‘“I was impressed by Isaac when I saw him winning a race recently in Ireland,” enthused the Machiavellian Maestro from Valhalla, his Rutshire mansion. “He and The Prince of Darkness will annihilate Penscombe Pride.” ’

Without a word Rupert turned to page three.

‘In a Mafiaesque move worthy of his Latin ancestors, Rannaldini could be paying back Rupert for taking Lysander Hawkley under his wing. Fun-loving Lysander (son of Hatchet Hawkley, headmaster of posh Fleetley — fees £16,000 a year), nicknamed the Man Who Made Husbands Jealous because of a string of relationships with married women, was caught cuddling and kissing Rannaldini’s much younger wife, Kitty, in Monthaut in December.’

Rupert was deceptively calm and, as the stable cat, who loved newspapers, padded across the page, he gently removed her so he could read on. But as Tab wandered in, putting her arm round his shoulder to see what he was reading, she caught a glimpse of Isaac Lovell’s thick, dark, sombre, gypsy’s face and gave a moan of wonder: ‘Wow-wee, he is gorgeous.’

Turning on her like a cobra, Rupert grabbed her shoulders, shaking her until her bones rattled like castanets.

‘If you ever have anything to do with that little shit,’ he hissed, ‘you’re disinherited, out of here, never coming back, see?’

‘I don’t see at all,’ said Tabitha, flaring up. ‘You never approve of the men I like.’ Then, as Rupert stormed out, ‘Is he worse than Ashley?’

‘Much worse,’ sighed Dizzy. ‘I’ll tell you about it.’

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ Eyes narrowed to slits, Rupert paced up and down the bedroom, neat whisky in one hand, cigar in the other.

Helpless in the face of such volcanic fury, Taggie lay on the faded patchwork counterpane of the huge Jacobean four-poster in which Rupert had made love for so many years to his beautiful first wife.

‘Pridie’ll win it with two legs tied together,’ she stammered. ‘A new jockey won’t make any difference. You’re the best trainer in the world. No-one’s heard of Isaac Lovell over here.’

Rupert got hopelessly uptight on the eve of big races. It affected the whole yard. He had hardly ever been nervous when he was show-jumping because he was so confident of his own riding, but now he could only mount the best jockeys on the best horses and pray. It was the one time when he had to be kept really calm.

‘It all happened such a long time ago,’ muttered Taggie. ‘You’re the most utterly g-gorgeous, glamorous, faint-making m-m-man in the world. Jake Lovell’s a little squit, so’s Rannaldini. I’ll probably trip over both of them in the paddock.’

Taggie never bitched about anyone. Rupert looked down at her in amazement, as she stood up, and putting her hands on both sides of his rigidly clenched face, pulled his mouth down to meet hers.

‘Kiss me. I love you so, so much.’

‘Oh, Tag,’ groaned Rupert, burying his face in her thick dark hair. ‘Thank God for you. You’re absolutely right. It’s all in the past. Jake did me such a good turn. I’m such a boring old reactionary, and I’m so against divorce, I’d probably still be miserably unhappy with Helen if he hadn’t walked off with her, and never married you and been so divinely happy. It just destroys me because he beat me in the Olympics and sex, if you know what I mean. But if I lost the war, I won the peace.’ Pulling her down on the bed beside him, he reached inside his jacket pocket.

‘I’ve got something for you.’ He handed her two open-ended first-class tickets to Bogotá. ‘We’re going baby-hunting.’ Then, when Taggie looked up in incredulous hope, ‘The nuns have accepted our application. If we fly out to Colombia and stay there for six weeks, really convincing them we’re serious about wanting a baby, they’ll find us one.’

Taggie couldn’t speak. Like the moon’s reflection in a lake ruffled by a wakeful carp, her pale face suddenly disintegrated. Rupert could feel her tears as she covered his face with kisses.

‘Oh, I love you. A real baby. I can’t believe it. Oh, d’you think they’ll like us enough?’

‘They’ll like you. I’ll have to behave myself.’ And give them a fat cheque, thought Rupert.

‘I wonder if it’ll be a he or a she, blond or black hair, oh, Rupert.’

‘It’ll certainly be black market,’ said Rupert, ‘Our little black-market baby.’

‘And six weeks together, what bliss! But I hope you won’t be too bored,’ she added anxiously. ‘What’ll you do?’

‘I can think of one thing.’ Rupert slowly unbuttoned her harebell-blue cardigan and unhooked her bra, so, like cream boiling over, her wonderful breasts spilled out. Putting his lips to one nipple he sucked gently. Just as desperate for her attention and love as any baby, he thought wryly.

‘I’m terribly sweaty and unwashed,’ mumbled Taggie, as he pushed up her scarlet skirt, and burrowed under the dark purple tights and skimpy knickers.

Rejoicing that he could get her that wet so quickly after five years of marriage, finding it always as exciting as pulling a groom in the back of a loose box for the first time, Rupert moved his fingers upwards as Taggie’s hands fumbled with his zip.

Naked, white-skinned, utterly gorgeous, her dark hair tickling his belly, she kissed him everywhere, her tongue as delicate and subtle as a lurcher’s.

‘Oh, my angel.’ Wriggling down, he slid inside her, hearing her gasp of joy, as he warmed her with his body and constantly moving hands.

‘Oh, Rupert, Rupert, Rupert.’

‘Rupert, Rupert, Rupert!’ Taggie’s voice had suddenly got deeper, and was accompanied, he realized, by someone hammering on the door, and then — good God — opening it.

‘Rupert, I’m really sorry to bother you. Oh, Christ!’ Lysander clapped his hands over his eyes. ‘I mean really sorry, but I think Arthur’s been nobbled. He keeps yawning and he hasn’t eaten his last feed.’

‘I’ll nobble you, you little fucker,’ howled Rupert, scooping up a shoe from the carpet and hurling it in Lysander’s direction. ‘Get out, get out. Arthur’s exhausted because you keep waking him up to see if he’s OK, and he’s not hungry because the entire Press have been stuffing him with Polos.’

In the end, chivvied by Taggie, Rupert tugged on a pair of jeans and ran barefoot across the parched lawn to the yard. In his box, he found Arthur lying flat out, waving a huge foot in the air, snoring loudly, one eye open. Seeing his tormentor, however, he lumbered up and hid behind Tiny shivering with terror in the corner, his newly washed coat, and particularly his mane, once more stained with green.

‘Oh dear,’ Lysander blushed. ‘He’s made a lightning recovery. I do think,’ he went on hastily, ‘Arthur ought to have a security guard tomorrow. Pridie’s got a guard and closed-circuit television in his box, and The Prince of Darkness’ll have all Rannaldini’s hoods around him.’

‘He’s got Tiny,’ said Rupert, avoiding the Shetland’s darting teeth and deciding not to blow his top. ‘Now will you please stop wasting my time.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Lysander hung his head. ‘I gather all this Isaac Lovell business has upset you. Bloody unfair. Can’t make head nor tail of it myself. Who is Isaac Lovell anyway?’

‘His father ran off with my first wife.’

‘Bastard!’

‘Like you want to run off with Kitty Rannaldini,’ said Rupert, bolting the half-door.

‘Not at all,’ said Lysander indignantly. ‘Rannaldini’s an utter shit, and a bully who beats up horses and women and never stops humiliating poor darling Kitty by screwing around. You were never like that.’

‘Hum, your faith in me is touching. You didn’t know me in the old days.’

‘Old days is old days.’ Lysander blushed again. ‘I used to be a bit of a stud myself in the past. But I want you to know you and Taggie have really restored my faith in marriage as an institution.’

‘Ta very much,’ said Rupert. ‘I had better go back and — er — institute it. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?’

‘Watch the video of last year’s Rutminster again, and then play poker with Danny and Dizzy. We’re teaching Tab.’

‘She’ll beat you all,’ said Rupert. ‘But I want you in bed early.’

Lysander slept fitfully and woke at a quarter-past three. In twelve hours exactly, if by some miracle he got to ride, they’d be lining up at the start. In twelve hours, ten minutes, it would all be over. And after tomorrow, would Rupert kick him out? Despite his misery over Kitty, he’d been happier living at Penscombe than anywhere else. Desperate for some sign of rain, he opened the window, and was mocked by a million stars. The lawn was lit by daffodils and a clump of white cherry trees already in bloom, it had been so mild.

The constellation of Leo the Lion was romping off to his lair in the west. But any moment Lysander expected his great shaggy face to appear back over the top of Rupert’s beechwood to bite the Great Bear in the bum. Longing as never before for Kitty’s arms, he collapsed into an armchair.

He must have drifted off again, for the next minute he was galloping up Rupert’s track, and Arthur was going gloriously, and he could hear, far more menacing than Rannaldini’s tympani, the thunder of hoofs behind him. But no-one was going to catch Arthur. The stands were rising to cheer him.

‘Go on, go on, go on,’ yelled Lysander.

‘Lysander, Lysander, wake up! It’s tipping down.’ It was a few seconds before he realized Tabitha was shaking him, and the thunder of hoofs was torrential rain, machine-gunning the roof.

Leaning out of the window into Niagara, he could see the downpour flattening the daffodils, stripping the white cherries, flooding the gutters, sluicing the valley.

‘Yippee, yippee, Arthur’s in with a chance.’ Lysander let out a great Tarzan howl, hugging Tab until she screamed for mercy and Jack began yapping with excitement.