“I know.” Grim determination threaded through Adelaide’s gentle tones. “But he’ll have to open his eyes.”

“Eugenia will help.” Pris glanced across at her aunt, still sitting beside the General…Pris blinked, and looked closer, took in the warmth in Eugenia’s smile, and the gentle, yet appreciative light in the General’s eyes…

She glanced at Dillon. Was she the only one who’d been blind?

“Actually, I’ve been thinking.” Adelaide’s gaze was also fixed on Eugenia and the General. “Aunt Eugenia’s truly enjoyed her time here.” Adelaide’s gaze swung to Rus. “I thought I might suggest that after we go to London so we can say we swanned around there, and then go back to the Hall with you, she might want to visit here again. We all know Rus is her favorite-she’ll want to check up on him, don’t you think?”

Pris couldn’t stop her smile; Adelaide, for one, hadn’t missed a trick. She squeezed her arm. “I think that’s very likely. Indeed-”

She broke off. After a moment, Adelaide looked inquiringly her way. “Indeed what?”

Holding on to her smile, Pris shook her head. “Never mind.”

She’d been about to suggest that she, too, would be happy to return to Newmarket, then reality had struck. She and Dillon weren’t like Adelaide and Rus; even less were they similar to Eugenia and the General, whose relationship Pris judged to be one of fond companionship rather than passion. She and Dillon…

Their coming together had been a moment out of time, an engagement driven by the reckless, irresponsible, all-but-unthinking desire that sparked and arced between them. An irresistible force, it had swept them both away. Their relationship had not simply been born of passion-it was passion. Of passion.

Ephemeral. Insubstantial. Something that with time would surely fade.

She glanced again at Dillon. Rus, Flick, and Demon were engrossed in a discussion of horses, with Adelaide quietly listening in. Dillon and Barnaby had their heads together, no doubt plotting how best to extract all they could from Cromarty and Harkness.

Pris looked around, saw the still-smiling faces, sensed the glow of achievement, of triumph, still lingering in the air.

Everything had worked out; all their prayers had been answered, and on far more than one count. From the stewards of the Jockey Club, to the General, to Demon and Flick, Rus, Adelaide, Eugenia-even Barnaby-all had reaped the rewards of the angels.

In their different ways, all had taken a chance, and gained more than they’d asked for. Indeed, Dillon and Barnaby had yet to plumb the depths of their potential gain; they might yet unmask the villainous Mr. X.

As for her…head tilting, gaze growing distant as she looked at Dillon, she recalled her purpose in coming to Newmarket. She’d found Rus, had helped drag him free of the coil into which he’d tumbled, and now had the plea sure of seeing him succeeding in the arena that meant so much to him. That would help immeasurably in reconciling him with her father, and then her family would once again be whole. All was well in her life, except…

For the one extra thing, the unexpected gift fate had handed her.

She refocused on Dillon, let her eyes drink in his dark beauty, the starkly handsome lines that would have been too perfect if it hadn’t been for the powerful virility and sensuality that rippled like a warning beneath his smooth façade.

She looked, and felt the response within her, felt the tug that reached to her heart, and further, to her soul. Felt the connection that had grown ever stronger, that with each day, each night, each moment together had deepened and burgeoned and bloomed.

A treasure, or a curse? Which was it fate had handed her?

When this was over and they were apart, which would she name it?

Had fate blessed her or damned her? Only time would tell.

And time for her, for them, had run out.

Amid the pervasive happiness, the festive cheer, her heart suddenly felt like lead.

As if he sensed it, Dillon looked up-looked at her, met her gaze, his own suddenly intent.

She summoned a light smile, forced her lungs to work and drag in a breath, then moved past Adelaide to join him and Barnaby. “Have you decided how to approach them?”

She tried to sound eager; Barnaby grinned, and answered.

Dillon continued to study her; she didn’t dare try to read his dark eyes in case he read hers. She didn’t know what he was thinking, why he’d suddenly looked at her like that, why he was now so quiet, leaving Barnaby to outline their plan. “Do you really think they’ll give you Mr. X’s name?”

“Not readily,” Barnaby quipped. “But persuasion is my middle name.”

She managed a laugh, then turned as Rus came up, Adelaide on his arm. He was still bubbling with delight, still barely able to believe his good fortune.

Dillon watched Pris twit Rus on his unbounded enthusiasm, laughing when he jokingly attempted to disclaim, saying he was only behaving so in order not to hurt Flick’s feelings. He listened as she, Rus, and Adelaide turned their attention once more to Barnaby and the upcoming interrogations…he’d almost convinced himself nothing was wrong-that the disturbance he’d sensed, some nebulous elemental ruffling of his instincts, had had no foundation-when he caught Rus glancing at Pris, and saw the same uncertain anxiety he himself felt mirrored in her twin’s green eyes.

He focused more intently on Pris, but no more than Rus could he see past the shield she’d erected, one of easy good cheer, of transparent happiness that was simply too bright, too polished, to be true.

Something was troubling her, and she was hiding it from him. From Rus, too, but he didn’t care about that. What he did care about was that she was doing it deliberately, that she was shutting him out of her life-he didn’t care how small the matter bothering her was.

Barnaby turned to him. “We should go. If we manage to get a name, I’ll head straight to London-we’d better get to it so I can be away before dark.”

Dillon blinked, looked at Barnaby, then nodded. “Right.”

Stepping back as Barnaby turned to the door, he glanced once more at Pris, but she was looking beyond Barnaby, toward the door…

He waited. She looked his way, and her smile was back-but that wasn’t what he wanted to see.

A chill touched his soul. He didn’t know what she was thinking, feeling-how she thought and felt about him, about them. He’d assumed…but he knew better than to assume he understood how women thought.

Summoning a smile, he inclined his head to her. He was about to turn and leave, then suddenly knew he couldn’t. Not without…

Rus and Adelaide had turned away; stepping closer to Pris, he caught her green gaze. “To night?”

Her eyes, fixed on his, widened. For an instant, she ceased to breathe. Then she did, and whispered, “Yes. To night.”

Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fleeting instant, then she turned away.

He forced himself to do the same, and follow Barnaby to the door.


I don’t know what you’re talking about. What man?”

Belligerent and bellicose, Harkness glared at them.

They’d spoken to him first; he was the greater villain, therefore more likely to grab what he could from the situation. However, he’d got his second wind and had reverted to denying any part in any wrongdoing what ever.

Dillon ambled to the wooden table behind which Barnaby sat studying Harkness, seated in a hard chair on the other side; he touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Leave him. Let’s go and chat with Cromarty and see what he has to say.”

Harkness’s beady eyes blinked. Until then, he hadn’t known they’d brought Cromarty in for questioning, too.

Glancing back as he followed Barnaby from the room, Dillon saw Harkness, staring straight ahead, start to gnaw a fingernail.

Leaving his stewards watching over Harkness, he and Barnaby walked to another of the small rooms reserved for interviews with jockeys, trainers, owners, and occasionally the constabulary.

He followed Barnaby in. As with Harkness, he introduced Barnaby as a gentleman with connections to the metropolitan police. All perfectly true, although from the way Cromarty, seated on a similar chair to Harkness, before a similar table, blanched, he’d leapt to the conclusion that Barnaby wielded all sorts of unspecified powers. Precisely what they wanted him to think.

“Good afternoon, Lord Cromarty.” Sitting behind the desk, Barnaby placed an open notebook upon it. Withdrawing a pencil from his coat pocket, he tapped the point on the page, then looked at his lordship. “Now then, my lord. This gentleman who went into partnership with you-your silent partner. What’s his name?”

Cromarty looked acutely uncomfortable. “Ah…what did Harkness say? You’ve asked him, haven’t you?”

Barnaby didn’t blink. He let two seconds tick by, then said, “This gentleman’s name, my lord?”

Cromarty shifted; he darted a glance at Dillon. “I…um.” He swallowed. “I’m…er, bound by privilege.” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, that’s it-bound by commercial privilege not to divulge the gentleman’s name.”

Barnaby’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He looked down at his notebook, tapped the pencil twice, then looked at Dillon. “What do you think?”

Dillon met his gaze for an instant, then looked at Lord Cromarty. “Perhaps, my lord, I should tell you a story.”

Cromarty blinked. “A story?”

Pacing slowly behind Barnaby’s chair, Dillon nodded. “Indeed. The story of another owner who had dealings with this same fine gentleman.”

He had Cromarty’s full attention; he continued to pace. “This owner’s name was Collier-you might have met him. He was registered and raced for more than twenty years.”

Cromarty frowned. “Midlands? Races out of Doncaster mostly?”