In Lester’s cottage, Luca had just rung off, turning to smile as she came in. ‘Sorry about that. An old friend.’ His eyes were that little bit too intense, thinking fast behind the mask. ‘Then I took the liberty of ringing home. My auld ma’s been passing the number here round a bit freely, I’m sorry to say; I hope you’ve not been bothered by calls?’

‘Just a few. Lester’s bound to have written them down somewhere.’ She looked around, her eyes settling uneasily on a bottle of plum gin abandoned on the dresser, where Lester must have filled his flask earlier. ‘You’re a popular man.’

‘Accident insurance scammers, I’ll bet.’

‘They must think you’re particularly liable to personal injuries.’

‘Sure, I’m a horse rider.’

Ronnie laughed, vaguely remembering him juggling love and work between Holland, France and Germany, his appeal to married women getting him into trouble more than once. Now he’d gone global, he needed his own switchboard. No wonder his mobile was out of credit.

He was gazing around Lester’s museum-piece hallway, peering at the fox heads and old showing photographs hung in regimented grids above the dado rail. ‘Sweet old cottage. Lester’s the auld fella you told me about, is he not? Where’s he today?’

‘You don’t know about the accident!’ she exclaimed in horror, telling him about the stallion man’s fractured hip. ‘It means lots more work for us all, I’m afraid. Lester’s such a one-man army, I’m frankly not sure how we’ll cope without him. He’ll be off a while.’

‘Lucky I’m here.’ Luca raised a wry eyebrow.

‘You’ll be doing two jobs,’ she said, to make sure he was in no doubt. ‘The Horsemaker can’t lord it over everyone in his riding boots here, I’m afraid. You’ll shovel shit with the rest of us.’

‘That’s not a problem. The harder I work, the harder I play.’ The smile widened. ‘Unless it’s the fiddle; breaks the strings.’

‘I hope you have it with you?’

‘Ah now.’ His tilted his head. ‘Sometimes all the strings break. I was going to pick up another at home in Ireland.’

Reading a coded message in green eyes that had once been so open, Ronnie crossed her arms and adopted her no-nonsense power pose. Whereas he’d always been full of naughty tricks, now it seemed he’d graduated. The court jester could play serious drama; the cherub had manned up. Yet his manner remained gentle, the quiet man with the heart-melting talent.

‘Thank you for agreeing to come here, Luca.’

‘Sure, it’s good to see you.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. Worried he was about to try to hug her again, Ronnie stiffened with British ironing-board resistance, reaching up to hold his fingers like dungaree straps. The Percys had thrived for centuries with a no-hugs policy.

‘Your poor body clock must be in ruins.’ She could feel a chunky Claddagh band on one of his fingers, its crowned heart battered from long hours holding ropes and reins.

Ronnie realised what had changed him so much since she’d last seen him: somebody had broken wandering minstrel Luca O’Brien’s heart.