All About Love

Chapter 9

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Late the next morning, Lucifer tramped through the wood behind the Manor and tried not to think about the previous day. He'd told Phyllida the truth; they'd had to go back, to retreat. He'd gone charging into unchartered terrain, far too fast for her, and much too fast for him.

Thank God for storms.

He'd started today with breakfast at a table too empty for his liking. He'd never lived alone; the solitary life did not suit him. He'd repaired to the library and started sorting through Horatio's desk. He'd spent two hours reading accumulated correspondence.

After that, he'd had to get out. Walking through the wood to explore the lay of his land all the way down to the Axe seemed a sensible, and sufficiently physical, exercise.

He felt like the energy of last night's storm was bottled up inside him.

The storm had brought rain; they'd gained Colyton in the teeth of a downpour. Although the sun was now out, the wood remained damp; the tang of rain-washed greenery rode the light breeze. He'd headed east from the rear of the stable block, leaving the lake on his left. The trees ahead thinned; he'd trudged for less than half a mile. Fifty paces more and he stood on the edge of a wide field, gently sloping down; beyond lay a lush meadow. Beyond that lay the Axe, a gray-blue ribbon glimmering in the sunshine.

He ambled down the sloping field. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye. He looked, then halted.

Phyllida was marching-no, storming-through his field. Her skirts frothed about her, whipped by the violence of her stride. Her gaze was fixed in front of her. Her dark hair gleamed. She held her poke bonnet in both hands.

She was mangling the bonnet, twisting it, hands clenched on the brim.

He stepped out to intercept her.

She didn't see him until he was almost upon her. She recoiled, eyes flaring, one hand rising to her breast. A squeak escaped her; it would have been a scream if she hadn't recognized him and smothered it. Gulping in a breath, she stared up at him through huge dark eyes.

"What's wrong?" He smothered an urge of his own-to haul her into his arms. "What happened?"

She dragged in another breath and looked at her bonnet. She was shaking. "Look!" She thrust her finger through a hole in the crown. "The ball just missed my head!"

Her tone made it clear she wasn't shaking with fear. She was shaking with fury. She whirled and looked back the way she'd come. "How dare they!" If both hands hadn't been clenched on the bonnet, she would probably have shaken her fist. "Stupid hunters!"

The words trembled; she bit them off and hiccupped.

Lucifer reached out and wrapped his hand around one of hers, tugging until she released the bonnet. He enveloped her small hand in his and drew her to face him.

Her expression was blank, not calm and serene but blank, as if she couldn't maintain her usual mask but was fighting not to let her feelings show. Her eyes, wide and dark, were turbulent, awash with emotions. Fear was there, very real; she was using her fury to counter it.

He drew her nearer still, until she stood close enough to feel his heat and the shield of his physical presence. She was wound tight, her control so brittlely fragile he didn't want to risk even putting an arm around her; she wouldn't thank him if she broke. "Where did it happen?"

She dropped her gaze to his chest, drew a tight breath, then gestured with her bonnet. "Back there. Two fields back." After a moment, she added, "I was returning from visiting old Mrs. Dewbridge-I go there every Friday."

A chill touched his spine. "Every Friday morning?"

She nodded.

His grip on her hand tightened; he forced himself to relax it. He looped her arm through his. "I want you to show me where."

He turned her back along the track, an old right-of-way. She resisted. "It's no use-they won't still be there."

"I know." He kept his tone calm, even; that wasn't how he felt, but it was what she needed. "I just want you to show me where you were. We won't go any further."

She hesitated, then nodded. "All right."

He guided her along and helped her over the stile. A sliver of blue fabric was caught in the crossbar where she'd ripped her gown in her haste.

Despite her fury, she'd been very frightened.

She still was.

They reached the boundary of the next field and she stopped. "I was there." She waved with her ruined bonnet. "Right in the middle of the field."

Lucifer held her hand and looked, gauging distances. "Can I have your bonnet?"

She handed it to him; he took it and raised it-there were two holes punched through the crown. Without a word, he handed it back. His face felt like stone. She'd glanced down at the critical moment; the ball had entered through the back of the bonnet just below the crown seam, then exited through the bonnet's top, on the other side of the seam. "Let me check your head."

"I didn't get hit," she grumbled, but she let him look.

Her hair lay like mahogany silk, sleek and undisturbed-no wound. He imagined the way her bonnet would sit, then touched his fingers to her hair. Grit, very fine, came away on the pads of his fingers. He sniffed them. Powder-the bullet had come that close.

He looked back at the field. The path didn't run directly across but angled away toward the river. "Did you hear anything? Glimpse anyone?"

"No, but…" She lifted her head. "I ran. Silly, I know, but I just did."

Running might have saved her life. He said nothing, just drew a breath and held it until his violent reaction faded. She'd been walking this way; the only possible place of concealment was a copse on the far side of the field.

"I'll walk with you to the Grange."

The glance she shot him said she felt she should protest. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she inclined her head and acquiesced.

Sir Jasper was out when they reached the Grange. Lucifer delivered Phyllida into Gladys's hands, making sure, despite Phyllida's dismissive remarks, that Gladys understood that her mistress had had a severe shock.

He left with Phyllida glaring at him; he didn't care. She was safe.

He strode back to the Manor via the wood, and was pleased to find Dodswell had arrived with the rest of his horses. Dodswell had paced the string well; they had enough in reserve to go for a quick gallop.

Taking Dodswell with him, he rode back to the copse. Dismounting at the edge of the field, they tethered their mounts while he told Doswell what they were looking for.

They found it close by one side of the copse, the side screened from the walking track.

"Just the one horse." Dodswell examined the hoofprints in the rain-softened earth. "Nice, clean front shoes."

Lucifer stared at the ground farther back. "I can't find any impressions of the back hooves."

"Nan. That turf there's too thick, more's the pity."

Grimly, Lucifer nodded at the hoofprints they had found. "What do you make of them?"

"Decently looked-after horse, fresh shoes, no nicks or cracks, well-filed hooves."

"A gentleman's horse."

"A horse from a gentleman's stable, anyway." Dodswell studied Lucifer's face. "Why are we interested?"

Briefly, Lucifer told him of the horse that had stood at the back of the Manor's shrubbery. Told him who had a hole in her bonnet. He didn't tell him why.

"Wasn't no hunter. What would they be shooting at? No quail or skeet yet, and they'd be too far from the wood for pigeons. Rabbits won't be out at present." Grim-faced, Dodswell scanned the area. "Nothing here to shoot at."

Only one female given to solitary walks and addicted to doing good deeds by a regular schedule. Lucifer looked at the hoofprints and tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. "Let's get back. We've learned all we can here."

Bristleford was waiting when he walked into the front hall.

"Mr. Coombe has called, sir. I put him in the library."

"Thank you, Bristleford." Lucifer walked straight to the library door and opened it. Silas Coombe jumped back from one of the bookshelves, his hand raised. Lucifer would have wagered Horatio's entire collection that Coombe had been fingering the gold-encrusted spines. Face impassive, he nodded, shut the door, and stalked to the desk. "Gold leaf doesn't wear all that well-but then, you'd know that, wouldn't you."

He arched a brow at Coombe, who drew himself up and tugged at his waistcoat; its black-and-white horizontal stripes made him appear more rotund than he was.

"Oh, quite. Quite! I was just admiring the tooling." He approached the desk.

Waving him to a chair, Lucifer sank into the one behind the desk. "Now-to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Coombe sat, making a great show of settling his coattails. Then he looked at Lucifer. "Naturally, I feel Horatio's loss keenly. I daresay I'm one of the few hereabouts who truly appreciated his greatness."

A wave indicated the room about them; Lucifer was left in no doubt that in Coombe's eyes, Horatio's greatness had resided in his possessions. Coombe's gaze drifted along the shelves. "It must be quite puzzling to you that someone would spend his life gathering all these musty tomes. Such a fantastic number of them."

Lucifer kept his expression impassive. He'd told only Sir Jasper and Phyllida of his interest in collecting; clearly, neither had talked.

"Now, it may seem odd to you, but I've an interest in books myself, as you might have heard around the village. I'm viewed as quite the eccentric because of it, y'know."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, oh, yes. Now, to come to my point, I realize you'll want to be rid of these-doubtless you'll start clearing them soon. They take up such a great space. All through the ground floor and even, I daresay, abovestairs?"

Lucifer pretended not to hear the question.

"Yes, well." Coombe shifted, tugging at his coat. "That's where I believe I could help you."

He sat back and said nothing more. Lucifer was forced to ask, "How?"

Coombe leaned forward like a well-rehearsed puppet. "Oh, I couldn't take them all, of course! Dear me, no! But I would like to add just a few of Horatio's books to my collection." He brightened. "In memorium, you might say. I'm sure Horatio would have wanted it that way."

Smiling, Coombe sat back again. "I'll just come and take a look at the books as you're packing them-I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"You won't." Lucifer tried to imagine Coombe with a knife in his hand. The picture wasn't convincing. If there was any man in the village liable to swoon at the sight of blood, he would have bet it was Coombe. Still, he hadn't been in church last Sunday. "I haven't thought about selling the books, but if I do, I'll probably call in an agent from London."

A frown creased Coombe's brow. "I hope that you'll agree, when the time comes, to grant me first refusal?"

Lucifer shrugged. "I'll have to see how things fall out. Some agents may not take the commission if they believe the juiciest plums have already been picked."

"Well, my word!" Coombe puffed like an agitated hen. "I must say, I think Horatio would have wanted me to have some of his gems."

"Is that so?" His dry tone had Coombe deflating. He held the man's gaze. "Unfortunately for you, Horatio is no longer here. I am." He rose and tugged the bellpull, then looked at Coombe. "If there's nothing else, I've a considerable amount of business awaiting my attention."

The door opened; Lucifer glanced up. "Ah, Bristleford-Mr. Coombe is leaving."

Coombe got to his feet, face mottling. But he drew himself up and bowed from the waist. "Good day, sir."

Lucifer inclined his head.

As Coombe neared the door, Lucifer signaled to Bristleford; Bristleford almost imperceptibly nodded, then ushered Coombe out and shut the door.

Lucifer was sorting correspondence when Bristleford returned.

"You wanted something, sir?"

"Send Covey to me."

"At once, sir."

Covey slipped into the room some minutes later. Lucifer sat back. "I've a job for you, Covey."

"Yes, sir?" Covey stopped before the desk, hands clasped before him.

Lucifer glanced at the bookshelves. "I want you to take a complete inventory of all Horatio's books."

"All of them?" Covey looked at the long, high bookshelves.

"Start in the drawing room, then in here, then in the other rooms. For every book I want the title, publisher, and date of publication, and I want you to check for inscriptions or page notes. If you find any notations, set those books aside and show them to me at the end of each day."

Covey squared his shoulders. "Indeed, sir." He was transparently pleased to be following orders again. "Shall I use a ledger for the list?"

Lucifer nodded. Collecting a fresh ledger and a pencil from a chest, Covey headed for the drawing room. Lucifer watched the door close; he sat back-leather squeaked.

The books he'd found misaligned in the drawing room-now he thought of it, they'd been tight in the shelf. They couldn't have accidentally slid forward.

Now Silas Coombe was requesting first dibs on Horatio's books. Could Coombe be the murderer?

Lucifer looked down at the pile of correspondence he'd stacked on the blotter. He had other questions, too, at present equally unanswerable.

What was it Horatio had wanted him to appraise?

And where on earth was it?

Late that evening, he stood looking out from his bedchamber window, watching the moonlight play over the common. He'd spent half the afternoon searching the house in the hope that something, some piece, would strike him as unfamiliar and unique enough to have been Horatio's mystery item. He'd learned the extent of his inheritance, but was no nearer to solving the mystery.

The house was a treasure trove, understated in its magnificence. Every piece had a history, had a value greater than its functional worth. Yet, as was common with many great collectors, Horatio's best items were used as they'd been designed to be used, not hidden away. So where was his mystery item? In fall view? Or hidden away in some other item designed to provide a hiding place?

That was a possibility. Lucifer made a mental note to check.

Identifying the mystery item-possibly the reason Horatio had been killed-was only one of his problems. The most pressing, the most critical, was learning why some man, riding a horse that might well have been the same horse that had waited in the shrubbery while Horatio was killed, had attempted to kill Phyllida.

Lucifer rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the knots that had been there since late afternoon, when he'd gone back to the Grange to speak with Sir Jasper.

And Phyllida, of course, but she hadn't been there.

Not in the library, not in the drawing room, not lying on her bed prostrate with shock. The damned woman had ordered out the carriage and gone to visit some other deserving soul. At least she hadn't walked.

Of course, she'd been the first to Sir Jasper with the story-her version had stressed that it had been some misguided hunter; she had clearly downplayed her fright.

He'd tried to correct those impressions, but had been severely handicapped by two things. First, as Sir Jasper did not know of Phyllida's presence in Horatio's drawing room, he therefore had no reason to suppose Horatio's killer would have any interest in her. Without telling Sir Jasper all, without exposing Phyllida, there was no point making the connection between the horses, and without that, his ability to invest the situation with suitable gravity was severely compromised.

The second obstacle was the fact that Sir Jasper had been well trained to accept everything his daughter told him, at least about herself. With all that against him, shaking Sir Jasper out of his complacency and into a sufficiently protective frame of mind had been beyond him. All he'd managed was to convey his own deep unease over the shooting, and over Phyllida's safety in general.

Sir Jasper had smiled too knowingly and assured him that Phyllida could take care of herself.

Not against a murderer. He'd held the words back, but only just.

He'd stridden back through the wood in something perilously close to a temper; the emotion had converted to a nagging disquiet by the time he'd reached the Manor.

Gazing out at the moonlit common, he felt decidedly grim. Tomorrow, he'd find her-

A figure crossed the lane and started up the common.

Lucifer stared. He knew what he was seeing, but his brain refused to take it in. "Damnation! What in Hades does she think she's doing?"

Swinging on his heel, he went to get an answer.

She was standing on the side porch, ledger in hand, when he reached the church.

Phyllida saw him emerge from the shadows, large, dark, and menacing, like a god not at all pleased with a disciple. She lifted her chin and fixed him with a warning glance; Mr. Filing stood beside her.

"Mr. Cynster!" Filing shut his ledger.

"It's all right," she reassured him. "Mr. Cynster knows all about the Company and how we operate."

"Oh, well, then." Reopening his ledger, Filing smiled at Lucifer. "It's quite a little enterprise."

"So I understand." Lucifer didn't return the curate's smile. He stalked past Filing, circled her, and halted on her other side, hands on his hips, doing an excellent imitation of a disapproving deity. "What are you doing?"

He'd bent his head so his words fell by her ear in an angry rumble. She didn't look up. "I'm checking the goods against the bill of lading-see?" She demonstrated as Hugey lumbered up with a box. "Put that to the left of the Mellows' sarcophagus."

Hugey nodded circumspectly to the looming menace beside her and headed into the church.

Oscar took his place, eyeing Lucifer more directly. She felt forced to introduce them. Oscar bobbed his head, his arms locked around a small tun.

Lucifer nodded. "You're Thompson's brother, I hear."

"Aye, that be right." Oscar grinned, pleased to have been known. "Hear tell you've decided to make Colyton your home."

"Yes. I don't plan to leave."

Bent over her ledger, Phyllida pretended not to hear. Oscar shuffled on to be replaced by Marsh. He coughed and she had to introduce him, too. Before the night's cargo was stored, all the men had been introduced to Lucifer; he'd been accepted by them all far too easily for her liking.

She glanced at him as she headed for the crypt-and had to grudgingly admit that he was a commanding figure, especially in the shadowy night. Like his namesake, dark and forbidding, he followed her down the stone stairs.

Nose elevated to a telling angle, she pointedly settled to her accounts. He hovered for a moment, then made his way to where Mr. Filing was shifting boxes. She heard him offer to help, heard Filing's ready acceptance. Boxes scraped on stone; she concentrated on her figures.

Finally shutting the ledger, she stretched her back; only then did she realize Lucifer and Filing had finished moving boxes long before. Turning, she saw them leaning against a monument, talking earnestly. Filing was facing away from her; Lucifer's voice was too low for her to hear.

Quickly clearing her "desk," she went to join them.

Lucifer watched her approach. "So, other than Sir Jasper and Jonas, Basil Smollet and Pommeroy Fortemain, the bulk of the males were not at church."

Filing nodded. "Sir Cedric is an irregular attendee, as is Henry Grisby. The ladies I can count on"-he smiled at Phyllida-"but I'm afraid the males of the parish are rather more recalcitrant."

"Inconvenient, in this case."

Phyllida looked at Filing. "Indeed. I've entered everything. All is in order, so I'll bid you a good night."

"And a good night to you, my dear."

Filing bowed. Phyllida smiled and turned away.

Lucifer straightened. "I'll walk you to the Grange."

She wasn't the least bit surprised to hear that. She inclined her head and started up the stairs. "If you wish."

She led the way out of the church and onto the common. He lengthened his stride until he was pacing beside her, almost shoulder to shoulder. Her skin prickled; awareness rushed over her and left all her nerves standing on end.

Their mad dash from the cliffs to Colyton-a careening drive-had left no time, let alone breath, for embarrassment or consciousness, but once she'd regained her bedchamber, consciousness had swamped her. She'd been sure she could not possibly meet his eyes again-look at his lips again-not without blushing so fierily everyone would guess why. She'd almost made up her mind to avoid him-certainly to avoid his arms.

Then someone had shot at her and he'd arrived-and she'd wanted nothing more than to fling herself into his arms and feel safe. The urge had been so strong she'd quivered with it; only by a supreme effort had she quelled it.

It was utter nonsense to feel so-to feel that the only place she would truly feel safe was in his arms. Dangerous, too, when she knew his interest in her was transient. Once she told him what she knew, he would have no reason to seduce her.

She'd spent the afternoon lecturing herself, pointing out that she'd survived perfectly well until now, that she would still be safe in the village. All she needed to do was exercise a little extra caution and all would be well. She'd find Mary Anne's letters, tell Lucifer everything, then they'd unmask the murderer and life could go on as it had before.

Except that Lucifer would be living in the village. He wasn't going to leave. She wouldn't be able to avoid him.

There was only one solution-to behave with her usual confidence and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened on the cliff. Pretend he didn't affect her at all.

Not too easy when he was glowering at her.

"You can't possibly be so witless as to believe that it was some benighted huntsman who shot at you."

"You can't argue that it's not a possibility."

"It became much less of a possibility when we found hoofprints, just like those behind the Manor's shrubbery, beside the copse in that field."

Her stride faltered; she slowed. "Someone rode there… it could still have been a huntsman."

"There was nothing to hunt in the field."

Except her. A cold hand gripped her nape; icy fingers trailed her spine. Phyllida suppressed a shiver. She continued walking. Her mind darted, sifting, rearranging the known facts in light of that new one.

She'd almost convinced herself it had been a careless hunter-despite her instinctive fear, there'd been no logical reason to think otherwise. Now… could the murderer be trying to kill her?

Why? She'd seen the hat, true, but it was just a brown hat-she'd know it again if she saw it, but she couldn't recall seeing it before. She'd kept her eyes peeled, but she hadn't sighted it again. In fact, until they'd confirmed otherwise, she'd assumed some outsider must have ridden in and stabbed Horatio. That no longer seemed likely. If Lucifer was correct and the same horse that had been tethered by the shrubbery on Sunday had been by the copse this morning, then she could only agree with him.

The murderer was a local and had tried to kill her.

He must think she could identify him, but surely not because of the hat? He'd have burned it by now, and as she hadn't said anything, it must be obvious she hadn't recognized it. Was there something else she'd seen?

Frowning, she walked on.

A disgusted sound came from beside her. She felt Lucifer's gaze on her face and swiftly banished her frown.

"I should tell your father of your connection with the murder."

She rounded on him. "You haven't?"

He scowled at her. "No-but I should. I will, if that's the only way to ensure you remain safe."

She breathed easily again. "I'll take care."

"Take care? Just look at you! Traipsing about in the dead of night-alone!"

"But no one knows I'm out here."

"Except all those involved."

She snorted softly. "None of them is the murderer and you know it."

A charged silence ensued.

"Are you going to tell me that no one ever notices the light shining from the church every few nights?"

"Of course they notice-they think it's smugglers."

"So everyone knows you're there."

"No! No one even imagines I'm there-I'm a woman, remember?"

That shut him up. Only for a moment. "Believe me, that's one thing I'm highly unlikely to forget."

She tripped. He caught her arm, hauling her up, swinging her to him. She steadied, facing diagonally down the common. "Good Lord!" She stared. "A light just winked in your drawing room."

They both froze, staring down at the Manor. All was dark, then a pinprick of light flashed again. Before they could blink, a faint glow suffused the windows of the drawing room. A lamp had been lit and turned low.

Phyllida sucked in a breath. "It must be the murderer!"

"Stay here!"

Releasing her, Lucifer plunged down the slope.

"Hah!" Phyllida headed after him, in his wake, trusting that if there was a place to stumble, he'd find it first.

They skirted the duck pond, then picked their way across the lane, careful to avoid loose stones. Gaining the cottages' front fences, they hugged the shadows, ducking low as they rushed along the Manor's garden wall. Lucifer reached the gate before her; he stood and swung it open-

It creaked.

The sound seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

Lucifer flung himself up the path, gravel crunching under his feet. Phyllida followed at his heels.

The light in the drawing room abruptly died.

They skidded up against the front door, Lucifer juggling a set of unfamiliar keys. From within came the sound of footsteps fleeing across the tiles. Lucifer stopped, lifted his head, listened…

He swore and shoved the keys back in his pocket. He focused on her. "Dammit! Stay here!" He turned and charged along the front of the house.

Phyllida followed.

Lucifer rounded the corner and stopped; Phyllida cannoned into him. Steadying herself against his back, hands clutching his coat, she peered around his shoulder-

And caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure at the edge of her vision. "There!" She pointed.

The moon sailed free as the man fled across a stretch of open lawn. He was heading for the shrubbery.

"Stay here!" Lucifer took off after him.

Phyllida hesitated. There were only two other exits from the shrubbery-one to the lake, one… She looked at the entrance to the narrow path beside the lane. Dragging in a quick breath, she raced for it.

It was the fact that she wasn't following him that made Lucifer glance back. At first, he couldn't see her-then he did; she was a shadow streaking across the stretch of lawn by the main gates. His heart stopped.

"No!" he roared. "Come back!"

She dove into the dark entrance of the path.

Swearing violently, he swerved and headed after her.

He plunged along the path. It twisted and turned, a tunnel whose walls were impenetrable black, whose ceiling was the night sky obscured by dark branches. He could barely see the ground beneath his pounding feet. Branches grabbed at his coat; he pressed on at full tilt.

Phyllida was fast-faster than he'd expected-unencumbered as she was by skirts. She was still ahead of him, but he thought he could hear her footfalls over his own and the pounding in his ears.

The pertinent question was not how fast she was, but how fast the murderer was. And whether he was armed or not.

Would they reach the end of the shrubbery in time?

Would he catch Phyllida before she ran headlong into the murderer's arms?

Then he rounded a bend and saw her; exerting every last ounce of strength, he forged ahead. He caught up with her where the shrubbery hedges ended; shoulder to shoulder, they burst into the clearing beyond.

The mocking thud of retreating hooves greeted them.

They halted, sagged. Chest heaving, hands on his hips, Lucifer looked at Phyllida. Half bent over, hands on her knees, she puffed and puffed.

He waited, then asked, "Did you recognize him?"

She shook her head, then straightened. "I barely glimpsed him at all."

They'd been too late to even catch a glimpse of the horse. Beneath his breath, Lucifer swore. He scowled at Phyllida, then brusquely gestured back up the path. He'd give her his opinion of her behavior later-after he'd caught his breath.

They retraced their steps. At the end of the path, they emerged onto the lawn. Phyllida looked ahead, sucked in a breath, and stepped back.

Lucifer halted. Dodswell and Hemmings were prowling the lawn. Inwardly sighing, he murmured, "Stay here." He began to walk forward, then paused and added, "You don't want to know what I'll do if you are not in that precise spot when I get back."

He thought he heard a haughty sniff, but he didn't look back. Pushing into a lope, he crossed the lawn, waving when Dodswell saw him.

"An intruder-I gave chase but lost him." He waited until Hemmings came up, then said, "I'm going to prowl around a bit more. You can check through the house, see how he got in and out, then lock up. I've got my keys-we can compare notes in the morning."

Both Hemmings and Dodswell were in their nightshirts; they nodded and started toward the house.

Lucifer waited until they'd gone indoors, then turned and headed back to the path.