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.
Caxton’s dark gaze was fixed on her.
She quelled an impulse to take Adelaide’s arm, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. She wished she could do so, but the move would inflame Caxton’s unwelcome suspicions, quite aside from smacking of cowardice.
That he could and did affect her to the extent that beating a retreat was her preferred option irritated enough to have her elevating her nose as she and Adelaide approached him.
He waited until she halted before him, before allowing a slight smile to show. A smile that made her want to kick him-and herself. She should have halted some paces away and made him come to her.
At least he bowed and spoke first. “Good morning, Miss Dalling. Out surveying the field?”
“Indeed.” She refused to react to the subtle emphasis that suggested he wasn’t sure which field she was eyeing. It had been years since she’d played such games; she was rusty. Better she stick to the shockingly direct. “This is Miss Blake, a close friend.”
Dillon bowed over Miss Blake’s hand and exchanged the usual greetings. Miss Blake was a pretty young lady with burnished blond-brown hair and bright hazel eyes; in most company she would shine, yet beside Miss Dalling, Miss Blake appeared washed-out, faded, so much less alive. “Is this your first visit to Newmarket?”
He glanced at Miss Dalling, including her in the question. She hadn’t offered him her hand; indeed, she’d kept both hands wrapped about her parasol’s handle.
It was the Irish princess who answered. “Yes.” With a swish of her skirts, today a vivid blue, she turned to the track as a bevy of horses thundered past. “And when in Newmarket…” She gestured to the track, then glanced at him. “Tell me, do all the stables trial their runners? Is it obligatory?”
He wondered why she wanted to know. “No. Trainers can prepare their horses in what ever way they wish. That said, most take advantage of the days the track is made available, if nothing else to give their runners a feel for the course. Each track is different. Different length, different shape-different in the running.”
Her brows rose. “I must tell Aunt Eugenia.”
“I thought she was racing-mad-surely she would know.”
“Oh, her passion for racing is a recent thing, which is why she’s so keen to learn more.” She surveyed him as if deciding how useful he might be.
He met her gaze, knew she was gauging how best to manipulate him, if she could…he let his knowledge show.
She read his eyes, understood his message; to his surprise, she considered it-as if debating whether to challenge him to withstand her wiles-before opting to ask, perfectly directly, “As you wouldn’t let me see the register, perhaps you can tell me what exactly the entries in it contain, so I may tell my aunt and fill in at least that part of the puzzle for her.”
He held her gaze, then, aware of Miss Blake standing beside them, her gaze flicking from one face to the other, he turned to address her. “Is the lady your aunt, too?”
Miss Blake smiled ingenuously. “Oh, no. She’s Pris’s aunt. I’m Lady Fowles’s goddaughter.”
Dillon glanced back at Pris-Priscilla?-in time to catch the frown she directed at Miss Blake, but when she lifted her eyes to his, they were merely mildly interested.
She arched a brow. “The register entries?”
How much to divulge-anything, or enough to tempt her further? Further to where she might reveal why she was asking, and who she was really asking for. “Each entry carries the name of the horse, the sex, color, date, and place of its foaling, its sire and dam, and their bloodlines-a horse must be a Thoroughbred to race in Jockey Club races.”
They were standing not far from the rails; as more stables sent their horses out onto the track, the would-be punters, the touts, betting agents, and the usual hangers-on crowded closer to get a better view. One man jostled Miss Blake-because he’d gone wide-eyed staring at Miss Dalling.
Gripping Miss Blake’s elbow, steadying her, Dillon caught Miss Dalling’s eye. Releasing Miss Blake, who mumbled a breathless thank-you, he waved to the area farther from the track. “Unless you’re keen to view the horses, perhaps we should retreat to more comfortable surrounds?”
Miss Dalling nodded. “Aunt Eugenia has yet to become fixated on individual animals.”
Dillon felt his lips twitch; he was aching to ask if Aunt Eugenia truly existed. Instead, he strolled between the two ladies across the well-tended lawns, angling away from the track.
Miss Dalling glanced at him. “So what else is included in the register?”
How best to whet her appetite? “There are certain other details included with each entry, but they, I’m afraid, are confidential.”
She looked ahead. “So someone wanting to race a horse on a Jockey Club track must register the horse, providing the details you mentioned, plus others, and then they receive a license?”
“Yes.”
“Is this license a physical thing, or simply in the form of a permission?”
He wished he knew why she wanted to know. “It’s a piece of paper carrying the Jockey Club crest. The owner has to produce it in order to enter his horse in a race.”
Silence followed. Glancing at her face, he saw a line etched between her brows; what ever was driving her interest in the register, it was, to her, serious.
“This piece of paper-does it carry the same information as the entry in the register?”
“No. The license simply states that the horse of that name, sex, color, and date of foaling is accepted to run in races held under the auspices of the Jockey Club.”
“So the ‘confidential details’ aren’t on the license?”
“No.”
She sighed. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will find it fascinating. She will, of course, be avidly eager to learn what the confidential details are.”
The glance she threw him plainly stated that the “confidential details” would be her next target, but then she smiled. “But who knows? Perhaps once I tell her what you’ve said, she’ll be ready to go off on some other tack.”