Julian Ashworth III stood in the stable at dawn and watched Regulus breathe white plumes into the cold air.
The horse was purebred Arab, twenty hands high, worth more than most men earned in a lifetime. Julian's mother had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday, three years ago, and said: "A man should know what he values, Julian." She had been dead for two years by then. His father had been dead for three. The Ashworth shipping fortune had come to Julian like water coming through a broken...
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