All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Lucifer returned his attention to her, then nodded a farewell to Filing.

  Phyllida gestured down the common. “We should get back—you really should rest your head.”

  He fell into step beside her; they descended the slope at an easy pace.

  What in all Hades was the woman up to?

  He assumed he was supposed to imagine that they’d been discussing some excursion for Filing’s parishioners. He might have believed it but for her dogged attempts to keep the knowledge from him. While the correct interpretation presently eluded him, he couldn’t believe it was anything heinous or illegal. She was the magistrate’s daughter, devoted to good works, and Filing was patently honest and upright. So why didn’t she want him to know what she was about?

  If she’d been younger, he would have suspected some lark. Not only was she too old for that, but her behavior tended to the mature, the managing; she was no irresponsible hoyden.

  The mystery about her had just deepened; the urge to take her somewhere private, back her against a wall, and keep her there until she told him all he wished to know, grew with every step.

  He glanced at her and was rewarded with a full view of her face as she lifted it to the breeze, shaking back her tangling bonnet ribbons. He drank in her features, the resolution in her face, the challenge implicit in the defiant tilt of her chin. Facing forward again, he reminded himself that she was a gently reared virgin—no fit prey for him. She was not a woman with whom he could dally.

  He would learn her secrets, then he’d have to let her go.

  They stepped into the lane. A carriage was drawn up just ahead, the occupants—a large gentleman and an older lady—patently waiting to speak with them.

  “Sir Cedric Fortemain and his mother, Lady Fortemain,” Phyllida supplied sotto voce.

  “And they are?”

  “Cedric owns Ballyclose Manor—it lies over the hill past the forge.”

  They neared the carriage. Sir Cedric, in his late thirties and already tending portly with a florid face and thinning hair, rose and bowed to Phyllida, then leaned over the side to shake her hand.

  Phyllida performed the introductions. Lucifer bowed to her ladyship and shook hands with Cedric.

  “I hear you were the first to discover the body, Mr. Cynster,” Lady Fortemain said.

  “Shocking business!” Cedric declared.

  They chatted inconsequentially about London and the weather; Lucifer noted Cedric’s gaze rarely left Phyllida. His comments were a touch too patronizing, a touch too particular. When, contained and unresponsive, she stepped back, preparing to leave, Cedric caught her eye.

  “I’m pleased to see, m’dear, that you’re not rambling about the village on your own. There’s no telling but that Welham’s murderer is still about.”

  “Indeed!” Lady Fortemain smiled at Lucifer. “So comforting to see you’re keeping an eye on dear Phyllida. We’d be devastated were anything to happen to our village treasure.”

  That was accompanied by a beam of sincere approbation, which brought a frown to the village treasure’s eyes. “We must be getting on.”

  Lucifer bowed to Lady Fortemain, exchanged nods with Cedric, then strolled beside Phyllida as she crossed the lane to walk along the cottages’ front fences. “Why,” he murmured, “does Lady Fortemain think you a treasure?”

  “Because she wants me to marry Cedric. And because I helped her to find a ring she misplaced at the Hunt Ball one year. And once I guessed where Pommeroy was hiding one of the times he ran away, but that was years ago.”

  “Who’s Pommeroy?”

  “Cedric’s younger brother.” After a moment, she added, “He’s much worse than Cedric.”

  The rattle of carriage wheels came from behind them; they both slowed, stepping further to the side of the lane. The carriage swept past; a hatchet-faced, stony-eyed lady gazed haughtily down on them.

  Lucifer raised his brows as the carriage rattled on. “Who was that harbinger of sunshine and delight?”

  He looked across in time to see Phyllida’s lips twitch. “Jocasta Smollet.”

  “Who is?”

  “Sir Basil Smollet’s sister.”

  “And Sir Basil is?”

  “The gentleman approaching us. He owns Highgate, up the lane past the Rectory.”

  Lucifer studied the gentleman in question; he was neatly, even severely dressed, and of an age similar to Cedric. But where Cedric’s expression had been choleric yet open, Basil’s was guarded, as if he had a lot on his mind, but was above explaining himself to anyone.

  He tipped his hat in greeting. Introduced, he shook hands with Lucifer.

  “Dreadful business, this. Sets the whole village on its ears. No rest for any of us until the villain’s caught. Pray accept my condolences on the death of your friend.”

  Lucifer thanked him. With polite nods to them both, Basil continued on his way.

  “Punctilious,” Lucifer murmured.

  “Indeed.” Phyllida stepped out again, looked ahead, and slowed. “Oh. Dear.”

  The words were uttered through her teeth; she might as well have cursed. Lucifer considered the cause of her consternation. Red-haired, in his late twenties, the gentleman strode toward them with a purposeful air. Only just taller than Phyllida, he was plainly dressed in corduroy breeches and riding boots, topped by a loose, flapping coat.

  Phyllida’s chin rose; she moved forward decisively. “Good day, Mr. Grisby.” She inclined her head, her intention plainly to continue on her way.

  Grisby planted himself directly in front of her. Phyllida halted and smoothly turned to Lucifer. “Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Mr. Grisby.”

  Lucifer nodded coolly. Grisby hesitated, then curtly responded. He returned his gaze to Phyllida. “Miss Tallent, please allow me to escort you home.” The glance he shot Lucifer brimmed with poorly concealed dislike. “I’m surprised Sir Jasper hasn’t forbidden you to roam, what with this knife-wielding murderer on the loose.”

  “My father—”

  “One never knows,” Grisby sententiously continued, “from what direction danger may come.” Pugnaciously, he reached for her arm.

  Phyllida reached for Lucifer’s.

  Bending his arm, covering her hand with his, Lucifer drew her closer. He caught Grisby’s gaze, all humor flown. “I assure you, Grisby, that Miss Tallent is in no danger from knife-wielding felons, or any others, while in my care.” He’d only been waiting for some sign from Phyllida before stepping in; if he hadn’t been feeling his way, Grisby would already be flailing in the duck pond. “We’re on our way back to the Grange. You may rest assured I will see Miss Tallent safe into Sir Jasper’s keeping.”

  Grisby flushed.

  Lucifer inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  He gave Grisby no choice, solicitously steering Phyllida, censoriously haughty, down the lane. He kept her close, her skirts brushing his boots. Under his hand, her fingers fluttered. They strolled on; eventually her fingers relaxed under his.

  “Thank you.”

  “It was entirely my pleasure. Aside from being an insensitive clod, who, exactly, is Grisby?”

  “He owns Dottswood Farm. It’s up past the Rectory, beyond Highgate.”

  “So he’s a prosperous gentleman farmer?”

  “Among other things.”

  Her disgusted tone gave him his clue. “Am I to understand Mr. Grisby is another aspirant to your fair hand?”

  “They all are—Cedric, Basil, and Grisby.”

  Her tone wasn’t improving; Lucifer raised his brows. “You have cut a swath through the local ranks.”

  She cast him a repressive glance, one his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, could not have bettered, then, head high, looked forward.

  The common ended just ahead where the lane leading to the graveyard and the forge joined the village lane. Along the lesser lane lay a row of small houses, bigger than the cottages but not as large as the Manor or the Grange. Each house had its own gard
en with a fence and a gate.

  A gentleman stepped through the nearest gate; in breeches, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, he minced down the lane toward them. In a bottle-green coat with a bright yellow-and-black kerchief tied in a floppy bow and sporting a periwig, the gentleman was unquestionably the most colorful figure Lucifer had seen for many a long year.

  He glanced at Phyllida; she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed ahead; she’d yet to see the gentleman.

  “I hesitate to ask, but is the gentleman to our right another of your suitors?”

  She looked. “No, thank God. Unfortunately, that’s the best I can say for him. His name is Silas Coombe.”

  “Does he always dress like that?”

  “I’ve heard that in earlier years, he dressed as a macaroni. These days, he contents himself with adopting all the extremes of fashion and wearing them all at once.”

  “A gentleman of independent means?”

  “He lives off inherited investments. His main interest in life is posturing. That, and reading. Until Horatio arrived, Silas had the most extensive library in the area.”

  “So he and Horatio were friends?”

  “No. Quite the opposite.” She paused as the gentleman neared; he crossed the corner of the common, sparing them not one glance. They continued to stroll; as they left the village behind, Phyllida mused, “In fact, Silas is possibly the only one in the locality who sincerely hated Horatio.”

  “Hated Horatio?” Lucifer shot her a glance. “Horatio wasn’t an easy person to hate.”

  “Nevertheless. You see, for years, Silas had touted himself as a renowned antiquarian bibliophile. I think it was his ambition, and here in the country there was no one to challenge his claim. Not that it meant anything to anyone else, but it meant a lot to Silas. Then Horatio arrived and exploded his myth. Horatio’s library eclipsed Silas’s completely and Silas did not know books as Horatio did. Even to us, untutored though we are, the difference was obvious. Horatio was genuine; Silas, a poor imitation.”

  The Grange drive appeared before them; as they turned through the gateposts, Phyllida drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  He met her gaze. “I don’t know what to think. At the moment, I’m merely gathering information.”

  “Silas is effeminate. I wouldn’t think him very strong.”

  “Weaklings can kill quite effectively—rage can lend strength to the most ineffectual.”

  “I suppose . . .” She frowned. “But I still can’t see Silas stabbing anyone.”

  He was silent for a moment, then asked, “So who do you think killed Horatio?”

  The question hung between them; she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I don’t know who killed Horatio.”

  She enunciated each word clearly. Their gazes held; it was she who turned away. Head high, she continued down the drive. After a moment, he fell in beside her, his stride longer and slower than hers. “Tell me, how many more are there in the locality—people like the Fortemains who would have known Horatio socially?”

  “Not that many. You’ve met about half.” They continued strolling down the winding drive, hemmed in by trees on all sides. Phyllida drew in a breath. “Do you seriously think someone from the village killed Horatio?”

  She glanced up; Lucifer caught her eye. “Horatio was killed by someone he knew well—someone he let get close to him, well within arm’s reach.” When she frowned, he added, “There was no sign of any struggle.”

  Her frown cleared as she remembered; refocusing, she saw the intensity in his gaze and looked away. “Perhaps it was someone he knew from outside—another collector.”

  “If so, we’ll find out. I’ll be making inquiries in all the surrounding towns.”

  They walked on in silence. She felt his gaze on her face. They’d gone another fifty yards before he asked, “Indelicate question though it is, why, with so many suitors, aren’t you married?”

  She glanced up but could see nothing in his eyes beyond simple interest. The question was indeed impertinent, yet she felt no compunction in answering; she knew the answer so well. “Because every man who has ever asked for my hand has wanted to marry me to suit his own ends—because having me as his wife would improve his lot. For Cedric and Basil, marrying me would be sensible—I’m suitable, I know the locals, and I could manage their households with my eyes shut. For Grisby, I can add that marrying me would be a step upward socially—he’s ambitious in that sphere.”

  She looked up and discovered Lucifer studying her. After a moment, he asked, “Don’t you have any wishes, any requirements of marriage—anything they might provide you?”

  She shook her head. “All they can offer is a household and a position—I already have both. Why marry and take a husband when I’d gain nothing I desire in the process?”

  His lips twitched, then curved into a smile. “How very clearheaded of you.”

  The dangerous purr had returned to his voice; there was a look in his eyes she didn’t understand. Facing forward, she kept strolling.

  The house lay just ahead, screened by the last bend, when he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She faced him, her question in her eyes. He looked down at her, his gaze disturbingly direct. “What actually happened?”

  Phyllida held his gaze and thought about telling him. But it was a case of all or nothing—she’d seen enough of him to know she would have to tell him all once she admitted that she was there. He wouldn’t let her keep anything back. And for once in her life, she doubted her ability to stand against a man.

  This man was something else—some different species she hadn’t before encountered. She was old enough, wise enough, to recognize the difference and acknowledge in her mind that she’d be unwise to challenge him.

  Of course, not telling him was a blatant challenge, but that simply had to be. She would not break her word. She might prevaricate for a good cause, but her oath was absolute, and a vow given to a friend was sacred.

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” She turned away. He stopped her, long fingers closing around her elbow. Her temper flared; she looked up at him. “I’ve kept my part of the bargain.”

  He blinked. “What bargain?”

  “You didn’t tell Papa you believed that I was there, in Horatio’s drawing room, and so I took you around the village, introduced you to Horatio’s acquaintances, and answered your questions about them.”

  He frowned, the gesture more evident in his eyes than on his face. His hold on her arm anchored her before him; she didn’t bother trying to wriggle free. He studied her eyes and she let him; emotionally, she had nothing to hide.

  “Is that why you thought I invited myself along?”

  “That, and so you could try to trip me up. Why else?”

  He released her, but his gaze held hers. “Couldn’t I have wanted to spend time in your company?”

  She stared at him. The suggestion was so unexpected, she couldn’t at first imagine it. Then she did, and the truth washed over her—she would have liked it if he had. If he’d simply wanted to spend a summer afternoon strolling with her around the village, idly commenting, relaxed in her company. Her chest tightened; haughtily, she turned away. “You didn’t. That wasn’t why you came walking with me today.”

  Lucifer heard the calm statement but left it unchallenged. He watched her walk away, and let the impulse to correct her fade. She was such a contrary female—handling her was difficult, not to say dangerous; she was so different from the women he knew. God knew, he’d never before been so attracted to a virgin.

  A stubborn, willful, innocent, headstrong, intelligent, far-too-untouched-for-her-own-good virgin.

  It made everything so much more complicated.

  He caught Phyllida up as she negotiated the last bend in the drive. The side lawn of the Grange opened before them; a knot of people were gathered around tables and chairs, enjoying the late afternoon. They both halted, but they’d been seen; Lady Huddlesford be
ckoned imperiously.

  “Who are they?”

  “Some of the half you’ve yet to meet.” Phyllida searched the group; then she saw Mary Anne and felt giddy with relief. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

  They crossed the lawn. Lady Huddlesford, presiding over the gathering from a chair at a wrought-iron table, beamed delightedly. “Mr. Cynster! Excellent! I was just telling Mrs. Farthingale . . .”

  Phyllida left Lucifer to fend for himself, something he was patently well able to do; he smiled, effortlessly charming, and the ladies all preened. Directing a general smile on those present, she strolled to Mary Anne’s side.

  Mary Anne stared at Lucifer. “He’s . . .” She gestured.

  “From London.” Phyllida slipped her arm through Mary Anne’s. “We need to talk.”

  Mary Anne turned huge blue eyes her way. “Did you find them?” she whispered as they turned from the group.

  Mary Anne’s fingers clamped like talons around her wrist; something close to panic filled her eyes. Phyllida inwardly frowned and drew her on. “The rose garden’s more private. Pretend we’re simply strolling.”

  Luckily, the entire gathering—Mary Anne’s mother, Mrs. Farthingale, Lady Fortemain, Mrs. Weatherspoon, and a gaggle of other ladies, with Percy and Frederick for leavening—was hanging on Lucifer’s every word. Phyllida glanced back as she and Mary Anne entered the yew walk that led to the rose garden. Lucifer’s attention appeared fully engaged.

  Surrounded by thick stone walls, the rose garden was a secluded paradise of lush growth, vibrant splashes of color, and rich, exotic scents. The instant they entered its privacy, Mary Anne’s public demeanor crumbled. She swung to face Phyllida, gripping her hands tightly. “Say you found them! Please say you did!”

  “I looked, but . . .” Phyllida frowned. “Come—let’s sit down. We need to discuss this.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss!” Mary Anne wailed. “If I don’t get those letters back, my life will be ruined!”

  Phyllida towed her to a seat set against the wall. “I didn’t say we won’t get them back—I promised we would. But there’s been a complication.”