All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Out?” Phyllida slowed. She looked at Lucifer.

  He raised a brow. “What?”

  Phyllida halted. “I suggested Cedric and Basil ask their farm workers if they’d seen anyone—meaning the murderer—about on Sunday morning.”

  “An excellent notion.”

  “Yes, but while discussing last Sunday, Cedric stated quite definitely that he’d been in the library all morning and was there when his mother returned.”

  Lucifer looked into her eyes, then shrugged. “Both Cedric and Pommeroy could be telling the truth. Cedric could have left after he heard his mother return, but before Pommeroy went looking for him.”

  Relieved, Phyllida nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  They started strolling again, then Lucifer asked, “What’s the name of the head groom here?”

  A knot of suspicion pulled tight in Phyllida’s chest. But he was right—they had to be sure it wasn’t Cedric. “Todd. He’d know if Cedric had taken a horse out.”

  “I’ll speak to him—perhaps tomorrow.”

  Phyllida said nothing. The seriousness of the murder seemed to be growing. How terrible for the village if the murderer was one of them.

  How horrible if that suspicion firmed, but they never learned who.

  “You’re very determined to find Horatio’s murderer.”

  “Yes.”

  One word, no embellishments. It didn’t need any. “Why?” She didn’t look at him, but continued to stroll.

  “You heard me explain it to your father.”

  “I know what you told Papa.” She walked a few more paces before she said, “I don’t think that’s all your reason.”

  His gaze slid over her face, sharp, not amused. “You’re an exceedingly persistent female.”

  “If your middle name is Temptation, then mine is Persistence.”

  He laughed; the sound tugged at something inside her.

  “All right.” He halted and looked down at her. She raised a brow at him, then turned to pace back toward the drawing room. He fell in beside her. “I’m not sure I can explain it simply. Not in a way that’ll sound rational to you. But it’s as if Horatio was mine—part of me—certainly under my protection, even if that wasn’t actually so. His murder is as if someone has taken something from me by force.” He paused, then went on. “My ancestors conquered this country—perhaps it’s some primitive streak that hasn’t fully died. But if anyone dared take one of theirs, vengeance, justice, would have been guaranteed.”

  After a moment, he glanced at her. “Does that make any sense?”

  Phyllida arched a brow. “It makes perfect sense.” His ancestors might have conquered the land, but hers had civilized it. Horatio’s murder violated her code in precisely the same way it offended his. She understood his feelings perfectly—indeed, she shared them.

  She halted. For a moment, she stared straight ahead, then she drew in a deep breath. “There’s something I must tell you.” She turned to him—

  “There you are, Mr. Cynster!”

  Jocasta Smollet swept up to them, flashing stiff silks and feathers. “We were all wondering where you’d disappeared to. So naughty of Phyllida to monopolize your time.”

  That last was said with open spite. Phyllida silently sighed. “We were about to return inside—”

  “No, no! So much more pleasant out here, don’t you agree, Miss Longdon?” Jocasta turned to the French doors as the Longdon sisters stepped through, followed by Mrs. Farthingale and Pommeroy. Others joined them, milling about, exclaiming at the pleasantness of the evening.

  Phyllida shot a glance at Lucifer; he caught it. Later? was what his look said.

  Almost imperceptibly, she nodded; it didn’t really matter if she told him tonight or tomorrow.

  She was threading through the guests, wondering where her father was, when someone grabbed her sleeve and unceremoniously tugged.

  “Please, Phyllida, please! Say you’ve found them.”

  Phyllida turned, and watched Mary Anne’s face crumble.

  “You haven’t, have you?”

  Taking Mary Anne’s arm, Phyllida drew her into the shadows by the house. “Why are you in such a panic? They’re just letters. I know you’ve worked yourself into a pelter over them, but truly, nothing terrible will come of it even if someone else discovers them before I do.”

  Mary Anne swallowed. “You only say that because you don’t know what’s in them.”

  Phyllida opened her eyes wide and waited. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Mary Anne blushed.

  “I . . . I can’t tell you. I really truly can’t. But”—she was suddenly talking so fast she tripped over her words—“I’ve had the most horrendous thought.” She grabbed Phyllida’s hands. “If Mr. Cynster finds them, he’ll give them to Mr. Crabbs!”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Mr. Crabbs is his solicitor—he knows him!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And even if he only gives them to Papa, now Papa will show them to Mr. Crabbs—they met at the Grange last evening. You know Papa would do anything to stop Robert from marrying me!”

  Phyllida couldn’t argue with that, but . . . “I still don’t see why—”

  “If Mr. Crabbs reads the letters, he’ll expel Robert from the firm! If Robert doesn’t complete his registration, we’ll never be able to get married!”

  Phyllida started to get an inkling of what might be in the letters. She wished she could reassure Mary Anne that it really wasn’t that serious—not compared to murder. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure herself just how damning the revelations might be—not to Mr. Crabbs.

  Mary Anne tried to shake her. “You have to get the letters back!”

  Phyllida focused on her face, on the huge eyes overflowing with so much panic it was evident even in the gloom. “All right. I will. But I haven’t even seen the desk yet. It’s not downstairs anywhere, so I’ll have to wait for a time when the upper floors are clear.”

  Mary Anne drew back, making a heroic effort to reassemble her previous, subdued expression. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? I don’t think I could bear it if I couldn’t marry Robert.”

  Phyllida hesitated; Mary Anne’s eyes widened. Phyllida sighed. “I won’t tell.”

  Mary Anne’s lips lifted in a pathetically weak smile. “Thank you.” She hugged Phyllida. “You’re such a good friend.”

  “What was it you wanted to tell me?” Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, perched beside him on his curricle’s box seat. “When we were talking on the terrace last night.”

  They were on the road to Chard, his blacks pacing eagerly, a picnic hamper in the boot. He’d called at the Grange midmorning and without much difficulty prevailed upon Phyllida to join him on his investigative excursion.

  He’d given her a few miles to broach the subject, but she hadn’t.

  The breeze flicked her bonnet ribbons as she glanced his way, giving him the barest glimpse of her face. “The terrace?”

  Her tone suggested she couldn’t recall the moment. “You said there was something I should know.”

  His tone stated he wouldn’t forget.

  After a moment of tense silence, she lifted her chin. “I have it now. I wanted to tell you that I feel just as strongly over unmasking Horatio’s murderer as you do, and that you may count on me for whatever aid I can give.”

  He narrowed his gaze on the sliver of pale cheek that was all he could see beneath her bonnet rim. Eventually she glanced up, avoiding his gaze. There was nothing to be read in her calm expression. Bowling along with the blacks in an exuberant mood and his hands consequently full, his chances of forcing her to meet his eyes were slight.

  He eyed her bonnet with increasing distaste. “I already knew you want to catch Horatio’s murderer, and I fully intend to call on you for assistance. I’m doing precisely that at this moment.”

  He got another fleeting glance. “By taking me along so I can help question the stable masters?”

  “And
anyone else you can think of.”

  “Hmm.” She sounded mollified, although he couldn’t think why.

  Who had invented poke bonnets? Any reasonably tall gentleman had the devil of a time seeing a lady’s face when she was sitting or standing next to him wearing one.

  He glanced at her again. She was surveying the fields and hedgerows, transparently enjoying the outing. He doubted Cedric or Basil, much less Grisby, had thought to squire her about, to woo her. More fool they.

  His thoughts returned to the previous evening. Damn Jocasta Smollet. She’d interrupted at precisely the wrong moment. Jocasta clearly harbored some deep antipathy toward Phyllida, although no one, not even Basil, seemed to know why. But Jocasta had achieved what she’d wanted. She’d clung to his side for the rest of the evening; he’d lost sight of Phyllida when the crowd had invaded the terrace.

  He’d seen her briefly in the hall as they’d all prepared to depart; she’d given no indication of having any burning information to convey to him.

  He hadn’t imagined that moment on the terrace. She’d been about to entrust him with the truth. Something had happened to change her mind, yet she hadn’t retreated from trusting him. He tried to imagine what could hold enough power to prevent a woman like her from doing something he was increasingly sure she felt she should. She wanted to tell him, but . . . What was it that had stopped her?

  The question went round and round in his mind but found no ready answer.

  Chard appeared before them. They’d driven straight through Axminster and made for the larger town.

  Phyllida straightened as they passed the first houses. “There’s three stables here. Perhaps we should start at the one furthest north?”

  They did. No gentleman had hired a horse on the Saturday or Sunday in question. No unknown gentleman had stayed at the inn. They drove back into the town. The other two stables were off the main street. After receiving negative answers at the Blue Dragon, they left the curricle there, the blacks resting, and strolled to the Black Swan.

  “Nah!” The innkeeper shook his head. “We got two nags, but there’s rarely much call for ’em. Later in summer, p’r’aps, but right now we haven’t hired a horse to any gen’leman for months.”

  In answer to their second question, he opened his eyes wide. “Ain’t seen any gen’leman—nought but the locals—not for weeks.”

  As they stepped outside, Phyllida murmured, “We don’t get many visitors down here.”

  “Which means any visitor would have been noted.” Taking her arm, Lucifer turned her toward the Dragon. “I think we can conclude no visitor used Chard as a base.”

  They strolled along; Phyllida halted when they reached the Dragon. “This hasn’t taken us long. If we drive back and check at Axminster, and then drive down to Axmouth and check there, then if no one’s seen any unknown gentleman about . . . well, it really leaves few options.”

  “Honiton, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. But why would anyone come from that direction?”

  “I understand the tendency to imagine any nefarious wrongdoers essay forth from London. That isn’t, however, necessarily true.”

  “Is it likely the person who killed Horatio came from Honiton or Exeter—from somewhere to the west?”

  Lucifer fell silent. Phyllida watched him. “Well?”

  He refocused. “I was trying to recall if any collectors, or anyone connected with collecting, lived out that way.”

  “And?”

  “I’d have to agree that if the murderer rode in from beyond the village last Sunday, then they probably came from the east. Nevertheless, we’ll need to check Honiton, but we can do that some other day.” Looking up, he saw a dapper little man hurrying across the street, flourishing a piece of paper to attract their attention. “Who’s this?”

  Phyllida turned. “Mr. Curtiss—he’s the merchant the Colyton Import Company deals with.”

  Mr. Curtiss reached them; he nodded politely to Lucifer, then beamed at Phyllida. “Miss Tallent—well met! I wanted to send this”—he held out a letter—“to Mr. Filing. My customers have been very pleased with the quality of goods Mr. Filing’s company provides. So rare to find quality one can rely on. I’ve decided to increase our order. With word getting around, I’m sure I can sell more. If I could presume—I know you assist Mr. Filing—could you see this missive reaches him?”

  Smiling serenely, Phyllida took the letter. “Of course, Mr. Filing will be thrilled.” She tucked the letter into her reticule.

  Mr. Curtiss bowed. “A pleasure, my dear. Do convey my best wishes to Sir Jasper.”

  “I will, indeed.”

  With a nod to Lucifer, Mr. Curtiss, still beaming, withdrew.

  “Mr. Filing’s company?” Lucifer asked as they entered the Dragon’s courtyard and headed for the curricle.

  Phyllida unfurled her parasol. “Of course. No mere female could operate an import company.”

  Lucifer smiled. “Naturally not.”

  He handed her into the curricle. Minutes later, they were bowling back toward Axminster. “Tell me—just so I don’t inadvertently cause a problem. Am I right in assuming no one other than those involved knows of your involvement in the Company?”

  “Of course not. There’s no reason for others to know. In fact, not all of the men know—most think Filing runs it and I’m just his amanuensis. I’m not sure how much Papa understands . . .”

  He could imagine. She was the linchpin, the person around whom all else revolved, yet she preferred anonymity. Her tone, subtly amused, said as much.

  Her role, however, extended much further than the company. He’d been in Colyton only a few days, yet he’d lost count of the times he’d seen someone—man, woman, even child—approach Phyllida with some request.

  He’d never seen her turn anyone down.

  The impulse to watch over people, to be actively involved, doing, helping, was one he understood. In his case, it derived from noblesse oblige—part learned, part inherited, part instinctive. Phyllida’s impulse was, he suspected, wholly instinctive. Wholly giving. He was, however, getting the distinct impression that the village took her—and her help—for granted. “How long have you been ruling the roost at the Grange?”

  The glance she slanted him was sharp. “Since my mother died.”

  Twelve years? No wonder her influence was so pervasive. She waited, but he said nothing more, content to drive through the sunshine with her beside him. And to consider . . .

  Her impulse to help him would lead her to tell him whatever she knew soon enough. She was too intelligent to hold back information that would allow a killer to run loose; he accepted that she did not know the murderer’s identity. She had a clue, nothing more; the best way forward was to continue his inquiries and keep her closely involved. Ironically, the less he learned, the more she’d feel compelled to resolve whatever matter was preventing her from being open with him, and to tell him all she knew.

  That was how to proceed on that front. For the rest, now that he’d committed to residing in Colyton . . .

  He had a house—one too large for just him. It was a family house—a family was what it needed. That was what Horatio would have envisioned. He certainly hadn’t envisioned a family, not before he’d come to Colyton. But now he was here, and Horatio was gone, but the Manor still stood along with its garden.

  The outlying houses of Axminster appeared—a welcome distraction. They were thorough in their inquiries, but, as they’d assumed, no gentleman visitor had ridden through or driven through Axminster on Sunday morning.

  “ ‘Cept for you.” The grizzled veteran slouching outside the small inn eyed him suspiciously.

  Lucifer grinned. “Quite. I drove through that morning. But you’re sure no one else was before me?”

  A quick shake of the head. “Don’t get that many carriages or horsemen going south of a Sunday. I’da noticed. And I was here from first light.”

  Lucifer nodded and tossed him a coin. The man caught i
t deftly and bowed to them both.

  Phyllida led the way back to the curricle. “Where now?” he asked as he lifted her up.

  “South. To the coast.”

  She directed him down a road; a mile or so south, a river came into view, winding along to their right.

  “Is that the Axe?” When she nodded, he asked, “Are those my fields on the other side?”

  “Not yet, but a little further and they will be.”

  They rattled through the early afternoon, the lush green of the river valley about them. The sun was screened by light clouds; it was warm but not hot. The first intimation that the coast was near was a cool breeze. They rounded a curve—at a crossroads before them stood an old inn.

  Phyllida pointed to the left. “That’s the road to Lyme Regis. If anyone came past from Lyme on Sunday morning, the children would have noticed.”

  “Children?”

  A tribe ranging in age from about twelve to two, mostly girls. He left the questioning to Phyllida, content to lean against a stone wall and watch.

  The innkeeper’s wife had looked out at the sound of their wheels on the cobbles. She recognized Phyllida and came forward, beaming, wiping her hands on her apron. Without waiting for assistance, Phyllida jumped down. In seconds, she and the woman were discussing what sounded like the recipe for some poultice.

  The innkeeper stuck his head out; Lucifer waved him away, tied the blacks to the rail, then settled to observe.

  Laughing, Phyllida gestured to an opening in the worn stone wall. The woman nodded and smiled; together, she and Phyllida strolled through. Lucifer trailed after them. Stopping in the gap, he leaned against the wall.

  Beyond lay the remnants of a garden, stunted by the sea breeze whipping across the open fields. A vociferous crowd gathered around Phyllida, greeting her shrilly; she laughed, patted heads, tweaked braids. Then she sat on a stone bench in the sun and the children pressed around her.

  He couldn’t hear what she asked, how they answered. He didn’t bother trying to hear. Instead, he drank in the sight of Phyllida with the children like fairies surrounding their queen, all eager for her blessing.