All About Love (24 page)

She wasn’t about to let his warning about the next time worry her, either. It would be up to her if ever there was a next time, and she hadn’t yet made up her mind.

Shocking, of course, but there it was. She should be swooning, not sitting beside him, calmly if warily. She might not have appreciated last night’s possibilities, not until she’d been in the middle of them, but she was twenty-four. She knew what he’d meant by his final words.

They’d been uttered like an oath. One that had carried a great deal of conviction. After a tense moment, face hard, all angular planes, he’d stepped back and let her slip past him, out onto the lawn. She’d looked back just once and seen him standing, a dark, forbidding shadow at the entrance to the shrubbery. Lucifer, indeed. All hot desire.

Temptation
was
his middle name.

And she’d felt safe, utterly and completely safe—safe not just physically, but at some much deeper level—while in his arms.

Why that should be so was a mystery, but it was pointless to cavil. Just how far that sense of safety might tempt her she didn’t know, but in all her twenty-four years, he was the first to make her feel that being a woman desiring and desired was an experience available to her.

Deep in her mind lay a very strong feeling that just as he was the first, he might also be the last.

“The intruder”—she grabbed the curricle’s rail as he took the corner into the main lane—“how did he get in?”

“There was a window with a loose latch—the one in the dining room facing the side lawn.”

“So that’s how he got out so fast.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he’ll return?”

“Not immediately, but sometime. Whatever he was after, he hasn’t found it. If it was enough to commit murder for, then he’ll be back.”

“Are you sure the intruder is the murderer?”

He grimaced. “No. But unless there were
four
people visiting Horatio on Sunday morning—the murderer, you, me,
and
the intruder—and we’ve found absolutely no trace of the murderer, then the intruder is the murderer.”

The gates of the Manor appeared around the bend; he didn’t slow. “Bear with me.” He flicked her a glance. “Bar your father and brother, you’re the only sane and definitely innocent person I can talk to about this, and for obvious reasons, I can’t yet talk to your father or brother.”

She regarded him calmly.

He had to look to his horses. “I believe Horatio was killed because of some book. Everyone knew that on Sunday morning, the Manor should have been deserted. The downstairs doors were never locked. The murderer—a local who was not at church—left his horse behind the shrubbery and went to the drawing room. He started examining books, pulling them from the shelves—then Horatio disturbed him. On Monday afternoon, I noticed three books not properly pushed in.”

“Where?”

“Bottom of the last bookshelf against the inner wall.”

Near the gap where she’d surmised the murderer must have hidden. “So—the murderer is after a book.”

“Or something in a book.”

“Could the book be the item Horatio wanted you to appraise?”

“No. Horatio wouldn’t have asked me to appraise a book.
He
was the foremost authority in the field. If he’d found something spectacular, and all the signs suggest he had, he wouldn’t have needed my opinion to be sure.”

They’d reached the road to Axmouth; he slowed and turned the curricle. When they were rolling back to Colyton, Phyllida asked, “Why did you say something
in
a book?”

“Many books are valuable, not because of the book itself, but because of what’s subsequently been written in them. Sometimes it’s the notational information that adds the value, but most often it’s the identity of the writer.”

“You mean inscriptions—that sort of thing?”

“Inscriptions, instructions, messages—even wills. You’d be amazed at what you come across.”

“So at present it appears that the motive for the murder is some information noted in a book?”

“That’s my best guess.” The Grange gates loomed; deftly, he turned through them.

“What about the item Horatio wanted you to look at?”

“That remains a mystery. The fact that Horatio was killed just after he’d discovered it is looking more and more like coincidence. No one beyond myself and Covey knew he’d found anything. Covey knows no more than I.”

“We’ll have to search all the books.”

“I have Covey doing that. He’s used to handling old and valuable tomes—he’ll be careful yet thorough.”

He drew up before the Grange steps; the blacks pranced. Phyllida climbed down without assistance. On the steps, she turned and met his blue gaze. “Thank you.” She didn’t add anything more.

One black brow arched; he searched her face, consideration in his eyes.

She smiled, inclined her head, and turned toward the door. “Until next time.”

She didn’t look back to see how he reacted, but his wheels didn’t start turning until she’d stepped over the threshold and Mortimer was closing the door behind her. Still smiling, she headed for her room. Why she was teasing him, she didn’t know. She knew it wasn’t safe.

She didn’t know if she was teasing, either.

By the time she reached her room, her smile had converted to a frown. Lucifer was focusing on Horatio’s books, which meant he’d be unlikely to go inspecting a writing desk. But he’d ordered new locks and he’d order them used, at least until the murderer was caught.

So she had a week’s grace—the time it would take for the locks to arrive. She would have to search the Manor’s upstairs rooms one night soon. Mrs. Hemmings had told her Lucifer had taken the room at the front right corner, leaving Horatio’s room as it was.

Phyllida grimaced. “All I can do is pray that damned writing desk is not in the front corner bedroom.”

Not to be
outdone by the Fortemains, the Smollets had arranged to host a dance that evening. It was a large affair with guests driving in from miles around. Many Lucifer hadn’t met; he spent half the evening being introduced and exclaimed over—he was the main attraction, after all.

While doing the pretty, he kept an eye on Phyllida. She’d arrived in good time with her father, brother, and Miss Sweet. Lady Huddlesford had swept in later, Frederick at her heels. Percy Tallent had not appeared.

In her gown of bronze silk, a simple gold chain around her throat and gold drops in her ears, Phyllida was the least fussily dressed woman in the room, and easily the most stunning. She drew many men’s eyes, yet few, Lucifer realized, properly appreciated the sight. Cedric, Basil, and Grisby—those he paid most attention to—clearly viewed Phyllida as a desirable chattel, one that, if possessed, would add to their consequence. None of them seemed to see
her
at all. Fools, the lot of them.

Her expression serene, she did her best to ignore them, chatting instead with the many others present—doubtless dispensing aid and succor in various forms. Yet she could not entirely avoid her would-be suitors.

She danced the first dance with Basil, their host. By dint of superior strategy, Lucifer avoided the reciprocal fate; Jocasta Smollet danced the measure with Sir Jasper. Phyllida then danced a cottilion with Cedric; later, he saw her going down a country dance with Henry Grisby.

Her attitude at the conclusion of the dance—that of relief that her duty had now been done—failed to puncture Grisby’s self-absorption. Less than impressed, Phyllida retreated to speak with the Misses Longdon.

From the side of the room, Lucifer watched her, and considered his best avenue of approach.

“There you are!”

He turned as Sir Jasper joined him.

“Wanted to ask—have you uncovered anything about this blackguard who stabbed Horatio?”

“Nothing positive. There’s no evidence anyone rode in from beyond the village, at least not from the east. I’ve yet to check in Honiton, but at present, all signs point to the killer residing locally.”

“Hmm. This intruder you surprised last night . . . ?”

“May well be the murderer.”

Sir Jasper let out a long sigh. He looked away, over the room. “I’d hoped, y’know, that it wouldn’t be someone from round about. But if they’re still searching . . .”

“Precisely. It can’t be anyone from far afield. They’d be noticed.”

“By the same token, given the way we all go about down here, riding day in, day out, it’ll be hard to pin anyone down.”

Lucifer inclined his head in agreement.

Sir Jasper remained beside him, a frown gathering on his face. Eventually, he drew breath and faced Lucifer. “This business of that hunter shooting at Phyllida . . .”

“Exactly what I want to know, too.”

Sir Jasper and Lucifer glanced around as Jonas ambled up. Hands in his pockets, he met Lucifer’s gaze. As usual, he appeared relaxed, ready for any lark. It occurred to Lucifer that, as Phyllida’s calm serenity was often a mask, so, too, Jonas’s insouciant good humor concealed something more. There was certainly nothing insouciant in his hazel eyes.

“I know Phyl
said
it was a hunter, but I can’t see it myself. Ridiculous time and place to go shooting. And whyever did she burn that bonnet?”

“She burned her bonnet?” Sir Jasper gazed across the room at his daughter.

“So Sweetie said.” Jonas studied Phyllida, too.

“Why on earth would she do that?”

Because she’d been frightened and destroying the bonnet had been her way of putting the incident from her. Lucifer could understand that. For all her intransigence, Phyllida was too intelligent not to be afraid.

“What I want to know is: Is she in any danger?”

It was Jonas who voiced the question. To Lucifer’s relief, it wasn’t directed specifically at him; he couldn’t answer truthfully. He shifted; it went against his grain to keep Sir Jasper and Jonas in the dark. To his mind, they had a right to know—had a right to protect daughter, sister.

Lips shut tight against any unwary word, he canvassed his options, but there wasn’t any way to warn them that it looked like the murderer was indeed after Phyllida—they’d immediately ask why. “I saw her out walking, coming back from the church. I noticed she had a groom with her.”

“Did she? Now that’s a first.” Jonas glanced at him. “I wonder why.”

“Perhaps the shock of being shot at.” Lucifer kept his tone light. “Who knows what goes on in the minds of women?”

Sir Jasper snorted. Jonas grinned.

After a moment, Sir Jasper said, “I don’t like this business of a murderer running loose among us. No telling where it might end. I might just have a word with the male staff—no need to let Phyllida know.”

“A general increase in watchfulness wouldn’t hurt.”

“She’ll hear of it,” Jonas said. “You know she will. Then she’ll just reorganize things her way.”

“Humph!” Sir Jasper’s frowning gaze remained on his daughter. “I’ll do it anyway. With luck, by the time she learns of it, we’ll have this miscreant by the heels.”

Lucifer hoped so. Leaving Sir Jasper and Jonas, he strolled down the room to negotiate with the musicians laboring in a corner. After that, he headed toward the
chaise
Phyllida was sharing with the Misses Longdon.

He bowed to all three ladies. They had barely exchanged five words before the opening bars of a waltz filled the room. The Misses Longdon tittered; neither danced, but they eagerly scanned the room to see who of their neighbors would partner whom.

Lucifer caught Phyllida’s eye and bowed again. “If you would do me the honor, Miss Tallent?”

She inclined her head and gave him her hand. He raised her and drew her into the dance, into his arms. The Misses Longdon twittered furiously.

Phyllida danced well and was thankful for it—at least she didn’t need to mind her steps. One less problem on her plate. The most pressing, literally, had her trapped in his arms and was whirling her effortlessly around the floor. For some silly reason, her wits and her senses seemed intent on following her feet into some realm of giddy delight, and that was far too dangerous.

There was an aggravated frown in Lucifer’s eyes, a tightness about his lips, a tension in his body as it tantalizingly brushed hers—unquestionably all danger signs. She kept her expression mild, her gaze on his face.

“I’ve just had a most
uncomfortable
conversation with your father and brother.”

She felt her eyes go round, her jaw drop. “How on earth did Papa, let alone Jonas, learn of last night?”

Lucifer stared at her, then his lips thinned. “We weren’t discussing our interlude in the shrubbery. They don’t know about that.”

Phyllida sagged with relief. “Thank heavens!”

Lucifer all but shook her as they went around the turn. “We were discussing whether you are in danger. Which you are.”

“You didn’t tell them?” She searched his eyes.

They glittered back at her. “No, I didn’t. But I should.”

“There’s no reason for them to be worried—”

“They have a right to know.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t want them to know. It’s pointless. As you saw, I’m perfectly capable of taking appropriate steps, and with luck I’ll be able to tell you all soon, and then, one way or another, we’ll catch the murderer and all will be well.”