She was herself bestriding a raking bay, whose sidlings and tossings evidenced his uncertain temper. The Winsfords were still borrowing from Lord Rossendale’s stables, until, as the nabob expressed it, his experienced daughter should have learned her way about and might choose her own cattle. Penelope, thankful for the ill opinion of her skill held by her sister that had prompted her to pick for her use a well-mannered, quiet horse who could give her a comfortable ride, saw nothing amiss. ‘They look perfectly well to me.’ ‘That is because you know nothing of the matter,’ said her twin, controlling the plunging progress of her own mount with an effortless grace that won the admiration of the new groom riding behind. ‘For the most part, they are peacocky specimens, obviously meant only for show.’ Her eye then fell upon a grey trotting towards them. She pointed with her whip. ‘Now there is a fine horse. Pure Arab, I would say at a guess.’ ‘And guess who is riding it,’ Penelope gurgled.
