There was neither condemnation nor encouragement in the General’s tone-no hint of how he thought Dillon should answer.

Dillon held his father’s gaze steadily, and evenly asked, “What would my reputation be founded on if I didn’t? If I weren’t willing to do what now needs to be done for the good of the industry that’s been placed in my care?”

A warm, openly approving smile spread across the General’s face; he inclined his head, then looked at Demon, and mildly raised his brows.

Demon exhaled through his teeth. “Yes, all right. He’s right.” He frowned at Dillon. “But I want a hand in this, too.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” Even Demon’s reputation could be besmirched.

“Well, I do-think of it as a little extra protection.” Demon smiled, all teeth. “To appease me.”

Dillon read Demon’s eyes and inwardly sighed. No point arguing.

Demon didn’t wait for him to agree. “Getting Belle from here to the track on the morning of the race-walking her in as a lone horse is bound to attract attention, no matter the hour. The night watchmen at least will see and take note.” He caught Dillon’s eye. “I assume you’re planning to leave here an hour before dawn?” Dillon nodded. Demon went on, “We’d normally leave about an hour later, walking our runners to the holding stalls by the track-on that day, we’ll leave earlier. As we pass here, Belle can join our group. No one will notice an extra horse, and no one will think it odd that we might arrive a little earlier than usual to avoid the inevitable scramble.”

Dillon blinked, seeing the scenario Demon was painting. The Cynster string didn’t exercise on the Heath, but on a private track buried within Demon’s now considerable estate and thus out of bounds to the racing public. Consequently, when the day’s Cynster runners appeared at the holding stalls, touts, bookmakers, jockeys, owners, and trainers flocked to the stalls to assess what these days represented a significant portion of the competition.

Even extra early-indeed, especially if the Cynster horses made an unexpectedly early appearance-crowds would gather. Word would fly, people would come running. The ensuing melee would fix all attention on the holding stalls-away from the stables that stood just back from the track. What better cover in which to perform their reswitch?

Refocusing, Dillon found Demon watching him.

“A worthwhile addition to your plan?”

Dillon met his eyes, inclined his head. “Yes, thank you. That’ll make things much easier.”


Half an hour later, Dillon walked Demon to the front door.

“Where’s Adair?” Demon asked, as they entered the front hall.

“He had the idea of alerting our London friends to keep their ears open in the hope that in the aftermath of the race they might learn something of those involved.” Dillon halted by the door. “He was going to speak with his father and an Inspector Stokes he thinks highly of, as well as Gabriel and Vane, who will no doubt pass the word to the others in town.”

Demon nodded. “Good idea. No telling what the ripples might reveal when you drop that filly back into her race.”

Smiling, Dillon hauled open the door.

Demon stepped out, then turned back. “I will, of course, have to tell Flick all-you’ll have to take your chances on a lecture.” He paused, then added, “And you may as well warn Dalling that he’s liable to sustain a visit from her during one of the training sessions.” Turning to head down the steps, he continued, “And of course, that means I’ll have to come, too.”

Dillon grinned. He stood watching as Demon strode away across the lawn, then swung the door closed and headed for his bed.

15

Over the next days, their plan evolved, was refined and polished. With Rus staying at the Carisbrook house, Dillon curtailed his nocturnal visits to the summer house by the lake. He had too much respect for the connectedness between twins to risk it.

What Rus would make of his liaison with Pris he didn’t know, but now-while all three of them were immersed in a highly secret and dangerous endeavor-wasn’t the time to find out. However, he made a vow to, at the earliest opportunity, make his intentions, the honorable nature of them, clear to Pris’s twin. No sense courting any unnecessary misunderstandings.

Their social connection had excused Pris and Adelaide calling at Hillgate End; now it excused him frequently visiting the Carisbrook house and spending hours there. Barnaby returned from London fired with zeal, carrying good wishes from all involved, including Inspector Stokes; everyone had agreed that the opportunity to shatter the entire scheme was too valuable a chance to pass up.

Pris and Patrick remained adamant that Rus shouldn’t visit the isolated cottage alone; all three rode forth every morning and afternoon, as soon as they judged Harkness and Crom would have left for the Heath. As Demon had prophesied, Flick rode up one morning in breeches and coat, Demon beside her. She’d taken charge of the training session, put Belle through her paces, then glowingly commended Rus, giving him encouragement and various tips.

When he saw Dillon later, Demon had growled that Rus had all but groveled at his wife’s dainty feet-a position, Dillon knew, Demon reserved for himself.

They were all committed, heart and soul and in some cases reputation, and increasingly confident their plan would work. Flick’s frank assessment that she’d never seen any two-year-old faster than Blistering Belle went a long way to easing the unvoiced fear that despite their best efforts, Belle might, in the end, lose her race.

Rus had remained unswervingly certain Belle would lead the field; Flick’s endorsement brought relief to all other minds.

After finalizing the details of how they would effect the switch, Dillon spent hours drilling the Hillgate End stable lads and grooms. It had been agreed they were the best small army to use; all were familiar faces around the racetrack, the associated holding stalls, and nearby stables. No one would even register their presence on a race day morning, yet unlike Demon’s lads, none had any actual job to perform.

In addition, all were, to a man, unswervingly loyal to the Caxtons.

That last was vital. It was impossible to conceal from such necessary minor players that the intent proposed would normally be viewed as illegal, yet when Dillon outlined what he needed them to do, their reactions made it clear they took it for granted that his reasons were sound, that despite appearances, he hadn’t stirred one inch from the path of the angels.

He was grateful for their unquestioning support, but also humbled. Their blind faith left him only more determined to ensure that, by noon on the second day of the October meeting, the substitution scam would be in ruins.

He and his father had discussed at length whether or not to tell the three stewards of the Jockey Club-the Committee who oversaw the running of the club and its regulations. Despite the risk, they decided against it; neither felt sure the three stewards could be counted on to keep their lips shut.

Not even for a few hours on the morning of the race.

The first day of the October meeting dawned fine and clear. The races on that day were showcase events for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds, followed by a series of privately sponsored challenges. With the weather cooperating, a carnival-like atmosphere prevailed. Dillon, the General, Flick, and Demon spent most of the day at the track. They were local identities, making their absence too notable to risk.

For that first day, Pris, Rus, and Patrick were strictly forbidden even the environs of Newmarket, the former two because, with the influx of visitors, many from London and also Ireland, the chance that someone might recognize them had escalated. Patrick was delegated to ensure that the wild and reckless duo didn’t conspire to egg each other on in some foolhardy scheme to join the crowds.

As the hours of Monday ticked by, there wasn’t one of their band who didn’t feel the spur of impatience, who wasn’t eager to see the next day dawn.

A slew of trophy races, including the two-year-old stakes in which Blistering Belle was scheduled to feature, were slated for the second day. The morning session would comprise five races, all with outstanding fields-all certain to generate considerable excitement among the hordes of gentlemen and the select group of ladies who had descended on Newmarket, home to the sport of kings.

At last, the sun went down, and the end of Monday was nigh. Night fell over Newmarket, leaving the town a bright sea of lamps as parties and dinners and all manner of entertainments kept the crowds amused. But beyond the town, beyond the houses, out around the track and all over the Heath, quiet darkness descended, and enveloped all.


The hour before dawn was the chilliest, and the darkest. On that Tuesday morning, the Cynster runners left their warm stable at the ungodly hour of four o’clock; watched over by Demon, with Flick mounted beside him, they started their slow, ambling walk to the holding stalls beside the track. Accustomed to early-morning track work, the horses were unperturbed, content enough to walk slowly along between the mounts of their stable lads, riding beside them, leading reins in hand.

As the cavalcade of six runners, their accompanying crew, and sundry other accompanying horses drew level with the Hillgate End gates, another pair of horses emerged from the shadows and became one with the larger group.

Lips tightening, Demon nodded to the slight figure atop one of Flick’s older hacks; disheveled, a cloth cap pulled low over her eyes, a woollen muffler wound about her throat and chin, Pris held Blistering Belle’s reins loosely in one hand. Slightly slouched, at first glance indistinguishable from the stable lads leading Demon’s and Flick’s runners, she led the horse all their hopes rode upon toward the track.

Her position in their plan had very nearly brought the whole undone. Dillon, Rus, Patrick, Barnaby, and Demon himself had all argued hotly against her taking the role of Blistering Belle’s “lad,” leading the horse to the track, then into the stable and performing the actual switch before leading the other black filly away. It was the most dangerous as well as the most vital role of all.

They’d ranted and raved, only to have the wind taken from their sails by Flick’s acerbic comment that Pris was the only one who could do what needed to be done. Acceptance of that truth had been painful, for Rus and Dillon most of all, but there’d been no other choice.

Blistering Belle had formed a close bond with Rus; she trusted him implicitly and would follow him anywhere. Unfortunately, she didn’t like Rus leaving her; every time he did, she whinnied, kicked her stall, did everything in her female equine repertoire to bring him back.

Rus couldn’t lead her into Figgs’s stable and switch her for the other filly. Belle wouldn’t stand for it-she’d create such a ruckus that everyone, led by Crom, would come running. However, as Rus couldn’t risk being seen by Harkness or Crom anyway, especially not with Belle or her look-alike, he hadn’t been a contender for the role.

Initially, no one had seen the problem looming, but when they’d tried to get Belle to allow one of Dillon’s grooms to lead her, they’d discovered she’d grown wary of being led by anyone she didn’t trust. She hadn’t liked being stuck in the isolated stable and was now not prepared to let just anyone lead her away.

They’d tried everyone, even Barnaby. The only one Belle would accept was Pris, almost certainly because she could lower her voice to an approximation of her twin’s, and the cadences of their speech as well as their accents were strikingly similar-even, it seemed, to equine ears.

Belle recognized Pris as a friend. She would happily walk with Pris leading her; most importantly, she would with perfect equanimity allow Pris to put her in a stall and leave her, even when Pris took out another horse instead.

Pris leaving her was acceptable; Rus leaving her was not.

The male mutterings such feminine perversity provoked had lasted for hours, but nothing could change the hard fact that Pris it had to be.

Last night, she’d remained at the stud, being coached by Demon, Flick, Rus, and Dillon as to what she might expect, how to behave in various situations. Eyeing her as they ambled along, Demon uttered a silent prayer that they’d covered all possible eventualities. He glanced at Flick riding beside him. Although it went against the grain, he would have preferred her in Pris’s position; Flick had grown up about Newmarket racetrack, knew everything there was to know about the stables and race mornings-she knew everything Pris didn’t.