She held his gaze, swiftly debated. While she remained in town, she risked being seen by Harkness or Cromarty. She’d had Patrick drive her there in a hired closed carriage; he was waiting outside. Neither she nor he had thought it at all wise for her to appear on the High Street.

And here was Dillon proposing precisely that.

She opened her mouth to insist she could only speak in his office.

He murmured, “At this time of day, the coffee room”-with his head he indicated a corridor leading in the opposite direction to his office-“is full of owners and trainers, many not members of the club itself, but who use its amenities. Luckily, they use another entrance. However, the clerks going back and forth are often dealing with those in the coffee room. If I take you to my office, that fact will spread like wildfire via the clerks to the coffee room. Speculation will run rife as to what club business you’ve come to discuss.”

He quietly added, “If I stroll out with you, the clerks won’t gossip-they’ll assume our meeting is personal, and therefore of no interest to them.”

Slowly, she nodded. “There are two people-an owner and a trainer-who mustn’t see me. Can we stroll somewhere they’d be unlikely to go?”

He nodded. “Come on.”

They left the building; descending the shallow steps, Pris unfurled her parasol, as she did indicating the carriage and Patrick, visible through the trees flanking the path. Dillon looked, then took her arm. “This way.”

He led her away from the club, parallel to the High Street, but in the opposite direction to the Helmsleys’. The wood on that side had been thinned; it was easy to stroll beneath the trees. On some, the leaves were turning, golden and russet amid the green, summer giving way to autumn.

The wood ended at a graveled path running behind a series of properties. Dillon turned away from the High Street.

Pris relaxed. “This doesn’t look like the sort of area the racing fraternity frequent.”

“It isn’t. This is the residential area where the townsfolk live.” He indicated a space between properties farther along the path. “That’s a small park-we can talk there without risk of being observed or overheard.”

The park was neat and quiet, a place where well-to-do merchants’ and guildmasters’ nannies could take their charges. An oval pond stood at its center, while birches bordered both sides. The flagstone path wended around sections of lawn and between occasional flower beds. It was clearly a place apart from the central industry of the town, the racing folk, and all the associated visitors.

Dillon guided her to a wooden seat set beneath one of the birches. Pris sat and drew in her skirts.

As Dillon sat beside her, high-pitched voices and gurgling laughter drew her gaze to three young children tumbling on the lawn nearby, under the benevolent eye of a nanny. The children-a girl and two boys-reminded Pris of herself, Rus, and Albert when they’d been just as young and exuberant.

Just as innocent.

It seemed the right moment to say, “The Irishman who tried to break into your office was my twin brother, Rus.”

Dillon’s gaze touched her face; when she didn’t meet it, he murmured, “Russell Dalling.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. She and Rus often used Dalling when they wanted to conceal their identity; if someone called him Dalling, he’d respond. There seemed little sense in unnecessarily involving the family name, the earldom, and even less their father in what ever was to come. “I came to England, to Newmarket, looking for Rus.”

Opening her reticule, she drew out the letter she’d received before leaving Ireland. “I got this.” Handing it to Dillon, she watched him unfold it and read. “But even before that…”

She recounted the entire story with few omissions, concealing only the family name. Her tale ended with her hopes for the register, for what it would reveal, now dashed. “So.” She drew in a breath. “I have no alternative but to tell you all, and hope you can make better sense of the pieces of the jigsaw than I can.” Her fingers clenched on her parasol’s handle. “Above all, I have to find Rus.”

Turning her head, she met Dillon’s gaze, unsurprised to find it hard and unforgiving.

“You should have told me all before-from the first.”

The words were condemnatory, bitten off; she raised her brows and stared him down. “I would have if it hadn’t involved Rus. I would never willingly do anything that might harm him.”

Slowly he raised his brows back. “So what made you change your mind?”

His voice had lowered; for an instant, the sensual undercurrents between them surged and lapped.

She ignored them and simply stated, “When I first met you, I had no idea whether you would understand that Rus was innocent of any crime, but might have become unintentionally involved. I couldn’t risk simply telling you and hoping for the best. So I had to try to find him myself. I’ve tried everything, followed any and every clue that might tell me where he is, and what threatens him. But I haven’t been able to find him, and…”

His eyes narrowed even more. “And Harkness shot at you.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then muttered an expletive and looked away. “Harkness thought you were your brother. That’s why he shot at you-and that means that as far as Harkness is concerned, Rus is still close, and needs to be eliminated.”

Lips thinning, she nodded. “Yes.” And Harkness shot at me wasn’t what she’d been about to say, but if he didn’t need to hear that she’d come to trust him, that would do.

Dillon leaned back against the seat. “Tell me all you know of Cromarty and Harkness.”

She related their backgrounds, stressing that she had to avoid them. “If they see me, they’ll know they can track Rus through me, that if they just watch me, then eventually either Rus will find me, or I’ll find him.”

Dillon’s blood ran cold as another alternative blossomed in his brain. An alternative Harkness and Cromarty could well be, or become, sufficiently desperate to employ. If they took Pris hostage…she’d left Ireland, traveled to Newmarket, had even given herself to him in order to find her twin; wouldn’t Russell Dalling do as much?

Dillon was aware of the special link between twins; he’d observed it often enough with Amanda and Amelia, the Cynster twins. If Cromarty and Harkness wanted Russell Dalling, all they had to do was seize Pris.

Abruptly, he sat up. “You’re right. The first thing we have to do is locate your brother.”

She blinked. “I’m fairly certain he’s still close.”

Grasping her hand, he stood and drew her to her feet, aware his expression was tending grim. “In that case, he’s still close. Come on.”

Winding her arm with his, he started toward the front of the park, where it gave onto one of the main side streets. “We’re going to have to risk crossing the High Street, but the chances of running into Cromarty or Harkness at this hour around here are low.”

She glanced at him. “Where are we going?”

“To the lending library. Their map is the best in town.”

11

Where does the Cromarty string exercise?” In the lending library, Dillon stood beside Pris, shielding her from the street while they studied the huge map.

“About here.” With the tip of her parasol, she pointed to an area on the Heath, then moved the parasol tip north and west. “This farmhouse is where they’re quartered.”

“The old Rigby place.” Eyes scanning the areas around the farm, and down in an arc to where the string exercised, Dillon mentally filled in what the map didn’t show.

Pris’s gaze was on his face. “You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?”

“Born and raised here. Spent all my boyhood and youth here.”

“You know all the abandoned buildings, the shacks-all the places Rus might hide.” Excitement was creeping into her voice.

He glanced at her. “I know of a few places he might be using as a bolt-hole.” Turning, he started to escort her back to the door, then stopped. “Your coachman’s name is Patrick?”

“Yes, but he’s rather more than a coachman.”

Dillon looked around. “Wait here-I’ll fetch him and your carriage. There’s no sense parading you along the High Street. Go and look at some novels.”

He lifted her hand from his sleeve, was about to release it when she twisted her fingers and gripped his, hard. He met her green eyes; they held an implacable expression.

“You are not-absolutely not-going to look for Rus without me.”

She’d spoken softly, but steel rang in her tone.

He sighed. “All right.” He rejigged his plans. “I’ll send your coach this way, then fetch my horse. Get into the coach and wait here until I join you. I’ll ride out to the Carisbrook place with you-after you change, we’ll go for a nice, social ride on the Heath.”

She assessed his plan, then nodded. “Tell Patrick I’ll be waiting.”


A nice, social ride on the Heath.

The reality was somewhat different. On horse back, Priscilla Dalling was as reckless a rider as she was in other spheres; luckily for Dillon’s peace of mind, he already knew she could manage her horse.

And Solomon, his black gelding, Cynster-bred and trained, was more than a match for her flighty mare.

Thundering north and west beside her, streaking across the Heath, he scanned the open grassland for other riders while updating his mental file on Pris and Rus Dalling.

Joining her in the carriage on the drive to the Carisbrook house, he’d encouraged her to tell him more about her brother and, consequently, her family and herself.

At twenty-four years old, she and her twin were the eldest children. She’d said nothing of what had brought her brother to Newmarket, but he’d caught her hesitation in mentioning their father; he suspected some falling-out. Yet any thoughts that Rus Dalling might need to earn his keep were rendered ineligible by Pris’s frequent and unconscious citings of nannies, governesses, tutors, and grooms.