CHAPTER 2

      “Is that a woman driving?” Lyndy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

      His Majesty the King rode in a Daimler like that at the Newmarket races a few weeks ago. Lyndy was envious. Several of his friends were driving about London in the new conveyances. Due to the financial straits his family found themselves in, he hadn’t been allowed to get a motorcar, yet.

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Lyndy,” Mother said. Without looking at him, she added, “Calm yourself and stand still. Don’t act so nervous.”

      Lyndy stopped shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His mother was wrong, though. He wasn’t nervous. He was thrilled, the wedding notwithstanding. The champion thoroughbreds in those wagons were soon to be his, all his. A childhood dream come true.

      Mother expected him to act like a gentleman. Now he could ride like one. He was already composing his excuse for missing afternoon tea. Better still, he’d no longer be just a punter, wagering on other people’s horses; he’d have a chance at the winner’s circle himself. Grandfather would be proud.

      Was he going to get to keep the Daimler as well?

      “Look again, Mother.”

      She squinted at the procession slowly making its way up the drive, strange ambulance wagons led by the blue Daimler motorcar. The driver sported a wide-brimmed motoring hat and veil.

      “It is a woman,” Mother said in disbelief. “William, you don’t think . . .”

      “That it is Miss Kendrick?” Papa said, finishing her sentence. He pulled out the lorgnette he used at the opera from his breast pocket, held the eyepieces up to his face, and peered through. “I’m afraid I do, my dear.”

      “No, it cannot be. That woman is driving. Americans are strange beasts. They must have hired a woman chauffeur.”

      Mother abhorred any deviation from her rigid expectations. Hence, her displeasure at retreating down to the country with the Season in full swing. Quite the boon in Lyndy’s opinion, who preferred riding or fishing to listening to prattle in a ballroom. Hence, his mother’s perpetual disappointment in Lyndy.

      “There are no women chauffeurs, Frances,” Papa said, folding his lorgnette and slipping it back into his pocket. Papa didn’t like strangers to know he had a weakness; he couldn’t see beyond a few yards.

      “What about the other woman, the one in the backseat? That must be Miss Kendrick.”

      “Now who’s ridiculous, Mother?” Lyndy said, tugging on his lapels to keep his feet from moving. Despite the distance, even Papa should be able to tell the woman in the back was not in the bloom of youth.

      “But . . . ?” Mother was stunned into silence.

      Lyndy took a step forward in anticipation. This might be more fun than I thought.

      As the car pulled up and stopped, he couldn’t decide which was more compelling—the Daimler or its driver.

      “I suppose we must do this, mustn’t we?” Mother sighed, smoothing the lace-embellished brown silk of her tea gown. She always wore such dreary colors. Must his mother always dress to match her mood?

      “Yes, dear,” Papa said. “It was inevitable.”

      “No, William. If you’d—”

      “Mother, they’re here,” Lyndy whispered, cutting off any further bickering.

      Mother pinched her lips as the young woman alighted from the car. Her figure obscured by the tan duster coat, the American swept the veil away from her face.

      “She’s lovely,” Lyndy’s sister, standing transfixed beside him, whispered. “Like a Gibson girl.”

      “A gibbon?” Mother said. “How ungenerous of you, Alice. The young woman looks nothing like a monkey.”

      “No, a Gibson girl, Mummy, not a gibbon. You know, like in the American magazines?”

      With a long neck, flawless alabaster skin, red bow-shaped lips, and a flash of mischief in her blue eyes, the young woman was indeed striking. But was she the American heiress? His mother’s scowl confirmed it.

      Miss Kendrick’s eyes sought out Lyndy and she smiled. For a moment Lyndy forgot who and where he was. He forgot his manners; he forgot to breathe.

      “Someone get the door!” barked the rotund man in the Daimler.

      The young woman, not waiting for the footman, stepped around the front of the motorcar, her large coat swishing about her slender figure, and opened the door for the grumbling graying man in the passenger’s seat. He waved away her offer to help him and, clutching a dark leather bag with both arms, clambered awkwardly out of the car. With a considerable paunch and bowed legs, he stood a few inches shorter than the young woman. He stomped toward Lyndy and his waiting family.

      “Welcome, Mr. Kendrick. It is good of you to come all this way,” Papa said.

      “Good to be here, Atherly. Quite the journey over, but you know, I had to make sure everything was in proper order.” Mr. Kendrick tapped the leather bag. “By the way, Professor Gridley sends his regards.”

      Mother scowled at the name.

      “Yes, jolly good,” Papa said. “I received word from him yesterday. Everything is going according to plan.”

      “Speaking of plans . . .” Mr. Kendrick glanced at the greeting party. “Where’s the vicar?”

      “Yes, ummm . . . well,” Papa said, “I don’t believe you met my wife, Lady Atherly. My dear, this is . . .”

      “Elijah Kendrick. At your service, ma’am.” He shoved out his hand.

      Mother grimaced but offered up her fingers. Mr. Kendrick grabbed Mother’s hand and pumped it heartily. Mother wrenched it back, as if she’d been bitten by a viper. Mr. Kendrick then approached Lyndy, stopping within inches of his face. The man smelled of peppermint and tobacco. It was not a pleasant combination. Lyndy would’ve shoved the American away, but for what was at stake. Tugging harder on his lapels, Lyndy held his ground.

      “So, this must be the viscount.” Mr. Kendrick examined him with such scrutiny, Lyndy half expected the man to pull back his lips and examine his teeth.

      “I am not one of your horses, sir,” Lyndy said, brushing his hand through his hair.

      Mr. Kendrick laughed. “No, you aren’t. But you’ll do just the same.”

      “Well, I never . . . ,” Mother muttered.

      Miss Kendrick thrust herself in front of her father. Her scent, a heady mix of floral and woody tones, like a walk in the forest in spring, wafted in the air. With a flourish, she curtsied, as if being presented at court.

      “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” the young woman said to Papa, not waiting to be introduced. “I’m Stella Kendrick, the daughter.”

      Papa smiled at Miss Kendrick’s attempt and utter failure at acceptable manners. Mother rolled her eyes and sighed. Lyndy chuckled. To think he’d worried about Mother making a fuss when he chose to go riding instead of taking tea.

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