All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “So,” Lucifer continued, “someone wrote the note making sure it looked innocuous, unthreatening, but also believable. Phyllida knew Molly; we’d found the hat near the back of Ballyclose Manor. No one saw who left the note here—Jonas checked with the staff indoors and out.”

  Sir Jasper humphed. “Whoever he is, he’s clever and very careful not to be seen.”

  “Which suggests,” Jonas put in, “that if he was seen, most people would know who he was.”

  Lucifer nodded. “My thoughts exactly. It’s someone widely known in the village. That’s inescapable.”

  “So what happened next?” Sir Jasper addressed the question to Phyllida. All eyes swung to her.

  She drew in a breath, careful not to make it too deep. “I reached the cottage. The front door was open as if someone was waiting inside. I went in, calling for Molly, but there was no reply. I went into the parlor and stopped just inside the door. There was no one about . . .”

  Phyllida had to stop to take another breath, to break the hold of the paralyzing fear, to remind herself she’d survived. Lucifer rose and came around the chaise to perch on the back. He reached down and took her hand, his fingers curling over hers. She glanced up—his expression was closed, but she drew strength from his touch.

  She looked at her father. “I was about to turn back to the door. A black cloth dropped over my head. Hands closed around my throat and squeezed—I struggled, but it was no good. He held on, but the cloth was too thick—he couldn’t strangle me through it.”

  Lucifer glanced down. There were bruises about her throat, just blossoming, largely hidden by the scarf she’d wound around her neck.

  “He . . . I think he lost his temper. He swore and muttered about me leading a charmed life, but his voice was so . . . so fraught, through the material I couldn’t recognize it.”

  “But it was the same man who attacked you before?” Sir Jasper asked.

  She nodded. “The same man who attacked me in the graveyard.” She hesitated, then went on. “He still held me, but he took away one hand. I heard a scrape . . . I jerked back.” She looked up at Lucifer. “I think he hit me with something.”

  With one finger, Lucifer touched the bump behind her ear. He’d discovered it while in the farm cart. “Here.” An inch farther forward—where the murderer had been aiming—and he’d have killed her. As it was, the blow had been glancing.

  Eyes too wide, Phyllida looked into his face. “I don’t remember anything more. Not until I woke up in the cart.”

  Lucifer would have liked to smile, just a little, to reassure her. He couldn’t. “You were unconscious. He assumed that you’d die in the fire.”

  “I nearly did.”

  Lucifer tightened his hold on her hand. He looked at Sir Jasper. “I was following Phyllida to the cottage—I smelled the smoke.” He briefly described how he’d found her. “And then, thankfully, the others arrived.”

  Head bowed to his steepled fingers, Sir Jasper pondered, then he regarded Phyllida and Lucifer. “The brown hat?”

  Phyllida glanced at Lucifer. “I dropped it in the cottage.”

  Lucifer shook his head. “I didn’t see it. The smoke was so thick I only found Phyllida by touch. I think we can assume the brown hat is now cinders.”

  Sir Jasper addressed Phyllida. “Any sense in making a list of all the local men who wear brown hats?”

  “I already did that. Even with the hat in my hand, I couldn’t remember it on any of them.”

  Sir Jasper grimaced. “In that case, I don’t think there’s any point raising a hue and cry for a man who wears a brown hat. That would cover half the county. Even I wear brown hats.”

  “I agree.” Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, then at Sir Jasper. “Much as I hate to say it, we’re no nearer to identifying the murderer than we were when Horatio died. We had the brown hat—I was going to suggest that we take it around the village. While Phyllida couldn’t place it, others might. Cedric even thought it was familiar. But the murderer acted. Whoever he is, he’s clever and able to act decisively under pressure. If we’d started showing the hat around, he might well have been unmasked. Instead, he struck boldly and removed the hat, and nearly removed Phyllida, too. He’s ruthless and very dangerous. And we have no clue who he is.”

  “Only,” Jonas said, “that he probably still believes that, at some point, Phyl will remember who owned the hat.”

  Phyllida sighed. “The truth is, I never will. As far as I know, the first time I saw that hat was on Horatio’s drawing room table after he’d been killed.”

  That conclusion did not make anyone feel more comfortable. Lucifer eventually put their helplessness into words. “All we can do is pray that the murderer realizes that Phyllida is no threat to him.”

  Cedric excused himself and returned to Ballyclose. At Sir Jasper’s urging, Lucifer stayed to dine at the Grange.

  The meal was a family affair. All present were subdued, reflecting on Phyllida’s near escape. Even Lady Huddlesford spoke rarely, and then in a quiet tone quite different from her usual imperiousness. The only moment of interest arose when Percy declared he’d decided to leave the next day for “the congenial company of some friends in Yorkshire.” The announcement was met with blank silence, then everyone returned to his meal.

  When the ladies retreated to the drawing room and the port was set upon the table, Percy excused himself and retired to pack.

  Frederick moved to a chair next to Jonas. “I say, terrible business. Is there anything I can do?”

  The question—surely the first intimation that Frederick thought of anything beyond himself—arrested the three other men. Then Sir Jasper harrumphed, but kindly. “Nothing I can think of, m’boy. Nothing to be done—nothing we can do at present.”

  Lucifer wasn’t so sure. His gaze on Jonas, he spoke to Sir Jasper. “I wonder, sir, if I might have a private word.”

  Jonas rose. “Come on, Frederick. Let’s go pot some balls.”

  Frederick murmured his farewells and followed Jonas out of the room.

  His face tight with worry, Sir Jasper turned to Lucifer. “Thought of something, have you?”

  “In a way, yes. Lady Huddlesford mentioned earlier that you were expecting guests tomorrow.”

  Sir Jasper looked blank, then consternation filled his face. “Damn! Forgot. My sister, Eliza, her husband, and their brood arrive tomorrow. They come for a few weeks every summer.” He looked at Lucifer. “Six children.”

  “Although I’m sure she’ll declare otherwise, I doubt Phyllida is up to coping with such an invasion at present.”

  “Indeed, not—the four girls are a handful. Drive us insane. They tend to cling to Phyllida.”

  “Not this time.”

  “No. You’re right. Although how to keep them from bothering her . . .” Sir Jasper shook his head. “I won’t hide it from you, m’boy—I’m deuced worried about Phyllida.”

  “As am I. Which is why I’d like to suggest that Phyllida stay as a guest at the Manor for as long as this murderer is on the loose, for as long as we have reason to think her in danger. I realize the suggestion is somewhat unusual, but I’ve already made plain my intentions toward her and they haven’t changed. For her part, Phyllida is aware of them.”

  “She hasn’t refused?”

  “No, but she has yet to agree.” Lucifer sat back. “However, in this, I’m thinking primarily of her safety. After the incident of our nighttime intruder, I ordered locks for all the doors and windows at the Manor. They’ve arrived—Thompson started installing them yesterday. He’s completing the task as we speak. Once that’s done, the Manor will be thoroughly secure. The Grange is not.” He shrugged. “Most country houses aren’t.”

  “True. So little need, generally speaking.”

  “Exactly, but this isn’t a usual case. There’s also the fact that my staff have no other guest to deal with, so they’ll be on hand to ensure Phyllida is cared for and protected at all times. Of course, I would imagine Miss Sweet
would accompany Phyllida; thus, the proprieties will be observed.”

  Sir Jasper humphed. “Very neat. For myself, given the seriousness of the situation, I’m grateful for the suggestion and to hell with the proprieties. But the ladies set such store by ’em, best to do what we can to preserve them.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Sir Jasper looked at Lucifer, then nodded. “As I said before, whatever permission you need, consider it given.” He paused, then asked, “Do you think she’ll agree?”

  Lucifer’s expression remained impassive. “You may leave that to me.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Phyllida looked up, into Lucifer’s face, and waited for an answer. With her cradled in his arms, he was striding through the shrubbery. They’d set out for a moonlit stroll around the back lawn, but then he’d scooped her up into his arms and turned between the hedges.

  Her throat was still sore; despite having slept for half the day, she was tiring. She’d only just remembered to give orders for rooms for her aunt and family to be prepared for their arrival tomorrow. While she’d been talking to Gladys, Lucifer had chatted to Sweetie, then strolled up and inveigled her into believing that a turn about the gardens in the cool of the night would help her still difficult breathing.

  An image of Sweetie’s face as, parting from Lucifer, she’d turned to go upstairs suddenly glowed in Phyllida’s mind. She tightened her arms about Lucifer’s neck. The end of the shrubbery was approaching. “Stop.”

  He didn’t. He kept straight on through the gap in the hedges and onto the path through the wood.

  Phyllida inwardly sighed. She relaxed her arms. “You’re taking me to the Manor. Why?”

  For a moment, he didn’t say anything; then he stopped in a spot where the moonlight beamed down. He could see her face bathed in silver; she could barely see his as he looked down at her.

  “You’re going to let me take care of you.”

  She wasn’t sure there was a question involved. She tried to think what her answer should be. She was the one who cared for everyone else—she couldn’t remember the last time someone had set themselves to care for her.

  He shifted her weight in his arms, gathering her closer, tightening his hold—not enough to make her feel trapped, just enough to make her feel totally secure. Totally safe.

  “You have to let me protect you.”

  Those words were softer, more like a plea.

  She tried to read his eyes, but couldn’t. There was, however, no one more capable of protecting her than he.

  And she knew she needed protection.

  She’d wondered how she was going to fall asleep, tired though she was. The fear and panic that had swamped her in the cottage hovered, a shadow at the edge of her mind. She would sleep much better knowing he was near.

  Besides, if she wanted a marriage of sharing, of give and take, then perhaps this was one of those times she should give . . . and take. “Very well.” An instant later, she added, “If you wish to.”

  His soft snort suggested, strongly, that her qualification was absurd. He started forward again.

  “Sweetie’s packing your things. She’ll stay, too, so there’ll be no scandal. She’ll drive around in the carriage. We’ll be safe through the wood—no one could know we’d be out here.”

  Phyllida considered that. “Our man—the murderer—has been like that, hasn’t he? All his attacks have been carefully planned. Even that time at Ballyclose, it was almost as if he’d been watching. It was all too neat.”

  Lucifer nodded. “He knew we were looking for brown hats and that Cedric had a shelfful, and that you’d know Cedric wore brown hats. Everyone knew we’d both be at Ballyclose that night.”

  “That suggests the murderer knows the Ballyclose household well. He knew where Cedric kept his hats.”

  “True, but you mentioned that Sir Bentley was ill for some time. I take it he held court in his bedroom and that many of the local gentry attended.”

  Phyllida grimaced. “Yes, but the murderer also knew of Molly. He knew she existed and that I knew her, too.”

  Lucifer frowned. “You’re right.”

  Some minutes later, he stepped out from the trees. Ahead, the Manor stood pale and solid, a modern castle. Welcoming lights shone from the kitchen; one hung over the back door, which swung open as they neared. Mrs. Hemmings looked out and beamed.

  “Welcome, Miss Phyllida, and right glad we be to see you safe and sound.” She stood back and let Lucifer past, then followed hard on his heels. “Now, you just let the master carry you on up to the old master’s bedroom—it’s the biggest and I’ve done my best to make it seem homey. The bed’s nice and big. All you need do is lie back and let us all take care of you.”

  The eager anticipation in Mrs. Hemmings’s voice was impossible to mistake. As Lucifer started up the stairs, Phyllida looked into his impassive countenance—and wondered just what she’d agreed to.

  Three hours later, Phyllida lay in the big bed in Horatio’s old room—the bed that, unbeknownst to Mrs. Hemmings, she’d occupied once before—and listened to the deep bongs of the longcase clock on the landing send waves through the silence of the house.

  Twelve resonating bongs, then silence returned, deeper, thicker than it had been before. Beyond the Manor, the village and its surrounding houses lay sleeping. Somewhere lay a murderer, asleep—or awake?

  Wriggling onto her side, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to reclaim her. Instead, black filled her mind—the black of the shroud—she could feel his hands on her throat!

  Her eyes flew open. She was breathing too fast, too shallowly. Her skin felt cold; all warmth had drained away.

  She shivered and drew in a breath, then exhaled and threw back the covers.

  She moved quietly but not silently along the corridor, eyes open to their widest extent, ready to speak—or squeak—if necessary. She remembered the sword Lucifer had carried the last time they’d met in the dark. She didn’t know how good his night vision was.

  His door stood open. She halted in the doorway; she hadn’t been in this room before. All the curtains were open letting starlight stream in; the moon had waned. Shadows lay thick, but she could make out the chests that stood between the windows, with what she assumed were items from Horatio’s collection arrayed on their tops. Tallboys and armoires lined the other walls. A long wall mirror hung opposite the bed—a huge four-poster with curtains cinched by tasseled cords at each post.

  The rich covers were half turned down; white sheets and pillows filled the bed above. In their midst, Lucifer lay sprawled on his stomach, much as he’d been that first night at the Grange. The only difference was, this time he was wearing no nightshirt. Full knowledge of what wouldn’t be covered blossomed in her mind. She hesitated, uncertain what to do next, but she had no intention of retreating.

  She’d made up her mind, although she wasn’t sure when. Perhaps when she’d woken in the cart and found him beside her, her savior, her protector who had faced death for her and rescued her from its vicious teeth. Perhaps later in the wood when she’d heard his plea, heard his heart speak without any social glamor to shield it. Or maybe it had been when she’d realized that it was the facet of his care she found most difficult to accept—his possessive protectiveness—that had given her a second chance at life and love. Whenever it had been, her decision was made.

  Her time alone—managing alone, being alone, sleeping alone—had come to an end. She was here to let him know.

  Whether he’d been asleep or not, she had no idea, but he slowly rose on one elbow and studied her.

  “What is it?”

  His voice was even, a little hoarse, but whether from the smoke or something else, she couldn’t tell.

  Barefoot, she padded over the threshold, then paused, turned back, and shut the door. Clutching her robe around her, she walked—heart in her mouth—to the side of the bed. She stopped a foot from it. The bed was a mass of shadows; she couldn’t see his face.


  She licked her dry lips, then drew breath and lifted her chin. “I want to sleep with you.” She meant more than just sleep, but surely he’d understand.

  For one instant, he just stared at her, then his smile flashed. “Good.” He lifted the covers beside him. “I want you to sleep with me, too.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her, chased by a shivery, anticipatory tingle. She shrugged the robe off her shoulders. It fell to puddle at her feet.

  Noting his suddenly arrested state—the locking of muscles throughout his large body at the sight of her naked limbs—she shyly slid into his bed.

  He let go of the sheets. And reached for her.

  “You’ve just made my favorite dream come true.”

  She reached for him and drew him to her. “Do you think you can return the favor?”

  He looked into her face. “I’ll do my very best.” He lowered his head. “You can count on it.”

  That first kiss sealed that promise; she felt it in her bones. Warmth unfurled between them, driving out her chill. She sank into it, offering her mouth and more. Although he claimed her lips, tangled her tongue, mesmerized her wits with slow, tantalizing surges, with one hand framing her face, the other trapped next to her shoulder, he remained beside her, his body a hot line alongside hers, but not touching.

  She wanted to touch, to feel, to explore. She wanted to give herself to him and take all he would give in return. There was something very liberating in the thought, a free exchange that, ultimately, would balance, with body, mind, heart, and soul all freely offered on the scales. She turned and pressed, stretched upward against him, matching her body to his.

  He gave a wicked chuckle, one not entirely steady. Closing his arms around her, he shifted onto his back, urging her across him. She followed his lead, quite content to sprawl atop him. Much easier to explore from there.

  She took his urging as invitation. Wriggling until she straddled his hips, knees bent, calves gripping lightly along his flanks, she braced her arms, palms flat on his chest, and lifted up—so she could survey her prize.