He grabbed her, clearly intending to kiss her. Phyllida jerked back and wrestled half out of his hold. She’d never been afraid of Percy; he was three years older, but she’d run rings around him from her earliest years—she’d grown accustomed to treating him with contempt.
To her shock, he was much stronger than she’d realized. She struggled, but couldn’t break his hold. With a growl, he hauled her back into his arms, cruelly pressing her back into the balustrade, trying to force her face to his—
Suddenly he was gone, literally plucked off her.
Phyllida collapsed against the balustrade, dragging in air, one hand at her heaving breast. She stared at Percy, dangling, choking, at the end of one long, blue-suited arm.
“Is there a pond or lake closer than the duck pond? I believe your cousin needs to cool off.”
Tracking along his arm, Phyllida located Lucifer’s face in the dimness. Then she looked back at Percy, feet still swinging helplessly four inches clear of the flagstones. His face was turning purple. “Umm—no.”
Lucifer’s lip curled. He shook Percy, then flung him away—he landed with an “Ooof!” and a clatter of limbs. He lay wheezing on the flags, shaking his head weakly, not daring to look up.
Reluctantly accepting that that was the worst he could do, Lucifer slammed a door on the chaos of emotions whirling inside him and looked at Phyllida. She was still breathing rapidly, but her color, as far as he could judge in the poor light, was acceptable. Her gown and hair were still neat—he’d been in time to spare her that much of the ordeal. He resettled his coat and cuffs, then offered her his arm. “I suggest we return before anyone else misses you.”
Looking up at him, she swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you.” Placing her hand on his arm, she straightened, stiffening her spine and lifting her head. Her mask of calm composure slid into place, hiding her shock—the sudden comprehension of her physical vulnerability—that had, until that moment, sat naked on her face.
It was not a look he had ever liked seeing on any woman’s face. He would have given a great deal to have saved her from the realization entirely. She shouldn’t need to know that men could physically harm her. Her physical safety, here in her home, in and around the village, was something she’d taken for granted all her life. Percy had violated the “comfort” she had alluded to—the sense of security she enjoyed in this place.
As for Percy’s so elegant proposal, just the thought of it made Lucifer see red. Grimly clinging to his own mask of calm indifference, he steered Phyllida along the terrace. They reached the French doors and she stepped into the light. He let his gaze slide over her, from her pale, hauntingly lovely face, over the slender frame and feminine curves concealed beneath lavender silk, down to the tips of her satin slippers. Other than her breathing, still too shallow, there was no overt evidence of any distress.
Chest tightening, he looked into her eyes. They were shuttered, all emotions locked away.
As he handed her over the threshold, then followed, Lucifer wondered if it was too late to slip out again and thrash Percy to within an inch of his life.
The emotions stirred by the incident on the terrace did not rapidly subside. Later that night, with the moon riding the sky, Lucifer paced before his bedchamber window.
Tomorrow, he’d remove to the Manor. Tomorrow, he’d start investigating Horatio’s murder with a great deal more intensity than he’d yet employed. Horatio had been killed on Sunday morning. Tomorrow would be Wednesday. The first rush of shock and speculation would have died; people would have had time to think and, he hoped, remember.
Pausing before the window, he glanced out. The moon broke free of the wispy clouds and shone down; the night was a cauldron of shifting shadows stirred by the pale light.
A figure left the house, striding purposefully across the back lawn. Lucifer stared. A low cap hid the man’s head—or was it a youth? The stride was swinging, graceful, and easy, long legs encased in breeches and boots. A hacking jacket hung to hip length. Jonas?
The figure neared the entrance to the shrubbery; the graceful stride faltered, slowed.
That instant of hesitation ripped the veils from Lucifer’s eyes. “What the devil . . . ?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His quarry was into the wood before he had drawn close enough to be sure of not losing her. He trailed her; he wanted to see where she was going.
And then he would want to know why.
He would have wagered a great deal that her goal would be the Manor—she knew he would be taking up residence there tomorrow. Instead, she turned left off the main path onto a narrower one heading into the village.
He followed, closing the gap so he could keep her in sight; the path twisted through the trees—it would be easy to lose her. Head down, she tramped along, apparently absorbed in her thoughts.
The path became an alley running between two cottages to join the lane. Without pause, Phyllida crossed the lane and continued up the common. Lucifer hung back in the alley, letting the distance between them increase. The common was open ground, and there was little doubt now of her destination. She was making for the church.
Her peculiar conversation with the curate replayed in his mind. What in all Hades was going on?
On reaching the graveyard, he saw faint light spilling from the church’s side door. Using gravestones for cover, he crept closer, exercising greater caution than before.
Phyllida was no longer alone.
A tall gravestone stood by the path leading from the side door; concealed in its shadow, Lucifer watched Phyllida standing beside Filing in the narrow porch before the open door. Both had ledgers in their hands; heads down, they were making notes, occasionally comparing entries.
Lucifer looked down the path to the lane bordering the graveyard. The lych-gate was shrouded in gloom; eyes straining, he could make out shapes and movement in the lane beyond. Then figures separated from the shadows and came up the path—men toting small barrels, boxes, packages. They passed his hiding place. Swiveling, Lucifer watched as Phyllida checked each box and barrel, speaking in low tones to the men and to Filing.
Then the men carried their loads into the church.
Lucifer slumped back, his shoulders against the gravestone. Smuggling?
The daughter of the local magistrate running a smuggling gang, aided and abetted by the local curate?
It was too hard to swallow, especially given what he knew of the daughter of the local magistrate.
Phyllida checked each item brought to the church door against the bill of lading. Beside her, Mr. Filing created a separate list, noting which men were assisting tonight and who brought what up to the crypt.
One of the men, Hugey, held a package up for her perusal. “This be almost it.”
Phyllida nodded. “Good. That can go down now.”
Hugey bobbed his head and trudged past them. She heard his boots clatter on the stairs down to the crypt.
“This be the last for tonight.” Oscar, another heavy, hulking man, sat a barrel on the step.
Oscar was the leader of the band and a solid supporter of their enterprise. Smiling, Phyllida bent to check the barrel’s markings. “A quiet and uneventful night?”
“Aye—just how I likes it.” Oscar grinned back. At Phyllida’s nod, he hefted the barrel to his shoulder. “I’ll stow this, then we’ll be away.”
Phyllida closed her ledger and turned to Mr. Filing.
He smiled. “It’s all running so smoothly.”
“Thank heaven.” Phyllida headed for the crypt stairs. “I want to get these figures into the accounts.” She and Filing stood back as Oscar and Hugey came back up the stone steps. With nods and good-byes, the men trudged down the path to join the others. They would quietly disperse, returning the ponies to their respective stables, then go home to their cottages and their beds.
It would be an hour or so before she could do the same. Phyllida led the way down into the crypt. “I expect to be busy over the next few days, so
I’ll bring all the accounts up-to-date and work out the payments in advance. That way, once you’ve collected the money, you can disburse the men’s share without having to find me first.”
“A very good notion.” Filing looked around as they reached the crypt floor. “I’ll just make sure everything’s where it ought to be.”
Phyllida crossed to the sarcophagus she used as a desk. It was built flush to the wall, with various niches carved above it, presumably for offerings. The niches presently contained a set of ledgers, assorted writing implements, and the other paraphernalia she required to keep the accounts. There was a wooden stool beside the sarcophagus; she drew it out and sat, winding her boots around the stool’s legs. Moving the lamp that had been left on the sarcophagus to a higher perch on a stack of boxes nearby, she checked that the light thrown on her ledger was even, then settled to her task.
Behind her, Filing moved between the rows of goods which largely filled the crypt. Phyllida transcribed numbers, then worked through the calculations. The sound of something sliding on stone reached her. She glanced back at the stairs. No one came down. Then Filing stepped out from one row, concentrating as he counted boxes. He rounded the next row; Phyllida turned back to her columns.
Fifteen minutes later, the intensity of light increased. Phyllida looked up. Filing stood beside her.
“Everything’s as it should be. Thompson and I should encounter no problem sorting the next delivery.”
“Good.” Phyllida looked at the ledger before her. “I’ll be a little while yet, so I’ll wish you a good night.”
She glanced up. Filing frowned.
“I don’t like to leave you here at this hour, alone . . .”
“Nonsense!” Phyllida made the disclaimer with a confident smile, although, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone, away from her home at this hour. She wasn’t, however, about to display her fear—doubtless an irrational one—to Mr. Filing.
“I’ll be perfectly all right and, truth to tell, I work faster in complete silence. If you shut the church door, no one’s likely to come in. I’ll be quite safe.” She returned her attention to the ledger. “I’ll probably only be another fifteen minutes.”
Mr. Filing hesitated, but she’d spoken realistically. Why would anyone climb to the church so late at night?
“Very well—if you’re sure . . . ?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then . . . good night.”
“Good night.” Phyllida nodded without looking up; as she corrected a figure, the light from Mr. Filing’s lamp receded. A moment later, she heard him on the stairs, then heard the scrape of the church door closing.
She was alone.
In silence, her concentration absolute, she finished adding the figures in five minutes, then calculated and recorded the payments due to the men in another five. Pleased, she sat back, surveying her handiwork.
A shadow loomed on the page.
With a gasp, she swung around—
Lucifer stood beside the lamp, arms crossed, dark blue eyes narrowed. Her heart thudding in her throat, she stared at him.
“Would you care to tell me what this is all about?”
She drew breath into her lungs—and narrowed her eyes back. “No. And might I suggest that, given you intend to reside in this village, you’d do well not to prowl around at night scaring the occupants out of their wits!” She’d started her tirade evenly; the last word was shrill. Swinging back to stare at her ledger, she concentrated on breathing. Grabbing a piece of blotting paper, she blotted her figures.
After a moment, he replied, “You might have momentarily been frightened, but you haven’t lost your wits. And you may as well tell me what’s going on, because you know I won’t leave you be until I know.”
She did know that; he wasn’t easily deflected. And there really was no reason he couldn’t know the truth, especially as he was remaining in Colyton. Shutting the ledger, she returned it to its niche. “I’m running an import business.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Is that the new name for smuggling?”
“It’s all perfectly legal.” Rummaging in a niche, she drew out a sheet of printed paper and handed it to him.
He took it and read, “The Colyton Import Company.” He looked up. “A legal importing company that operates in the dead of night?”
His incredulity was transparent; nose in the air, she slid from the stool. “There’s no law against it.”
She reached past him for the lamp—he anticipated her and lifted it. Laying the paper on the sarcophagus, he waved her to the stairs. Head high, she led the way; as she climbed she became increasingly conscious of the side-to-side sway of her hips. She scampered up the last stairs, but with one step he was beside her, looking beyond her to the church door. Phyllida shut the small door to the crypt; he extinguished the lamp, set it aside, and pulled open the church door. Together, they went out into the night.
He tugged the door shut. She felt his gaze on her face.
“Explain.”
Phyllida headed for the common. He fell in beside her, his dark presence more comforting than unnerving. He had the sense not to repeat his command; if he had, she might not have obliged. “This is a smuggling coast. There’s always been smugglers here, running goods either heavily taxed or, in more recent times, prohibited because of the war with France. The end of the war led to trade resuming, so the goods previously prohibited could once again be openly imported.”
Leaving the graveyard, she continued down the common. “Virtually overnight, smuggling was no longer, or only marginally, profitable. Selling smuggled goods became difficult because merchants could buy the same goods legally at a reasonable price—there was no longer any incentive to take risks. Most of the smugglers are farm laborers—they turn to the night trade to supplement their incomes and support their families. Suddenly, that extra income was no longer there, and the whole”—she gestured—“balance of things hereabouts was in jeopardy.”
They crossed the lane and headed down the alley; she waited until they were in the wood before continuing. “The only way I could see to help was to set up the Colyton Import Company. Papa knows all about it—it’s entirely legitimate. We pay our excise duties to the Revenue Office in Exeter. Mr. Filing is an accredited collector.”
He was following close at her shoulder, head bent as he listened. She glanced his way and saw him shake his head.
“Legitimized smuggling.” Through the gloom, he caught her eye. “You arranged it all?”
She shrugged. “Who else?”
A fair answer, Lucifer supposed, but it led to the next question. “What do you get out of it?” An impertinent question, but he wanted to know.
“Get out of it?” The concept puzzled her; she halted and looked at him, then moved on again. “I suppose peace of mind.”
Not what he’d expected. Excitement, the thrill of being in charge, something along those lines, but . . . “Peace of mind?”
“Just consider the alternative to smuggling in these parts.” Her voice hardened. “We’re two miles from a coast riddled and raked with reefs and sandbars.”
“Wrecking?” His blood ran cold.
“That’s what happened before. I wasn’t having it happening again—not with Colyton men.” Even through the dark, she exuded determination. Now he understood. Peace of mind.
“So instead, you organized this entirely legitimate enterprise.” Not a question but a statement, one tinged with surprise and more definitely with approval.
She inclined her head.
They walked on in silence as he digested it all. “But why work at night?”
The sound she made, half snort, half sigh, was distinctly patronizing. “So it looks like the men are still smuggling, of course.”
“Why is that important?”
“It isn’t, not to anyone but them.” Resigned frustration colored her tone. “Other than myself, only Papa, Mr. Filing, Thompson, and the men involved�
��and now you—know that the business is legal. In the company’s name, I organize the rendezvous with the ships—most French captains are happy to unload without having to lay into an English port. The gang keeps the rendezvous and brings the goods up to the church—”
“And you store them in the crypt.”
She nodded.
“What happens then?”
“Mr. Filing takes the signed bills of lading to the Revenue Office and pays the duties owed, then brings back the stamped clearances. Thompson isn’t involved with the incoming goods, but his brother, Oscar, is the gang’s leader. Once Mr. Filing has the clearances, the gang comes back one night and loads the goods onto Thompson’s dray. The next day, Thompson drives the goods into Chard, where the Company has an arrangement with one of the major merchants. He sells the goods on commission and the funds come back to Mr. Filing, who pays the men their share.” She gestured. “That’s it.”
“But why do the men pretend they’re still smuggling?”
“They pretend they’re still members of the brotherhood essentially to save face. They’ve got used to a regular income and a comfortable existence free of any threat from the Revenue, but the mystique of smuggling runs deep in these parts—they don’t want it known they’re no longer involved, no longer taking risks. There are other smuggling gangs still operating in the district. The gang that operates to the west of Beer is all but legendary.”
Eyes on the ground, she strode on. “When I suggested the Company, the men were adamant that they’d only be part of it if the legality of the operation was kept secret. I had to agree to them continuing to operate like smugglers.”
She shot him a glance; he sensed her contemptuous air. “Male egos are nonsensical things.”
Lucifer grinned. The woman came out night after night to spare those selfsame male egos. He looked ahead. The Grange shrubbery was just discernible through the gloom.
Crack!
He reacted instantly, grabbing Phyllida, hurling them both forward.
A long groan and the sounds of roots and earth tearing followed them down; the next instant, with a massive crash! a dead tree thumped down across the path where a few seconds before they had stood. One skeletal branch trapped Lucifer’s boots. Turning, glancing back at the tree, he kicked and the brittle twigs snapped.
All About Love Page 11
