Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 2

  May this complete your collection. May you find love that completes you.

  A quiver shot through Stella’s shoulders and back, and she involuntarily shook. The seamstress peered up from her work. “Are you all right, miss?”

  Stella nodded, cradling the spoon in her palm. The tender sentiment, such a rarity in Stella’s life, brought a wistful smile to her lips. But there was no signature on the note. Like her father, though for different reasons, Stella felt robbed of the pleasure of knowing who gave her the spoon.

  But then why send it?

  CHAPTER 2

  Viscount Lyndhurst, or “Lyndy,” led the others confidently down the long aisle of the stables. All was as it should be. Every brass finial reflected the morning sunshine. The mahogany stalls had been freshly stained, not a stray piece of straw or clump of horse dung littered the recently scrubbed cobblestone floor. A half dozen horses whinnied and snorted in greeting when he passed. And soon, there would be more.

  “This is Tully,” Lyndy said, stopping in front of the horse’s box stall.

  The dappled gray mare approached the door and nudged Lyndy’s hand with her muzzle, knowing what was hiding in his fist. She eagerly snapped off the end of the peppermint stick he held out to her. She was a sweet, magnificent creature, much like her owner. His thoughts straying to her owner, Lyndy scratched the white blaze on the animal’s forehead.

  In three days, Stella would finally be his. Three interminably long days.

  After offering the last of the peppermint stick to Tully, Lyndy reached into his pocket for more peppermint and moved on to Tupper’s stall. The sleek chestnut filly wasn’t as friendly as her neighbor and had to be coaxed to approach. But what was that to him? The horse could demand an orchard of apples or her weight in peppermint candy for all he cared.

  “Tupper, as you know, won the Princess of Wales’s Stakes this year,” Lyndy said, patting her soundly on the neck. “And placed in the St. Leger Stakes last week.”

  Such a welcomed triumph for the family, though the filly technically belonged to Stella’s father until after the wedding. The Searlwyns hadn’t had a champion since Grandpapa retired Augustine years ago. Lyndy hoped, with Tupper, they would do so again. Even Mother recognized the filly’s potential. Had they owned Tupper already, their share of the purse would’ve allowed his mother to hire a proper second footman (giving Lyndy back his valet), and a live-in gardener (instead of relying on the unpredictable local man she had to suffer with). Lyndy already had plans to enter the filly in the Trial Stakes at Ascot next year.

  “Yes, yes. These are all lovely, Lyndy, but where’s the stallion?”

  Lyndy glanced over his shoulder at his companions: Sir Alfred Goodkin, his round-faced, bespectacled old chum from Eton, and Sir Owen Rountree, Lyndy’s younger, but much taller, cousin. They were but two of the cadre of his family’s friends and relatives hovering about Morrington Hall in anticipation of the wedding. Some, like Owen, were guests up at the house, while others, like Alfred, lived close enough to pop around unannounced to join in the festivities. Lyndy had little use for most of the visitors, but these two, like him, were enthusiasts of the turf. And they were keen to see the champion thoroughbreds.

  It was Owen’s impatient voice that drew Lyndy’s attention. Owen, having arrived too late last night for a trip to the stables, had insisted Lyndy show him Orson, the Kendricks’ world-famous champion stud, right after breakfast. Owen had no patience with fillies and mares. Alfred, fortuitously having dropped by for a chat, decided to tag along.

  “He’s over here.” Lyndy pointed across the aisle to the box stall marred by a gnawed and splintered wood casing. Gates, the stablemaster, still struggled to find an exercise regimen or a daily routine that would keep the ornery stallion from chewing on the door.

  Owen stepped across the aisle and peered in. “He must be black as pitch.” Owen shielded his eyes from the light streaming through the stable windows with his hands. “It’s too dark in there. All I see is his outline.”

  The horse peered out from the darkness. Without warning, the stallion poked his head through the door’s opening, seized the brim of Owen’s fedora between his teeth, and flung it. The hat sailed down the aisle before dropping through the open doorway of an empty stall. Orson, peeling back his lips as if in laughter, nibbled at the door frame.

  “Bloody hell.” Owen touched the crown of his head where his hat once sat.

  Alfred burst out laughing. Lyndy riffled his younger cousin’s hair, remarking on its similarity in color to Tupper’s coat, before motioning for the stable boy to fetch Owen’s hat.

  “I say. That stallion better be first-rate, for he’s as irascible as his reputation says.” Owen brushed the front of his tweed jacket. When the boy offered Owen back his fedora, Owen waved it away, laughing. “Be a good lad and burn it.” Shimmering with horse saliva, it smelled foul.

  Lyndy had forgotten what a good sport Owen could be. Before he’d been sent off to Eton, Lyndy had relished the carefree weeks spent every summer at Hubberholme Park, Owen’s family estate in Yorkshire. Free of all restraints, the pair would venture out into the countryside, fencing with sticks atop stone walls, fishing ankle-deep in the clear bracing streams, racing their ponies across the moors. And when inevitably Owen would trip on a raised root or stumble on a stone allowing Lyndy to win a foot race, Owen would laugh it off and be ready to race again.

  “Oh, he’s first-rate, all right,” Lyndy said. “Perhaps the most valuable stud in the country.”

  “That’s what I heard said about Challacombe when he won at Doncaster,” Owen said.

  Bam! The feisty stallion slammed his hoof against the door in a kick, sending all three men scuttling to a safe distance.

  “I think he disagrees,” Alfred chuckled as Leonard, the head groom, came running to calm the stallion down.

  “As do I,” Lyndy said. “May I remind you Orson won half of all his starts, still holds the American record for seven furlongs and has already produced a Derby winner?”

  “Hear, hear!” Alfred cheered in appreciation. “Besides, Baron Branson-Hill isn’t known for breeding his horses, now is he? Challacombe might languish from too many oats before he ever covers a mare.”

  “Baron Branson-Hill?” Owen asked when the men retreated toward the stable yard. “Did Singer sell him Challacombe?”

  “Supposedly, the baron purchased the stallion yesterday, or the day before. Not long.”

  “How did we not hear of this?” Lyndy said.

  “What I can’t fathom is why?” Owen asked. “Singer seemed too enamored with his winner to sell so quickly.”

  Alfred shrugged. “I hadn’t heard a hint of it either, until this morning. Lady Atherly was discussing it with someone while I waited for you two.”

  His mother, talking about a racehorse? Lyndy wished he’d witnessed such an extraordinary conversation. Clearly, staying out of Mother’s way came with a downside. What could she possibly be up to now?

  “Seems the baron plans to bring Challacombe to Morrington tonight,” Alfred was saying.

  Owen scrunched his nose. “From the Island? Whatever for? I’d be willing to hop the ferry to see that horse.”

  Alfred stopped to pet the stray pup that had turned up in the stable yard one day a few weeks ago, brown, scruffy, and friendly. Gates had made the case it was a good watchdog. No one had dissuaded him from keeping the new mongrel; after the events of last May, the stables required a canine sentinel. Secretly Lyndy was delighted. Once Grandpapa’s hounds had died, neither Mother nor Papa saw the need to keep a pet.

  “Something about a dinner party?” Alfred said, rubbing behind the dog’s ears.

  “Mother’s planned one for tonight to introduce Stella to Owen and a few others who’ve yet to have the pleasure,” Lyndy said, encouraging Mack, as the dog had come to be called, to jump up and put his feet on Lyndy’s chest.

  Lyndy had been eagerly anticipating dinner. He hadn’t seen Stella in two days.
To get to size up Challacombe up close was an unexpected treat. But why was the baron bringing the champion stallion around? Mother couldn’t have suggested it. Whom had she been talking to? Before he could ask, Leonard approached to receive his instructions.

  “I’ll ride Beau,” Lyndy told the groom when the dog shoved off his chest and bounded over to greet Leonard. “Sir Alfred will ride his horse, but I believe Sir Owen would like to take Tupper out.” Owen nodded enthusiastically. “And he will need something for his head.”

  When the groom strode off to prepare the horses, Mack dutifully following, Owen said, “Well, I certainly hope your filly treats me with more respect than your stallion did, old chap.”

  Lyndy laughed. “I can assure you Tupper is much more amiable.”

  Owen shook his head. “I wasn’t talking about that filly. I was talking about this American you’ve foolishly gotten yourself attached to.”

  Lyndy frowned. “If you’re speaking of Miss Kendrick, I am indeed attached to her, and you would do well to remember that.”

  “No need to be cross,” Owen chuckled, noting he’d touched a nerve. “At least, from what I’ve heard, she’s easy on the eyes and comes with the much-needed infusion of cash.”

  “Yes,” Lyndy said, tight-lipped. He didn’t appreciate Owen bringing the topic up. His family’s financial difficulties were the reason Stella and he were marrying in the first place. It was only by providence Lyndy found in her his perfect mate. “There is that.”

  “Miss Kendrick is far more than an attractive heiress,” Alfred said, unexpectedly coming to Stella’s defense. “She’s quite charming, nothing like Lady Philippa. Not to mention an excellent horsewoman.” Lyndy winced at Alfred’s comparison to Philippa, having hoped never to hear that woman’s name again, but sensed his friend’s good-natured appreciation for his bride-to-be. And if he were trying to win Owen’s good opinion, Lyndy couldn’t have found better words. Owen couldn’t resist admiring a good horsewoman.

  “Beautiful yet nothing like Lady Philippa and a good horsewoman?” Owen teased. “Maybe I’ll try to woo her away from you, old chap. If she’s sensible, she’ll prefer a good-natured Yorkshire squire than the dour viscount she’s been shackled to. Is it true she’s from the wilds of the American West?”

  “Kentucky, actually. It is not the lawless, wild place you imagine.”

  Lyndy had pictured Stella’s home as Owen did before he’d heard the Kendricks describe the manicured ranches, the elegant racetracks, the cultured high societies of Lexington and Louisville. He planned to attend the Kentucky Derby one day. “You won’t find gunslingers or unruly cowboys there.”

  “Doesn’t mean she won’t be a bit wild and unruly on her wedding night,” Owen said, winking at Alfred.

  “Ahem.” Alfred coughed nervously in surprise, which sent his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

  “Don’t say you’ve never thought of it,” Owen said.

  Alfred, still sputtering his denial, took his spectacles off, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and proceeded to wipe them clean.

  “I’m certain the bridegroom has,” Owen said. “Eh, Lyndy?”

  Lyndy tugged on the lapels of his riding coat. What did Owen expect him to say? He’d be a fool to deny he hadn’t imagined his wedding night. He’d caressed the silky strands of Stella’s hair, felt the curves of her body against him, tasted the sweetness of her lips, shivered at her breath in his ear, hadn’t he? But that was between him and her, not a topic of casual conversation in the stable yard.

  “You will refrain from speaking of my future wife in any manner less than is befitting the future Countess of Atherly and the future mother of my children. Else I will have to pummel you with my fists.”

  Owen laughed, lifting his fists to his face. He danced playfully back and forth on the balls of his feet before jabbing Lyndy lightly in the ribs. Lyndy didn’t crack a smile.

  “Oh,” Owen said, halting in place, his arms still held up before him. “You weren’t joking.” Lyndy shook his head. “Heaven help us. My rakish cousin, who once considered courting a sport, is besotted.” Owen winked at Alfred. “After Lady Philippa, who could’ve dreamed Lord Lyndhurst would lose his head again?”

  “Oh, I think he’s lost his heart to this one as well, Sir Owen,” Alfred said, happily adding to the jest as he resettled his spectacles on his face.

  Lyndy clenched his jaw. It was true. He had wantonly pursued many women, like foxes during a hunt, careless of their hearts. He blamed Philippa. After her rejection, he’d sworn never to be vulnerable to a woman’s whims again. Yet here he was.

  All three turned at the clip-clop of horse hooves on the cobblestones.

  “Shall we?” Lyndy said. The other two heartily agreed as their chosen rides approached.

  As the groom held Beau’s reins, Lyndy slipped his Irish Hunter a piece of peppermint and then checked that the girth and billet straps weren’t too tight.

  With Lyndy’s horse between them, Owen lowered his voice and, without a hint of jest, said, “I do hope this one’s as worthy as you say, Alfred. I’m not certain what he’ll do if she proves otherwise.”

  “That’s not what worries me,” Alfred whispered back. “It’s what will happen if this wedding doesn’t come off.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Because it’s happened before.”

  “But wasn’t that because a man was murdered?”

  “True, but, Owen, you haven’t met all the players yet. After you’ve met old man Kendrick, then tell me you’re not worried.”

  Lyndy hoisted himself into the saddle, which afforded a better view of the two men gossiping across Tupper’s back like washing women at a clothesline.

  “I’m not worried,” Lyndy said, “and neither should you be.” The two men had the decency to avert their eyes in shame at being caught out. “Now, shall we ride?”

  “You’re absolutely correct, old chap,” Owen said, swinging up onto Tupper’s back. He shot a worried glance at Alfred before forcing a smile on his face. “The wedding’s in three days. What could happen between now and then to stop you from wedded bliss?”

  CHAPTER 3

  The wharf was a sea of people. Passengers poured down gangways, hurrying to set their feet on land after their long journey. Porters pushed carts of stacked suitcases and trunks before them, parting the crowd as they went. Dockworkers stabbed bales, barrels, and sacks with large wooden-handled hooks as they unloaded the cargo. Spectators, come to share in the excitement, gawked and waved to strangers on board a departing ocean liner when a tug, its steam and smoke billowing into the bright sky, pushed it back. Above them all, the large chimney stacks of the ocean liners cast their shadows. Stella’s carriage, braving the chaotic throng, made slow progress down the longest pier. But Stella was glad she’d come.

  “Look, Daddy.”

  Stella pointed out the window when a dun-colored Quarter Horse, blindfolded and dangling from a sling, was hoisted through the air and into the hold of a nearby ship. She’d heard of horses transported this way, and the danger associated with it. When they’d brought Tully, Tupper, and Orson to England, her father had paid whatever it took to have them secured safely in a custom-built padded box on deck, large enough for the horses to walk around. When they’d docked, the thoroughbreds had disembarked down the third-class passenger gangway.

  “Barbarians,” Daddy said. “They’ll be lucky if the horse survives the trip.” He craned his neck, searching the crowd. “Do you see the Swensons?”

  It didn’t surprise Stella that her father, who hadn’t invited his brother to the wedding, had insisted the Swensons be on the guest list. The Swensons were old family friends from Kentucky. Mr. Swenson, Theo, was both her father’s rival as a racehorse breeder and his closest friend. The two families’ horse farms were less than a few miles apart. But the Swensons weren’t fond enough of Stella to cross the ocean to attend her wedding. And yet they’d agreed to come.

&nbs
p; Unfortunately.

  “I don’t know how you expect to find one face out of all—” Stella paused midsentence when a woman in a bright red straw hat passed by Stella’s window. Hers was a face Stella recognized, one she never thought she’d see again.

  “Mama?”

  Stella unlatched the door and shoved it open. But when she prepared to jump out, she was yanked backward by a firm grip on her traveling coat collar. Her head snapped forward, the brim of her hat bending against the door frame when the force of her father’s tug propelled her back into the carriage seat. He reached across her and drew the door shut as a wagon, laden with piles of bags labeled “Royal Mail,” rumbled past.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Daddy growled. “You could’ve been trampled.”

  He was right. What was Stella thinking? So focused on the woman with an uncanny resemblance to Katherine Kendrick, she hadn’t noticed the oncoming mail wagon. Would she ever stop seeing her mother?

  Stella’s hands trembled from the close encounter, and yet she followed the strange woman’s progress until her red hat was swallowed up by the crowd. It was a trick of the eye, Stella reminded herself, a wishful thought. Stella’s mother was dead.

  Her mother had died of influenza visiting friends out West. Hoping to spare her, Stella’s father attended the funeral without her. For years after, Stella spotted her mother everywhere. But when Stella confronted her mother’s double, it would only be in the curve of the jaw, the stance of the shoulders, or the shape of her nose in profile that had reminded the girl of her much-missed parent. This woman was no different. From the moment Stella had decided to marry Lyndy, she’d lamented the absence of her mother. Mama would never meet Lyndy, would never see Stella in her gorgeous gown, would never cry with pride when Stella became a wife.

  “There they are!” Daddy announced, pounding on the roof to tell the coachman to stop. “I can’t wait to see the expression on ’ole Theo’s face when he spots us getting out of a carriage that once belonged to Queen Victoria. And you practically that royal’s kin.”