Although they hadn’t spoken of it again, Lyndy knew Mother’s intent. When Kendrick hesitated, he said, “I say, Kendrick, I wouldn’t keep your guests waiting.”
Mother glowered at Lyndy while putting her hand on Kendrick’s arm to hold him back. “The guests can wait for a moment or two longer, Mr. Kendrick. This cannot.”
Kendrick stared down at Mother’s hand on him. It was so unlike her. She didn’t touch anyone. And Kendrick knew it. When the swine looked up grinning like a Cheshire cat, reading more in that touch than Mother intended, she snatched her hand away as if she’d touched a hot stove. But it was too late. A smirk slithered across his face and for a moment, Lyndy felt sorry for his mother. But as usual, she’d brought it on herself. What had Mother been thinking? Would she stop at nothing to break the engagement?
“Get in there, girl,” Kendrick barked, “and tell everyone I’ll be in shortly. Lady Atherly and I have something to discuss.” Stella hesitated, straightening her shoulders and preparing to object.
“Shall I go with you, Miss Kendrick?” Lyndy offered, and Stella rewarded him with a grateful smile. How he loved that smile. But she wouldn’t be smiling if she knew of his imminent deception. But needs must. He had to stop this, and he had to do it alone.
“Well, what is it?” Kendrick was saying, as he trailed after Mother heading across the hall to the library.
Once back inside the drawing room, Lyndy and Stella were immediately accosted by Mr. Barlow and Alice. “Do you really think that London journalist has gone missing?” Alice asked.
“Of course not,” Lyndy said.
“That reminds me of the story,” Mr. Barlow began, “of when I’d run low on water in the deserts of Australia and sent my partner back to Fort McKellar for more. He went missing as well. Shall I tell you the story, Lady Alice?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Alice nodded enthusiastically.
“Miss Cosslett hasn’t gone missing, Alice,” Lyndy insisted. “And I’ll ask that you not encourage her, Mr. Barlow.”
“Then shall I tell you of my encounter with the giant green anaconda on the Orinoco River?” Mr. Barlow said. Stella’s face clouded over. What a rotter! Lyndy clenched and unclenched his fists, recalling what the man had done the last time they’d seen him. But striking the fellow would ruin the evening. Looking at the fop’s smug face, Lyndy almost chanced it.
“Mr. Barlow,” Alice chided before Lyndy had the chance to, “you know any mention of snakes reminds Miss Kendrick of the old snakecatcher’s death.”
“Oh, I do apologize, Miss Kendrick. How thoughtless of me.”
Bounder. He knew very well what he’d said. And now, Lyndy must leave Stella to this cad.
“If you’ll excuse me, I forgot to tell Mother something.” Lyndy evaded Stella’s confounded, questioning gaze as he left her side. He wasn’t one to suffer from guilt, but lying to Stella made him feel wretched. But if he was going to stop Mother’s scheme, it had to be now. “I shan’t be long.”
Lyndy hastened out, stopping short of the library door. He tilted his head to listen, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of the servants as they passed with the first course of watercress soup. It smelled delicious.
“Your husband and I have a contract if you don’t remember, Lady Atherly, and I insist he honor it,” Kendrick was saying. Lyndy’s suspicions were right. Mother was trying to negate the engagement contract. How dare she. “By the way, what kind of coward sends his wife to deliver such an obnoxious proposal?”
Lyndy bristled at the brute’s accusation, even though Papa knew nothing of Mother’s schemes. Papa didn’t know, did he? No, of course not. Papa adored Stella. He’d never countenance Mother’s meddling.
“How dare you insult the Earl of Atherly,” Mother said. “He is a better man than most, Mr. Kendrick.”
How ironic, Mother defending Papa. If Papa hadn’t collapsed in front of her, would she be so complimentary? Lyndy doubted it.
“Then why isn’t Lord Atherly in here with me, instead of you?” Kendrick asked.
“Because Lord Atherly is completely unacquainted with any of this,” Mother said. Lyndy couldn’t see Kendrick’s reaction, but his silence was telling enough. The American was surprised. “I ask you again, Mr. Kendrick. What would it take for my family to be released from this ill-considered contract?”
“But, silly woman, why would you want to?” Kendrick asked in response. “We both know that you need my money more than ever now. What with the disappearance of those fossils, Lord Atherly will be more eager than a beaver to get at Stella’s inheritance. But since I can commiserate with the earl, losing something priceless like that, I’m going to forget you ever mentioned this.”
“Priceless, indeed. If it weren’t for those godforsaken bones . . .”
“I could draw up charges, you know.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
If only Lyndy could see Mother’s expression. For now, her indignant tone would have to satisfy. But could he trust Kendrick to keep his word and not break the contract? Was the brute in earnest, or was he having fun at Mother’s expense? Lyndy didn’t know. One thing was certain; those two deserved each other.
“Besides, who could you possibly find more suitable for your impoverished, pompous son than my daughter?” Kendrick mocked.
Pompous? I’ll give him pompous. Lyndy yanked on his cuff so hard the gold cuff link popped out. The clink of metal told him about where it had hit the floor. He wasn’t about to retrieve it now; he was riveted to the door.
“Lady Philippa, for one,” Mother declared.
“The recent widow of Lord Fairbrother? Stands to inherit a great fortune, does she?”
“Indeed, she does. And she is well-known to the family.” As if that was a boon.
“My, my,” Kendrick said, clicking his tongue. “Talk about ill-considered. I think I’d be more worried about associating with a murder suspect than trying to break our contract, Lady Atherly.”
Unexpectedly the door swung open. Kendrick stood framed in the doorway. Catching Lyndy in the hall, Kendrick chuckled as if he’d heard the most amusing joke. Lyndy recoiled when Kendrick slapped him on the back as he passed. “Might want to talk some sense into that mother of yours.”
“Lyndy? Is it true?” Mother called, upon seeing him in the hall. Her face as white as Christmas snow, she was clutching the back of an armchair for support. “Is Lady Philippa a suspect?”
Poor Mother. Two shocks in one evening. First Papa’s collapse and now Philippa’s fall from grace. Lyndy almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“Lyndy?” What did she expect him to say? What was there to say? “Lyndy!”
Not wishing to leave Stella to fend for herself in the drawing room one moment longer, he ignored his mother’s calls to come back and turned on his heel.
“I told you so, Mother,” he shouted over his shoulder as he strode across the hall, snatching up his cuff link as he went.
* * *
Stella smiled as she looked around the table. The tall white candles in the crystal candelabras lining the middle of the table flickered, illuminating the upturned faces, as her guests listened, captivated by the plant hunter’s tale. Everyone seemed softer, gentler in the warm orange glow.
All but one, that is.
The evening was going surprisingly well. Mrs. Downie had outdone herself with the menu. The pink, red, and yellow rose centerpieces added a much-needed splash of color to the silver and white table setting. The conversation, drifting from the upcoming races at the new Newbury racecourse to the merits of London Symphony Orchestra’s latest guest conductor to speculation about Stella and Lyndy’s wedding trip, had avoided any mention of death or murder. Even her father, soothed by the accolades he received for “making such a fine match for his daughter,” had stopped insisting Miss Cosslett was dead. Of course, a glass, or two, of the Kentucky bourbon he’d brought in for the occasion hadn’t hurt. When someone remarked upon Lady Philippa’s absence, Lady Alice, with her
giggles and smiles, had brightened the somber mood by entreating Mr. Barlow to share one of his plant-hunting adventures. His tale recounted his first night in a hut he’d occupied in the Amazon, which was inhabited, unbeknownst to him, by vampire bats. Everyone, even Stella, despite her aversion to the man, was enthralled.
Only Lady Atherly, as dour as ever in her dark gray silk, stared straight ahead while Mr. Barlow spoke, her mouth puckered as if she was eating a plate full of unripe cranberries and not delicious seafood mousse.
“And then what happened?” Lady Alice said, her voice almost trembling in anticipation.
“I woke to find one of those midnight blood-letters sucking on my big toe!” Mr. Barlow declared.
The table erupted in shouts and cries of disbelief. Hands flew, in the air, over mouths, against heaving chests, as the women gasped in horror. The men, no less shocked, flung down their napkins or slapped the edge of the table, rattling the dishes and glassware. Harry, attempting to serve the roast pheasant and sautéed potatoes, stepped back, afraid someone might knock into his tray.
“Oh, dear.”
“Good lord!”
“I say, you can’t be serious?”
“Well, bless my soul,” Aunt Rachel laughed.
“Is this appropriate dinner conversation?” Lady Atherly interjected calmly. No one paid her any heed.
Mr. Barlow nodded in earnest, crossing his hands over his heart, swearing he told the truth. The motion drew Stella’s attention to his tie. Had she ever seen him wear one before? For once, he looked the part of an English gentleman. Too bad he didn’t act like one.
“And they didn’t stop at my toes. No. Sometimes the bats would nibble on my elbows, my fingertips, nose, chin, and even my forehead.”
A collective groan of revulsion rose at this. Even Stella felt her stomach churn. She feared Mr. Barlow had yet again gone too far, but the next moment everyone was eagerly exchanging stories, in hopes of surpassing the plant hunter’s grotesque suffering, while spearing their asparagus. Stella sampled the potatoes, dripping in rosemary-flavored butter, and kept an eye on Mr. Barlow while Daddy, not to be outdone, added his tale about biting flies, ticks, and the sheer misery of mosquitos to be found during a humid, wet Kentucky summer. When Baroness Branson-Hill elicited knowing nods at the mention of the ills of the English rain, the plant hunter whispered something smilingly into Lady Alice’s ear. She giggled and glanced sideways at him, her eyes brimming with adoration. Satisfied with Lady Alice’s reaction, he popped a chunk of pheasant into his mouth.
“If you want to talk about rain, Baroness . . .” Mr. Barlow began relating more woeful stories of molding specimens, mud slides, and floods.
Stella had hesitated when Lady Alice all but begged her to seat her next to the plant hunter. To Stella, Mr. Barlow had acted like a brute. But she’d relented, and Mr. Barlow had rewarded her by entertaining her guests so that she didn’t have to. But poor Lady Alice was in love with a cad and wouldn’t thank her when he reverted to wooing Lady Philippa in the morning.
“But then why do you do it, Mr. Barlow?” someone asked as the dessert plates and finger bowls were set out. “Why endure such hardships for a flower?” A hush fell on the room. Someone shifted in their chair. Someone set down a fork against their plate with a clink. The butler and footman both glanced up from their tasks to hear Mr. Barlow’s answer.
“I can endure anything to get what I want.” He knowingly glanced at Lady Alice, who blushed and quickly lowered her eyes to her lap. “And why not plant hunting? What other occupation would allow me to experience the beauty of the world, the music of the babbling brook, the smell of the earth, the mixed scent of a forest’s bouquet?”
“Sounds like you should take up gardening,” Daddy said. “You’d get all that, and it would be a heck of a lot safer.” Bursts of laughter rewarded her father’s quip, but Mr. Barlow wasn’t pleased. When he set aside his finger bowl, it smacked the table so hard, some of the contents splashed onto the tablecloth. Tims rushed over to dab up the spill.
“What gardener has permanent exhibits under his name in the herbaria of the world?” Mr. Barlow retorted.
“I say, speaking of the music of babbling brooks, Miss Kendrick,” Reverend Paine said, trying to defuse the sudden tension. “I heard that you have the voice of an angel.” Lady Atherly snickered at the ostentatious compliment. “Would you grace us with a few songs after dinner?”
Stella waited for her father to intervene, to say she wasn’t fit to sing for such honored guests. But he was too busy devouring the slice of Charlotte Russe the footman had set before him.
“Thank you for your confidence, Reverend, but whoever told you that was exaggerating.”
“It was I who told him,” Lyndy said, smirking. As if he would know.
As he dried his fingers with his napkin, Lyndy kept his eyes on his task, avoiding Stella’s exasperated glare. What a scoundrel. Lyndy had been trying to get her to sing for him for months. And for months she’d denied him. How could she sing for someone who had attended performances of some of the greatest singers in the world? And now he was forcing her hand, in front of everyone. With the request coming from the vicar, Stella had no choice but to capitulate.
Daddy, wiping his mouth with his napkins, grunted. “Good instincts, there, Reverend. It’s one of the few things she does well.” Aunt Rachel was bobbing her head enthusiastically. Stella looked askew at her father. Had he just complimented her?
“She’s no Jenny Lind, bless her heart,” Aunt Rachel added. Stella’s great-aunt often bragged how she’d seen the ‘Swedish Nightingale’ perform in Kentucky in 1851. “But no one sings ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ prettier.” Odd praise, but Stella knew the old lady meant well.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up, Reverend,” Stella said, as the dining room door beyond the baron creaked open. Ethel poked her head in and then quickly back out. “But of course, I’ll sing if you’d like me to.”
Tims, spying Ethel’s entry as well, scuttled abruptly from the room. What could that be about? When the butler returned, his face revealed nothing of what had transpired in the hall. But when he approached Stella’s chair and leaned over her shoulder, concern was evident in the tightness of his jaw. Stella closed her eyes, bracing for the news.
“I’m afraid, miss,” Tims whispered, “Inspector Brown is here and insists he speak with you.” At least she wouldn’t have to sing.
“Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?” she asked.
He leaned in so close, Stella felt the tickle of his breath on her neck. Enunciating every word with a grave tone, he said, “It seems they’ve found Miss Cosslett.”
Her eyes flew open in alarm, catching Lyndy staring at her, candlelight flickering across his handsome features. His playful smirk had vanished.
* * *
Jane Cosslett stopped, caught her breath, and readjusted the long leather strap that dug into her shoulder. She leaned against a column, crossed her arms, and laughed, not caring who heard her. She’d done it. She’d really done it. Wouldn’t Dr. Hale be proud?
Patting her satchel, as if to assure herself everything was still there, she glanced up and down the platform. For an evening train, there were few other passengers about. One young man in a brown fedora stood reading a newspaper. Not the Daily Mail, Jane noted with a bit of cheek. Two women, wrapped in matching woolen shawls, occupied the nearest bench—sisters, perhaps even twins, by the look of them. When Jane caught the eye of the one in the purple straw hat, the woman buried her head in her book. Piled beside them were several leather cases on top of a worn, well-traveled trunk. Jane regarded the trunk with envy.
She’d been forced to leave everything she owned behind. Even those new dresses from the House of Worth Kendrick had given her. Jane sighed. How Dr. Hale would’ve admired her in them. But it couldn’t be helped. As it was, that buffoon’s coachman had almost seen her.
Jane straightened up, adjusted her gloves, and brushed the dust from
her skirt.
She’d had to huddle in the corner of her rented room when Elijah Kendrick’s coachman knocked on her door. When the sound of his retreating footsteps diminished toward silence, Jane had pushed back the thin lace curtains flanking the window to see the waiting carriage. Oh, to have ridden in a coach once belonging to Queen Victoria. The rich horse breeder had bought it in London just for tonight—all to impress her. Fool. Jane had watched as the coachman appeared below and alighted onto the carriage. But then he’d looked up. She’d flattened herself against the wall, praying he hadn’t caught her spying. He hadn’t, but the close encounter had forced her hand.
She’d planned to be packed and awaiting the train before the carriage arrived. Who knew Elijah would send for her so early? After spending days enduring the man’s boorish behavior, she should’ve expected something outlandish like that—expecting a girl to be at his beck and call. He knew nothing of decorum and civility and, as sure as the English rain, when the carriage returned without her, he’d be around to claim her. So, the moment the coach was off, so was she. She’d stuffed her satchel with her prizes and, without a backward glance, had dashed out the inn’s back door.
Her trunk and a filthy hem were a small price to pay.
Jane blinked at the screech of the whistle. The sound of safety, of triumph, heralding the arrival of her train. A few others stepped up to the platform in anticipation. As Jane admired the particularly broad-shouldered, solid make of a man approaching, she imagined Professor Gridley’s reaction when he discovered the theft: slumped shoulders, gaping mouth, trembling weathered hands. What she would’ve given to be there. But she couldn’t risk being caught. As it happened, she almost was.
Who knew that gaining access to Lord Atherly’s study would prove so difficult? The first time it had been locked. But she’d stolen away from Elijah every chance she got, making as many petty excuses as possible: to view the wedding presents, to visit the church, to examine the wedding carriage, anything to visit Morrington Hall and retrieve the fossils. And Elijah had believed everything. She would’ve been gratified to see his belligerent denial when the truth came out. What a fool. But then again, that’s why she and Dr. Hale had targeted him. Dr. Hale knew something of the American horse breeder and had suggested she gain access to Morrington Hall and the fossils through Elijah Kendrick. The social reporter ruse had been all Jane’s idea. She’d followed every salacious detail of Princess Margaret of Connaught’s wedding in the paper, after all. And the ruse worked, despite Miss Kendrick’s resistance to the idea, despite Lord Fairbrother mentioning he’d seen her, not as a reporter but on Dr. Hale’s arm, at the dinosaur exhibit. But Jane never meant to perpetuate the charade for days on end. And when Lord Lyndhurst caught her snooping, she thought it had all been for naught. But Jane shared a common trait with her false persona: persistence. Time after time, Jane snuck into Morrington Hall, through the front door, through the scullery, once even through an open window in the bluest room Jane had ever seen, hoping to find the study unlocked. If a servant saw her, she’d make some excuse. Tonight, her persistence was rewarded, for whether distracted by preparations for the engagement party or lulled into a false sense of security, Lord Atherly had left the fossils out, and his study unlocked.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 26