Doreen Hamilton looked at him oddly. “What are you doing?”

Jake grinned. “Counting lemon pips. Odd numbers I win, evens I don’t.”

“That’s cheating. You start with an odd, so there’s more chance of ending on an odd. Tell me,” she lowered her voice, “how is Macaulay going to behave when Rupert gets on his back.”

“Very badly, I hope.”

Rupert was making no secret of the fact that he found the company boring.

Doreen’s incessant chatter gave Jake plenty of opportunity to look around. Helen, with her sadness and red hair, reminded him of autumn. He noticed the rapt expression on Malise’s face as he talked to her. So that was the way the wind blew. She’d be much happier with Malise, thought Jake. He’d look after her, but he was far too upright and old-school-tie to make a play for her.

“Soupe de Bonne Femme.” Driffield was looking at the menu. “What’s Bonne Femme?”

“Good woman,” said Rupert. “Of absolutely no interest to anyone.”

At last the food, and several bottles of wine, arrived.

“I’m sure this octopus comes out of a tin,” grumbled Driffield.

“I wish I’d chosen hors d’oeuvres like you, Fen,” said Humpty, looking disconsolately at his piece of pâté the size of a matchbox.

“I must say I’m terribly hungry,” said Fen, spearing an anchovy.

Rupert was eating cepes. He glanced up and caught Fen looking at him. “A franc for your thoughts.”

“I was hoping one was poisonous.”

“Even if it were I’d be okay for the final, have no fear. Do you honestly think Hopalong Chastity stands a chance against me?”

“He’ll beat the pants off you,” snapped Fen, “and don’t call him that.”

“Hasn’t got the big-match temperament. He’ll go to pieces.”

“He beat you at Olympia.”

“This is the big time.”

For a second he stared straight into her eyes, and suddenly it was as though he was putting a spell on her.

“You’re going to be a knockout in a couple of years,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Big deal for an ugly sister.”

“You heard, did you? I’m sorry.”

Almost matter-of-factly, as if he were examining a horse, he ran an appraising finger down her cheek. She winced away, aware of the bumpiness of her complexion.

“Those spots would go with regular sex, and you’d soon lose that puppy fat,” he said. “You ought to come and work for me. I’d let you ride in all the senior classes. You’re ready for it. That was a stunning win at the beginning of the week. Jake’s holding you back.”

“Like Revenge, I suppose. I don’t forget so quickly,” she said, her color mounting.

“Revenge won two medals,” he said. “I’m quite serious. You and I’d make a great team, in bed and out.”

He was speaking almost into his buttonhole, so none of the table except she could hear.

“What about Helen?” hissed Fen. “I suppose she doesn’t understand you.”

For a minute the candlelight flickered on the predatory, cold, unsmiling face. Then he laughed, making him human again.

“On the contrary, I don’t understand her. She uses much too long words.”

Fen gave a shriek of laughter. Then, as the smile faded and he went on staring at her, she was appalled to feel her stomach curl, overwhelmed with a squirming, helpless longing for him.

Her plate of hors d’oeuvres was taken away, hardly touched.

Humpty looked reproachful. “What a waste!”

Nor could she eat her chicken Kiev.

Jake, deep in conversation with Doreen and Colonel Roxborough about other people’s horses, had also drunk a great deal more than he’d eaten. Suddenly, he glanced down the table and saw little Fen staring at Rupert. She was curiously still. He’d seen that look in frightened mares confronted by stallions, terrified yet sexually excited. He’d felt the same terror, without the excitement, when Revenge was taken away from him. Rupert was not going to take Fen.

He stopped eating his steak, fingering his knife. Helen had noticed it too. Suddenly she stopped talking to Malise about Proust.

“It’s like asking me to go over to the Russians,” Fen was saying furiously, “and furthermore, I don’t like the way you treat your horses.”

“You’ve absolutely no idea how I treat my horses. You just listen to gossip.”

“You’re only sucking up to me because you think I’ll be so overwhelmed by your glamour, I’ll give you a lot of tips about how Jake rides his horses.”

But it was the helpless snapping of courtship.

Desperately, Helen turned to Tory. “What’s the name of the horse Jake’s riding in the final?” she asked.

Christ, she ought to know, thought Fen. She’s married to a finalist.

“He’s called Nightshade,” mumbled Tory nervously.

“But in the stable we call him Macaulay,” said Fen.

“How weird,” said Helen. “Rupert had a horse called Macaulay once, named after me. Macaulay was my maiden name.”

Rupert’s face was a mask.

“It’s the same horse,” said Fen, slowly spitting out every word.

“It can’t be,” said Helen, bewildered. She turned to Rupert. “He died of a brain tumor. You said he did.”

“I did not,” said Rupert in a tone that made Fen shiver.

Everyone was listening now.

“I sold him to that Sheik Kalil, who bought half a dozen horses a couple of years ago.”

“And you bought him from Kalil?” Helen asked Jake.

“No,” said Jake flatly, “I found him in the stone quarries.”

“He was pulling a cart loaded with bricks,” said Fen, “and he was starving. They don’t feed horses out there, or water them, just drive them in the midday sun till they collapse. Then they whip them till they get up again.”

A muscle was flickering in Rupert’s cheek.

“You’ve been listening to fairy stories again,” he said to Fen.

“We’ve got photographs,” hissed Fen, her fury fueled by guilt and anger because she found him irresistible. “Jake saved his life. I know you all sneer at all the medical knowledge he picked up from the gypsies, but it bloody well works. And it worked on Macaulay. He was just skin and bone held together by weals. He could hardly walk. It’s taken Jake two years to get him right.”

Helen looked appalled. “Is this true, Rupert?”

Rupert shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? If you’re prepared to accept any cock-and-bull story. I run a yard on a very tight budget and I can’t ensure every horse I sell on is going to be mollycoddled for the rest of its life.”

“You sold him to the Middle East,” said Fen, knocking over her wineglass as she jumped to her feet. “You must have known what would happen. You ought to be bloody well ashamed of yourself.”

Bursting into tears, she fled out of the restaurant.

There was a stunned silence. Rupert picked up his knife and fork and went on eating his steak.

“What’s up with her?” said Driffield, looking at the puddings on the menu.

“Perhaps she’s eaten something that doesn’t agree with her,” said Ivor.

“Adolescent girls,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Up one moment, down the next. Overemotional. My daughter was like that. It’s their age. How old is she?” he asked Tory.

“Sixteen,” muttered Tory, staring at her plate. She detested scenes and she felt desperately sorry for Fen, but need she have gone quite so over the top?

“Probably tired,” said Malise.

“Needs a good night’s sleep,” said Doreen Hamilton comfortably.

“Needs a good screw,” said Rupert.

He hadn’t noticed that Jake had got to his feet and had limped down the table until he was directly behind Rupert.

“What did you say?”

Rupert didn’t turn his head. “You heard.”

“Yes, I heard.” Jake’s eyes glittered like deadly nightshade berries, his face ashen against the tousled black hair.

“You leave her alone, you bastard.”

“You’re hardly in a position to call me that. At least my parents were married to one another, in church too, unlike yours.”

“Rupert,” exploded Malise.

“You leave my parents out of this,” hissed Jake. “I’m warning you — keep away from her.”

“Why?” drawled Rupert. “Have you got the hots for her? If you read your prayer book you’d realize that sort of thing’s very frowned on. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife’s sister and all that.”

The next moment, Jake had grabbed Rupert’s shirt collar with one hand and snatched up the bread knife from the side table with the other.

Jerking Rupert towards him, he held the knife against Rupert’s suntanned neck.

“Keep your foul mouth shut,” he gritted. “If I catch you putting one of your filthy fingers on her, I’ll run this through you, you fucking sadist,” and very slowly he drew the blade across Rupert’s throat. No one moved, no one spoke. Everyone’s eyes were mesmerized by the knife blade glinting in the candlelight.

Then Helen gave a strangled sob.

“Jake,” said Malise quietly, “give me that knife.”

“It’s all right, Colonel Gordon,” said Jake, without looking in his direction. “This time it’s a warning, Rupert, but you heard me: you stay away from her. Next time you won’t get off so lightly.”

He threw the knife down so it fell across Fen’s red wine stain, giving an illusion of spilt blood, then limped out of the restaurant.

“Are you all right?” gasped Helen.

Rupert sprang to his feet, ready to give chase. But Malise was too quick. Leaping up, he blocked Rupert’s path.

“No,” he said sharply. He might have been speaking to a rabid dog about to pounce. “Stay — here. It was all your fault.”

Rupert looked at him incredulously.

“That man has just tried to kill me.”