“By the same token, given the way we all go about down here, riding day in, day out, it’ll be hard to pin anyone down.”
Lucifer inclined his head in agreement.
Sir Jasper remained beside him, a frown gathering on his face. Eventually, he drew breath and faced Lucifer. “This business of that hunter shooting at Phyllida . . .”
“Exactly what I want to know, too.”
Sir Jasper and Lucifer glanced around as Jonas ambled up. Hands in his pockets, he met Lucifer’s gaze. As usual, he appeared relaxed, ready for any lark. It occurred to Lucifer that, as Phyllida’s calm serenity was often a mask, so, too, Jonas’s insouciant good humor concealed something more. There was certainly nothing insouciant in his hazel eyes.
“I know Phyl said it was a hunter, but I can’t see it myself. Ridiculous time and place to go shooting. And whyever did she burn that bonnet?”
“She burned her bonnet?” Sir Jasper gazed across the room at his daughter.
“So Sweetie said.” Jonas studied Phyllida, too.
“Why on earth would she do that?”
Because she’d been frightened and destroying the bonnet had been her way of putting the incident from her. Lucifer could understand that. For all her intransigence, Phyllida was too intelligent not to be afraid.
“What I want to know is: Is she in any danger?”
It was Jonas who voiced the question. To Lucifer’s relief, it wasn’t directed specifically at him; he couldn’t answer truthfully. He shifted; it went against his grain to keep Sir Jasper and Jonas in the dark. To his mind, they had a right to know—had a right to protect daughter, sister.
Lips shut tight against any unwary word, he canvassed his options, but there wasn’t any way to warn them that it looked like the murderer was indeed after Phyllida—they’d immediately ask why. “I saw her out walking, coming back from the church. I noticed she had a groom with her.”
“Did she? Now that’s a first.” Jonas glanced at him. “I wonder why.”
“Perhaps the shock of being shot at.” Lucifer kept his tone light. “Who knows what goes on in the minds of women?”
Sir Jasper snorted. Jonas grinned.
After a moment, Sir Jasper said, “I don’t like this business of a murderer running loose among us. No telling where it might end. I might just have a word with the male staff—no need to let Phyllida know.”
“A general increase in watchfulness wouldn’t hurt.”
“She’ll hear of it,” Jonas said. “You know she will. Then she’ll just reorganize things her way.”
“Humph!” Sir Jasper’s frowning gaze remained on his daughter. “I’ll do it anyway. With luck, by the time she learns of it, we’ll have this miscreant by the heels.”
Lucifer hoped so. Leaving Sir Jasper and Jonas, he strolled down the room to negotiate with the musicians laboring in a corner. After that, he headed toward the chaise Phyllida was sharing with the Misses Longdon.
He bowed to all three ladies. They had barely exchanged five words before the opening bars of a waltz filled the room. The Misses Longdon tittered; neither danced, but they eagerly scanned the room to see who of their neighbors would partner whom.
Lucifer caught Phyllida’s eye and bowed again. “If you would do me the honor, Miss Tallent?”
She inclined her head and gave him her hand. He raised her and drew her into the dance, into his arms. The Misses Longdon twittered furiously.
Phyllida danced well and was thankful for it—at least she didn’t need to mind her steps. One less problem on her plate. The most pressing, literally, had her trapped in his arms and was whirling her effortlessly around the floor. For some silly reason, her wits and her senses seemed intent on following her feet into some realm of giddy delight, and that was far too dangerous.
There was an aggravated frown in Lucifer’s eyes, a tightness about his lips, a tension in his body as it tantalizingly brushed hers—unquestionably all danger signs. She kept her expression mild, her gaze on his face.
“I’ve just had a most uncomfortable conversation with your father and brother.”
She felt her eyes go round, her jaw drop. “How on earth did Papa, let alone Jonas, learn of last night?”
Lucifer stared at her, then his lips thinned. “We weren’t discussing our interlude in the shrubbery. They don’t know about that.”
Phyllida sagged with relief. “Thank heavens!”
Lucifer all but shook her as they went around the turn. “We were discussing whether you are in danger. Which you are.”
“You didn’t tell them?” She searched his eyes.
They glittered back at her. “No, I didn’t. But I should.”
“There’s no reason for them to be worried—”
“They have a right to know.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t want them to know. It’s pointless. As you saw, I’m perfectly capable of taking appropriate steps, and with luck I’ll be able to tell you all soon, and then, one way or another, we’ll catch the murderer and all will be well.”
He studied her face, her eyes. “It would be better if you told me what it was you saw in Horatio’s drawing room.”
She considered it.
I saw a brown hat.
A brown hat?
Just a brown hat. I didn’t recognize it and no one’s worn it since.
Then it can’t be that that the murderer’s worried about. What else happened? What were you doing? Why were you there?
“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
His gaze remained steady, vibrant dark blue, focused on her eyes. “I think you can.”
His voice was soft, low; it sent shivers down her spine. Her impulse was to lift her chin and step back from his arms; before she could, he drew her nearer.
Near enough so the silk over her breasts brushed his coat with every breath; close enough so that his hard thighs brushed hers at every turn.
She was suddenly very conscious of just how physically powerful he was—although he never hid it, he hadn’t before projected it, not like this. Some part of her mind was pointing frantically, urging her to understand how threatening he could be, and give in. Instead, she simply frowned at him. “Not yet. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
Her tone was calm and even. An expression of surprise—as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears—passed swiftly through his eyes. Then the blue hardened. Slowly, arrogantly, he lifted one black brow.
She knew that look—could interpret it with ease. “Nothing you can do will change my mind.”
The music stopped; they swirled to a halt by the side of the floor, but he didn’t let her go. His hand at her waist burned through the silk, threatening to bring her hard against him. He lowered their linked hands, lacing his fingers through hers, and looked into her eyes. “Nothing?”
Just that one, soft word.
Phyllida suddenly felt faint. Her knees felt weak. If she didn’t say something soon, he was going to kiss her—right here in the Smollets’ ballroom in front of half the county. He would do it, and delight in the doing. Her heart was thudding; her eyes were trapped in midnight blue. She couldn’t think—not well enough to concoct any evasive plan. And she couldn’t break away.
His gaze grew more intent; his lips lifted a little at the corners. The hand at her back tensed—
“Ah, Phyllida, my dear.”
It was Basil. He walked toward them, not looking at them but surveying his guests. Lucifer was forced to release her. Phyllida edged back.
Reaching them, Basil glanced at them and smiled perfunctorily. “I wonder, my dear, if I could prevail on you to give your opinion of the punch. I’m just not sure . . .”
“Of course!” Seizing Basil’s arm, Phyllida turned him. “Where’s the punch bowl?”
She steered Basil down the room, away from Lucifer, and didn’t once look back.
Despite that, she knew he watched her—kept watching her, waiting for another chance at her. No matter where in the room s
he went, she felt his gaze on her. Consequently, she was forced to conscript some gentleman—one of her village suitors or one of the others from farther afield who would gladly pay court to her if she gave the slightest sign—as bodyguard. They, unfortunately, didn’t know they were guarding her.
One, a Mr. Firman from Musbury, insisted on fetching her a glass of punch; he left her by a window. Phyllida scanned the crowd; she couldn’t see Lucifer. But the sense of being in danger grew . . . retreating to the withdrawing room seemed a good idea. She turned toward the door—
And walked into a familiar chest.
She all but leaped back. She glared at him. “Stop it!”
He raised his brows, all innocence. “Stop what?”
“This! You know you can’t”—she gestured with both hands—“seduce me in a ballroom.”
“Who wrote that rule?” He studied her eyes, then added, “I’ll admit it’s a greater challenge, but . . .”
His voice had deepened to a suggestive purr. Phyllida flashed him a repressive look and turned to scan those nearby, hoping to see Mr. Firman or some other useful soul. . . . Robert Collins was standing quietly by the wall.
Lucifer had followed her gaze. “I thought the hostesses hereabouts didn’t encourage Mr. Collins.”
“They don’t and Jocasta’s no different, she’s just more cruel. She knows inviting Robert will irritate Mr. Farthingale, reinforcing his opposition, which quite ruins Mary Anne’s delight in having Robert here. Robert, of course, is helpless to decline the invitation—he gets so few opportunities to see Mary Anne in such surrounds.”
Phyllida was conscious that, just for a moment, Lucifer’s attention drifted from her. She glanced at him; he was studying the guests.
“Miss Smollet,” he murmured, “seems to have a rather peculiar notion of what constitutes entertainment.”
Phyllida quietly humphed. She was saved from having to find some other distraction by Mr. Firman’s return. He handed her her glass; to gain a moment, she introduced him to Lucifer, only to discover that Mr. Firman had been waiting to talk to Mr. Cynster all evening.
Mr. Firman, it transpired, was the owner of a cattle stud. Phyllida learned that that was a subject on which Lucifer wished to extend his knowledge. Not only did Mr. Firman talk, but Lucifer listened and asked questions.
The opportunity was too good to pass up. Phyllida edged away; Lucifer shot her a glance but was trapped in the ongoing discussion. Mr. Firman was not someone he wanted to offend.
Phyllida gave her glass to a footman, then joined Robert Collins by the wall.
He glanced at her—there was a painful intensity in his eyes that Phyllida didn’t like to see. He pressed her hand. “Mary Anne told me about the letters.” He looked across the room to where Mary Anne stood chatting with two young ladies. “How I wish I’d never urged her to write to me.”
The bitterness in his words had Phyllida frowning. “It’s the letters I wanted to speak to you about.”
Robert’s head whipped around, hope naked in his face. “You’ve found them?”
“No. I’m sorry . . .”
Robert sighed. “No—I’m sorry. I know you will and I’m grateful for your help. I’ve no right to press you.” After a moment, he asked, “What did you want to know?”
Phyllida took a deep breath. “I have to ask you this because it’s important, and whenever I try to talk to Mary Anne on the subject, she becomes quite hysterical. But I need to know this, Robert—and if I don’t get a sensible answer, I don’t know that I can keep searching for those letters in secret. So tell me—what is it about them that makes them so dangerous to you and Mary Anne?”
Robert stared at her, the image of a rabbit cornered. Then he swallowed and looked away. “I can’t tell you—not in so many words.”
“Generalizations will do—I’ll extrapolate.”
He fell silent; eventually he said, “Mary Anne and I have been meeting secretly for nearly a year. You know how long we’ve waited and . . .” He dragged in a breath. “Anyway, Mary Anne used to fill in the time between my visits by writing to me about our last meeting—about what we’d done and what we might do the next time—well, she wrote in a very detailed way.” He cast Phyllida an anguished glance.
She met it, blank-faced. After a moment, she said, her tone flat, “I think I understand, Robert.”
Thanks to Lucifer, she now had some inkling of what could transpire between a lady and a gentleman where desire was involved. And she had no doubt Mary Anne desired Robert—she always had. Phyllida cleared her throat.
“I used to bring the letters with me to our next meeting and we’d try to . . . well . . .” Robert hauled in another breath and rushed on. “So you see, if Mr. Farthingale got hold of the letters, it would be very . . . bad. But if he showed them to Mr. Crabbs—if anyone showed them to Mr. Crabbs . . .”
“Hmm.” A vision of the starchily conservative, stern-faced solicitor flashed into Phyllida’s mind.
“I wouldn’t get my registration, and then we’d never be able to marry.” Robert looked at her, his plea in his eyes.
She forced a reassuring smile. “We’ll find them.”
Robert squeezed her hand. “I can’t thank you enough—you’re such a good friend.”
Phyllida took back her hand, and wished she could be a bad friend. But she couldn’t. On top of that, she’d given her word. She turned from Robert—and found Lucifer almost upon her.
She met his eyes. “No!”
A violin sang—they both glanced toward the musicians. Then Phyllida looked back. She considered Lucifer, then stepped closer and flicked a hand against his chest. “Waltz with me.”
He looked at her, arrested. “Why?”
“Because you might as well be useful and I don’t want to waltz with anyone else.”
His arm closed around her and he steered her into the whirl. His eyes searched hers. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Perhaps.” She was also trying to distract herself, and he was simply perfect for the task.
* * *
How could Mary Anne have been so idiotic as to write such things down? Love-induced stupidity—that was the only reason Phyllida could imagine.
The sun shone brightly, the air was fresh and clean as she strolled briskly down the common. Behind her, the Sunday-morning congregation was streaming home. Ten paces to her rear, Jem strode, her concession to male notions of feminine vulnerability. Her aunt and the rest of the females of the Grange were rolling home in the carriage, but she had elected to stroll back via the wood.
And the Manor.
All the Manor’s household bar Lucifer had been in church, even the newcomer, his groom. Bristleford had informed her that Mr. Cynster had elected to watch over the house in light of the recent intrusion.
Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.
Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.
From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He’d been deep in Horatio’s ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He’d glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida’s destination wasn’t hard to guess.
He’d waited in the hall—he didn’t want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn’t help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio’s garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.
She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness—a keen anticipation he could feel.
He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.
She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.
She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “Good morning. Bristleford said you’d stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn’t reappear?”
“No. All was quiet.”
She waited, then said, “I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything—any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder.”
How much to tell her? “Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?”
Her eyes widened to dark saucers. “Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!”
“In that case, possibly.”
Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, “Well? What was it?”
A moment passed before he answered, “An inscription in a book.”
So she had imagined. “What did it say?”
“What did you see in Horatio’s drawing room last Sunday?”
Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. “You know I can’t tell you—not yet.”
His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. “Because it concerns someone else?”
She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yes.”
They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio’s garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.
Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn’t left hers. “Someday I hope you’ll trust me.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward the front door.
Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. “Walk back through the village. Until the murderer’s caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you.”
He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.
Phyllida watched until he’d disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off—through the village.
All About Love Page 19
