“This is our first business meeting since the tragic events at Ascot sixteen days ago.”
With a groan, Longhurst buried his face in his hands.
“I did not wish to offend anyone, but postponing this meeting would have been unwise. The Eclipse Stakes are less than two weeks away. We must deal with a few business details before then,” Sir Walter continued. “Of course, those of us who placed individual bets on the Donegal Dancer have already claimed our Ascot winnings.”
Freddy leaned close to Eliza. “You lucky girl.”
She grinned at the thought of those additional sixty guineas in her bank account.
Sir Walter pulled several thick sealed envelopes from a leather valise near his feet. “As per the Wrexham Racing Syndicate bylaws, I have calculated the various expenses incurred by our racehorse since our last business meeting. They are explained in detail, along with the dates of the aforesaid expenditures. You will also find a check made out to each owner for his or her share of the Ascot purse.” He smiled. “The Dancer is now officially undefeated this season.”
“Hear, hear.” The Duchess clinked her glass with Lord Saxton’s.
Sir Walter walked around the circle, distributing envelopes. He stopped at Brody and handed him an envelope as well. “Although Brody is not an owner, he did ride our colt to victory. According to our bylaws, he is entitled to a jockey’s share of the purse.”
Brody tucked the envelope inside his blazer while his young lady cuddled closer.
“Brody isn’t an owner?” Longhurst appeared puzzled. “I thought these meetings were only for owners and their families.”
“It is illegal for jockeys to own a racehorse, Mr. Longhurst,” the Duchess explained. “They are not allowed to bet on the races, either. It’s a conflict of interest, you see.”
“My record is a pretty stellar one, so I do all right,” Brody said to Longhurst.
“I bet you do, lovey.” The young brunette smiled up at the jockey.
“You’re the luv, Patsy.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “That you are.”
When Sir Walter closed his valise, Longhurst got to his feet again. “Wait a minute. Where is Diana’s share? Her death doesn’t make her less of an owner than all of you.”
“Actually it does,” Saxton said.
“What are you talking about? Diana was a part owner of the Donegal Dancer, and I am her lawful husband. That means one of those checks should be handed to me.”
Sir Walter looked uncomfortable. “As I feared, your late wife did not apprise you of the particulars spelled out in the syndicate’s contractual agreement. If she had, you would know that the shares each owner holds cannot be passed on to anyone else. They can only be sold.”
“What!”
“Yes, we thought it best if only the owners could lay claim to any of the shares. That means they are not transferable. Not even in cases of an owner’s death.”
“He’s quite right, Mr. Longhurst,” Lady Tansy said with a shrug. “If my beloved husband were to die choking on his kippers at tomorrow’s breakfast, I would have no legal claim on that horse. Not that I ever cared a farthing about owning a racehorse.”
“Exactly,” Sir Walter said. “For this accounting period, the other owners will pay Miss Price’s share of the expenses that have been incurred since the last meeting. But they will also share her profits from this last race, divided according to the proper percentages.”
“But I’m her husband, and the law says I inherit whatever belongs to her.”
“The law may say that, but not the contracts signed by each of the owners of the Donegal Dancer. Those owners are Turnbull, Saxton, the Duchess, Doolittle, and myself.” Sir Walter frowned. “Tragically, your wife is no longer an owner.”
Longhurst flung his hat to the ground. “I’ll see the lot of you in court!”
“Go ahead,” Turnbull said. “Waste your money—and our time.”
“I do wish this had been handled privately, Sir Walter,” the Duchess said.
“I thought it only right that he be informed as soon as possible,” he replied. “And I hoped the public setting would curtail any histrionics.”
“Histrionics? I’m angry, and rightly so. You’re cheating me!”
Lady Tansy rolled her eyes. “It appears there will be histrionics after all. I was also surprised by your appearance here today, Mr. Longhurst. I do believe you are officially in mourning.” She looked pointedly at his black suit.
“He looks like a damn undertaker,” Saxton muttered.
“I am grieving for my sweet wife. It’s the decent thing to do. Shows a lot more respect for her memory than you,” he said to Saxton. “Sitting there in your fancy gold blazer and silly white pants. Do you think you honor my wife’s memory because you stuck a black armband on your sleeve? You filthy hypocrite.”
Saxton pushed himself to his feet.
“Maitland, really. Behave yourself.”
He ignored his wife. “Don’t call me a hypocrite! I cared about that woman. I still can’t believe she’s gone. And for what? Her murder makes no sense. Unless we listen to the papers who claim the killer is some lunatic supporter of women’s suffrage.”
“We don’t know Harold Hewitt is guilty,” the Duchess said.
“I don’t think it was that madman. I suspect someone else did the deed.” He narrowed his eyes at Longhurst. “It wouldn’t be the first time a jealous husband was driven to murder.”
Eliza agreed with him. At least three people at the picnic might have wanted Diana dead.
With a growl, Longhurst lunged at Saxton. Although his sudden attack threw the taller man off balance, Saxton kept upright. The two of them gripped each other’s arms and pushed like battling stags. Freddy and Brody hurried to pull them apart.
“Stop this right now!” The Duchess smacked both men with her parasol.
Freddy held Saxton’s arms, while the wiry jockey managed to pull Longhurst off to the side. “Just like a Saturday night at the Ten Bells, ain’t it, Lizzie?” Her father winked.
Eliza thought it best to leave before the next fight began. “We should go, Mrs. Turnbull,” she said. “The luncheon interval is almost over, and Freddy must get back to his rowing team.”
“No, please.” Rachel Turnbull rose to her feet. She smoothed down her silvery gray skirt. “I do not want the luncheon to end in such disarray. Please release Lord Saxton, Mr. Eynsford Hill. I think we can trust him to keep his composure now.”
After Freddy obliged, she whispered something in Saxton’s ear. Like a disobedient pupil told to return to his desk, he sat back down on the blanket next to his haughty young wife. Eliza stared wide-eyed when Rachel approached Longhurst next.
“I apologize for the harsh words that have been spoken this afternoon. You have been dealt a bitter blow, and are deserving of our sympathy. Not our censure.”
Longhurst’s face crumpled at her gentle words, and he bent over sobbing. Rachel led him back to his cushioned bench. He collapsed onto it, one hand covering his eyes.
“I think we all need to calm down before the races resume,” Rachel said. “There is another hamper with more sweets, and I encourage everyone to drink something. The day is warm, and a bit of lemonade, tea, or water may help bolster our spirits.” She looked over at Lady Tansy. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, but it’s too beastly hot for tea.” She fanned herself faster.
“I’ll have another cup.” Turnbull snapped his fingers for the maid. “Be more generous with the cream and honey this time.”
While the maid headed to the silver tea urn with his cup, Rachel turned to Longhurst. “Would you like a cup of tea as well?”
He shook his head violently. “I’d rather die of thirst. Any tea bearing the Turnbull name is no better than swill.”
That remark seemed to hurt Rachel, so Eliza gestured to the nearby footman. “I’d like a cup of tea, please. Cream, three lumps of sugar.”
She elbowed Freddy
, who piped up, “Me too. Only lemon with mine.”
An uneasy but welcome silence followed. It was so quiet, Eliza could hear the Leander Rowing Club singing by the shore, accompanied by the chatter of chickadees. Brody’s friend Patsy looked at what remained of the food and drinks.
“Are there any dates left? Or some sugared berries? And I might have a bit of tea as well,” she said. “Cream, honey, and one lump, please. I do like it sweet.”
Eliza smiled at her and sipped her own tea.
“How can you drink hot tea in this weather?” Lady Tansy fanned herself with a weary expression. “It’s as warm and humid as the Amazon jungle. All we need are toucans.”
Brody suddenly jumped back, waving his hands in front of him. “Damned bees! They’re attracted to the honey pots. Do you have lids to cover them?”
Rachel signaled to the maid, who rummaged about in a hamper.
“I never liked bees.” Brody eyed the tea table nervously. “Had a horse stung by a bee during practice once, right above the eye. He reared up and threw me over the paddock fence.”
“Let’s sit somewhere else, luv.” Balancing a teacup in one hand, Patsy struggled to get to her feet. Several bees swarmed over her cup, and she froze.
“Watch out, Patsy!” Brody waved them away.
She let out a tiny scream before dropping the cup. Tea spilled all over her crisp white shirtwaist. “My beautiful new dress!” Patsy howled. “It’s ruined now.”
“I’ll get you a new one, darling. Never you mind.” Brody handed Patsy his handkerchief to dab her wet skirt. “But that’s the last time I sit near honey pots.”
“That’s what men were like around Diana,” Longhurst said suddenly. “Like bees drawn to honey. They couldn’t resist her.” He looked at both Saxton and Turnbull. “And one of those bees stung her to death, didn’t they?”
“Not again,” Lady Tansy murmured.
“I got something to say to the other owners.” Alfred stood up. “I was right nervous to hear about these horse thieves snatching champion horses the last five years. So I says we all fork over some winnings and hire proper security for the Dancer.” He shoved his boater to the back of his head. “’Cause any thief what lays a hand on my horse, I’ll hunt him down. And when I find him, I’ll stick him and his mates beneath a headstone in Kensal Green.”
“He does have a point,” the Duchess said to the others. “Only grooms and stable hands guard the Dancer now.”
“Right you are. Let’s hire a few brawny fellows to guard our colt.”
Sir Walter nodded. “We can put it to a vote now, if you like. Although we must agree on how much to pay for the extra protection.”
“The horse? You’re worried about the horse?” Longhurst looked at them in disbelief. “Why didn’t anyone worry about protecting my Diana?”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Turnbull said to Longhurst. “I want you out of here now.”
“The whole lot of you are cold, unfeeling monsters. Every one of you should be dead, not Diana.” At Longhurst’s hateful words, Eliza felt a chill down her spine.
Turnbull yanked the man up by the collar. “I said get out!”
Longhurst slapped his hand away. “And I said you all deserve to die. Especially you and that drunken sod of a lord over there.”
“Go to the devil,” Saxton spat out.
“Bad enough you both treated Diana like a toy you’d bought at Harrods. Now you steal her money when she’s barely cold in her grave. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. I don’t care how many titles Saxton and the Duchess have.” He jabbed his finger at Turnbull’s chest. “Or how much tea your bloody company crams down people’s throats. I will have justice.”
“Don’t threaten me. You weren’t even man enough to warm your wife’s bed!”
“Bastard!” Longhurst swung at Turnbull. The punch landed squarely on his jaw.
Reeling from the blow, Turnbull fell against Brody. The jockey fought to keep his balance before he also tumbled backward onto the tea table. He and the table crashed to the ground. A nearby picnic hamper was knocked over, sending tarts spilling onto the grass.
Before anyone could help Brody, Longhurst spun on his heel and charged off into the crowd. Dozens of people stared after him.
Lady Tansy broke the awkward silence. “What a pity he smashed the lovely tea things. I had just decided I wanted a cup of tea.” She smiled coolly. “I suppose I must settle for champagne instead.”
* * *
The storm that had threatened all day let loose with a fury during the distribution of the regatta prizes. After the ceremony, the rain mercifully slowed to a drizzle. But it was near dusk, and the rain had dissipated the afternoon’s earlier warmth. Chilled, Eliza shivered so hard that Freddy draped his LRC blazer over her shoulders.
He looked up at the roiling sky. “We won’t know if there’ll be fireworks for at least an hour. They’ll make a decision when the sun sets.”
“If there are fireworks, I’m not watching them during a thunderstorm.” She pulled his blazer tight around her. “Besides, we saw enough fireworks at the luncheon. Let’s find your mother and Clara so we can return to London.”
Freddy scanned the milling crowd. “I haven’t seen them since the end of the Diamond Challenge. But if we find the Saxtons, we’re sure to find them. They drove up together.”
“They’ll probably drive back with them as well. Freddy, let’s you and I catch the next train. But first we must thank Mrs. Turnbull for inviting us to the luncheon.” Given the furor after Longhurst threw that punch, Eliza had never had a chance to extend her gratitude.
However, Eliza wondered if they’d ever find Mrs. Turnbull in this teeming throng, much less Freddy’s mother and sister. A virtual sea of dripping parasols and umbrellas surrounded them on all sides. She didn’t see a single familiar face.
“Why don’t we return to the picnic site?” Freddy suggested. “The servants will be there.”
He was right. Mrs. Turnbull had mentioned the servants would remain in that spot until after the fireworks. Eliza hoped so. With luck, there might be something left in those hampers. She wouldn’t mind another chicken pie and a steaming cup of tea. Blimey, right now she’d settle for warm claret and a few curried eggs.
As she and Freddy walked toward the luncheon site, people scurried in every direction. Some headed to Henley and a dry roof over their heads; others clustered near the private boating clubs or the bandstands where musicians continued to play. No doubt the Professor and Colonel Pickering were warm and dry at the Remenham Club. Eliza had enjoyed her first regatta, but she couldn’t wait to settle into a train compartment and kick off her damp shoes.
“Miss Doolittle!” The Duchess and Sir Walter waved at them from the boathouse.
“Do you know where the Turnbulls are?” Eliza asked after they joined her and Freddy. “We want to make our good-byes. I have no wish to get wetter, not even for fireworks.”
“I haven’t seen Rachel since the end of the Visitors’ Challenge Cup. I did see Jonathon about an hour ago.” The Duchess frowned. “He looked rather awful. Pale, shaky, feverish. I suspect he’s caught a chill.”
“Too much damp river air,” Sir Walter added.
“If Mr. Turnbull is ill, we should find his wife,” Eliza said. “She may not realize he needs her. We’ll check the picnic site. Would you like to come with us?”
“I’m sorry, but my driver is getting the car. If this drizzle worsens again, the roads may become too muddy to navigate.”
Sir Walter nodded. “Her Grace has been kind enough to offer me a ride.” After a tip of his straw hat, he and the Duchess disappeared into the crowd.
Eliza frowned. “I’m not all that fond of Mr. Turnbull, but I hope he’s not really sick. If we can’t find Rachel, we should send the servants to search for her.”
But when she and Freddy reached the site of the picnic luncheon, it was deserted. Perhaps they’d lunched on some other grassy hill bordered by bra
mble bushes and a large tree. Then Eliza caught sight of Lady Tansy’s sodden paper fan.
“This is the right spot.” Eliza saw smashed tarts among the grass blades, along with a few shards of broken china and a stray sugar cube. Aside from that, the area had been swept clean. Not a hamper, blanket, or servant in sight. “I suppose the Turnbulls decided not to stay for the fireworks either.”
“Such a shame about the weather.” Freddy wrapped his arms around Eliza from behind. “I wanted you to see the fireworks. They put on a ripping good show at Henley.”
She turned and snuggled against his chest. “I don’t need fireworks. My four days here have been wonderful. Thank you for being an oarsman in the London Rowing Club.” Eliza peeked up at him. “A winning club, too.”
He laughed. “That we are.”
When someone moaned, Eliza and Freddy froze. “What was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Another moan, weaker this time.
“Is anyone there?” Eliza slowly turned in a circle but only saw wet grass, the bramble hedge, and the dripping tree. “Who’s there? Are you hurt?”
“Help me.”
The rasping voice came from behind the bramble bush to the left of the tree. Once they rounded the hedge, Eliza cried out. Jonathon Turnbull lay slumped on the muddy ground against the tree trunk. Hair plastered to his face, eyes wide open, he stared at them in despair.
Eliza and Freddy knelt on either side of him. She noticed vomit on the grass. “You poor man. What happened?”
“It hurts.” Turnbull clawed at his chest with a trembling hand.
“Maybe he’s having a heart attack.” Freddy took his wrist. “I’ll check his pulse.”
“When did you fall ill, Mr. Turnbull?” She brushed wet hair out of his eyes.
“Can’t—move—my legs,” he gasped.
“His pulse is damnably slow,” Freddy said. “He needs a doctor.”
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