‘Ever jump him?’

‘At home, setting him up for big competitions, you know. This one got pretty uptight on tour.’

‘Like Keith Moon?’

‘Who’s Keith Moon?’

‘The Who’s Keith, yes.’ She laughed and he looked at her curiously, growing accustomed to the private jokes that she dangled half a generation out of reach, cat to mouse. But Luca was no mouse, as those who mistook quietness for timidity knew to their cost.

‘The horse was unpredictable, explosive. Ruled out of home teams.’

‘Thank goodness he’s such a survivor. He spent some time as a field ornament before coming here, so perhaps he’s had time to clear his head. My friend Blair bought him for his wife…’ She paused, looking away so he couldn’t see her face. ‘Verity’s an absolute darling, a brilliant horsewoman in her day, but she’s very ill now, and, in hindsight, already was then. I did him a terrible disservice agreeing to it.’ It was unclear whether she meant Beck or Blair.

A pheasant flapped squawking out of the undergrowth so close that even old Dickon shied back, but Beck – already so overwhelmed by everything that each muscle was hinged tight – merely turned an ear.

‘He’s a donkey,’ Ronnie teased.

‘Give him time,’ muttered Luca. History had taught him that a horse as sharp as Beck wouldn’t tolerate shock and awe tactics long. His father Malachy, a horse dealer all his life, was fond of the old saying: You can tell a gelding, but discuss with a stallion. This felt dangerously like dictating terms. But Ronnie was the boss, and history had also taught Luca you underestimated her at your peril. The old saying ended, and you ask a mare.

‘What makes you so sure this horse can turn the stud’s fortunes?’

‘We are going to turn them, Luca. All of us.’ The blue gaze held steady.

Hers was a Charge of the Light Brigade hot-headedness which refused to countenance failure. With the stud’s fortunes clearly galloping into cannons, Luca needed to address her battle plan: from what he could tell, she seemed to be fighting both for her family and against them. He needed to find a way to penetrate her antique varnished Englishness. But oh, what an oil painting he’d landed in. Looking across hibernating fields, curled around a sleeping goldmine, it was hard to imagine the war being waged here.

‘May I ask you something?’

‘How formal.’ Ronnie gave him a knowing smile. ‘Which must mean you’re going to ask something awkward, wayward, bedward, or all three.’

‘That would be far too forward, so it would.’ Luca spun, his timing lousy, the stallion tensing, sensing his rider’s disquiet, the imperceptible bond breaking.

‘Oh do be forward. Say what you’re bloody thinking.’ Her eyes glittered beneath the hat peak, catching the flirtation and playing with it. The cat once more.

‘Ever thought about selling up?’

The glitter disappeared. ‘Why would I?’

‘Your kids want that, don’t they?’

‘Pax doesn’t.’

‘But she doesn’t want to run it.’