Taking on the responsibilities that come with being Lady Lyndhurst, Stella is eager to embrace yuletide traditions in the Edwardian English countryside and use her strong social influence for good. Her world becomes so consumed with starting a horse farm charity for the holidays that she barely notices the usual oddities attached to her upper crust lifestyle. At least, not until items vanish from her bedroom and maligned housekeeper, Mrs. Nelson, becomes seriously ill—only to be found dead in the cold on Mistletoe Lane . . .
Cheery spirits are dashed following the sudden death, especially once Stella questions whether her own staff knows what—or who—killed the woman. Her suspicions mount when another person dies under strange circumstances during New Forest's annual Point-to-Point Boxing Day race. Then there's the case of Morrington Hall becoming plagued by false identities, secret affairs, and disgruntled employees . . .
Now, with two murders unfolding before their eyes in late December, Stella and Lyndy realize they can't fully trust anyone except for themselves while investigating. Because as disturbing answers come into focus, identifying the criminal responsible and surviving into the new year would be the greatest gift of the season . . .
Release date:
October 24, 2023
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
304
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Grace Oakhill curled her fingers into Roger’s little fist to hide the holes in her glove. Her eldest, barely six, bent over and snatched something from the ground.
“Look, Mummy!”
With elation gleaming from his wind-blown face, her boy triumphantly displayed a dirty, six-inch, broken tip of deer antler with deep gnaw marks.
“Jolly good, Rog!” Grace praised, putting on a brave face.
She despised having to bundle up the children, in their threadbare coats and too small, thin boots, and trudge them all this way in the cold. Not that Roger seemed to mind. But who was to mind them while she was gone? Little Malcolm, clutching her other hand, sneezed as if to emphasize the bleak picture they painted.
It was wretched being a beggar.
Mercifully, it was Christmas, when the pitiful were remembered with the annual tug at their betters’ heartstrings or, more importantly, their purse strings. Grace was relying on it. She squeezed Malcolm’s and Roger’s mittened hands and kept walking.
She almost lost her nerve when she reached the drive and saw the manor house looming above them. She’d never dared to get so close before. Who was she to imagine these grand folk would care about her sick cow or her lame horse? What concern was it to them that Mr. Oakhill, having business in Basingstoke, had succumbed to fever during the city’s recent typhoid epidemic?
Although left to fend for herself and her children, Grace wasn’t without capabilities or resources. The cottage’s hearth had come with certain commoning rights; the peat and the wood she and the boys were allowed to gather from the New Forest would keep them from freezing to death. She was an excellent embroiderer, and, it being Christmastime, her handkerchiefs, tablecloths, doilies, and napkins were selling well. But the rent was coming due, her cow had stopped producing milk, and her lame horse couldn’t save itself from a barn on fire. How was she to deliver her linens to the more distant parts of the New Forest, let alone Hythe and Southampton? Grace was desperate, and her last hope resided here.
Smoke curled into the matching gray sky from chimneys, too many to count. Taking in the slightly acrid but pleasant savory scent, Grace tried to picture the multitudes of fireplaces, big enough to accommodate two people and with mantels made of marble, several roasting food, all roaring with hot, flickering flames. The biting wind cut through her daydream and her coat. She shivered, dismissing the wistful notion with a tug on the boys’ loose grips.
Were the rumors she’d learned from Mrs. Conway, the haberdasher in Rosehurst, true, or was she wasting her time? Was she doing the right thing? Did she know what that was anymore? Grace pushed against the wind, and her doubts, up the gravel path, marking the route to the servants’ entrance.
Grace gathered the boys into a reassuring hug, her back aching from doing what her husband was no longer around to do. She adjusted Roger’s cap. Using her gloved thumb, she rubbed away whatever Malcolm managed to smear on the side of his neck. Steeling herself, she straightened, producing the brown paper packet from the inner pocket of her coat. Would this be enough? Grace could ill afford it otherwise. She told herself this wasn’t a bribe but an investment in her boys’ futures.
And they had to get through the winter first.
Grace faced the door and, bolstered by the cheery wreath of holly hanging on its plain, solid, wooden front, let go of Roger’s hand, adjusted the blue felt toque she’d been married in, blown askew by the wind, and knocked.
Stella breathed in the sweet scent of cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla lacing the hot air enveloping her. She unwound the paisley, cashmere shawl from her shoulders, casting the colorful wedding present from Lyndy’s Aunt Winnie onto the empty ladder-backed chair by the door. On this cold, dreary day, Morrington Hall’s kitchen was a welcomed haven from the bone-chilling drafts that permeated the upstairs rooms. But where were the holly garlands Stella sent down?
Stella loved Christmas. At least, she used to. When she was a small child, it was a time for presents wrapped in red silk ribbons, glass ornaments shipped from Germany shimmering in the candlelight on Christmas Eve, and endless parties full of laughter. Mama would direct an army of servants, pulled from their duties elsewhere, to drape every door frame, windowsill, mantel, picture frame, and chandelier of their massive Kentucky home with evergreens. The scent of freshly cut boughs wafted through every room. And for days before, that scent would mingle with what Cook was preparing in the kitchen: pecan pie, chestnut stuffing, fruitcake laced with Bourbon, kettles and kettles of popcorn that Stella faithfully spent hours fashioning into balls or garland to hang on the Christmas tree.
When Mama left, the warmth, the frivolity of Christmas went with her. Daddy still entertained and lavished his guests with a decorated house aglow with glass trinkets and fine food, hoping to impress his neighbors, not cheer them. Her father would set Stella among the decorations, displayed in gowns of velvet and lace, to be admired and gawked at like the Christmas tree for as long as it suited him. Then she’d be banished from the festivities to a tray of food gone cold in her room. Left to her own devices in those shortening days before Christmas Day, she spent countless hours in empty horse stalls, threading endless popcorn kernels onto a string, knowing they’d never grace the Christmas tree. Her father disliked popcorn, a reminder of his past poverty, when he couldn’t afford the machine-made ribbons that graced a wealthy man’s tree, and of Mama. Stella’s mother had started the tradition.
When it arrived, Christmas Day meant the obligatory trip to church and, afterward, Daddy compelling Stella to open her present in front of the envious servants. His gifts were always generous: a beautiful new dress, a porcelain doll, and a grand piano when she’d begun to learn to play. Unlike Mama, who gave handkerchiefs she embroidered herself or a wooden horse fashioned after Stella’s favorite at the time, her father gave thoughtless gifts, all purchased to impress.
Now, with Daddy gone and Mama back in her life, everything would be different. This Christmas, Stella’s first as a married woman, a viscountess, and a member of a new family, was going to be the best Christmas ever.
If only Stella could convince Mrs. Cole to do as she asked.
“I can’t perform miracles, milady,” the esteemed cook of Morrington Hall grumbled, vigorously wiping condensation from her spectacles with the corner of her apron. Behind her, kitchen maids bustled about their business: chopping fruit, whipping cream, cutting shapes out of dough. “These dishes you want aren’t any I’ve made before.”
“It’s popcorn, Mrs. Cole,” Stella said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Cooking it is as simple as pouring the kernels into a pan and turning on the heat.” Not that Stella had popped the corn herself, but she’d witnessed their cook in Kentucky doing it countless times when she was a child.
The cook replaced her spectacles on the tip of her button nose. “Not so simple, what with the help I’m forced to work with. Such silly girls. They’d forget to put the kettle on if I didn’t remind them.” A sideways stare sent the new kitchen maid, her plump cheeks turned red, scurrying to fetch water at the long, copper sink. “And where am I to get popcorn, milady?”
“If they don’t have any local, I’m sure we could order some from—” Mrs. Cole was shaking her head, her severely taut bun not loosening a wisp. “What about the fruitcake? I know you can make fruitcake.”
“Indeed! I’ll have you know I took Best Cake prize at the W.I. fete at Beaulieu last year.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Mrs. Cole sifted through the papers strewn across the top of her desk, producing the recipe cards Stella had provided her over a week ago. Delighted by Stella’s request, Mama had carefully copied and mailed the cards from her home in Montana.
“This calls for Bourbon. My recipe does not contain Bourbon.” Mrs. Cole dropped the card as if the paper was on fire. She picked up another. This one spelled out Stella’s mother’s recipe for pecan pie. “And pecan pie? Whatever is that? Besides, did you take this up with the countess before she set all the menus? You do realize I have afternoon tea and dinner to prepare yet for a party of eight?”
“Are you saying you won’t make anything I ask?”
Mrs. Cole flung her arms out in exasperation. “I’ve got an entire batch of mince pies gone missing, and I’ll be at it all night making more. I most certainly won’t have time to hunt down these exotic ingredients by Christmas.” She tossed the second recipe onto the pile.
What was Stella to do? This was Mrs. Cole’s kitchen. She barely tolerated Stella’s presence, let alone her suggestions at the best of times. Stella could appeal to Lady Atherly but knew how well she’d succeed in that corner. Despite their fragile and unspoken understanding that Stella was now part of the family, Stella’s mother-in-law never hesitated to warn her off corrupting the staff with her unconventional “American” ways.
Like asking for a kettle of popcorn.
“Not like that!” The cook snapped at the maid rolling out pastry dough. She marched across the kitchen to demonstrate. “It’s like this. Like this.”
Stella had no reason to complain. Lyndy was attentive, affectionate, and everything she’d hoped to find in a husband. Alice, Lyndy’s sister, more shy than aloof, was easily excitable and open whenever Stella asked about the fashion and gossip found in Alice’s American magazines. Lord Atherly’s study, his inner sanctum, was open to her, assuming she had time to linger while he pontificated, in vast detail, on extinct horse fossils or the extreme weather at the archeological dig Lord Atherly had invested in on the Great Plains back home. And Lady Atherly, with the influx of cash Stella had brought to the marriage, busied herself with hiring more staff, renovating the gardens, and overseeing the extensive updates to the house Lyndy had proposed. She had no time to interfere in Stella’s life.
And yet Stella struggled to find her place. All she had was time. Granted, during the first month after their honeymoon, she’d attended countless teas, dinner parties, and house calls from well-wishers who’d pop in at their leisure, longing to be free of her exhausting social obligations. Yet that’s when the boredom set in. With little left on the calendar, Stella had anticipated returning to her favorite pastime—caring for and training the horses. But she was Lady Lyndhurst now and relegated to watching others do it for her. Unlike in Kentucky (or even before the wedding), she was now admonished from spending too much time in the stables. Anything beyond a daily ride was frowned upon.
Stella had been clever in establishing the Triple R Farm for Horses and Ponies charity. She could spend time caring for horses in the service of others; even Lady Atherly couldn’t complain. Or so she thought. Despite the growing number to care for, her mother-in-law had insisted Stella leave the animals in the capable hands she’d hired. So, when Christmastime had arrived, seeing Lady Atherly apathetic about the holidays, Stella had decided to throw her energies into the festivities like her mother used to. And that included the menus.
“If that will be all, milady? I have to get back to it,” Mrs. Cole said, not so subtly telling Stella to leave.
But Stella wasn’t ready to give up. “Mrs. Cole. Could you at least . . .”
Stella let the words fade on her lips as Mrs. Nelson, Morrington’s housekeeper, came haltingly into the kitchen, the rattle of her keys punctuating each unsteady step. The older woman’s normally ruddy complexion was the shade of the flour Mrs. Cole sprinkled across the worktable. She held her palm tightly against the lace bodice inlay of her well-pressed black dress. Stella resisted the urge to guide the housekeeper to the nearest chair.
“Mrs. Nelson,” Mrs. Cole said, brushing her hands on her apron, “whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s nothing.” Mrs. Nelson waved away the cook’s concern, but her body betrayed her. A quiver took hold, visibly shaking her from shoulders to knees. The housekeeper’s cheeks flushed at the sight of Stella. “Lady Lyndhurst! Is there something I can do for you?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
A slight catch in Mrs. Nelson’s breath and an understanding passed between them—a request, an appeal for help as undeniable as any words uttered. Stella waited for Mrs. Nelson to elaborate. The housekeeper, poised to speak, cast a furtive sideways glance toward the preoccupied cook who’d returned to her task, unaware of the silent exchange. Then clamped her lips together.
“If I can help, I will,” Stella offered encouragingly.
“That’s kind, my lady, but—”
“Never mind her, Mrs. Nelson,” Mrs. Cole said, slamming a dough onto the table and glancing up, challenging Stella to contradict her with a glare. “Her Ladyship was just leaving.”
“Lyndy, do you think I’ll ever be accepted at Morrington?”
Lyndy brought Beau, his chestnut Irish Hunter, up alongside Stella and her beloved Thoroughbred, Tully, the dapple gray mare’s upper lips stretched out, her ears pointed backward. If Lyndy didn’t know better, the horse smiled as broadly as he’d seen her lovely owner do. Beau, on the other hand, swished his tail in annoyance.
“It will take time, my love.”
The clouds never broke, and the cold cut through his thick tweed jacket, but Lyndy was never one to shy away from a brisk gallop across the heath. He’d been by the fire in the library reading the Sporting Times about a string of mishaps marring the Windsor Hurdle Race when Stella had tracked him down. She’d been rebuffed by the formidable Mrs. Cole and needed to, as she put it, “let off some steam.” His poor wife had gotten into her head that she’d introduce his family to a few of her Christmas traditions but was having little luck. Lyndy had taken it up with Mother but to no avail. Theirs was a delicate peace, established when he and Stella had wed, with Mother acting far more civil than he’d expected. Yet Stella, rightfully so, still felt thwarted.
“It’s not just your mother’s disapproval or that Mrs. Cole wouldn’t cook anything I asked, but Mrs. Nelson clearly wanted my help with something. And then didn’t ask. I can’t help wondering what it was and why she wouldn’t say.” Stella patted Tully’s broad, thick neck.
“You must remember. Things are different now. You’re Lady Lyndhurst.”
“Ugh! If I hear that one more time!”
“Don’t you fancy being my wife?”
The red blush on her cheeks, the loose tendrils of silky brown hair she tucked behind her ear, and the quickening rise and fall of her chest despite the constraining boning in her jacket signaled her answer. Lyndy fancied scooping her from her saddle into his arms, but Beau snorted at Lyndy’s attempt to move closer. Foiled, Lyndy playfully ogled her legs instead as she adjusted her skirt, blown up by the wind. Stella caught him looking and rewarded him with a sly smile.
“That part I love.”
I’m a lucky man.
The horses’ hoofs clacked on the cobbles in the stable yard, already in part shadow. As the stableboy dashed out to take the reins, Lyndy spotted the silhouettes of three men pass the open stable door; their heads bent in conversation. Concern echoed from their slumped shoulders. Could something be wrong with one of the horses? Since the wedding, Lyndy had wanted nothing more than to bolster their number of Thoroughbreds, but Stella, with a keen eye for potential, was unwilling to compromise on inferior foals. She’d dissuaded him from every purchase he’d pursued to date. Currently, he pinned his hopes on Knockan Crag, a promising colt he’d spied during a visit to the Royal Stud at Sandringham on the way home from their honeymoon in York, but the royal racing manager was doubtful His Majesty was willing to sell.
Lyndy leaped from his saddle, automatically offering his assistance to Stella, who slid gracefully down without his help.
“What do you think that’s all about?” He jutted his chin toward the stables as the men passed a window, slowly, as if none too concerned about the pace, too caught up in what they were discussing.
“Let’s find out.”
Inside the stone stables, all polished, mucked out, and ready for equine visitors, the warmth was more than welcome. They caught up with the trio: Gates, the stablemaster, the head groom (Lyndy could never remember the man’s name), and Martin Green, the veterinarian they’d hired a few weeks back, conferring outside the box stall with the chewed, splinter wood doorframe, telltale evidence of its occupant.
“Lord Lyndhurst,” Mr. Green said, dipping his well-oiled head ever so slightly.
The veterinarian, taken on to tend Morrington’s horses and those on Stella’s charity farm, was a youthful man in his midthirties with a long, open face and a slight build that disguised impressive upper body strength. Lyndy once witnessed the chap do all of Morrington’s horse dentals in a row, holding up his instruments for three hours straight. He’d come highly recommended from connections Lyndy had in London. Lyndy could already see why. He was a likable fellow, competent, respectful but amiable, and quick with a laugh.
“And, my lady. You braved this weather, did you?” Green asked.
“We did,” Stella said, vigorously rubbing her arms with gloved hands. “If it doesn’t endanger the horses, we’re always up for it. Aren’t we?” She smiled at Lyndy.
“Indeed. Speaking of endangering horses, I couldn’t help noticing the serious undertone to your conversation.”
“It’s Orson, my lord,” Gates, the stocky, well-weathered stablemaster said. There wasn’t a man Lyndy respected more than him when it came to horses. “He needs attending, but nothing for you to worry about.”
“If you say so, Mr. Gates,” Stella said, feeling the same about the stablemaster as Lyndy did. “And lucky for me, Mr. Green, your visit saves me having to track you down before Christmas.”
“Oh?” The vet shoved the hand not holding his leather satchel into the deep pocket of his white, ankle-length work coat.
“I was hoping for an update on the horses on the farm. Anything worth mentioning before you take your days off?”
“Not that I’m aware of, my lady. After examining Orson, I’ll be doing my rounds at the farm. I’ll be certain to let you know if anything comes up.”
If Mr. Green wasn’t comfortable reporting to a woman, he had the grace not to show it. Since its inception, the Triple R was run exclusively by Stella. She’d insisted she needed something meaningful and productive to do. Why Lyndy couldn’t fathom. Wasn’t it enough to ride, read, and call on the neighbors? But if it made her happy, who was Lyndy to argue?
“Shall we?” Green said, indicating the stable hand should open Orson’s stall door. Orson, ears swiveling rapidly, was waiting for them. “A leery one, are ya?” Green cajoled, taking a step forward.
Orson stomped the ground, kicking up hay and dust. Green swiftly backed out. The stallion rattled the door with a kick as the head groom slid it shut. The vet crouched and began rummaging through his medical bag.
“Shall Mr. Gates and I see you at the Knightwood Oak, my lord?” Green asked, choosing a tincture in a glass stopper bottle from his bag. “Tonight promises to be quite the event.”
“Oh?”
“Didn’t you know you have one of the finest dart players I’ve ever encountered in your employ?” Green regarded Gates with a practiced eye. “And Mr. Gates isn’t half bad as well.” Green, laughing, slapped Mr. Gates on the back.
“Yes, well.” Lyndy never once considered patronizing the local pub. Drinking his quality whiskey in the comfort of his home was more to his liking. “But we’ll be seeing you on Boxing Day, won’t we?”
“You will, my lord.”
“You’re not participating in the Point-to-Point, are you, Mr. Green?” Stella said, referring to the annual New Forest Pony Race.
“No, my lady.” Mr. Green laughed. “I’ve volunteered to be on hand if a pony requires medical attention. I’m far better at healing ponies than riding them.”
Orson’s hoof banged against the door again.
“Speaking of, we need to figure out what ails that poor chap.”
“He’s always like that,” Lyndy chuckled.
Green cleared his throat. “I beg to differ, my lord. Orson’s temperamental, but his rage is pain driven.” Green produced a brownish tincture from his bag. The half-empty, glass-stoppered bottle caught the fading sunlight. “I didn’t want to sedate him, but—”
“We’ll leave you to it,” Lyndy said, yanking his sleeve down, irritated and uncomfortable.
“But, Lyndy, wouldn’t it be interesting to see—”
“The Kentfields will be here soon.” He held out his arm for Stella to take.
“When did you become eager to greet the Kentfields?” she teased as he escorted her away. “I thought you were dreading their arrival?”
“I’ve no desire to see that fine, virile stallion unnaturally docile,” he grumbled.
Stella coquettishly walked her fingers up his chest. “How about your desire to see how I’d make my fine, virile stallion unnaturally docile?”
Lyndy grabbed her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. By God, he was a lucky man.
The halls upstairs were as bustling as Mrs. Cole’s kitchen. As she made her way through the house, Stella dodged chambermaids, footmen, assistant gardeners, and workmen installing the new steam heating system. Each paused to bob or nod, embarrassed to be caught hustling past. Stella had learned most servants were expected to do their tasks unobtrusively. Yet with chambermaids carrying extra linen, gardeners’ arms filled with stacks of cut evergreen, and workmen lugging ornate wrought iron radiators around, Stella had no practical way to skirt them without acknowledging them. Which she was happy to do. Some were bringing glorious heat to the house, and others were transforming it into a magical place. Crisp leaves of holly and ivy draped from doorways and windowpanes. Ropes of yew or pine snaked through banisters and down the length of every hall. The festive color and heavenly scent, like a forest on a summer’s evening brought inside, followed her from the front entrance all the way upstairs.
Stella approached her bedroom, wriggling her fingers from her gloves. Steps from her doorway, she was stripping the second one off when a workman in ill-fitting pants, held up with thick suspenders, bounded from the room. They nearly collided. Stella whirled back to avoid him. The man stood his ground, self-consciously brushing plaster from his faded, collarless shirt. Behind him, the hanging cluster of mistletoe swayed in the open doorway.
“Pardon me, milady. I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously,” she chuckled nervously, holding her hand to her chest, the gloves dangling from her clenched fist. “I’m just glad you didn’t get me with that.”
She pointed to the wrench propped on his broad shoulder. Longer than the length of her arm, the heavy iron tool appeared capable of doing as much damage as good. Gripping it tightly, the man lowered it to his side.
“I’d ne. . .
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