All About Love c-6

by Stephanie Laurens

  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."

  Chapter 8

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  "What was it you wanted to tell me?" Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, perched beside him on his curricle's box seat. "When we were talking on the terrace last night."

  They were on the road to Chard, his blacks pacing eagerly, a picnic hamper in the boot. He'd called at the Grange midmorning and without much difficulty prevailed upon Phyllida to join him on his investigative excursion.

  He'd given her a few miles to broach the subject, but she hadn't.

  The breeze flicked her bonnet ribbons as she glanced his way, giving him the barest glimpse of her face. "The terrace?"

  Her tone suggested she couldn't recall the moment. "You said there was something I should know."