“Tell me about the last time you visited Miss Judd,” she asked.
Lyndy laughed.
What incident, what boyhood foible had he and the old housekeeper kept from Lady Atherly?
“It was all the fault of a donkey,” he said. “Headley, Alice nicknamed him, on account of his disproportionally large—”
“Lord Lyndhurst!”
Harris, the man with the jet-black mustache, stepped out in front of them. They barely avoided bumping into him. Aunt Rachel, a few steps behind, wasn’t as fortunate. Taken by surprise by the abrupt halt, she wobbled precariously as she used her cane to regain her balance on the soft grass. But it wasn’t enough. She had teetered forward too far. Lord Lyndhurst, seeing her distress, reached out as she began to fall. Harris, taking the viscount’s cue, dashed to take Aunt Rachel’s other arm, and between them, they set the old lady on her feet again.
“Thank you kindly, sirs,” Aunt Rachel said. “I thought I was a goner.”
Harris tipped his fedora hat at Aunt Rachel and then at Stella and smiled. “Lord Lyndhurst, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
The viscount, although taken aback by the man’s sudden appearance, was willing to oblige.
“Mr. Harris, this is Miss Kendrick, my fiancée.” Stella was still not used to hearing it said out loud, and her fingers momentarily clenched his arm. “And her great-aunt, Miss Luckett.” The old lady smiled with gratitude and then stepped respectfully back several feet. “Miss Kendrick, this is Mr. Clyde Harris, a . . . well-known figure on the Turf.”
“Mr. Harris,” Stella said.
Who was this man? A bookie, yes, but obviously much more.
“Congratulations are in order, Miss Kendrick,” Mr. Harris said.
Stella feigned a smile. She wasn’t sure about that.
“Doubly so if Cicero wins,” Mr. Harris added.
“Ah, so you know Orson is now at Morrington Hall,” Lord Lyndhurst said.
“I have heard it mentioned a time or two, among other things.” Clyde Harris chuckled.
“What other things?” Stella said.
Mr. Harris hesitated, as if deciding what he should say next. He leaned in a bit too close and said softly, “That your vicar was most unkindly prevented from attending today.”
“We feared as much,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “We were hoping to avoid the topic altogether.”
“To be honest, the recent events at Morrington Hall have been on everyone’s lips all day,” Mr. Harris said, shrugging, “and not all of it pertaining to the vicar’s demise.”
“Such as?” Stella asked.
Again, he hesitated. “Some of the more disreputable bookies have been taking wagers on whether the wedding will take place, many taking ten to one, against. Without an announcement in the Times, it’s been quite the topic of speculation.”
Stella didn’t know what to say. Was he joking?
“I say. That is most shabby of them,” Lord Lyndhurst said. He wasn’t joking.
The cryptic comment from the bookie about the odds being on her now made sense. Stella was appalled. Those gossiping women, the ones she had passed in the crowd, had been whispering about her? Her heart sank as she glanced around and caught more than one person gawking at her.
“Shabby?” Stella said, pulling away from the viscount. Her fingers began to tingle as the hurt, shame, and anger made her head ache. “That’s not the word I’d use for it. A man has been murdered, and people are betting on whether Lord Lyndhurst and I will get married or not?”
Lord Lyndhurst stole a quick glance at her. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Men were betting on her wedding. How could anyone treat her fate with such callousness? All the fun and excitement of the day was gone. She had allowed it to distract her from her wretched predicament but couldn’t anymore. Lord Lyndhurst hooked his arm around Stella’s again. She didn’t pull back but found no comfort in his steady hold.
“Shall we go back?” he asked.
She nodded, wishing she had never left the privacy of the box. With Miss Luckett shuffling behind, Lord Lyndhurst guided her away from the betting ring. Clyde Harris, oblivious to her distress, stepped in beside her. Why wouldn’t the man go away?
“If I may speak plainly, as you Americans do,” he said, “I think the word you might be looking for is befitting. Bully no doubt would’ve appreciated the irony.”
Bully? Stella had never heard Reverend Bullmore called by that nickname before. As gaunt as he’d been upon his death, the nickname couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“He would probably even bet a quid in your favor, being the gambler that he was.”
Curiosity and surprise lifted Stella out of her despondency long enough for her to ask, “He was?”
Mr. Harris nodded. “Got him into a heap of trouble with the church too. I hear that he did penance for it somewhere, to atone for his . . . sins.”
“For being a punter?” Lyndy said. “That seems a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”
Harris shrugged before exchanging pleasantries with a man who had a thick neck and wore a white top hat. Clyde Harris seemed to know everyone.
Could this have anything to do with his murder? Perhaps the vicar’s sins went beyond gambling?
When the stocky man moved on, Mr. Harris continued, as if they’d never been interrupted. “But interestingly enough, from what I hear, Bully hadn’t placed a wager in over three years. He hadn’t once graced my offices in Cork Street. Maybe he’d learned his lesson.”
“But?” Stella said expectantly. “You know more than you’re telling us, Mr. Harris.”
Clyde Harris looked at Lord Lyndhurst, surprise in his eyes. The viscount shrugged. Stella was beginning to get used to Englishmen reacting this way to her. What had she done now?
“As you rightly assumed, Miss Kendrick, there is more to the story.”
“But?” Stella said.
Still, Clyde Harris hesitated. He looked at Lord Lyndhurst, cast a glance at Stella, and then regarded the viscount again. “It is of the most delicate nature,” he whispered behind his hand.
“If you’re concerned about my delicate nature, don’t be.” Lord Lyndhurst nodded his concurrence. “After all,” Stella said, “Reverend Bullmore wasn’t just to marry us. We found him.”
“You . . . both . . . found . . . ?” Clyde Harris stammered. He wagged his finger back and forth between them. This was news to him. But if Stella read the man right, it wouldn’t be a secret for long.
“What is it you aren’t telling us, Mr. Harris?” Stella said, her troubles forgotten.
“I can’t confirm or deny it, but I’ve heard his name connected with a certain house party and a certain game of baccarat.”
“Are you telling me Reverend Bullmore was at Carcroft House?” Lord Lyndhurst said. He sounded skeptical. Was that also a hint of worry in his voice?
“Bully was quite the favorite on the Turf back then,” Mr. Harris said. “He went to all the best houses.”
“What happened at Carcroft House?” Stella asked.
Harris looked at her sideways. “You’ve never heard of the Carcroft House scandal? It was in all the London papers for weeks. The parties involved were subject to the most virulent accusations of ungentlemanly conduct. I assumed news of it reached our cousins across the pond.”
If it had, Stella wouldn’t have heard of it. It would have been the topic of gossip at balls, tennis parties, and teas. Stella rarely attended any of these. If Daddy had known, he wouldn’t have talked about it to her.
“Well, if the rumors are true,” Mr. Harris said, “someone cheated at baccarat, a card game that already met with widespread disapproval, during a house party held at Carcroft House for the St. Leger Stakes a few years back. A game instigated by His Majesty himself, I might add. The parties involved attempted to cover it all up. The rumor says several were paid for their silence, including the bloke that cheated.”
“If the rumors are true,” Lord Lyndhurst said.
<
br /> “Reverend Bullmore?” Stella asked.
Clyde Harris shrugged. “It’s what I’ve heard.”
As they approached their private box, a group of men below them called Harris’s name.
“That’s me, then.” Mr. Harris tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Kendrick, Miss Luckett, my lord.”
Lord Lyndhurst scowled as Clyde Harris skipped down the stairs to join his friends. Stella wasn’t the only one glad to see Harris go. But he’d left behind so many unanswered questions. Could the hush money from the baccarat game be one and the same as the money stolen from the vicar’s hidden money belt? Who else suspected Reverend Bullmore’s involvement in the scandal? Did the police know? Did his killer know?
“Was there a great deal of money involved?” Stella asked. “Who else knows about this?”
Suddenly, the muscles of Lord Lyndhurst’s jaw tightened. He tugged forcefully on his frock coat. Stella braced for the reprimand about mentioning money, but his attention was focused elsewhere. She followed his gaze. Was he looking at Daddy, cigar dangling between his lips as he rested the end of the racing program on his protruding belly, or at Mr. and Mrs. Westwoode, who were in a private discussion, their heads bent toward each other, her hand shielding their mouths from lip-readers? No, his eyes moved to follow the man who stood, a welcoming smile on his face as he motioned for them to join him. Why was Lord Lyndhurst scowling at Lord Hugh?
* * *
Herbert Kitcher wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He tucked it back into the pocket of his apron, stained and smelling of saddle soap and silver polish, and adjusted the saddle in his lap again. The sun was high, and the glare off the stirrup iron blinded him if he didn’t move it periodically. But he didn’t mind. These late spring days were unpredictable; misty rain could dampen him at any moment. He’d brought the saddles into the washing yard, the open-air space next to the coach house, which always smelled of wet cobblestones, to clean and polish them. Mr. Gates insisted Herbert clean the saddles in the harness room, but Mr. Gates wasn’t here. Herbert lifted his face to the sky and savored the sunshine.
Herbert liked it when the family was away. Mr. Gates, if he didn’t accompany them, would drive them to the train station before visiting a niece and her family in Christchurch. That left Herbert in charge, to harry the stable lads, to linger over his chores wherever and whenever he wanted, and to take a short kip if time allowed. Today, of all days, he counted on being left to his own devices. After the scrape he got into with the American lady, Herbert had worried he’d ruined everything. How could he have been such an idiot? Would he ever be free of Mr. Gates’s watchful eye? But then the family had packed up for Epsom—surprising, considering they had discovered a dead man in their library two days ago—and Mr. Gates had left for Christchurch. Herbert could relax. He was alone, and he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by.
“Oi, Leonard!” Herbert called for the second groom for the second time. Leonard was sluggish and was feeling poorly, but that didn’t excuse him from not answering when Herbert called. A shaggy-haired boy appeared around the corner, but it wasn’t Leonard.
“Where’s Leonard?”
“Leonard is exercising the new fillies, sir,” the lad said. Herbert nodded. The thoroughbreds had been carted across an ocean. The fillies needed to gallop about and stretch their legs as much as possible. Herbert would see to the new stallion later.
“Have all the horses been fed, and the loose boxes mucked out?”
“Yes, sir. Did you hear who won the Derby yet, sir?”
“Not yet, but my money is on Cicero.” Herbert wasn’t kidding. He’d put two pounds, more than a month’s wages, on the horse to win.
“That would be good, wouldn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, Charlie, that would be good. Now go fetch me a cup of tea and be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lad rushed off as Herbert polished the solid gold nameplate on the back of the saddle’s cantle. The etching read ORSON. Yes, it would be very good if Cicero won. Herbert would win a few pounds without lifting a finger, and Morrington Hall’s new thoroughbred stallion would be the most sought-after stud in England. Vigorously rubbing silver polish onto the stirrup iron, he studied the reflection of his ruddy, round face. Being the famous horse’s groom should carry with it some privileges, shouldn’t it? Before Mr. Gates got back from Christchurch tonight, Herbert meant to take advantage of some of those privileges.
Herbert smiled, despite the clouds that drifted across the sky, threatening to block out the sun. He had more than sunshine to look forward to.
CHAPTER 12
“Come on, Cicero. Come on!” Stella shouted at the toll of the starting bell.
On the far side of the track, the horses bolted from the gate. Quickly, the field became a blur of jerking, bobbing slick brown bodies ridden by streaks of men in bright white and colored silks. As they raced along toward the top of the hill and rounded the first turn of the track, Stella trained her eye to find Lord Rosebery’s primrose yellow and pink. The murmur of the crowd rose to a dull roar as the horses approached Tattenham Corner. The jockey of the horse trailing the pack was bareheaded. Somewhere on the top of the hill lay his helmet, a dot of white-and-yellow checks. Cicero was ahead on the downhill into the stretch; Jardy and Signorino fought neck and neck for a second.
“Pump him! Pump him!” Daddy shouted, holding his spyglass and clutching his ticket in his fist. The horses thundered down the home straight toward the winning post.
“Come on! Come on!” Stella yelled. “Come on!”
A deafening din of applause, cheers, and shouts burst out of tens of thousands of people as Cicero crossed the line, three-quarters of a length ahead of the others. Less than a head separated Jardy and Signorio as they finished second and third. The rest of the field thundered by.
“Attaboy!” Aunt Rachel called, stomping her cane on the ground.
“We did it! We did it!” Daddy shouted, as if he were Lord Rosebery, Cicero’s owner.
Stella, cheering and clapping until her hands hurt, had to stop herself from hugging Lord Lyndhurst, who was standing beside her. A wide grin crossed his face. He and Daddy shook hands with anyone offering their congratulations. Lord Hugh slapped Lord Lyndhurst on the back with a rolled-up program. But the others were more subdued than she’d expected. Mr. Westwoode tore up his ticket. Mrs. Westwoode, fussing with the broken embellishments on her hat, was outwardly annoyed. Could they have bet against Cicero? Stella couldn’t fathom why.
“Isn’t it thrilling?” Stella said.
“Yes,” Lord Lyndhurst said as he accepted another hearty handshake from a well-wisher. “Well done, I’d say.”
“My ears are ringing from all the hullabaloo,” Mrs. Westwoode shouted, holding her hands over her ears. She glared at Stella and then looked around at the people around them.
Stella followed her gaze. Despite the many well-wishers, more than one gentleman and lady of the Jockey Club had fixed their eyes on Stella, their heads shaking in disapproval, their mouths pinched in displeasure, or their heads bent together as they whispered behind fans. Was this more of the same, gossiping biddies speculating about whether she and Lyndy would marry? Or had she done it again, broken yet another unspoken rule of aristocratic etiquette?
“I can’t imagine why anyone yells and screams,” Mrs. Westwoode said. “The horses can’t hear you.”
Stella had been so caught up in the excitement of the race, she hadn’t realized until now that she, Daddy, and Aunt Rachel had been the only ones in the members’ enclosure, shouting at the top of their lungs. She had again done the unacceptable. But this time, she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to deprive herself of one of her few joys simply to appease someone else’s sensitivities.
Who decided these rules, anyway?
“I can’t imagine standing there as if you’re watching the grass grow,” Stella said, spying Cicero, surrounded by a mass of well-wishers, being led to the winner�
��s circle.
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Westwoode gasped.
Stella could feel the matron’s cold stare on her back, but she kept her spine straight and her back turned. She fixated on the happy, cheering crowds of shopkeepers, farmers, and tradesmen celebrating on the other side of the rails. They understood. What fun is a horse race if you can’t imagine yourself the jockey and will your horse to win with shouts of encouragement?
“Congratulations, Lyndy, dear boy,” Lord Hugh said, playfully shaking his friend by the shoulders. “This makes your new stallion quite the stud.”
“How many times do I have to say it?” Daddy said, watching the events in the winner’s circle through his spyglass. “The horse isn’t his until my daughter and Lord Lyndhurst marry.”
Daddy’s pronouncement thwarted Lord Hugh’s attempt to ease the tension. Why did Daddy have to harp on the subject, reminding her again and again? He was as bad as Mrs. Westwoode. With all the distress of the past few days, why couldn’t everyone just enjoy this triumphant moment?
“Pardon me, Lord Lyndhurst?” Standing next to the box was a tall man who had a waxed mustache and wore a beige top hat and matching frock coat. He pushed his spectacles in place with the tip of his index finger. “Am I correct in saying that you are the owner of Orson, sire of Cicero?”
“I’m the owner of Orson,” Daddy said. “Elijah Kendrick, at your service.” He thrust out his hand. “And you are?”
Gaping at Daddy’s outstretched hand, as if he were holding a wriggling fish, the man continued to address the viscount. “I apologize, my lord. I was told you were the horse’s owner.”
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