All About Love

Chapter 3

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She took him to the Manor by way of the lane through the village; it was too dangerous to walk through the woods with a predator, especially one in whose power she now was. Her father, of course, had no idea-he was impressed with the fiend, she could tell.

As she walked through the sunshine with him prowling beside her, she grudgingly admitted that if he hadn't been such a threat to her, she might have been impressed, too. He felt just as he ought to about Horatio. But being managed was a novel experience for her, one she didn't like. However, he hadn't done the unforgivable and given her the ultimate ultimatum-that either she tell him the whole truth, or he would tell her father she'd been in Horatio's drawing room. She was therefore willing to humor him.

She glanced at him. His dark hair shone mahogany brown in the sun. "You forgot your hat."

"I rarely wear one."

So much for that. She walked on. The village proper lay just ahead.

Lucifer looked at her; her bonnet shielded her face from his view. "I think"-he waited until she glanced up at him-"that, given we've formed an alliance of sorts, you'd better tell me what happened after I was discovered."

She studied his eyes, then faced forward. "You were discovered by Hemmings, Horatio's gardener. Mrs. Hemmings, the housekeeper, went upstairs, imagining Horatio to be there. Hemmings went into the drawing room to lay the fire. He raised the alarm and Bristleford, Horatio's butler, sent for Juggs and Thompson."

"To take me, as the murderer, into custody?"

Her bonnet bobbed. "Bristleford was overset-he thought you were the murderer. There's a cell beneath the inn where prisoners are held awaiting transportation to the assizes. Thompson's the blacksmith-they used his dray to shift you."

"And where were you?"

She glanced swiftly at him, then away. A full minute passed before she said, "I was laid upon my bed with a sick headache-that was why I hadn't gone to church."

When she said no more, he prompted her. "You appeared in the cell insisting I wasn't the murderer."

"I didn't know whether you remembered."

"I remember. How did you come to be there?"

"I often borrowed books of poetry from Horatio. I recovered from my headache and thought I'd fetch a new volume. But just as I reached our front door, Aunt Huddlesford's carriage drew up. I'd forgotten she was arriving that morning, but all the arrangements were already in place-or so I thought."

The irritation in that last reached Lucifer clearly. "But…?"

"Percy and Frederick-I wasn't expecting them. They don't usually favor us with their gracious presence."

"I'd wager Percy's on a repairing lease."

"Very likely, but their arrival meant that I had to wait until our staff returned from church to give orders for extra rooms, and entertain them and Aunt Huddlesford until Papa and Jonas appeared."

"And when that happened?"

"I left as soon as I could, but when I reached the Manor, you'd already been taken away."

"Is this the inn?" Lucifer stopped; Phyllida did, too. The building beside them was a half-timbered structure, worn and a little shabby but still serviceable.

"Yes-the Red Bells."

"And Juggs is the innkeeper."

She started walking again. "He gets paid for holding prisoners, so you shouldn't judge him too harshly."

He swallowed his response to that. "What happened next?"

"I made sure they'd sent for Papa, then I came to the Bells." She glanced at his face. "How much do you remember?"

"Not all of it, but enough. You stayed until your father arrived, and then he rode home and was to send the carriage. The next thing I remember clearly was…"-he studied her eyes while he replayed his memories-"waking up in the witching hour."

"Yes, well, that's really all there was to it." Looking ahead, she paced on. "You were restless, but your skull was intact-it was all just the pain."

Lucifer glanced at her. Why hadn't she taken the opportunity to tell him of her vigil by his bed? He'd put her in a position of being grateful to him; why hadn't she evened the score?

They strolled past a succession of neat cottages and on around the curving lane. The Manor came into sight.

"Very well," he said. "I now know your story. I also know that you were in Horatio's drawing room before I entered, and that you were there after I was hit."

"You know nothing of the sort."

He looked smugly superior-she was watching from the corner of her eye.

"You can't possibly tell it was me from a mere touch." The glance she flung at him was both irate and uncertain.

"I can. I did. I know it was you."

"You can't be sure."

"Hmm… perhaps not. Why not touch me again, just to see if I'm certain?"

She stopped and faced him, latent sparks in her eyes-

"Hoi! Miss Phyllida!"

They swung around. A heavy man in a leather apron and vest was lumbering down the common toward them.

"The blacksmith?"

"Yes-Thompson."

Thompson approached. His gaze on Lucifer, he nodded respectfully. "Sir." He nodded at Phyllida, then looked back at Lucifer. "I just wanted to apologize, like, for any bruises you mighta taken when we dumped you in my dray. 'Course, we thought you was the murderer and you weren't easy to lift, but I wouldn't want no hard feelings."

Lucifer smiled. "None taken. I don't bruise easily."

"Well." Thompson blew out a relieved breath and grinned back. "That's all right, then. Not but what it was no fit welcome to the village, 'specially not with a bash on the head an' all."

Phyllida inwardly squirmed. She glanced up the lane toward the Manor.

"Has Sir Jasper got any clues as to this murderer, then, sir?"

Her "No" clashed with Lucifer's "None"-Phyllida nearly outwardly squirmed when she realized the question had not been addressed to her.

With a subtly amused glance, Lucifer added, "Sir Jasper's investigations are proceeding."

"Aye, well…"

Phyllida waited while Thompson pointed out the forge on the far side of the common and assured Lucifer that he could count on him for any assistance, either in laying the murderer by the heels or with his horses.

With a final nod, Thompson took himself off back over the common.

She stepped out again; Lucifer prowled by her side, his stride an exercise in effortless grace. He murmured, "It seems a peaceful little place."

"Usually." She glanced up and found him scanning the common and the church on the crest.

They avoided the duck pond and its vocal inhabitants and reached the Manor's gate. She opened it and stepped through; Lucifer had to duck the trailing fingers of wisteria hanging from the framing arch. She led the way around the small fountain. Gaining the porch, she realized he'd fallen behind. Looking back, she saw him studying a bed of burgeoning peonies. His gaze moved on to a bed of roses and lavender, then he glanced up, saw her waiting, and lengthened his stride.

He joined her on the porch, but glanced back at the garden.

"What is it?"

He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. "Who did the garden?"

"Papa told you-Horatio. Well"-she glanced at the beds-"Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio's was always the guiding hand." She studied his face. "Why?"

He looked at the garden. "When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden-it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn't have known a hollyhock from a nettle."

Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. "All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden."

After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.

The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio's coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they-yes, they-had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.

A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.

For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio's face. It had been there when she'd found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.

She'd liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He'd been murdered in the village she'd virtually managed for twelve years; that she'd been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.

It was as if something she'd worked for all her life-the peace and serenity of Colyton-had been violated, tainted.

The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she'd found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she'd realized she'd heard no one leaving…

Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She'd only just remembered.

She'd come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she'd been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She'd idled in the hall, then decided on searching the drawing room.

How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she'd found him?

What if the murderer hadn't left but had still been in the drawing room when she'd entered?

She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.

He must have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.

Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer's hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio's lined face and made a vow-a binding, resolute vow-that she would find whoever had hidden between the bookcases and watched her discover Horatio's body.

This was one murderer who would not escape.

Even as she made her silent declaration, she was aware another, very similar one was being made not a foot away. Lucifer's words to her father had rung with determination; she needed no convincing that he would regard his vow as seriously as she regarded hers.

They could work together-together they might succeed. Alone, even with her father's support, bringing a murderer to justice might well be more than she could accomplish. Despite his dubious talents, she was certain the reprobate beside her could achieve anything he set his mind to. So…

She slanted a glance at him. She needed to tell him all that had happened, even to admitting that it was she who had hit him over the head. Confessing to that wouldn't be comfortable, but he needed to know.

He especially needed to know about the hat.

Which meant she had to speak with Mary Anne straightaway.

She took in Lucifer's bleak expression, the planes of his face harsh without any lurking laughter to soften them. His large eyes were hooded. He'd been much closer to Horatio than she had.

Sliding her fingers from his, she retreated and left him with his grief.

Lucifer heard her go. Part of his mind tracked her movements; part of him relaxed when she turned deeper into the house. He remembered she'd mentioned speaking with the housekeeper. Reassured, he returned his attention to Horatio.

Their last farewell-there wouldn't be another. He let the memories spill through his mind, like water running through his fingers. Their shared interests, their successes, their mutual appreciation, the long afternoons spent on the terrace overlooking Lake Windemere. All good times-there'd been none bad.

At the last, he drew in a deep breath, then laid a hand atop Horatio's, clasped on his chest. "Go twit Martha on her pansies. As for revenge, leave that to me."

Vengeance might be the Lord's, but sometimes He needed help.

As he turned away, his gaze fell on the bookshelves lining the walls. Idly, he strolled along them, tracing the spines of volumes here and there, remembered friends. Toward the end of the room, he noticed three volumes jutting out from their shelf. He slid them back in, aligning them. He looked back along the tome-lined wall. How appropriate for Horatio to spend his final hours here, surrounded by his dearest possessions.

He was standing before the long windows, looking out on the garden that so puzzled him, when a discreet cough sounded in the doorway. He turned; a thin, spare man, hunched into his coat, was staring at the coffin. Lucifer left the window. "Covey. Pray accept my condolences. I know how attached you were to Horatio-and he to you."

Covey blinked watery blue eyes. "Thank you, sir. Miss Tallent told me you were here. I regret that it's such a dreadful occasion that sees you with us… again."

"A dreadful business, indeed. Do you have any idea…?"

"None at all. I had no inkling, no reason to suppose…" He gestured helplessly at the coffin.

"Don't blame yourself, Covey-you couldn't have known."

"If I had, it wouldn't have happened."

"Of course not." Lucifer interposed himself between Covey and the coffin. "Horatio wrote to me about some item he'd discovered that he wanted my opinion on. Do you know what it was?"

Covey shook his head. "I knew he'd found something special. You know how he'd get-his eyes all lighting up like a child's? That's how he was for the past week. I hadn't seen him so excited for years."

"He didn't mention anything at all about it?"

"No, but he never did, not with his special finds. Not until he was ready to tell all; then he'd lay all the proofs out on his desk and explain it all to me." A wistful smile touched Covey's lips. "He'd take great delight in that, even though he knew I understood not one word in three."

Lucifer gripped Covey's shoulder. "You were a good friend to him, Covey." He hesitated, then added, "I'm sure Horatio will have made provision for you in his will, but whatever happens, we'll sort something out. Horatio would have wished it."

Covey inclined his head. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the reassurance."

"One thing. Have any of the other dealers stopped by recently? Jamieson? Dallwell?"

"No, sir. Mr. Jamieson stopped by some months ago, but we've seen no one recently. The master hasn't-hadn't-been so active in dealing since we'd moved south."

Lucifer hesitated. "I imagine I'll be staying at the Grange for the next few days."

"Indeed, sir." Covey bowed. "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my tidying."

Lucifer nodded in dismissal, wondering who Horatio's heirs would be. He made a mental note to have a word with them regarding Covey's long service and devotion. Returning to the window, he considered Covey's description of Horatio's recent excitement.

If he could understand why Horatio had been killed, he would know who had killed him. The "why" was the key. It seemed possible, even likely, that the "why" was the mysterious item Horatio had discovered; his violent death had followed so soon after the discovery. If the mysterious item was the key, then the murderer might have come from beyond the local area, as Lady Huddlesford insisted was the case. Luckily, they were deep in the country-"outsiders" were noticed. He was sure he'd been noticed, perhaps not in Colyton, but certainly along the way.

Turning, he scanned the room. Horatio might have concealed his latest find in plain sight, amid the treasure trove of his collection.

When Phyllida returned to the drawing room, she found her nemesis examining the halberd responsible for the dent in his skull. He looked at her. "Was it always kept here-behind the door?"

"I understand so."

He studied her, then looked at the axe-head. Raising the halberd, he let it fall to his other hand, watching how the weighted head swung. "I would have thought, if it had fallen or been wielded with intent…"

Then the axe should have cleaved his skull in two. Phyllida didn't want to think about it. "This part here"-she pointed to the rounded side-"was apparently what connected with your head."

"Indeed?" He hefted the weapon fully upright, then looked at her. "How did it fall?"

She met his eyes directly-and said nothing.

He held her gaze, and let the tension stretch.

And stretch…

She lifted her chin. "I have to go to the church to sort out the flowers for the funeral, and then I must speak with the curate. You can stay here, if you like."

Lucifer replaced the halberd. "I'll come with you."

He'd said his last good-bye to Horatio.

Contained and uncommunicative, she led the way through the garden. As they rounded the fountain, he paused. "The flowers for the church-use some of these peonies. They were Martha's favorites."

She stopped and glanced back at him, then at the flowers. Then she nodded and continued on.

They crossed the lane and started up the common. The expanse of green was kept clipped by the sheep allowed to graze over it; it rose in a gradual slope from the lane to the crest on which the church stood.

Lucifer matched his long strides to Phyllida's and breathed deeply. The air was fresh, sun-warmed; the scents and sounds of a June afternoon ebbed and flowed around them. The ache in his head was subsiding, and the best distraction Colyton had to offer was walking beside him.

He was intrigued, and couldn't entirely understand why. Indeed, he wasn't sure he approved. His preference, until now, had been for ladies of more bountiful charms, yet Phyllida Tallent's slender grace acted powerfully on his ever-ready male senses. Being so easily aroused by a gently reared, intelligent, and stubborn virgin, one who was making no effort to attract him at all, had to be fate's idea of a joke. Perhaps being hit on the head had affected him more than he'd realized.

Whatever the cause, walking beside and a little behind her left him all too aware whenever the frolicking breeze plastered her gown to her legs and bottom, or when it flicked at the hem of her skirt, exposing slim ankles. Her svelte figure contained a suppressed energy one part of him-the wild, untamed pirate part of him-instantly recognized; he longed to wind it tight, then release it before plunging into its core.

Climbing the hill was easing his head at the expense of intensifying the ache in his loins. An ache destined to remain unrelieved. Drawing a bracing breath, he looked ahead, and deliberately shifted his thoughts.

She preceded him into the church and went straight to the altar. Picking up a vase, she headed through an open door into a small side chamber.

He lounged against a pew. The small church was well endowed with carvings and stained glass. The oriel window above the entrance was particularly pleasing. It was fitting that Horatio's funeral would be held here; Horatio would have appreciated the church's beauties.

A beauty of a different sort swept back in and effortlessly recaptured his attention.

Phyllida jumped when large hands covered hers as she wrestled with the urn on the font.

"Let me."

She did. The reverberations of his voice played up and down her spine and left her nerves jangling. Wordlessly, she led the way through the vestry and out through the open back door. She indicated the pile of dead flowers. "Just toss them there."

He did. She retrieved the urn from his hands; without being asked, he wielded the pump handle so she could rinse it. With a nod of thanks, she swept back into the vestry; swiping up a cloth, she vigorously buffed the urn.

He halted in the doorway, almost blocking out the light; propping one shoulder against the frame, he watched her.

The vestry suddenly seemed very small. Awareness prickled over her skin.

"The funeral will be tomorrow, late morning. I'll send flowers over first thing-in this weather, they wilt so quickly." She was babbling. She'd never babbled in her life. "Especially if they're not picked before the sun strikes them."

"Does that mean you'll be flitting among the flowers at dawn?"

She wanted to look at him but didn't. "Of course not. Our gardener knows just how I like them picked."

"Ah. No need, then, to get up too early."

It was his tone, the deep resonance in his voice, that gave his words their full meaning. For an instant, she froze, her hands on the urn, then she sucked in a breath, grasped the urn, set it on the shelf, and swung to face him. Her expression, she was sure, remained calmly superior, unruffled, and serene. No one in the village ever saw beyond that, which made protecting herself and managing them very easy.

His gaze, however, settled on her eyes. He saw further, deeper-she wasn't at all comfortable with what he might see. "I need to speak with Mr. Filing, the curate. Given your injury, you should rest for a few minutes. I suggest you sit in a pew in the cool of the church. I'll collect you when I've finished with Mr. Filing."

He continued to study her face, her eyes. After an unnerving moment, he glanced back outside, over his left shoulder. "Is that the curate's house?"

"Yes. That's the Rectory."

He straightened away from the doorframe; the movement did nothing to reduce the sense of entrapment she felt. "I'll come with you."

Phyllida drew in a breath, and held it. With anyone else she would have argued, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that warned her she had no chance of swaying him. Not without a fight-and fighting with him was too dangerous. "As you wish."

He moved back and she stepped past him, into the sunshine. She led the way down the winding path to the Rectory, snug in a hollow just below the crest. Shutting the vestry door, he followed on her heels.

His intention was impossible to mistake. He knew she was hiding something; he was going to cling to her side-unnerve her as much as he could-until she told him what it was. Or until he uncovered her secrets for himself.

The latter, Phyllida decided, was not a fate to tempt. How soon could she see Mary Anne?

Lucifer followed her to the Rectory, too conscious of the lithe grace of her stride, the unfettered freedom with which she moved. To senses steeped in consideration of the feminine, she registered as something beyond the norm. Infinitely more desirable, and infinitely more elusive.

Why, he wondered, did she not wish him to be a party to her meeting with the curate?

That gentleman had seen them coming; he stood waiting for them at his front door. Fair, pale, and slightly built, his clothes fastidiously neat, Filing had the appearance of a gentleman aesthete. He greeted Phyllida with a smile, one that held the warmth of long-standing friendship.

"Good morning, Mr. Filing. Allow me to present Mr. Cynster, an old friend of Horatio's."

"Indeed?" Filing offered his hand; Lucifer shook it. "Such a sad occurrence. It must have been a shock to discover Horatio slain."

Lucifer inclined his head.

"As you'll have heard, the funeral's tomorrow morning. Perhaps, as an old friend, you'd like to give the eulogy?"

Lucifer considered, then shook his head. "With this knock on the head, I'm not sure I'll be up to it, and frankly, I think Horatio would consider his connection with the people here of more importance to him over these last years than his professional associations."

And he suspected he'd be of more use to Horatio by studying those attending the funeral.

"I see, I see." Filing nodded. "Well, then, if there's no objection, I'll give the eulogy myself. Horatio and I often shared a glass of port of an evening. He had a wonderful collection of ecclesiastical texts and kindly gave me free rein to browse through them. He was truly a gentleman and a scholar-that will be the theme of my eulogy."

"Very apt." Lucifer turned his gaze on Phyllida, and waited; Filing did the same.

Her expression calm, her eyes watchful, she glanced at him. "There are a number of organizational matters I must discuss with Mr. Filing."

Lucifer nodded, as if giving her permission to speak. Shifting back, he let his gaze roam the common, down to the cottages lining the lane.

"Our discussion will take a few minutes. Perhaps you should rest on that bench over there."

The bench was halfway down the slope overlooking the duck pond, well out of hearing range. He frowned and glanced at her. "It might be wiser if we descend together. Just in case I'm overcome with giddiness."

Her annoyance reached him in a wash of heat; anger glowed momentarily in her eyes. But she inclined her head, her expression cool, unconcerned-a perfect social mask. Filing glanced back and forth; he sensed something, but couldn't define it. Couldn't see past her facade.

Lucifer wondered why he could-and why he wanted to see so much further, to know so much more.

She turned to Filing. "About the flowers for tomorrow…"

Fixing his gaze down the common, Lucifer let their discussion flow past him. There seemed a great deal to be said about the flowers. Then, with not the slightest shift in her tone to mark the shift in her subject, she continued. "Which brings us to our other business."

Lucifer suppressed a cynical smile. She was good. Unfortunately for her, he was better.

"You have the collection complete, I believe?"

From the corner of his eye Lucifer saw Filing nod-and shoot a glance at him.

"I assume you foresee no difficulties in the distribution to those deserving?"

"No," Filing murmured. "All seems… straightforward."

"Good. Our next outing will be as scheduled. I've had a letter confirming there's been no change to the plans. If you could pass the word on to those interested?"

"Of course."

"And do remind them that we'll need the group assembled in good time-we can't wait for stragglers. If they're not there from the very first, then we really cannot include them in the group, so they'll miss out on the benefits of the excursion."

Filing nodded. "If any want to argue that point, I'll suggest they speak with Thompson."

Phyllida shot him a glance. "Do." She straightened. "Until tomorrow, then."

Lucifer returned his attention to her, then nodded a farewell to Filing.

Phyllida gestured down the common. "We should get back-you really should rest your head."

He fell into step beside her; they descended the slope at an easy pace.

What in all Hades was the woman up to?

He assumed he was supposed to imagine that they'd been discussing some excursion for Filing's parishioners. He might have believed it but for her dogged attempts to keep the knowledge from him. While the correct interpretation presently eluded him, he couldn't believe it was anything heinous or illegal. She was the magistrate's daughter, devoted to good works, and Filing was patently honest and upright. So why didn't she want him to know what she was about?

If she'd been younger, he would have suspected some lark. Not only was she too old for that, but her behavior tended to the mature, the managing; she was no irresponsible hoyden.

The mystery about her had just deepened; the urge to take her somewhere private, back her against a wall, and keep her there until she told him all he wished to know, grew with every step.

He glanced at her and was rewarded with a full view of her face as she lifted it to the breeze, shaking back her tangling bonnet ribbons. He drank in her features, the resolution in her face, the challenge implicit in the defiant tilt of her chin. Facing forward again, he reminded himself that she was a gently reared virgin-no fit prey for him. She was not a woman with whom he could dally.

He would learn her secrets, then he'd have to let her go.

They stepped into the lane. A carriage was drawn up just ahead, the occupants-a large gentleman and an older lady-patently waiting to speak with them.

"Sir Cedric Fortemain and his mother, Lady Fortemain," Phyllida supplied sotto voce.

"And they are?"

"Cedric owns Ballyclose Manor-it lies over the hill past the forge."

They neared the carriage. Sir Cedric, in his late thirties and already tending portly with a florid face and thinning hair, rose and bowed to Phyllida, then leaned over the side to shake her hand.

Phyllida performed the introductions. Lucifer bowed to her ladyship and shook hands with Cedric.

"I hear you were the first to discover the body, Mr. Cynster," Lady Fortemain said.

"Shocking business!" Cedric declared.

They chatted inconsequentially about London and the weather; Lucifer noted Cedric's gaze rarely left Phyllida. His comments were a touch too patronizing, a touch too particular. When, contained and unresponsive, she stepped back, preparing to leave, Cedric caught her eye.

"I'm pleased to see, m'dear, that you're not rambling about the village on your own. There's no telling but that Welham's murderer is still about."

"Indeed!" Lady Fortemain smiled at Lucifer. "So comforting to see you're keeping an eye on dear Phyllida. We'd be devastated were anything to happen to our village treasure.

That was accompanied by a beam of sincere approbation, which brought a frown to the village treasure's eyes. "We must be getting on."

Lucifer bowed to Lady Fortemain, exchanged nods with Cedric, then strolled beside Phyllida as she crossed the lane to walk along the cottages' front fences. "Why," he murmured, "does Lady Fortemain think you a treasure?"

"Because she wants me to marry Cedric. And because I helped her to find a ring she misplaced at the Hunt Ball one year. And once I guessed where Pommeroy was hiding one of the times he ran away, but that was years ago."

"Who's Pommeroy?"

"Cedric's younger brother." After a moment, she added, "He's much worse than Cedric."

The rattle of carriage wheels came from behind them; they both slowed, stepping further to the side of the lane. The carriage swept past; a hatchet-faced, stony-eyed lady gazed haughtily down on them.

Lucifer raised his brows as the carriage rattled on. "Who was that harbinger of sunshine and delight?"

He looked across in time to see Phyllida's lips twitch. "Jocasta Smollet."

"Who is?"

"Sir Basil Smollet's sister."

"And Sir Basil is?"

"The gentleman approaching us. He owns Highgate, up the lane past the Rectory."

Lucifer studied the gentleman in question; he was neatly, even severely dressed, and of an age similar to Cedric. But where Cedric's expression had been choleric yet open, Basil's was guarded, as if he had a lot on his mind, but was above explaining himself to anyone.

He tipped his hat in greeting. Introduced, he shook hands with Lucifer.

"Dreadful business, this. Sets the whole village on its ears. No rest for any of us until the villain's caught. Pray accept my condolences on the death of your friend."

Lucifer thanked him. With polite nods to them both, Basil continued on his way.

"Punctilious," Lucifer murmured.

"Indeed." Phyllida stepped out again, looked ahead, and slowed. "Oh. Dear."

The words were uttered through her teeth; she might as well have cursed. Lucifer considered the cause of her consternation. Red-haired, in his late twenties, the gentleman strode toward them with a purposeful air. Only just taller than Phyllida, he was plainly dressed in corduroy breeches and riding boots, topped by a loose, flapping coat.

Phyllida's chin rose; she moved forward decisively. "Good day, Mr. Grisby." She inclined her head, her intention plainly to continue on her way.

Grisby planted himself directly in front of her. Phyllida halted and smoothly turned to Lucifer. "Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Mr. Grisby."

Lucifer nodded coolly. Grisby hesitated, then curtly responded. He returned his gaze to Phyllida. "Miss Tallent, please allow me to escort you home." The glance he shot Lucifer brimmed with poorly concealed dislike. "I'm surprised Sir Jasper hasn't forbidden you to roam, what with this knife-wielding murderer on the loose."

"My father-"

"One never knows," Grisby sententiously continued, "from what direction danger may come." Pugnaciously, he reached for her arm.

Phyllida reached for Lucifer's.

Bending his arm, covering her hand with his, Lucifer drew her closer. He caught Grisby's gaze, all humor flown. "I assure you, Grisby, that Miss Tallent is in no danger from knife-wielding felons, or any others, while in my care." He'd only been waiting for some sign from Phyllida before stepping in; if he hadn't been feeling his way, Grisby would already be flailing in the duck pond. "We're on our way back to the Grange. You may rest assured I will see Miss Tallent safe into Sir Jasper's keeping."

Grisby flushed.

Lucifer inclined his head. "If you'll excuse us?"

He gave Grisby no choice, solicitously steering Phyllida, censoriously haughty, down the lane. He kept her close, her skirts brushing his boots. Under his hand, her fingers fluttered. They strolled on; eventually her fingers relaxed under his.

"Thank you."

"It was entirely my pleasure. Aside from being an insensitive clod, who, exactly, is Grisby?"

"He owns Dottswood Farm. It's up past the Rectory, beyond Highgate."

"So he's a prosperous gentleman farmer?"

"Among other things."

Her disgusted tone gave him his clue. "Am I to understand Mr. Grisby is another aspirant to your fair hand?"

"They all are-Cedric, Basil, and Grisby."

Her tone wasn't improving; Lucifer raised his brows. "You have cut a swath through the local ranks."

She cast him a repressive glance, one his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, could not have bettered, then, head high, looked forward.

The common ended just ahead where the lane leading to the graveyard and the forge joined the village lane. Along the lesser lane lay a row of small houses, bigger than the cottages but not as large as the Manor or the Grange. Each house had its own garden with a fence and a gate.

A gentleman stepped through the nearest gate; in breeches, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, he minced down the lane toward them. In a bottle-green coat with a bright yellow-and-black kerchief tied in a floppy bow and sporting a periwig, the gentleman was unquestionably the most colorful figure Lucifer had seen for many a long year.

He glanced at Phyllida; she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed ahead; she'd yet to see the gentleman.

"I hesitate to ask, but is the gentleman to our right another of your suitors?"

She looked. "No, thank God. Unfortunately, that's the best I can say for him. His name is Silas Coombe."

"Does he always dress like that?"

"I've heard that in earlier years, he dressed as a macaroni. These days, he contents himself with adopting all the extremes of fashion and wearing them all at once."

"A gentleman of independent means?"

"He lives off inherited investments. His main interest in life is posturing. That, and reading. Until Horatio arrived, Silas had the most extensive library in the area."

"So he and Horatio were friends?"

"No. Quite the opposite." She paused as the gentleman neared; he crossed the comer of the common, sparing them not one glance. They continued to stroll; as they left the village behind, Phyllida mused, "In fact, Silas is possibly the only one in the locality who sincerely hated Horatio."

"Hated Horatio?" Lucifer shot her a glance. "Horatio wasn't an easy person to hate."

"Nevertheless. You see, for years, Silas had touted himself as a renowned antiquarian bibliophile. I think it was his ambition, and here in the country there was no one to challenge his claim. Not that it meant anything to anyone else, but it meant a lot to Silas. Then Horatio arrived and exploded his myth. Horatio's library eclipsed Silas's completely and Silas did not know books as Horatio did. Even to us, untutored though we are, the difference was obvious. Horatio was genuine; Silas, a poor imitation."

The Grange drive appeared before them; as they turned through the gateposts, Phyllida drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. "You don't think…?"

He met her gaze. "I don't know what to think. At the moment, I'm merely gathering information."

"Silas is effeminate. I wouldn't think him very strong."

"Weaklings can kill quite effectively-rage can lend strength to the most ineffectual."

"I suppose…" She frowned. "But I still can't see Silas stabbing anyone."

He was silent for a moment, then asked, "So who do you think killed Horatio?"

The question hung between them; she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "I don't know who killed Horatio."

She enunciated each word clearly. Their gazes held; it was she who turned away. Head high, she continued down the drive. After a moment, he fell in beside her, his stride longer and slower than hers. "Tell me, how many more are there in the locality-people like the Fortemains who would have known Horatio socially?"

"Not that many. You've met about half." They continued strolling down the winding drive, hemmed in by trees on all sides. Phyllida drew in a breath. "Do you seriously think someone from the village killed Horatio?"

She glanced up; Lucifer caught her eye. "Horatio was killed by someone he knew well-someone he let get close to him, well within arm's reach." When she frowned, he added, "There was no sign of any struggle."

Her frown cleared as she remembered; refocusing, she saw the intensity in his gaze and looked away. "Perhaps it was someone he knew from outside-another collector."

"If so, we'll find out. I'll be making inquiries in all the surrounding towns."

They walked on in silence. She felt his gaze on her face. They'd gone another fifty yards before he asked, "Indelicate question though it is, why, with so many suitors, aren't you married?"

She glanced up but could see nothing in his eyes beyond simple interest. The question was indeed impertinent, yet she felt no compunction in answering; she knew the answer so well. "Because every man who has ever asked for my hand has wanted to marry me to suit his own ends-because having me as his wife would improve his lot. For Cedric and Basil, marrying me would be sensible-I'm suitable, I know the locals, and I could manage their households with my eyes shut. For Grisby, I can add that marrying me would be a step upward socially-he's ambitious in that sphere."

She looked up and discovered Lucifer studying her. After a moment, he asked, "Don't you have any wishes, any requirements of marriage-anything they might provide you?"

She shook her head. "All they can offer is a household and a position-I already have both. Why marry and take a husband when I'd gain nothing I desire in the process?"

His lips twitched, then curved into a smile. "How very clearheaded of you."

The dangerous purr had returned to his voice; there was a look in his eyes she didn't understand. Facing forward, she kept strolling.

The house lay just ahead, screened by the last bend, when he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She faced him, her question in her eyes. He looked down at her, his gaze disturbingly direct. "What actually happened?"

Phyllida held his gaze and thought about telling him. But it was a case of all or nothing-she'd seen enough of him to know she would have to tell him all once she admitted that she was there. He wouldn't let her keep anything back. And for once in her life, she doubted her ability to stand against a man.

This man was something else-some different species she hadn't before encountered. She was old enough, wise enough, to recognize the difference and acknowledge in her mind that she'd be unwise to challenge him.

Of course, not telling him was a blatant challenge, but that simply had to be. She would not break her word. She might prevaricate for a good cause, but her oath was absolute, and a vow given to a friend was sacred.

"I can't tell you. Not yet." She turned away. He stopped her, long fingers closing around her elbow. Her temper flared; she looked up at him. "I've kept my part of the bargain."

He blinked. "What bargain?"

"You didn't tell Papa you believed that I was there, in Horatio's drawing room, and so I took you around the village, introduced you to Horatio's acquaintances, and answered your questions about them."

He frowned, the gesture more evident in his eyes than on his face. His hold on her arm anchored her before him; she didn't bother trying to wriggle free. He studied her eyes and she let him; emotionally, she had nothing to hide.

"Is that why you thought I invited myself along?"

"That, and so you could try to trip me up. Why else?"

He released her, but his gaze held hers. "Couldn't I have wanted to spend time in your company?"

She stared at him. The suggestion was so unexpected, she couldn't at first imagine it. Then she did, and the truth washed over her-she would have liked it if he had. If he'd simply wanted to spend a summer afternoon strolling with her around the village, idly commenting, relaxed in her company. Her chest tightened; haughtily, she turned away. "You didn't. That wasn't why you came walking with me today."

Lucifer heard the calm statement but left it unchallenged. He watched her walk away, and let the impulse to correct her fade. She was such a contrary female-handling her was difficult, not to say dangerous; she was so different from the women he knew. God knew, he'd never before been so attracted to a virgin.

A stubborn, willful, innocent, headstrong, intelligent, far-too-untouched-for-her-own-good virgin.

It made everything so much more complicated.