All About Love

Chapter 2

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Phyllida stared into eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black. She'd seen them earlier, but they'd been hazed with pain, unfocused; they'd been startling enough then. Now, focused mercilessly on hers, clear and brilliant as a dark sapphire, they stole her breath away.

She felt like she'd been the one hit by the halberd.

"You were there." His gaze held her trapped. "You were the first to reach me after the murderer hit me. You touched my face, just as you did then."

She kept her expression blank. Thoughts popped up, then sank, flotsam thrown up by her whirling mind. His fingers clamping about her wrist had shocked her; they'd locked before she could react. She twisted her arm, trying to ease from his hold; he tightened his grip enough for her to sense his strength and the futility of struggling.

She felt light-headed. She'd forgotten to breathe.

Dragging her gaze from his, she did. Staring at his lips, she wondered what to say. How could he know just from a touch? He had to be guessing.

Draped in shadow, his face was even more compelling than she recalled. The impact of him-his conscious physical presence-was potent; he appeared altogether more dangerous, and he'd appeared dangerous enough before. He was decently covered in one of her father's nightshirts, but the collar was open, exposing a V of chest-dark hair curled invitingly in the gap.

The realization that she was standing by a gentleman's bed staring at his chest, in the small hours, in her nightgown, slammed into her. Heat prickled across her skin. Gladys was near, but…

She glanced across the room. As if sensing her hope that Gladys wouldn't wake and hear him, he eased onto his back, pulling her across him.

Phyllida bit back another gasp. "Be careful of your head," she hissed.

His eyes gleamed. "I'll be careful."

His voice was deep; it almost purred. He kept extending his arm, the one shackling her wrist. She had to lean across him, balancing the candlestick in her other hand. Inexorably, he drew her on.

She swallowed as her breasts neared his chest. Heart thudding, she scrambled onto the bed.

He smiled in triumph. "Now you can tell me what you were doing so secretively in Horatio's drawing room."

The command was blatant. Phyllida lifted her chin. At twenty-four, she wasn't about to be bullied. "I don't know what you mean." She tried to slide her wrist free, to no avail. Kneeling beside him on the bed, one hand locked in his, the candlestick in the other, was not a position of strength. She felt like a supplicant.

His expression hardened. "You were there. Tell me why."

She looked down her nose at him. "I fear you're still delirious."

"I wasn't delirious before."

"You kept talking about the devil. Then, when we assured you you wouldn't die, you asked for the archangel."

His lips thinned. "My brother's known as Gabriel, and my eldest cousin is Devil."

She stared at him. Devil. Gabriel. What was his name? "Oh. Well, this idea you have is nonsense. I know nothing about Horatio's murder."

She met his gaze on the last, and fell into the blue. It was the most peculiar sensation; the nerves under her skin, all over her, tingled. Warmth spread through her. The sense of being held captive grew. The odd notion that her nightgown was transparent she dismissed as ridiculous.

"You weren't in Horatio's drawing room when I was lying on the floor?"

The words were soft, subtly challenging; an undercurrent of danger rippled beneath. Held trapped by his gaze, by his hold on her wrist, Phyllida pressed her lips tight and shook her head. She couldn't tell him-not yet. Not until she'd spoken with Mary Anne and been released from her oath.

"So these fingers"-deftly, he altered his grip so his fingers wrapped around hers-"weren't the ones that touched my cheek as I lay beside Horatio?"

He raised her hand, then looked at it; she looked, too. Long, tanned fingers surrounded hers. His hand swallowed hers in a warm clasp. That clasp firmed; slowly, he lifted her fingers to his face. "Like this." He touched her fingertips to his cheek, then drew her hand down.

His stubble had grown, prickling against the pads of her fingers; the sensation only emphasized the fact that the sculpted lines were not rock but living flesh. Fascinated anew, Phyllida watched her fingers trace, drifting down, following her gaze to the tempting line of his lips… then she realized he'd slackened his grasp. Her fingers were tracing on their own.

She snatched her hand away, but he was quicker. His fingers shackled her wrist again.

"You were there." His tone was grimly determined; conviction resonated through it.

Phyllida looked into his deep blue eyes; every instinct she possessed urged her to flee. She tugged. "Let me go."

One black brow rose. He considered-heart thumping, she wondered what alternatives he was weighing. Then his lips eased; the intensity of his gaze didn't. "Very well-for now."

She tried to draw her hand free but he didn't release it. Instead, he raised her fingers-this time, to his lips. His gaze remained locked on her face; she prayed her reaction-panic melded with insidious excitement-didn't show.

His lips brushed her knuckles-she lost her breath. His lips were cool yet her skin burned where they'd touched. Eyes wide, she felt her senses sway. Before she could drag in a steadying breath, he turned her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm.

She snatched her hand back-he let her go, but reluctantly. Backing off the bed, she stood; her gown fell to decently cover her legs. From not breathing at all, she was now breathing too rapidly.

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

Lifting her head, she gathered her shawl, hesitated, then haughtily nodded. "I'll check on you later in the morning."

She turned to the door. A wave of peculiar heat washed over her. Without risking a backward glance, she escaped.

Lucifer watched the door close. He'd let her go. That hadn't been what he'd wanted to do. But there was no need to rush, and matters might have rushed rather more than was wise if he'd kept her kneeling on his bed.

He inhaled deeply and could smell her still, sweet feminine flesh warm from her bed. Her nightgown had been totally opaque, but the material had lovingly outlined every curve it touched. Once she'd released the ends of her shawl, his distraction had been complete.

If the older woman hadn't been in the room…

A minute passed; then he shook aside his thoughts. Tactically, it hadn't been wise to so blatantly display his intent. Luckily, his guardian angel seemed committed to taking care of him, despite the threat she now clearly perceived.

Her last words had been more declaration than statement, uttered as much for her benefit as for his. If she'd found him struck down in Horatio's drawing room but had been forced, for whatever reason, to leave him there, her stance was understandable. She felt guilty. No matter how difficult he proved, she would try to do the right thing.

In that respect, he already felt certain of her-she was a woman who would strive to do what she deemed right.

He stretched, easing muscles that had tensed; then he shifted onto his side, the better to spare his head. It still ached, but, true to form, while she'd been in the room, he hadn't been aware of it.

All he'd been aware of was her.

Even before she'd touched his face.

But the knowledge that it was she who had knelt beside him in Horatio's drawing room and traced his cheek with that hesitant, wondering touch had powerfully focused the attraction he'd been doing his best to decently ignore. The revelation meant he no longer needed to feign indifference; his attraction, her fascination, and her consequent skittishness were going to prove exceedingly helpful.

She knew something-he'd read that much in her wide dark eyes. They were easy to read; her face was not. Her expression had remained open but uninformative, her emotions screened. Even when he'd kissed her hand, only her eyes had flared. She seemed contained; judging by all he'd seen, she was used to being in control, in command.

Whatever the case, she wasn't about to disappear; he'd have time to pursue his questions, and her. None knew better than he how to persuade women to do what he wanted, to give him what he wanted-that was, after all, his specialty. And after he'd learned what she knew of Horatio's murder…

He drifted into sleep and dreamed.

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Phyllida marched into the bedchamber at the end of the west wing. She held the door wide so Sweetie, followed by Gladys carrying a laden tray, could enter. "Good morning." She addressed the room in general, as if the large body lying in the bed hadn't immediately captured her entire attention.

As per her instructions, Sweetie had fluttered down to find her the instant their patient awoke. Phyllida knew he was awake-she could feel that midnight-blue gaze on her face, and on the rest of her, now unexceptionably garbed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin. It was infinitely easier to assert control while properly dressed.

"Good morning. Ladies." The deep, reverberating words were accompanied by a graceful nod. Phyllida resisted the urge to frown. That direct "Good morning" had been for her; the "Ladies" and the nod had been for the others.

Wrapping her habitual calm, collected demeanor about her, she followed Gladys to the bed, ignoring the heat still lingering in the center of her palm. Just as she was going to ignore him. She was determined not to succumb to the foolish fascination that had overcome her last night.

"We've brought you some broth, which is just what you need to set you up again." She let her glance slide over him, a confident smile on her lips; she made sure not to meet his eyes.

"Indeed?"

Sweetie and Gladys preened; a swift glance showed he was smiling at them. "Indeed," she averred, with rather more steel. "How is your head?"

"Considerably improved." He glanced at her. "Thanks to you."

"Indeed, yes!" Sweetie twittered. "So very right of dear Phyllida to insist you be brought here. Why, you were quite out of your senses, dear."

"So I understand. I do hope that, in my delirium, I said nothing to distress you."

"Of course not, dear-do set your mind at ease on that score. Gladys here and I have brothers, so you may be sure you surprised us not at all. Now, let me help you…"

He struggled to sit up; Sweetie grasped his arm and tugged. Phyllida plumped his pillows, careful not to touch his shoulders. Once he was settled, Gladys deposited the tray on his knees.

"Thank you."

The smile that went with that left both Gladys and Sweetie happily dazed; Phyllida mentally frowned. The man was past dangerous. His next words confirmed it.

"This is excellent broth. Did you make it?"

Gladys confessed; pink with pleasure, she excused herself to return to her duties, pausing at the last to assure him that, should he require anything further, he only had to ask.

Phyllida inwardly sniffed. She stepped back from the bed, biding her time, letting him eat. He did so smoothly, steadily-she could detect not the smallest tremor in his hands. Strong, long-fingered, inherently graceful, they plied the spoon and broke the bread.

"Good heavens!" Sweetie fluttered. "We forgot the butter. I'll fetch some right away." She rushed out the door.

Phyllida found herself staring at the closing door before she had time to protest. Being alone with a gentleman in his bedchamber was unquestionably improper. Still, what harm could befall her? He was more or less tied to the bed. And she was quite capable of keeping him in his place, disturbing blue gaze or no. There wasn't a man in the district she couldn't manage, and despite his elegant facade, he was just a man. Folding her arms, she faced the bed. "I daresay you have a number of questions-"

"Oh, I do."

She inclined her head, avoiding his eyes. "I'll attempt to answer them while you eat. You need to build your strength." He nodded in acquiescence; she continued. "You are presently at the Grange, my father's house. It lies south of the village. You were found at the Manor, which as you probably recall lies on the village's north boundary."

"That much I remember."

"My father is Sir Jasper Tallent-"

"Is he the local magistrate?"

She frowned. "Yes."

"Has he any idea who killed Horatio?"

Phyllida pressed her lips together, then relented. "No."

"Do you?"

She'd looked at him before she'd thought; his gaze locked with hers. Phyllida looked into eyes diabolically blue, took in the hard lines of his face, the unwavering determination, the hard mask that concealed his intention not at all. "No."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head. "Perhaps not."

She almost sighed with relief.

He looked down at his soup. "You do, however, know something."

His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air-there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, "I daresay you're ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe-you'll need time to recover full use of your faculties."

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to force majeure. With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.

"My faculties," he murmured, "are returning in leaps and bounds."

Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.

Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. "You'll need to be careful."

She kept her expression blank, her tone direct.

He opened his eyes wide; innocence wasn't what she saw in them. "Shouldn't you check my wound?"

"Your wound needs nothing more than time to heal." No power on earth would get her closer to the bed-closer to him. Phyllida frowned, and held tight to her role. She was in charge, not he. "Papa would like you to join us for afternoon tea, if you're able."

His smile made her nerves tingle. "I'm able."

"Good." She turned to the door. "I'll have your bags brought up-as a precaution, we left them downstairs."

"Precaution?"

"Why, yes." Reaching the door, she looked back. "We kept your clothes from you in case you turned difficult over remaining abed."

His lips curved; his eyes glinted. The combination looked positively wicked. "Lying abed is one of my favorite pastimes. However, if I'd wanted to get up, the mere absence of clothes wouldn't have deterred me." His gaze slid over her; his voice deepened. "Not in the least."

Gripping the doorknob, Phyllida met his gaze blankly and prayed she wasn't blushing. "I'll let Papa know you'll be joining us later. Your name?"

His untrustworthy smile deepened. "Lucifer."

Phyllida stared at him; even with the width of the room separating them, all her instincts were screaming, warning her not to call his bluff. Any of his bluffs.

Some part of her knew he wasn't the sort who bluffed.

It went seriously against her grain to let him trifle with her and escape retribution, but arguing would simply be playing into his hands. She forced herself to incline her head and evenly state, "Sweetie-Miss Sweet-will return shortly. She'll take away your tray."

On that note, she opened the door; with a regal nod, she left.

Later, after he'd bathed and dressed, Lucifer sat on the window seat in his bedchamber and looked north, over a dense wood. Through the shifting canopies he could occasionally glimpse the gray slate roof of the Manor.

Gaze fixed, he thought of Horatio, and of Martha, and of what he should do next, how best to move forward. Horatio's death was an accepted fact in his mind, but the tale had only just begun.

It was quiet beyond the open window. The snoozy quality of a summer's afternoon blanketed the village, yet somewhere in that peace a murderer waited, and watched and worried. Horatio's death had not been neat. Not only had he, Lucifer, stumbled on the scene far too soon, but so, too, had Phyllida Tallent.

Lucifer pondered that last, and all that it might mean.

A knock interrupted his reverie. He faced the door, keen to see if intuition proved correct. "Come in."

Phyllida entered; he smiled in private triumph. Retreating earlier and leaving the field to him must have been difficult; despite her wariness, he'd predicted she wouldn't stay away. She glanced around the room, then discovered him. She hesitated, then, leaving the door wide, crossed toward him. Frowning, she studied his face, his eyes. He let her draw near before smoothly rising-no sudden movements.

Her lovely eyes widened. She immediately halted. "Ah…" From four feet away, she stared up at him, her expression a telltale blank. Her gaze drifted, passing over him, then she wrenched it back to his face. And caught him returning the favor. Her eyes snapped even as her expression smoothed to impassivity. "Are you sure you've recovered enough to join us downstairs?"

He continued to smile, relishing her resistance. "I'm quite recovered enough to brave a drawing room." The frown in her eyes deepened; he added, "My head only aches-it no longer throbs."

"Well…" She searched his eyes once more. "I'm afraid my aunt and cousins have arrived for the summer, and, of course, they're agog to meet you. You must promise you won't overtax yourself."

Fussing was not something he readily endured, yet the idea that she'd elected herself his keeper, and was determined to do her duty despite the urgings of her common sense to keep a safer distance between them, was oddly satisfying. Oddly endearing. He smiled charmingly, too wise to smirk. "If I weaken and need support, you'll be the first to know."

She glared, but the concern in her dark eyes was very real. As was her suspicion.

"Very well." She lifted her head. "And now, if you please, your real name?"

Lucifer looked down at her; he made no attempt to disguise the tenor of his smile. "I told you. Lucifer."

She met his gaze directly. "No one is called Lucifer."

"I am." He stepped forward; she backed.

"That's ludicrous. That cannot be your real name."

He continued his advance; she continued to fall back.

"It's the name I'm known by. There are many who would tell you it suits me." He held her gaze and continued his prowling stroll. "If you ask anyone in the ton for Lucifer, they'll instantly send you to me."

Her eyes had grown wider-their expression informed him she'd never encountered a man such as he. She was both fascinated and defensive-and, he suspected, disapproving. Desire flared; he tamped it down, kept that truth from his eyes. That he delighted in transforming disapproving ladies into wanton houris was a truth she didn't need to know.

He took the last step that backed her over the room's threshold. Glancing about, she discovered herself in the corridor. She stiffened; the look she threw him as she stepped aside was distinctly irate. And not a little surprised. He hid a grin. It seemed likely that no one had ever managed her as he just had. He'd herded her out of the room-no hands, no voice-simply him. And there was hay yet to be made on this fine summer's day.

Closing the door, he looked down at her. "You shouldn't be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom."

She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.

Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.

Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he'd imagined it; his body's reaction confirmed he hadn't. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.

"Thank you for the warning." Her words drifted back to him. "You may tell Papa your name directly. If you'll follow me?" Head high, she moved toward the stairs.

Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.

The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a chaise. A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched-another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.

Two other gentlemen stood beside the chaise. The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.

Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. "Papa?"

Lucifer joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. "Allow me to present…"

He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. "Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer."

"Lucifer, heh?" Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. "What names you youngsters do take. Now! How're you feeling?"

"Much better, thanks to your daughter's care."

Sir Jasper smiled on Phyllida, who had turned to the tea trolley. "Aye, well, that was a nasty blow, no doubt of that. Now let me make you known to m'sister-in-law; then we'll take our tea and you can tell me all you know about this distressing business."

His sister-in-law, Lady Huddlesford, summoned a smile and held out her hand. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Cynster."

Lucifer politely shook hands. Sir Jasper gestured to the dandy. "M'nephew, Percy Tallent."

Percy, it transpired, was her ladyship's son by her first marriage to Sir Jasper's late brother. One minute of affected conversation and Lucifer had Percy pegged-he was on a repairing lease. Nothing else could account for his presence in rural Devon. His sullen half brother, Frederick Huddlesford, openly stared at Lucifer's well-cut coat, hard pressed, it seemed, to marshal the words for even a simple greeting.

With a nod, Lucifer turned to the young man so like Phyllida, who promptly grinned and stuck out his hand. "Jonas. Phyllida's little brother."

Clasping the proffered hand, Lucifer smiled and raised his brows. Loose-limbed, with the same careless grace that characterized his sister, Jonas stood a good six inches taller than she. Lucifer glanced at her as she straightened from the tea trolley. For all his transparent, good-natured insousiance, Jonas didn't appear younger than she.

Phyllida caught his glance; her chin rose. "We're twins, but I'm the elder."

"Ah. I see. Always the leader."

Her brows rose haughtily. Jonas chuckled.

So did Sir Jasper. "Quite, quite. Phyllida keeps us all in line-don't know what we'd do without her. Now"-he waved to a grouping of chairs at the end of the room-"let's move down there and you can tell me what you can about this terrible business."

As he turned, Lucifer felt Phyllida's gaze on his face.

"Indeed, Papa. I do think Mr. Cynster should sit down. I'll bring you your cups."

Sir Jasper nodded. Lucifer followed him down the room. They settled in wing chairs angled to each other, a small table between. The length of the room assured them of privacy; the others watched them go, their curiosity palpable, then reluctantly returned to their own company.

As he gingerly rested his head back on the chair's cushion, Lucifer considered Sir Jasper. His host was a type he knew well. Men like him were the backbone of county England. Bluffly good-natured, genial if unimaginative, they were, nevertheless, no one's fools. They could be counted on to hold the line, to do whatever needed to be done to keep their community stable, yet they had no taste for power; it was appreciation of their comfort plus trenchant common sense that drove them.

Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, busy at the tea trolley. Like father, like daughter? He suspected so, at least in part.

"So"-Sir Jasper stretched out his legs-"are you familiar with Devon?"

Lucifer went to shake his head, but stopped. "No. My family home lies north of here, to the east of the Quantocks."

"Somerset, heh? So you're a west countryman?"

"At heart, but I've lived in London for the last decade."

Phyllida arrived with cups on saucers; she handed one to each of them, then whisked back up the room. Sir Jasper sipped; Lucifer did, too, conscious of reawakening hunger. An instant later, Phyllida reappeared with a cake plate piled high. She offered it around, then subsided onto a love seat beside her father's chair, and patently settled to listen.

Lucifer glanced at Sir Jasper. His host was aware of his daughter's presence, and clearly saw nothing odd in her being privy to his investigations. His flippant remark about her being a born leader was not, it seemed, far from the mark.

Hands folded in her lap, she sat quiet and contained. Lucifer studied her as he consumed a piece of cake. She wouldn't see twenty again, but how much older was she? Her cool composure he suspected was misleading. Jonas's age was easier to estimate; his body was still all long bones and spare frame. He was in his early-to-mid twenties, at least four years younger than Lucifer's twenty-nine.

Which made Phyllida the same.

And a puzzle. There was no ring on her finger, nor had there ever been one. He'd noted that last night; even in extremis, his rakish instincts hadn't failed him. She was twenty-three, twenty-four, and still unwed. Definitely a puzzle.

She was aware of his scrutiny, but not a smidgen of that awareness showed. The urge to shake her-to see her lose that cool control-flared. Lucifer looked down, set aside his cake plate, and picked up his cup.

Sir Jasper did the same. "Now, to business. Let's start with your arrival. What brought you to the Manor yesterday morning?"

"I received a letter from Horatio Welham." Lucifer settled his head back on the cushion. "It was delivered in London on Thursday. Horatio invited me to visit the Manor at my earliest convenience."

"So you were previously acquainted with Welham?"

"I've known Horatio for over nine years. I first met him when I was twenty, while staying with friends in the Lake District. Horatio introduced me to serious collecting. He was my mentor in that field and became a close, very trusted friend. Over the years, I frequently visited Horatio and his wife, Martha, at their house by Lake Windemere."

"Lake District, was it? Always wondered where Horatio hailed from. He never said and one didn't like to pry."

Lucifer hesitated, then said, "Horatio was deeply attached to Martha. When she died three years ago, he couldn't face living alone in the house they'd shared for so long. He sold up and moved south. Devon appealed because of the milder climate-he used to say he chose to move here because of his old bones and because he liked this village. He said it was small and comfortable." With no managing local mesdames. Lucifer glanced at Phyllida-how had Horatio viewed her?

Her eyes had grown dark. "No wonder he never spoke of his past. He must have been deeply in love with his Martha."

Lucifer inclined his head, then looked at Sir Jasper.

"Would any of Welham's servants know you?"

"I don't know who he kept on. Is Covey still with him?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Then he knows me, certainly." Lucifer frowned. "If Covey's here, why did the servants suspect me of killing Horatio? Covey knows how long I've known Horatio and the nature of our relationship."

"Covey wasn't here," Phyllida said. "He visits an old aunt in Musbury, a village nearby, every Sunday. By the time he returned, you were here at the Grange."

"Covey would be very cut up by Horatio's death."

Phyllida nodded.

Sir Jasper sighed. "No getting any sense out of him yesterday-I did try. Daresay he's still feeling it today."

"Covey was devoted to Horatio over all the years I knew them."

Sir Jasper threw Lucifer a shrewd glance. "Quite-no reason to suppose Covey knows anything about his master's death." He sat back. "Now, let's see. This is your first visit to Colyton?"

"Yes. Until now, matters never fell out suitably for a visit. Horatio and I discussed it, but… We met at least every three months, sometimes more frequently, in London and at collectors' gatherings around the country."

"So you're a collector, too?"

"I specialize in silver and jewelry. Horatio, on the other hand, was an acknowledged expert on antique books and a highly regarded authority in a number of other areas, too. He was an inspired teacher. It was an honor to have learned from him."

"Were there others who learned from him?"

"A few, but none who remained so closely in touch. The others took up collecting in Horatio's own spheres, and so became competitors of sorts."

"Could one of them have killed him?" Lucifer shook his head. "I can't imagine it."

"Other collectors? Jealous ones, perhaps?" Lucifer waved a negative. "Collectors might metaphorically kill for certain items, but few actually do. For most collectors, half the joy is displaying your acquisitions to other collectors. Horatio was highly respected and well liked among the fraternity; his collections were well known. Any item of his unexpectedly surfacing in someone else's collection would draw immediate attention. As a motive for murder, a known collector wanting to gain a particular piece is unlikely. We can, however, check for missing items, although it will take time. Horatio kept meticulous records."

Sir Jasper was frowning. "We knew Welham was a collector and dealer, but I, for one, had no notion he was so highly regarded." He glanced at Phyllida.

She shook her head. "We all knew he had visitors from outside-beyond the local area-but no one here knows much about antiques. We had no idea Horatio held such a prominent place in that sphere."

"I think," Lucifer said, "that that was part of the attraction of Colyton. Horatio liked being 'one of the locals.'"

Sir Jasper nodded. "Now you mention it, he became 'one of us' very quickly. Hard to believe it's only been three years. He bought the Manor and rebuilt and refurbished it. He put in that garden-his pride, it was. Used to potter in it for hours-his success turned some of the local ladies green. He always did all he could-went to church every Sunday, helped out in many ways." Sir Jasper paused, then quietly concluded, "He'll be missed."

They sat silently for a moment, then Lucifer asked, "If he always went to church, why was he at home yesterday? I hadn't sent word I was coming."

"He was ill," Phyllida said. "A bad cold. He insisted the others go as usual, and that Covey was not to disappoint his aunt. Mrs. Hemmings said she left him reading upstairs."

"So"-Sir Jasper shifted in his chair-"let's recount what happened as we know it. You arrived on a social visit-"

"That's not quite true-or not all of the truth. I left Horatio's letter in Somerset, so you'll have to bear with my paraphrasing, but he specifically asked me to visit because he wanted my opinion on some item he'd discovered. He was obviously excited by it-the impression I received was that it was a wholly unexpected find. The inference was that he personally felt sure the item was authentic, but wanted a second opinion."

"Any idea what this item was?"

"No. The only thing I can be sure of is that it wasn't silver or jewelry."

"But those are your specialties."

"Yes, but Horatio wrote that if the item was authentic, it might even tempt me to expand my collection beyond silver and jewelry."

"So it was a desirable piece?"

"My interpretation was that it was desirable and valuable. The fact that Horatio asked me to appraise something not in my area of expertise, when he could easily have invited the opinion of any of the established collectors of whatever type of collectible it is, suggests that the item was one of those finds that no sane collector tells anyone he has until he's established ownership and perhaps arranged greater security. Horatio might have been old, but he was still very sharp."

"But he told you-why not others?"

Lucifer met Phyllida's dark gaze. "Because for various reasons, among them our long friendship, Horatio knew he'd be safe telling me. Indeed, I might be the only one he mentioned the item to at all."

"Would Covey know of it?"

"Unless his duties have changed, I doubt it. Covey helped Horatio with arrangements and correspondence but was never involved with the actual dealing or assessing."

Sir Jasper mulled over their words. "So you came here to meet with Horatio and view this new item of his." He looked at Lucifer, who nodded. "You drove into the village…?"

Lucifer leaned back, his gaze fixed above Phyllida's head. "I passed no one on the road, nor did I see anyone about. I turned into the drive…" Simply and succinctly, he described his movements. "And then someone hit me over the head and I collapsed beside Horatio."

"You were hit with an old halberd," Sir Jasper said. "Nasty weapon-you're lucky not to have died."

Lucifer lowered his gaze to Phyllida's calm face. "Indeed."

"This letter knife Horatio was stabbed with-do you recall it?"

"It was his-Louis Quinze-he'd had it for years."

"Hmm-so that's not this special item." Sir Jasper kept his gaze on his boots. "So as things stand, you have no idea who might have killed Welham?"

Phyllida stared into deep blue eyes and prayed her welling panic didn't show. It hadn't occurred to her, not until he started recounting his movements, that, in truth, Lucifer held her in the palm of his hand. If he told her father that someone had been there after the murderer had struck, and that he was convinced-no, he knew-that that person was she…

Her father would instantly know she'd lied-not by act but by omission. He'd realize her uncharacteristic surrender to a headache last Sunday morning had been a ruse, that it would be easy for her to cut through the wood and reach the Manor without being seen. That she'd known no one else should have been in the house.

What he wouldn't understand was why-why she'd done it and then so deceitfully kept silent. And that was the one thing she couldn't tell him, couldn't yet explain-not until she was released from her oath.

The dark blue gaze never wavered. "No."

She breathed shallowly and waited, knowing he knew, knowing he was debating whether or not to expose her. To her father, one of the few people whose good opinion mattered to her.

Time slowed. As if from a distance, she heard her father ask the fateful question, the one she'd realized he would eventually ask. "And there's nothing else bearing on this matter you can tell me?"

Lucifer's eyes held hers steadily. Giddiness threatened.

It suddenly occurred to her to consider the next step: What if he didn't tell?

"No."

She blinked.

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then glanced at her father. "I have no notion who killed Horatio, but, with your permission, I intend to find out."

"Indeed, indeed." Her father nodded. "Commendable goal." He looked up, and frowned.

"Good gracious, Jasper!" Lady Huddlesford swept forward. "You've been interrogating Mr. Cynster for quite long enough. His poor head must be aching."

Lucifer rose, as did Sir Jasper.

"Nonsense, Margaret, we have to sort this matter out."

"Indeed! I haven't been so shocked in years. The very thought of a London cutthroat slipping into the village and stabbing Mr. Welham is more than enough to overset me."

"There's no reason to think it was someone from London."

Lady Huddlesford stared at her brother-in-law. "Really, Jasper! This is such a sleepy little place-everyone knows everyone. Of course it must be someone from outside."

Phyllida sensed her father's resistance. He doggedly held to the logical approach, which meant that at any second he was going to turn to her and ask if she knew of anyone local with a reason to wish Horatio dead.

She didn't, but her answer might come close to being a lie. An outright lie. She avoided prevarication on principle, except in pursuit of the greater good. As her gaze touched Mr. Cynster-Lucifer-she acidly wished she'd made no exception. Just look where it had landed her.

First swamped by guilt. Now chin-deep in his debt.

Percy sauntered up to them. Phyllida glanced his way, then let her gaze drift to Lucifer. Percy was unwise to stand beside him; the comparison left Percy looking like a pasty-faced, effeminate weakling. Percy was pasty-faced, but otherwise presentable-it was the competition that served him so ill.

Her aunt continued to proclaim the impossibility of the murderer being local. Phyllida grasped the moment when she paused for breath. "I must call on Mrs. Hemmings, Papa, to make sure she has all she needs for the wake. I also need to stop at the church and speak with Mr. Filing."

Her nemesis spoke. "Perhaps I could accompany you, Miss Tallent?"

"Ah…" Transfixed by blue eyes that warned her there was no alternative to his company, Phyllida bit back a refusal, couched as a polite reminder about his head.

His lips curved; his gaze remained steady. "I know I promised not to overtax myself, but as I'll be in your company, there's surely no risk."

He'd kept her secret; now she had to pay the price. She inclined her head. "If you wish. A walk in the fresh air might ease your head."

"An excellent notion." As Lucifer straightened from bowing to her aunt, her father caught his eye. "Give you a chance to get the lay of the land, heh?"

"Indeed." The reprobate turned to her, a definite glint in his eyes. He smiled and gestured elegantly. "Lead on, my dear Miss Tallent."