Pris, Rus, and Albert had always been close, as indeed all the Dalloway children were, but the other three, Margaret, Rupert, and Aileen, were much younger-twelve, ten, and seven years old, respectively-more to be protected than viewed as coconspirators. Even before their mother had died, the three eldest siblings had made a pact: Rus would do as their father wished and look after the estate until Albert returned from university in Dublin, then they would put their plan to their sire, that Albert should manage the estate in Rus’s name while Rus devoted himself to establishing and running a racing stud.

It was a prescription for the future the three of them could happily follow and make work.

Two months ago, Albert had returned from Dublin, his studies at an end. Once he’d reacquainted himself with the estate, the three had duly put their plan to the earl-who had rejected it out of hand.

Rus would continue to manage the estate. If he had a mind to it, Albert could assist him. Regardless, however, no Dalloway would ever stoop to indulging in horse breeding on a commercial scale.

So declared the earl.

Rus had exploded. Pris and Albert quite saw his point; he’d curbed his driving desire and done everything their father had asked of him for seven years, and now felt he was owed a chance to live the life he yearned to live.

The earl had curled his lip and refused point-blank to even consider their scheme.

Words had been exchanged, things said, wounds dealt on both sides. Pushed beyond bearing, Rus had stormed out of Dalloway Hall in a wild fury. He’d taken nothing more than what he could cram in his saddlebags, and ridden away.