Seven days later, just over three weeks ago, Pris had received a letter to say he’d found work at Lord Cromarty’s stables, one of the major racing establishments in neighboring County Wexford.

The schism between her father and brother was now deeper than it had ever been. Pris was determined to repair the rupture in her family, but the wounds would take time to heal. She accepted that. But with Rus gone, out of her world for the first time in her life, she felt truly alone, truly bereft, as if some part of her had been excised, cut away. The feeling was much more intense than when her mother had died; then she’d had Rus beside her.

She’d gone looking for Paddy seeking reassurance, something to soothe her growing uneasiness over Rus’s safety. Instead, she’d learned Rus was in a situation where his life might come under threat.

Pulling a sheet of paper from the drawer, she laid it on the blotter. “If I write a note immediately, Patrick can ride over and deliver it this evening.”

“Actually, my dear, before you write I daresay you should read this.”

Pris turned to see Eugenia extracting a letter from beneath the endless fall of her tatting.

Eugenia held out the missive. “From Rus. It was delivered with the post after lunch. When he couldn’t find you, Bradley gave it to me rather than leave it on the salver in the hall.”

Where their father might see it. Bradley was their butler; like most of the house hold, his sympathies lay with Rus.

Rising, Pris took the letter. Returning to the desk, she broke her brother’s seal, then, sinking onto the chair, unfolded the sheets, smoothed them, and read.

The only sounds in the room were the repetitive clack of Eugenia’s needles, counterpointed by the tick of the mantelpiece clock.

“Oh, no! What is it? What’s happened?”

Adelaide’s agitated questions snapped Pris back to the present. Glancing at Adelaide, then at Eugenia, taking in their worried expressions, she realized her own must reflect her mounting horror.