‘I’ll add it to Luca O’Brien’s job description, shall I?’ she said smoothly before deflecting. ‘Alice is convinced the Horsemaker will be all fast-talking blarney and no sticking power. Mummy probably has the hots for him.’ She’d said it before she could stop herself, aware how flippant and bitter she sounded.

Lester’s lips pursed disapprovingly. ‘If you say so.’

‘Come on, Lester, we both know she’ll end up breaking in the babies and riding everything.’ The faded photographs in the tack room of Ronnie Percy hurtling round Badminton and Burghley in her heyday paid testament to her long tenure as the stud’s top jockey, horsebreaker and cover girl. ‘She’s a control freak just like Grumps.’

It was the perfect pacifier, Lester’s face breaking into a rare smile. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Shall we have a quick toot of Laphroaig before I clean the flat?’ Pax offered.

His eyes sparkled deep within their creases. ‘And you’re the Captain’s granddaughter sure enough.’ But he limped off without taking up her offer.

3

Like many gatherings at Compton Bagot’s memorial hall, the village New Year’s Eve party had long ago been hijacked by the Turner family from the Orchard estate. Notorious revellers, great clansmen, occasional fighters and indefatigable dancers whose twirling farrucas and flamencos dated back to their Romany days, they knew how to celebrate.

As the unofficial Kate to the family’s Prince William, Carly Turner was on show in her best cut-out party frock, painted nails talon-like thanks to sister-in-law Janine, hair up in the tightest face-lift topknot to smooth out the dark hollows around her eyes from staying up all night with teething baby Jackson. Handsome war hero Ash towered and glowered at her side, a wide-shouldered, muscular peacekeeping force, heir apparent to the family chiefdom.

The teenage Turner tribe were already going rogue, trainers squeaking on the polished floor as a dance-off rapidly turned into a fight, from flossing to right crossing, dabs becoming jabs and beatboxing a spitting match.

Carly watched as Ash broke up the fight, admiring his cool and the fact he didn’t need to utter a word to command their respect, a jerk of his head alone earning the beta wolf cowers as they sloped away. They all knew Ash could fight better than any Turner. The fact that he’d seen conflict as a soldier was abstract to them, but he’d been one of the family’s best bare-knuckle fighters at their age, which in an old travelling line made him a legend.

‘You gonna try for King of the Gypsies one day, Ash?’ one asked. It was the biggest organised fight of all, tribe alpha against alpha.

‘Not he’s not!’ Carly flared, earning a dirty look from the lad and her husband.

The bare fist bouts had stopped before they’d met, replaced by army boxing and strict discipline. Carly had made him promise not to return to it now his army days were over, which she knew he resented – especially since his old rival Jed still claimed the family fighting crown – but they needed boundaries for the sake of their kids, all under six. She could forgive the occasional marathon Mortal Kombat session or lashed all-nighter with his shark pack of single mates so long as he didn’t come home with both brows split up and his teeth knocked into his sinuses.