heart, hurt.

Just the suggestion slew his temper, deflated it. “I’m sorry. That was…”

“Uncouth.”

He muttered an oath, then raked a hand through his hair-something he’d never before done in his life. He had to resist the urge to clutch the thick locks. “How can I convince you that this is too dangerous?” Lowering his arm, he met her gaze. “That you have to tell me what’s going on before whoever’s behind it finds you?”

Folding her arms, Pris frowned at him. “You can stop swearing at me for a start.” Rounding the desk, she halted behind it and faced him across it. “If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re saying is true-that it is dangerous, and that I should tell you all. But…”

She watched the hardness reclaim his face; his expression grew stony and distant.

“But there’s someone else involved, and you still don’t trust me.”

He’d spoken with his habitual cool and even delivery. She looked at him, and equally evenly stated, “There’s someone else involved-and I need to think things through.”

Her tone declared she was not going to be swayed by any arguments, physical, cerebral, or emotional.

For several heartbeats, they remained with gazes locked, the desk and the open register-and the memory of what had so-recently transpired-filling the space between them, then he sighed and waved her to him. “Leave the register. We’d better get back to Lady Helmsley’s.”

He saw her out of the back door, then went out of the front door for the benefit of the guards. Circling the building, he rejoined her, and they headed for the wood.

She refused to let him carry her; sending him before her, she hiked up her skirts and followed at his heels. She traversed the wood without sustaining any damage; dropping her skirts, she stepped out into the weak moonlight. Side by side, they crossed the open expanse, then slipped into the Helmsleys’ gardens.

He touched her arm. “We should go back via the terrace.”

So they’d appear to have been strolling the gardens. She nodded, and let him guide her; they followed a graveled path to the terrace.

Climbing the steps, she frowned. She couldn’t see how the details in the register could have helped Rus, let alone how they might help her find him and save him.

Halting at the top of the steps, Dillon drew the delicate hand he’d held since they’d reached the gardens through his arm. He met her gaze as it rose to his face. “When are you going to tell me?”

The most urgent question he needed answered.

Her expression remained defiant. “After I’ve thought about it.”

Holding her gaze, he forced himself to incline his head, a gesture of acceptance entirely at odds with his inclinations.

He led her to the French doors left open to the night. There were other couples taking the air; he doubted any had missed them enough to view their return as anything out of the ordinary. Together, they stepped into the ballroom, back under the chandeliers’ lights.

Beside him, she cleared her throat and drew her hand from his arm. “Thank you for an enjoyable excursion, Mr. Caxton.”

Instinctively, his fingers had followed her retreating ones; grasping her hand, he captured her gaze, raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed. Looking into her eyes, he let her, for one instant, see the man within. “Think quickly.”

Her eyes widened, but then she arched her brows haughtily, slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and, head high, moved away into the crowd.


He waited until Lady Fowles’s party quit Helmsley House, then made his farewells to Lady Helmsley and left.

He drove home through the night, turning over all she’d said, reliving all he’d felt, all she made him feel…he was grateful neither Demon nor Flick had attended the party. Both knew him well enough to detect the change in him whenever Pris hove on his horizon; he was in no good mood to bear with Demon’s too-knowing ribbing, let alone Flick’s matchmaking instincts becoming aroused.

Just the thought made him shudder. With every year she spent at the feet of the older Cynster ladies, her innate tendencies grew worse.

On reaching Hillgate End, he saw a light glowing in his study. Driving to the stable, he learned that Barnaby had returned an hour ago, and subsequently a footman had been sent to fetch Demon, who had arrived fifteen minutes before.

Leaving his horses to the stableman’s care, he walked swiftly to the house. He made his way to the front hall; crossing the tiled expanse, his heels ringing on the flags, he glanced at the wide window at the rear of the hall, the small square panes dating from Elizabethan times, those set along the top bearing the family crest.

Caxtons had been here for centuries, had been a part of local life for all that time; uncles and cousins had moved away, but the principal branch had sent its roots deep and remained. He felt the connection as he always did when he passed the window. Looking ahead, he walked on to his study.

He opened the door on an unexpected sight. Not just Barnaby and Demon, but his father, too, was waiting.

The General was ensconced in a chair angled before the fire, a warm rug over his knees. Demon sat back from the blaze, facing the hearth in a straight-backed chair, while Barnaby had claimed the other armchair.

“Sir.” With a nod to his sire, Dillon closed the door, relieved to see the color in his father’s cheeks and the alert gleam in his eyes. His mind was still sharp, but his strength was waning. To night, however, he seemed in fine fettle.

Fetching another straight-backed chair, he set it down and sat. “I take it there’s news.” He looked at Barnaby. “What did you learn?”

Barnaby was unusually sober. “First, Collier was murdered, but we’ll never get proof of it. He was found at the bottom of a quarry with his neck broken. He fell from the top, and as his horse came racing home in a lather with the saddle loose, it was assumed that something had spooked the horse while he’d been riding the cliff, and he’d been thrown.

“However, Collier was an excellent horse man. The horse was a strong, well-broken, even-tempered hack, one he habitually rode. Both the lad who saddled the horse, and the stable master who was present when Collier mounted, swear the girths were tight, that there was nothing wrong with either horse or tack. Most importantly, both thought Collier rode out to meet someone. Nothing specific said, but it wasn’t the usual time he rode, the horse didn’t need the exercise, and Collier seemed preoccupied.”

“What time of day was this?” Demon asked.

“A little before three o’clock. I eventually found three people who’d seen another rider head up to the quarry. None saw him with Collier, but unless someone was in the quarry itself, or on the cliffs, if Collier met with someone there, no one could have seen them.”

Dillon stirred. “So the quarry was the perfect venue for a secret meeting.”

“The perfect venue,” the General put in, “for murder unobserved.”

“Except for those three who saw the other rider at a distance,” Barnaby said, “but none could give me any description other than he wore a long coat and rode well.”

“Did you search for any visitor to the area?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby’s sharp grin flashed. “That’s what took so long. Reasoning the man might be Collier’s unknown partner”-he nodded at Demon-“whose existence you predicted, I spoke with Collier’s solicitor. Collier had been on the ropes last year, but was saved by a sudden injection of cash-he said the loan was from a friend. After Collier’s death, the solicitor waited for the loan to be called in, but there was no attempt to claim the money. The sum was sizable, but Collier had had an excellent run with the bookmakers over the spring, and there was plenty in his kitty when he died.”