Rus and Barnaby shook their heads.

“It’s the trickiest, messiest crime I’ve ever heard of,” Barnaby said. “Quite aside from Mr. X, there’s an enormous cast of wrongdoers here, all of whom deserve some mea sure of retribution, yet even though we know of the impending crime and how to stop it, if we do, we won’t touch the majority of those involved, and Mr. X and his scheme not at all.”

“He’s a spider in the center of his web,” Dillon said, his gaze on his fingers slowly tapping the table. “We can break a few connections, even destroy part of the web, but that won’t harm the spider. Once we retreat, he’ll just crawl back out of hiding, respin his web, making new connections, and then continue to lure, catch, and devour his prey.”

They could all see the analogy; all were silent, thinking, then Barnaby stirred. He looked at Dillon. “What’s our minimum here-what damage can we do if we expose Cromarty with Blistering Belle?”

When Dillon glanced at him, Barnaby fleetingly grinned. “You’ve looked into it, haven’t you?”

Dillon returned the grin, but then sobered. “I have, and the answer’s not heartening. The only way we can prove anything illegal is to expose the substitute for Blistering Belle immediately before the race is run. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom will be charged with attempting to perpetrate a substitution. But if Harkness was persuaded to protect Cromarty by swearing Cromarty knew nothing about it, Harkness and Crom would face jail-Newgate most likely-but Cromarty would get off with a fine and a reprimand for not paying sufficient attention to what was going on in his stable.”

“That’s all?” Pris looked shocked. “Everyone else gets away?”

Meeting her eyes, Dillon nodded. “A few fingers singed over wagers, but that’s all the effect exposing the Blistering Belle substitution will have.” He glanced at Barnaby and Rus. “There’ll be no evidence to implicate anyone else.”

“And little to no likelihood of Cromarty telling us the names of all others involved.” Disillusioned, Rus polished off his port.

“Doubly so if he knows what happened to Collier.” Leaning back in his chair, Dillon looked at the others. “I can’t see any chance of us learning anything new about Mr. X through halting the Blistering Belle substitution.”

Barnaby drained his glass, then set it down. “There has to be a better way.”

Dillon met his gaze. “We need to think of some way to reach the spider.”


The October Meeting and the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was due to be switched were still four days away. With no obvious solution to their dilemma, they agreed to take one day-twenty-four hours more-to rack their brains before deciding on their course.

They adjourned, joining the others in the drawing room in time to pass the teacups. Later, Dillon stood with Barnaby and Rus on the front steps and waved the carriage with Eugenia, Pris, and Adelaide away.

Later still, with the moon riding the sky and the fields silent about him, he rode north and east to the summer house by the lake.

Once again, they’d made no arrangement, had not even exchanged a meaningful look, but Pris was there, sitting on the sofa waiting for him.

Waiting to smile, mysterious and feminine, take his hand, and draw him down. To her. To the wonder, the magic, he found in her arms, to the wildness and thrills of a reckless ride, to the golden glory that claimed them in aftermath, to the completion that reached to his soul.

That healed him, that in some way he didn’t understand welded the two halves of him and made him whole.

Lying sprawled on his back on the sofa, more or less naked, with Pris slumped, very definitely naked, over him, he was staring into the shadows, thinking of that curious melding, mulling over it, how it felt, when she shifted, settling in his arms, turned her head to look over the lake, and murmured, “There has to be a way.”

While crossing the dark miles to the summer house, a flicker of an idea had flared; unexpected, radical, he wasn’t sure how it might pan out.

Eyes on the shadowed ceiling, he lifted one hand, caught a lock of her hair, twirled the silky curl between his fingers. “I’ve always considered that my disgrace years ago ultimately resulting in me becoming one of the elected few charged with defending the sport of kings was a monumentally ironic twist of fate.” He paused, then went on, “Now I wonder if fate had some longer-term goal in view.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “Because the racing industry is now facing a serious threat, and due to your past you have a better understanding of that threat?”

“In part. But I was thinking more of the nature, mine, that long ago led me into trouble. I’m not my father. He hasn’t a wild and reckless bone in his body. If my past trouble hadn’t happened, if I hadn’t been disgraced, hadn’t wanted to make restitution, would I have followed in his steps and later assumed his position?”

“You mean would you have been the Keeper of the Breeding Register now-the one facing the problem now?”

He glanced down at her. “Would a man like me be facing this problem.”

She lifted her head, met his eyes. Folding her hands on his chest, she rested her chin on them, and narrowed her eyes on his. “You’ve thought of something.”

Amused by her comprehension, he wished the light was strong enough to see the color of her eyes, to better appreciate the rest of her. “A possibility, a glimmer of a chance. I’m not sure.”

If, on reflection, on further development, the idea proved to be more, then his wild and reckless side would be fundamental to carrying it through, to bringing it to fruition. The same wild and reckless side she not just evoked, not just wantonly engaged with, but had somehow found a way to weld, to integrate seamlessly with his more responsible, sane, and sensible self.

When he was with her, he no longer felt torn, as if he were shifting from one persona to the other, as if he were two people within the one skin. That long-ago disgrace had caused a schism, a distrust of sorts, a wariness he’d been aware of for years-a concern that his wild and reckless side was a liability, a danger. A side he should never give free rein. Yet now…

What was fate telling him?

“Regardless of what ever we do, we need to stop Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, and slap them behind bars.” From where they would no longer be a threat to Pris, Rus, or any of their family. He knew, none better, how unprincipled those inhabiting the underside of racing could be, how they would retaliate against their chosen scapegoats. “That’s the absolute minimum we have to accomplish.”

He and Demon had both understood Vane’s injunction, to beware-to watch and shield their families, to ensure that what ever action occurred did not and could not rebound on those they cared about, those under their protection.

A justified and timely warning.

Pris continued to study his face. “Just removing Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom…all very well, but none of us are going to accept that as success.”

He refocused on her eyes, noting the determination conveyed by the set of her jaw, her lips. Wondered what gave rise to it. “As long as we remove those three, Rus will be safe.”

She snorted. “While I would be the first to rejoice in Rus’s safety, that’s hardly the end of it.” She frowned into his eyes, as if sensing the other side of his comment-the question buried in it. “Knowing this sort of evil is going on, that we know about it but haven’t done anything to end it would never sit well with either Rus or me. I can’t imagine Barnaby shrugging and letting it go either-he’s already gnashing his teeth.” Her expression turned skeptical. “And as for you-you will simply never rest. Well, how could you? It’s your calling, isn’t it?”

It was.

Within him, something quivered, resonating with her words, at the clear-sighted recognition not only implied but visible in her face. He’d never heard it-his life’s work-stated so simply, summarized so succinctly, as if it really were that obvious…

Perhaps it needed someone as uninhibited as she to simply say it. To render his purpose, his motives in facing the current threat, in such clear-cut fashion. To condense it to two words: his calling.

His because the responsibility was primarily his, not only by virtue of the position he held, but because the Committee had requested his help, handed the problem to him to solve, and were counting on him to deal with it.

Calling because that’s what it was. His wasn’t a paid position, but one conferred in recognition of what had come to be his vocation. Quite aside from the familial connection, he’d grown into the position, and it, in turn, had truly become a part of him.

And that, all of that, was why he had to do more than just remove Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom, why he had to free the industry he’d served for well-nigh half his life-the industry around which his life revolved-from an evil that threatened to poison it to the core.

Her eyes, fixed on his, narrowed to gleaming slits. “What have you thought of?”

He met her gaze, then let his lips curve. “Patience-it was only a first inkling. I’ll tell you once I’ve thought it through, once I’ve worked out how it might help us.”

He’d kept his tone low, soothing. The fingers of one hand still toying with her hair, he ran his other hand up from her thigh, palm to satin skin, up over her naked bottom to her hip, skimming the side of her waist to the swell of her breast-deliberately distracting her.

Only to be distracted himself by the way her lashes fluttered, then sank, the way she all but purred with plea sure.

“Hmm…” She leaned into the caress, offering her breast more fully to his hand, then lasciviously, sinuously shifted up his body, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.