All About Love

Chapter 7

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Late the next morning, Lucifer walked into the front corner bedchamber at the Manor and looked around. His brushes were on the dresser. If he opened the wardrobe, he would, he was sure, find his coats neatly hanging. Covey had been busy.

He'd breakfasted at the Grange with Sir Jasper and Jonas; Phyllida, he assumed, had still been abed. Or perhaps, after last night, she'd decided to avoid meeting him quite so soon. If so, he was grateful. Taking leave of his host, he'd walked through the woods to the Manor to take up the reins Horatio had willed him.

After speaking with Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses, assuring them that he would, indeed, be residing permanently at the Manor and that he was happy to have them continue in their present positions, he'd allowed himself to be shown around the house and had chosen this room as his.

Leaving Mrs. Hemmings and Covey to organize and fuss-which had reassured them as no words could-he'd settled in the library to write letters. One to his parents, one to Devil, one to Montague, and a summons to Dodswell to join him here. He didn't know where Gabriel and Alathea were, so he couldn't write to them. Had it really been only four days since their wedding? It felt like weeks.

Leaving the letters for Covey to take to the Red Bells for collection, he'd wandered up here.

He'd chosen this room because of the windows, the light. The room Horatio had occupied, similarly large but at the back, was shady and quiet.

Here, the front windows looked over the flower garden, the drive, and the gates to the lane, while the side windows gave views of the shrubbery, the lawns, and the lake. Between the side windows sat a large four-poster bed invitingly arrayed with plump pillows and a rich red-and-gold tapestry bedspread. Curtains of the same fabric were gathered at the four corners and tied back with tasseled gold cords.

All the furniture gleamed; the faint scent of lemon polish hung in the air.

Walking to the window facing the common, Lucifer gazed out, mentally assembling a plan, one that didn't involve pressuring Phyllida Tallent into telling him all she knew. She could come to trust him of her own accord; he refused to seduce her into it.

Shaking aside all memories of last night, including the hours during which he'd been unable to sleep, he focused on the lane. He recalled driving into the village, halting, and looking around… he'd seen no horse or carriage, no one on foot… How had the murderer left the scene?

"If by horse…" Crossing to the side window, he studied the shrubbery.

Two minutes later, he was striding across the side lawn. The shrubbery entrance was wide but shaggy; inside, the hedges were overgrown. Making a mental note to speak to Hemmings about hiring more help for the grounds, Lucifer pressed on along a path leading, he hoped, to the lane.

He discovered an archway in the hedge running parallel to the lane. Pushing through, he found himself on a narrow path winding between the shrubbery hedge and the hedge bordering the lane. Topping him by more than a foot, both hedges were so poorly tended that arching new growth met and tangled overhead. Even though the path was wide enough to walk freely, when he'd stopped in his curricle only yards farther along the lane, he hadn't had any inkling this path was here-it had appeared that the shrubbery hedge and the lane hedge were one and the same.

Presumably the path started by the Manor's drive. Turning, Lucifer paced in the other direction.

He found what he'd suspected he might just beyond the shrubbery. The side and back shrubbery hedges met in a corner; a grassy area wide enough to accommodate a horse lay between the back of the shrubbery and a briar-filled ditch marking the edge of a paddock. Hard by the lane, the ditch closed over and the path led on, hugging the lane hedge to swing out of sight around a bend.

Turning his attention to the grassy area, he looked, then squatted and parted the grass to study the impressions in the earth beneath.

A horse had stood there, not long ago. He didn't think it had rained since Sunday. As the grass sprang back, he saw that some tufts had been chomped. So-a horse had stood there recently, for at least a little while. Why?

There seemed only one likely answer.

Lucifer rose and continued along the path. He was out of sight of the shrubbery when he came upon a place where the lane hedge had partly died. There was a gap, wide enough for a horse to push through.

Twigs were snapped on both sides of the gap. He twisted one free and studied it. It had broken, not this morning, not even yesterday, but not long ago.

From the other side of the hedge came a rustle of skirts, a quick, light step. Lucifer looked up. His senses prickled.

The steps halted. A small hand appeared, fingers extended to touch a broken twig.

The owner of the hand stepped into the gap.

She gasped and nearly stepped back when she saw him.

Lucifer stared at her.

Phyllida stared back.

For one wild moment, her consciousness of their kiss in the night flared in her eyes; he felt the same awareness tug, hot and strong, in his gut. Then she blinked and looked down-at the twig he still held in his fingers. Her gaze swung up to his face. "What have you found?"

Sharing would make her trust him sooner. He glanced back down the path. "I think a horse was ridden through here and left waiting at the back of the shrubbery."

She pressed into the gap, craning to see; the curve of the lane prevented that. "The back of the shrubbery?"

"There's a clearing there."

"Show me." She began to push through the hedge. Branches grabbed at soft curves protected only by her delicate blue gown.

"No!" He waved her back. "Use your parasol as a shield."

She looked at him inquiringly. He showed her how; holding the open parasol before her, she maneuvered through the hedge without sustaining any serious damage. Shaking out her skirts, she raised the parasol again. "Thank you."

He said nothing but waved her down the path; it wasn't his pleasure-he wasn't at all sure he wanted her this close, alone and private again. He had to keep reminding his rakish senses that she was more innocent than her behavior painted her. Not an easy task when he could all too clearly remember the sensations of her lips on his, her tongue… He shook his head. "The clearing's beyond those briars."

She stopped at the spot. He hunkered down and showed her what he'd found, the clear impressions made by front hooves neatly shod.

"Can you tell anything from the hoofprints?"

He shook his head and stood. "The back hooves were on harder soil, and the horse was here long enough to shift about a good deal. There's no imprint with any distinctive mark." He frowned, still looking down. "But the shoes are good quality-clean, good lines."

"So it's unlikely to be a workhorse, a plow horse…"

"No, but any decent mount would fit the bill." He moved back, onto the path. Phyllida joined him. Without further words, they strolled toward the Manor.

Temptation whispered; Lucifer ignored it. He glanced at her; there was no evidence of awareness in her face-but then, there rarely was. Her face was a mask; only her eyes would tell him what she was feeling, and she was being careful not to meet his gaze. Being very careful not to touch him as they strolled.

He looked forward and drew in a breath. "Let's hypothesize that on Sunday morning, the murderer rode here, pushed through the hedge, and left his horse waiting at the back of the shrubbery while he went on to the Manor. Where could he have ridden from?"

"You mean from which towns?"

He nodded.

"Lyme Regis is close, about six miles, but the route is by the coast, so if they'd come from there, they would have ridden through the village." She glanced at him. "Old Mrs. Ottery lives in the cottage by the Bells. She's chair-bound and spends her Sunday mornings looking out over the common. She swears no one rode through the village."

Lucifer eyed her calm profile. "If not Lyme Regis, where else?"

"Axminster is the closest town, but it's not very large."

"I passed through it on my way here. Chard is further, but might be worth considering. I saw a few stables there."

"Chard is the most likely place where someone from outside would hire a horse to ride here. The mail coaches to Exeter stop there."

"Very well. Let's consider nearer at hand. Who rides in from this end of the village?"

She glanced at him; a frown filled her eyes. "The households of Dottswood and Highgate-their lane joins the main lane back by the first cottages."

Lucifer remembered the lane beside the ridge. "Who else commonly rides into the village?"

She hesitated. They'd passed the archway into the shrubbery; the end of the path lay just ahead. "Most of the men living outside the immediate village ride in. Papa and Jonas rarely ride in the village. Silas Coombe and Mr. Filing I've never known to ride at all. All the rest, even Cedric, would normally ride in."

Stepping through the ragged entrance to the path, she halted on the lawn. He followed, glancing around. They were some yards from the main gates, the hedge bordering the lane still to their immediate right. The gravel path leading to the front door started twenty paces away.

He returned his gaze to Phyllida. "Could a man from any of the other estates-not Dottswood or Highgate-easily circle the village and reach the lane at that spot?"

"Yes. Bridle paths link all the lanes, although you'd have to be a local to know them."

No one wanted to think the murderer was a local, yet… "Ignoring that gap in the hedge, could the horse have been ridden to that clearing from the other direction?"

"By coming up the field?" When he nodded, she shook her head. "That field-in fact, all your fields-runs down to the river. The Axe. It's not far and it's too deep to ride across without getting thoroughly wet. To come along this side of the river, they'd have to cross the Grange fields first-a lot of fields, most bordered with briar ditches."

Lucifer looked across the drive to the colorful blooms nodding in Horatio's garden. "So we're looking for some outsider who hired a horse, most likely in Chard, and rode in, then out, or it could have been any of the local gentlemen."

"Bar Papa, Jonas, Mr. Filing, and Silas Coombe. And the other gentlemen who were at church, of course."

He'd forgotten. "Basil and Pommeroy. I haven't checked the others, but that should narrow the list."

Phyllida threw him a glance. "Don't count on it."

Lucifer grinned. He was about to twit her on the comment when the rumbling of a carriage reached them.

They glanced toward the lane, then looked at each other. Their gazes met, held…

Without a word, they stepped into the drive-into the open. Where anyone could see them and no one could suggest they'd been "private."

They were standing in the middle of the drive, facing the gate, when the carriage slowed and halted.

Lady Fortemain leaned over the side and beamed. "Mr. Cynster. Just who I was looking for!"

Lucifer quashed an urge to flee. With an easy smile, collecting Phyllida with a glance, he strolled to the barouche.

"I've just heard the wonderful news!" Lady Fortemain's eyes gleamed. "Now you've decided to remain among us and fill the void left by dear Horatio's passing, you must-positively you must-allow me to host an impromptu dinner to introduce you to your neighbors."

He'd been born in the country and lived among the ton; there was no need to ask how Lady Fortemain had heard.

She leaned forward, including Phyllida in her bright gaze. "Our summer ball is just over a week away-I'll send you a card, of course. But I thought, seeing as we're so very quiet hereabouts, that there would be no harm in holding a small dinner tonight."

"Tonight?"

"At seven-Ballyclose Manor. You can't miss it-just take the lane past the forge."

Lucifer hesitated for only an instant; such a gathering would provide excellent opportunities to further investigate his neighbors' activities last Sunday morning. He bowed to Lady Fortemain. "I'd be honored."

Delighted, her ladyship turned to Phyllida. "I'm just going to Dottswood and Highgate, dear, and then I'll be calling at the Grange. I'm expecting everyone to attend-your papa and brother, as well as dear Lady Huddlesford and her sons. And, of course, you, my dear Phyllida."

Phyllida smiled. To Lucifer, the gesture was superficial-mild, distant, it said nothing of her thoughts.

Her ladyship saw it otherwise; she beamed warmly at Phyllida. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me to Dottswood and Highgate, and thence to the Grange?"

Phyllida's smile didn't waver as she shook her head. "Thank you, but I must call on Mrs. Cobb."

Lady Fortemain sighed fondly. "Always so busy, dear. Well, I must leave you and spread the word." She tapped her coachman; she waved as the carriage jerked forward. "Until seven, Mr. Cynster!"

Lucifer raised his hand in salute; smiling, he watched the carriage rumble away. Then he turned to Phyllida, unsurprised to find that her smile had faded, leaving a frown investing her dark eyes.

"So why aren't you delighted?" He gestured to the flower garden; brows rising haughtily, she strolled beside him onto a secondary path that wound its way through burgeoning beds to the central fountain.

He waited-he had no intention of withdrawing the question. He wanted to know the answer.

After a moment, she pulled a face. He inwardly blinked-she rarely displayed her feelings so blatantly.

"Would you be delighted to know you were destined to spend the entire evening listening to a pompous windbag?"

"Which windbag is that?"

"Cedric, of course." They strolled on, she admiring the blooms, he, more covertly, admiring her. Her consciousness of their interlude the previous night was still there, but had faded, receded, as they'd talked. Stopping to examine a rose, she went on. "I told you Cedric wants to marry me-Lady Fortemain is determined that I should marry him. That alone would render this impromptu dinner less than appealing, but, of course, Pommeroy will be there, too, doing his best to be off-putting."

"Why off-putting?"

"Because he doesn't want Cedric to marry me."

"Pommeroy wants to marry you, too?"

She smiled. "No-it's simpler. Pommeroy doesn't want Cedric to marry at all. There's fifteen years between them-Pommeroy therefore has expectations that Cedric's long bachelorhood have fueled."

"Ah."

They wandered on through the garden; Lucifer said nothing more. Her tone whenever they touched on the subject of marriage grated, although why he, of all men, should feel compelled to defend the institution was difficult to comprehend. Or, more to the point, he didn't want to comprehend the reasons behind the impulse, to study his motives too closely. Yet the fact remained.

Courtesy of her self-centered suitors, she'd developed a cynical, not to say negative, view of marriage that seemed considerably more cynical and deeply entrenched than his own. He, at least, knew all marriages were not like those offered her. Did she? "When did your mother die?"

Halting by the fountain, she blinked at him. "When I was twelve. Why?"

He shrugged. "I just wondered."

She bent to sniff a burst of lavender spikes. Leaning one shoulder against the fountain's rim, he watched her.

After a moment, he said, "This garden…"

She glanced up at him, her face shaded by her parasol, her expression serene yet interested, eyes dark, unknown and unknowing…

That dark gaze caught him. She was aware of him, yet so… innocent of all else. All that she had a right to know, to experience-all she deserved to enjoy.

"I haven't any idea how to… manage it." He heard his words as if from a distance.

She smiled and straightened. He pushed away from the fountain.

Turning toward the gate, she gestured to the glorious displays on all sides. "It isn't that hard." Pausing beneath a delicate arch covered with rioting white roses, she looked back at him. Her smile curved her lips, still warmed her eyes. "Horatio learned how-I'm sure you could, too. If you truly wished to."

Lucifer halted beside her; for a long moment, he looked into her eyes. Her dark gaze was direct, open, honest-assured and confident and also so aware. A bare inch of air was all that separated his body from hers, nevertheless, she stood, a serene goddess as yet untouched, certain, not of his control, but hers. "If I were to ask, would you help me?"

His voice had deepened, his tone almost rough. Tilting her head, she studied his eyes. Her answer, when it came, was considered. "Yes. Of course." Smoothly, she turned away. "You have only to ask."

Lucifer stood beneath the arch watching her hips sway as she headed for the gate. Then he stirred and followed.

Lady Fortemain's dinner proved more interesting than Phyllida had expected, even if, for the most part, she was relegated to the status of mere observer. From the side of the Ballyclose drawing room to which she'd retreated to escape Cedric's patronizing possessiveness, she watched Lucifer move gracefully through the gathering.

At dinner, she'd been seated at Cedric's right at one end of the long table; Lucifer had been guest of honor at the other end, beside their hostess. He'd returned to the drawing room with the rest of the gentlemen a good half hour ago. Since then, he'd been on the prowl, indefatigably hunting, yet no one seemed defensive in the least.

He would pause beside a group of gentlemen and, with some question or comment, neatly cut his quarry from the pack. A few questions, a smile, perhaps a joke and a laugh; having got what he wanted, he'd let them return to the group and he'd move on, an easy smile, his elegantly charming air, masking his intent. Why they couldn't sense it, she did not know; even from across the room, his concentration reached her.

Then again, she knew what it felt like to be stalked by him, to be the focus of that intensely blue gaze. She hadn't expected to meet him that morning; throughout the interlude, she'd waited for him to pounce, to once again ask what she knew of the murder. She'd hoped he wouldn't, that he wouldn't mar the moment-the odd sense of ease, of shared purpose, that seemed to be growing between them. To her considerable surprise, he'd walked her to the garden gate, held it open, and let her escape with nothing more than a simple good-bye.

Perhaps he, too, hadn't wanted to disturb the closeness that had enveloped them in Horatio's garden. His garden now.

She watched him weave through the other guests. That sense of closeness puzzled and intrigued her. Lifting her head, she considered the other gentlemen-all her prospective suitors and the others from the village-all men she'd known most of her life; the exercise only emphasized the oddity. She'd known Lucifer for a handful of days, yet she felt more comfortable with him, less inhibited, infinitely freer to be herself. With him she could be open, could speak her mind without any mask, any concession to society. That he saw through her mask had certainly contributed to that, but it wasn't the whole explanation.

Jonas was the only other person she felt that comfortable with, yet not by the wildest stretch of her imagination could she equate the way she reacted to Lucifer with her all but nonreaction to her twin. Jonas was simply there, like some male version of herself. She never wasted a moment wondering what Jonas was thinking-she simply knew.

She also never worried about Jonas-he could take care of himself. Lucifer was similarly capable. The same could not be said of anyone else in the room. Perhaps it was that-that she considered Lucifer an equal-that made her feel so at ease with him?

Inwardly shaking her head, she watched him prowl the room. Sometimes she could tell what he was thinking; at other times-like in the garden this morning-the workings of his mind became a mystery, one she itched to solve. Regardless of the danger she knew that might entail.

Putting out a hand, Mrs. Farthingale stopped him. He paused, smiling easily, exchanged some glib quip that had her laughing, then smoothly moved on. As far as Phyllida could tell, his sights were set on Pommeroy.

She left him to it, turning to greet Basil as he strolled to her side.

"Well." Taking a position beside her, Basil scanned the room. "There are some who are now wishing they'd been more regular in their devotions."

"Oh?"

"I overheard Cedric speaking with Mr. Cynster-they were discussing estate management and Cedric mentioned he'd started using Sunday mornings to tackle his accounts."

"Cedric wasn't at church last Sunday?"

Basil shook his head. His gaze shifted to Lucifer. "I have to say, I'm quite impressed with Cynster. I suspect he's gathering information as to who might have killed Horatio. Thankless task, of course, but his devotion does him credit. Most would accept the inheritance and let be. Nothing to do with him, after all."

Phyllida viewed Lucifer with increasing appreciation. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't pursue the murderer, yet Basil was right. Most men would have shrugged and let be. Indeed, she suspected Basil would have shrugged and let be, and Basil was the most morally upright of her suitors.

At no time had she doubted Lucifer's resolve. He'd called Horatio friend and she'd known without question that he valued friendship highly. He was that sort of man-an honorable man.

Inwardly, she grimaced. She wasn't, to her mind, acting honorably at present-she was caught on the prongs of an honor-induced dilemma, damned if she did and damned if she didn't.

"Is Lady Huddlesford planning a long stay?"

Phyllida replied; conversing with Basil was always stultifying, given there was no chance of any challenging surprise. Mundane topics were Basil's specialty, but at least he was innocuous.

That changed when Cedric came charging up, much in the manner of a lowering bull. His short neck contributed to the unflattering image.

"I say, come and talk to Mama." Cedric grasped her elbow. "She's on the chaise"

Phyllida stood her ground despite his tug. "Did Lady Fortemain ask to speak with me?"

Cedric's face darkened. "No, but she's always pleased to speak with you."

"I daresay." Basil's expression turned as haughty as his sister's. "Miss Tallent, however, might prefer to converse with someone who actually wishes to converse with her."

Miss Tallent would prefer an empty room. Phyllida swallowed the words. "Cedric, what were you doing last Sunday morning?"

Cedric blinked at her. "Sunday? While Horatio was being murdered?"

"Yes." Phyllida waited. Cedric responded well to directness. Subtlety was entirely beyond him.

He glanced at Basil, then back at her. "I was doing the accounts." He paused, then added, "In the library."

"So you were in the library at Ballyclose all morning?"

He nodded, his gaze straying to Basil. "From before Mama left until after she got home."

Phyllida artfully sighed. "So you couldn't have seen anything."

"Seen what?"

"Why, whatever there was to be seen. The murderer must have slipped away somehow." She glanced at Basil. "You were in church." She looked from one to the other. "Of course, you do both hire laborers who might have been out and about-or their children. Papa would be very grateful for any information."

"I hadn't considered that." Basil drew himself up. "I'll ask around tomorrow."

"So will I," Cedric growled.

"If you'll excuse me, I must have a word with Mary Anne." Phyllida left Basil and Cedric scowling at each other. If any of their farm workers had seen anything useful, she could be assured they would learn of it and come to lay the information at her feet.

She'd glimpsed Mary Anne and definitely wanted to speak to her, but Mary Anne didn't want to be spoken to. Short of chasing her around the room, there was nothing Phyllida could do. Robert had returned to Exeter. Halting, she considered the crowd, wondering who else she might conscript. Would anything be gained by enlisting the ladies of the village?

"Miss Tallent. I've been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you."

Whirling, Phyllida came face-to-face with Henry Grisby. "Good evening, Mr. Grisby." She inwardly sighed; she'd managed to avoid him thus far.

Henry bowed. "My mother sends her greetings. She heard about the recipe for gooseberry tart that you gave the Misses Longdon. Mama wondered if you'd be so kind as to share the recipe with her."

"Of course." Phyllida added it to her mental list. Recipe for cough syrup for Mrs. Farthingale; speak to Betsy Miller, one of Cedric's tenants who Lady Fortemain believed was having difficulties; recipe for Mrs. Grisby; letters for Mary Anne; one murderer for Lucifer.

Henry tried to catch her eye. "My mother would be deeply honored if you would call at Dottswood."

Phyllida looked at him. Henry's eyes met hers, then slid away. "I don't think that would be appropriate, Henry." He would be deeply honored; Mrs. Grisby would not.

He regarded her challengingly. "You call at Ballyclose and Highgate."

"To visit with Lady Fortemain and old Mrs. Smollet, both of whom have known me from the cradle."

"My mother's lived here all your life, too."

"Yes, but…" Phyllida searched for a polite way to point out that Mrs. Grisby, at present, was not pleased with her. Mrs. Grisby, who rarely ventured beyond Dottswood Farm and therefore relied on Henry for her view of village life, was intractably opposed to Phyllida marrying Henry. Being Henry's mother, it had not occurred to her that Phyllida was of a similar mind. In the end, Phyllida simply looked Henry in the eye and said, "You know perfectly well your mother would not be pleased if I called."

"She would be pleased if you accepted my proposal."

Another lie. "Henry-"

"No-listen. You're twenty-four. It's a good age for a woman to marry-"

"My cousin informed me just yesterday that at twenty-four, I was firmly on the shelf." Percy might as well be useful for something.

Henry scowled. "He's got rocks in his head."

"The pertinent point you fail to grasp, Henry-you and Cedric and Basil, too-is that I intend to cling to my shelf for all I am worth. I like it there. I am not going to marry you or Cedric or Basil. If you could all regard me as an old maid, it would simplify matters considerably."

"That's nonsense."

Phyllida sighed. "Never mind. I'm prepared to wait you out."

"Ah, Mr. Grisby."

Phyllida turned to find Lucifer almost upon them. His dark blue eyes met hers; a rush of prickling warmth washed over her skin. Halting beside her, he looked at Grisby and smiled-like a leopard eyeing his next meal. "I understand," he purred, "that you've been agisting on some of the Manor's fields."

It was clear Henry would have preferred to scowl; instead, he nodded stiffly. "I keep part of my herd on some of the higher fields."

"The fields overlooking the river meadows? I see. Tell me, how often do you shift the herd?"

Despite Henry's resistance, Lucifer extracted the information that Henry's herds had been rotated last on Saturday; on Sunday, both Henry and his herdsman had worked in his barns. The questions were sufficiently oblique that Henry didn't recognize their intent.

He still glowered; he had not expressed any great joy at the news that Lucifer was to join their small community.

Henry's visual daggers bounced harmlessly off Lucifer's charm. He glanced at her. "I wonder, Miss Tallent, if I might avail myself of your understanding of the village. A small matter of traditions." He looked at Henry. "I'm sure Mr. Grisby will excuse us."

Left with no choice, Henry gave an exceedingly stiff bow and pressed her fingers too fervently. Phyllida tugged her hand free and placed it on Lucifer's sleeve. He led her away, strolling easily. She glanced up at him. "On what subject did you wish to ask my advice?"

He smiled down at her. "That was a ruse to whisk you away from Grisby."

Phyllida wondered if she should frown. "Why?"

He stopped before the French doors that opened to the terrace. "I thought you might be in need of some fresh air."

He was right; the night air outside was wonderfully balmy, warm against her skin. The terraces at Ballyclose were handsome and wide; they ran around three sides of the house. Lucifer and Phyllida strolled through the twilight.

"Are there many who were not at church last Sunday?" she asked.

"More than I'd expected. Coombe, Cedric, Appleby, Farthingale, and Grisby, and they're just the ones here tonight. If I included those not of the gentry, the list would be longer, but I'm concentrating on Horatio's peers."

"Because whoever it was struck from so close to him?"

"Precisely. More likely someone he regarded at least as an acquaintance."

"Why were you after Pommeroy? I thought he accompanied Lady Fortemain to church."

"He did. I wanted to ask if he'd spoken to Cedric or Appleby when he returned. It seems they were both out."

"Out?" Phyllida slowed. She looked at Lucifer.

He raised a brow. "What?"

Phyllida halted. "I suggested Cedric and Basil ask their farm workers if they'd seen anyone-meaning the murderer-about on Sunday morning."

"An excellent notion."

"Yes, but while discussing last Sunday, Cedric stated quite definitely that he'd been in the library all morning and was there when his mother returned."

Lucifer looked into her eyes, then shrugged. "Both Cedric and Pommeroy could be telling the truth. Cedric could have left after he heard his mother return, but before Pommeroy went looking for him."

Relieved, Phyllida nodded. "Yes, of course."

They started strolling again, then Lucifer asked, "What's the name of the head groom here?"

A knot of suspicion pulled tight in Phyllida's chest. But he was right-they had to be sure it wasn't Cedric. "Todd. He'd know if Cedric had taken a horse out."

"I'll speak to him-perhaps tomorrow."

Phyllida said nothing. The seriousness of the murder seemed to be growing. How terrible for the village if the murderer was one of them.

How horrible if that suspicion firmed, but they never learned who.

"You're very determined to find Horatio's murderer."

"Yes."

One word, no embellishments. It didn't need any. "Why?" She didn't look at him, but continued to stroll.

"You heard me explain it to your father."

"I know what you told Papa." She walked a few more paces before she said, "I don't think that's all your reason."

His gaze slid over her face, sharp, not amused. "You're an exceedingly persistent female."

"If your middle name is Temptation, then mine is Persistence."

He laughed; the sound tugged at something inside her.

"All right." He halted and looked down at her. She raised a brow at him, then turned to pace back toward the drawing room. He fell in beside her. "I'm not sure I can explain it simply. Not in a way that'll sound rational to you. But it's as if Horatio was mine-part of me-certainly under my protection, even if that wasn't actually so. His murder is as if someone has taken something from me by force." He paused, then went on. "My ancestors conquered this country-perhaps it's some primitive streak that hasn't fully died. But if anyone dared take one of theirs, vengeance, justice, would have been guaranteed."

After a moment, he glanced at her. "Does that make any sense?"

Phyllida arched a brow. "It makes perfect sense." His ancestors might have conquered the land, but hers had civilized it. Horatio's murder violated her code in precisely the same way it offended his. She understood his feelings perfectly-indeed, she shared them.

She halted. For a moment, she stared straight ahead, then she drew in a deep breath. "There's something I must tell you." She turned to him-

"There you are, Mr. Cynster!"

Jocasta Smollet swept up to them, flashing stiff silks and feathers. "We were all wondering where you'd disappeared to. So naughty of Phyllida to monopolize your time."

That last was said with open spite. Phyllida silently sighed. "We were about to return inside-"

"No, no! So much more pleasant out here, don't you agree, Miss Longdon?" Jocasta turned to the French doors as the Longdon sisters stepped through, followed by Mrs. Farthingale and Pommeroy. Others joined them, milling about, exclaiming at the pleasantness of the evening.

Phyllida shot a glance at Lucifer; he caught it. Later? was what his look said.

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded; it didn't really matter if she told him tonight or tomorrow.

She was threading through the guests, wondering where her father was, when someone grabbed her sleeve and unceremoniously tugged.

"Please, Phyllida, please! Say you've found them."

Phyllida turned, and watched Mary Anne's face crumble.

"You haven't, have you?"

Taking Mary Anne's arm, Phyllida drew her into the shadows by the house. "Why are you in such a panic? They're just letters. I know you've worked yourself into a pelter over them, but truly, nothing terrible will come of it even if someone else discovers them before I do."

Mary Anne swallowed. "You only say that because you don't know what's in them."

Phyllida opened her eyes wide and waited. She couldn't be sure, but she thought Mary Anne blushed.

"I… I can't tell you. I really truly can't. But"-she was suddenly talking so fast she tripped over her words-"I've had the most horrendous thought." She grabbed Phyllida's hands. "If Mr. Cynster finds them, he'll give them to Mr. Crabbs!"

"Why would he do that?"

"Mr. Crabbs is his solicitor-he knows him!"

"Yes, but-"

"And even if he only gives them to Papa, now Papa will show them to Mr. Crabbs-they met at the Grange last evening. You know Papa would do anything to stop Robert from marrying me!"

Phyllida couldn't argue with that, but… "I still don't see why-"

"If Mr. Crabbs reads the letters, he'll expel Robert from the firm! If Robert doesn't complete his registration, we'll never be able to get married!"

Phyllida started to get an inkling of what might be in the letters. She wished she could reassure Mary Anne that it really wasn't that serious-not compared to murder. Unfortunately, she wasn't sure herself just how damning the revelations might be-not to Mr. Crabbs.

Mary Anne tried to shake her. "You have to get the letters back!"

Phyllida focused on her face, on the huge eyes overflowing with so much panic it was evident even in the gloom. "All right. I will. But I haven't even seen the desk yet. It's not downstairs anywhere, so I'll have to wait for a time when the upper floors are clear."

Mary Anne drew back, making a heroic effort to reassemble her previous, subdued expression. "You won't tell anyone, will you? I don't think I could bear it if I couldn't marry Robert."

Phyllida hesitated; Mary Anne's eyes widened. Phyllida sighed. "I won't tell."

Mary Anne's lips lifted in a pathetically weak smile. "Thank you." She hugged Phyllida. "You're such a good friend."