Her eyes sparkled as they met his. “These are Rus’s!”
“Good.” His voice sounded strained; he tried to keep his expression from turning grim as he squeezed her past him and gently pushed her to the door. “Take it out in the light.”
She paused in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a traveling bag there, too.”
He waved her on. “I’ll get it.” Once she’d gone, he took a moment to catch his breath before bending and hauling the bag from its hiding place.
Stepping into the main room, he saw Pris by the bed, busily rifling through the saddlebags. “These are definitely Rus’s, but just clothes, his favorite bridle, and the quirt I gave him last birthday.”
Last birthday-one she’d shared. As he put the bag on the bed, she glanced at it. “That’s the bag I sent him when he wrote that he’d joined Cromarty’s employ.”
Swiftly rebuckling the saddlebags, she opened the traveling bag and delved within. “More clothes, a book I sent with the bag-I bet he hasn’t even opened it-and…” Straightening, she looked at the saddlebags, then at the traveling bag. “I think this must be all his things. He has to be staying here.”
She looked up at him.
He nodded. “He must be out, either in town or around the Heath. If he hasn’t got a horse, then he’ll be walking, so getting anywhere will take time.”
“So what should we do? Wait until he comes back?”
He thought, then shook his head. “He could stay away until late.” He hesitated, then met her eyes. “Those horses that were here recently…if someone’s been looking for him, he won’t risk returning until he’s sure no one’s likely to come calling.”
Pris blew out a breath and studied his face. “All right-we’ll leave a note-”
“No-no note.” When she frowned and went to argue, he cut her off. “We don’t know who might come searching and find your name. Even ‘Pris’ is too traceable-as far as I know, you’re the only Priscilla in Newmarket. No-we’ll put the bags back exactly as we found them, then I’ll come back to night and see if your brother’s returned. Recognizing him, after all, won’t be a problem.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know why you bother-you know I’m going to come here to night, too.”
He looked into her eyes, then sighed and picked up the traveling bag. “I had to try.”
They returned the bag and saddlebags to the storeroom; at his suggestion, she arranged them as closely as she could to the way they’d been. “He might or might not know that someone called yesterday.”
“He wouldn’t have missed the hoof marks outside.”
“Regardless”-he held the cottage door for her, then followed her out-“we don’t want to give him cause to run. We want him at home next time we call.”
He closed the door, then lifted her to the mare’s saddle. On Solomon, he led the way out of the clearing along a different path-one that led to the Heath; it was the same path he’d emerged from when he’d found her fleeing Harkness three days before.
They rode through the slanting sunshine, giving the town a wide berth, circling to the east. When they clattered into the stable yard behind the Carisbrook house, they’d completed a full circuit of Newmarket.
Patrick came out of the stable. She waved gaily; kicking free of the stirrups, she slid to the ground. Handing over the mare’s reins, she beamed. “We’ve found him! Or at least found where he’s staying.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Patrick grinned at her, then nodded to Dillon. “Mr. Caxton.”
She whirled; shading her eyes against the setting sun, she looked up at Dillon. “Where will I meet you? At the cottage?”
“No.”
The word was flat, absolute. When she raised her brows at him, his lips thinned. He dismounted. “I’ll meet you here.” He glanced at Patrick, then at her. “I don’t want you riding anywhere alone at night, much less across the Heath, no doubt dressed as a lad and astride.” His eyes bored into hers. “No telling whom you might meet. Or what he might think.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, opened her lips-
“Aye. Mr. Caxton’s right there,” Patrick cut in. “Riding alone at night’s not safe, and your aunt would be the first to say so.”
She glanced at Patrick, then back at Dillon-quickly enough to catch the slight, distinctly male nod he sent Patrick’s way. Dillon had fetched Patrick and the carriage that morning; they’d had time to meet and get each other’s mea sure…
Plastering a smile on her face, she reached out, plucked Dillon’s reins from his loose grasp, and gave them to Patrick. “In that case, you’d better come in and speak with Aunt Eugenia. Riding all the way home, then all the way back here this evening will be such a waste of time, I’m sure she’ll insist, as do I, that you join us for dinner. Especially as it’s all in Rus’s cause-he’s far and away her favorite nephew.”
She linked her arm with Dillon’s, but he didn’t budge.
“My house hold will be expecting me-”
“I’m sure Patrick can arrange for a groom to take a message.” She stared at Patrick, who looked down to hide his smile.
“Aye-I can do that.” He glanced at Dillon. “If you’ll let me know what, where, and who to speak to, sir, I’ll send a lad right away.”
Dillon knew a trap when it snapped shut around him. He inwardly sighed and glanced down at Pris, hanging on his arm. “I take it your aunt will be delighted to hear we’ve all but located your brother?”
She smiled, and turned him toward the house. “She’ll be in alt, and Adelaide will be, too.” As she towed him to his fate, she blithely informed him, “They’ll both want to thank you, I’m sure.”
They did, several times, but to Dillon’s relief, both Lady Fowles and Adelaide refrained from living up to either his or Pris’s expectations. Although immensely relieved to hear that he and Pris were one step away from meeting with Rus, they were also keenly interested in the swindle he believed Rus had got wind of; they were eager to hear the details explained.
Dillon relaxed, easier in the ladies’ company than he’d expected. Over the dinner table, Pris, seeing it, pulled a face at him and nearly made him choke.
He paid her back by telling Lady Fowles precisely what they planned that night-no carriage, but a nighttime ride-deftly swinging his legs aside so Pris couldn’t kick him under the table. She tried, missed, and glared, but Lady Fowles considered, then gave her blessing. Contacting Rus took precedence over propriety.
They left the house at nine o’clock, Pris once again dressed as a lad. Their boots scrunched on the gravel as they strode into the stable yard. Patrick led their horses, refreshed and alert, out, then held the mare as Pris swung into the saddle.
“Take care,” Patrick called, as they wheeled their mounts south. Dillon saluted him, then had to tap his heels to Solomon’s flanks, setting the black into a powerful surge in Pris’s wake.
He caught her up in short order, then rode beside her down the lane to the town. At that hour, with her dressed as she was with him beside her, there was no reason they couldn’t ride straight through rather than taking the longer route around. Nevertheless, he took her down the quieter streets, rejoining the road south on the outskirts where the houses gave way again to fields and pasture. The Heath proper lay to their right as they cantered down the road to Hillgate End.
He led Pris through the main gates and up the drive, turning off the oak-lined avenue onto a bridle path that cut through the park. The house lay quiet, already slumbering in the moonlight; he glanced down at it as they let the horses stretch their legs along a cleared rise, at the long façade softened by shadow yet so solid, framed by the darkness of thick canopies to either side.