Sinc followed, grumbling. He’d planned to spend his afternoon drinking blue ruin with his cronies at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon; Sinc was more interested in the convivial side of the sport than the energetic aspects. But it hadn’t been hard to entice him out for a ride instead. Of course he’d insisted on going home to change into more appropriate attire—Sinc was never less than nattily dressed—but now Hart realized his friend had gone to an extra degree of trouble because he’d expected to be flirting in Hyde Park, not cantering across the heath high above the city.

Hart reined his horse in at the crest of the hill, and stood gazing out at the silhouette of London in the distance. He could just make out the dome of St. Paul’s. He was trying to pick out other buildings when the sound of galloping hooves caused him to turn his head.

About fifty yards away, a gleaming black stallion thundered across the turf, a magnificent creature moving like the wind, all speed and power and grace. A thoroughbred, with clear Arab ancestry.

A boy—a youth—clung to his back, crouched low over the stallion’s neck, like a jockey in a race. He rode as if he were born on the back of a horse. No gentleman he, not with that cloth cap, slightly too big for his head, and those worn breeches and boots. An apprentice, perhaps. Or a young groom. Who was the fool who paid a youth to exercise a glorious animal like that?

Behind the lad loped a lanky gray dog. At some distance behind, came a thickset man—another groom, perhaps? It wasn’t clear whether he was with the black stallion or not.

As he watched the movement of stallion and rider, something pinged in Hart’s mind, a flash of memory, a fleeting impression, as if he’d seen this horse, this rider some other time . . .

But then Sinc arrived. “Brrr. It’s even colder up here. Can’t we go home yet?” And the thought was lost.

Hart couldn’t take his eyes off the stallion. “What a magnificent beast.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Very nice,” Sinc said as stallion and rider flashed past. He hadn’t much interest in horseflesh.

“Dammit, I’m going to buy that horse.” Without further explanation, Hart urged his horse forward and was riding in pursuit. Sinc shouted something, but his words were taken by the breeze, and in any case, Hart was entirely focused on catching up with the stallion.

He slowly gained on the rider and his mount. The boy glanced back over his shoulder, a flash of light eyes and a black scowl.

“Hey, there, I want to ask you something,” Hart called.

The boy ignored him. The stallion picked up speed.

Hart urged his horse faster. “Wait! I want to buy your horse,” he yelled as he drew nearer. “Who is the owner?”