Lester sighed heavily. Blair Robertson, all Marlboro Man testosterone, a hangover from her Wiltshire years. The wretched man was supposed to get her to call home, not accompany her back in person.

He’d feared this might happen. The Australian event rider had a cool calculator in his handsome head, as good at counting profit as minute markers, and this stud made Ronnie too valuable an asset to leave fallow. Looking at him, Lester found it hard to spot an item of clothing without a sponsor’s logo, those embroidery tattoos that professional riders collected with pride. From his Puffa to his underwear, Blair Robertson was a walking billboard for the country elite, an ageing eventing poster boy.

And Lester had inadvertently played matchmaker with its one-time golden girl.

Good mood dissipating, he stomped downstairs and pulled on his boots. Outside, he counted five dogs – two extra terriers and an English pointer.

Ronnie was heaving several saddles out of the boot of the car. ‘Happy New Year, Lester! Sorry I’m later than planned. You remember Blair.’

Lester nodded at him, spared formal reacquaintance by the stud’s line ringing, the external bell clanging from the clock tower.

‘Shall I get that in the cottage, Mrs Ledwell?’

‘I’ll grab it.’ Ronnie was already ahead of him, dumping the saddles on Blair and running in through his front door. ‘I’m expecting a call from Tim. Lost my mobile somewhere. Where’s Pax?’ She vanished inside, not waiting for an answer.

Left alone with Blair Robertson, Lester sucked his teeth and eyed the sky where dark clouds were gathering. ‘You told her the Horsemaker’s flown in early?’

‘Slipped my mind.’ He smiled easily. ‘In bed, is he?’

‘They’re not back yet.’ Lester scowled.

‘Keeping well, I see, Lester.’ The Australian’s canyon-deep voice always sounded mildly ridiculous amid civilised surroundings.

‘As can be expected,’ he said tersely, already backing away. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir.’

But to his annoyance, Blair followed him into the tack room, yawning widely, no doubt suffering from a late and probably highly seductive night. He dumped the saddles on an empty rack and admired the old photographs of Ronnie sailing over rider-frightener four-star fences in the early eighties. A few newer ones taken by Pip on her phone had been pinned up recently, cheap printer paper curling at the edges, amongst them an early shot of the dun colt Ronnie rated above all the others.

‘There’s my five-star horse.’ Blair tapped it.

‘Four,’ Lester corrected, the half dozen great three-day events like Badminton, Burghley and Kentucky graded four-star being the toughest in the sport, even watered down from the great endurance feats they’d been in yesteryear.

‘New rules, mate. They’re adding a star.’

Lester’s lip curled. With each generation came the urge to meddle and change things. As they re-emerged into sharp winter sunlight, he wondered where Blair’s poor wife was today. An aristocratic beauty in her day, now going senile by all accounts, she’d given up everything for him once: a grand house, title and family. Last year, she’d given up the mad stallion too, which Lester considered a wiser sacrifice.