She held his gaze unwaveringly. A moment ticked by, then she sighed and, still entirely relaxed, leaned back in the chair. “It’s for my aunt.”

When he looked his surprise, she airily waved. “She’s eccentric. Her latest passion is racehorses-that’s why we’re here. She’s curious about every little thing to do with horse racing. She stumbled on mention of this register somewhere, and now nothing will do but for her to know all about it.”

She heaved an artistic sigh. “I didn’t think those here would appreciate a fluttery, dotty old dear haunting your foyer, so I came.” Fixing her disturbing green eyes on him, she went on, “And that’s why I would like to take a look at this Breeding Register. Just a peek.”

That last was said almost tauntingly. Dillon considered how to reply.

He could walk over to the bookcase, retrieve the current volume of the register, and lay it on the desk before her. Caution argued against showing her where the register was, even what it looked like. He could tell her what information was included in each register entry, but even that might be tempting fate in the guise of someone allied with those planning substitutions. That risk was too serious to ignore.

Perhaps he should call her bluff and suggest she bring her aunt into his office, but no matter how intently he searched her eyes, he couldn’t be sure she was lying about her aunt. It was possible her tale, fanciful though it was, was the unvarnished truth. That might result in him breaking the until-now-inviolate rule that no one but he and the register clerks were ever allowed to view the Breeding Register for some fussy old dear.

Who could not be counted on not to spread the word.

“I’m afraid, Miss Dalling, that all I can tell you is that the entries in the register comprise a listing of licenses granted to individual horses to race under Jockey Club rules.” He spread his hands in commiseration. “That’s really all I’m at liberty to divulge.”

Her green eyes had grown crystalline, hard. “How very mysterious.”

He smiled faintly. “You have to allow us our secrets.”

The distance between them was too great for him to be sure, but he thought her eyes snapped. For an instant, the outcome hung in the balance-whether she would retreat, or try some other, possibly more high-handed means of persuasion-but then she sighed again, lifted her reticule from her lap, and smoothly rose.

Dillon rose, too, surprised by a very real impulse to do something to prolong her visit. But then rounding the desk, he drew close enough to see the expression in her eyes. There was temper there-an Irish temper to match her accent. It was presently leashed, but she was definitely irritated and annoyed with him.

Because she hadn’t been able to bend him to her will.

He felt his lips curve, saw annoyance coalesce and intensify in her eyes. She really ought to have known just by looking that he wasn’t likely to fall victim to her charms.

Manifold and very real though they were.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Caxton.” Her tone was cold, a shivery coolness, the most her soft brogue would allow. “I’ll inform my aunt that she’ll have to live with her questions unanswered.”

“I’m sorry to have to disappoint an old lady, however…” He shrugged lightly. “Rules are rules, and there for a good reason.”

He watched for her reaction, for some sign, however slight, of comprehension, but she merely raised her brows in patent disbelief and, with every indication of miffed disappointment, turned away.

“I’ll see you to the front door.” He went with her to the door of his room, opened it.

“No need.” Briefly, she met his eyes as she swept past him. “I’m sure I can find my way.”

“Nevertheless.” He followed her into the corridor.

The rigidity of her spine declared she was offended he hadn’t trusted her to go straight back to the front foyer if left to herself. But they both knew she wouldn’t have, that if he’d set her free she’d have roamed, trusting her beauty to extract her from any difficulty should she be caught where she shouldn’t be.

She didn’t look back when she reached the foyer and sailed on toward the front doors. “Good-bye, Mr. Caxton.”

The cool words drifted over her shoulder. Halting in the mouth of the corridor, he watched the doorman, still bedazzled, leap to swing open the door. She stepped through, disappearing into the bright sunshine; the doors swung shut, and he could see her no more.


He returned to his office to find Barnaby peering out of the corner window.

“Sweeping away in a regal snit.” Turning from the window, Barnaby took the chair she’d vacated. “What did you make of that?”

Dillon resumed his seat. “A very interesting performance. Or rather, a performance of great interest to me.”

“Indeed. But how did you read it? Do you think the Irishman sent her?”

Slumping back, his long legs stretched before him, fingers lightly drumming his desk, he considered it. “I don’t think so. For a start, she’s gentry at least, more likely aristocracy. That indefinable confidence was there. So I doubt she’s directly involved with the Irishman asking questions in hedge taverns. However, were you to ask me if the Irishman’s master sent her, that, I think, is a real possibility.”

“But why ask just to look at the register? Just a peek, she said.”

Dillon met Barnaby’s gaze. “When she first encountered us and the doorman said one of us was Mr. Caxton, she hoped it was you. You saw her. How many males do you think would have remained immune to her persuasions, the persuasions she might have brought to bear?”

“I wasn’t swayed.”

“No, but you were on guard the instant you heard she was interested in the register, and even more once she’d spoken. But she, and whoever sent her, wouldn’t have expected that.”

Barnaby humphed; he regarded Dillon. “But you’re immune, impervious, and unimpressionable in that regard.” His lips quirked. “Having set eyes on you, hearing that you were Caxton, guardian of the register, must have been a most unwelcome shock.”

Dillon recalled the moment; a shock, yes, but unwelcome? In one respect, perhaps, but otherwise?

What he had detected in that first moment of strange and unexpected recognition had been an element of flaring curiosity. One that had affected him in precisely the same degree.

“But I take your point,” Barnaby went on. “After one peek, why not two? And after two, well, why not let the darling girl pore over the register for an hour or two. No harm if it’s in your office-and no great misery to have to watch her while she pores.”

“Indeed.” Dillon’s tone was dry. “I imagine that’s more or less how matters would have transpired had I been more susceptible.”

“Regardless, her advent now gives us two immediate avenues to pursue. The Irishman and the attempts to break in here, and the startlingly beautiful Miss Dalling.”

Energized, Barnaby looked at Dillon, then grimaced. “In light of the tendencies Miss Dalling has already displayed, I’d better play safe and leave you to investigate her. I’ll focus on the unknown Irishman and anyone who can tell me anything about people loitering after dark in this vicinity.”

Dillon nodded. “We can meet tomorrow afternoon and share what we’ve learned.”

Barnaby rose. Meeting his eyes, Dillon smiled wryly. “While trawling through the hedge taverns, you can console yourself with the thought that following Miss Dalling will almost certainly result in my attending precisely those social events I would prefer to avoid like the plague.”

Barnaby grinned. “Each to our own sacrifices.” He snapped off a jaunty salute, and left.

Seated behind his desk, his gaze on the now-empty chair, Dillon thought again of Miss Dalling, and all he now wanted to know.

2

I can’t see Rus anywhere.” Pris scanned the throng of horses and jockeys, trainers, strappers, and lads engaged in a practice session on Newmarket racetrack. A minor race meet was approaching; many stables took the opportunity of a practice session to trial their runners on the track itself, or so the ostler at the Crown & Quirt had informed her. Such practice sessions also helped whip up enthusiasm for the various runners.

That, Pris thought, explained the large number of the racing public who, like Adelaide and she, were standing behind the rails on the opposite side of the track, studying the horses. At least the milling crowd provided camouflage.

Adelaide squinted across the track. “Can you see anyone from Lord Cromarty’s stables?”

“No.” Pris examined the motley crew, jockeys circling on mounts eager to be off, raucous comments flying between them and the trainers and lads on the ground. “But I’m not sure I would recognize anyone other than Cromarty himself. He’s short, and as round as he’s tall-he’s definitely not there. I’ve seen his head stableman, Harkness, once. He’s big and dark, rather fearsome-looking. There are one or two similar over there, but I don’t think they’re him. Not dark enough-or fierce enough, come to that.”

She looked around. “Let’s walk. Perhaps Rus or Cromarty are on this side of the track, talking to others.”

Unfurling their parasols, deploying them to deflect the morning sun, they paraded along the sward, attracting not a little attention.

Pris was aware of the appraising glances thrown their way, but she’d long grown inured to such awestruck looks. Indeed, she tended to view those who stared, stunned and occasionally slavering, with dismissive contempt.

She and Adelaide tacked through the crowd, surreptitiously searching. Then, rounding a large group of genial gentlemen comparing notes on the various runners, she saw, standing some yards directly ahead, a tall, lean, dramatically dark figure.