All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Bursting from the trees, he saw the cottage standing on a low crest above him, already well alight. The front door stood open; as he raced up the flags of an old garden path, he registered the fact that the door was propped open. Windows were open, too.

  The roof was old thatch, brittle and dry; flames were already thrusting through it. The open windows and door fed the inferno.

  Smoke billowed out at him as if trying to drive him from the door. He coughed, turned away, dragged in a breath, then dove in.

  His eyes watered; even ignoring that, he could barely see. Smoke curled and eddied, a tangible shroud growing thicker by the minute. He felt walls to his right and left. A corridor. Head down, hand outstretched, his handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, he felt along it.

  Wood—a doorframe. He went to turn into the room. His feet struck something; he lurched and fell to his knees.

  Flames raced across the room’s ceiling with a whooshing roar. They licked over the top of the doorframe, voraciously reaching for the sustaining air outside.

  On his hands and knees, Lucifer coughed. He’d lost his handkerchief; he could barely breathe. His lungs already felt raw.

  What had he tumbled over? He reached out blindly; he could have wept with relief when his hands closed over a leg—a female leg. Phyllida—or the seamstress? He reached further, going quicker and quicker, tracing the body, until he got to her head. Her hair.

  Phyllida. The feel of the silken fall under his palm was a remembered delight. The shape of her skull cradled in his hand was imprinted on his brain.

  Phyllida.

  The relief was so great, for an instant he stopped, head down, and struggled to take it in. She lay facedown, still breathing, but barely.

  He could barely breathe himself; he couldn’t concentrate, could hardly think.

  A long, groaning creak sounded overhead; a sharp crack like a pistol shot echoed. Another gout of whooshing flames seared the air above them, eating it up. The heat intensified, beating down on them, scorching, shriveling.

  He could no longer expand his chest. Taking shallow little breaths, he staggered to his feet, not straightening. Bending over Phyllida, he grasped her waist, then struggled and shrugged and wrestled her over his shoulder.

  A shower of cinders rained down as he turned to where he knew the door was. He staggered two steps and fetched up against the doorframe. Phyllida hung down behind him, her head bumping on his lower back. He kept his hold on her legs and shuffled into the corridor. Step by shuffling step, he headed for the front door. No point looking up—the ceiling glowed red behind the blanket of smoke that lay thick and heavy all about them.

  He bounced off the corridor wall, then half tripped and fell. He put a hand out—and grasped the edge of the front door. His head was swimming. For an instant, he remained, dazed, sick, reeling. Above, something popped, then snapped. Burning wood rained down. A piece struck his hand; more bits hit Phyllida’s skirts. He gasped, but caught no air, then frantically brushed the burning fragments from Phyllida. Her skirt was scorched, but hadn’t caught alight.

  A draft of cool air wafted to him. The flames above and behind them roared.

  Lucifer dragged the taste of survival deep, held it in, and struggled to his feet.

  He stumbled across the threshold and got three steps along the path before he collapsed again. They were out of the worst, but not free. They were still too close.

  Coughing, almost retching, he looked back, blinking his stinging eyes. The front doorway was haloed in flame, bright and hungry. The open windows were belching smoke; behind their sills, flames danced.

  If Molly the seamstress was in there, he could do nothing to save her.

  He looked down at Phyllida. She’d slipped from his shoulder when he’d fallen and now lay unconsious beside him. He hauled in a breath and felt it score its way into his lungs. Gasping, he rose—to his knees. He couldn’t manage his feet.

  Head whirling, he wrapped an arm around Phyllida and locked her to his side, dragging her with him as he crawled off the path, onto the lawn, taking the most direct route away from the house. He reached a point where the lawn sloped down toward the trees. He lay down, pulled Phyllida’s unconscious form to him, cradling her face into his chest, protecting her head and shoulders with his arms—then he rolled.

  Their momentum carried them most of the way down; they fetched up on a shallow shelf of mossy grass, well away from the burning cottage.

  Lucifer lifted his head and looked back at the cottage. Flames shot through every window, greedily licking up the outside walls. It was the ultimate death trap.

  Phyllida lay unconscious, barely breathing beside him. Still alive.

  He exhaled, closed his eyes, and flopped back on the grass.

  The wind shifted, carrying the taint of smoke as far as the common. A fire in the country at this time of year triggered an immediate response. Men came running with pitchforks, sacks—anything they could lay their hands on.

  The Thompson brothers were the first to come thundering up. Others arrived on foot, still others on horses, some saddled, some not. Grooms, stable lads, footmen, and their employers all turned out. Lucifer glimpsed Basil stalking the scene, shouting orders. Coat off, Cedric wielded a pitchfork, breaking up thatch as it fell away, dispersing it so those with sacks could beat the flames to death.

  Focused on the cottage, no one saw them. Lucifer lay still, head pounding, too weak to move, and listened to the almost indiscernible huff of Phyllida’s breathing. The sound held him to consciousness, to some degree of lucidity.

  Then the flames started to falter, running out of fuel. The cottage had burned more or less to the ground. Thompson retreated into the garden to catch his breath, and saw them. He let out a surprised “Oy!” and came lumbering down the slope.

  Others turned, saw, and followed. Lucifer braced. He waved Thompson to him; with the big man’s help, he managed to sit. The backs of his hands were scorched, as were the pads of his fingers. His hair had largely escaped, but his coat was ruined, shoulders and back pocked with burns and scorch marks. A crowd gathered about them—Oscar, Filing, Cedric, Basil, Henry Grisby, and more. Every face was shocked, deeply and utterly shocked. Clearing his throat, Lucifer managed to say, “I found her unconscious in the cottage. It was already well alight.”

  Filing pushed through and went to his knee beside Phyllida. She lay on her stomach, her face to the side. Gripping gently, Filing raised her shoulder just enough to confirm she still lived, still breathed. He eased her back to the cushioning moss. “We’ll have to get you both out of here—Phyllida needs to be back at the Grange.”

  Lucifer closed his eyes. The world was still swaying. “Sir Jasper?”

  “The Grange household left the church before the alarm was raised.”

  Lucifer wasn’t sure if that was good or not. Sir Jasper would have been shaken, but he could still have counted on the older man to take charge. He himself was not up to it at present.

  Basil hunkered down beside Phyllida. He stretched out a hand and lifted a fallen lock of her hair back from her face. His face was set, blank with shock. Phyllida’s hair was scorched here and there; her blue gown had fared worse, even worse than Lucifer’s coat. Thankfully, she’d worn a cambric walking dress, not one of her thin muslin gowns. With luck, she would escape any major burns. Basil’s hand shook as he drew it back; he had paled.

  So, too, had the others. Henry Grisby caught his breath and volunteered, “Dottswood’s closest. I’ve a farm cart I can bring up the old lane. It’ll still be a way away, but . . .” His voice trailed away.

  Filing nodded. “Yes, Henry. That’s the best suggestion. Go, now.”

  Henry nodded. He drew back, his gaze on Phyllida. Then he turned and started climbing the slope, slowly, then more quickly. At the top, he broke into a run.

  “Terrible, terrible.” As shaken as the rest, Cedric straightened; the effort he made to regain his composure was visible. He looked at Lucifer. “Was it a
bout that hat?”

  Lucifer looked at him, then glanced at the smoldering cottage. “I believe she had the hat with her.”

  Phyllida regained consciousness on the journey back to the Grange. The gentle rocking of the cart, the freshening breeze, tugged her back to reality. She opened her eyes and was immediately beset by a paroxysm of coughing.

  A large hand closed over hers.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  She looked up; through stinging tears, she saw the face that, in the moment she’d thought would be her last, had been the only face in her mind. Her last instant of lucidity had been filled with regret—regret for what they wouldn’t have a chance to share. Closing her eyes, she let her head slump and gave silent thanks. Fate had been kind—they still had their chance.

  Sliding her fingers in his, she clung. “Who saved me?” His coat was burned, an unsalvageable wreck.

  “Hush—don’t talk.”

  She heard a rustle on the cart’s seat; then Henry Grisby’s voice reached her.

  “Lucifer saved you—thank God.”

  His tone was fervent. Lucifer had, it seemed, been elevated from demon to god, at least in Henry’s eyes.

  Not only in Henry’s eyes. Phyllida squeezed Lucifer’s fingers, inexpressibly relieved to feel them firm and strong around hers.

  The hours that followed were a confusion of sounds perceived through a haze—her lungs felt tight, dizziness threatened, she couldn’t stand or speak, she could barely move, not even her head. Her eyes burned, but at least she could see—at least she was still alive.

  Every time her mind touched on that, she wept—tears of joy, of relief, of emotion too overwhelming to contain.

  Her father was shocked, shaken. She tried to reassure him but had no idea if what she said was even coherent. Jonas carried her upstairs, but it was Lucifer who lingered, leaning over her bed, stroking her hair back from her face. Behind him, Sweetie, Gladys, and her aunt rushed and fussed and spoke in whispers. Lucifer leaned close, his face soot-streaked, his expression softer than she’d ever known it.

  He touched his lips to hers. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake. Then we’ll talk.”

  Her lids drifted closed of their own accord. She thought she nodded.

  Evening shadows were playing across her room when she awoke. For long minutes, she simply lay there, thrilled by the fact of being alive.

  With the help of Sweetie and her aunt, she’d stripped off her ruined clothes, then bathed. She’d had Sweetie snip the scorched locks from her hair. Gladys had produced a salve. After annointing every minor burn and scorched spot, she’d donned a fine cotton robe and lain down on her bed.

  They’d left her and she’d slept. It had been like falling into a deep well, black, soundless, undisturbed.

  She felt a great deal better. Gingerly, she eased up to sit, then, encouraged, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Holding onto the bed, she stood. Her limbs seemed in working order. A twinge here and there, the scorches and bruises, too, but nothing incapacitating.

  A cough caught her; rasping pain gripped her lungs. She clung to the bed, struggling to master her breathing. Her throat felt scorched; it hurt to breathe other than shallowly. If she drew a deeper breath, coughing threatened.

  Once the paroxysm faded, she straightened and walked, carefully, to the bellpull.

  Her little maid, Becky, came up. Twenty minutes later, Phyllida felt human again—resurrected. In a gown of soft lavender trimmed with a flounce and a narrow band of darker ribbon, with a gauzy scarf around her throat and perfume dabbed liberally, hair neat and sleek once more, she felt ready to face what lay beyond her door.

  The maid opened it for her. Before she could cross the threshold, Lucifer was there.

  He frowned. “You should have rung. I would have—“ He stopped, then grimaced. “Got Jonas to carry you down.”

  Phyllida smiled; with her heart and soul in her eyes, she smiled into his. Then she let her gaze roam, drinking in the fact that he, too, had rested and recovered. He was wearing a coat of that particular shade of dark blue that best set off his eyes and made his hair appear blacker than jet. The sight erased a lingering worry in her heart; only with its easing did she realize it had been there.

  “You shouldn’t be walking.”

  His voice was rough and raspy. She studied his hard face, then calmly said, “Why not? You are.”

  He scowled, trying to read her eyes. “I wasn’t knocked unconscious.”

  She raised her brows. “Was I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m conscious now. If you’ll just give me your arm, I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  He did. He hovered solicitously down the stairs and all the way to the library, but, as she’d predicted, they managed perfectly well.

  Pausing before the library door, she let her gaze linger on his face. Raising a finger, she traced his cheek, as she first had two weeks ago. “When we work together we’re invincible.”

  She’d intended the comment to refer to their descent; hearing it, she realized it applied to much more.

  She lifted her eyes and he met them, his blue gaze steady. He trapped her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “So it would appear.”

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, then reached past her and opened the library door.

  Her father rose as they entered. So, too, did Cedric. Jonas was standing by the long windows.

  “My dear!” Sir Jasper came forward, hands outstretched, concern very evident in his face.

  Phyllida put her hands in his. “Papa.” She returned his kiss. “I’m feeling much better, and I really should tell you what happened.” Her voice was as raspy as Lucifer’s.

  “Humph!” Sir Jasper looked at her, shaggy brows drawn down. “You’re quite sure you’re up to it?”

  “Quite sure.” Retaking Lucifer’s arm, she allowed him to steer her to the chaise. She nodded to Cedric.

  Handing her to the chaise, Lucifer murmured, “I thought Cedric should be here—there are points he might be able to help us with.”

  Phyllida nodded and settled back. Before she could blink, Lucifer lifted her ankles and swung her feet up. Previously, she’d have glared and swung them back down. Now she just wriggled into a more comfortable position.

  “Well, then.” Clearing his throat, her father sat in a nearby chair. “If you’re determined to explain it tonight, we’d better start, heh?”

  “Perhaps”—Lucifer took the chair beside the chaise—“to save Phyllida’s throat, I could fill in the background, then she need only describe the events only she knows.”

  Sir Jasper turned his gaze expectantly to Lucifer. Cedric, in another armchair, did the same. Jonas held to his position by the windows, his attention fixed on Lucifer.

  Lucifer settled back. “To begin, there are some elements in our investigations which concern others not implicated in Horatio’s murder or the subsequent attacks on Phyllida, but to whom we, Phyllida and I, owe a certain measure of confidentiality.” He looked at Sir Jasper. “If you will accept some of our discoveries without detailed explanations of how we made them, then we can preserve those confidentialities without prejudicing our account.”

  Every inch the magistrate, Sir Jasper nodded. “Sometimes that’s the way of things. If mentioning unnecessary details will trouble someone who has done no wrong, then there’s no need for me to know.”

  Lucifer nodded. “On that basis, then. Phyllida saw a hat at the murder scene soon after the murder, but later that hat disappeared. Bristleford and the Hemmingses never saw it. It was not Horatio’s. When the attacks on Phyllida became obvious and concerted, she concluded that the hat would identify the murderer—or so the murderer believes. There’s nothing else Phyllida knows that could explain the murderer’s interest in her.”

  “Did Phyllida recognize the hat?” Sir Jasper asked.

  Lucifer shook his head. “She has no idea whose hat it is, but even though she has obviously not remembere
d—given she’s raised no hue and cry—as evidenced by his continued attacks on her, the murderer’s convinced she will, at some point, recall, and she’s therefore a continuing threat to him.”

  “How did the murderer know Phyl had seen the hat?”

  The question came from Jonas; Lucifer turned to look at him. “We don’t know. We can only assume that, from hiding, he saw her take note of it.”

  Turning back to Sir Jasper and Cedric, Lucifer continued. “Phyllida kept her eyes open for the hat—a brown one. Simultaneously, I was pursuing the idea that something in Horatio’s library was behind his death. For instance, some information hidden in a book that the murderer wished to hide. We found such information. Unexpectedly, we also found the brown hat.

  “Both the information and the brown hat led us to Cedric, but when we confronted him with both, it was quickly proved that he wasn’t the murderer. The hat didn’t fit, and the information wasn’t as vital as it had seemed. Cedric also has a solid alibi for the time when Horatio was killed. We established all that yesterday, by which time it was evening.

  “This morning, before church, Phyllida received this note.” Lucifer drew the note from his pocket and handed it to Sir Jasper. Sir Jasper read it, then, his expression hardening, passed it to Cedric.

  Sir Jasper looked at Phyllida. “So you didn’t have a headache?”

  Phyllida colored and shook her head. “Molly asked for no one to know. I got Jonas to take me to the Manor, intending to show only Lucifer and have him escort me to the cottage.”

  “But I wasn’t there—I’d gone to look for Phyllida.”

  “I assumed,” Phyllida said, “that the note was genuine, so when Lucifer wasn’t at the Manor, I went on to the cottage alone, reasoning that I’d be safe, as the murderer could not know I was out, walking that way.”

  Cedric handed the note back to Sir Jasper. “Whoever wrote it, it wasn’t Molly. She’s in Truro visiting her family, and, on top of that, the girl doesn’t read or write much above a few words. Mama’s forever lamenting that she has to make the lists of stuffs to buy herself.”