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“So will I.” Dustin’s mouth seized hers in a poignant, hungry caress.
Their kiss was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.
Breaking apart, they stared at each other.
Another knock, equally as purposeful:
“It might be Trent. Or Saxon,” Dustin said, coming to his feet.
Nicole scrambled up, snatching her jockey’s cap and following Dustin through the hall. From the corner of her eye, she spied her father and Sully, poised in the kitchen doorway.
Dustin reached the entranceway … and waited.
“It’s Saxon,” the voice on the other side declared. “I must see you, my lord.”
Easing open the door, Dustin ensured that it was indeed Saxon, then admitted him. “What’s wrong? Is it Alexander?”
“No, my lord. Everyone is well.” Saxon shut the door, moved farther into the cottage. “Miss Aldridge,” he greeted Nicole. His gaze shifted to Nick, then narrowed as it found Sully.
“Saxon … Sullivan.” Dustin provided the introductions.
“Ah.” Saxon visibly relaxed, nodding at the familiar name.
“Saxon’s the investigator Lord Tyreham hired,” Nick explained to his friend.
“Does that mean you’ve found something?” Sully demanded.
Glancing at Dustin, Saxon waited for permission to continue.
“Speak freely, Saxon. What have you learned?”
“Thank you, sir.” Saxon extracted some notes from his inside coat pocket, his brows drawing as he scanned them. “Blaker just provided me with a report that contains precise and incriminating information. It seems that Coop—whose full name is Farley Cooper and who, incidentally, has a lengthy prison record—received a visitor today. A most prominent visitor. And while Blaker could only hear snatches of their conversation from his position outside the stable, he heard enough to know they were discussing the blackmail scheme on the turf. He distinctly heard Aldridge’s name mentioned several times, as well as those of Archer and Parrish. His impression was that plans of some kind were being made, although he wasn’t sure precisely what they were.” An uneasy pause. “One thing he was sure of. These plans—whatever they might be—involve Stoddard.”
“Dammit.” Dustin’s jaw tightened. “Who?” he demanded. “Who was Coop’s visitor?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Saxon replied simply. “It was the earl of Lanston.”
All the color drained from Dustin’s face. “Lanston?” he repeated. “You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord. Not only that but, upon leaving the stables, Blaker stopped to make a few inquiries before filing his report. It seems that Lord Lanston owes a great deal of money—a great deal of money—to colleagues, business establishments, even employees. In short, he’s very nearly bankrupt. So the motive to blackmail these jockeys is indeed there.”
“Lanston,” Nick muttered, a light dawning in his eyes. “Tyreham, that’s who I saw that Coop person with. It was at Newmarket, maybe a month ago—no, more—it was before the first spring meeting even began. I went to the stables before dawn to check on Oberon. He’d been a bit out of sorts the last day or two. I heard quiet talking in the empty stall next to his. Naturally, I was curious who was using an empty stall for a predawn chat. So I glanced in. It was Lord Lanston and that man with the scarred arm. Obviously, they were talking about something private, because they broke off the minute they saw me. I took the hint and reversed my tracks. At the time, I remember thinking it was kind of odd for the earl to be taking up with such a lowlife, but then, who am I to figure out the nobility? I dismissed it, never gave the matter a second thought. Until now.”
“They were discussing their blackmailing scheme—doubtless in full detail,” Dustin surmised. “Why else would they take so drastic a step as to threaten your life simply because you might have overheard their conversation? Lord … I can’t believe I’m talking about Lanston.” Dustin averted his head, shaking it bewilderedly from side to side. “He and I have been friends for years.” A hollow laugh. “At least I thought so. What a fine judge of character I turned out to be.”
Nicole lay a gentle hand on his f
orearm. “Dustin, people keep sides of themselves concealed. If one of those sides happens to be ugly, that person’s character will deteriorate when he’s backed into a corner, often without anyone recognizing it. Don’t blame yourself for not seeing through the earl. He’s obviously proficient at hiding his weaknesses.”
“I was with him two weeks ago at Newmarket. We talked about …” Abruptly, Dustin went taut, and he pivoted, gripping Nicole’s shoulders. “We talked about Stoddard. Lanston asked a lot of questions. I boasted to him that you’d effortlessly take the Derby.” A muscle worked in Dustin’s jaw. “One thing about Lanston I do know—he never aspires to the mundane. Between that reality and the fact that Blaker’s report says Stoddard’s name was mentioned, I’d be willing to bet that whatever my bastard of a friend is planning, it pertains to the Derby.”
“Your reasoning is sound, sir,” Saxon noted, scrutinizing a separate page tucked amid his notes. “And this item in the latest copy of the Racing Calendar would seem to support your theory.” He extended the sheet to Dustin. “It appears that your confident assertion to Lord Lanston that Stoddard’s victory is a fait accompli didn’t deter the earl. He did indeed register for the Derby Stakes.”
“At the last minute,” Dustin muttered, scanning the information. “He entered his stallion Demon, who’s a remarkably swift mount—fast, seasoned, intelligent.”
“Who’s the jockey riding him?” Nick quizzed.
“Baker.”
