“Give the ruddy beast a proper swat,” Quinn said, watching this display from the far bank. “If he makes this much drama out of a tiny stream, he’ll unseat you the instant he’s faced with anything truly challenging.”

The horse danced back, then took a tentative step forward while Stephen remained passive. “He’s gathering his courage, Quinn. To force him now means I don’t trust him to sort out the puzzle for himself. The problem with a tiny stream like this is that the poor lad can hear it and smell it, but when it’s barely a rill running between tussocks at his feet, he cannot see it.”

As if to emphasize Stephen’s words, his horse—Beowulf—craned his neck, raising and lowering his head.

“For God’s sake,” Quinn said, “he’s dithering for the hell of it. You’ll ruin him by indulging these histrionics.”

This advice came from a man who’d never given any of his children a proper swat, who’d never raised his voice to them, who had never once been heard to publicly express opinions differing from those of his duchess. He’d spanked Stephen exactly once, nearly twenty years ago and for a serious transgression. Quinn doubtless still felt guilty over it.

“Your tone of voice, Your Grace, is not helping the poor fellow to locate his courage, or me to maintain my patience. Walk on, please, and Beowulf will vault the dreaded chasm rather than be separated from Mungo.”

Quinn obliged, and Beowulf—from a near standstill—gave a mighty leap to clear a stream a puppy could have gamboled over.

“Good lad,” Stephen said, patting the horse soundly on the neck. “Well done, young man. Well done.”

Beowulf trotted forward as if parading before the royal standard, then kicked out behind in an exuberance of high spirits.

“I will never understand why you prefer ill-mannered youngsters to settled mounts,” Quinn said as the horses resumed walking side by side. “You, of all people, know what an injury can mean.”

“I, of all people, know what a severe blow to one’s pride and confidence can mean, and when I see a young horse condemned to a life of misery by poor training, I intervene where I can.”

“And then a year later, you sell them for less than they’re worth.”

Quinn understood money the way Constance understood portraiture and King George understood lavish self-indulgence. Money was to Quinn what grass was to a horse. The sine qua non of all noteworthy endeavors, the intuitive metaphor for any undertaking.

Though sometimes, Quinn’s grasp of finances made him blind to other truths.

“I find my horses suitable homes,” Stephen said, “and price them according to the owner’s means. I am compensated, the horse is well situated, and the new owner is thrilled with his or her purchase. I am not thrilled with the acquaintance forming between Constance and the neighborhood duke.”