All About Love

Chapter 11

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Not to be outdone by the Fortemains, the Smollets had arranged to host a dance that evening. It was a large affair with guests driving in from miles around. Many Lucifer hadn't met; he spent half the evening being introduced and exclaimed over-he was the main attraction, after all.

While doing the pretty, he kept an eye on Phyllida. She'd arrived in good time with her father, brother, and Miss Sweet. Lady Huddlesford had swept in later, Frederick at her heels. Percy Tallent had not appeared.

In her gown of bronze silk, a simple gold chain around her throat and gold drops in her ears, Phyllida was the least fussily dressed woman in the room, and easily the most stunning. She drew many men's eyes, yet few, Lucifer realized, properly appreciated the sight. Cedric, Basil, and Grisby-those he paid most attention to-clearly viewed Phyllida as a desirable chattel, one that, if possessed, would add to their consequence. None of them seemed to see her at all. Fools, the lot of them.

Her expression serene, she did her best to ignore them, chatting instead with the many others present-doubtless dispensing aid and succor in various forms. Yet she could not entirely avoid her would-be suitors.

She danced the first dance with Basil, their host. By dint of superior strategy, Lucifer avoided the reciprocal fate; Jocasta Smollet danced the measure with Sir Jasper. Phyllida then danced a cottilion with Cedric; later, he saw her going down a country dance with Henry Grisby.

Her attitude at the conclusion of the dance-that of relief that her duty had now been done-failed to puncture Grisby's self-absorption. Less than impressed, Phyllida retreated to speak with the Misses Longdon.

From the side of the room, Lucifer watched her, and considered his best avenue of approach.

"There you are!"

He turned as Sir Jasper joined him.

"Wanted to ask-have you uncovered anything about this blackguard who stabbed Horatio?"

"Nothing positive. There's no evidence anyone rode in from beyond the village, at least not from the east. I've yet to check in Honiton, but at present, all signs point to the killer residing locally."

"Hmm. This intruder you surprised last night…?"

"May well be the murderer."

Sir Jasper let out a long sigh. He looked away, over the room. "I'd hoped, y'know, that it wouldn't be someone from round about. But if they're still searching…"

"Precisely. It can't be anyone from far afield. They'd be noticed."

"By the same token, given the way we all go about down here, riding day in, day out, it'll be hard to pin anyone down."

Lucifer inclined his head in agreement.

Sir Jasper remained beside him, a frown gathering on his face. Eventually, he drew breath and faced Lucifer. "This business of that hunter shooting at Phyllida…"

"Exactly what I want to know, too."

Sir Jasper and Lucifer glanced around as Jonas ambled up. Hands in his pockets, he met Lucifer's gaze. As usual, he appeared relaxed, ready for any lark. It occurred to Lucifer that, as Phyllida's calm serenity was often a mask, so, too,

Jonas's insouciant good humor concealed something more. There was certainly nothing insouciant in his hazel eyes.

"I know Phyl said it was a hunter, but I can't see it myself. Ridiculous time and place to go shooting. And whyever did she burn that bonnet?"

"She burned her bonnet?" Sir Jasper gazed across the room at his daughter.

"So Sweetie said." Jonas studied Phyllida, too.

"Why on earth would she do that?"

Because she'd been frightened and destroying the bonnet had been her way of putting the incident from her. Lucifer could understand that. For all her intransigence, Phyllida was too intelligent not to be afraid.

"What I want to know is: Is she in any danger?"

It was Jonas who voiced the question. To Lucifer's relief, it wasn't directed specifically at him; he couldn't answer truthfully. He shifted; it went against his grain to keep Sir Jasper and Jonas in the dark. To his mind, they had a right to know-had a right to protect daughter, sister.

Lips shut tight against any unwary word, he canvassed his options, but there wasn't any way to warn them that it looked like the murderer was indeed after Phyllida-they'd immediately ask why. "I saw her out walking, coming back from the church. I noticed she had a groom with her."

"Did she? Now that's a first." Jonas glanced at him. "I wonder why."

"Perhaps the shock of being shot at." Lucifer kept his tone light. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of women?"

Sir Jasper snorted. Jonas grinned.

After a moment, Sir Jasper said, "I don't like this business of a murderer running loose among us. No telling where it might end. I might just have a word with the male staff-no need to let Phyllida know."

"A general increase in watchfulness wouldn't hurt."

"She'll hear of it," Jonas said. "You know she will. Then she'll just reorganize things her way."

"Humph!" Sir Jasper's frowning gaze remained on his daughter. "I'll do it anyway. With luck, by the time she learns of it, we'll have this miscreant by the heels."

Lucifer hoped so. Leaving Sir Jasper and Jonas, he strolled down the room to negotiate with the musicians laboring in a corner. After that, he headed toward the chaise Phyllida was sharing with the Misses Longdon.

He bowed to all three ladies. They had barely exchanged five words before the opening bars of a waltz filled the room. The Misses Longdon tittered; neither danced, but they eagerly scanned the room to see who of their neighbors would partner whom.

Lucifer caught Phyllida's eye and bowed again. "If you would do me the honor, Miss Tallent?"

She inclined her head and gave him her hand. He raised her and drew her into the dance, into his arms. The Misses Longdon twittered furiously.

Phyllida danced well and was thankful for it-at least she didn't need to mind her steps. One less problem on her plate. The most pressing, literally, had her trapped in his arms and was whirling her effortlessly around the floor. For some silly reason, her wits and her senses seemed intent on following her feet into some realm of giddy delight, and that was far too dangerous.

There was an aggravated frown in Lucifer's eyes, a tightness about his lips, a tension in his body as it tantalizingly brushed hers-unquestionably all danger signs. She kept her expression mild, her gaze on his face.

"I've just had a most uncomfortable conversation with your father and brother."

She felt her eyes go round, her jaw drop. "How on earth did Papa, let alone Jonas, learn of last night?"

Lucifer stared at her, then his lips thinned. "We weren't discussing our interlude in the shrubbery. They don't know about that."

Phyllida sagged with relief. "Thank heavens!"

Lucifer all but shook her as they went around the turn.

"We were discussing whether you are in danger. Which you are."

"You didn't tell them?" She searched his eyes.

They glittered back at her. "No, I didn't. But I should."

"There's no reason for them to be worried-"

"They have a right to know."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't want them to know. It's pointless. As you saw, I'm perfectly capable of taking appropriate steps, and with luck I'll be able to tell you all soon, and then, one way or another, we'll catch the murderer and all will be well."

He studied her face, her eyes. "It would be better if you told me what it was you saw in Horatio's drawing room."

She considered it.

I saw a brown hat.

A brown hat?

Just a brown hat. I didn't recognize it and no one's worn it since.

Then it can't be that that the murderer's worried about. What else happened? What were you doing? Why were you there?

"I can't tell you. Not yet."

His gaze remained steady, vibrant dark blue, focused on her eyes. "I think you can."

His voice was soft, low; it sent shivers down her spine. Her impulse was to lift her chin and step back from his arms; before she could, he drew her nearer.

Near enough so the silk over her breasts brushed his coat with every breath; close enough so that his hard thighs brushed hers at every turn.

She was suddenly very conscious of just how physically powerful he was-although he never hid it, he hadn't before projected it, not like this. Some part of her mind was pointing frantically, urging her to understand how threatening he could be, and give in. Instead, she simply frowned at him. "Not yet. I'll tell you as soon as I can."

Her tone was calm and even. An expression of surprise-as if he couldn't quite believe his ears-passed swiftly through his eyes. Then the blue hardened. Slowly, arrogantly, he lifted one black brow.

She knew that look-could interpret it with ease. "Nothing you can do will change my mind."

The music stopped; they swirled to a halt by the side of the floor, but he didn't let her go. His hand at her waist burned through the silk, threatening to bring her hard against him. He lowered their linked hands, lacing his fingers through hers, and looked into her eyes. "Nothing?"

Just that one, soft word.

Phyllida suddenly felt faint. Her knees felt weak. If she didn't say something soon, he was going to kiss her-right here in the Smollets' ballroom in front of half the county. He would do it, and delight in the doing. Her heart was thudding; her eyes were trapped in midnight blue. She couldn't think-not well enough to concoct any evasive plan. And she couldn't break away.

His gaze grew more intent; his lips lifted a little at the corners. The hand at her back tensed-

"Ah, Phyllida, my dear."

It was Basil. He walked toward them, not looking at them but surveying his guests. Lucifer was forced to release her. Phyllida edged back.

Reaching them, Basil glanced at them and smiled perfunctorily. "I wonder, my dear, if I could prevail on you to give your opinion of the punch. I'm just not sure…"

"Of course!" Seizing Basil's arm, Phyllida turned him. "Where's the punch bowl?"

She steered Basil down the room, away from Lucifer, and didn't once look back.

Despite that, she knew he watched her-kept watching her, waiting for another chance at her. No matter where in the room she went, she felt his gaze on her. Consequently, she was forced to conscript some gentleman-one of her village suitors or one of the others from farther afield who would gladly pay court to her if she gave the slightest sign-as bodyguard. They, unfortunately, didn't know they were guarding her.

One, a Mr. Firman from Musbury, insisted on fetching her a glass of punch; he left her by a window. Phyllida scanned the crowd; she couldn't see Lucifer. But the sense of being in danger grew… retreating to the withdrawing room seemed a good idea. She turned toward the door-

And walked into a familiar chest.

She all but leaped back. She glared at him. "Stop it!"

He raised his brows, all innocence. "Stop what?"

"This! You know you can't"-she gestured with both hands-"seduce me in a ballroom."

"Who wrote that rule?" He studied her eyes, then added, "I'll admit it's a greater challenge, but…"

His voice had deepened to a suggestive purr. Phyllida flashed him a repressive look and turned to scan those nearby, hoping to see Mr. Firman or some other useful soul… Robert Collins was standing quietly by the wall.

Lucifer had followed her gaze. "I thought the hostesses hereabouts didn't encourage Mr. Collins."

"They don't and Jocasta's no different, she's just more cruel. She knows inviting Robert will irritate Mr. Farthingale, reinforcing his opposition, which quite rains Mary Anne's delight in having Robert here. Robert, of course, is helpless to decline the invitation-he gets so few opportunities to see Mary Anne in such surrounds."

Phyllida was conscious that, just for a moment, Lucifer's attention drifted from her. She glanced at him; he was studying the guests.

"Miss Smollet," he murmured, "seems to have a rather peculiar notion of what constitutes entertainment."

Phyllida quietly humphed. She was saved from having to find some other distraction by Mr. Firman's return. He handed her her glass; to gain a moment, she introduced him to Lucifer, only to discover that Mr. Firman had been waiting to talk to Mr. Cynster all evening.

Mr. Firman, it transpired, was the owner of a cattle stud.

Phyllida learned that that was a subject on which Lucifer wished to extend his knowledge. Not only did Mr. Firman talk, but Lucifer listened and asked questions.

The opportunity was too good to pass up. Phyllida edged away; Lucifer shot her a glance but was trapped in the ongoing discussion. Mr. Firman was not someone he wanted to offend.

Phyllida gave her glass to a footman, then joined Robert Collins by the wall.

He glanced at her-there was a painful intensity in his eyes that Phyllida didn't like to see. He pressed her hand. "Mary Anne told me about the letters." He looked across the room to where Mary Anne stood chatting with two young ladies. "How I wish I'd never urged her to write to me."

The bitterness in his words had Phyllida frowning. "It's the letters I wanted to speak to you about."

Robert's head whipped around, hope naked in his face. "You've found them?"

"No. I'm sorry…"

Robert sighed. "No-I'm sorry. I know you will and I'm grateful for your help. I've no right to press you." After a moment, he asked, "What did you want to know?"

Phyllida took a deep breath. "I have to ask you this because it's important, and whenever I try to talk to Mary Anne on the subject, she becomes quite hysterical. But I need to know this, Robert-and if I don't get a sensible answer, I don't know that I can keep searching for those letters in secret. So tell me-what is it about them that makes them so dangerous to you and Mary Anne?"

Robert stared at her, the image of a rabbit cornered. Then he swallowed and looked away. "I can't tell you-not in so many words."

"Generalizations will do-I'll extrapolate."

He fell silent; eventually he said, "Mary Anne and I have been meeting secretly for nearly a year. You know how long we've waited and…" He dragged in a breath. "Anyway, Mary Anne used to fill in the time between my visits by writing to me about our last meeting-about what we'd done and what we might do the next time-well, she wrote in a very detailed way." He cast Phyllida an anguished glance.

She met it, blank-faced. After a moment, she said, her tone flat, "I think I understand, Robert."

Thanks to Lucifer, she now had some inkling of what could transpire between a lady and a gentleman where desire was involved. And she had no doubt Mary Anne desired Robert-she always had. Phyllida cleared her throat.

"I used to bring the letters with me to our next meeting and we'd try to… well…" Robert hauled in another breath and rushed on. "So you see, if Mr. Farthingale got hold of the letters, it would be very… bad. But if he showed them to Mr. Crabbs-if anyone showed them to Mr. Crabbs…"

"Hmm." A vision of the starchily conservative, stern-faced solicitor flashed into Phyllida's mind.

"I wouldn't get my registration, and then we'd never be able to marry." Robert looked at her, his plea in his eyes.

She forced a reassuring smile. "We'll find them."

Robert squeezed her hand. "I can't thank you enough-you're such a good friend."

Phyllida took back her hand, and wished she could be a bad friend. But she couldn't. On top of that, she'd given her word. She turned from Robert-and found Lucifer almost upon her.

She met his eyes. "No!"

A violin sang-they both glanced toward the musicians. Then Phyllida looked back. She considered Lucifer, then stepped closer and flicked a hand against his chest. "Waltz with me."

He looked at her, arrested. "Why?"

"Because you might as well be useful and I don't want to waltz with anyone else."

His arm closed around her and he steered her into the whirl. His eyes searched hers. "You're trying to distract me."

"Perhaps." She was also trying to distract herself, and he was simply perfect for the task.

How could Mary Anne have been so idiotic as to write such things down? Love-induced stupidity-that was the only reason Phyllida could imagine.

The sun shone brightly, the air was fresh and clean as she strolled briskly down the common. Behind her, the Sunday-morning congregation was streaming home. Ten paces to her rear, Jem strode, her concession to male notions of feminine vulnerability. Her aunt and the rest of the females of the Grange were rolling home in the carriage, but she had elected to stroll back via the wood.

And the Manor.

All the Manor's household bar Lucifer had been in church, even the newcomer, his groom. Bristleford had informed her that Mr. Cynster had elected to watch over the house in light of the recent intrusion.

Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.

Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.

From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He'd been deep in Horatio's ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He'd glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida's destination wasn't hard to guess.

He'd waited in the hall-he didn't want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn't help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio's garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.

She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness-a keen anticipation he could feel. He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.

She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.

She tilted her head, her eyes on his. "Good morning. Bristleford said you'd stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn't reappear?"

"No. All was quiet."

She waited, then said, "I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything-any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder."

How much to tell her? "Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?"

Her eyes widened to dark saucers. "Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!"

"In that case, possibly."

Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, "Well? What was it?"

A moment passed before he answered, "An inscription in a book."

So she had imagined. "What did it say?"

"What did you see in Horatio's drawing room last Sunday?"

Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. "You know I can't tell you-not yet."

His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. "Because it concerns someone else?"

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Yes."

They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio's garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.

Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn't left hers. "Someday I hope you'll trust me."

He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward the front door.

Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. "Walk back through the village. Until the murderer's caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you."

He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.

Phyllida watched until he'd disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off-through the village.

Of course she trusted him-he knew she did! Phyllida slapped the brass vase she'd just emptied down on the vestry table, then swept back into the nave. She headed for the font.

The flowers she'd arranged on Saturday had only just lasted through Sunday. Wrapping both arms around the heavy urn, she hefted it. Balancing the weight carefully, she slowly edged toward the vestry and the open door beyond; the last thing she needed was dirty water streaks down the front of her muslin gown.

That would be the last straw.

How could he not know that she trusted him? He did know-he must, after their little interlude in the shrubbery. He knew, but he was using the question of trust-her trust in him-as a lever to pressure her.

He wasn't really talking about trust at all-he was talking about dominance. About the fact that she hadn't weakened and told him what he wanted to know. If he wanted to discuss trust, what about him trusting her? She'd told him she couldn't tell him, but that she would as soon as she could, and that what she knew was of no consequence anyway!

And just what had he meant by his parting comment about shrubberies not being safe for her?

"I'll go into the shrubbery any time I like."

The words, uttered through clenched teeth, echoed in the empty vestry. Feeling ahead with one foot, she located the threshold, then stepped out into the grassy area at the back of the church.

The sky was overcast, at one with her mood. Peering around the urn, she turned toward the pile of discarded flowers-

Black cloth fell over her head.

The weight of a rope fell against her collarbone.

The next instant, it jerked tight.

And tightened.

She flung the heavy urn aside-it clanged against a headstone. Lashing back with her elbows, she connected, and heard a satisfying "Ouff!"

It was a man, and he was bigger, heavier, and stronger than she was. She didn't stop to think; years of wrestling with Jonas flared in her mind. She scrabbled at the rope with both hands, bending forward from the waist, hauling on the rope, forcing the man to reach over her, forcing him off-balance. Before he could pull back on the rope, she straightened. The back of her head hit his jaw. More important, the rope eased enough for her to hook her hands inside it.

He brutally yanked it back again, but she pulled with all her strength, dragged in a breath, and screamed.

The scream bounced off the church walls; it echoed from the stones all around them.

A door crashed; footsteps pounded, heading their way.

A rough curse fell on her ears. Her attacker flung her aside.

Phyllida fell over a grave. Rough stone grazed her calf, then she toppled, catching her upper arm on another sharp stone edge before tumbling blindly back. She landed across a marble slab, still shrouded in the heavy black cloth, the rope still hanging around her shoulders.

"Here! You! Stop!"

Jem's yells broke through Phyllida's stunned daze. She heard him run past and on down the path. Struggling to rise, she batted at the black fabric hanging heavily all about her. Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn't break free.

Then she heard another curse, more forceful, more virulent. Heavy footsteps strode quickly toward her.

Before she could gather her wits, she was swept up like a child in a pair of strong arms, then he sat, and she was deposited in his lap.

"Stop struggling-you're only tangling it. Hold still."

Her panic left her in a rush. She started to shiver. The rope was unwound from her shoulders. The next instant, the black shroud was lifted away.

She stared into Lucifer's face, blue eyes dark with concern.

"Are you all right?"

She drank in the sight of his face for one more moment, then slid her arms around him, ducked her head to his chest, and clung. His arms closed comfortingly about her. He rested his cheek on her hair and rocked her.

"It's all right. He's gone." He held her tight, safe. A minute passed, then he asked, "Now tell me, are you hurt?"

Without lifting her head, she shook it. She gulped in air and struggled to find her voice. "Just my throat." Her voice was hoarse from the scream and from the rope. She put a hand to her neck and felt roughened skin and the puffiness of swelling.

"Nothing else?"

"Just a graze on my leg and a bruise on my arm." She didn't think she'd hit her head on the slab, but her leg was stinging. Lifting her face, fists clenched in his coat, she peeked at her legs-her skirts were rucked up to her knees.

She blushed and tried frantically to flick them down.

Lucifer caught her hand, returned it to his chest, then reached out and straightened the flowing muslin for her. He noticed the graze and paused. "It's just a scratch-no blood." He arranged her skirts so they covered her calves.

Then he looked up, his gaze fixing on the path leading down to the lych-gate. "Here they come."

He looked down at her, then his arms tightened and he rose to his feet. Settling her in his arms, he set out, negotiating the narrow path between the graves to the grassy area by the vestry door. He stopped and waited. Mr. Filing and Jem joined them.

Thompson was with them, a heavy hammer in one hand. "What's to do?"

"Someone attacked Miss Tallent." Lucifer glanced back at the slab where he'd left the black cloth and rope. "Filing-if you would?"

Frowning, clearly upset, Mr. Filing was already on his way. He returned a moment later, distress very evident on his face. "This is my robe." He held up the black shroud, shaking it so it fell into a more recognizable shape. "And this"-he held up the rope; it was gold, about half an inch thick-"is the cord from one of the censers!"

Outrage rang in his tone.

"Where were they kept?" Lucifer asked.

"In the vestry." Filing looked at the open back door. "Good God-did the blackguard attack you in the church?"

Phyllida shook her head. Trying to hold it steady and not rest it on Lucifer's chest was an effort. "I was clearing the vases. I walked out…" She gestured to the area beyond the open door. She swallowed, and it hurt.

Lucifer was frowning at her. "Filing, I think we should take Miss Tallent back to the Rectory so she can rest. We can discuss the matter more fully there." He glanced at Jem and Thompson. "I take it he got away?"

Jem nodded. "I barely got a glimpse of him. He was already through the lych-gate when I got here."

"Where were you?"

Phyllida waved. "I told Jem he could sit out at the front of the church and watch the ducks. I never imagined…"

"Indeed." Lucifer tightened his hold on her, tipping her slightly so it seemed natural to lean into his chest.

"I heard the scream and grabbed my hammer and came running," Thompson said, "but by the time I got to the lane, he was in the wood."

"I followed into the wood a ways," Jem said, "but then I couldn't tell which way he'd gone."

Lucifer nodded. "You did well. If he's following his usual pattern, he would have had a horse waiting. No sense running on."

Jem ducked his head, clearly relieved.

Filing had taken the robe and cord back into the vestry; now he fetched the urn, emptied it, and returned that, too, to the church. Phyllida watched as he shut the vestry door; the curate's face was pale and set.

Lucifer turned and headed toward the Rectory. Filing caught him up and fell in just behind; Jem and Thompson brought up the rear.

As they started down the sloping path, Phyllida leaned closer and whispered, "I'm sure I can walk. You don't need to carry me."

Lucifer's eyes met hers; the look in them suggested she'd missed the point entirely. "I do need to carry you." His jaw tightened; he looked ahead. "Believe me, I do."

They trooped into the Rectory; Lucifer made for the chaise in the parlor. He lowered Phyllida, laying her along it so she could lie back. The loss of his heat, his muscled strength protectively around her, made her tense. She fought the urge to cling. She'd never clung to any man in her life.

But sudden panic rose as he drew his arms from her and straightened. Fright flowed like a chill through her and she shook. She knew he was frowning down at her, but she didn't meet his eyes.

Mr. Filing appeared with a glass of water. Gratefully, she took it and sipped.

Lucifer stepped back, then prowled around the chaise. Without looking, she knew he came to stand just behind her, a protective presence hovering over her.

Mr. Filing paced back and forth before the hearth. "This is shocking-most shocking. That anyone would dare-!" Words failed him; pressing his hands together in silent prayer, he stood for a moment, then turned to Phyllida. "Perhaps, my dear, you could tell us what happened."

Phyllida took another sip of water. "I was emptying the vases-"

"Do you always do that on Monday mornings?"

She glanced up and back at Lucifer. "In this weather, yes. Mrs. Hemmings brings flowers up on Tuesday, and then I change the vases again on Saturday. That's what we usually do-last week was different because of Horatio's funeral."

Lucifer looked down into her wide eyes, still dark, still huge, still frightened. "So it was common knowledge that you'd be at the church, most likely alone, with the vestry door open this morning?"

Phyllida hesitated, then nodded. She looked at Filing.

"If we could start at the beginning," Filing suggested. "You reached the church…?"

Phyllida sipped, then lifted her head. "I reached the church and as usual entered through the main door from the common. I left Jem outside, sitting on the steps."

"There was no one inside?" Filing asked.

Phyllida shook her head. "I picked up the vase from the altar and carried it through to the vestry. I opened the vestry door, propped it open, and took the vase out to empty it. Then I took it back inside."

"You didn't see or hear anyone about?" Lucifer asked.

"No. But…" Phyllida glanced up at him. "I was… absorbed. Someone might have been near, but I wasn't paying attention."

The fleeting awareness in her eyes told him what she'd been absorbed with-she'd been annoyed at him, which was exactly what he'd intended. He'd wanted to irk her, to prod the temper he'd sensed and occasionally glimpsed behind her calm facade; wanted to bring it to life and use it to get her to tell him the truth. Instead, he'd distracted her and made her an even easier target for the murderer.

No more games. Jaw setting, he looked at Filing as Phyllida did the same.

"And then…?" the curate prompted.

Phyllida drew in a deeper breath. "I fetched the urn. It's heavy and cumbersome-I have to wrap both arms about it. I reached the door and stepped out…" She paused, then went on. "That's when the cloth fell over my head. Then the rope-" She broke off and took another sip of water.

"Quite, quite," Mr. Filing soothed.

After a moment, she added, "He was behind me. I struggled, then I screamed-I heard a door crash."

"That was here." Filing glanced at Lucifer. "Mr. Cynster and I were considering the list of men who did not come to church last Sunday when we heard your scream."

"What happened next?" Lucifer asked.

"He flung me aside and ran off." Phyllida glanced back at Lucifer. "I never saw him."

He looked down at her. "Think back. He was standing behind you-how tall was he?"

She considered. "He was taller than me, but not as tall as you." She glanced across the room. "About Thompson's height."

"Did you get any sense of build?"

"Not as heavy as Thompson"-her gaze swung to Filing-"but not as slim as Mr. Filing."

Lucifer turned to Jem, standing by the door. "Does that sound right for the glimpse you caught, Jem? A man about Thompson's height but of average weight?"

Jem nodded. "Aye. And he had brown hair-leastways, not dark like yours."

"Good. What about clothes? Any idea?"

Jem scrunched up his face. "Neat. Couldn't rightly say gentl'man or not, but neat. Not a smock or anything shabby."

Lucifer glanced down at Phyllida. She'd gone quiet, withdrawn. She was not moving, barely breathing. "Phyllida?"

She raised her face; her eyes were drowning dark pools filled with revisited fear. "A coat," she said, then shivered and looked away. "When I was struggling… I think he was wearing a proper coat."

Lucifer left Phyllida with Filing and strode back to the Manor to fetch his curricle. Returning to the Rectory, he carried Phyllida out to the carriage, ignoring her hissed protests, and set her gently on the seat.

When he flung a rug over her knees, she stared at him. "It's summer," she said as they rattled down the Rectory drive.

"You're in shock," he replied, and said nothing more.

Silence was definitely wise; God alone knew what might tumble out if he let the chaos of emotions inside him free.

He concentrated on driving as quickly as he dared; he wanted her safe indoors again as soon as possible. They reached the Grange gates in a few minutes; a minute later, he pulled up before the steps.

Phyllida flicked back the rug and clambered out before he could tie off the reins. Jem, who had hustled back earlier, came running; Lucifer threw him the reins and followed Phyllida. He caught up with her on the porch.

She stopped him with a look. "I am not going to faint."

This was her home; she should be safe here. "All right." His tone was grudging, precisely how he felt. He looked up as Mortimer opened the door. "Miss Tallent has been attacked-she'll need Gladys and Miss Sweet. If Sir Jasper's at home, I'd like to speak with him immediately."

An hour later, Lucifer stood before the window in Sir Jasper's study and stared out over the Grange lawns. Behind him, seated in the big chair behind his desk, Sir Jasper raised a glass and sipped, then sighed heavily.

Summoned by a horrified Mortimer, Miss Sweet and Gladys had descended on Phyllida and borne her off upstairs. Lady Huddlesford had swept majestically after them, declaring her intent to see that her niece did not play fast and loose with her nerves. Whose nerves, Lucifer wasn't quite sure.

Miss Sweet had popped her head into the study half an hour ago. She'd informed them that Phyllida was resting quietly on her bed and had agreed to the wisdom of remaining there for the rest of the afternoon.

That much he'd accomplished. She was fussed over and safe, at least for the time being.

Lucifer turned. Sir Jasper had aged years in the past hour. The lines in his face had deepened; fretful worry had taken up residence in his eyes.

"What's this place coming to, that's what I'd like to know." Sir Jasper set his glass down with a snap. "Dreadful business when a lady can't go to fix the church flowers without being attacked, what?"

Lucifer opened his mouth, then shut it. Again he felt compelled to bite his tongue. Telling Sir Jasper that the attack was not general but quite specific might dampen his concerns as local magistrate, but would only escalate his fatherly fears.

Sir Jasper fixed him with a frowning glance. "From what you said, it seems unlikely this was some itinerant laborer passing through. Not a gypsy or a tinker."

"No. Phyllida's impression that the culprit wore a coat tallies with Jem's description of him being neatly dressed. In Jem's words, 'not a smock or anything shabby.'"

"Hmm." After a long moment of staring into space, Sir Jasper looked at him. "Any chance this attack is connected to Horatio's murder?"

Lucifer looked down into eyes that were very like Phyllida's but had seen a great deal more. "I can't say."

That was the literal truth.

He turned back to the window. He felt even grimmer than his grim expression showed. "With your permission, I'd like to talk to Phyllida tomorrow morning." He glanced at Sir Jasper, meeting his gaze. "There are a number of matters I'd like to discuss with her, and if I could speak with her privately, I think there are various points we might clarify."

Sir Jasper held his gaze, then turned back to his desk. "Privately, heh? Well, you might be right-not easy to get her to open her budget." He paused, then asked, "Should I mention you'll be dropping by to speak with her?"

Lucifer looked out of the window. "It might be better if my visit came as a surprise."