All About Love

Chapter 5

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Phyllida knew why he'd kissed her. He wasn't an ogre, he wasn't her enemy, but he was a masterful seducer. She was a novice in that sphere, yet she realized he'd kissed her to rattle her, to weaken her resolve so she'd tell him all she knew. She'd asked him why, but she'd known the answer the instant she'd voiced the question.

Seated in the second pew, she glanced across the aisle of the church to where Lucifer sat. His expression was impassive as he listened to Cedric read the lesson. Covey hunched beside him; farther along, Mrs. Hemmings wept into her handkerchief. Hemmings patted her arm awkwardly. White-faced, Bristleford stared straight ahead. While the rest of those present might have lost a friend and a neighbor, Covey, the Hemmingses, and Bristleford had lost a beloved master and their livelihoods had been rendered uncertain.

Phyllida returned her gaze to Lucifer's face-it wasn't expressive, yet she encountered no difficulty in following his thoughts. They were presently centered on the coffin resting before the altar, jeweled by shafts of light playing through the stained-glass windows. His thoughts, however, were not on Horatio but on who had put him in the box.

She faced forward once more. Cedric continued to drone. She let her mind slide back to its most urgent consideration-how to deal with Lucifer.

That name was the one that sprang to mind; it suited him so well. She'd known what type of man he was the instant she'd set eyes on him, although she hadn't fully appreciated the whole until she'd encountered him fully dressed and fully conscious. Then, what he was had been obvious.

The reason matrons preened and women lost their wits when he smiled was blatantly apparent-he didn't hide his light under any bushel. Even more to the point, his powerful aura of masculine energy, raw edges smoothed by graceful elegance, hadn't come about by accident-it was even more than cultivated-it was part of a practiced art.

An art he intended practicing on her.

Luckily, she knew it. She was confident and in control of her world, bar him. And his kisses hadn't rattled her in the least. She hadn't expected them, but, on consideration, she hadn't been surprised. He'd thought about kissing her when he'd held her trapped on his bed the night before. The woods had simply been a more amenable venue.

Would he kiss her again? The question hovered in her brain. She'd enjoyed the experience; she hadn't felt the least bit threatened, or coerced, or even in danger. But wishing for more might be tempting fate.

Besides… She glanced sideways to where a small man in severe black sat, pinched features blank. Mr. Crabbs was Horatio's solicitor, come from Exeter to read the will. And in Mr. Crabbs's train had come his clerk, Robert Collins.

With luck, this evening, after speaking with Robert, Mary Anne would release her from her oath. Then she could explain to Lucifer what had happened in Horatio's drawing room and they could join forces to track down Horatio's murderer.

That was her aim and she wasn't about to be deterred, even if succeeding meant dealing with the devil. He was definitely the most fascinating devil she'd ever met, and deep down, she was convinced he'd never hurt her.

Impatient, she waited for Cedric to have done.

When the service was over, Lucifer stepped forward with

Cedric, Sir Jasper, Thompson, Basil Smollet, and Mr. Farthingale; they hefted the coffin and slowly carried it out to the graveyard. During the short burial ceremony, Lucifer noted the faces of the men he'd not yet met as they stood about the graveside. Was the murderer present? The ladies did not join them, but gathered in a dark group just beyond the side porch of the church.

When earth rained down on the coffin, Lucifer joined Sir Jasper and Mr. Farthingale. As they walked back to the church, he learned enough to place Mr. Farthingale as a minor Sir Jasper-backbone of the county, absorbed with his land and family, unlikely to have any connection with Horatio's murder.

Together with the rest of the men, they joined the waiting ladies; family groups formed and started down the common. Sir Jasper led the way, Jonas beside him. Phyllida followed; Lucifer fell in beside her. She slanted him a glance; her eyes held no hint of censure or trepidation. If anything, they held a question: What next?

"If you'd be so kind as to introduce me to those I don't know…?"

She inclined her head regally. "Of course."

She acted as if he'd never kissed her. Lucifer hid a frown.

Followed by, as far as he could tell, the entire congregation, they went through the Manor gate, crossed Horatio's garden, and filed into the house.

The wake was the perfect opportunity, not just to meet the locals, but to have them explain their relationship to Horatio. Most discussed their last meetings with him without prompting, and aired their views on his murder.

Phyllida hovered near, graciously steering people his way, in each case providing him with the right information to place the person in the context of village life and establish his or her connection with Horatio. If he'd thought she'd played any role in Horatio's murder, he'd have been suspicious. Instead, he stood by the side of the room and appreciated her social skills.

"Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Miss Hellebore. She lives in the cottage immediately next door."

Lucifer bowed over Miss Hellebore's hand. Old with a sweet, lined face, she stood no higher than his shoulder.

She clutched his hand. "I was in church when it happened-so unfortunate. I might have heard something otherwise. They'd just dropped me off before they found you-what a to-do that was! But I'm so glad, dear, that you were not the one." She smiled vaguely, her eyes dimming. "Horatio was a dear soul. Such a worry, this happening."

Her voice faded; Phyllida took her other hand and patted it reassuringly. "You needn't worry, Harriet. Mr. Cynster and Papa will find out who did it, and then all will be peaceful here again."

"I do hope so, dear."

"There's some asparagus on the table-would you like some?"

"Oh, yes. Which table?"

With a glance that said she'd be back, Phyllida steered the old lady away.

Lucifer watched them go. Despite the fact that Phyllida was unmarried and neither the oldest nor the most established lady in the room, it was to her the locals unhesitatingly turned-for reassurance, for order. Her character, her personality, cast her in the role-that calm, collected air of being perennially in control.

The desire to see her in an uncontrolled frenzy surfaced-again. He swiftly doused it and looked away.

"Mr. Cynster." Jocasta Smollet, as haughty as when she'd passed them in the lane the previous evening, approached on the arm of Sir Basil. She extended her hand.

Basil performed the introductions.

"I do hope," Jocasta said, "that you'll be remaining in Colyton for a few days yet. We'd be pleased to entertain you at Highgate-I'm sure there's little else hereabouts to interest a gentleman such as yourself."

If Jocasta's nose rose any higher, she'd tip backward.

"I'm unsure how long I'll be staying." Lucifer watched Phyllida returning through the crowd. She didn't see Jocasta until she was almost upon them. Her smile faded; she changed tack so she could slide past them.

Calmly, he reached out, caught her hand, and drew her to his side. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he looked at Jocasta. "Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I've enjoyed meeting those round about. People have been very welcoming." He glanced at Phyllida. "Miss Tallent has been particularly helpful."

"Indeed?" There was a wealth of meaning in the word. Jocasta drew herself up and stiffly inclined her head. "Dear Phyllida is so good to everyone. If you'll excuse us, I really must speak with Mrs. Farthingale."

She glided away. Basil, embarrassed, didn't follow. He chatted inconsequentially; Lucifer determined that he'd been in church when Horatio had been murdered.

When Basil moved on, Lucifer looked down at Phyllida. "Why does Miss Smollet so dislike you?"

She shook her head. "I really don't know."

Lucifer glanced across the room. "There are three gentlemen I've yet to meet."

The first proved to be Lucius Appleby. Phyllida introduced them, then left to chat with Lady Fortemain. Lucifer made no effort to disguise his purpose. Appleby answered directly, but was hardly forthcoming.

Collecting Phyllida, Lucifer guided her down the room. "Is Appleby always so reserved? So self-effacing?"

"Yes, but he's Cedric's secretary, after all."

His eye on their next target, Lucifer murmured, "What was Appleby before he became Cedric's secretary? Has he ever mentioned?"

"No. I assumed he always was a clerk or something similar. Why?"

"I'm sure he's been in the army. He's the right age-I just wondered. Now, who's this?"

A moment later, Phyllida said, "Allow me to present Pommeroy Fortemain, Sir Cedric's brother."

Lucifer held out his hand.

Pommeroy's eyes bulged; he edged back. "Ah…" Wide-eyed, he looked at Phyllida. "I mean… well…"

Phyllida sighed exasperatedly. "Mr. Cynster did not murder Horatio, Pommeroy."

"He didn't?" Pommeroy glanced from one to the other.

"No! This is Horatio's wake, for heaven's sake! We wouldn't knowingly have invited the murderer."

"B-but… he had the knife."

"Pommeroy"-Phyllida spoke very distinctly-"no one knows who the murderer is, but the one thing we do know is that it could not be Mr. Cynster."

"Oh."

After that, Pommeroy behaved reasonably, answering Lucifer's questions with, if anything, an overeagerness to please. He'd accompanied his mother to church on Sunday and, he assured them, knew nothing about anything.

"That last is unfortunately true." Obedient to the touch on her arm, Phyllida moved to the side of the room.

"So I'd gathered." Lucifer was looking ahead. "Our last potential suspect is scanning the bookshelves."

She'd guessed who it was before they stepped around the Farthingales and came face-to-face with Silas Coombe, fingering a gold-plated spine. He snatched his hand back as if the book had bitten him and stared at them, blank-faced.

"Good day. Mr. Coombe, is it not?" Lucifer smiled. "Miss Tallent mentioned you know something of books. Horatio's amassed quite a collection, don't you think?"

His glance along the shelves clearly invited Silas's opinion. It was a masterly stroke. Phyllida practiced self-effacement while Silas waxed lyrical, putty in the hands of a gentleman he didn't even realize was his interrogator.

"Well, I don't normally confess this, but you're a gentleman who knows a bit about life." Silas lowered his voice.

"Not much of a churchgoer, you understand. Got out of the habit in my youth-can't see the point in rubbing shoulders with all the starched-up matrons, not at my age. I've better things to do with my time."

Silas's gaze ranged the nearby shelves. "I don't suppose you have any idea who will inherit these, do you?"

Lucifer shook his head. "No doubt we'll learn soon enough."

"Ah, yes-the solicitor fellow's here, isn't he?" Silas scanned the room, then frowned. "He's staring at you."

Lucifer looked; Phyllida did, too. It was instantly apparent that Mr. Crabbs was hovering, hoping for a word.

"If you'll excuse us," Lucifer murmured, "I'll see what he wants."

The instant they stepped away, Crabbs headed toward them. Lucifer stopped by the bookshelves and waited. Crabbs smiled perfunctorily as he joined them.

"Mr. Cynster, I just wanted to be sure that it would be convenient to read the will immediately the guests leave."

"Convenient?" Lucifer frowned. "For whom?"

"Why, for you" Mr. Crabbs searched Lucifer's face. "Well, dear me-I assumed you knew."

"Knew what?"

"That, barring some minor bequests, you are the sole principal beneficiary of Mr. Welham's will."

Crabbs's statement had been uttered within the hearing of Lady Huddlesford, Percy Tallent, and Sir Cedric and Lady Fortemain. Within seconds, all of Colyton had heard the news. The wake terminated as if a gong had sounded. People quickly took their leave, their alacrity plainly due to a wish to have the unexpected details of the will disclosed as soon as possible.

Despite the fact that the reading had been attended by very few, for the last hour the attention of Colyton had been focused on Horatio's library.

Pushing back from the desk, Lucifer laid the will down.

He'd just finished going through it a second time with Crabbs, making sure he understood the details. For someone familiar with the complex assignment of a ducal purse, Horatio's stipulations were straightforward. Leaning back in the leather chair, Lucifer scanned the room.

At one corner of the desk, Crabbs sat checking documents. At the sideboard, his assistant, Robert Collins, was carefully packing a satchel. The Hemmingses', Covey, and Bristleford had slipped out after the reading, all intensely relieved, all clearly pleased with the outcome.

For himself, Lucifer was… faintly stunned.

"Ah-hem."

He looked at Crabbs, then raised a brow.

"I was wondering if you planned to sell the Manor. I could get matters started if you wish."

Lucifer stared at Crabbs without seeing him. Then he shook his head. "I don't intend to sell."

The statement surprised him more than Crabbs, but when impulse struck this strongly, it rarely served to fight it. "Tell me." He refocused on Crabbs. "Were there any others who might have expected to inherit?"

Crabbs shook his head. "There was no family-not even any legal connections. The estate was Mr. Welham's outright, his to leave as he pleased."

"Do you know who Horatio's heir was, who was in line for the estate, before this present will was drawn up?"

"As far as I'm aware, there was no previous will. I drew this one up three years ago, when Mr. Welham came into these parts and engaged me to act for him. He gave me to understand he had not made a will before."

Later, with the shadows lengthening, Lucifer strode back to the Grange through the wood. Hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground, he stepped over roots and ditches blindly, his mind engrossed with other things.

Crabbs had taken his leave, retreating to the Red Bells. Given he was not presently residing under the Manor's roof,

Lucifer had not invited him to stay there. He hadn't wanted to impose the duty of entertaining the solicitor on Bristleford, the Hemmingses and Covey, not tonight.

He'd instructed Crabbs to contact Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. With Montague involved, the formal transfer of the estate would be accomplished quickly and efficiently. Lucifer made a mental note to write to Montague.

And Gabriel. And Devil. And his parents.

Lucifer sighed. The first tugs of the reins of responsibility. He'd avoided them most of his life. He couldn't avoid them now. Horatio had bequeathed them to him-the responsibility for his collection, the responsibility for the Manor, for Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses. Together with the responsibility for his garden.

That last worried him more than the others combined.

Horatio had trained him in how to oversee a collection; his family had prepared him to manage an estate and servants. No one had ever taught him about a garden, much less the sort of garden Horatio had created.

He had a very odd feeling about the garden.

The path joined the Grange shrubbery, leading into a maze of interconnecting walks. Lucifer checked he was taking the right one, then paced on, deep in thought.

Until a fury in patterned cambric came storming through a gap in the hedge and walked into him.

Phyllida lost all her breath in the collision. Even before she'd glanced up, her senses had recognized whose arms had locked around her. If she'd been the type of female who gave way to every impulse, she'd have shrieked and leaped away. Instead, she fixed him with a glittering glance and stepped back.

His arms fell from her. The reprobate had the gall to raise one arrogant black brow.

"My apologies." Calmly correct, she whirled around and headed for the house.

He fell in beside her as she walked, with ladylike gentility, along the path. His gaze lingered on her face; she refused to look at him-refused to see if his lips were straight and what type of amusement lurked in his blue eyes. The fiend had just made her life immeasurably more difficult.

His, too, did he but know it.

"You do that very well."

The murmured words were deliberately provocative.

"What?"

"Hide your temper. What was it that set you off?"

"An acquaintance who's being particularly trying. Actually, it's three acquaintances." Him, Mary Anne, and Robert. He'd inherited the Manor, Mary Anne had been thrown into a tizzy on the grounds that he might decide to stay, and Robert had unhelpfully confirmed that as fact.

She'd hoped the funeral would convince Mary Anne that her letters were a minor matter compared to murder. Instead, thanks to Mary Anne's sensitivities, she was now further away from being able to tell Lucifer why she'd been in Horatio's drawing room than she had been that morning. Fuming, she'd left Mary Anne and Robert by the fountain and stalked off. Only to run into Lucifer.

A sudden flush ran down her body at the memory of the impact. Under his elegant clothes he was all hard muscle; despite the fact she'd been going at full tilt, he hadn't even staggered. She glanced at him. "I take it you have, indeed, inherited the Manor?"

"Yes. There are apparently no relatives, so…"

They stepped onto the lawn. Phyllida fixed her gaze on the house. "If I might make so bold, what are your plans? Will you sell, or live here?"

She felt his gaze on her face but didn't turn to meet it.

"You may be as bold as you like, but…"

His tone had her glancing quickly his way.

He smiled. "I was on my way to discuss matters with your father. Perhaps you could take me to him?"

Sir Jasper was in his library. Lucifer was unsurprised when, after showing him in and then disappearing, Phyllida returned with a tray bearing glasses and a decanter.

"Well, so you're now a landowner in Devon, hen?"

"Shortly to be so, it seems." Lucifer accepted the glass of brandy Phyllida brought him. She handed a similar glass to her father, then retired to the sofa facing the chairs he and Sir Jasper occupied.

"Any thoughts on what you'll do with the property?" Sir Jasper regarded him from under shaggy brows. "You mentioned your family's estate is in Somerset…"

"I have an older brother-the family estate will go to him. In recent years, I've lived primarily in London, sharing my brother's house."

"So you have no other establishment demanding your attention?"

"No." That was something Horatio had known. His gaze on the brandy swirling in his glass, Lucifer added, "There's nothing to stop me from settling in Colyton."

"And will you?"

He looked up, into Phyllida's eyes. It was she who had, with her habitual directness, asked the simple question.

"Yes." Raising his glass, he sipped, his gaze never leaving her. "I've decided Colyton suits me."

"Excellent!" Sir Jasper beamed. "Could do with a little new blood around here." He went on at some length, extolling the benefits of the area; Lucifer let him ramble while he tried to understand the irritation in Phyllida's brown eyes. Her expression calm, she sat watching her father, but her eyes… and a downward quirk at one corner of her lovely lips…

Sir Jasper wound to a halt; Lucifer stirred and faced him. "One point I wanted to mention. I consider Horatio's bequest a gift, one I couldn't comfortably accept if I hadn't done everything I could to bring his murderer to justice."

Sir Jasper nodded. "Your feelings do you credit."

"Perhaps, but I'd never feel at ease in Horatio's house, owning his collection, unless I'd turned every stone."

Sir Jasper eyed him shrewdly. "Do I take it that's a warning you intend turning every stone?"

Lucifer held his gaze. "Every rock. Every last pebble."

Sir Jasper considered, then nodded. "I'll do whatever I can, but as you doubtless appreciate, it won't be easy to lay this murderer by the heels. The bare fact of the matter is no one saw him."

"There may be other proofs." Lucifer drained his glass.

Sir Jasper did the same. "We can hope so." As Phyllida collected the empty glasses, he added, "You may investigate as you wish, of course. If you need any formal support, I'll do all I can." He stood. "Horatio was one of us. I suspect you'll find you'll have any number of people willing to help you find his murderer."

"Indeed." Lucifer rose, his gaze resting on Phyllida. "I'm hoping that will be the case."

He wanted her help in catching Horatio's murderer. He'd all but asked for it.

She wanted to help him. Even if he hadn't asked, he would have received her assistance.

Unfortunately, the promise of the morning, when she'd hoped to be able to tell him all soon, had given way to the frustration of the afternoon, which was now to be crowned by the disaster of the evening. For some ungodly reason, and she used the term advisedly, her aunt had decided to host an informal dinner for a select few who had attended the funeral. A funeral dinner. Phyllida wasn't impressed.

She'd had a good mind to wear black, but compromised with her lavender silk. It was one of her most flattering gowns and she felt in need of the support.

She was the last to enter the drawing room. Lucifer was there, startlingly handsome in a midnight-blue coat the exact same shade as his eyes. His hair appeared black in the candlelight; his ivory cravat was an exercise in elegance. He stood with her father and Mr. Farthingale before the hearth; from the instant she'd stepped over the threshold, his gaze had remained fixed on her.

Regally inclining her head, she went to join the Misses Longdon, two spinsters of indeterminate age who shared a house along the lane to the forge.

They were sixteen at table. After checking with Gladys, Phyllida took her seat. Lucifer was at the table's other end, at her aunt's right and flanked by Regina Longdon. Regina Longdon was all but deaf, which left Lady Huddlesford with little competition. Mary Anne and Robert were both too far away to engage in conversation. Or persuasion. With nothing else to do, Phyllida applied herself to overseeing the meal.

Her father never dallied long over the port; he led the gentlemen back into the drawing room a bare fifteen minutes after the ladies had settled themselves. Those fifteen minutes had been spent listening to Mary Anne play the pianoforte. As soon as the gentlemen appeared, Mary Anne closed the instrument and came forward to join the conversing groups. Phyllida closed in on her.

Mary Anne saw her coming; agitation instantly filled her blue eyes. "No!" she hissed, before Phyllida could say a word. "You must see it's impossible. You have to find the letters-you promised!"

"I would have thought that by now you'd see-"

"It's you who don't see! Once you find the letters and give them back to me, then you can tell him, if you're so sure you must." Mary Anne literally wrung her hands, then her gaze flicked past Phyllida. "Oh, heavens! There's Robert-I must rescue him before Papa comers him."

With that, she all but fled across the room.

Phyllida watched her go, not entirely able to hide her frown. She'd never seen Mary Anne so overset. "What on earth is in those letters?"

Swinging to face the room, she scanned the guests to see if any needed her hostessly attention, only to discover Lucifer crossing the room toward her, the look in his eye signaling that he required precisely that. She waited; he halted beside her, and joined her in considering the room.

"Your bosom-bow, Miss Farthingale-what's the situation between her and Collins?"

"Situation?"

He glanced at her. "Farthingale looked ready to have an apoplectic fit when Collins arrived with Crabbs. Mrs. Farthingale looked thoroughly taken aback, and then grimly, tight-lippedly, resigned. I've been following your father's lead in stepping in with distractions all evening-it would be helpful to know what game we're all playing."

Phyllida met his eyes. "Star-crossed lovers, but we're hoping this version will end without tragedy." She looked across the room to where Robert Collins was speaking with Henrietta Longdon, who happened to be sitting beside Mary Anne on the chaise. "Mary Anne and Robert have been sweethearts since they first met. That was six years ago. They'd be perfect for each other but for one thing."

"Collins has no fortune."

"Precisely. Mr. Farthingale forbade the connection, but despite Robert living in Exeter, meetings always seem to occur, and Mary Anne has remained absolutely adamant."

"For six years? Most parents would have yielded by now."

"Mr. Farthingale is very stubborn. So is Mary Anne."

"So who'll win?"

"Mary Anne. Luckily, quite soon. Robert will shortly complete the requirements for registration. Crabbs has already offered him a place. Once Robert is practicing, he'll be able to support a wife, and then Mr. Farthingale will capitulate because he won't have any choice."

"So Farthingale's apoplexy is all for show?"

"In a way. It's expected, but it's not as if Robert isn't presentable." He might be too meek, too conservative, too nonassertive, but his birth was acceptable. "That said, the Farthingales wouldn't have expected Robert to be here this evening. Everyone hereabouts knows the situation; we all avoid doing anything to exacerbate it."

"What happened tonight?"

Phyllida looked at Lady Huddlesford, holding court by the hearth. "I'm not sure. It's possible my aunt, who spends two or three months here every year, forgot and innocently invited Robert along with Crabbs."

"But…?"

Phyllida's lips twitched. "Under that careworn exterior, she's rather a romantic. I suspect she imagines she's easing the star-crossed lovers' path."

"Ah."

The syllable was heavy with worldly cynicism. Phyllida glanced up-and saw Percy bearing down on them.

He nodded to Lucifer, his gaze fixed on her. "I wonder, cuz, whether I could have a private word with you?"

About what? Phyllida swallowed the ungracious reply. "Of course."

Percy smiled at Lucifer. "Family business, don't y'know."

Lucifer bowed.

Inclining her head in reply, Phyllida put her hand on Percy's sleeve and let him escort her through the open French doors and onto the terrace. Withdrawing her hand from his arm, she walked to the balustrade.

"Not there." Percy gestured along the terrace. "They can see."

Phyllida heaved a mental sigh and obliged, hoping Percy would cut line, tell her what he wanted, and let her return to the drawing room. If she got Robert alone, she might be able to salvage something from today. Robert might be meek, but he was also stultifyingly conservative, and as an almost solicitor, he should be law-abiding. Perhaps she could convince him-

"The thing is…" Percy halted outside the darkened library windows. Tugging down his waistcoat, he faced her.

"I've been watching you and thinking. You're what? Twenty-four?"

Leaning back against the balustrade, she stared at him. "Yes," she admitted. "Twenty-four. What of it?"

"What of it? Why, you should be married, of course! Ask m'mother-she'll tell you. You're all but on the shelf at twenty-four."

"Indeed?" Phyllida considered explaining that she was quite happy on her shelf. "Why should that concern you?"

"Of course it concerns me! I'm the head of the family-well, once your father shuffles off, I will be."

"I have a brother, remember?"

"Jonas." With a wave, Percy dismissed Jonas. "Thing is, you're here, unmarried, and there's no sense to it, not when there's an alternative."

Phyllida debated. Humoring Percy was probably the fastest way to bring this scene to an end. Folding her arms, she settled against the balustrade. "What alternative?"

Percy drew himself up and puffed out his chest. "You can marry me."

Shock held her speechless.

"I know it's a surprise-hadn't thought of it myself until I came down here and saw how it was. But now I can see it's the perfect solution." Percy started to pace. "Family duty and all that-offering for you is what I should do."

Phyllida straightened. "Percy, I'm perfectly comfortable here-"

"Precisely. That's the beauty of it. We can be married and you can stay down here in the country-daresay your father would prefer it. He wouldn't want to have to run the Grange without you. On the other hand, / don't need a hostess. I've never had one." He nodded. "I'll be perfectly happy rattling 'round London on my own."

"I can quite see that. Let's see if I fully understand your proposal." Her terse accents had Percy tensing. "Are you, by any chance, currently at point-non-plus?"

Stony-faced, Percy glared at her.

Phyllida waited.

"I might, at present, have outrun the constable a trifle, but it's merely a temporary setback. Nothing serious."

"Nevertheless. Now, let's see… you came into your inheritance from your father some years ago and you have no further expectation from our side of the family."

"Not with Grandmother making you her beneficiary and Aunt Esmeralda leaving her blunt to you and Jonas."

"Quite. And, of course, when Huddlesford dies, his estate will pass to Frederick." Phyllida fixed her gaze on Percy's now petulant face. "Which means that beyond any inheritance from your mother, who everyone knows enjoys the best of health, there's no pot of gold waiting just over your horizon." She paused. "Am I right?"

"You know you're right, damn you."

"And am I also right in thinking that the cent-per-cents will no longer advance you funds-not unless you can show them some evidence of further expectations-like a wife with various inheritances attached?"

Percy glowered. "That's all very well, but you're straying from the point."

"Oh, no! The point is you've run aground, and you're looking to me to tug you out of the mire."

"And so you should!" Face mottled, fists clenched, Percy stepped close. "If I'm prepared to marry you out of family duty, you should be pleased to marry me and resurrect my fortunes."

Phyllida shut her lips on an unladylike utterance. She gave Percy back stare for glare. "I will not marry you-there's absolutely no reason that I should."

"Reason?" Percy's features contorted. "Reason? I'll give you reason."

He grabbed her, clearly intending to kiss her. Phyllida jerked back and wrestled half out of his hold. She'd never been afraid of Percy; he was three years older, but she'd run rings around him from her earliest years-she'd grown accustomed to treating him with contempt.

To her shock, he was much stronger than she'd realized. She struggled, but couldn't break his hold. With a growl, he hauled her back into his arms, cruelly pressing her back into the balustrade, trying to force her face to his-

Suddenly he was gone, literally plucked off her.

Phyllida collapsed against the balustrade, dragging in air, one hand at her heaving breast. She stared at Percy, dangling, choking, at the end of one long, blue-suited arm.

"Is there a pond or lake closer than the duck pond? I believe your cousin needs to cool off."

Tracking along his arm, Phyllida located Lucifer's face in the dimness. Then she looked back at Percy, feet still swinging helplessly four inches clear of the flagstones. His face was turning purple. "Umm-no."

Lucifer's lip curled. He shook Percy, then flung him away-he landed with an "Ooof!" and a clatter of limbs. He lay wheezing on the flags, shaking his head weakly, not daring to look up.

Reluctantly accepting that that was the worst he could do, Lucifer slammed a door on the chaos of emotions whirling inside him and looked at Phyllida. She was still breathing rapidly, but her color, as far as he could judge in the poor light, was acceptable. Her gown and hair were still neat-he'd been in time to spare her that much of the ordeal. He resettled his coat and cuffs, then offered her his arm. "I suggest we return before anyone else misses you."

Looking up at him, she swallowed, then nodded. "Thank you." Placing her hand on his arm, she straightened, stiffening her spine and lifting her head. Her mask of calm composure slid into place, hiding her shock-the sudden comprehension of her physical vulnerability-that had, until that moment, sat naked on her face.

It was not a look he had ever liked seeing on any woman's face. He would have given a great deal to have saved her from the realization entirely. She shouldn't need to know that men could physically harm her. Her physical safety, here in her home, in and around the village, was something she'd taken for granted all her life. Percy had violated the "comfort" she had alluded to-the sense of security she enjoyed in this place.

As for Percy's so elegant proposal, just the thought of it made Lucifer see red. Grimly clinging to his own mask of calm indifference, he steered Phyllida along the terrace. They reached the French doors and she stepped into the light. He let his gaze slide over her, from her pale, hauntingly lovely face, over the slender frame and feminine curves concealed beneath lavender silk, down to the tips of her satin slippers. Other than her breathing, still too shallow, there was no overt evidence of any distress.

Chest tightening, he looked into her eyes. They were shuttered, all emotions locked away.

As he handed her over the threshold, then followed, Lucifer wondered if it was too late to slip out again and thrash Percy to within an inch of his life.