“Oi!” I’ll teach him to creep about my coach house.
Gates weaved his way through the carriages, in pursuit. By the time he reached the washing yard, the lad was gone. As Gates debated which direction to take, Herbert rounded the corner.
“Herbert! Did you see a village lad come by here?”
“No, I haven’t seen anyone. Everyone’s at dinner. Why? Do you think it was the vicar’s killer? Everyone’s saying he was murdered, you know.”
Dragons in Burley Beacon, kingly ghosts in Hurst Castle, and now vicar-slaying murderers. What will these lads think up next? Gates was not going to dignify Herbert’s speculation with an answer.
“Why aren’t you at dinner?” Gates asked.
“Leonard’s still sick, so I came to check on the thoroughbreds. The stallion wasn’t eating earlier.”
“Then off you go.”
Gates stood a moment or two after Herbert left, his palm against his forehead and his eyes closed. His head was pounding. It was no small feat preparing for the new horses with one of his grooms sick in bed, and what with news of the vicar’s death . . . The strain of the past few days had caught up with him. Now this. Either way, the lad was long gone by now.
Gates retraced his steps, reassuring himself that the intruder, whoever he was, had caused no mischief. Tomorrow he’d inform Lord Atherly about the incident, just the same. But back in the harness room, odd Americans, mischievous village lads, and rumors about murderers slipped from his mind as he sat back down to finish his infernal accounts.
CHAPTER 7
“Saddle up the new filly,” Lyndy said to the first stable hand he encountered. Frustrated and restless, he’d headed for the stables instead of waiting for a horse to be brought to him.
Lyndy had intended to ride the new stallion this morning. He’d been in a foul mood. What better time to pit his skills against the feisty horse? But when he’d approached the stallion’s loose box, the horse was stomping inside, sending bits of straw flying. The ornery animal had already chewed a chunk of wood off a corner of his box’s door post. Until the angry horse had adjusted, why risk getting bitten or worse?
“Which filly, sir?” the groom asked. “Tupper or Tully, the one Miss Kendrick is with?”
Miss Kendrick? His mood brightened. So, this was where she was. He’d waited for Miss Kendrick to appear at breakfast until the servants came to clear everything away. She’d never come. Who would’ve guessed she’d be here? He couldn’t help but smile.
“Tupper.”
Lyndy strode behind the groom, passing empty loose box after empty loose box. It had been too long since the stables were at even half capacity. There were the carriage mares, Sugar and Spice; and Lister, Papa’s horse, a gift from the board of Rosehurst Cottage Hospital when Papa inherited his title; and Lyndy’s horse, Beau, a striking chestnut Irish Hunter. But now his family would have thoroughbreds again, racehorses to ride, to race, to breed.
As it should be.
Grandfather, the seventh Earl of Atherly, had owned Augustine, a champion thoroughbred filly, among others. He’d cultivated a love for the Turf in Lyndy, as his own son cared more about discovering fossils of ancient horses than about the racehorses in his own stables. As a small boy, Lyndy had wanted nothing more than to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps. But soon after Grandfather died, Papa had discovered the estate no longer paid for itself. Unwilling to give up his fossil-hunting expeditions, Papa had sold Augustine and the other racehorses, as well as let go of several of the staff, to fund his hobby. Lyndy hadn’t forgiven him. Until now.
Lyndy stopped short of Tully’s loose box. Miss Kendrick was inside it, with her back to him, checking the balance strap on the horse’s sidesaddle. She was stunning, the tailored lines of her black riding jacket clinging to her curves, the top hat accentuating her long, pale neck.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” she said.
Who was she talking to? The groom was over in Tupper’s loose box. She couldn’t have seen or heard Lyndy approach. He leaned against the wooden wall, waiting for her to say more. He brushed aside the shame of spying on her, not once but twice in so many days.
“I can’t think of anything else to do,” she said. With one hand on the horse’s back and the other one over her eyes, she began to weep, and not, Lyndy suspected, for the vicar.
A surge of unexpected emotions flowed through Lyndy: confusion, misery, compassion, empathy, guilt. Their engagement had come as a bit of a shock to her, yes, but marriages between the better families were always arranged like a business transaction, each getting something from the alliance. In their case, Mr. Kendrick got a title in the family, Papa got Mr. Kendrick’s money, Lyndy got champion thoroughbred racehorses, and Miss Kendrick gained an eminently charming husband. Why was she so upset?
“At least I have you, Tully,” she whispered.
She was talking to the horse! With a sudden urge for her to talk to him instead, Lyndy pushed away from the wall and stepped into Tully’s loose box.
“Lord Lyndhurst,” she said, swiveling around at the sound of crunching straw beneath his boots.
“Miss Kendrick. I’m surprised to see you here.”
She brushed away tears from her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. “Why would that be? Because you don’t expect a woman in the stables or because you already pay good money to a stable hand to do this?”
“Well, yes to both, but mostly because we expected you were in your room, recovering from yesterday’s shock. You didn’t come down to breakfast.”
She turned away from him and began tugging at the balance strap again. “I don’t always do what’s expected.” She needn’t tell him that.
“No, in fact, you haven’t done a single thing since you’ve been here that was as we expected.” She stopped her adjustments of the saddle. Lyndy expected her to deny it or to protest, but as he should have predicted, she did neither.
“I can imagine. You and your family aren’t what I expected either.”
What had she expected? Warmth, humor, kindness, acceptance, perhaps? Instead, she had gotten barely veiled disapproval, feigned interest, and obligatory civility. If the former was what she’d imagined of her reception, then, yes, he could understand her disappointment.
“More’s the pity, since we might be stuck with each other,” she added.
Might? This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. And she still wouldn’t call him Lyndy. After yesterday, they should be on less formal terms.
“I’m so sorry about the vicar.” She faced him and laid a hand on his arm. The gesture was so like another, it made him flinch. But nothing but sincere sympathy shone from her eyes. “Your family must feel horrible about his accident.”
She didn’t know. Lyndy dreaded being the one to tell her.
“It’s worse than you know. Reverend Bullmore was the victim of more than fatal clumsiness. He was murdered, bludgeoned to death.”
Lyndy held her gaze, brushing his hand methodically down the filly’s neck. How would this unpredictable woman respond to such a pronouncement? She didn’t faint. She didn’t swoon. She didn’t burst into a fit of tears.
She did that only when she contemplated spending eternity with him.
“Besides me, perhaps, who would benefit from the vicar’s demise?” she asked.