All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

Decision made—simple, easy. She wasn’t the only one who could act decisively.

  He emerged from the last copse and looked up; the blackened ruin of the cottage stood on the crest, still smoking, charred timbers listing crazily against the summer sky. He heard a grunt and saw Thompson grappling with a crowbar at one side of the shell. An instant later, Oscar joined him.

  Lucifer strolled up the path and around to where they worked on the one wall still standing. They both stopped and nodded, leaning on their tools.

  “Miss Phyllida?” Oscar asked.

  “She’s well. Still resting, but I doubt there’ll be any lingering effects.”

  “Best not be,” Thompson growled. “But we’ve got to find this maniac. Doesn’t look like he’s about to stop.”

  “I came up to take a look around.” Lucifer looked at the half-collapsed wall. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Nah.” Thompson turned back to the wall. “We’ll have this down soon enough. If we left it standing, sure as the sky is blue, some of the tykes would come up to play, and then we’d have an accident.”

  He leaned on his crowbar and a burned log split.

  Lucifer stepped back. “I’ll leave you to it.” He glanced around, then walked down the overgrown track toward Dottswood, the way most of the locals had come running yesterday. A little way down, he stopped and turned; eyes narrowed, he surveyed the cottage. If he’d been the murderer . . .

  Two minutes later, he started back up the slope, then cut around, away from the front of the cottage, circling through the overgrown trees and shrubs at its rear.

  He found what he’d been certain he would—and just a little more—in a small clearing tucked away behind a stand of rhododendrons run wild. He stared, then hunkered down and looked more closely, hardly daring to believe their luck. Then he stood and went to fetch Thompson.

  Thompson came; Oscar followed. The three of them stood behind the rhododendrons and stared down at the clear impression of a horse’s hooves—all four of them.

  “Ordinary-sized beast, but well set up.” Thompson knelt to inspect the indentations. He traced one with a broad fingertip. “Better yet—it’s my own work, that is.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” With a grunt, Thompson got to his feet. “I’m the only one hereabouts who uses those particular nails. See the odd-shaped heads?”

  Both Lucifer and Oscar looked, and nodded.

  “And that left back shoe?” Lucifer asked.

  “Gets better’n better, it does. I haven’t seen this horse recently, but I’m going to soon, and then we’ll have our man.” Thompson nodded at the left back hoofprint. “That shoe’s going to come off any day.”

  Lucifer had to wait until later that evening when Sweetie retired and he and Phyllida were finally alone in the library before he could tell her the news.

  “Don’t mention it to anyone,” he warned. “Thompson has customers from beyond Lyme Regis, so it’s not possible to search for the horse. We have to wait for the shoe to fall and the animal to be brought in. Only you, me, Thompson, and Oscar know of it—we’ve agreed to say nothing, so there’s no possibility the murderer will realize and take the horse somewhere else.”

  Phyllida sat in the armchair by the desk, her face, for once, awash with emotions. “Soon, Thompson said?”

  “It depends on how often the horse is ridden. If it’s ridden every day, Thompson says in less than a week. Ridden less, and it’ll be longer, but he doesn’t expect that shoe to stay on much above a fortnight.”

  She considered, then asked, “And it’s been the same horse every time?”

  “I believe so.” Lucifer frowned. “Just to be sure, I’ll send Dodswell to look at the latest prints. The others would all have washed away by now.”

  “I really don’t believe we have more than one phantom horseman in the village,” Phyllida returned. “He always hides his horse, too, doesn’t he?”

  “He makes sure it isn’t somewhere where a chance passerby would see it. That suggests the horse, too, would identify him, which makes our prospects of catching him at last look good.” Lucifer met Phyllida’s gaze. “It’s ironic. He tried to kill you and succeeded in destroying the one piece of hard evidence we had. But in doing so, he’s given us another piece of even better evidence. We might never have traced the hat. It’s unlikely we won’t trace the horse.”

  Phyllida blinked. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Lucifer rose and circled the desk. “I think we need to think of that.” Halting before Phyllida, he hunkered down so his face was level with hers. “This murderer, whoever he is, has shown himself capable of the most ruthless acts. Murdering Horatio. Trying to kill you.” Reaching out, he smoothed her hair, then cupped her face lightly. “We can’t take any chances for the next few weeks.”

  Phyllida looked into his eyes, then smiled. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. “You’re right.”

  Lucifer blinked. His hand remained about her face, stopping her from retreating. He held her gaze. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  Phyllida’s smile softened. “Is that a promise?”

  Lucifer studied her eyes, then drew her nearer. “A sworn oath.”

  Five minutes later, distinctly breathless, she drew back, tried to frown at him, and lifted the book that had fallen, forgotten, in her lap. “We haven’t finished these yet.” She held the book like a shield between them.

  Lucifer glanced at the pile of tomes with inscriptions that Covey had left stacked between the desk and the chair.

  “We might have nearly identified Horatio’s murderer, but we’ve yet to find any explanation for why he’s so interested in Horatio’s books.” Phyllida picked up the top volume and slapped it against Lucifer’s chest.

  He grimaced and took it. “As you say.” He rose.

  Phyllida looked up at him. “Have you any idea what that item was that Horatio wanted you to look at?”

  Lucifer shook his head. “That, too, remains a mystery. It’s possible we’ll never know what it was Horatio had found.”

  “Don’t give up hope.” Phyllida handed him two more books. “Not when there’s so many places still left to search for clues.”

  Smiling, Lucifer returned to the desk. “Speaking of searching, you still haven’t discovered that writing desk and the oh-so-important letters.”

  “I know.” Smiling, Phyllida shook her head. “When Mary Anne visited this afternoon, she never mentioned the letters, even when Mrs. Farthingale left us alone. All she could talk about was the fire, and me staying here with you.”

  “Perspective,” Lucifer said, sitting down and opening a book. “It comes to us all.”

  Phyllida humphed, then settled to deciphering notations.

  An hour later, they called a halt. The house was already secured for the night; Dodswell had stuck his head into the library and reported that fact. All they had to do was to turn out the lamps, collect their candles from the table in the hall, and climb the stairs.

  They turned along the corridor. All about them was quiet and still. Sweetie had the other back corner room at the end of the other corridor. When they reached the point where they would part, each to their separate rooms, Phyllida halted. She glanced at Lucifer. “You’re the experienced one. Your room or mine?”

  Lucifer looked into her dark eyes, lit by the candle flame. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that in this particular arena, the one they were playing in, he was no more experienced than she.

  Except, perhaps, that wasn’t quite true.

  He was a Cynster. He had generations of love matches behind him. These days, love matches abounded all around him. It was something in the blood, something not even he could resist. He’d grown up knowing of no other sort of marriage. It was the only sort that would do for him.

  He bent his head and kissed her lightly. “Are you sure?” He breathed the question over her lips, then eased back.

  Her hand had fisted on his lape
l; she held him near, her eyes locked on his. Then her gaze dropped to his lips. Hers, he noted, curved gently. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”

  “Your room, then, for now. We’ll have the rest of our lives to enjoy mine.”

  Early the next morning, Lucifer stood at his bedchamber windows and looked out over Horatio’s garden. The sight soothed him, helped clear his mind and focus his thinking.

  He couldn’t ask Phyllida to marry him—not yet. Not while the murderer was still loose, with her very much in his sights. The man had to be growing desperate; that gave him an overwhelmingly powerful reason for wanting Phyllida completely within his protective care. If he asked her to marry him now . . . no. He wasn’t going to risk it. He would not give her even the flimsiest reason to imagine his proposal had any motive bar one.

  She wanted to learn about love—so be it. He would make sure she saw it clearly, uncamouflaged, undisguised. Make sure she learned enough so she would recognize it instantly, so that no possibility of confusion would exist when he finally asked her to be his.

  He took a determined breath, then exhaled. His gaze was drawn to the jeweled tapestry below, bedewed and glittering with the first touch of the morning sun. A self-conscious smile tugged at his lips. Turning, he grabbed his coat, shrugged into it, and headed downstairs.

  When Phyllida joined him at the breakfast table half an hour later, a spray of summer blooms lay beside her plate. She blinked at them; hesitantly, with one fingertip, she touched the velvet petal of a perfect white rose. Then she glanced up at him as, having held her chair for her, he moved back to his. “I didn’t know you’d been out.”

  “Only for those. Only for you.” He sat. “Through one impulsive act, I’ve shattered my suave London persona. I filched the shears from the garden room. When I came back in, the Hemmingses were turning the place upside down looking for them. I’d forgotten today is the day Mrs. Hemmings does the church flowers.”

  Phyllida raised the fragrant blooms to her face to hide her smile. As well as the white rose, there was rose lavender and honeysuckle, all set off with violets. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I appreciate the sacrifice.”

  He reached for the coffeepot. “Strange to tell, it didn’t hurt at all.”

  That made her giggle. Laying aside the spray, making a mental note to set it in a vase by her bed—the bed they presently shared—she helped herself to toast. “What now? We can’t simply sit on our hands for the next two weeks and hope everything comes right in the end.”

  Lucifer hesitated, then said, “I sent a letter off yesterday while you were busy with the Farthingales. The contents aren’t important so much as any results it might bring.”

  “Results?”

  “I wrote to my cousin Devil. He’ll be at Somersham at present—that’s in Cambridgeshire. I gave him a brief outline of what’s happened here, and the names of the gentlemen we’ve not yet eliminated.”

  “What do you expect him—Devil—to do?”

  “Ask questions. Or have other people ask them. That’s something Devil does well. He’ll be discreet, but if there’s any useful information lying about the capital, you can rest assured Devil and his troops will find it.”

  “His troops?”

  “Whoever he calls on.”

  Head tilted, Phyllida regarded him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Lucifer grinned. “Devil is the Duke of St. Ives. If he wants something, he’ll get it.”

  “Ah.” Phyllida nodded. “I take it he’s a despot. Is he a close relation?”

  “First cousin.”

  Her face blanked. “You’re first cousin to a duke?”

  Thankful that Sweetie was twittering about outside, helping the Hemmingses, Lucifer nodded. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  It was obvious it did. “If you’re a near relative of a duke—”

  “Near but a long way from the title, so I can marry as I choose.” Brows rising, he added, “Not that any of us ever do anything else.”

  Frowning, Phyllida studied him. “You’re serious.”

  “There’s no reason to hold my birth against me.”

  She glared, but let the point slide. “So you’ve asked your cousin for help—”

  “And I think, now matters have reached this pass, that it’s time to inform Horatio’s peers of his murder and appeal for their help.”

  “Other collectors like Horatio?”

  Lucifer nodded. “I know most of them. Covey will have the addresses. I’ll write and ask if they can shed any light on what might be in Horatio’s collection that could have led to his murder, and also if they know of any special item he might have recently discovered.”

  “Would you like me to help?”

  “If you would, we’d get the letters out faster. There must be someone who knows something to the point.”

  Phyllida looked at him, so large and darkly handsome he dominated the room. “I should help Mrs. Hemmings with the church vases—I didn’t clear them yesterday.”

  “Mrs. Hemmings can take Sweetie—they’ll be delighted to relieve you of the burden.” Lucifer returned her gaze steadily; he reached out and closed his hand over hers. “I don’t want to keep you locked inside like some maiden in a tower, but until we have this man in keeping, you should not go out on your usual errands. No church flowers, no Colyton Import Company. No visiting Mrs. Dewbridge or any of your other old ducks. No excursion that anyone could predict or anticipate.”

  She stared at him. “What does that leave?”

  Later that afternoon, she found herself on the box seat of his curricle with the blacks trotting smartly along the lane. Despite her position, she was surrounded by male—Jonas to one side, Lucifer on the other, and as Jonas was handling the ribbons, Lucifer had stretched one arm behind her along the seat. There was absolutely no doubt she was safe from the murderer. As she watched Jonas work to keep the blacks in line, she wasn’t so certain she was safe from her twin landing them all in a ditch.

  Lucifer seemed much more sanguine, issuing instructions and explanations in a relaxed tone. Phyllida watched and listened. When they reached the end of the lane and Lucifer took back the reins and wheeled his pair, she held out her gloved hand commandingly. “My turn.”

  They both looked at her. Their jaws set.

  She ignored that and all other evidence of masculine disapproval, along with all their arguments. She drove the curricle back into Colyton and felt a great deal better for the outing.

  The days that followed settled into a rhythm—an uneasy one. After penning missives to all Horatio’s known associates, they refocused their attention on the large number of books not yet inspected.

  “It’s amazing how long it takes to do just one shelf.”

  “Indeed,” Lucifer returned without looking up. “I don’t want to know how many shelves there are.”

  The activity ate the hours; visits from others punctuated the sessions and, in some measure, relieved the tedium. Her father stopped in, bright and surprisingly sprightly—all for show, she could tell. Worry and deep concern lurked in his eyes, permanent residents; she wished she could send them away. All she could do was smile and squeeze his hand, and let him know she was happy. That, at least, seemed to honestly cheer him.

  Jonas was frequently on hand, but she didn’t count him a visitor. He was like a shadow, simply there; she didn’t need to entertain or even consider him. Others, however, proved much more distracting.

  Her aunt Eliza called with her brood, a noisy invasion. She was guiltily grateful when Lucifer, abetted by her aunt Huddlesford, shooed the children across the lane to the duck pond. Eliza remained to squeeze her hand, comment on Lucifer’s handsomeness, and set her mind at rest; they were remaining at the Grange for only eight days.

  Lady Fortemain was an early caller. While shocked by the attempt on Phyllida’s life, she clearly believed fate had made some monumental mistake in having Lucifer, rather than Cedric, save her. Beyond that, however, she was cloyingly
solicitous, insisting she would send a footman with some of Ballyclose’s damson jam.

  Cedric and Jocasta, Phyllida had expected; their newfound happiness radiated from them and made her smile. They were concerned, but not smotheringly so—their visit was a definite success.

  Not so Basil’s. He called when Lucifer had, at her insistence, gone to have a word with Thompson. Basil’s concern for her health was clearly genuine, but he found her presence under Lucifer’s roof difficult to comprehend. Luckily, Lucifer returned before she lost her temper; he clarified matters—Basil departed with no false illusions.

  They were just the first. Mr. Filing visited regularly, as did the Farthingales. Henry Grisby called twice, bringing daisies; he spoke reasonably and made no unwelcome protestations. Phyllida thought better of him than she previously had. Wednesday brought a deluge—all the older ladies and women Phyllida visited came to call, to hear how she was faring, to press their advice and cast measuring glances at Lucifer. All brought gifts, little tokens of affection—a crocheted pot warmer, a sprig of broom tied with ribbon, a pot of salve for her scorched skin. When old Mrs. Grisby herself stumped up the front path, Phyllida felt overwhelmed.

  The ladies fussed and fretted and clearly enjoyed it immensely; she could not find it in her to push them away. When they finally left, all pressing her hands and beaming their approval, she slumped back in an armchair and looked at Lucifer. “What on earth has got into them?”

  He smiled and sat on the chair’s arm. “You have.”

  “Me? Nonsense! I’m the one who takes care of them, not the other way about.”

  Lucifer put an arm around her and hugged, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “True, but unless I miss my guess, this is the first time in recent memory that you’ve needed to be taken care of. They’re seizing the opportunity to let you know how much they—to borrow Lady Fortemain’s phrase—treasure you. They want to pay you back.”

  Phyllida humphed. Beneath his arm, she wriggled. “It was uncomfortable, being the object of their . . . care.”

  Lucifer’s arm tightened, then eased. “For some, it is difficult—sometimes very difficult—to let someone take care of them. Yet sometimes that’s precisely what the other person needs most. Caring for them means letting them care for you.”