He glanced at her. “I know of a few places he might be using as a bolt-hole.” Turning, he started to escort her back to the door, then stopped. “Your coachman’s name is Patrick?”
“Yes, but he’s rather more than a coachman.”
Dillon looked around. “Wait here-I’ll fetch him and your carriage. There’s no sense parading you along the High Street. Go and look at some novels.”
He lifted her hand from his sleeve, was about to release it when she twisted her fingers and gripped his, hard. He met her green eyes; they held an implacable expression.
“You are not-absolutely not-going to look for Rus without me.”
She’d spoken softly, but steel rang in her tone.
He sighed. “All right.” He rejigged his plans. “I’ll send your coach this way, then fetch my horse. Get into the coach and wait here until I join you. I’ll ride out to the Carisbrook place with you-after you change, we’ll go for a nice, social ride on the Heath.”
She assessed his plan, then nodded. “Tell Patrick I’ll be waiting.”
A nice, social ride on the Heath.
The reality was somewhat different. On horse back, Priscilla Dalling was as reckless a rider as she was in other spheres; luckily for Dillon’s peace of mind, he already knew she could manage her horse.
And Solomon, his black gelding, Cynster-bred and trained, was more than a match for her flighty mare.
Thundering north and west beside her, streaking across the Heath, he scanned the open grassland for other riders while updating his mental file on Pris and Rus Dalling.
Joining her in the carriage on the drive to the Carisbrook house, he’d encouraged her to tell him more about her brother and, consequently, her family and herself.
At twenty-four years old, she and her twin were the eldest children. She’d said nothing of what had brought her brother to Newmarket, but he’d caught her hesitation in mentioning their father; he suspected some falling-out. Yet any thoughts that Rus Dalling might need to earn his keep were rendered ineligible by Pris’s frequent and unconscious citings of nannies, governesses, tutors, and grooms.
An only child himself, he’d felt a pang of envy over some of the childhood exploits she’d described; she’d always shared everything with her twin-she’d had someone with her, someone who thought like she did, who reacted as she did, throughout her life.
Until now. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d eventually fallen silent, then, as they’d reached the Carisbrook drive, she’d glanced at him, and asked, “You believe Rus is innocent, don’t you?”
Looking into her eyes, understanding in that moment not just why she’d asked but what his answer would mean to her, he’d found himself unexpectedly grateful for his past. “I know what it’s like to get caught up in such a scheme. Innocent or not-so-innocent, as was the case with me, there comes a time when such an enterprise threatens to consume you. Your brother had the sense, and the strength, to pull back of his own accord, and for that I can only admire him.”
In his case, he’d needed Flick’s and Demon’s help to break free; it seemed entirely fitting that he should aid Russell Dalling.
Reaching the house, they’d discovered that Lady Fowles and Adelaide were attending Lady Morton’s at-home. He’d kicked his heels in the parlor while Pris exchanged her mesmerizing black-and-white gown for her riding habit, that vivid confection in emerald velvet, the vibrant hue intensified by the crisp white of her blouse, with an enticing ruffle that led the eye to the deep valley between her breasts. Said valley might have been decorously concealed by thick velvet, but that hadn’t stopped his imagination from eagerly following the track.
They’d left the house and headed for the fields around Swaffam Prior.
Approaching the village, he took the lead; circling the cottages, he led Pris to an outlying barn. They dismounted and went in, but there was no one there.
It was the first of many such buildings they checked, all potential bolt-holes. Every distant barn, every shack, abandoned cottage, or ruin. They swept the area around the Rigby farm; halting on a nearby rise, Pris pointed out Harkness examining a black horse. A carriage rattled up; Cromarty got out. He paused to look at the horse, then entered the house.
Tightening Solomon’s reins, Dillon steadied the restive gelding. “I’ve been introduced to Cromarty, seen him around the coffee rooms and the club. Harkness”-his tone hardened-“I’ve never met.”
“Your gain.” Pris turned her mare away. “He’s an outright bully and a brute besides.”
Delivered in her soft brogue, the condemnation lacked force. Dillon studied Harkness for a moment longer, then followed Pris down the rise.
They continued their search as the day waxed, then waned. In a wide arc, they swept south across the Heath, turning aside into the bordering woodlands to check woodcutters’ huts and abandoned cottages.
Pris had had the foresight to pack sandwiches, cheese, and apples; they paused within sight of the area Harkness favored for exercising Cromarty’s string to consume the impromptu meal but didn’t dally.
As cottage after barn after shack fell behind them, Dillon expected Pris to grow disheartened. Instead, she seemed unperturbed, still eager as they rode on. As he led her onto the northern fringes of Demon’s stud, nearing the logical limit of their search, she caught his puzzled gaze, and raised a brow.
He hesitated, then said, “If our theory of your brother hiding close enough to spy on Cromarty’s horses is correct, then we’re nearing the last few places he might be.”
“I know.” Anticipation rang in her voice. She considered him for a moment, then looked ahead. “All the places we’ve searched-I know Rus never stayed there. Don’t ask me how I know-I just do. But while we haven’t crossed his path, I know-feel-that he’s…somewhere near.”
She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know it sounds strange…it’s just a feeling.”
He held her gaze for an instant, then faced forward, holding Solomon to a walk. “I know another set of twins-girls. They’ve been together all their lives until recently. Now they’re married, one lives in Lincolnshire and the other in Derbyshire. I know their husbands well-neither is the fanciful sort, yet both swear that when their wife’s twin gave birth, their wife knew it. Not to the hour or the day, but to the minute, the instant, despite being separated by all those miles.” He glanced at Pris. “I don’t understand how that can be, but I accept it happened exactly as Luc and Martin claim.” He smiled. “Against that, you being certain your twin hasn’t been in a room recently is easy to swallow.”
Pris smiled back, then glimpsed a dilapidated cottage through the trees. “Is that where we’re going?”
Dillon nodded. He set his black trotting as, excited, she urged her mare on. She felt a building expectation, a funny, deeply familiar ruffling of her senses, still distant but…they’d been drawing nearer to Rus, or at least to where he’d been, for the last little while.
Dillon waved to the cottage’s rear. They swung that way, then dismounted. Pris studied the cottage, what was left of it. The roof had collapsed at the front and over one side. Walls were missing planks or stones; some had disintegrated entirely.
Tying their reins to a fallen tree, Dillon glanced at the cottage. “I hid here eleven years ago. Despite its appearance, the area around the hearth is dry and half a room is habitable.” Raising his brows, he took Pris’s hand. “Or was.”
She let him go ahead, following close behind, her hand locked in his. Mice, even rats, seemed likely.
As they ducked beneath some fallen timbers, a sudden scurrying had her jumping, tightening her grip on Dillon’s hand. He glanced back at her; his smile deepened as he faced forward again, but he had enough wit to keep his lips shut.