“If that,” Audley confirmed. He turned down toward Bobby then, looked the lad straight in the eye, which Thomas found surprising. “You weren’t here yesterday,” he said.

“No, sir,” Bobby replied. “I only works five days each week.”

Thomas saw to it that the innkeeper got a little bonus each month for giving the younger boys an extra day off. Not that anyone save the innkeeper knew about it.

“Have you met Lucy?”

Lucy? Thomas listened with interest.

“The black gelding?” Bobby’s eyes lit up.

“You have a gelding named Lucy?” Thomas asked.

“That’s the one,” Audley said to Bobby. And then to Thomas, “It’s a long story.”

“He’s a beauty,” Bobby said, his eyes round with awe. Thomas could not help but be amused. Bobby had been mad for horses since before he could walk. Thomas had always thought he’d end up hiring him to run the Belgrave stables some day.

“I’m rather fond of him myself,” Audley said. “Saved my life once or twice.”

Bobby’s eyes went round as saucers. “Really?”

“Really. Napoleon doesn’t stand a chance against a fine British horse like that.” Audley glanced over toward the stables. “He’s well?”

“Watered and brushed. I did it myself.”

While Audley made arrangements to have his ridiculously named gelding readied for the ride home, Thomas headed over to the taproom. He supposed he disliked Audley slightly less than before—one had to respect a man who had so much respect for a horse—but still, a pint of ale could not possibly be out of place on a day like this.

He knew the innkeeper well. Harry Gladdish had grown up at Belgrave, the son of the assistant to the stable master. Thomas’s father had judged him to be an acceptable companion—he was so far below Thomas in rank that there could be no arguing who was in charge. “Better a stable hand than a cit,” Thomas’s father had often said.

Usually in front of Thomas’s mother, who was the daughter of a cit.

Harry and Thomas did, however, argue about who was in charge, and quite frequently, too. As a result, they’d become fast friends. The years had sent them their separate ways—Thomas’s father let Harry share in Thomas’s lessons at Belgrave, but he wasn’t about to sponsor his education any further than that. Thomas had gone off to Eton and Cambridge, and then to the glittering excesses of London. Harry had stayed in Lincolnshire, eventually taking over the inn his father had bought when his wife had come into an unexpected inheritance. And while they were perhaps a bit more aware of the differences in their rank than they had been as children, the easygoing friendship of their youth had proven remarkably enduring.

“Harry,” Thomas said, sliding onto a stool near the bar.