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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?”
    â€œIndeed.” 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 ofhorses 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.”
    â€œI thought she was racing-mad—surely she would know.”
    â€œOh, 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,