Authors: Stephanie Laurens
“Why off-putting?”
“Because he
doesn’t
want Cedric to marry me.”
“Pommeroy wants to marry you, too?”
She smiled. “No—it’s simpler. Pommeroy doesn’t want Cedric to marry at all. There’s fifteen years between them—Pommeroy therefore has expectations that Cedric’s long bachelorhood have fueled.”
“Ah.”
They wandered on through the garden; Lucifer said nothing more. Her tone whenever they touched on the subject of marriage grated, although why he, of all men, should feel compelled to defend the institution was difficult to comprehend. Or, more to the point, he didn’t want to comprehend the reasons behind the impulse, to study his motives too closely. Yet the fact remained.
Courtesy of her self-centered suitors, she’d developed a cynical, not to say negative, view of marriage that seemed considerably more cynical and deeply entrenched than his own. He, at least, knew all marriages were not like those offered her. Did she? “When did your mother die?”
Halting by the fountain, she blinked at him. “When I was twelve. Why?”
He shrugged. “I just wondered.”
She bent to sniff a burst of lavender spikes. Leaning one shoulder against the fountain’s rim, he watched her.
After a moment, he said, “This garden . . .”
She glanced up at him, her face shaded by her parasol, her expression serene yet interested, eyes dark, unknown and unknowing . . .
That dark gaze caught him. She was aware of him, yet so . . . innocent of all else. All that she had a right to know, to experience—all she deserved to enjoy.
“I haven’t any idea how to . . . manage it.” He heard his words as if from a distance.
She smiled and straightened. He pushed away from the fountain.
Turning toward the gate, she gestured to the glorious displays on all sides. “It isn’t that hard.” Pausing beneath a delicate arch covered with rioting white roses, she looked back at him. Her smile curved her lips, still warmed her eyes. “Horatio learned how—I’m sure you could, too. If you truly wished to.”
Lucifer halted beside her; for a long moment, he looked into her eyes. Her dark gaze was direct, open, honest—assured and confident and also so aware. A bare inch of air was all that separated his body from hers, nevertheless, she stood, a serene goddess as yet untouched, certain, not of his control, but hers. “If I were to ask, would you help me?”
His voice had deepened, his tone almost rough. Tilting her head, she studied his eyes. Her answer, when it came, was considered. “Yes. Of course.” Smoothly, she turned away. “You have only to ask.”
Lucifer stood beneath the arch watching her hips sway as she headed for the gate. Then he stirred and followed.
Lady Fortemain’s dinner proved more interesting than Phyllida had expected, even if, for the most part, she was relegated to the status of mere observer. From the side of the Ballyclose drawing room to which she’d retreated to escape Cedric’s patronizing possessiveness, she watched Lucifer move gracefully through the gathering.
At dinner, she’d been seated at Cedric’s right at one end of the long table; Lucifer had been guest of honor at the other end, beside their hostess. He’d returned to the drawing room with the rest of the gentlemen a good half hour ago. Since then, he’d been on the prowl, indefatigably hunting, yet no one seemed defensive in the least.
He would pause beside a group of gentlemen and, with some question or comment, neatly cut his quarry from the pack. A few questions, a smile, perhaps a joke and a laugh; having got what he wanted, he’d let them return to the group and he’d move on, an easy smile, his elegantly charming air, masking his intent. Why they couldn’t sense it, she did not know; even from across the room, his concentration reached her.
Then again, she knew what it felt like to be stalked by him, to be the focus of that intensely blue gaze. She hadn’t expected to meet him that morning; throughout the interlude, she’d waited for him to pounce, to once again ask what she knew of the murder. She’d hoped he wouldn’t, that he wouldn’t mar the moment—the odd sense of ease, of shared purpose, that seemed to be growing between them. To her considerable surprise, he’d walked her to the garden gate, held it open, and let her escape with nothing more than a simple good-bye.
Perhaps he, too, hadn’t wanted to disturb the closeness that had enveloped them in Horatio’s garden. His garden now.
She watched him weave through the other guests. That sense of closeness puzzled and intrigued her. Lifting her head, she considered the other gentlemen—all her prospective suitors and the others from the village—all men she’d known most of her life; the exercise only emphasized the oddity. She’d known Lucifer for a handful of days, yet she felt more comfortable with him, less inhibited, infinitely freer to be herself. With him she could be open, could speak her mind without any mask, any concession to society. That he saw through her mask had certainly contributed to that, but it wasn’t the whole explanation.
Jonas was the only other person she felt that comfortable with, yet not by the wildest stretch of her imagination could she equate the way she reacted to Lucifer with her all but nonreaction to her twin. Jonas was simply there, like some male version of herself. She never wasted a moment wondering what Jonas was thinking—she simply knew.
She also never worried about Jonas—he could take care of himself. Lucifer was similarly capable. The same could not be said of anyone else in the room. Perhaps it was that—that she considered Lucifer an equal—that made her feel so at ease with him?
Inwardly shaking her head, she watched him prowl the room. Sometimes she could tell what he was thinking; at other times—like in the garden this morning—the workings of his mind became a mystery, one she itched to solve. Regardless of the danger she knew that might entail.
Putting out a hand, Mrs. Farthingale stopped him. He paused, smiling easily, exchanged some glib quip that had her laughing, then smoothly moved on. As far as Phyllida could tell, his sights were set on Pommeroy.
She left him to it, turning to greet Basil as he strolled to her side.
“Well.” Taking a position beside her, Basil scanned the room. “There are some who are now wishing they’d been more regular in their devotions.”
“Oh?”
“I overheard Cedric speaking with Mr. Cynster—they were discussing estate management and Cedric mentioned he’d started using Sunday mornings to tackle his accounts.”
“Cedric wasn’t at church last Sunday?”
Basil shook his head. His gaze shifted to Lucifer. “I have to say, I’m quite impressed with Cynster. I suspect he’s gathering information as to who might have killed Horatio. Thankless task, of course, but his devotion does him credit. Most would accept the inheritance and let be. Nothing to do with him, after all.”
Phyllida viewed Lucifer with increasing appreciation. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn’t pursue the murderer, yet Basil was right. Most men would have shrugged and let be. Indeed, she suspected Basil would have shrugged and let be, and Basil was the most morally upright of her suitors.
At no time had she doubted Lucifer’s resolve. He’d called Horatio friend and she’d known without question that he valued friendship highly. He was that sort of man—an honorable man.
Inwardly, she grimaced. She wasn’t, to her mind, acting honorably at present—she was caught on the prongs of an honor-induced dilemma, damned if she did and damned if she didn’t.
“Is Lady Huddlesford planning a long stay?”
Phyllida replied; conversing with Basil was always stultifying, given there was no chance of any challenging surprise. Mundane topics were Basil’s specialty, but at least he was innocuous.
That changed when Cedric came charging up, much in the manner of a lowering bull. His short neck contributed to the unflattering image.
“I say, come and talk to Mama.” Cedric grasped her elbow. “She’s on the
chaise
.”
Phyllida stood her ground despite his tug. “Did Lady Fortemain ask to speak with me?”
Cedric’s face darkened. “No, but she’s always pleased to speak with you.”
“I daresay.” Basil’s expression turned as haughty as his sister’s. “Miss Tallent, however, might prefer to converse with someone who actually wishes to converse with her.”
Miss Tallent would prefer an empty room
. Phyllida swallowed the words. “Cedric, what were you doing last Sunday morning?”
Cedric blinked at her. “Sunday? While Horatio was being murdered?”
“Yes.” Phyllida waited. Cedric responded well to directness. Subtlety was entirely beyond him.
He glanced at Basil, then back at her. “I was doing the accounts.” He paused, then added, “In the library.”
“So you were in the library at Ballyclose all morning?”
He nodded, his gaze straying to Basil. “From before Mama left until after she got home.”
Phyllida artfully sighed. “So you couldn’t have seen anything.”
“Seen what?”
“Why, whatever there was to be seen. The murderer must have slipped away somehow.” She glanced at Basil. “You were in church.” She looked from one to the other. “Of course, you do both hire laborers who might have been out and about—or their children. Papa would be very grateful for any information.”
“I hadn’t considered that.” Basil drew himself up. “I’ll ask around tomorrow.”
“So will I,” Cedric growled.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must have a word with Mary Anne.” Phyllida left Basil and Cedric scowling at each other. If any of their farm workers had seen anything useful, she could be assured they would learn of it and come to lay the information at her feet.
She’d glimpsed Mary Anne and definitely wanted to speak to her, but Mary Anne didn’t want to be spoken to. Short of chasing her around the room, there was nothing Phyllida could do. Robert had returned to Exeter. Halting, she considered the crowd, wondering who else she might conscript. Would anything be gained by enlisting the ladies of the village?
“Miss Tallent. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you.”
Whirling, Phyllida came face-to-face with Henry Grisby. “Good evening, Mr. Grisby.” She inwardly sighed; she’d managed to avoid him thus far.
Henry bowed. “My mother sends her greetings. She heard about the recipe for gooseberry tart that you gave the Misses Longdon. Mama wondered if you’d be so kind as to share the recipe with her.”
“Of course.” Phyllida added it to her mental list. Recipe for cough syrup for Mrs. Farthingale; speak to Betsy Miller, one of Cedric’s tenants who Lady Fortemain believed was having difficulties; recipe for Mrs. Grisby; letters for Mary Anne; one murderer for Lucifer.
Henry tried to catch her eye. “My mother would be deeply honored if you would call at Dottswood.”
Phyllida looked at him. Henry’s eyes met hers, then slid away. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Henry.”
He
would be deeply honored; Mrs. Grisby would not.
He regarded her challengingly. “You call at Ballyclose and Highgate.”
“To visit with Lady Fortemain and old Mrs. Smollet, both of whom have known me from the cradle.”
“My mother’s lived here all your life, too.”
“Yes, but . . .” Phyllida searched for a polite way to point out that Mrs. Grisby, at present, was not pleased with her. Mrs. Grisby, who rarely ventured beyond Dottswood Farm and therefore relied on Henry for her view of village life, was intractably opposed to Phyllida marrying Henry. Being Henry’s mother, it had not occurred to her that Phyllida was of a similar mind. In the end, Phyllida simply looked Henry in the eye and said, “You know perfectly well your mother would not be pleased if I called.”
“She would be pleased if you accepted my proposal.”
Another lie. “Henry—”
“No—listen. You’re twenty-four. It’s a good age for a woman to marry—”
“My cousin informed me just yesterday that at twenty-four, I was firmly on the shelf.” Percy might as well be useful for something.
Henry scowled. “He’s got rocks in his head.”
“The pertinent point you fail to grasp, Henry—you and Cedric and Basil, too—is that I intend to cling to my shelf for all I am worth. I like it there. I am not going to marry you or Cedric or Basil. If you could all regard me as an old maid, it would simplify matters considerably.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Phyllida sighed. “Never mind. I’m prepared to wait you out.”
“Ah, Mr. Grisby.”
Phyllida turned to find Lucifer almost upon them. His dark blue eyes met hers; a rush of prickling warmth washed over her skin. Halting beside her, he looked at Grisby and smiled—like a leopard eyeing his next meal. “I understand,” he purred, “that you’ve been agisting on some of the Manor’s fields.”
It was clear Henry would have preferred to scowl; instead, he nodded stiffly. “I keep part of my herd on some of the higher fields.”
“The fields overlooking the river meadows? I see. Tell me, how often do you shift the herd?”
Despite Henry’s resistance, Lucifer extracted the information that Henry’s herds had been rotated last on Saturday; on Sunday, both Henry and his herdsman had worked in his barns. The questions were sufficiently oblique that Henry didn’t recognize their intent.
He still glowered; he had not expressed any great joy at the news that Lucifer was to join their small community.
Henry’s visual daggers bounced harmlessly off Lucifer’s charm. He glanced at her. “I wonder, Miss Tallent, if I might avail myself of your understanding of the village. A small matter of traditions.” He looked at Henry. “I’m sure Mr. Grisby will excuse us.”
Left with no choice, Henry gave an exceedingly stiff bow and pressed her fingers too fervently. Phyllida tugged her hand free and placed it on Lucifer’s sleeve. He led her away, strolling easily. She glanced up at him. “On what subject did you wish to ask my advice?”
He smiled down at her. “That was a ruse to whisk you away from Grisby.”
Phyllida wondered if she should frown. “Why?”
He stopped before the French doors that opened to the terrace. “I thought you might be in need of some fresh air.”
He was right; the night air outside was wonderfully balmy, warm against her skin. The terraces at Ballyclose were handsome and wide; they ran around three sides of the house. Lucifer and Phyllida strolled through the twilight.