Barnaby frowned. “He’s not a local owner?”

Dillon shook his head. “Based near Sheffield. He usually runs his horses at Doncaster or Cheltenham. My clerks are trying to identify the two horses Cromarty had in Ireland, that Crom took somewhere after the string landed in Liverpool. If those horses are Aberdeen’s, or are Cromarty’s but are look-alikes for two of Aberdeen’s runners, then it’s possible the groundwork for substitutions at Doncaster and Cheltenham is also in hand.”

Barnaby looked at him. “This is not a small enterprise.”

“No,” Dillon agreed. “And that brings us to today’s news. Yours.”

“Indeed!” Barnaby glanced at Rus, then Pris, then looked at Dillon. “Perhaps we ought to adjourn to Demon’s house? His opinion would be useful, and it would be better if we were all there to hear it.”

Dillon nodded. “Good idea. He was away all yesterday looking at horses. I’ve yet to introduce him to Rus or Pris, and fill him in on all we’ve learned. Flick and he were expected back this morning.”

“Demon,” Rus said as they all rose. “Demon Cynster?”

Recognizing the awestruck look in Rus’s eyes, Dillon grinned. “There’s only one Demon, believe me. He’s my cousin-in-law, but you can interpret that as brother-in-law. I grew up with Flick, now his wife. Demon’s stud is the neighboring estate.”

“Oh, I know.” Rus fell in beside him as he followed Pris and Barnaby to the door. “While I was hiding in the woods, I used to fill in time by sneaking close to his paddocks and watching the horses. He’s got more prime ’uns in one place than I’ve ever set eyes on before.”

“For Demon, horse breeding is more than a hobby-it’s his passion.” Dillon caught Pris’s eye as she glanced his way, and smiled. “After Flick, that is.”

He didn’t hear her sniff, but was quite sure she did.

They walked the short distance to the Cynster house, discussing various points, filling in details Rus and Dillon had skimmed over earlier. No matter how they probed, Barnaby refused to divulge anything of what he’d learned, not until they had Demon there, too.

Both Demon and Flick were at home; both were eager to hear their news, even more so when they learned who Rus was.

Pris hung on to her patience and waited with what decorum she could muster; what she really wanted was to pace, plan, and act. She’d assumed finding Rus would be the same as finding peace, yet although she’d been immensely relieved to have her twin back hale and whole, the existence of a continuing threat to his life wasn’t something she could bear with any degree of equanimity.

She wanted that threat ended, eradicated, and she wanted that now. But she needed Dillon’s, Barnaby’s, Demon’s, and Flick’s help, so she bit her tongue and forbore to hurry them.

At last, once Dillon had noted the as-yet-unclear involvement of Mr. Aberdeen, all eyes swung to Barnaby. She’d expected him to relish the moment; instead, he looked grave.

“What I have to report”-he glanced around at their faces-“when added to all you’ve learned, suggests the whole is more serious, indeed blacker, than we’d thought. Gabriel and his contacts tried to trace the ten thousand pounds Collier received. Montague, who I gather you both know”-Barnaby nodded to Dillon and Demon, who nodded back-“assured me that had the transfer been made in the normal way of business, they would have found some trail, but they didn’t. Wherever that money came from, it didn’t move through any bank. Collier must have received it as cash-literally a bundle of notes. Both Gabriel and Montague suggested the most likely source was a wealthy gamester, someone who regularly handles such sums.”

Barnaby paused; his expression grew harder. “Then Vane appeared with the latest he’d gleaned, not from the clubs but from various rather seedier locations. The latest gossip concerning the suspect race run here a few weeks ago”-Barnaby looked at Rus-“and yes, the horse involved was Flyin’ Fury, is that positively huge sums were laid against Flyin’ Fury winning.

“Certain bookmakers are wailing and gnashing their teeth, but, of course, few have any sympathy. However, Vane learned enough to estimate the winnings solely from those bets as more than one hundred thousand pounds. The point that most interested everyone was that the individual bets weren’t large-nothing out of the ordinary, all to different people or betting agents. So while the bookmakers are certain they were stung, they have no way of knowing who to blame.”

Demon looked grim. “If they did know who, that person would no longer be a concern.”

“No, indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “Gabriel sent a message. He, Montague, and Vane believe that whoever’s behind this will prove deadly. This is not the usual sort of scam, but one operating on a massive scale. The monetary risks being taken are enormous, the potential gain gargantuan. Consequently, if threatened, whoever’s behind this won’t hesitate to deal death into the game.

“I told them we believed that particular card had already been played with Collier.” Barnaby looked at Demon and Dillon. “Vane sent a message, too. Beware.”

Demon exchanged a glance with Dillon. “Sound advice.”

Pris got the distinct impression that to them that Beware meant something different, certainly carried more weight than the usual interpretation. She noticed Flick watching Demon, faintly narrow-eyed, but couldn’t guess the direction of her thoughts.

Everyone paused, piecing together all they knew. Demon summarized, “So we’ve yet to find where the switched horses are hidden. Once we know that”-he met Dillon’s gaze-“we’ll have to give serious thought as to how best to proceed.”

Dillon nodded and rose. “We’ll let you know what we discover.”

Demon and Flick saw them to the front door. The conversation along the way revolved about the runners they were preparing for the upcoming race meet-the first October meeting, a major event in the Newmarket calendar.

“Dillon and I feel sure that’s the meet at which they’ll switch Blistering Belle,” Rus said.

Demon concurred. “If we can’t thrust a spoke through their wheel, they’ll make a killing.” He looked at Dillon. “In the circumstances, I don’t know what help we’ll be. We’ll both be up to our ears in preparation.”

“Actually…” Flick eyed Rus appraisingly. “I could use an extra pair of well-trained hands, and as there’s nothing you can do at present since you must remain in hiding, and as our training track is well screened, out of bounds and out of sight to any but our most trusted lads, why don’t you slip over and lend a hand? I’ll put you to work, and you can show me what you Irish can do.”

There was enough challenge in the words to allow Rus to grin and accept with alacrity rather than fall to his knees and kiss Flick’s feet. Pris smiled, relieved that Rus would be kept occupied, delighted that the occupation was his passion. Catching Flick’s eye, she inclined her head in thanks. Flick grinned and patted her arm.

A moment later, they set off, walking across the fields and through the belt of woodland separating the stud from Hillgate End. Rus was in alt, his head already in the clouds.

Dillon laughed. “Tell me-how do you see Flick? Sweet, delicate, a Botticelli angel, gentle temper, all smiles?”

Rus looked at Dillon, shrugged. “Something like that.”

His grin wide, Dillon clapped Rus on the shoulder. “Just wait, boyo-she’s a sergeant major around horses. I guarantee she’ll run you ragged.”


The next morning, Pris came down to breakfast to find Patrick hovering in the dining room. She stared at him. “Did you find them?”

He grinned. “I did.”

She sank into her chair; ignoring Adelaide’s and Eugenia’s exclamations, she demanded, “Where?”

Patrick told her.

Ten minutes after she’d consumed a hasty breakfast, she was in the gig, the reins in her hands, Adelaide beside her, as she tooled them down the lanes to call on the house hold at Hillgate End.


They switched the black fillies late last night.” Pris unfolded a map she’d drawn. “It’s a tiny cottage, more a hovel Patrick said, but there’s a lean-to stable alongside big enough to hold two horses.”

She laid her sketch on Dillon’s desk; he, Rus, and Barnaby crowded around. The General had been present when she and Adelaide had been shown in. Dillon and Rus had frowned, signaling with their eyes; they hadn’t wanted Adelaide involved.

She’d felt like she would burst, holding in the news while Adelaide shyly greeted them, then started chatting with Rus; he’d just returned from his first session working with Flick and seemed both exhilarated and stunned. But then the General had risen to the occasion and claimed Adelaide’s attention and her arm for a stroll about the garden. Mentally blessing him, Pris had lost no time imparting her news.

“There.” She pointed to a cross some miles northeast of the Rigby farm. “It’s little more than four walls and a chimney on the other side of this stream.” She traced a squiggly line. “There are trees along the rise behind it.”

“Which horse will it be?” Barnaby looked at Rus.

He shook his head. “Sometimes it was a day between switches, at other times three.” He glanced at Dillon. “I’ll go there and check which horse it is.”

“Not in daylight,” Pris said. “Harkness might see you out riding. Who knows what he’ll be up to?”

Rus grinned. “Actually I do know, at least for a few hours every day. This afternoon he and Crom will be overseeing the string exercising on the Heath.”

“Can you be sure?’ Dillon asked.

“Without me, unless Harkness has managed to hire another assistant trainer-and how likely is that in Newmarket just before a major meet?-then he and Crom both have to attend the training sessions. Cromarty has a good few horses entered, and aside from the substitution, he doesn’t like to lose any more than any other owner.”