“That’s him. Or was him, I should say.”

Cromarty swallowed. “Was?”

His fear was almost palpable. Dillon inclined his head. “Collier…

He told Collier’s tale, using his voice, his tone, to deepen Cromarty’s unease. Cromarty stared, pale as a sheet, the whites of his eyes increasingly prominent. Concluding with a description of Collier’s body being found in the quarry, Dillon met Cromarty’s starting eyes. “Dead. Quite dead.”

The only sound in the room for the next several seconds was Dillon’s footsteps as he continued to pace.

Once the full implications had sunk into Cromarty’s panicking brain, Barnaby said in his most reasonable tone, “That’s why, my lord, given the outcome of today’s race, we would most strongly advise you to tell us all you know about this gentleman, most especially his name.”

Cromarty had dragged his gaze from Dillon to Barnaby; he swallowed, then, in the tones of a man facing the hangman, simply said, “Gilbert Martin.” Cromarty looked at Dillon. “He’s Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”


Fifteen minutes later, they had what amounted to a full confession from Cromarty, extracted by Dillon, assisted by Barnaby’s musings on the likely reaction of the less-reputable bookmakers once they fully absorbed the dimension of the calamity that had befallen them; Cromarty had told them everything they’d wanted to know.

Thus armed, they returned to Harkness. His resistance lasted only as long as it took Dillon to inform him that Cromarty had told them all. Harkness confirmed Gilbert’s name and direction, and also the man’s description-tonnish, well turned out, tall, dark-haired, of heavier build than Barnaby.

Harkness confirmed their reading of him as the more experienced villain; unlike Cromarty, he didn’t beg for leniency but dourly stated that if there was a choice between Newgate and transportation to the colonies, he’d rather transportation.

About to leave, Barnaby cocked a brow his way. Harkness simply said, “More chance of surviving on the other side of the world.”

In the corridor, Dillon motioned to the constables sent by the magistrate, who he’d notified earlier. Leaving them to deal with Cromarty and Harkness, he led Barnaby to his office.

Sprawling in the chair behind his desk, he watched as Barnaby subsided into the armchair, a silly, beatific smile on his face. Dillon grinned. “What?”

Barnaby flashed that smile his way. “I didn’t believe we’d get a name-I hadn’t let myself believe it. Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.” Barnaby shrugged. “But he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Tonnish gentlemen have a tendency to overestimate their cleverness.”

“Speaking as a tonnish gentleman?”

Barnaby grinned.

Dillon glanced out of the window. It was nearly four o’clock; soon the sun would sink and the light would dim. “Are you still set on starting for London immediately?”

“Absolutely.” Barnaby sprang to his feet. “It just seemed right to spend a few minutes here, where this more or less started.”

Dillon rose, too, and came out from behind his desk. “What are your plans once you reach town?”

“Home.” Barnaby flung the word over his shoulder as he made for the door. “The pater’s there-he’ll be the first I tell. Tomorrow, I’ll call on Stokes. He’s already very interested in the whole business-I’m sure he’ll be keen to be in on the kill.”

Flashing Dillon another smile-this one of predatory intent-Barnaby led the way out of the door. “Who knows? Once we catch our spider, we might discover there’s even more to his web than we already know.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Dillon followed Barnaby into the corridor. “I’ve had a surfeit of our spider’s coils. I’m just glad to be free of them.”

At last. As he strode from the Jockey Club by Barnaby’s side, Dillon let that fact sink in, let himself embrace the notion of devoting his mind, and all his considerable energies, to dealing with coils of an entirely different sort.

Those he could use to bind one wild and recklessly passionate female irreversibly to him.

17

It was a strange night, mild, but the wind had turned waspish, unpredictable and unsettled, whipping past in gusts one minute, dying away to nothing the next. Clouds had rolled in, heavy enough to trap the day’s warmth beneath them; slipping away from the house, Pris didn’t need more than a light shawl.

With the moon well screened, the night closed darkly about her. She found it comforting. The route to the summer house was engraved in her mind; she walked quickly along, keen-incipiently desperate-to reach her destination.

“Damn Rus.” She muttered the words without heat; she didn’t truly begrudge her twin his jubilation, but he’d chatted and laughed over the tea tray until she’d thought she’d scream-or even more revealingly plead a headache. She never suffered from headaches; such a claim would instantly have focused all attention on her. So she’d been forced to wait patiently until Rus had run out of words on which Adelaide and Eugenia could hang and everyone had at long last retired before she could attend to her own urgent need.

The need to see Dillon again.

The need to be with him again, alone in the night. To be in his arms, to feel them close around her, to feel again-live again-for what might very well be the last time.

She hurried on, her feet silent on the grass as she ducked into the shrubbery. It wasn’t as well tended as a shrubbery ought to be, yet wasn’t impossibly neglected, not overgrown so much as escaping from the confines gardeners had sought to impose-she’d always felt at home in its less than stringently correct surrounds.

Thanks to Rus, she was late, later than she’d ever been. She could only hope Dillon had waited, only pray that he hadn’t thought she’d forgotten, or simply decided not to come to him…

Why wasn’t she running?

Grabbing up her skirts, she did just that. Weaving past branches, leaping over steps, surefooted she raced down the narrow paths lined by thick bushes, screened by high hedges. Her heart raced, too, not in panic but in desperation-yes, definitely desperation. An emotion she didn’t appreciate feeling, yet accepted she did. Accepted that she had this one night, this one time, and that would likely be all.

Ever.

Quite when that truth had slid into her mind and taken up residence she didn’t know, but it was there now. After Dillon, instead of Dillon-she couldn’t imagine any man taking his place. She ran on, faster, more frantically, needing to grasp this last night, this last moment-to have it shine, and then enshrine it in her heart.

She pelted into the central grassed court-and ran straight into a wall. A warm wall of muscle and bone.

Dillon caught her, steadied her. Instantly alert, he looked over her head, scanning the path along which she’d come. “What is it?”

Finding nothing, he looked down at her. His hands remained locked about her upper arms, holding her upright, protectively close. “Why are you running? What from?”

She couldn’t tell him why, but…she moistened her dry lips. “Not from. To.” She stared into his face, drinking in the dramatic beauty, visible even in the poor light. “You.”

Reaching up, she cradled his face; stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his.

Told him why with her lips, with her tongue, with her mouth. Told him why with her body as he gathered her in, as his arms slid around her and locked her to him.

Above them, the wind gusted, then abruptly rose to a wail, a wild, elemental power unleashed. It raced through the branches and rattled them, whipped up to the sky and set the clouds roiling.

In the grassed court, her hands framing Dillon’s face, Pris heard it, sensed it, felt it. She drew the power in, let it fill her, flow through her. Let it take her own wildness and fashion it anew, into something finer. Something shining and glorious. Something infinitely precious.

It was she who drew away to sink to the ground, to the lush grass, a sweet-scented bed as it crushed beneath her.

His hand locked about hers, Dillon looked down at her, through the darkness trying to read her eyes. “The summer house…” When she shook her head, he drew in a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling. “Your room, then.”

“No.” Reaching up, she caught his other hand; exerting a steady pull, she drew him down. “Here. Now.”

Under heaven.

He came down on his knees, let her draw him into a kiss, another heated exchange that set their pulses racing. The next time he drew back it wasn’t to argue; his face etched with passion, his expression one of stark desire, he shrugged out of his coat, spread it behind her, then followed her down as she lay back upon it.

Dillon sank into her arms, let her welcome him, let her hold him and trap him-let her dictate. Her, only her. Only with her-for her-would he do this, cede control and let her lead. Only she made him feel like this-that nothing was more important in his life than having her, appeasing her, worshipping and possessing her, doing everything in his power to keep her forever his.

So he gave her what she wanted, let his wildness free, let it mate with hers and drive them. Let the sparks flare, let the flames ignite, then roar-let the conflagration take them and consume them.

She wanted to rush, to race, to greedily grasp and devour; he held her back, forced her to slow-forced her to know, to feel, to appreciate every iota of worshipful strength he had it in him to lavish on her, every last scintilla of passion he tithed to her, every last gasp of surrender he laid at her dainty feet.

How would she know if he didn’t tell her?-and for this, he had no words. So he showed her instead.