Fred jabbed his thumb toward his brother, as Dickie swung open the door, shedding light into the darkened, winding stairwell. “As I said, he’s the curious one, him.”
I have to tell Inspector Brown.
“I’m sorry.” Stella stepped back from the open door. “Could one of you drive me, or do you have a horse I can borrow? I need to get to Lyndhurst immediately.” When her pronouncement made the men hesitate, sharing another unspoken concern between them, she added, “I promise to return everything as soon as I get back to Morrington Hall.”
At her mention of Lord Atherly’s estate, Dickie spit into his palm and ran it over his hair.
“We knew you were posh,” Fred said over the clip-clop of an approaching horse, “but Morrington Hall? Blimey. That must make you—”
“My fiancée,” Lyndy declared, leaping down from Beau.
“Lyndy!” Stella rushed into his waiting arms.
“I thought I lost you.” Lyndy’s voice trembled when she slipped her hands into the warmth beneath his unbuttoned overcoat. He wrapped her in a tight embrace and buried his face in her hair, still damp and flowing loose around her shoulders, his breath hot on her neck.
Stella smiled, whispering into his ear, “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
His hands reached for her face, and she shivered. The heat from his breath brushed her lips. His kisses, soft and tentative at first, as if unwilling to trust she was real, grew harder, more insistent as he pulled her closer, trying to meld his lips to hers as she clung to him as if he were an anchor in an angry sea.
“Ahem.” A polite cough from behind her broke the spell.
Stella loosened her grip and glanced sheepishly at Fred, clutching his pipe in his teeth and contemplating the view of the famous Needles at the end of the Isle of Wight. Dickie studied the ground, kicking the gravel at his feet.
“These are the gentlemen who rescued me in their rowboat, the lighthouse attendants, the Brothers Boothroyd,” Stella explained, remembering her manners. “Fred, Dickie, may I introduce Lord Lyndhurst.”
“Your Lordship,” the brothers mumbled.
Lyndy thrust out his hand, the one not still wrapped around Stella’s waist, and the brothers shook it in turn. “We are forever in your debt. When she fell from the ferry, we’d assumed—”
Stella stopped him. “Lyndy, I didn’t fall.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was deliberately pushed. And what’s more, Dickie saw Uncle Jed on the peninsula when Daddy died. Uncle Jed couldn’t have done it.”
Lyndy tightened his grip around her waist. “Which means whoever killed your father . . .”
“Tried to rid themselves of me too.”
* * *
With one arm around Stella’s tiny waist, Lyndy held her against his chest as they rode, his knees tapping the back of her thighs with every step Beau took. Throwing all convention to the wind, she straddled the horse in front of him, hatless and with trousers on. Free of all encumbrances, however fleeting, like the ponies that roamed the Forest at will, the pair cantered across the heath as one, Stella’s lovely, broad smile never slipping from her precious face. What more could a man ask for? What did he care if it turned heads as they made their way back to Morrington Hall like this?
Morrington Hall. Lyndy breathed in the salty scent of the sea, fading from the air as they traveled inland but still lingering on Stella’s skin and hair, and fancied never having to return to his family estate. At least not yet.
Beau naturally slowed to a walk when the Irish Hunter met with a swath of thick bracken lining the entry into a stand of ancient oaks. The stippled light through the thinning leaves danced across Stella’s hair like flashes of gold.
“I think we should elope,” Lyndy whispered in Stella’s ear, stray tendrils of her hastily pinned bun tickling his nose.
He couldn’t fathom the thought of another day, or night, without her. Her breath rose and fell beneath his hand; the taste of her was still on his lips. Why must they wait, yet again, to wed? If Stella’s father hadn’t been murdered, they’d already be husband and wife. How long would Mother insist they postpone the wedding for propriety’s sake? A year? Mourning etiquette be damned. Lyndy wanted her to be his now.
He pulled her closer against him.
“Lyndy, relax your grip,” Stella complained. “I may have fallen from the ferry, but I know how to keep my seat in a saddle.” She was right, of course. Lyndy eased his hold, but only a bit.
“What do you say? Shall we ride on to Winchester and wed right now?”
“As if the bishop would marry us now with me in mourning, and wearing a borrowed sack suit.”
“It is merely convention to wait.”
“Merely convention? Your mother should hear you talk.” She laughed.
A smile tugged at his lips at the sweet sound, but he hadn’t been joking. “I mean to say there is no legal impediment. Everything is in place. We were to wed two days ago anyway. Besides, how could the bishop object to your request? You, who have lost a father and who nearly lost your life as well?”
“It’s tempting,” she said, sounding like a purring cat. “But I don’t want to start our married life together with my father’s ghost hovering over our heads.”
Lyndy presumed she’d say such a thing, but it didn’t make him any less discontented.
“And to be free of him, we have to find justice for him,” she added, her smile waning.
What about justice for us? The words were on the tip of his tongue when an enormous pig trotted into their path. Grunting as it sought its acorn treasures, its belly inches from scraping the ground, the animal paid them no mind.
Instinctually sidestepping the creature, Beau snorted a warning at it, sending it squealing in the opposite direction.
“Atta boy, Beau,” Stella said, patting the horse on the neck, but she quickly fell into reflective silence. They rode out of the wood and across a verdant grazing lawn, checkered with the shadows of passing clouds, before she said, “I can’t stop thinking we’re missing something.”
“Like what?” Lyndy asked, though he’d rather return to the conversation about their wedding plans.
“Like why push me off the ferry?”
“Perhaps you are mistaken, and it was an accident after all?”
“No.” Her tone had a dissonance to it Lyndy rarely heard. He didn’t fancy it one bit. “It was deliberate, all right.”
“Could it not have had anything to do with your father’s murder?” he suggested. “Someone with a grudge against us, perhaps? Since Papa squandered my inheritance, the villagers haven’t been as deferential as they should.”
“Then why push me in? Why not you or Lady Alice?”
She had a point. The villagers, having overcome her American ways, adored Stella’s kindness, her openness, and her practice of patronizing their shops.
“Jesse Prescott had a ferry ticket in his pocket,” he said. “Perhaps the accomplice we suspected the jockey of having does exist and was aboard the ferry? And wanted to take his revenge out on you, being Elijah Kendrick’s daughter?”
“But isn’t it outlandish to think that person just happened to be on the ferry at the same time as we were?”
“You’re right. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Let’s think. Who knew I’d be on the ferry?”
“Mother and Papa, of course. Alice, your Aunt Ivy, the Swensons, and Owen. The servants from both houses, of course.”
“No one else?”
“Yes, the baron’s whole household knew as well. Mother had Fulton telephone that you were coming. She didn’t want the baron to be unpleasantly surprised.”
“That must be it,” Stella said, with a determination so like her. “It must have to do with my inviting myself to the baron’s luncheon.”
“Someone didn’t want you to reach the Island.”
Her head began bobbing in agreement before he’d finished the thought. “And I think I
know why. We have to talk to the baron.”
Lyndy brought Beau to a sudden halt. A fluttering of wings rustled the dense gorse. Stella swiveled around to learn why they’d stopped, concern creasing her forehead.
“And risk you traveling on the ferry again?” he demanded. “No. Absolutely not. For all we know, it was one of the sailors who pushed you off.”
“True. But that would mean getting the baron to come to Morrington Hall again. Do you think he will?”
“I suppose if Mother invites him. But whether she’ll oblige me by doing so is another question.”
Stella cupped his cheek in her palm and patted him like a good schoolboy, a playful grin on her lips. “Then, I guess that means you need to play nice with Lady Atherly when we get back.” Then puckered her lips for a kiss.
He laughed, gladly obliging her, as he sensed he’d be doing for the rest of his days.
CHAPTER 25
In answer to Stella’s knock, Fulton swung open the door. “Miss Kendrick?” His unflappable face went slack with astonishment. His typical steady upward gaze fell to studying her from head to toe. “Please forgive me for saying so, but you are indeed a sight to behold.”
At any other time, it would’ve been the butler’s way of telling her she looked ridiculous dressed up like a man, but Stella knew better. She smiled at the butler’s unspoken relief in seeing her alive.
“I’m happy to see you too, Fulton,” she said, stepping into the hall, and ignoring all she’d learned about the proper etiquette between the classes, planted a light kiss on the butler’s cheek.
A few paces behind her, Lyndy cleared his throat in surprise.
Fulton raised an eyebrow at her impulsive gesture but nothing more, having already composed himself from the shock. A moment later, the butler strode over to the hall mirror, and with one decisive yank, tugged off the black crape draped over it.
“Everyone has gathered in the drawing room, milord,” Fulton said, winding the black fabric into a ball before offering to take Lyndy’s hat and overcoat.
“Telephone Inspector Brown, would you, Fulton,” Lyndy instructed. “Tell him it’s quite urgent he come round and to bring his photograph with him.”
“And tell him Dickie Boothroyd can give my Uncle Jed an alibi for my father’s murder,” Stella threw in.
“Now, if only we could get the baron here as easily,” Lyndy mused.
Rip! Fulton tore the strip of crape from his arm. “I beg your pardon, milord, but Baron Branson-Hill and his wife are with Lady Atherly in the drawing room.”
What luck.
Stella, nervous but encouraged by the warm welcome by the butler, slipped her arm into Lyndy’s when they approached the drawing room door. The room was crowded, as if for a dinner party, but a pall permeated the atmosphere. Lady Atherly, Mrs. Swenson, and their daughters, along with the Baroness Branson-Hill huddled around the low table set with a silver tea service. Most of the food on the plates had been left uneaten. Mr. Swenson, Sir Owen, and the baron, drinks in hand, were assembled near the fireplace, chatting softly while Aunt Rachel, chin on her chest, snored in the overstuffed chair. Aunt Ivy sat apart, staring out the window. Everyone spoke in hushed voices.
They all think I’m dead.
“Ready?” Lyndy whispered, tickling her ear.
She nodded, and, as one, they stepped over the threshold. Mr. Swenson, by the mantel, noticed her first.
“Good God, Almighty!” Theo Swenson swore.
“Miss Kendrick? By Jove, it is!” the baron, following Mr. Swenson’s gaze, announced.
“Stella!” Aunt Ivy cried, leaping out of her chair and rushing to throw her arms around her. Stella relished her aunt’s warm embrace but felt bereft when Lyndy slipped his arm away to grant her aunt space. “I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead.” Her aunt’s tears damped Stella’s cheek.
“Could it be?” someone exclaimed.
“Oh, my!”
Teacups clattered, and napkins were thrown down with abandon as the prim ladies by the tea table clambered to their feet and crowded around Stella. Aunt Rachel’s snore cut off midsnort when she woke to the commotion.
“Hallelujah! It’s a miracle!” Aunt Rachel cried, throwing her arms in the air when she spied Stella.
“I say! Well done, you,” Sir Owen declared, beaming at both Stella and his cousin.
“Yes, thank you, Lord Lyndhurst,” Aunt Ivy said, stepping back, clasping her hands to her chest. “Thank you for bringing Stella back to us.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Lyndy said.
“Oh, you poor, dear child,” Mrs. Swenson said, elbowing her way through the others.
Stella good-heartedly tolerated Mrs. Swenson’s embrace. “What happened to your dress?” she whispered, quietly mortified.
“The water ruined it so . . .”
Mrs. Swenson nodded sympathetically. “I’ll make sure your maid pulls out the black bombazine dress I’d ordered you.”
Stella couldn’t bring herself to thank the woman. She’d never wanted to wear black to begin with.
“They said the water was freezing,” Penny remarked over her mother’s shoulder.
“Trust me,” Baroness Branson-Hill said, brushing crumbs from her gray and silver tea gown. “Even on a pleasant day, such as this, the water is as cold as Her Late Majesty Queen Victoria’s glower.”
“Then how did you manage to survive?” Penny insisted.
“There will be time enough for that,” Lady Atherly said, pushing the button to summon the butler and calling at the same time, “Fulton!” When he arrived, she said, “Please inform Lord Atherly that Miss Kendrick has returned safely. Then arrange for a bath to be drawn, and fresh clothes set out.”
“Very good, my lady,” the butler said, and disappeared again.
Lady Atherly motioned to Stella to sit. “You must’ve had the most harrowing time of it.”
Stella glanced at Lyndy, dumbfounded by Lady Atherly’s concern. He shrugged, his puzzled face reflecting her own astonishment. She took the offered spot beside the countess on the settee, more grateful than she realized to be sitting down. Lyndy, who’d stayed close from the moment he’d found her outside the lighthouse, preempted Mrs. Swenson’s attempt to take the seat on Stella’s other side. Without a word, Sir Owen handed Lyndy a drink. It smelled like her father’s bourbon. Lady Atherly poured Stella a cup of tea.
“You gave us all quite the fright, young lady,” Baron Branson-Hill admonished, his face creased with worry. “And when someone said it was on account of your wanting to visit us, well, of course, we came immediately.” His wife nodded vigorously in agreement.
“We were mortified, in fact,” the baroness said. “Thank goodness the weather cooperated.”
The couple’s sincerity touched her. She glanced at the others. Each regarded her with varying degrees of wonder, concern, relief, and for some, even fondness. Stella took a sip of tea. It was extra sweet. For the first time, Lady Atherly had made it the way Stella liked it. Overwhelmed by the sudden intense sense of belonging, Stella reached for Lyndy’s hand.
And all it took was for everyone to think I’d died. It was almost worth the ordeal. Almost.
“I do hope you’ll allow me to make it up to you,” the baron was saying.
“If you’re willing, Baron, you might be able to help me,” Stella said. “But we’ll talk about that later.” She gave him a reassuring smile, and his face relaxed.
“Miss Kendrick,” Lord Atherly said, strolling into the room, his arms outstretched, his right hand still clutching a hand lens. “I was pouring over Professor Gridley’s latest finds when Fulton told me the good news.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “How lovely it is to see you in one piece.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Stella said, touched by his uncharacteristic display of affection.
So unlike Daddy.
Stella quickly brushed the unbidden thought aside. She didn’t want to ruin the moment.
“Won�
�t you tell us what happened?” Lady Alice asked, setting her ever-present magazines on her lap aside. A swimmer in bright orange startled by a misty mermaid illustrated the top magazine’s cover. Even Lady Alice had thought enough of Stella to find a fitting issue to peruse.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Stella insisted. “After I tumbled overboard, I managed to swim to one of the marsh beds.”
“See. I told you Stella was an excellent swimmer, Penelope, darling.” Theo Swenson smiled at his daughter. Penny rewarded him with a nasty scowl.
“The Keyhaven lighthouse keepers were out in their rowboat and spotted me,” Stella continued. She didn’t tell them about her encounter with the seal, especially after Dickie Boothroyd’s comment about it being supernatural. Even now, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. “And from the top of the lighthouse, one of them spotted Uncle Jed out on the spit, right where he said he was when Daddy was killed.”
“Well, I’ll be a baked potato,” Aunt Rachel declared, as relieved as Stella had been at the news. “He’s a rascal that one, but I never did think Jed had it in him to hurt Elijah.”
“But if Jed Kendrick didn’t kill Elijah, Stella,” Mr. Swenson asked, “then who did?”
A hush of anticipation descended on the room as if to speak or breathe too loudly might chase away the answer. Stella stared at the silver cross clutched in the hand of an ancestral portrait on the wall, listening to the crackle of the fire in the grate. Mack, the dog, barked off in the distance.
“I don’t know,” Stella admitted, breaking the silence.
“I still don’t understand how you fell in,” Aunt Ivy said, returning to the earlier topic of Stella’s misadventure.
“Indeed. I’ve taken that ferry a hundred times and never heard of such negligence,” the baron said after taking a sip of his sherry.
“I grant you I’ll have the ship’s captain up on charges for his handling of the situation,” Lyndy said, “but it wasn’t negligence that caused Miss Kendrick to fall overboard. She was pushed.”
“What!” the exclamation echoed when several voices pronounced it at the same time.
Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 23
