“Yes. Thank you, Ethel.”
As the maid opened the door, the hum of murmured conversation mixed with the strands of soft music floated into the room from downstairs. Stella’s stomach lurched at the sound. If only she didn’t have to . . .
“Wait, Ethel. I have an idea.” Stella rose from her bench and hoisted the train of her dress over her arm. “Grab my shawl, will you? Quickly.”
“Certainly, miss, but it will ruin the effect of your dress.”
“They won’t care what I look like where we’re going.”
“We, miss?” Stella snatched the shawl Ethel had retrieved from the wardrobe and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. She’d be cold, but there wasn’t time to find her duster coat.
“Yes, Ethel. I’m driving you to Lyndhurst, to talk to the police.”
“Now?”
Stella laughed, relief flowing through her body. If she was quick enough, no one would stop them. She wouldn’t have to face the party downstairs. “I can’t think of a better time, can you?”
* * *
The crunch of the horses’ hooves on the gravel drive was rhythmical and reassuring as Lyndy led Tupper toward the house, the light fading quickly around them. He’d ridden the racehorse hard across open expanses of Furzley Common and Cadnam Green, steering clear of the brush and bracken. With both of their energy spent, he’d taken her up to Stagbury Hill to listen to distant birds call through the warm stillness, and admired the streaks of orange, red, and yellow stretch across the horizon as the sun set.
Lyndy had never been one to waste time in reflection, but with the events of the past few days, he’d found little peace of mind. What with meeting Stella, finding the vicar murdered, having his dream of owning a champion thoroughbred nearly realized and then dashed with the cruel theft of the stallion, he could think of nothing else. He’d taken the ride on Tupper, hoping the challenge would clear his mind. It had. Time spent on the Forest was never wasted.
The distant roar of a motorcar had broken the serenity of the sunset. Who else had a motorcar besides . . . ? He’d hurried back.
What was Stella up to now?
Music wafted from the open door as the silhouette of a couple entered the house. Was that Alice playing Mozart? A carriage passed him and pulled around the drive. A couple alighted as Lyndy approached the house. Mother’s soiree! He’d completely forgotten.
“She’s magnificent, Lord Lyndhurst.” Baron Branson-Hill, thin as a lath and rumored to own a hundred horses, patted the horse’s neck as Lyndy motioned for the groom lingering in the shadows, waiting for his return.
“She is,” Lyndy said as the groom led Tupper away.
“Any news on the thoroughbred stud?” Baron Branson-Hill asked. Lyndy wished he hadn’t.
Lyndy swallowed down the sourness that rose in his throat. Lyndy’s stomach churned from just thinking about the stolen horse. The police had been very tight lipped. Did they, like he, think the horse would never be found? The priceless animal had most likely been ferried to the Continent by now.
“You’ll probably know as soon as I do.”
The baron laughed as Lyndy followed him and his wife inside. But Lyndy hadn’t been joking. Gossip traveled fast. Mother’s soiree was evidence.
Despite the cost, every chandelier and wall sconce was lit. The scent of roses and gardenias filled the entrance hall and the grand saloon, as fresh bouquets adorned every tabletop. Music, now Debussy, soft and melodious, drifted in from the music room and accompanied the din of conversation and laughter. Two days ago, Mother couldn’t find anyone but the Westwoodes to witness the wedding. Now, after His Majesty had called Stella delightful, the house was full of “well-wishers” from the best families in Hampshire. He had to get out of there.
“Where is your delightful fiancée?” sneered Lady Philippa Fairbrother, a buxom, black-haired beauty in a green silk and velvet dress. Lyndy’s gaze swept across the room. Stella wasn’t in sight. Philippa put her hand on Lyndy’s arm. Lyndy stiffened at her touch. “Poor Lyndy. Is she as uncouth as they say?”
Lyndy knew Philippa through her brother at Eton. She was Mother’s favorite to marry Lyndy, before Papa’s fossil expedition expenditures made it impossible. Thank God for horse fossils. The woman was a viper.
“Yes, and it’s quite refreshing.” Philippa frowned at Lyndy’s retort and let her hand slip away. Lyndy brushed his sleeve where her hand had been.
“Lyndy, a word!” Mother called, weaving her way through the guests toward him. “How lovely you look, Lady Philippa. If you’ll excuse us for a moment.” Lady Philippa smiled and nodded knowingly as Mother wrapped her arm around Lyndy’s and led him toward a quiet corner. “Where have you been?”
“Out riding. I needed to—”
“Do you know what Miss Kendrick has done? Do you?” How could he know? And then he remembered the roar of the motorcar on the heath. Mother smiled at Lady Yardley, a heavyset matron in a flouncy lavender lace gown, as she passed. “She left. Left!” Mother whispered through clenched teeth, determined to keep the smile on her face. “Without a word to me or any of my guests.”
“Oh, dear. Why?”
“She told your father she had to take a housemaid to the police station.”
Lyndy laughed. How brilliant! At least Stella had figured a way out of this charade.
“Do you find this amusing? Our guests came here to meet Miss Kendrick.”
“Then invite them to the wedding.”
Mother glared at him but said nothing. What could she say? She knew he was right.
Lyndy spied Lord Hugh chatting with Sir Alfred Goodkin, another chum from Eton. “Now, if you’ll excuse me while I mingle with our guests.”
“What’s this about the footman?” Sir Alfred asked the moment Lyndy reached his side.
“He is also Lyndy’s valet,” Hugh added. “That makes it all the worse.”
Yes, it does.
At first, Lyndy had been annoyed at Harry’s arrest: it was bad enough when Papa let the third footman go last month and Harry had to serve at table. Lyndy had spent over a year molding Harry into his perfect gentleman’s man. Harry was loyal, able, proud and, above all, discreet. Now who was going to dress him, who was going to shave him, and who was going to draw his bath? Who else was he going to be able to trust?
Lyndy had been equally insulted. How dare the police insinuate, with so little evidence against him, that Harry had done anything criminal? It reflected poorly on them, on Harry and, worst of all, on Lyndy.
But most of all, Lyndy had been troubled. Why would Harry have the vicar’s prayer book? He knew Harry couldn’t read. It was an unspoken secret between them. Lyndy didn’t mind the pretense, as it had never interfered with Harry’s duties. But having the prayer book didn’t make Harry a killer. Harry wasn’t capable of harming anyone. Unfortunately, Lyndy knew who was.
“You were in Rosehurst when they arrested Harry, weren’t you?” Lyndy asked Hugh. Hugh nodded. What had taken Hugh into Rosehurst? Hugh had never said. He’d been there the afternoon of the murder as well. “The police have the ridiculous notion that my man had something to do with the vicar’s death.”
“But didn’t a maid see a strange man running from the library?” Despite being in Rosehurst at the time, Hugh, who reveled in gossip, was, not surprisingly, well informed.
“It appears they don’t believe her.”
“Oh, Lord Hugh, dear,” Mrs. Westwoode called, pulling a hapless man in spectacles toward them.
“Drink?” Hugh said before dodging past Sir Alfred and into the crowd.
Lyndy gave his excuses to Sir Alfred as Mrs. Westwoode craned her neck in search of Hugh. Lyndy cast his gaze about as he caught up with Hugh heading toward the less crowded drawing room. “Have you seen my father?” Perhaps Papa knew more about Stella’s spontaneous trip to the police station.
“Lord Atherly and Mr. Kendrick are holed up in the study. Something about a fossil expedition?” Hugh said.
Lyndy nodded knowingly. That was how Papa and Mr. Kendrick had met in the first place, through their mutual friend, Professor Gridley, the leader of Papa’s latest expedition to find horse fossils in Wyoming. Ironically, the expedition, or more precisely its exorbitant cost, was the driving force behind Papa’s decision to arrange Lyndy’s marriage with an American heiress.
“Your mother is not pleased, with him or your Miss Kendrick. If Mrs. Westwoode introduces me one more time as her ‘darling daughter’s fiancé,’ I, too, might have to make an escape.”
“What took you into Rosehurst, Hugh?”
“Did you see Lady Philippa?” Hugh whispered. He didn’t answer the question.
“You know I did,” Lyndy said.
Hugh winked, nudging Lyndy with his elbow. Hugh was one of those men who hoped to take a mistress the moment his wife produced an heir and a spare.
I’d been one too. But now?
“Well, I hear she and Lord Fairbrother aren’t well suited,” Hugh said, winking and smiling. No man could be well suited to Lady Philippa.
Except for a tête-à-tête of a young couple whispering and giggling by the mantel, the drawing room was empty. The couple bolted the moment Lyndy and Hugh walked in.
“Why do you think your man did it?” Hugh asked.
“I don’t think he did.”
Hugh raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Then why do the police think he did it?”
“Money. Supposedly, the vicar had the audacity to carry thousands of pounds strapped to his leg.” Hugh flopped down into one of the wingback armchairs.
“What would a footman do with that kind of money, anyway?” Hugh asked, as Lyndy strolled over to the liquor tray on the side table.
Who knew about Harry? But Lyndy knew what Hugh would do. Hugh had debts. At the Derby, Hugh had wagered thousands more than Lyndy knew his friend had. Until recently His Grace the Duke of Tonnbridge had been indulgent with his second son, happy to have him return safely from that cursed war in Africa. But Hugh had confided a few days ago that the duke, hoping to encourage maturity and economy in his son, had recently cut back on his allowance. Obviously, the duke’s hopes had yet to come to fruition.
“I have to admit I’m not surprised someone killed him,” Hugh said.
Lyndy, having poured Hugh’s whiskey, clanked glass against glass as he jammed the decanter stopper in with force. “Why is that?”
“Bully was not your typical God-fearing vicar.”
“Bully? Clyde Harris called him that. I’d never heard that before.”
Hugh chuckled as he took the glass Lyndy held out to him. “A nickname my father gave the good Reverend Bullmore years ago.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
That was a bit disingenuous on his part. He should’ve added, “Until the day before his murder, when you argued with the man.” Lyndy had never mentioned the argument. Should he now?
“He was a favorite of my father’s, being an oddity in His Majesty’s circles—a vicar who was an unrepentant punter,” Hugh said. “Bully used to come to Wellston Castle for the house party during Ascot every year.”
Reverend Bullmore, a fixture of the Turf, associated with the then Prince of Wales and his social circle and an annual guest of the Duke of Tonnbridge? Lyndy had had no idea. If he was to believe the gossip, the vicar was also connected with the scandal at Carcroft House. Did Hugh know anything about it?
“That was before he dropped out of society,” Hugh said. “If you listen to the gossip, he went to Everton Abbey.”
Lyndy had heard of Everton Abbey. It was an Anglican monastery in eastern Hampshire, known for its extreme austerity. Lyndy cringed thinking about it. “Why would he do that?”
“Why, Lyndy, my good man. When have you ever listened to gossip?”
“Never. That’s why I’m asking you.”
Hugh laughed. They both knew Hugh was as bad as the women when it came to gossip. “Point taken. Supposedly, he went because he was involved in a notorious scandal.”
“Clyde Harris implied Reverend Bullmore was paid off after the incident at Carcroft House. Is that what you’re saying?”
Hugh shrugged. “That’s why it’s gossip, my friend. No one really knows the truth.”
“The truth,” Lyndy said. “Pity that has never stopped anyone’s blathering.”
“How true!” Hugh laughed before gulping down what was left in his glass. “Let’s get fuddled, old chap!”
Hugh held out the empty glass, shaking it. Lyndy took the glass and returned to the liquor tray. The glow from the chandelier above glistened off the glass and the crystal bottles, throwing shards of light across the silver tray. That tired old tune Schubert’s “Serenade” drifted in when a couple of old, drooping matrons, looking for somewhere quiet to sit, peeked in.
“Join us for a drink, ladies?” Hugh said, then laughed as the women slammed the door.
Lyndy loathed baiting his friend, but he knew Hugh hadn’t told him everything. Those same rumors that accused the vicar of taking hush money also put Hugh at Carcroft House that scandalous night. Lyndy had never given the rumors about Hugh any credence, until now. Lyndy reached for the whiskey and, before pouring Hugh another drink, poured himself one.
CHAPTER 17
“I think she should carry a Princess Plume bouquet. Do you know what a Princess Plume bouquet is, Miss Kendrick?” Mrs. Westwoode did not hesitate a moment for Stella’s response. “No, I can’t imagine you would, would you? Being an American.”
There it was. Another not so subtle insinuation that she wasn’t a properly raised English lady. When Lady Atherly left to consult with the housekeeper about the day’s menus, Mrs. Westwoode had commented on Stella’s presumed ignorance of proper wedding menus. Now it was wedding flowers. And each insinuation carried a reference to Stella’s “impolite and impetuous” failure to appear at the party last night. Stella preferred Lady Atherly’s stern admonishment “not to embarrass me again” far better than Mrs. Westwoode’s insidious droning.
“Baroness Branson-Hill carried one at her wedding. You would’ve met her last night if you’d only been there.”
Stella ignored the hurtful comments, as she did Daddy’s when they were at home. But unlike at home, she couldn’t hide in the stables. Not that she hadn’t tried. Stella had gone there early, only to have Lady Atherly send someone to fetch her for breakfast. She’d been trapped in the drawing room with the other women ever since.
But it had been worth it, hadn’t it?
“It’s a combination of white orchids and green Farleyencis fern. It’s quite spectacular and dignified and requires much patience to design. Elizabeth seems determined to carry lilies of the valley. What are you planning to carry, Miss Kendrick? If you decide to attend your own wedding, that is.”
Stella neglected the Jack London book in her lap—who could read with Mrs. Westwoode droning on like that?—and stared out the window longingly at a pair of snowy white swans drifting about on the pond down the hill. What she wouldn’t give to be one of them right now.
“Perhaps a simple bouquet of lilacs, since everything about your nuptials is under a cloud. Poor Lady Atherly. What was she thinking? Do you even know when or where it will take place, Miss Kendrick? Perhaps that will be your excuse not to make an appearance?”
Wasn’t providing Harry with an alibi a good excuse?
“Did I tell you Elizabeth and Lord Hugh are to be married at the His Grace’s private chapel at Wellston Castle in three weeks’ time?”
Stella barely heard the question. Mrs. Westwoode had rambled on and on about her daughter’s wedding plans for . . . How long had it been? An hour or two, maybe more? Besides, Mrs. Westwoode had no interest in Stella’s opinions. Was there no way to escape this woman’s voice or her subtle reprimands?
“Should you become Lady Lyndhurst before my darling becomes Lady Hugh Drakeford, though I doubt—”
Lyndy walked past the window. “Excuse me,” Stella said, snapping shut he
r book. Lady Alice and Miss Westwoode glanced up from their jigsaw puzzle, a scenic river scene from Switzerland. Stella tossed her book down, ignoring the look of consternation and surprise on Mrs. Westwoode’s face.
“Where are you going now, Miss Kendrick?” Mrs. Westwoode asked.
“Hold on, girlie,” Aunt Rachel said, struggling to rise from her chair.
“It’s all right, Aunt Rachel. You stay put.” Stella wasn’t about to wait for her.
Stella hurried from the drawing room and down the hall. She paused a moment when the second footman opened the front door; it should’ve been Harry.
Had Ethel’s confession been worth it? Was it enough to get Harry released? Would Lady Atherly dismiss Ethel for breaking the rules? Would Inspector Brown speak with Ethel again? Would he believe the maid? And if Harry didn’t kill the vicar, who did?
Stella, flustered by her frustration and doubt, rushed out the front door, hatless and gloveless, and straight into the path of a New Forest pony. The group, which had been grazing mere steps from Morrington Hall’s front door, scattered a few yards away. Catching up to Lyndy momentarily forgotten, Stella stood, transfixed. She was transported back home, to a pasture full of horses in Kentucky. No, this was better. The ponies, though smaller than the horses she was used to, wandered freely. She would have loved that as a child. Did they all have names? Did this same group frequent Morrington Hall’s lawn regularly? What would they do if she approached them?
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Stella, having crept up on the closest pony, a bay-colored mare, paused, the hand she’d raised to pet the animal frozen in the air. “And why not?”
Her tone was harsher than she’d intended. Her worry about Ethel and Harry, her frustration at being belittled and lectured to, her resentment for being trapped inside all morning were catching up to her. Why was she taking it out on him?
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