“Good night, Hugh,” Lyndy said, sounding quite surly. She hesitated for only a moment. What made him think it was Lord Hugh at his door? Why was he angry? “It’s Stella,” she whispered.
Crash!
Stella jumped as the sound of metal clanging against metal reverberated from down the hall. Someone had bumped against a suit of armor as they staggered down the hallway in the darkness. Who was that?
The flowing sleeves and flouncy lace of Stella’s robe fluttered as the door flung open. Lyndy grabbed her arm and yanked her into his room. He glanced up and down the hall before he closed the door carefully, quietly, behind her. He was wearing only his trousers and undershirt beneath his open dressing gown. Stella blushed. She’d never seen a man undressed before. She averted her eyes. The carpet was Persian, an explosion of tiny colorful flowers—red, gold, black, green, and blue—intricately woven together. Stella stared at a design that reminded her of bluebells from back home.
“Who was that out there?” she asked.
“Hugh. He’s drunk.” Lyndy tied the sash of his dressing gown around his waist. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I need to talk to you. I’m not sure if you know, but while you were gone, the police—”
“Couldn’t it wait?”
“Wait? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
“Are you always this impatient?” he said irritably.
She placed her hands on her hips. “Are you always this rude?”
Lyndy glared at her, then crossed to the bed and dropped onto the edge of it. It was a carved mahogany four-poster bed like the one in Stella’s room. Only the carving on the headboard differed. “I confronted Hugh,” he grumbled.
A million questions swirled through her head, pushing aside what she’d come to tell him. But he obviously wasn’t in the mood to indulge her curiosity. She restrained herself to one.
“And?”
“He didn’t kill the vicar.” He looked up at her, scowling. He’d cleared his friend’s name of the murder. Why was he so upset? “He was in London at the time.”
“But?”
He chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed. “You are relentless, aren’t you?”
“I’m an American.”
“Yes, there is that.”
She fixed her eyes on him in anticipation.
“I discovered a secret best forgotten.”
It couldn’t be worse than killing the vicar.
“Then why aren’t you relieved? Your friend isn’t a murderer.”
“Yes, but . . . he’s not the man I believed he was.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant. She wanted to put her arm around his shoulders and comfort him. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders instead.
“I’m sorry.”
People had disappointed Stella her whole life: her father, her “friends,” even Aunt Rachel. Only horses seemed to be honest about who they were, for good or bad. She looked at Lyndy. Would he disappoint her too?
“What was it that you wanted to tell me?” he said, reviving a little and fiddling with the collar of his dressing gown. The brown silk of the collar went well with his eyes.
“The police came while you were in London. They found Orson.”
“They did?”
What was that in his voice? Surprise, concern, relief?
Stella nodded.
“Where? When? Who? Is he injured?”
“Who’s the impatient one now? Maybe I should wait to tell you,” Stella said, teasing.
“Fair enough,” Lyndy said, a faint glint in his eyes, a crooked smirk on his face.
Stella smiled. “He’s fine, thank goodness, though we’ll have to have the vet around in the morning.”
“Who took him?”
“Herbert, the groom, and his brother-in-law. The police found Orson in the brother-in-law’s paddock a few miles from here this afternoon. They’ve both been arrested. Unfortunately, neither of them could’ve killed the vicar or attacked Mrs. Westwoode. But I have an idea about someone who might’ve.” Stella ignored the skeptical look on Lyndy’s face and continued. “Yesterday I followed Herbert to the pub near the village green in Rosehurst.”
“Yes, I heard about that. Mrs. Westwoode said her daughter prevented you from going inside.”
“Well, it was actually Lady Alice, but Mrs. Westwoode was right that I didn’t go inside. But I did get a good look. Who do you think I saw rushing out the back way?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Westwoode.”
Lyndy laughed. It was little more than a loud chuckle, as Lyndy never laughed properly. No one she’d met since she arrived at Morrington Hall, besides the men in the stables, had laughed properly. It wasn’t the response she’d expected, but she liked his loud chuckle, nonetheless.
“I don’t blame him. I would’ve snuck out the back door too. If Mrs. Westwoode knew . . .” he said.
“That’s not all. Mr. Westwoode lied to his wife about his gambling success. She claims he won, but I saw him tear up his ticket. Who knows how much he lost that day.”
Lyndy hooked his finger over his dimpled chin. “Do you know, I learned something quite extraordinary about our Mr. Westwoode. Hugh wasn’t the only one in this house to borrow money. Also, Westwoode paid off his debts on Derby Day. You don’t think . . . ?”
“That he killed the vicar and paid off his debts with the money? It’s possible. But did he attack his own wife?”
“Have you met Mrs. Westwoode?”
Lyndy had a point.
CHAPTER 28
As Papa, Mother, Alice, and the other parishioners filed out and greeted the new vicar, Lyndy glanced back at the family pew. Stella, clutching the curved back of the pew in front of her, worn smooth by generations of hands, stared straight up at the ceiling of St. Peter’s Church. Miss Luckett sat patiently beside her.
Not wishing to jar his new peace of mind, Lyndy had heard little of the new vicar’s sermon, a somber reminder of Reverend Bullmore’s untimely death. Instead, he’d amused himself by watching Stella experience the awe of the Norman church. She hadn’t listened attentively to the vicar’s pontifications either. She’d gazed at the ancient stones, the hand-carved wooden beams holding up the roof, and the stained-glass windows of St. Peter and his fellow apostles, which were given to the church by the fourth Earl of Atherly. She’d strained to read the centuries-old inscriptions on the floor and walls, some more legible than others, revealing the crypts of those long buried, many of them Lyndy’s ancestors. A power and reverence emanated from this place, though it was barely larger than their drawing room. From the look on her face, he knew her church in Kentucky was nothing like St. Peter’s. But was that a good thing or not?
Lyndy breathed in the lingering scent of incense, relishing his relief. Orson was back in their stables, unharmed and feisty as ever. He’d tried to take a nip at Lyndy when he’d visited the stables before church.
“Lyndy, Miss Kendrick.” Mother beckoned them with a sharp snap of her head.
Lyndy crossed the cold gray stone floor. Stella, hearing the tap of his shoes echo, pulled her gaze away from the ceiling.
“Mother would like us to join the others.”
Stella nodded, shuffled between the wooden pews, and followed Lyndy toward the door. Miss Luckett followed not far behind. When they reached the vestibule, Stella reached out and touched the walls, irregular fieldstones set in rough plaster centuries ago. She shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. He offered his arm. Somber and thoughtful, she took it, and they stepped outside together. She hadn’t uttered a sound. Perhaps she’d listened more carefully to the new vicar’s sermon about Reverend Bullmore’s death than Lyndy had. Would the police ever catch the killer?
The new vicar was speaking with Miss Westwoode and Mrs. Westwoode, his white and gold vestments brilliant despite the overcast sky. He was about ten years Lyndy’s senior, with thick black hair, spectacles, and a beard. He had a habit of sticking his finger in
his ear and wiggling it. Lyndy had already seen him do it twice. Without knowing why, Lyndy took an instant dislike to the man.
“Reverend Paine,” Mother said, “may I introduce Lord Lyndhurst, my son?” Mother waved briefly to Mrs. Fisher, whom she knew from the annual Rosehurst floral show, as the lady exited the church. The vicar tipped his head.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
“Vicar.”
“And this is his betrothed, Miss Stella Kendrick.”
Stella’s hand tightened on Lyndy’s arm. Was she still uncomfortable being introduced as such? Hadn’t they come farther than that?
“Enchanté,” the vicar said.
“Nice to meet you, Reverend Paine,” Stella said. “May I introduce my great-aunt—”
“Elijah Kendrick, at your service, Vicar,” Mr. Kendrick said, brushing Stella aside and shoving out his plump, stumpy hand. The vicar politely shook it. “Bad business about the first one. I presume you’ll be as eager as I am to expedite my daughter’s wedding to the viscount? It was supposed to be yesterday. I have to get back to the States, but I’ll be damned if I leave before I see her wed. When a man only has one daughter, he has to see it’s done right.”
Several matrons, waiting their turn to greet the new vicar, murmured their disapproval at Mr. Kendrick’s coarse behavior, his vulgarity.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss this, Mr. Kendrick,” Reverend Paine said. He indicated the line of parishioners behind them. Men cleared their throats; lads shifted from one foot to the next; women whispered to their neighbor behind gloved hands; children tugged on their mothers’ sleeves. They were growing impatient.
“Why not? You’re here, Lord and Lady Atherly are here, and I’m here. I think this is the perfect time and place.”
“But others are waiting, Mr. Kendrick,” Mrs. Westwoode hissed between her teeth. She glanced about to see necks craning as the line of parishioners condensed into a cluster that was slowly inching forward. The American horse breeder seemed oblivious to the growing impatience, and curiosity, of the crowd.
Mother’s calm exterior couldn’t hide her indignation at the impropriety of it all. “Mr. Kendrick, I think it best to discuss this inside, after Reverend Paine is done greeting everyone,” Mother said, hoping to put an end to it.
“But this won’t take long, will it, Reverend?” Mr. Kendrick said.
The vicar hesitated before answering. Doubt flickered in the vicar’s eyes.
“Besides, they don’t have to wait.” Kendrick pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “There’s always next Sunday, right?”
“Well, if you insist, I must say, what with the death of Reverend Bullmore so fresh on everyone’s mind—”
“Whose doing was that? Your sermon was—” Mr. Kendrick interrupted, but the vicar cut him short.
“I’d like to greet my other parishioners now, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s all this hemming and hawing about?” Miss Luckett said. “Out with it, Preacher.”
The vicar started, like a chicken seeing a fox. But he quickly regained his composure. “What I was saying is that I think we should postpone the wedding until—”
“I say, what’s going on?” Hugh eyed the crowd as he strolled past to join them. He’d been last to leave the church.
Needing a few extra minutes to pray and ease your conscience, Hugh? Lyndy doubted it.
“Good news about the stolen stallion,” Hugh said, slapping Lyndy on the back. Lyndy merely nodded. It wasn’t good news. It was brilliant news. But Hugh’s demonstration of callousness and greed still stung. “From what I hear, the horse was no worse for wear.”
“Good thing too,” Mr. Kendrick said. “I wasn’t relishing calling in my lawyers.”
Mrs. Westwoode reached over and tugged Hugh’s arm. “This is my daughter’s fiancé, Lord Hugh Drakeford, son of His Grace the Duke of Tonnbridge,” she announced. “Lord Hugh, dear, this is the new vicar of Rosehurst, Reverend Paine.”
“Yes, and I’m sure he is one, at that,” Hugh said jovially.
Miss Luckett winked at him.
Lyndy hadn’t expected to find Hugh abundantly cheerful this morning, especially considering last night’s indulgences, but then, why not? With Lyndy’s promise to keep Hugh’s secret, for Hugh nothing had changed.
If only that were true for me.
The vicar bowed, but his smile faded. Several snickers and chuckles escaped from those parishioners closest to Hugh. Mr. Kendrick, having no couth, as usual, snorted with laughter.
“I bet you get sick of that joke, eh, Reverend?” Mr. Kendrick said, still chuckling.
Reverend Paine said nothing but waved the nearest person forward. The audience was over.
* * *
“I do believe we had the same brilliant idea,” Lyndy said as Stella descended the stairs in her riding habit, the top hat the perfect extension of her elegant neck. Her long skirt swayed as she skipped off the last step. He, too, was dressed for riding.
He’d missed a golden opportunity, having Stella in his bedroom last night. He’d been upset with Hugh, yes, but he wasn’t blind. The soft curves beneath her dressing gown made her as alluring as any woman he’d known. What was wrong with him? Had he been that angry with Hugh, or could it be something else?
Damn this new conscience!
“They say, ‘Make hay while the sun shines,’” she said, smiling. “I say, ‘Let’s ride before the English rain falls.’”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Fulton opened the door, and Lyndy, bowing, indicated for Stella to go first.
“Are you both going riding before tea?” Mother said, a fresh bunch of pink peonies in her arms. Since she’d had to dismiss much of the gardening staff, Mother had taken to keeping the flower vases full. “Miss Kendrick mustn’t go without a chaperone.”
Ignoring Mother, Lyndy grabbed Stella’s hand and led her outside. Tully and Beau were waiting for them. Lyndy waved off the groom holding Tully’s reins, and as he assisted Stella in mounting, he caught a glimpse of the trousers she wore beneath her skirt. He watched, transfixed, as Stella hooked her leg around the top pommel of her sidesaddle and smoothed her skirt across her knees.
“I think your mother has got it all wrong,” Stella said, pulling the veil over her face. She adjusted the reins and crop in one hand before leaning over to pat the horse on the neck with the other.
“I agree with you,” Lyndy said, looking up at her, the image of her leg still in his mind. “But in what way are you referring?”
“I think it is you who needs the chaperone.” She’d caught him staring! With that, Stella clicked her tongue, spurring her horse into a trot.
“Hey!” Lyndy shouted, springing into his saddle. Stella was already across the lawn before Lyndy urged Beau into a canter to catch up.
Lyndy chased her across Butts Lawn, Fletchers Green and then through Queen Bower. Despite her inexperience with the Forest, Stella expertly navigated the gorse thickets, the heath patches, and the sprawling stands of bracken. Without hesitation, she and Tully leaped many small seasonal ponds left by the rain. He’d nearly caught up to her when they rode out on to Poundhill Heath, speckled with New Forest ponies, several head of cattle, and the old gray donkey, Headley, who had a penchant for brambles and carrots. The donkey belonged to a commoner from Minstead, but since childhood, Alice had pretended it was her pet.
Stella encouraged Tully to run faster. Lyndy couldn’t tell who was enjoying the ride more, the woman or the thoroughbred. The ponies, used to sharing the land, moved to make way, but Headley, who Lyndy suspected had lost most of his eyesight years ago, didn’t budge.
“Watch out for the donkey,” Lyndy yelled, laughing and feeling ridiculous.
Stella showed no signs of hearing him or heeding him. She and Tully ran headlong toward the towering oaks that bordered the heath. Lyndy squeezed Beau hard with his thighs, spurring the horse to catch up, but Beau was no match
for Tully.
“Watch out for the donkey!” Lyndy yelled again, the wind in his face muffling the sound of his warning.
Stella deftly steered Tully to the left to avoid the stubborn and blind old animal. Lyndy sat back in his saddle, relieved. How foolish he’d been for questioning the skill of the horse and her rider. Beau slowed, but Tully didn’t as the thoroughbred approached the path through the wood. Like a brown and white spotted flag, a fallow deer leaped from its hiding place in Tully’s path. The horse reared. Stella’s top hat flipped off, flew over the horse’s back, and landed upside down on the grass.
Lyndy kicked Beau with his heels, shouting at the horse to run. He couldn’t get there fast enough.
Stella expertly clung to the horse’s back and soon regained her seat. As Lyndy approached, she was trying to calm the horse, to little avail. Prancing nervously about, Tully flicked her ears back and forth and curled her lip. The horse was pawing the ground when more deer sprang to life, crashing through the wood, snapping twigs and stomping brush in their escape. Tully bucked and ran.
Stella, pitched forward by the jolt, was hurled over Tully’s right shoulder. But instead of flying free of the horse, she hung, suspended a few inches above the ground, her hair catching on the tops of gorse bushes, her shoulder and back bouncing against the animal’s flank. Her skirt had caught on the top pommel.
Lyndy was helpless to do anything but watch. Beau pinned his ears back as Tully’s leather reins dropped and dragged along on the muddy ground. Then Stella’s skirt ripped free of her waist, releasing her. She tumbled to the ground, somersaulting twice, before lying motionless on her side.
Lyndy leaped from the stirrups before Beau had stopped a few feet away, and staggered as he ran, trying to catch his balance. He fell to his knees at her side.
“Stella!”
“Ah, that hurt,” she moaned.
He wanted to clasp her to him, cradle her, and kiss her. He wanted to rail at her for frightening him. He looked down helplessly at her instead. “Can you sit up?”
She rolled onto her back and stared up at him, her silky hair tangled and littered with bits of oak leaves, gorse twigs, and grass. Her face was unblemished but for a small scrape across her cheek. A rip in the left shoulder of her jacket revealed where she’d landed when she hit the ground. Cuts in the knees of her riding trousers revealed scrapes as well.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 23
