All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  It was as if something she’d worked for all her life—the peace and serenity of Colyton—had been violated, tainted.

  The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she’d found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she’d realized she’d heard no one leaving . . .

  Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She’d only just remembered.

  She’d come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she’d been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She’d idled in the hall, then decided on searching the drawing room.

  How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she’d found him?

  What if the murderer hadn’t left but had still been in the drawing room when she’d entered?

  She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.

  He must have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.

  Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer’s hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio’s lined face and made a vow—a binding, resolute vow—that she would find whoever had hidden between the bookcases and watched her discover Horatio’s body.

  This was one murderer who would not escape.

  Even as she made her silent declaration, she was aware another, very similar one was being made not a foot away. Lucifer’s words to her father had rung with determination; she needed no convincing that he would regard his vow as seriously as she regarded hers.

  They could work together—together they might succeed. Alone, even with her father’s support, bringing a murderer to justice might well be more than she could accomplish. Despite his dubious talents, she was certain the reprobate beside her could achieve anything he set his mind to. So . . .

  She slanted a glance at him. She needed to tell him all that had happened, even to admitting that it was she who had hit him over the head. Confessing to that wouldn’t be comfortable, but he needed to know.

  He especially needed to know about the hat.

  Which meant she had to speak with Mary Anne straightaway.

  She took in Lucifer’s bleak expression, the planes of his face harsh without any lurking laughter to soften them. His large eyes were hooded. He’d been much closer to Horatio than she had.

  Sliding her fingers from his, she retreated and left him with his grief.

  Lucifer heard her go. Part of his mind tracked her movements; part of him relaxed when she turned deeper into the house. He remembered she’d mentioned speaking with the housekeeper. Reassured, he returned his attention to Horatio.

  Their last farewell—there wouldn’t be another. He let the memories spill through his mind, like water running through his fingers. Their shared interests, their successes, their mutual appreciation, the long afternoons spent on the terrace overlooking Lake Windemere. All good times—there’d been none bad.

  At the last, he drew in a deep breath, then laid a hand atop Horatio’s, clasped on his chest. “Go twit Martha on her pansies. As for revenge, leave that to me.”

  Vengeance might be the Lord’s, but sometimes He needed help.

  As he turned away, his gaze fell on the bookshelves lining the walls. Idly, he strolled along them, tracing the spines of volumes here and there, remembered friends. Toward the end of the room, he noticed three volumes jutting out from their shelf. He slid them back in, aligning them. He looked back along the tome-lined wall. How appropriate for Horatio to spend his final hours here, surrounded by his dearest possessions.

  He was standing before the long windows, looking out on the garden that so puzzled him, when a discreet cough sounded in the doorway. He turned; a thin, spare man, hunched into his coat, was staring at the coffin. Lucifer left the window. “Covey. Pray accept my condolences. I know how attached you were to Horatio—and he to you.”

  Covey blinked watery blue eyes. “Thank you, sir. Miss Tallent told me you were here. I regret that it’s such a dreadful occasion that sees you with us . . . again.”

  “A dreadful business, indeed. Do you have any idea . . . ?”

  “None at all. I had no inkling, no reason to suppose . . .” He gestured helplessly at the coffin.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Covey—you couldn’t have known.”

  “If I had, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Of course not.” Lucifer interposed himself between Covey and the coffin. “Horatio wrote to me about some item he’d discovered that he wanted my opinion on. Do you know what it was?”

  Covey shook his head. “I knew he’d found something special. You know how he’d get—his eyes all lighting up like a child’s? That’s how he was for the past week. I hadn’t seen him so excited for years.”

  “He didn’t mention anything at all about it?”

  “No, but he never did, not with his special finds. Not until he was ready to tell all; then he’d lay all the proofs out on his desk and explain it all to me.” A wistful smile touched Covey’s lips. “He’d take great delight in that, even though he knew I understood not one word in three.”

  Lucifer gripped Covey’s shoulder. “You were a good friend to him, Covey.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sure Horatio will have made provision for you in his will, but whatever happens, we’ll sort something out. Horatio would have wished it.”

  Covey inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the reassurance.”

  “One thing. Have any of the other dealers stopped by recently? Jamieson? Dallwell?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Jamieson stopped by some months ago, but we’ve seen no one recently. The master hasn’t—hadn’t—been so active in dealing since we’d moved south.”

  Lucifer hesitated. “I imagine I’ll be staying at the Grange for the next few days.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Covey bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my tidying.”

  Lucifer nodded in dismissal, wondering who Horatio’s heirs would be. He made a mental note to have a word with them regarding Covey’s long service and devotion. Returning to the window, he considered Covey’s description of Horatio’s recent excitement.

  If he could understand why Horatio had been killed, he would know who had killed him. The “why” was the key. It seemed possible, even likely, that the “why” was the mysterious item Horatio had discovered; his violent death had followed so soon after the discovery. If the mysterious item was the key, then the murderer might have come from beyond the local area, as Lady Huddlesford insisted was the case. Luckily, they were deep in the country—“outsiders” were noticed. He was sure he’d been noticed, perhaps not in Colyton, but certainly along the way.

  Turning, he scanned the room. Horatio might have concealed his latest find in plain sight, amid the treasure trove of his collection.

  When Phyllida returned to the drawing room, she found her nemesis examining the halberd responsible for the dent in his skull. He looked at her. “Was it always kept here—behind the door?”

  “I understand so.”

  He studied her, then looked at the axe-head. Raising the halberd, he let it fall to his other hand, watching how the weighted head swung. “I would have thought, if it had fallen or been wielded with intent . . .”

  Then the axe should have cleaved his skull in two. Phyllida didn’t want to think about it. “This part here”—she pointed to the rounded side—“was apparently what connected with your head.”

  “Indeed?” He hefted the weapon fully upright, then looked at her. “How did it fall?”

  She met his eyes directly—and said nothing.

&n
bsp; He held her gaze, and let the tension stretch.

  And stretch . . .

  She lifted her chin. “I have to go to the church to sort out the flowers for the funeral, and then I must speak with the curate. You can stay here, if you like.”

  Lucifer replaced the halberd. “I’ll come with you.”

  He’d said his last good-bye to Horatio.

  Contained and uncommunicative, she led the way through the garden. As they rounded the fountain, he paused. “The flowers for the church—use some of these peonies. They were Martha’s favorites.”

  She stopped and glanced back at him, then at the flowers. Then she nodded and continued on.

  They crossed the lane and started up the common. The expanse of green was kept clipped by the sheep allowed to graze over it; it rose in a gradual slope from the lane to the crest on which the church stood.

  Lucifer matched his long strides to Phyllida’s and breathed deeply. The air was fresh, sun-warmed; the scents and sounds of a June afternoon ebbed and flowed around them. The ache in his head was subsiding, and the best distraction Colyton had to offer was walking beside him.

  He was intrigued, and couldn’t entirely understand why. Indeed, he wasn’t sure he approved. His preference, until now, had been for ladies of more bountiful charms, yet Phyllida Tallent’s slender grace acted powerfully on his ever-ready male senses. Being so easily aroused by a gently reared, intelligent, and stubborn virgin, one who was making no effort to attract him at all, had to be fate’s idea of a joke. Perhaps being hit on the head had affected him more than he’d realized.

  Whatever the cause, walking beside and a little behind her left him all too aware whenever the frolicking breeze plastered her gown to her legs and bottom, or when it flicked at the hem of her skirt, exposing slim ankles. Her svelte figure contained a suppressed energy one part of him—the wild, untamed pirate part of him—instantly recognized; he longed to wind it tight, then release it before plunging into its core.

  Climbing the hill was easing his head at the expense of intensifying the ache in his loins. An ache destined to remain unrelieved. Drawing a bracing breath, he looked ahead, and deliberately shifted his thoughts.

  She preceded him into the church and went straight to the altar. Picking up a vase, she headed through an open door into a small side chamber.

  He lounged against a pew. The small church was well endowed with carvings and stained glass. The oriel window above the entrance was particularly pleasing. It was fitting that Horatio’s funeral would be held here; Horatio would have appreciated the church’s beauties.

  A beauty of a different sort swept back in and effortlessly recaptured his attention.

  Phyllida jumped when large hands covered hers as she wrestled with the urn on the font.

  “Let me.”

  She did. The reverberations of his voice played up and down her spine and left her nerves jangling. Wordlessly, she led the way through the vestry and out through the open back door. She indicated the pile of dead flowers. “Just toss them there.”

  He did. She retrieved the urn from his hands; without being asked, he wielded the pump handle so she could rinse it. With a nod of thanks, she swept back into the vestry; swiping up a cloth, she vigorously buffed the urn.

  He halted in the doorway, almost blocking out the light; propping one shoulder against the frame, he watched her.

  The vestry suddenly seemed very small. Awareness prickled over her skin.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow, late morning. I’ll send flowers over first thing—in this weather, they wilt so quickly.” She was babbling. She’d never babbled in her life. “Especially if they’re not picked before the sun strikes them.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be flitting among the flowers at dawn?”

  She wanted to look at him but didn’t. “Of course not. Our gardener knows just how I like them picked.”

  “Ah. No need, then, to get up too early.”

  It was his tone, the deep resonance in his voice, that gave his words their full meaning. For an instant, she froze, her hands on the urn, then she sucked in a breath, grasped the urn, set it on the shelf, and swung to face him. Her expression, she was sure, remained calmly superior, unruffled, and serene. No one in the village ever saw beyond that, which made protecting herself and managing them very easy.

  His gaze, however, settled on her eyes. He saw further, deeper—she wasn’t at all comfortable with what he might see. “I need to speak with Mr. Filing, the curate. Given your injury, you should rest for a few minutes. I suggest you sit in a pew in the cool of the church. I’ll collect you when I’ve finished with Mr. Filing.”

  He continued to study her face, her eyes. After an unnerving moment, he glanced back outside, over his left shoulder. “Is that the curate’s house?”

  “Yes. That’s the Rectory.”

  He straightened away from the doorframe; the movement did nothing to reduce the sense of entrapment she felt. “I’ll come with you.”

  Phyllida drew in a breath, and held it. With anyone else she would have argued, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that warned her she had no chance of swaying him. Not without a fight—and fighting with him was too dangerous. “As you wish.”

  He moved back and she stepped past him, into the sunshine. She led the way down the winding path to the Rectory, snug in a hollow just below the crest. Shutting the vestry door, he followed on her heels.

  His intention was impossible to mistake. He knew she was hiding something; he was going to cling to her side—unnerve her as much as he could—until she told him what it was. Or until he uncovered her secrets for himself.

  The latter, Phyllida decided, was not a fate to tempt. How soon could she see Mary Anne?

  Lucifer followed her to the Rectory, too conscious of the lithe grace of her stride, the unfettered freedom with which she moved. To senses steeped in consideration of the feminine, she registered as something beyond the norm. Infinitely more desirable, and infinitely more elusive.

  Why, he wondered, did she not wish him to be a party to her meeting with the curate?

  That gentleman had seen them coming; he stood waiting for them at his front door. Fair, pale, and slightly built, his clothes fastidiously neat, Filing had the appearance of a gentleman aesthete. He greeted Phyllida with a smile, one that held the warmth of long-standing friendship.

  “Good morning, Mr. Filing. Allow me to present Mr. Cynster, an old friend of Horatio’s.”

  “Indeed?” Filing offered his hand; Lucifer shook it. “Such a sad occurrence. It must have been a shock to discover Horatio slain.”

  Lucifer inclined his head.

  “As you’ll have heard, the funeral’s tomorrow morning. Perhaps, as an old friend, you’d like to give the eulogy?”

  Lucifer considered, then shook his head. “With this knock on the head, I’m not sure I’ll be up to it, and frankly, I think Horatio would consider his connection with the people here of more importance to him over these last years than his professional associations.”

  And he suspected he’d be of more use to Horatio by studying those attending the funeral.

  “I see, I see.” Filing nodded. “Well, then, if there’s no objection, I’ll give the eulogy myself. Horatio and I often shared a glass of port of an evening. He had a wonderful collection of ecclesiastical texts and kindly gave me free rein to browse through them. He was truly a gentleman and a scholar—that will be the theme of my eulogy.”

  “Very apt.” Lucifer turned his gaze on Phyllida, and waited; Filing did the same.

  Her expression calm, her eyes watchful, she glanced at him. “There are a number of organizational matters I must discuss with Mr. Filing.”

  Lucifer nodded, as if giving her permission to speak. Shifting back, he let his gaze roam the common, down to the cottages lining the lane.

  “Our discussion will take a few minutes. Perhaps you should rest on that bench over there.”

  The bench was halfway down the slop
e overlooking the duck pond, well out of hearing range. He frowned and glanced at her. “It might be wiser if we descend together. Just in case I’m overcome with giddiness.”

  Her annoyance reached him in a wash of heat; anger glowed momentarily in her eyes. But she inclined her head, her expression cool, unconcerned—a perfect social mask. Filing glanced back and forth; he sensed something, but couldn’t define it. Couldn’t see past her facade.

  Lucifer wondered why he could—and why he wanted to see so much further, to know so much more.

  She turned to Filing. “About the flowers for tomorrow . . .”

  Fixing his gaze down the common, Lucifer let their discussion flow past him. There seemed a great deal to be said about the flowers. Then, with not the slightest shift in her tone to mark the shift in her subject, she continued. “Which brings us to our other business.”

  Lucifer suppressed a cynical smile. She was good. Unfortunately for her, he was better.

  “You have the collection complete, I believe?”

  From the corner of his eye Lucifer saw Filing nod—and shoot a glance at him.

  “I assume you foresee no difficulties in the distribution to those deserving?”

  “No,” Filing murmured. “All seems . . . straightforward.”

  “Good. Our next outing will be as scheduled. I’ve had a letter confirming there’s been no change to the plans. If you could pass the word on to those interested?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do remind them that we’ll need the group assembled in good time—we can’t wait for stragglers. If they’re not there from the very first, then we really cannot include them in the group, so they’ll miss out on the benefits of the excursion.”

  Filing nodded. “If any want to argue that point, I’ll suggest they speak with Thompson.”

  Phyllida shot him a glance. “Do.” She straightened. “Until tomorrow, then.”