Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Late the next morning,
Lucifer walked into the front corner bedchamber at the Manor and looked around. His brushes were on the dresser. If he opened the wardrobe, he would, he was sure, find his coats neatly hanging. Covey had been busy.
He’d breakfasted at the Grange with Sir Jasper and Jonas; Phyllida, he assumed, had still been abed. Or perhaps, after last night, she’d decided to avoid meeting him quite so soon. If so, he was grateful. Taking leave of his host, he’d walked through the woods to the Manor to take up the reins Horatio had willed him.
After speaking with Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses, assuring them that he would, indeed, be residing permanently at the Manor and that he was happy to have them continue in their present positions, he’d allowed himself to be shown around the house and had chosen this room as his.
Leaving Mrs. Hemmings and Covey to organize and fuss—which had reassured them as no words could—he’d settled in the library to write letters. One to his parents, one to Devil, one to Montague, and a summons to Dodswell to join him here. He didn’t know where Gabriel and Alathea were, so he couldn’t write to them. Had it really been only four
days
since their wedding? It felt like weeks.
Leaving the letters for Covey to take to the Red Bells for collection, he’d wandered up here.
He’d chosen this room because of the windows, the light. The room Horatio had occupied, similarly large but at the back, was shady and quiet.
Here, the front windows looked over the flower garden, the drive, and the gates to the lane, while the side windows gave views of the shrubbery, the lawns, and the lake. Between the side windows sat a large four-poster bed invitingly arrayed with plump pillows and a rich red-and-gold tapestry bedspread. Curtains of the same fabric were gathered at the four corners and tied back with tasseled gold cords.
All the furniture gleamed; the faint scent of lemon polish hung in the air.
Walking to the window facing the common, Lucifer gazed out, mentally assembling a plan, one that didn’t involve pressuring Phyllida Tallent into telling him all she knew. She could come to trust him of her own accord; he refused to seduce her into it.
Shaking aside all memories of last night, including the hours during which he’d been unable to sleep, he focused on the lane. He recalled driving into the village, halting, and looking around . . . he’d seen no horse or carriage, no one on foot. . . . How had the murderer left the scene?
“If by horse . . .” Crossing to the side window, he studied the shrubbery.
Two minutes later, he was striding across the side lawn. The shrubbery entrance was wide but shaggy; inside, the hedges were overgrown. Making a mental note to speak to Hemmings about hiring more help for the grounds, Lucifer pressed on along a path leading, he hoped, to the lane.
He discovered an archway in the hedge running parallel to the lane. Pushing through, he found himself on a narrow path winding between the shrubbery hedge and the hedge bordering the lane. Topping him by more than a foot, both hedges were so poorly tended that arching new growth met and tangled overhead. Even though the path was wide enough to walk freely, when he’d stopped in his curricle only yards farther along the lane, he hadn’t had any inkling this path was here—it had appeared that the shrubbery hedge and the lane hedge were one and the same.
Presumably the path started by the Manor’s drive. Turning, Lucifer paced in the other direction.
He found what he’d suspected he might just beyond the shrubbery. The side and back shrubbery hedges met in a corner; a grassy area wide enough to accommodate a horse lay between the back of the shrubbery and a briar-filled ditch marking the edge of a paddock. Hard by the lane, the ditch closed over and the path led on, hugging the lane hedge to swing out of sight around a bend.
Turning his attention to the grassy area, he looked, then squatted and parted the grass to study the impressions in the earth beneath.
A horse had stood there, not long ago. He didn’t think it had rained since Sunday. As the grass sprang back, he saw that some tufts had been chomped. So—a horse had stood there recently, for at least a little while. Why?
There seemed only one likely answer.
Lucifer rose and continued along the path. He was out of sight of the shrubbery when he came upon a place where the lane hedge had partly died. There was a gap, wide enough for a horse to push through.
Twigs were snapped on both sides of the gap. He twisted one free and studied it. It had broken, not this morning, not even yesterday, but not long ago.
From the other side of the hedge came a rustle of skirts, a quick, light step. Lucifer looked up. His senses prickled.
The steps halted. A small hand appeared, fingers extended to touch a broken twig.
The owner of the hand stepped into the gap.
She gasped and nearly stepped back when she saw him.
Lucifer stared at her.
Phyllida stared back.
For one wild moment, her consciousness of their kiss in the night flared in her eyes; he felt the same awareness tug, hot and strong, in his gut. Then she blinked and looked down—at the twig he still held in his fingers. Her gaze swung up to his face. “What have you found?”
Sharing would make her trust him sooner. He glanced back down the path. “I think a horse was ridden through here and left waiting at the back of the shrubbery.”
She pressed into the gap, craning to see; the curve of the lane prevented that. “The back of the shrubbery?”
“There’s a clearing there.”
“Show me.” She began to push through the hedge. Branches grabbed at soft curves protected only by her delicate blue gown.
“No!” He waved her back. “Use your parasol as a shield.”
She looked at him inquiringly. He showed her how; holding the open parasol before her, she maneuvered through the hedge without sustaining any serious damage. Shaking out her skirts, she raised the parasol again. “Thank you.”
He said nothing but waved her down the path; it wasn’t his pleasure—he wasn’t at all sure he wanted her this close, alone and private again. He had to keep reminding his rakish senses that she was more innocent than her behavior painted her. Not an easy task when he could all too clearly remember the sensations of her lips on his, her tongue . . . He shook his head. “The clearing’s beyond those briars.”
She stopped at the spot. He hunkered down and showed her what he’d found, the clear impressions made by front hooves neatly shod.
“Can you tell anything from the hoofprints?”
He shook his head and stood. “The back hooves were on harder soil, and the horse was here long enough to shift about a good deal. There’s no imprint with any distinctive mark.” He frowned, still looking down. “But the shoes are good quality—clean, good lines.”
“So it’s unlikely to be a workhorse, a plow horse . . .”
“No, but any decent mount would fit the bill.” He moved back, onto the path. Phyllida joined him. Without further words, they strolled toward the Manor.
Temptation whispered; Lucifer ignored it. He glanced at her; there was no evidence of awareness in her face—but then, there rarely was. Her face was a mask; only her eyes would tell him what she was feeling, and she was being careful not to meet his gaze. Being very careful not to touch him as they strolled.
He looked forward and drew in a breath. “Let’s hypothesize that on Sunday morning, the murderer rode here, pushed through the hedge, and left his horse waiting at the back of the shrubbery while he went on to the Manor. Where could he have ridden from?”
“You mean from which towns?”
He nodded.
“Lyme Regis is close, about six miles, but the route is by the coast, so if they’d come from there, they would have ridden through the village.” She glanced at him. “Old Mrs. Ottery lives in the cottage by the Bells. She’s chair-bound and spends her Sunday mornings looking out over the common. She swears no one rode through the village.”
Lucifer eyed her calm profile. “If not Lyme Regis, where else?”
“Axminster is the closest town, but it’s not very large.”
“I passed through it on my way here. Chard is further, but might be worth considering. I saw a few stables there.”
“Chard is the most likely place where someone from outside would hire a horse to ride here. The mail coaches to Exeter stop there.”
“Very well. Let’s consider nearer at hand. Who rides in from this end of the village?”
She glanced at him; a frown filled her eyes. “The households of Dottswood and Highgate—their lane joins the main lane back by the first cottages.”
Lucifer remembered the lane beside the ridge. “Who else commonly rides into the village?”
She hesitated. They’d passed the archway into the shrubbery; the end of the path lay just ahead. “Most of the men living outside the immediate village ride in. Papa and Jonas rarely ride in the village. Silas Coombe and Mr. Filing I’ve never known to ride at all. All the rest, even Cedric, would normally ride in.”
Stepping through the ragged entrance to the path, she halted on the lawn. He followed, glancing around. They were some yards from the main gates, the hedge bordering the lane still to their immediate right. The gravel path leading to the front door started twenty paces away.
He returned his gaze to Phyllida. “Could a man from any of the other estates—not Dottswood or Highgate—easily circle the village and reach the lane at that spot?”
“Yes. Bridle paths link all the lanes, although you’d have to be a local to know them.”
No one wanted to think the murderer was a local, yet . . . “Ignoring that gap in the hedge, could the horse have been ridden to that clearing from the other direction?”
“By coming up the field?” When he nodded, she shook her head. “That field—in fact, all your fields—runs down to the river. The Axe. It’s not far and it’s too deep to ride across without getting thoroughly wet. To come along this side of the river, they’d have to cross the Grange fields first—a lot of fields, most bordered with briar ditches.”
Lucifer looked across the drive to the colorful blooms nodding in Horatio’s garden. “So we’re looking for some outsider who hired a horse, most likely in Chard, and rode in, then out, or it could have been any of the local gentlemen.”
“Bar Papa, Jonas, Mr. Filing, and Silas Coombe. And the other gentlemen who were at church, of course.”
He’d forgotten. “Basil and Pommeroy. I haven’t checked the others, but that should narrow the list.”
Phyllida threw him a glance. “Don’t count on it.”
Lucifer grinned. He was about to twit her on the comment when the rumbling of a carriage reached them.
They glanced toward the lane, then looked at each other. Their gazes met, held . . .
Without a word, they stepped into the drive—into the open. Where anyone could see them and no one could suggest they’d been “private.”
They were standing in the middle of the drive, facing the gate, when the carriage slowed and halted.
Lady Fortemain leaned over the side and beamed. “Mr. Cynster.
Just
who I was looking for!”
Lucifer quashed an urge to flee. With an easy smile, collecting Phyllida with a glance, he strolled to the barouche.
“I’ve just heard the
wonderful
news!” Lady Fortemain’s eyes gleamed. “Now you’ve decided to remain among us and fill the void left by dear Horatio’s passing, you must—positively you
must
—allow me to host an impromptu dinner to introduce you to your neighbors.”
He’d been born in the country and lived among the ton; there was no need to ask how Lady Fortemain had heard.
She leaned forward, including Phyllida in her bright gaze. “Our summer ball is just over a week away—I’ll send you a card, of course. But I thought, seeing as we’re so very quiet hereabouts, that there would be no harm in holding a small dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“At seven—Ballyclose Manor. You can’t miss it—just take the lane past the forge.”
Lucifer hesitated for only an instant; such a gathering would provide excellent opportunities to further investigate his neighbors’ activities last Sunday morning. He bowed to Lady Fortemain. “I’d be honored.”
Delighted, her ladyship turned to Phyllida. “I’m just going to Dottswood and Highgate, dear, and then I’ll be calling at the Grange. I’m expecting everyone to attend—your papa and brother, as well as dear Lady Huddlesford and her sons. And, of course, you, my dear Phyllida.”
Phyllida smiled. To Lucifer, the gesture was superficial—mild, distant, it said nothing of her thoughts.
Her ladyship saw it otherwise; she beamed warmly at Phyllida. “Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to Dottswood and Highgate, and thence to the Grange?”
Phyllida’s smile didn’t waver as she shook her head. “Thank you, but I must call on Mrs. Cobb.”
Lady Fortemain sighed fondly. “Always so busy, dear. Well, I must leave you and spread the word.” She tapped her coachman; she waved as the carriage jerked forward. “Until seven, Mr. Cynster!”
Lucifer raised his hand in salute; smiling, he watched the carriage rumble away. Then he turned to Phyllida, unsurprised to find that her smile had faded, leaving a frown investing her dark eyes.
“So why aren’t you delighted?” He gestured to the flower garden; brows rising haughtily, she strolled beside him onto a secondary path that wound its way through burgeoning beds to the central fountain.
He waited—he had no intention of withdrawing the question. He wanted to know the answer.
After a moment, she pulled a face. He inwardly blinked—she rarely displayed her feelings so blatantly.
“Would
you
be delighted to know you were destined to spend the entire evening listening to a pompous windbag?”
“Which windbag is that?”
“Cedric, of course.” They strolled on, she admiring the blooms, he, more covertly, admiring her. Her consciousness of their interlude the previous night was still there, but had faded, receded, as they’d talked. Stopping to examine a rose, she went on. “I told you Cedric wants to marry me—Lady Fortemain is determined that I should marry him. That alone would render this impromptu dinner less than appealing, but, of course, Pommeroy will be there, too, doing his best to be off-putting.”