All About Love c-6

by Stephanie Laurens

  Phyllida was conscious that, just for a moment, Lucifer's attention drifted from her. She glanced at him; he was studying the guests.

  "Miss Smollet," he murmured, "seems to have a rather peculiar notion of what constitutes entertainment."

  Phyllida quietly humphed. She was saved from having to find some other distraction by Mr. Firman's return. He handed her her glass; to gain a moment, she introduced him to Lucifer, only to discover that Mr. Firman had been waiting to talk to Mr. Cynster all evening.

  Mr. Firman, it transpired, was the owner of a cattle stud.

  Phyllida learned that that was a subject on which Lucifer wished to extend his knowledge. Not only did Mr. Firman talk, but Lucifer listened and asked questions.

  The opportunity was too good to pass up. Phyllida edged away; Lucifer shot her a glance but was trapped in the ongoing discussion. Mr. Firman was not someone he wanted to offend.

  Phyllida gave her glass to a footman, then joined Robert Collins by the wall.

  He glanced at her-there was a painful intensity in his eyes that Phyllida didn't like to see. He pressed her hand. "Mary Anne told me about the letters." He looked across the room to where Mary Anne stood chatting with two young ladies. "How I wish I'd never urged her to write to me."

  The bitterness in his words had Phyllida frowning. "It's the letters I wanted to speak to you about."

  Robert's head whipped around, hope naked in his face. "You've found them?"

  "No. I'm sorry…"

  Robert sighed. "No-I'm sorry. I know you will and I'm grateful for your help. I've no right to press you." After a moment, he asked, "What did you want to know?"

  Phyllida took a deep breath. "I have to ask you this because it's important, and whenever I try to talk to Mary Anne on the subject, she becomes quite hysterical. But I need to know this, Robert-and if I don't get a sensible answer, I don't know that I can keep searching for those letters in secret. So tell me-what is it about them that makes them so dangerous to you and Mary Anne?"

  Robert stared at her, the image of a rabbit cornered. Then he swallowed and looked away. "I can't tell you-not in so many words."

  "Generalizations will do-I'll extrapolate."

  He fell silent; eventually he said, "Mary Anne and I have been meeting secretly for nearly a year. You know how long we've waited and…" He dragged in a breath. "Anyway, Mary Anne used to fill in the time between my visits by writing to me about our last meeting-about what we'd done and what we might do the next time-well, she wrote in a very detailed way." He cast Phyllida an anguished glance.

  She met it, blank-faced. After a moment, she said, her tone flat, "I think I understand, Robert."

  Thanks to Lucifer, she now had some inkling of what could transpire between a lady and a gentleman where desire was involved. And she had no doubt Mary Anne desired Robert-she always had. Phyllida cleared her throat.

  "I used to bring the letters with me to our next meeting and we'd try to… well…" Robert hauled in another breath and rushed on. "So you see, if Mr. Farthingale got hold of the letters, it would be very… bad. But if he showed them to Mr. Crabbs-if anyone showed them to Mr. Crabbs…"

  "Hmm." A vision of the starchily conservative, stern-faced solicitor flashed into Phyllida's mind.

  "I wouldn't get my registration, and then we'd never be able to marry." Robert looked at her, his plea in his eyes.

  She forced a reassuring smile. "We'll find them."

  Robert squeezed her hand. "I can't thank you enough-you're such a good friend."

  Phyllida took back her hand, and wished she could be a bad friend. But she couldn't. On top of that, she'd given her word. She turned from Robert-and found Lucifer almost upon her.

  She met his eyes. "No!"

  A violin sang-they both glanced toward the musicians. Then Phyllida looked back. She considered Lucifer, then stepped closer and flicked a hand against his chest. "Waltz with me."

  He looked at her, arrested. "Why?"

  "Because you might as well be useful and I don't want to waltz with anyone else."

  His arm closed around her and he steered her into the whirl. His eyes searched hers. "You're trying to distract me."

  "Perhaps." She was also trying to distract herself, and he was simply perfect for the task.

  How could Mary Anne have been so idiotic as to write such things down? Love-induced stupidity-that was the only reason Phyllida could imagine.

  The sun shone brightly, the air was fresh and clean as she strolled briskly down the common. Behind her, the Sunday-morning congregation was streaming home. Ten paces to her rear, Jem strode, her concession to male notions of feminine vulnerability. Her aunt and the rest of the females of the Grange were rolling home in the carriage, but she had elected to stroll back via the wood.

  And the Manor.

  All the Manor's household bar Lucifer had been in church, even the newcomer, his groom. Bristleford had informed her that Mr. Cynster had elected to watch over the house in light of the recent intrusion.

  Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.

  Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.

  From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He'd been deep in Horatio's ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He'd glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida's destination wasn't hard to guess.

  He'd waited in the hall-he didn't want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn't help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio's garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.

  She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness-a keen anticipation he could feel. He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.

  She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.

  She tilted her head, her eyes on his. "Good morning. Bristleford said you'd stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn't reappear?"

  "No. All was quiet."

  She waited, then said, "I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything-any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder."

  How much to tell her? "Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?"

  Her eyes widened to dark saucers. "Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!"

  "In that case, possibly."

  Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, "Well? What was it?"

  A moment passed before he answered, "An inscription in a book."

  So she had imagined. "What did it say?"

  "What did you see in Horatio's drawing room last Sunday?"

  Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. "You know I can't tell you-not yet."

  His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. "Because it concerns someone else?"

  She pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Yes."

  They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio's garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.

  Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn't left hers. "Someday I hope you'll trust me."

  He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward
the front door.

  Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. "Walk back through the village. Until the murderer's caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you."

  He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.

  Phyllida watched until he'd disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off-through the village.

  Of course she trusted him-he knew she did! Phyllida slapped the brass vase she'd just emptied down on the vestry table, then swept back into the nave. She headed for the font.

  The flowers she'd arranged on Saturday had only just lasted through Sunday. Wrapping both arms around the heavy urn, she hefted it. Balancing the weight carefully, she slowly edged toward the vestry and the open door beyond; the last thing she needed was dirty water streaks down the front of her muslin gown.

  That would be the last straw.

  How could he not know that she trusted him? He did know-he must, after their little interlude in the shrubbery. He knew, but he was using the question of trust-her trust in him-as a lever to pressure her.

  He wasn't really talking about trust at all-he was talking about dominance. About the fact that she hadn't weakened and told him what he wanted to know. If he wanted to discuss trust, what about him trusting her? She'd told him she couldn't tell him, but that she would as soon as she could, and that what she knew was of no consequence anyway!

  And just what had he meant by his parting comment about shrubberies not being safe for her?

  "I'll go into the shrubbery any time I like."

  The words, uttered through clenched teeth, echoed in the empty vestry. Feeling ahead with one foot, she located the threshold, then stepped out into the grassy area at the back of the church.

  The sky was overcast, at one with her mood. Peering around the urn, she turned toward the pile of discarded flowers-

  Black cloth fell over her head.

  The weight of a rope fell against her collarbone.

  The next instant, it jerked tight.

  And tightened.

  She flung the heavy urn aside-it clanged against a headstone. Lashing back with her elbows, she connected, and heard a satisfying "Ouff!"

  It was a man, and he was bigger, heavier, and stronger than she was. She didn't stop to think; years of wrestling with Jonas flared in her mind. She scrabbled at the rope with both hands, bending forward from the waist, hauling on the rope, forcing the man to reach over her, forcing him off-balance. Before he could pull back on the rope, she straightened. The back of her head hit his jaw. More important, the rope eased enough for her to hook her hands inside it.

  He brutally yanked it back again, but she pulled with all her strength, dragged in a breath, and screamed.

  The scream bounced off the church walls; it echoed from the stones all around them.

  A door crashed; footsteps pounded, heading their way.

  A rough curse fell on her ears. Her attacker flung her aside.

  Phyllida fell over a grave. Rough stone grazed her calf, then she toppled, catching her upper arm on another sharp stone edge before tumbling blindly back. She landed across a marble slab, still shrouded in the heavy black cloth, the rope still hanging around her shoulders.

  "Here! You! Stop!"

  Jem's yells broke through Phyllida's stunned daze. She heard him run past and on down the path. Struggling to rise, she batted at the black fabric hanging heavily all about her. Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn't break free.

  Then she heard another curse, more forceful, more virulent. Heavy footsteps strode quickly toward her.

  Before she could gather her wits, she was swept up like a child in a pair of strong arms, then he sat, and she was deposited in his lap.

  "Stop struggling-you're only tangling it. Hold still."

  Her panic left her in a rush. She started to shiver. The rope was unwound from her shoulders. The next instant, the black shroud was lifted away.

  She stared into Lucifer's face, blue eyes dark with concern.

  "Are you all right?"

  She drank in the sight of his face for one more moment, then slid her arms around him, ducked her head to his chest, and clung. His arms closed comfortingly about her. He rested his cheek on her hair and rocked her.

  "It's all right. He's gone." He held her tight, safe. A minute passed, then he asked, "Now tell me, are you hurt?"

  Without lifting her head, she shook it. She gulped in air and struggled to find her voice. "Just my throat." Her voice was hoarse from the scream and from the rope. She put a hand to her neck and felt roughened skin and the puffiness of swelling.

  "Nothing else?"

  "Just a graze on my leg and a bruise on my arm." She didn't think she'd hit her head on the slab, but her leg was stinging. Lifting her face, fists clenched in his coat, she peeked at her legs-her skirts were rucked up to her knees.

  She blushed and tried frantically to flick them down.

  Lucifer caught her hand, returned it to his chest, then reached out and straightened the flowing muslin for her. He noticed the graze and paused. "It's just a scratch-no blood." He arranged her skirts so they covered her calves.

  Then he looked up, his gaze fixing on the path leading down to the lych-gate. "Here they come."

  He looked down at her, then his arms tightened and he rose to his feet. Settling her in his arms, he set out, negotiating the narrow path between the graves to the grassy area by the vestry door. He stopped and waited. Mr. Filing and Jem joined them.

  Thompson was with them, a heavy hammer in one hand. "What's to do?"

  "Someone attacked Miss Tallent." Lucifer glanced back at the slab where he'd left the black cloth and rope. "Filing-if you would?"

  Frowning, clearly upset, Mr. Filing was already on his way. He returned a moment later, distress very evident on his face. "This is my robe." He held up the black shroud, shaking it so it fell into a more recognizable shape. "And this"-he held up the rope; it was gold, about half an inch thick-"is the cord from one of the censers!"

  Outrage rang in his tone.

  "Where were they kept?" Lucifer asked.

  "In the vestry." Filing looked at the open back door. "Good God-did the blackguard attack you in the church?"

  Phyllida shook her head. Trying to hold it steady and not rest it on Lucifer's chest was an effort. "I was clearing the vases. I walked out…" She gestured to the area beyond the open door. She swallowed, and it hurt.

  Lucifer was frowning at her. "Filing, I think we should take Miss Tallent back to the Rectory so she can rest. We can discuss the matter more fully there." He glanced at Jem and Thompson. "I take it he got away?"

  Jem nodded. "I barely got a glimpse of him. He was already through the lych-gate when I got here."

  "Where were you?"

  Phyllida waved. "I told Jem he could sit out at the front of the church and watch the ducks. I never imagined…"

  "Indeed." Lucifer tightened his hold on her, tipping her slightly so it seemed natural to lean into his chest.

  "I heard the scream and grabbed my hammer and came running," Thompson said, "but by the time I got to the lane, he was in the wood."

  "I followed into the wood a ways," Jem said, "but then I couldn't tell which way he'd gone."

  Lucifer nodded. "You did well. If he's following his usual pattern, he would have had a horse waiting. No sense running on."

  Jem ducked his head, clearly relieved.

  Filing had taken the robe and cord back into the vestry; now he fetched the urn, emptied it, and returned that, too, to the church. Phyllida watched as he shut the vestry door; the curate's face was pale and set.

  Lucifer turned and headed toward the Rectory. Filing caught him up and fell in just behind; Jem and Thompson brought up the rear.

  As they started down the sloping path, Phyllida leaned closer and whispered, "I'm sure I can walk. You don't need to carry me."

  Lucifer's eyes met hers; the look in t
hem suggested she'd missed the point entirely. "I do need to carry you." His jaw tightened; he looked ahead. "Believe me, I do."

  They trooped into the Rectory; Lucifer made for the chaise in the parlor. He lowered Phyllida, laying her along it so she could lie back. The loss of his heat, his muscled strength protectively around her, made her tense. She fought the urge to cling. She'd never clung to any man in her life.

  But sudden panic rose as he drew his arms from her and straightened. Fright flowed like a chill through her and she shook. She knew he was frowning down at her, but she didn't meet his eyes.

  Mr. Filing appeared with a glass of water. Gratefully, she took it and sipped.

  Lucifer stepped back, then prowled around the chaise. Without looking, she knew he came to stand just behind her, a protective presence hovering over her.

  Mr. Filing paced back and forth before the hearth. "This is shocking-most shocking. That anyone would dare-!" Words failed him; pressing his hands together in silent prayer, he stood for a moment, then turned to Phyllida. "Perhaps, my dear, you could tell us what happened."

  Phyllida took another sip of water. "I was emptying the vases-"

  "Do you always do that on Monday mornings?"

  She glanced up and back at Lucifer. "In this weather, yes. Mrs. Hemmings brings flowers up on Tuesday, and then I change the vases again on Saturday. That's what we usually do-last week was different because of Horatio's funeral."

  Lucifer looked down into her wide eyes, still dark, still huge, still frightened. "So it was common knowledge that you'd be at the church, most likely alone, with the vestry door open this morning?"

  Phyllida hesitated, then nodded. She looked at Filing.

  "If we could start at the beginning," Filing suggested. "You reached the church…?"

  Phyllida sipped, then lifted her head. "I reached the church and as usual entered through the main door from the common. I left Jem outside, sitting on the steps."

  "There was no one inside?" Filing asked.

  Phyllida shook her head. "I picked up the vase from the altar and carried it through to the vestry. I opened the vestry door, propped it open, and took the vase out to empty it. Then I took it back inside."