Murder at Morrington Hall. Clara McKenna
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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.”
She stared straight into his eyes. “I pity you, Lord Lyndhurst,” she whispered back. It was not what he’d expected her to say. He prepared his retort, but the brightness in her eyes stayed his tongue. “I will go and change and wash off the manure, but you, sir, will always be full of it.”
Lyndy burst out laughing.
She turned her back on him, took the maid’s offered arm, and proceeded toward the house. Lyndy, captivated by the strength in her retreating back and the slight sway to her curving hips, stood rooted to the ground.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, still chuckling at her wit. He spied the pink racing sheet tucked into his pocket as he turned back toward the stables. He pulled it out, snapped it to its full length and glanced down at yesterday’s numbers. Tiresome had come in fourth. “I owe Westwoode a guinea.”
And I owe Papa an apology. That little American might be a good match for me, after all.
CHAPTER 4
Tom Heppenstall dried the pint glass with his fist and towel pressed inside until it squeaked. With a quick glance at the clock on the shelf behind him, he set the glass upside down in the wooden cabinet with the others. He grabbed for the next, but there were none. With no more glasses to dry, he set to vigorously rubbing down the same two feet of the wooden bar in front of him. The publican’s eyes weren’t on his task but on the door. It was half past, and that good-for-nothing boy who was supposed to be working for him hadn’t arrived yet. That made four times late in so many days. Of course, the boy always had an excuse: ponies were blocking the road; his dad had him weeding the vegetable patch, and he’d lost track of time; his mum burnt his pasty, and he had to wait for her to bake another. Tom didn’t care what the boy was really up to, though he suspected the butcher’s daughter might have something to do with it, but he couldn’t have someone unreliable working for him. No matter the excuse the boy had prepared for him today, he might have to let him go.
Tom took his eyes off the door and looked about the pub. Luckily, it was quiet yet. Only Old Joe at the end of the bar and that grockle in the corner, nursing a half. Tom glanced again at the door—where is that boy?—and then back at the grockle. With his cap pulled low on his forehead, the stranger stared into his bitter. How long had the grockle been coming in here? Two, three days? Outsiders wandered in now and then, but this grockle seemed different. He sat in the taproom when, by the cut of his tweeds, the bloke should prefer the lounge. He came, too, when it was quiet, and left as soon as the men arrived in from the fields. Rarely spoke and hardly drank anything either.
In Tom’s twenty-two years behind the bar of the Knightwood Oak, he’d seen his share of troubled souls. He was as sure that the timbers above his head would be holding up the ceiling long after he was gone as he was that this fellow was one of those troubled souls. Today the bloke’s hands had been trembling when he’d placed his tuppence on the bar. What caused a grown man to shake like an oak leaf in the winter wind? “Grockles bring trouble, bring change,” his dad used to say, and Tom found it too often to be true. The publican didn’t know what this fellow had done, and didn’t want