“Not to worry. I’m sure the girl has something that will fit you.” Daddy glared at Stella, challenging her to contradict him.
“But circulating among the likes of Lord and Lady Atherly. I am only a commoner, after all.” She batted her eyelids. Was this the same brash woman who had forced her way in?
“No one will be more common at the party than me,” Daddy said, laughing. Stella shook her head before taking a sip of her coffee. Did he realize what he’d just said?
“You’ve convinced me, Mr. Kendrick. You are most persuasive.” Daddy beamed. “Am I too late for breakfast?” The reporter snatched a slice of bacon from the buffet and snipped off the end with her teeth. “After that long train ride, I’m quite peckish.”
With her pancakes suddenly dry as sawdust in her mouth, Stella dropped her fork on her plate, her appetite gone.
“Breakfast, nothing. Help yourself,” Daddy said, indicating the buffet laid out with poached eggs, bacon, several types of cereal, hot porridge, broiled tomatoes, cold ham, a variety of fresh berries, buttered toast, sweet buns, pancakes (or drop scones as Mrs. Downie, their cook, called them), and Daddy’s favorite cornmeal muffins, “and then you’ll come with us to the fair.”
“But I thought . . . ?” Stella began.
Daddy shot her a cold glance. He wanted no reminding that he’d denounced today’s fair—and its Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge, where the breeder who produced the finest New Forest pony was presented with a silver cup—as beneath him when Lord and Lady Atherly turned down his offer to be a judge. The event was the highlight on the New Forest social calendar. Before now, he’d had no intention of going. It was one of the reasons why Stella was looking forward to it.
“I wouldn’t want to impose on anyone,” Miss Cosslett said, as coy as a kitten.
“It’s no bother. No bother at all,” Daddy said. “I insist. There is the pony breed competition, of course, but there will also be games, food, music. Everyone will be there.”
“Will the famous plant hunter Cecil Barlow attend? Someone did an article on him for my newspaper and said he was positively divine. Supposedly he faced down a snarling tiger to collect a new type of jungle orchid. I thought I heard rumors in London he was presiding over a local horse breed competition.”
“Pony,” Stella said.
“I beg your pardon?” The reporter looked Stella in the eyes for the first time and blinked several times.
“It’s a pony breed judging competition. Not a horse breed competition.”
“If you say so,” the reporter said, before turning her attention back to Stella’s father.
“Of course Barlow will be there. The guy’s named Cecil, isn’t he?” Daddy laughed at his joke. The reporter pinched her eyebrows in confusion.
“The competition is called the Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge,” Stella explained. It wasn’t the first time he’d made the horrible pun.
“Then, thank you, Mr. Kendrick, I would be happy to,” Miss Cosslett said, her face brightening.
Daddy patted the place at the table beside him, and the reporter slipped into the seat. The pair grinned at each other as if they’d pulled off a long-planned coup. Stella pushed back from the table, threw down her napkin, and stood. She had had enough of these two; she needed some air. She headed to the buffet and plucked a fresh apple from the fruit bowl.
“Good, good.” Daddy pointed to the buffet. “What would you like, Miss Cosslett? The girl can dish it up for you.”
When broodmares run the Derby, I will. Stella headed toward the door, tossing the apple in the air as she went.
“Where are you going?” he demanded. As if he cared.
“To check on Tully, of course,” Stella said over her shoulder, waving Tully’s apple in the air. She ignored her father’s grumbling and Miss Cosslett’s call of “Are you going to Morrington Hall?” and gladly strode briskly from the room.
* * *
Lord Fairbrother stood between the taut ropes holding down the competitors’ tent. The white canvas flapped in the steady breeze. It was going to rain. He clenched his fists until they ached, willing himself not to lash out at the infuriating woman in front of him. He’d hailed her over to him when she’d arrived, had ducked to this outer side of the tent and had confronted her. Again.
Who did she think he was? A pathetic little man she could toy with? Did she think a simper and bat of the eye would make him forget? What was she playing at? She reached up and traced the lines of his chin, stoking his anger with each brush of her soft fingertips. If she were a man and committed such duplicity, he’d have her flogged. No one made a fool of him.
She tugged playfully at his tie. He brushed her hand aside and straightened his tie. “I said I was sorry,” she said, pouting. She fiddled with the buttons of his tweed coat and unbuttoned it.
“Sorry isn’t good enough.” This time there had to be consequences. “I know what happened in London. And now you’re thinking about doing it again here.”
She slipped her hands beneath his coat and encircled him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her breath smelled of bacon.
Today was to be his day of triumph, the day of the Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge. He was to add to his collection of silver cups with his name etched in them. Everyone knew he had the best pony on the Forest and had for several years running. He’d be blasted if he let her ruin it with her antics. She nuzzled her head under his chin, her silky hair tickling his neck.
“Forgive me?” she purred. But Fairbrother knew this trick. It wasn’t going to work this time.
“I’ve a mind to contact a solicitor. Perhaps Sir George Lewis would take the case?”
All pretense gone, she yanked her hands away and stepped back. Fairbrother braced himself for the strike that never came. Instead, she smoothed the hair at her temples and plucked an invisible thread from her sleeve.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said dismissively.
“Wouldn’t I?” She snapped her attention to his face, searching for his level of resolve. “I’ve been to war. I’ve faced death countless times. I’ll not hesitate to expose you.”
“But—”
He preempted her argument. “Regardless of what it will cost me.”
Her lovely face paled when she read the truth in his gaze; he was more than willing to set everything in motion, and in fact, already had. “I’ve already apologized,” she said, more defiantly than she should have. She laced her arms across her chest, daring Fairbrother to demand more. He’d once admired her confidence, but he’d seen how treacherous it could be. “What more do you want?”
If she were a man, he’d demand money, as he did with all those punters who begged favors of him. But she was different. She wasn’t begging, though he wouldn’t mind if it came to that.
“Do as I say, and there won’t be a need for any further fuss.” He brushed a stray hair from her face and thrilled at the shudder his touch produced. “Do we have an understanding?”
She glared at him. “To a point,” she said.
“Of course.” He held out his arm, indicating for her to precede him away from the tent. “Now then, shall we go and enjoy the competition?” He rubbed his hands together in gratification when she did as he said. “I have a suspicious feeling that I’m going to win.”
CHAPTER 4
Stella fought her growing restlessness by pressing her fingers into the palms of her hands. If she hadn’t been wearing gloves, her skin would be crosshatched with fingernail marks.
“From what Lady Atherly has told me, this will be the first dinner you’ve ever hosted,” Lady Philippa Fairbrother said, glancing again at the tiny gold and diamond pendant watch pinned to her shoulder.
Stella, her future mother-in-law, her future sister-in-law, and her Aunt Rachel clustered around Lady Philippa, as servants hustled back and forth with trays of refreshments for the fair. It felt close and stifling after spending the morning in the stables with Tully, who much to Stella’s relief
was on the mend and heartily ate the apple. With her back nearly touching the flapping canvas side of the tea tent, Stella could feel the breeze stirring up outside.
She should be out there, by the paddocks, sizing up the competition; she’d recommended Lyndy’s entry in the Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge, after all. But Lady Atherly had insisted; her close friend wanted to show off her houseguest. As the houseguest had yet to arrive, the conversation had drifted to Stella’s engagement dinner. They were attending one social event talking about another.
Who does that?
“She’s right. I’ve never hosted anything before,” Stella said, ducking down to peer out of the tent. The nearest paddock was several yards away, far enough to keep the scent of horses from mingling with that of brewing tea. A stunning roan mare was bobbing her head and prancing around. The pony knew she was a beauty. But could she beat Moorington, Lyndy’s pony? Stella would have to get closer to see.
“Pity,” Lady Philippa said. “Not having much occasion to mix with the right sort in your own country, it will be a challenge now that you’re forced to do so here.” Stella, bristling at the comment, returned her attention to those inside the tent. Lady Philippa’s mouth was turned up in a smile, but her eyes reflected the condescension in her tone. “I do hope you realize it is not like playing house. This party isn’t to gather your nearest and dearest together, like a Christmas dinner.”
“Or to placate the minor landowners in the area,” Lady Atherly added.
“This is a night of strategy,” Lady Philippa said, resting her hand on Stella’s arm as if she were doing her a kindness. Stella steeled herself against shaking it off. “You’ve invited the most important and influential people in the county, and you must treat them as such if you are to ever get on as Lady Lyndhurst.”
“To think, Lady Philippa, she wanted to invite Miss Snellgrove,” Lady Atherly said.
What was so wrong with Miss Snellgrove? The young woman was interested in horses and talked about topics beyond the Season and the weather. She’d even sent a Battenberg cake to Pilley Manor after Stella mentioned how much she enjoyed it at a tea last week. What if she were the daughter of the local silversmith? The young woman had been kind to Stella. Unlike Lady Philippa, who had feigned friendship with Stella only to use every social occasion to comment on Stella’s inferiority.
“Perish the thought!” Lady Philippa snapped her fingers at one of the maids bustling by with a tray and demanded tea be brought. Never looking at the girl, she didn’t see the maid roll her eyes. “I would never have accepted the invitation to Miss Kendrick’s dinner if I had thought I’d be obliged to suffer the likes of Miss Snellgrove.”
Like we’re all obliged to suffer the likes of you, Stella thought but kept to herself.
“Hello. Am I late?” a pleasant voice called.
The ladies all turned to see a man, barely past his fortieth birthday, leaning heavily on a cane, limp into the far side of the tent. He wore a brown Stetson hat. He slowly navigated the army of servants setting up the tables and chairs, laying out the dishes, teacups, saucers, silverware, and napkins and carrying trays of cakes, scones, and finger sandwiches. His arrival was a welcomed diversion.
“Mr. Barlow.” Lady Philippa’s face lit up as she reached out her arms to greet him. Stella had never seen the woman beam at her husband like that.
Mr. Barlow was quite handsome, with tanned, unblemished skin, thick, walnut brown hair and mustache, and deep-set, dark brown eyes. His suit was tailored to highlight the taut muscles in his arms. In his lapel, he wore an exotic orchid with silky, fan-like ivory petals streaked with rose-colored veins. His wide grin stretched the length of his face. His teeth were large and white. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“My dear, Lady Philippa, now don’t you look ravishing.” And she did. Even in a simple, high-collared, white lace tea gown, Lady Philippa’s beauty rivaled that of Lillian Russell or Evelyn Nesbit, with large green eyes, silky black hair, and an hourglass figure Stella could only envy. “And what company you keep. Who are these charming ladies?”
“Mr. Cecil Barlow, may I introduce the Countess of Atherly, her daughter Lady Alice Searlwyn, Miss Kendrick, and Miss Luckett. Lady Atherly, Mr. Cecil Barlow.”
Mr. Cecil Barlow bent at the waist, took Lady Atherly’s offered hand, and kissed her on the back of her hand. “But surely this must be Lady Alice? Where could the countess be?”
Stella grimaced at his unctuous compliment and was astonished to see Lady Atherly blush and reward Mr. Barlow with a smile.
“Of course, this is my daughter,” Lady Atherly corrected, indicating Lady Alice, standing beside her. As she offered her hand to be kissed, Lady Alice didn’t take her eyes off him. “We’re quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Atherly continued. “It was kind of you to accept our invitation on such short notice. I’m certain your presence will be a highlight of the day.”
“You are most gracious, Lady Atherly. I was honored to accept. But who knew I would meet such handsome women as you and your daughter? You could be twins.” Lady Alice giggled.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Atherly scoffed, waving away the absurd suggestion with her hand while a slight upturn of a smile lingered. Lady Alice gawked at the newcomer as Lady Philippa chuckled to herself. They were acting like schoolgirls. Even the maid, returning with a teapot and five cups and saucers, gaped at Mr. Barlow as she set down the tray. Was Stella the only one unaffected by the man’s charms?
“Then you must be Miss Kendrick?” he said, shining his bright, empty grin on Stella.
“Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barlow.”
“And I, Miss Kendrick, am forever your servant,” he said, removing his Stetson and bowing with a flourish. With his shirt unbuttoned at the top, Stella could see the hollow of his neck shadowed by hints of curly black hair. He wasn’t wearing a tie. Stella self-consciously covered her neck with her hand as he straightened and faced Aunt Rachel. “Why, Miss Kendrick, I didn’t know you had a sister.” He reached down and took Aunt Rachel’s hand. Blood rushed into Aunt Rachel cheeks.
“Well, I’ll be a bison’s backside,” Aunt Rachel declared. “From the stories I’ve heard, you’re a crazy young bronco, ain’t ya, Mr. Barlow?” Instead of dropping her hand, he laughed and raised it to his lips.
“You know I am, Miss Luckett,” he said, and winked. Aunt Rachel cackled in delight. Her too?
“Is it true you are a plant hunter, Mr. Barlow?” Stella asked, hoping to learn more about him beyond his ability to flatter.
Stella loved reading about adventurers, fictionalized and real: explorers, mountain climbers, fossil hunters, plant hunters, deep-sea ships’ captains. She’d never met one. She’d been so looking forward to meeting Professor Gridley, the world-famous paleontologist and fossil hunter, but so far this man, supposedly one of those daring adventurers who sought fame and fortune through the discovery of new plants wherever they may be, was a disappointment.
“Do you not know, Miss Kendrick?” Lady Alice whispered behind her hand. “Mr. Barlow is . . . is . . .” Her voice trailed to silence as she gazed in awe at the man.
“Is perhaps the most famous plant hunter since Baron von Humboldt,” Lady Philippa supplied as she handed Lyndy’s mother the first cup of tea. She then skipped Stella and Lady Alice, offering the next teacup to Mr. Barlow. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers.
“I wouldn’t compare myself to the incomparable Humboldt, but yes, I have done a bit of plant collecting of my own.”
“Come now,” Lady Atherly chided as her daughter, flushed and gaping like a fish, floundered trying to find her own words of reassurance.
“How you underestimate yourself, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Philippa added.
Mr. Barlow smirked as he took a sip of his tea, his eyes noting the flustered reactions of the women over the rim of his teacup. Stella inwardly sighed. False humility was unbecoming in a man, something she could never accu
se Lyndy of. Humility, false or sincere, wasn’t in Lyndy’s nature. But Mr. Barlow, on the other hand . . .
“I did discover this little beauty.” He stroked the petals of the orchid on his jacket. The other women cooed in admiration. How could the others not see it? “And all it took was scaling the side of a mountain seething with snakes and a variety of predatory cats.”
“I was just reading a most harrowing account of your expedition through the Amazon jungle,” Lady Alice, finding her tongue, said, revealing the copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal she’d held clasped to her chest all morning. The cover illustration was of Mr. Barlow holding a ruggedly carved pole two feet taller than himself. An improvised cane he’d made himself, no doubt. “Did you truly find a jaguar sleeping beneath your hammock?” Mr. Barlow nodded, his eyes closed in false modesty. Lady Alice turned to Stella, her cheeks flush, her eyes wide and bright. “And yet he returned with no less than thirty new plant species, many of them orchids.”
“And nearly died doing it,” Lady Philippa said, reaching her hands out to the plant hunter again, who immediately took both hers in his. “Until recently, he was thought to have perished in that dark place.”
A look of sympathy and understanding passed between the pair that had Stella and Aunt Rachel exchanging glances and casting their gaze around the tent. Had anyone else noticed? While Mr. Barlow enthralled Lady Philippa, her husband was most likely preoccupied with settling his pony in the holding pen. Thank goodness. What would Lord Fairbrother think?
“I had no idea that was you,” Stella said, hoping to bring Mr. Barlow’s attention back to botanical exploration.
Stella remembered hearing of a plant hunter killed in South America several years ago but had never heard that he’d reappeared alive and well in England. After catching her sneaking them to her room at night, her father hadn’t allowed her to read newspapers in over a year. She’d only begun stealing them again since moving to Pilley Manor. Mr. Barlow’s survival and subsequent return to civilization must be some story. Perhaps he could redeem himself with the tale.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 3
