When the footman had told her about Tully at the ball, Stella’s heart had stopped. She’d thought only about getting to her beloved horse’s side. Who cared if Daddy didn’t have a way home? Who cared if Lady Atherly would disapprove of her abrupt departure? But now, in the grim silence of the stables, relief easing its way through her tense body, she missed the glittering ballroom, the music, dancing in Lyndy’s arms. She’d been enjoying herself.
In the past few weeks, Stella had attended, and dreaded, countless dances, teas, dinner, card, and garden parties, smiling, making witty banter, and learning to play whist. All in all, everyone, even Daddy and Lady Atherly, seemed surprised how charming she, the “American,” could be. But Stella had enjoyed little of it. Until tonight. Tonight, despite Lady Atherly’s objection, Stella had decided to dance only with Lyndy (and what a dancer he turned out to be!). It had made all the difference. In the past couple of months, she’d become quite fond of the viscount.
“Eh-hem,” someone coughed behind her.
Stella opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder. Lyndy, as handsome as she’d ever seen him in top hat and coattails, stood in the door of the stall, his arms folded tightly against his chest. He’d ridden beside her in Daddy’s Daimler. But so too in the door were Mr. Gates, the head coachman, and several stable hands clustered behind Lyndy. Someone had lit the lanterns, and they could see everything. Stella, self-conscious, pulled away from Harvey. She sat back on her heels, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t wearing her hat. In her haste, she must’ve left it at the ball.
“Is Tully going to be all right, sir?” one of the stable hands stammered, his eyes wide as he cranked his neck to look around Leonard, the taller groom. It was Charlie, the boy who mucked out Tully’s stall and fed her every day. “I saw her trembling and sweating not long before.”
“Oh, aye,” Harvey said slowly. “She’ll be right as rain. Adders can’t kill a horse, but they sure can make it uncomfortable. What you saw, laddie, was the poison working its way.”
“But you’ve given her the antidote ointment, right?” Stella asked.
Could it have only been a few weeks ago, when Stella, sneaking away, just her and Tully, without even a groom knowing, had come across this odd, grisly old man in a floppy hat, knee-high boots, and wooden cleft stick? She’d led Tully to a narrow stream running through Whitley Wood. Mr. Harvey Milkham, or the snakecatcher as she would later learn the locals called him, had been on the other side, poking his stick under a pile of mossy rocks. Stella had watched to see what he was doing. He must’ve known she was there; Tully never drank very quietly, but he never acknowledged her presence. After a moment or two, Harvey had pulled a long, wriggling snake up with his stick and had draped it around his neck. He’d done the same again until three snakes dangled about his shoulders. Looking over at Stella and Tully on the other bank of the creek, he’d unwrapped the snakes from his neck, picked up a burlap sack, and dropped them in.
“You be the American lassie staying at Pilley Manor, I presume?” he’d said.
“Yes, I’m Stella Kendrick.”
“Lovely to meet you, lass.” He’d promptly launched himself across the creek, swiped his palm against his dusty coat, and jutted out his hand. “Welcome to the New Forest.”
Without hesitation, Stella had shaken it, grateful for the hearty, honest introduction. His hand had been rough and gnarled like a tree trunk, but like everything about the old man kneeling beside her, unexpectedly strong and reassuring.
“Aye, lassie,” Harvey said. “Always carry a bit of antidote about with us.”
He stood and brushed the straw from his well-worn clothes. Stella did the same, only now realizing she’d ruined her gown and her leg to the knee was showing. Mr. Gates quickly turned his head as he vainly tried to shoo the gawking stable hands away. No one budged.
After that first meeting, Stella had continued to seek out Harvey, even visiting him once at his home. They’d drank tea with a splash of scotch (“What the doctor had ordered,” he’d said) from tin cups. She’d relished lounging in his abandoned coal-burner’s hut made of tree branches and covered with sod, listening, not to yet another conversation about the weather but of the sprains, bruises, and adder bites Harvey had healed with his antivenom ointment. Instead of a future English viscountess on display, she’d been a character in Robinson Crusoe. What a refreshing change.
For that memory alone, she wanted to hug him again. Instead, she looked down at Tully, resting comfortably in the thick straw, and pulled the torn pieces of her skirt back together.
“How much do we owe you?” Lyndy said, stepping into the stall, carefully avoiding Stella’s gaze. Was he angry or trying desperately not to laugh? Stella still couldn’t read Lyndy’s expressions right.
“Tuppence for a pint wouldn’t be turned down, Your Lordship.”
“My father will pay far more than tuppence, Harvey,” Stella said. “You’ve saved a precious horse today. How can we possibly repay you?”
“No need for that, lass. This fine, strong mare did most of the work.” Harvey smiled as he took off his hat and swatted at a fly buzzing around Tully’s head. His two front teeth were missing.
“You won’t get off that easily,” Stella said. “Mark my words, Harvey Milkham, I will find a way to pay you back for your kindness, whether you like it or not.”
“I’ve no doubt, lass, no doubt at all that you’ll do whatever you set your mind to.” He nodded slightly to Stella and then to Lyndy before plopping his hat back on his head. “Congratulations, milord, on your upcoming nuptials.” As he made his way through the stable hands crowding the door, he indicated Stella with his thumb. “And good luck with that one.”
Lyndy chuckled as he plucked a piece of straw from Stella’s hair. “Thank you, my good fellow,” Lyndy said congenially. “I’m going to need it.”
CHAPTER 2
“Damn you, Fairbrother.”
Lord Fairbrother chuckled as he raised the cigarette to his lips. The commoner didn’t think he was going to get away without paying, did he? The fellow was a dolt if he thought so.
“What do you expect? I’m taking a risk in doing you this favor.” Not to mention having to leave the ball early, and his wife unattended, for this rendezvous. Fairbrother wasn’t leaving empty-handed. “Or have you changed your mind?”
“No,” the commoner grumbled as he produced a packet of folded ten-pound notes. He looked about him as if anyone would be out this time of night, before slowly handing the money over. Fairbrother flipped through the notes with his thumb, counting.
One, two, three, four, five. The commoner frowned. Fairbrother didn’t care. He didn’t trust the man. Who would? Six, seven, eight.
“You’ll do as we agreed?’ The commoner licked his lips.
Fairbrother slipped the packet into his breast pocket. “We’re done here.”
The commoner hesitated and grumbled something incoherent beneath his breath before retreating from the river’s edge.
Fairbrother inhaled deeply as he watched the fellow’s figure cast a longer and longer shadow as he moved stealthily across the open heath beyond. The fragrant smoke billowed across Fairbrother’s vision as he slowly exhaled through his nose. The taste of Turkish tobacco recalled the tediousness of the war. But these recent illicit riverside meetings were quite amusing.
Splash.
Fairbrother jerked his head toward the sound. His eyes searched the shadows. What was that? A brown trout feeding, perhaps? Or a fallen branch? Or could his chosen spot have been discovered? In all the nights Fairbrother had stood here, he’d seen no one. No one, except the men he’d arranged to meet. Fairbrother was still amazed at how many unscrupulous characters the New Forest held. And of course, he’d seen the snakecatcher, on the odd occasion, catching trout for his supper. But the old man was notoriously disinterested in the comings and goings of other men.
Fairbrother held his breath and listened. All was still again but f
or the breeze ruffling the leaves above and the distant tinkle of cattle bells. He looked back across the heath. The cagey fellow he’d met tonight was but a shadow on the horizon. There was no one else about. He was safe.
He removed his top hat and leaned against the furrowed bark of the towering oak tree beside him, its thick roots stretching over the bank and into the rippling water. The sustained trill of a nightjar rang out through the night. He would wait a bit longer. With his long stride, and at the fast clip he preferred, he could easily catch up to the commoner. That would never do. He lifted his watch from the pocket of his single-braided trousers, the dappled light from the bright moon striking its gold, embossed surface. He flipped it open. He had a bit longer before anyone would notice his absence. If Philippa noticed at all. The abrupt departure of Lord Lyndhurst and that American fiancée of his had been enough of a distraction for him to slip away. He clicked the watch shut, shoved it back into his pocket, and took another long puff on his cigarette. He always did enjoy a little fresh air after dark.
Especially on a night as profitable as this one.
He patted his tailcoat pocket. The bulk beneath wasn’t as thick as he would’ve liked. Perhaps he’d ask for more next time. The snort of a pony echoed across the heath as Fairbrother exhaled again. As he well knew, there was always a next time.
* * *
Harvey edged around the mire, careful not to get wet, and then stopped, swaying a bit on his feet. He raised the thick glass bottle, despite its heaviness in his hand, and took another long swig, liquid dribbling down the side of his mouth. Clutching the neck of the bottle in his fist, he wiped his chin with the sleeve of his shirt and started off again.
He was exhausted. The worry alone had sapped his strength. How could he have faced the lass if real harm had come to her horse? But all in all, a good day’s work. And what thanks! The woody scent of the lass’s perfume still clung to his clothes. Could he even remember the last time a lassie had hugged him? Not to mention the gratitude of the lass’s father, giving Harvey as many bottles as he could carry, of what the American breeder called “the finest bourbon in the world.” Harvey had never had bourbon before, but it tasted an awful lot like scotch, and he loved scotch. Harvey took another drink. Yes, he approved. But he’d drank too much. During that last nip, Harvey had thought he’d seen the bottle glowing a blurry bright red. Bourbon was brown, not red. A smoky aftertaste he’d never noticed before lingered long after the liquor slid down his throat. Harvey dropped the almost empty bottle and rubbed his eyes with his fists. His eyes were bleary, but the red glow he’d seen through the bottle didn’t go away. He squinted toward the reddish light, his muddled mind trying to make sense of it all.
The still, silent night sky was aglow. It looked like Bonfire Night had come a few months early this year. But there were no cottages, no estates, no travelers’ encampments in the area, only his . . . Harvey stumbled over his own feet as he ran toward the blaze. Flames leaped fifteen, twenty feet in the sky. He rushed forward, but the searing heat was like an invisible wall keeping him from getting too close.
“NO!” he roared, his yells instantly swallowed by the crackle and whoosh of the fire engulfing his home. “NO!”
Who would do this? Who? Why?
Harvey swiveled around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the perpetrators. With the fire still raging, a ring of light stretched out for several yards in all directions. They couldn’t have gotten far. But as he stumbled about, Harvey tripped on the stones that once paved the way to his hut, and he fell. An unopened bottle, tucked into the pocket of his overcoat, shattered beneath him. Covered in bourbon and shards of broken glass, Harvey crawled as close to the blaze as he could, sat back on to his heels and watched all he had in this world—but the sack on his shoulder and the clothes on his back—burn.
He’d get whoever did this.
A snort behind him roused him from his thoughts of revenge. Harvey looked over his shoulder beyond the shadows cast by the flames. The wide eyes of a pony, reflecting the fire, looked at him warily from the safety of the dark. And then he knew.
“Fairbrother,” Harvey whispered, the name a curse on his tongue.
CHAPTER 3
Stella gazed out the tall, French window at the lush, formal gardens that encompassed Pilley Manor—tightly clipped borders of boxwood lining linear gravel paths, triangular flower beds of pink roses, and the long rectangular pool edged in gray limestone reflecting the bright morning sun—and took another nibble of her pancake. Why couldn’t they have breakfast outside for a change?
“Someone to see you, Mr. Kendrick,” Tims, the butler, said.
“I don’t care if it’s the czar of Russia,” Daddy said, his mouth full of poached eggs. The morning broadsheet was spread out on the table before him. No one interrupted her father when he was eating breakfast and reading the news. “Tell them to come back.”
Without waiting, a woman with a boyish figure, a gray traveling suit, and hair the color of the red foxes that raided the henhouse back home strode into the breakfast room. The woman, ignoring Stella, thrust out her hand to Stella’s father, who squinted at her and scowled.
“What do you want?”
“Miss Jane Cosslett, at your service, Mr. Kendrick. I’m from the Daily Mail. I’ve come down from London, and I am here to cover your daughter’s wedding.”
“The wedding isn’t for weeks yet,” he said.
“That’s why I’m here now. I wouldn’t want anyone else to get the exclusive.”
“Well, slap me silly,” Stella’s great-aunt said, from across the table. “Why would a London reporter come all the way here to write about our little Stella’s wedding?”
Why indeed? Stella, spearing the last few bites of her pancake with her fork, waited with anticipation for the answer.
The reporter dismissed Aunt Rachel after a glance. Her gaze lingered longer on Stella but, after crinkling her nose, she returned to face Stella’s father.
“I’ll be honest. Being here could be the making of my career.”
“How’s that?” Daddy mumbled as he shoveled a whole broiled tomato into his mouth, the juice from it dripping down his chin. Stella had to look down at her almost empty plate. She couldn’t stand to watch her father eat. But the reporter was undaunted by the tomato seeds clinging to the tip of his mustache.
“I’m not exaggerating, Mr. Kendrick, when I say your daughter’s wedding to the Earl of Atherly’s son and heir will be the talk of London. What am I saying? It will be the talk of Kentucky, of . . .” The reporter raised her arms and looked around the room. One of Pissarro’s paintings of the Boulevard Montmartre in Paris hung on the wall above the buffet table. The reporter pointed to it. “Of every place civilized people dwell.”
“Will people read about it in New York?” Daddy asked.
The reporter nodded.
“And Newport, it still being the Season and all,” she added. Daddy’s eyes lit up as he set down his fork and folded his newspaper.
“Why would they?” Stella asked. She could understand if she were Consuelo Vanderbilt or Cora Colgate, but no one had ever cared about anything she’d done before. Why would they now?
“Why wouldn’t they?” her father said through clenched teeth.
“Exactly,” Miss Cosslett said. “It’s not every day that the beautiful daughter of the world-renowned Elijah Kendrick marries a peer of the realm.” She indicated Stella with outstretched hands, as if revealing a prize, but without taking her eyes off Daddy. “And with your help, I could bring every detail of that celebrated event to the eager readers of the world.”
“Lordy, Lordy,” Aunt Rachel said. “You sure do have a flair for the dramatic, missy.” Stella quickly raised her napkin to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Perhaps Miss Cosslett should write for the theater instead of the newspapers.”
Daddy glared at Aunt Rachel and then at Stella, who’d let her giggle escape. Then he turned to the reporter. “What do you need from me, young lady?” h
e said, with a broadening smile. Stella’s stomach flipped. Nothing good came from her father’s smiles.
“All I want from you, Mr. Kendrick,” Miss Cosslett said, staring into his eyes, “is a promise to give me exclusive access to anything and everything pertaining to the wedding.”
“Like what?” Stella had already agreed to let Aunt Rachel follow her around like a stray puppy. She’d already had the entire population of Hampshire gawking at her wherever she went. Stella certainly didn’t want to open her life up to a reporter.
“I’ll need to see your wedding gown and veil.”
“Done,” her father said before Stella could object.
“I’ll need to see the invitation list.”
“Done.” The reporter stepped closer with each request until she and Daddy were almost touching.
“I’ll need a preview of the wedding gifts, the flowers, the cake. I’ll need a tour of your lovely home, the groom’s estate, the church.”
“Don’t I have a—” Stella began.
“Done, done, and done.” The reporter stepped back and smiled. Stella dug her fingernails into her fist and said nothing. What good would it do? “And of course, you’ll attend Stella’s engagement party.”
Stella silently groaned. Her father had begun insisting Stella host an engagement party the day they moved from Morrington Hall to Pilley Manor, the Earl of Atherly’s dowager house. Stella wanted nothing to do with hosting a party, but Daddy had already had bourbon sent from his preferred distillery in Kentucky, just for the occasion, as if the world’s finest bourbon could guarantee the event’s success. But now he’d gone and invited the reporter? Wasn’t it enough that Stella had but a few days to finalize every detail for a dinner that included the Bishop of Winchester and Lord Montagu among the guests? She was already dreading the evening. Now she’d have a reporter recording her every move.
“That is most kind of you, Mr. Kendrick, but I have nothing appropriate to wear,” Miss Cosslett said.
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