“Oi!” the stableboy yelled. “Mind your step.”
She looked down. Clutched in her hand, the hem of her lavender walking-suit skirt was in no danger of dragging on the ground. But her heel was inches from a pile of fresh manure. She chuckled. That would be from Orson. He always liked to leave his mark whenever he descended from a horse box.
She stepped around the pile and reached out to Tully again, tracing the blaze from the filly’s forehead all the way down to her muzzle. Tully nuzzled against Stella’s hand, hoping for a treat.
“Do you have any apples?” she asked the stableboy who was holding Tully’s lead.
“Oi! You, boy, get that horse inside,” a man called. He wore tan trousers, a white shirt, and suspenders. A groom without his coat, no doubt.
The stableboy yanked on the lead. Tully pinned back her ears and tossed her head. The boy tugged again and tried to pull the resistant Tully with him.
“Go easy,” Stella said. “You’re upsetting her.” Tully was a gentle creature, but after everything she’d been through, Stella wouldn’t blame her if she was a little stubborn.
“Ah, miss,” the groom said, pointing at Stella with the dandy brush in his hand. “Does Lord Lyndhurst know you’re here? The stables are no place for a lady.”
“I’m Stella Kendrick. These are my horses, until Lord Lyndhurst is married, that is.”
“You say you’re the master’s fiancée?” The groom scoffed, pointing to her kid-leather button boots. His mop of curly black hair bobbed as he unsuccessfully stifled a laugh. Despite her best efforts, Stella had stepped in something, anyway. “All the more reason to let us bring the horses to you, miss,” the groom said, composing himself, “and for you to stay out of the stables.”
With his gaze, the man took in the stableboys, who had gathered like pedestrians at a carriage wreck. “Aren’t I right, boys?”
No one dared say a word.
The familiar burn stung the tips of Stella’s ears. Nothing had gone right since the moment she stepped onto the estate. She’d been embarrassed, belittled, and now mocked. She had sought solace here, as she had often done at home, among the horses and the hay. Was she to be denied even that? She kept her calm. Her father had taught her well to take ridicule with aplomb.
“You are mistaken. I am not . . . ,” Stella began. She patted Tully once more for reassurance. The horse lowered her head and nibbled on Stella’s fingers, hoping for a treat. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Herbert!” A stocky, fair-haired man, his skin taut as a drum but for the wrinkles spreading from the corners of his eyes, rounded the corner. With his top hat under his arm, the coachman who had taken charge when she and Daddy arrived led a beautiful Cleveland bay toward them. “Pray what are you doing? Don’t you know who this is?”
“Yes, Mr. Gates. I do. I was reminding her how the stables aren’t suited for a lady.”
“I won’t tolerate such insolence.” Mr. Gates, a head shorter than the groom, smacked him in the back of the head while retaining his grip on the bay’s lead. “Apologize, or you’ll be packing your bags.”
“What?”
“Now, Herbert!”
The groom flashed a scowl at Stella and then at Mr. Gates before hurling the dandy brush to the ground. “Pardon me, miss,” Herbert said sarcastically before storming off.
“Please accept my most humble apologies, Miss Kendrick,” Mr. Gates said. “Herbert’s behavior is inexcusable. He will be off the estate by daybreak.”
“No, no. Mr. Gates is it? You don’t have to do that on my account. I’ve lived around stable hands my whole life. Some don’t take kindly to a woman invading their realm.”
“You are too kind, Miss Kendrick. I won’t soon forget it. As Lord Atherly’s stable manager and head coachman, I can assure you, neither will Herbert.”
“It’s nothing. I do have horse manure on my heel, after all.” Mr. Gates scrunched his eyebrows. Had her self-deprecating jest offended him? Had she made another faux pas? Then the coachman chuckled. The stableboys let out a collective giggle.
“Let this be a lesson for you, lads!” Mr. Gates said, nodding in approval. “Not all ladies shun the honest smell of the stables. Close your mouth, Charlie. She isn’t a horse with two tails.” The boy who was gawking at her snapped his mouth shut. “But don’t for a moment think that means she doesn’t deserve your respect. Quite the opposite, if you ask me.” Mr. Gates smiled.
She gladly returned the favor.
The boys as one bobbed their heads and said, “Aye, Mr. Gates.”
“Now get back to work.”
Stella patted Tully on the back as the boy led the filly away. She’d change and go riding as soon as she could slip away.
“I appreciate your allowing me access to your stables, Mr. Gates. I do, as you put it, like the ‘honest smell.’ I grew up around horses. I dare say I’ve spent almost as much time in a stable as you have.”
Mr. Gates scratched a bushy eyebrow. He didn’t believe her.
“I raised Tully from a foal myself,” Stella said. “I fed her and groomed her. I trained her myself too.”
“That is impressive.” Highly irregular or highly unladylike was more like it. But he didn’t say that, and she didn’t care. She loved this horse. Even Daddy, who was oblivious to Stella’s desires and wishes, knew how much.
“Tully is like a member of my family. That’s not to say I’m not attached to the other two horses. It will be strange not to have them around.”
Mr. Gates crinkled his brow again. “They’ll be around, miss, unless Mr. Kendrick has plans for Orson he hasn’t mentioned. You can visit any of these fine horses every day if you like. You’ll always be most welcome.”
“Thank you. But I was talking about after the wedding, when I leave . . .”
“Honeymoons don’t last forever. Don’t I know it. And you can rest easy while you’re gone, knowing we’ll treat these lovelies like the King’s own.” He patted the Cleveland Bay he’d been leading soundly on the neck. “Isn’t that right, Lister?”
Honeymoon? She wasn’t the one going on a honeymoon. Herbert, the groom, had confused her with Lord Lyndhurst’s fiancée. Why would Mr. Gates do the same? A sick feeling rose from the pit of her stomach. Lady Alice was Lyndy’s sister, not his bride to be, as Stella had assumed. Where is she, this fiancée? Where is her family? Is she in London, only days before the wedding? Why don’t I know her name?
Because Daddy had never mentioned it.
“Miss Kendrick, are you well?”
Stella struggled to retain her composure as she tasted bile in her mouth. “Would you mind telling me the name of the viscount’s fiancée?”
Alarm flashed across the coachman’s face, and Stella knew the truth. It all made sense: Daddy’s generous invitation to her to accompany him to England, his insistence that Tully be brought along, the need for Aunt Rachel to chaperone, the reaction of the Searlwyns, everything.
Daddy’s wealth couldn’t gain him respect in American high society, so he had arranged to secure the one thing that would accomplish that: a British title. Quite the coup for the son of a coachman. But she was to pay the price.
“Her name is Miss Stella Kendrick, of Kentucky, of course,” Lord Lyndhurst said, stepping out from the shadows. “It might’ve been Miss Gladys Vanderbilt—Papa was introduced to her uncle William some time ago—but she’s not out yet. For that I’m glad. You’re by far the prettier of the two.”
His jest fueled her anger. It was a jest, wasn’t it? His attempt at flattery was insulting. She looked to Mr. Gates to confirm what the viscount claimed. The pity in his eyes emboldened her. Daddy wasn’t going to make her do this.
“Be glad you have an alternative in Miss Vanderbilt, Lord Lyndhurst. I’m not an option!” As she swiveled around, she caught the heel of her boot in a crack in the cobblestones and fell to her knees. Though she was angry and had never felt more wretched in her life, she had no choice but take Lord Lyndhurst’s offered hand.
She brushed at the clumps of mud and bits of straw clinging to her skirt, hoping to salvage what little dignity she had left.
“He’s not going to make me do this,” she muttered as she took off running toward the house, tendrils of hair loosening and flying about her head. Clutching her skirt in her fists, she lifted it to run faster. Gravel kicked up behind her as she raced around a bend in the lane and ran right into her father. Bouncing backward off his protruding belly as he stood his ground like a mule, Stella flapped her arms about, trying to maintain her balance. She looked ridiculous. If she wasn’t so upset, Stella would’ve laughed.
“What on earth? Look at you. You’re a mess.”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Daddy,” she said, finding her balance and planting her boot heels on the gravel path.
“Where have you been? The stables, no doubt.”
“I won’t do it, Daddy. I won’t marry Lord Lyndhurst.”
“What woman wouldn’t want to? He’s an excellent match.”
He stepped closer and smiled. It sent a chill up her back, but she was too angry to be afraid. Stella’s chest tightened; it was difficult to exhale. Her father gave her his sharp tongue more than his affection, but she’d always hoped it was because he wanted the best for her. Now she knew the truth.
“But you tricked me. You made me believe you wanted me on this trip.”
“You were the reason for the trip.”
“But Tully, Daddy! You gave Lord Lyndhurst my horse.”
“I brought that horse all the way from Kentucky for you.” To ride while she was in England, he had said. Because he never intended for her to leave. “Would you rather I had left her in Kentucky?” They both knew the answer to that.
“I’d rather—”
“Why aren’t you thanking me? I gave you Tully. Now I’m giving you to Lord Lyndhurst.” Like a horse. “You know, I did this for your own good. Someone had to see to your future. You certainly weren’t making much of an effort. Time is running out, girl. You are twenty-two years old. What do you think happens to old maids? Do you want to end up like Rachel? Is that what you want?”
Great-Aunt Rachel had lived at the whim of others her entire life, always being expected to care for others, first, her elderly parents, then an ailing cousin, and then Stella, after her mother died. She’d never had a permanent home. She’d never had children of her own.
“But here you’ll be a viscountess. You’ll have everything you could ever dream of.”
“I won’t,” Stella whispered. Despair had replaced her anger. If he was going to treat her like a horse, she was going to be as stubborn as one.
“And don’t worry. After you’ve done your duty and given the man an heir, he’ll find someone else’s bed to sleep in,” he said, as if promising Lord Lyndhurst would take a mistress was supposed to make her feel better.
“I won’t marry the viscount, Daddy.”
“You ungrateful little brat!”
Stella winced, preparing for the blow as Daddy’s hand swiftly rose toward her face.
“Oi! Everything okay, Miss Kendrick?” Mr. Gates called. He and two stableboys had rounded the corner, walking two gray Hanoverian horses. The one with white half-cannon markings on its hind legs was chewing on something. One of the boys held up the last piece of an apple to the horse with the star on his forehead. Lord Lyndhurst strolled a few yards behind them.
“Everything is fine. Carry on.” Daddy dropped his hand and his voice. “Do you know how much this is costing me? Do you think those horses are all I’m giving that family for the marriage settlement? No. I’m saving this magnificent estate for these high-and-mighty Searlwyns in order to benefit you. If they can treat me with respect, is it too much to ask from my own daughter?”
The stableboys held their heads together, whispering, as Mr. Gates released the horses into the paddock. Rumors of her and Daddy’s argument would be general knowledge within minutes.
“I’m not a prize horse you can sell to the highest bidder.”
Daddy grabbed her hand so quickly, Stella didn’t see it coming. Gripping her hand by the knuckles, he squeezed until her joints rolled under the pressure. He looked to see if the stable hands were still watching. They were. He dragged her toward him.
“You should be thanking me for my generosity,” he whispered between his teeth, “thanking me for securing your future, not causing a scene.”
“I won’t marry Lord Lyndhurst, Daddy.”
Daddy squeezed harder. Stella met his gaze and steeled herself. He sighed, shaking his head, as he took a step back. He hadn’t let go. “Why do you make me do these things?”
“Aaahhh!” she screamed as Daddy crushed her hand. The pain sent her to her knees.
Shouts arose around her.
“Oi, Mr. Gates!”
“Oi!”
Dust flew as Lord Lyndhurst dashed toward them. The horses in the paddock snorted and sprinted around after the boys startled them with shouts for the head coachman. A squirrel bounding across the grass scampered away as Mr. Gates rushed from the paddock to help. But it was too late.
“I’ll see you in the drawing room for tea,” Daddy said, releasing Stella’s hand. “I know how you love your sweets.”
* * *
Bloody hell. Lyndy had never seen a woman in such disarray. Her hair had all but fallen haphazardly about her shoulders. Bits of straw clung to her knees, and her skirt was smeared with muck from the stable floors. Puffy red eyes and streaks of tears on her cheeks marred her lovely face. It was startling to see.
He’d been pleased while spying on the young woman, unseen, in the stables. He’d caught her unguarded, alone with her horse. He’d been impressed with her ease among the stable hands, her handling of the confrontation with the groom. A flicker of rare admiration and pride had swelled in his chest, and not solely for the magnificent beast. They were both to be his. He wouldn’t have made that bet, but there it was. He loathed having to admit it, and never would if pressed, but perhaps Papa was right. Perhaps this would work out.
Lyndy had stayed in the shadows of the empty horse stall until he’d heard Miss Kendrick’s question about his fiancée’s name. He’d joked about Miss Vanderbilt to flatter the woman, not upset her. How was he to know she was in earnest and didn’t know? What kind of man didn’t inform his daughter of her fate?
When she’d dashed from the stables like one of the horses, he’d had no intention of following her. He had new thoroughbreds to inspect. But his curiosity and compunction had led him down the path after her, nonetheless. He’d waited a few moments before following, allowing distance to shield him from her eyes. He’d damned his childish spy game the moment Mr. Kendrick raised his hand to her. He was Lord Lyndhurst, after all. Why was he hiding in the bushes like a poacher? Lyndy had leapt into action, but he’d been too late. Even Gates hadn’t been close enough to stop the brute. Mr. Kendrick, seemingly unconcerned with the spectacle he created, had strolled away before Gates or Lyndy got there.
As Lyndy approached now, the stable hands surrounding Miss Kendrick parted. He looked down at her, anger threatening to seep through his calm veneer. He knelt beside her, the pebbles on the path jutting into his knee. She slumped over farther, curling forward in on herself, bravely choking back tears.
“What has that wretch done?” Lyndy asked his head coachman.
“It’s her hand, my lord.”
“Miss Kendrick? Are you all right? Did that cur harm you?” Hell, this miserable creature was to be his wife. Surely, he could take some liberties. She flinched when he lightly touched her shoulder. “Stella?”
Without looking at him, she whispered, “I’m not a horse to be prized or commanded.”
Had she caught him spying on her, after all? The pang of guilt that accompanied the thought surprised him. Lyndy was not one to feel guilty about anything.
“My father may think so, but I assure you, Lord Lyndhurst, I am not,” she added.
What could he say? Hadn’t he
just congratulated himself on winning her as his prize? Yet hadn’t he objected to the same treatment when he and Mr. Kendrick were introduced? Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He’d known the woman for less than an hour, and already he was suffering from a crisis of conscience.
“You’ve provided me with three fine horses. What need I of another?” Lyndy quipped.
Her countenance remained neutral as she weighed his comment. Did she think he was mocking her? What did he care if she did?
“As I said before, do call me Lyndy.” He smiled. A sincere one this time. Despite the pain it must’ve cost her, the corners of Miss Kendrick’s mouth rose.
Now, that’s better.
A maid came rushing toward them, the new one. There always seemed to be a new one. Someone from the house, presumably Mother, had noticed their absence and had tired of waiting.
“Miss, are you all right?” the maid asked.
“Yes.”
A tension left his shoulders at her affirmation. Was he concerned that his grand trophy had been damaged, or was he genuinely concerned for this woman’s welfare? A little of both, perhaps?
“Thank you, Lillian,” Miss Kendrick added.
Lillian? He didn’t know all the servants’ names. Yet this “uncultured” American knew this one’s after a single introduction? The maid bent down to help her. Lyndy, acting on his proprietary rights, waved the maid aside and held out his hand. Cradling the injured hand against her chest, Miss Kendrick held out her other. Lyndy swiftly took it and pulled her gently to her feet.
“It will be time for tea by now. Several of the wedding guests staying at the house will be there. The vicar, too, is quite eager to meet you.” Lyndy reached out and touched her hair, the only clean thing about her. It was soft and silky in his hand. A thrill shot through his body. He couldn’t wait to comb his fingers through her tresses. “Why don’t you go and change?” he whispered. “Underneath it all, you really are quite striking.”
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 3