Looking ahead, she drew in a breath.

And told herself not to jinx anything, to stay alert until they reached the Heath proper and the wood in which they were to take cover after that.

Thirty nerve-racking minutes later, she, Rus, Stan, and Mike, the other groom, entered the small wood to the east of Newmarket, beyond the town’s fringes and the outlying fields. Pris drew rein-then took what felt like her first real breath of the morning.

She glanced at Rus and met his eyes. Felt a smile spread across her face. “We did it!”

With a whoop, she sent her cap soaring. Rus, grinning fit to burst, did the same, as did Stan and Mike.

Once they’d quieted, however, they were eager to get on. Stan and Mike would return the Cynster horses to the stud, then would rejoin the crowd at the track. Pris and Rus would ride north, taking Black Rose with them; they’d stow the look-alike in the isolated stable for Harkness or Crom to find.

“Then,” Rus said, as he wheeled his horse, “we’ll head back to the Carisbrook house, get changed, and get ourselves back to the track in time to watch Belle win.”

Pris had no argument with that plan; with a giddy laugh, she urged her mount on.


As I’m sure you’ve heard, there have been rumors concerning suspect race results over the spring, and again a few weeks ago, here at Newmarket.” Dillon looked around the sea of faces watching him with varying degrees of suspicion, caution, and trepidation. He’d had all the jockeys scheduled to ride that day herded into the weighing room for a special address.

“In response to this threat to the good name of the sport, the Committee has decreed that on at least one day of every meet more stringent checks than usual will be carried out by the race stewards.” His suggestion, but the Committee had been very ready to agree. Anything to dampen the rumors and the consequent speculation.

Dillon waited until the inevitable groans died away. “Nothing too onerous, but there will be more stewards watching each race. Their particular aim today will be to verify that you all ride your horses to their best.”

Scanning the room, he saw resigned shrugs, no hint of a grimace or any other indication the extra watch would discompose someone’s plans. He’d expected as much, but had wanted to ensure the jockey riding Blistering Belle-an experienced jockey named Fanning-would have every incentive to urge Belle to give her best.

With a nod, he concluded, “I wish you all good riding, and every success.”


The morning crawled. Barnaby had joined Dillon after he’d trailed Harkness back to Figgs’s stable and watched the man enter. Barnaby reported that despite a close call with Crom, he assumed the switch had been successfully accomplished; he’d glimpsed the group of horses clustered around a set of black legs disappearing around the next stable. The lack of any subsequent drama seemed a clear enough indication that Belle was back in her appointed stall.

Later, he’d walked the holding stalls with the race stewards conducting the first prerace check; each horse’s points were matched to those listed in the register. A black filly was in Blistering Belle’s stall; Dillon studied her while the stewards checked her over. He thought she was the champion Rus had been training, but he couldn’t be sure.

After addressing the jockeys in the weighing room, he retreated to his customary position before the stand, talking with the various owners and members who sought him out while waiting for the first race to get under way.

Eventually, a horn sounded; excusing himself, he returned to the track, joining the race stewards by the starting post.

As each horse was led up, a more stringent survey of points was done. At last, all the runners were cleared, ready, and in line-then with a deafening roar, the race was on.

The next hour went in confirming the winner and placegetters by applying the most stringent of checks, including having a veterinarian check each horse’s teeth to confirm age. When all the assessments were completed and weight confirmed, the winner and placegetters were declared, and paraded before the stand to the applause of the assembled members.

Trophy presented, gratified owner duly congratulated, and then it was time to repeat the process with the horses for the second race.

One of Demon’s runners took that prize-the Anniversary Plate. While the horse was being paraded, Dillon scanned the top row of the stand and saw Pris. She was wearing a veil, but he knew it was her. Rus sat alongside, a hat shading his features, with Patrick next to him and Barnaby beside Pris.

The twins had been banished to the heights, forbidden to descend until the third race had not just been run, but the winner declared, paraded, and the trophy awarded. Barnaby and Patrick had strict instructions to ensure that edict was followed. The chances of Cromarty or Harkness catching sight of the pair were slight, but all had agreed that there was no reason for either villain to know the part Rus and Pris-or indeed anyone else-had played in the unraveling of their grand scheme.

Mr. X’s grand scheme.

None of them had forgotten Mr. X; letting his gaze slide over the wealthy, aristocratic crowd filling the stand, Dillon wondered if Mr. X was there, watching. He truly hoped he was.

“Time to head back, sir.”

Dillon glanced around to find his head race steward waiting to walk back to the starting line. He smiled in almost feral anticipation. “Indeed, Smythe-let’s go.”

The starting post for the two-year-olds was closer; once there, they waited while the first of the runners was brought up. Dillon could barely harness his impatience. He’d never felt so…focused, intent-so stretched in his life. He had more riding on Blistering Belle than in any wager he’d ever made.

When she came clopping up, alert and clearly keen, her attention already on the winning post, he had to fight to remain outwardly impassive; fists clenched in his greatcoat pockets, he stood back and observed while Smythe and another steward checked her over, then waved her on.

He barely registered the seven horses that followed her into line.

As the lads stepped back and the jockeys took control, he glanced up at the distant stand, to the top row.

He focused on Pris, wondered what she was feeling, whether her lungs were tight, her heart thumping, whether her palms were as clammy as his were.

The white cloth was waved. He looked down as it was released; he watched as it fluttered to the ground.

Then it touched-and they were off.

16

The thunder of heavy hooves, the roar of the crowd-noise filled Dillon’s ears, swamped his mind as he strained to see down the track. Along with the race officials, he moved out to stand on the starting line itself. This race was run on the straight, a long sprint to the finishing post in front of the stand; from the starting line he shouldn’t have been able to be sure of the winner-except that a black horse was showing the rest of the field a clean pair of heels!

He couldn’t breathe; he stared down the track at the dwindling black streak, so far in front and forging farther ahead that she seemed to be shrinking against the rest of the horses.

His heart raced along with her; for one giddy instant, he felt as if he were teetering on some edge. Not even in the days he’d bet heavily on the nags had he been this involved. This time his emotions were engaged; never had he had so much riding on a race.

The stand erupted; yells, whoops, and whistles reached them-they could see people cheering and waving wildly as the crowd favorite came romping home. And then she was there, flashing past the winning post; the ecstatic punters roared, then turned, laughing, to hug their friends, to thump each other on the shoulder, grinning widely.

Eyes fixed on the row at the top of the stand, Dillon could just make out Pris and Rus, dancing about, hugging each other and Patrick and Barnaby.

“Well, then.”

Dillon glanced around to find Smythe by his elbow.

Smiling widely, the head steward surveyed the outpourings of joy all along the track. “It’s good to see a favorite win. Gives the punters heart.”

“Indeed.” Dillon was finding it near impossible to keep his own smile within bounds. “We’d better get down there. I want the checks to be beyond question on this one.”

“That they’ll be,” Smythe assured him. “There’ll be no questions to dim the mood.”

“For everyone except the bookmakers.” Dillon paced beside Smythe as they strode down the track, the other race stewards following.

“Aye.” Smythe shook his head. “There were some offering ridiculously long odds on that filly. Why was beyond me-her form’s been excellent, and whoever Cromarty’s had training her has brought her along well. Perhaps they thought that like that other runner of his, this one would take a breather-more fool them. They’ll have had their fingers burnt, no mistake.”

Dillon certainly hoped so.

The crowd about the dismounting yard was twenty deep as gleeful racegoers pressed close to call congratulations to Fanning and get a better look at the latest racing legend in the making. Flick, with Demon protectively hovering, was in the front row; beaming, she caught Dillon’s hand, and tugged him down to whisper, “I’d congratulate you, but she’s not your horse. But she was magnificent!”

“Which means”-Demon leaned near as Dillon straightened-“that we have to buy her.” He glanced at his wife; she was staring at Belle with the rapt attention of a lover.

Dillon’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

He turned as a cheer heralded the appearance of the winner’s owner and trainer-Cromarty, with Harkness behind him, both looking stunned, both struggling not to look like their world had ended while people called congratulations, grabbed their hands to pump them, and thumped them on the back. Cromarty looked green; Harkness’s expression was utterly blank.