Wishes in the Wind (Kingsleys in Love 2)

“It appears so.”

Their gazes locked.

“Well, Stoddard,” Dustin emphasized the name, glancing over to consult the clock, “I suggest you take your leave. You’ll need time to collect your belongings and your father, then return to Tyreham for a good night’s sleep. I’ll have the cottage stocked with food. Training begins tomorrow at six A.M.”

Nicole’s smile was radiant. “Thank you, Dustin,” she whispered. Self-consciously, she cleared her throat, lowering her voice to a slightly deeper pitch. “Six A.M., my lord,” Alden Stoddard replied with a nod. “I’ll be at the stables—ready to train for our victory at Epsom.”

“Coop? We’re here.”

In the process of grooming his chestnut mare, Farley Cooper gave no sign that he’d heard the muffled proclamation. To the contrary, he kept his gaze fixed on the horse rather than raising it to the two men who’d, moments ago, entered his darkened stables.

Approaching boots plodded through the muck, then fell silent, alerting Coop to his visitors’ proximity.

“Did you hear me?” the heavyset man pressed. “We’re back from Tyreham. We had our chat with the marquis.”

“I heard you, Parrish.” Coop smoothed his horse’s velvet coat. “But before I listen to another word, did you make sure no one saw you come in here?”

“It’s nearly midnight, Coop. Who the hell would be at your stables except us and the horses?”

“I said, did you make sure?” Coop snapped.

“Yeah, we made sure,” the second visitor piped up. “The place is deserted. So are the grounds.”

“Good.” The brush stroked downward and paused. “So, what did you learn from Lord Tyreham?”

“That he doesn’t like to be threatened.” Parrish scowled, remembering the marquis’s surprisingly muscular build, his lethal reaction to the very mention of his nephew. “He’s sure as hell not soft like most blue bloods. In fact, he’s damned menacing when he’s mad.”

“I didn’t ask for an assessment of his character,” Coop spat. “I asked what you learned from him. Did Aldridge answer Tyreham’s ad or not?”

“Not accordin’ to the marquis.” Parrish shook his head. “And even if I thought he was lyin’, which I don’t, Archer and I have been snoopin’ around that estate for two days now. Especially the stables. And neither one of us saw any sign of Aldridge.”

“I don’t see why Tyreham would hire a jockey he means to stash away, Coop,” Archer commented, scratching his head. “Maybe Aldridge really is in Scotland.”

“Maybe.” Coop abandoned his task, dragging a scarred forearm across his brow, and veering slowly to face them. “But we know damned well he’s not hurt. Scared probably, but not hurt.”

“Who cares?” Parrish shrugged. “Wherever he is, he’s not racin’. So who needs him? I say we let him rot.”

“You say?” A warning flashed in Coop’s eyes. “You’re not paid to think, Parrish, you’re paid to act. And I say we try a different approach to unearth Aldridge.”

Parrish scowled, failing to hear or heed the implicit threat in Coop’s reprisal. “There’s no point,” he persisted. “Aldridge is useless to us if he’s not in the saddle. So why are we wastin’ our time …”

He never completed his statement.

In one motion, Coop whipped a blade from his boot and shoved Parrish against the wall, the knife at his throat. “Shut up, you stupid fool,” he hissed. “Or I’ll carve you into little pieces. I said I want Aldridge. More specifically, our employer wants Aldridge—no matter where he is or what he’s doing. The reasons don’t matter, the outcome does. So, if you both want to stay healthy”—his glance darted to Archer, watching him flinch as the blade nicked Parrish’s skin, drawing a drop of blood—“you’d better find him. Fast. Have I made my point?”

“Yeah, Coop. You made it,” Parrish squeaked.

An instant later he was freed, and he leaned against the wall, snatching up a nearby cloth and pressing it to his neck. “You want us to go to Glasgow and search?”

“Search where, you dimwit? Glasgow is a city, not a village. What would you do, comb the streets asking each passerby if he’d seen a wayward jockey?”

“What about startin’ with Aldridge’s relatives—you know, the cousins of his dead wife? Wouldn’t he be stayin’ with them like the rumors say?”

“First of all, rumors are rarely fact—especially if they’re started by a man who chooses not to be found. Second, our employer has used all his resources to uncover these supposed cousins. They’ve vanished from the face of the earth, if they ever existed at all. So, we’re back where we started. Even if Aldridge is in Glasgow, we don’t know where he’s hiding. He might very well have assumed a disguise and a new identity to keep from being found. Besides”—Coop’s lips curved into an ugly smile—“my guess is there’s a much easier way to get our hands on him. Rather than scour the whole British Isles, we’ll simply get him to come to us.”

“And how do we do that?” Archer asked cautiously.

“Through Sullivan.”