For one heartbreaking moment, Jury thought he was turning away to go back to the car. But then Jury knew Vernon would never turn away. He had looked away for only the moment it would take to master his emotions.

Had she met him at the door in the usual way, Jury knew she would still have reminded Vernon of Nell Ryder, for she had the same coloring, although not as ethereal, and the same build, although not as fragile. But up on a horse, Sydney Cooke would become Nell Ryder for Vernon Rice. There’d have been no escaping it. Even though she did not sit that horse as if she were born to it, the pose was identical, and it was the last view Vernon had ever had of Nell.

But what he said to her was, “Remember a horse named Misty Mountain?”

“You must mean Misty Morning,” she answered.

“Oh, right.”

Jury knew the mistake was deliberate, giving Sydney the tiny victory of correcting him.

“Remember she was ridden by a female jockey?”

“I do,” said Sydney.

“You and that horse are the spitting image.”

Sydney was out of the saddle and on her feet in front of Vernon in two seconds, immeasurably pleased. It was the first bright smile Jury had seen.

“They didn’t win,” she added.

“Lost by a hair. Three strides.”

“Four.”

“Nope. Three.”

“I’m sure I’m right.”

“I’m sure you’re not. I’m Vernon Rice.”

Her smile only grew brighter. She liked this little argument. She put out her hand. “Mr. Rice, I’m delighted to meet you. Come on in the house.”

In the middle of this sunniness, Melrose Plant came to the door. “Vernon Rice! How are you?”

“Hello, Lord Ardry.”

“Don’t start that. Melrose will do.”

“Then, hello, Melrose.”

“See you’ve met my horse.”

“I already knew your horse. But not its rider.”

“Keeper, more. Aggrieved has been a bit sick. Stable cough.”

“I’m glad he has a stable. When you led him away, I wondered what fate had in store for him.”

“Very funny. He’s got a goat, too.”

“A goat, a girl. Lucky horse.”

Sydney’s eyes, Jury saw, seemed to be swimming a little, if water could spark.

As they entered the library, Ruthven appeared with two decanters. “M’lord: Talisker or this Lagavulin—” Ruthven turned the bottle to look at the label. “Sixteen-year-old?”

“Wow!” said Vernon. “That’s old enough. I’ll have a slug of it.”

“Let’s slug away,” said Melrose. “Sit down.”

Jury took his usual chair near Melrose’s wingback. Vernon sat on the sofa near the fire, and Sydney, without hesitating, sat down beside him.

Ruthven took orders, poured, and said to Melrose, “If it’s not a bother, m’lord, Martha would like to see you about the dinner.”

“No, of course.” Melrose followed Ruthven to the kitchen.

“Do you recall her name?” Vernon asked Sydney.

Sydney looked bewildered. “Whose?”