All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  For himself, Lucifer was . . . faintly stunned.

  “Ah-hem.”

  He looked at Crabbs, then raised a brow.

  “I was wondering if you planned to sell the Manor. I could get matters started if you wish.”

  Lucifer stared at Crabbs without seeing him. Then he shook his head. “I don’t intend to sell.”

  The statement surprised him more than Crabbs, but when impulse struck this strongly, it rarely served to fight it. “Tell me.” He refocused on Crabbs. “Were there any others who might have expected to inherit?”

  Crabbs shook his head. “There was no family—not even any legal connections. The estate was Mr. Welham’s outright, his to leave as he pleased.”

  “Do you know who Horatio’s heir was, who was in line for the estate, before this present will was drawn up?”

  “As far as I’m aware, there was no previous will. I drew this one up three years ago, when Mr. Welham came into these parts and engaged me to act for him. He gave me to understand he had not made a will before.”

  Later, with the shadows lengthening, Lucifer strode back to the Grange through the wood. Hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground, he stepped over roots and ditches blindly, his mind engrossed with other things.

  Crabbs had taken his leave, retreating to the Red Bells. Given he was not presently residing under the Manor’s roof, Lucifer had not invited him to stay there. He hadn’t wanted to impose the duty of entertaining the solicitor on Bristleford, the Hemmingses and Covey, not tonight.

  He’d instructed Crabbs to contact Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. With Montague involved, the formal transfer of the estate would be accomplished quickly and efficiently. Lucifer made a mental note to write to Montague.

  And Gabriel. And Devil. And his parents.

  Lucifer sighed. The first tugs of the reins of responsibility. He’d avoided them most of his life. He couldn’t avoid them now. Horatio had bequeathed them to him—the responsibility for his collection, the responsibility for the Manor, for Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses. Together with the responsibility for his garden.

  That last worried him more than the others combined.

  Horatio had trained him in how to oversee a collection; his family had prepared him to manage an estate and servants. No one had ever taught him about a garden, much less the sort of garden Horatio had created.

  He had a very odd feeling about the garden.

  The path joined the Grange shrubbery, leading into a maze of interconnecting walks. Lucifer checked he was taking the right one, then paced on, deep in thought.

  Until a fury in patterned cambric came storming through a gap in the hedge and walked into him.

  Phyllida lost all her breath in the collision. Even before she’d glanced up, her senses had recognized whose arms had locked around her. If she’d been the type of female who gave way to every impulse, she’d have shrieked and leaped away. Instead, she fixed him with a glittering glance and stepped back.

  His arms fell from her. The reprobate had the gall to raise one arrogant black brow.

  “My apologies.” Calmly correct, she whirled around and headed for the house.

  He fell in beside her as she walked, with ladylike gentility, along the path. His gaze lingered on her face; she refused to look at him—refused to see if his lips were straight and what type of amusement lurked in his blue eyes. The fiend had just made her life immeasurably more difficult.

  His, too, did he but know it.

  “You do that very well.”

  The murmured words were deliberately provocative.

  “What?”

  “Hide your temper. What was it that set you off?”

  “An acquaintance who’s being particularly trying. Actually, it’s three acquaintances.” Him, Mary Anne, and Robert. He’d inherited the Manor, Mary Anne had been thrown into a tizzy on the grounds that he might decide to stay, and Robert had unhelpfully confirmed that as fact.

  She’d hoped the funeral would convince Mary Anne that her letters were a minor matter compared to murder. Instead, thanks to Mary Anne’s sensitivities, she was now further away from being able to tell Lucifer why she’d been in Horatio’s drawing room than she had been that morning. Fuming, she’d left Mary Anne and Robert by the fountain and stalked off. Only to run into Lucifer.

  A sudden flush ran down her body at the memory of the impact. Under his elegant clothes he was all hard muscle; despite the fact she’d been going at full tilt, he hadn’t even staggered. She glanced at him. “I take it you have, indeed, inherited the Manor?”

  “Yes. There are apparently no relatives, so . . .”

  They stepped onto the lawn. Phyllida fixed her gaze on the house. “If I might make so bold, what are your plans? Will you sell, or live here?”

  She felt his gaze on her face but didn’t turn to meet it.

  “You may be as bold as you like, but . . .”

  His tone had her glancing quickly his way.

  He smiled. “I was on my way to discuss matters with your father. Perhaps you could take me to him?”

  Sir Jasper was in his library. Lucifer was unsurprised when, after showing him in and then disappearing, Phyllida returned with a tray bearing glasses and a decanter.

  “Well, so you’re now a landowner in Devon, heh?”

  “Shortly to be so, it seems.” Lucifer accepted the glass of brandy Phyllida brought him. She handed a similar glass to her father, then retired to the sofa facing the chairs he and Sir Jasper occupied.

  “Any thoughts on what you’ll do with the property?” Sir Jasper regarded him from under shaggy brows. “You mentioned your family’s estate is in Somerset . . .”

  “I have an older brother—the family estate will go to him. In recent years, I’ve lived primarily in London, sharing my brother’s house.”

  “So you have no other establishment demanding your attention?”

  “No.” That was something Horatio had known. His gaze on the brandy swirling in his glass, Lucifer added, “There’s nothing to stop me from settling in Colyton.”

  “And will you?”

  He looked up, into Phyllida’s eyes. It was she who had, with her habitual directness, asked the simple question.

  “Yes.” Raising his glass, he sipped, his gaze never leaving her. “I’ve decided Colyton suits me.”

  “Excellent!” Sir Jasper beamed. “Could do with a little new blood around here.” He went on at some length, extolling the benefits of the area; Lucifer let him ramble while he tried to understand the irritation in Phyllida’s brown eyes. Her expression calm, she sat watching her father, but her eyes . . . and a downward quirk at one corner of her lovely lips . . .

  Sir Jasper wound to a halt; Lucifer stirred and faced him. “One point I wanted to mention. I consider Horatio’s bequest a gift, one I couldn’t comfortably accept if I hadn’t done everything I could to bring his murderer to justice.”

  Sir Jasper nodded. “Your feelings do you credit.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d never feel at ease in Horatio’s house, owning his collection, unless I’d turned every stone.”

  Sir Jasper eyed him shrewdly. “Do I take it that’s a warning you intend turning every stone?”

  Lucifer held his gaze. “Every rock. Every last pebble.”

  Sir Jasper considered, then nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can, but as you doubtless appreciate, it won’t be easy to lay this murderer by the heels. The bare fact of the matter is no one saw him.”

  “There may be other proofs.” Lucifer drained his glass.

  Sir Jasper did the same. “We can hope so.” As Phyllida collected the empty glasses, he added, “You may investigate as you wish, of course. If you need any formal support, I’ll do all I can.” He stood. “Horatio was one of us. I suspect you’ll find you’ll have any number of people willing to help you find his murderer.”

  “Indeed.” Lucifer rose, his gaze resting on Phyllida. “I’m hoping that will be the case.”
>
  He wanted her help in catching Horatio’s murderer. He’d all but asked for it.

  She wanted to help him. Even if he hadn’t asked, he would have received her assistance.

  Unfortunately, the promise of the morning, when she’d hoped to be able to tell him all soon, had given way to the frustration of the afternoon, which was now to be crowned by the disaster of the evening. For some ungodly reason, and she used the term advisedly, her aunt had decided to host an informal dinner for a select few who had attended the funeral. A funeral dinner. Phyllida wasn’t impressed.

  She’d had a good mind to wear black, but compromised with her lavender silk. It was one of her most flattering gowns and she felt in need of the support.

  She was the last to enter the drawing room. Lucifer was there, startlingly handsome in a midnight-blue coat the exact same shade as his eyes. His hair appeared black in the candlelight; his ivory cravat was an exercise in elegance. He stood with her father and Mr. Farthingale before the hearth; from the instant she’d stepped over the threshold, his gaze had remained fixed on her.

  Regally inclining her head, she went to join the Misses Longdon, two spinsters of indeterminate age who shared a house along the lane to the forge.

  They were sixteen at table. After checking with Gladys, Phyllida took her seat. Lucifer was at the table’s other end, at her aunt’s right and flanked by Regina Longdon. Regina Longdon was all but deaf, which left Lady Huddlesford with little competition. Mary Anne and Robert were both too far away to engage in conversation. Or persuasion. With nothing else to do, Phyllida applied herself to overseeing the meal.

  Her father never dallied long over the port; he led the gentlemen back into the drawing room a bare fifteen minutes after the ladies had settled themselves. Those fifteen minutes had been spent listening to Mary Anne play the pianoforte. As soon as the gentlemen appeared, Mary Anne closed the instrument and came forward to join the conversing groups. Phyllida closed in on her.

  Mary Anne saw her coming; agitation instantly filled her blue eyes. “No!” she hissed, before Phyllida could say a word. “You must see it’s impossible. You have to find the letters—you promised!”

  “I would have thought that by now you’d see—”

  “It’s you who don’t see! Once you find the letters and give them back to me, then you can tell him, if you’re so sure you must.” Mary Anne literally wrung her hands, then her gaze flicked past Phyllida. “Oh, heavens! There’s Robert—I must rescue him before Papa corners him.”

  With that, she all but fled across the room.

  Phyllida watched her go, not entirely able to hide her frown. She’d never seen Mary Anne so overset. “What on earth is in those letters?”

  Swinging to face the room, she scanned the guests to see if any needed her hostessly attention, only to discover Lucifer crossing the room toward her, the look in his eye signaling that he required precisely that. She waited; he halted beside her, and joined her in considering the room.

  “Your bosom-bow, Miss Farthingale—what’s the situation between her and Collins?”

  “Situation?”

  He glanced at her. “Farthingale looked ready to have an apoplectic fit when Collins arrived with Crabbs. Mrs. Farthingale looked thoroughly taken aback, and then grimly, tight-lippedly, resigned. I’ve been following your father’s lead in stepping in with distractions all evening—it would be helpful to know what game we’re all playing.”

  Phyllida met his eyes. “Star-crossed lovers, but we’re hoping this version will end without tragedy.” She looked across the room to where Robert Collins was speaking with Henrietta Longdon, who happened to be sitting beside Mary Anne on the chaise. “Mary Anne and Robert have been sweethearts since they first met. That was six years ago. They’d be perfect for each other but for one thing.”

  “Collins has no fortune.”

  “Precisely. Mr. Farthingale forbade the connection, but despite Robert living in Exeter, meetings always seem to occur, and Mary Anne has remained absolutely adamant.”

  “For six years? Most parents would have yielded by now.”

  “Mr. Farthingale is very stubborn. So is Mary Anne.”

  “So who’ll win?”

  “Mary Anne. Luckily, quite soon. Robert will shortly complete the requirements for registration. Crabbs has already offered him a place. Once Robert is practicing, he’ll be able to support a wife, and then Mr. Farthingale will capitulate because he won’t have any choice.”

  “So Farthingale’s apoplexy is all for show?”

  “In a way. It’s expected, but it’s not as if Robert isn’t presentable.” He might be too meek, too conservative, too nonassertive, but his birth was acceptable. “That said, the Farthingales wouldn’t have expected Robert to be here this evening. Everyone hereabouts knows the situation; we all avoid doing anything to exacerbate it.”

  “What happened tonight?”

  Phyllida looked at Lady Huddlesford, holding court by the hearth. “I’m not sure. It’s possible my aunt, who spends two or three months here every year, forgot and innocently invited Robert along with Crabbs.”

  “But . . . ?”

  Phyllida’s lips twitched. “Under that careworn exterior, she’s rather a romantic. I suspect she imagines she’s easing the star-crossed lovers’ path.”

  “Ah.”

  The syllable was heavy with worldly cynicism. Phyllida glanced up—and saw Percy bearing down on them.

  He nodded to Lucifer, his gaze fixed on her. “I wonder, cuz, whether I could have a private word with you?”

  About what? Phyllida swallowed the ungracious reply. “Of course.”

  Percy smiled at Lucifer. “Family business, don’t y’know.”

  Lucifer bowed.

  Inclining her head in reply, Phyllida put her hand on Percy’s sleeve and let him escort her through the open French doors and onto the terrace. Withdrawing her hand from his arm, she walked to the balustrade.

  “Not there.” Percy gestured along the terrace. “They can see.”

  Phyllida heaved a mental sigh and obliged, hoping Percy would cut line, tell her what he wanted, and let her return to the drawing room. If she got Robert alone, she might be able to salvage something from today. Robert might be meek, but he was also stultifyingly conservative, and as an almost solicitor, he should be law-abiding. Perhaps she could convince him—

  “The thing is . . .” Percy halted outside the darkened library windows. Tugging down his waistcoat, he faced her. “I’ve been watching you and thinking. You’re what? Twenty-four?”

  Leaning back against the balustrade, she stared at him. “Yes,” she admitted. “Twenty-four. What of it?”

  “What of it? Why, you should be married, of course! Ask m’mother—she’ll tell you. You’re all but on the shelf at twenty-four.”

  “Indeed?” Phyllida considered explaining that she was quite happy on her shelf. “Why should that concern you?”

  “Of course it concerns me! I’m the head of the family—well, once your father shuffles off, I will be.”

  “I have a brother, remember?”

  “Jonas.” With a wave, Percy dismissed Jonas. “Thing is, you’re here, unmarried, and there’s no sense to it, not when there’s an alternative.”

  Phyllida debated. Humoring Percy was probably the fastest way to bring this scene to an end. Folding her arms, she settled against the balustrade. “What alternative?”

  Percy drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “You can marry me.”

  Shock held her speechless.

  “I know it’s a surprise—hadn’t thought of it myself until I came down here and saw how it was. But now I can see it’s the perfect solution.” Percy started to pace. “Family duty and all that—offering for you is what I should do.”

  Phyllida straightened. “Percy, I’m perfectly comfortable here—”

  “Precisely. That’s the beauty of it. We can be married and you can stay down here in the country—daresay your father would pre
fer it. He wouldn’t want to have to run the Grange without you. On the other hand, I don’t need a hostess. I’ve never had one.” He nodded. “I’ll be perfectly happy rattling ’round London on my own.”

  “I can quite see that. Let’s see if I fully understand your proposal.” Her terse accents had Percy tensing. “Are you, by any chance, currently at point-non-plus?”

  Stony-faced, Percy glared at her.

  Phyllida waited.

  “I might, at present, have outrun the constable a trifle, but it’s merely a temporary setback. Nothing serious.”

  “Nevertheless. Now, let’s see . . . you came into your inheritance from your father some years ago and you have no further expectation from our side of the family.”

  “Not with Grandmother making you her beneficiary and Aunt Esmeralda leaving her blunt to you and Jonas.”

  “Quite. And, of course, when Huddlesford dies, his estate will pass to Frederick.” Phyllida fixed her gaze on Percy’s now petulant face. “Which means that beyond any inheritance from your mother, who everyone knows enjoys the best of health, there’s no pot of gold waiting just over your horizon.” She paused. “Am I right?”

  “You know you’re right, damn you.”

  “And am I also right in thinking that the cent-per-cents will no longer advance you funds—not unless you can show them some evidence of further expectations—like a wife with various inheritances attached?”

  Percy glowered. “That’s all very well, but you’re straying from the point.”

  “Oh, no! The point is you’ve run aground, and you’re looking to me to tug you out of the mire.”

  “And so you should!” Face mottled, fists clenched, Percy stepped close. “If I’m prepared to marry you out of family duty, you should be pleased to marry me and resurrect my fortunes.”

  Phyllida shut her lips on an unladylike utterance. She gave Percy back stare for glare. “I will not marry you—there’s absolutely no reason that I should.”

  “Reason?” Percy’s features contorted. “Reason? I’ll give you reason.”