‘Put like that…’ She laughed, grateful for his easy forgiveness. Even at her most tenacious, Ronnie had the sense to know when she’d misjudged a situation, and today was one such. Luca was right: if Beck needed to work to keep his mind happy, it must be reintroduced slowly. Manageability around mares was non-negotiable.

‘You still think I’m mad standing him at stud, don’t you?’ She looked at him.

‘I think it’s dangerous,’ he said, his face guarded.

‘The bloodline’s flawless.’

‘There’s bad blood, sure enough, but it’s not in his veins.’ He ran a hand along the curved crest of Beck’s neck, its silver mane as glossy and even as a fifties curtain fringe.

‘In his past?’

‘Horses are no different from us – some find it easier to forgive than others. Beck’s just not the forgiving sort; all that instinct, too much mishandling.’ He zipped his padded collars higher. ‘We need to worry about what he does now, not then.’

She held his eye, both unsmiling now, mutually aware he knew more about the horse than he was letting on. Lester had said as much, dropping dark hints left, right and centre like Miss Marple in a hospital gown, dosed up on hunt gossip and Dick Francis.

They rode on in silence for a while, low sun dancing through the bare tree branches swaying and rattling around them.

The stallion let out a furious, spine-shaking whinny, calling to his distant herd at the stud.

‘Was it you he almost killed in the collecting ring?’ It occurred to Ronnie with a jolt of horror.

Luca shook his head.

‘Who then?’

He took too long to answer, with a deliberately nonchalant shrug. ‘Young lad with all the gear and no idea; they never got on. He’s as tough on his riders as he is on his mares, this one.’

‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him.’

The stallion, hopelessly unfit and exhausted from his tantrum, was soft-eyed once more, ears flicking back each time his rider spoke, telling Ronnie about a boss he’d worked for who made him ride her horses in for two hours before she’d get on. They really did look splendid together, reminiscent of the glossy picture plates from her parents’ coffee table bible about the horse in portraiture which she’d pored over in lonely adolescence: George Washington on Blueskin, Napoleon crossing the Alps – truthful alongside the ruthless – Van Dyck’s King Charles I and V – one monarch as arrogant as the other was moral. All the horses grey. All beautiful. None more so than Beck with the scarf-masked ninja on his back, soothing him all the while.

‘He likes you a lot more than most, I think.’

‘I’m easy to like.’ The smile crossed between them again, Luca’s mouth buried beneath his coat collars and scarf, but creasing the corner of the green eyes.

Ronnie wasn’t so sure it was as easy as it had once been. He had more layers to him these days, and not just winter padding; it made him harder to read, shaded in with subterfuge and a lot more anti-social.