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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?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œThis piece of paper—does it carry the same information as the entry in the register?”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œSo the ‘confidential details’ aren’t on the license?”
    â€œNo.”
    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 tolearn 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.”
    Dillon inwardly frowned. Her light, faintly secretive smile still playing about her distracting lips, she looked away, leaving him wondering what to make of her last statement. She’d uttered it as if reassuring him she probably wouldn’t be back to try to drag more details from him…but he wanted her to return, wanted her to try—wanted her to grow increasingly more determined, and therefore more reckless.
    She was the sort to get reckless, to lose her Irish temper and toss caution to the winds—he intended to goad her to it, and then he’d learn all he wanted and needed to know.
    But he wouldn’t learn anything unless she came back.
    Turning to Miss Blake, he smoothly engaged her in conversation, asking what she thought of the horses, of Newmarket itself, had she tried the Twig & Bough. Anything to prolong his time in Miss Dalling’s company—anything to learn more of her and her entourage.
    In that respect, saddling herself with an innocent, sweet young thing like Miss Blake wasn’t what one would expect of a clever and intelligent femme fatale . Yet Miss Dalling qualified as clever and intelligent, and her type of beauty was the epitome of fatale —the sort men died for.
    Presumably Miss Blake was truly a