Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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.”
Phyllida turned her head and looked up at him. His dark blue eyes met hers without guile. Then his lips curved, not teasing but inviting her to laugh with him—the joke, after all, was on them.
There was a bustle in the hall, Mrs. Hemmings coming to clear the tea tray. Lucifer lifted one hand, tapped a finger to the tip of her nose, then rose and left her.
Day followed day. Despite the activities that filled their time, there was an inescapable sense of waiting for something to happen—for that horseshoe to fall. It was as if they were living through some hiatus, the dead calm before a storm. As the week lengthened, the tension grew.
On Friday, a packet arrived with “St. Ives” boldly scrawled across one corner. Seated at his desk behind a stack of tomes, Lucifer broke the seal. Phyllida watched as he spread out the sheets, many more than one.
He read the first, started on the second, then stopped. Refolding the second and subsequent sheets, he slipped them into his pocket, leaving the first sheet on the blotter. “It’s a progress report from Devil. He’s got Montague following up the names I sent.” Lucifer glanced at Phyllida. “Montague’s the family’s man of business. He’s exceedingly thorough. If there’s anything to be learned in the City, he’ll find it.”
Lucifer looked back at the note. “At first sounding, however, the names rang no bells. Devil has recruited one of my other cousins—Harry, better known as Demon. He was kicking his heels down in Kent with his older brother, so Devil sent him word and Demon’s now in London, haunting the taverns off Whitehall, looking up all our ex-guardsmen friends.”
“Why the Guards?” Phyllida asked.
“Not the Guards. He wasn’t a guardsman.”
“Who? Appleby?”
“He’s one of the men we have to check on.”
“But—”
“But you decided he wasn’t the murderer because he should have been in the ballroom doing his duty in Cedric’s place while we were dodging the murderer upstairs?”
Phyllida grimaced. “I suppose you’re going to say that’s an assumption, and as we don’t
know
he was in the ballroom, then he might have been the villain?”
“There’s also the fact that the note from Molly looked as if a female had written it. That it was supposed to be labored over helped, but not many men would have thought of it.”
“But someone who spent his life writing and reading letters might have thought of it.”
“Precisely.”
“Why were you so sure Appleby was in the army?”
“It’s his stance, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he bows. It’s something learned, and the place you learn it is on the drill field. I’d wager he was in the infantry.”
“So, again: Why the Guards?”
“Ex-Guards. Plenty of those about who served with us at Waterloo. They’re now secretaries and aides-de-camp to the generals and commanders. They’re the ones with access to the records. Demon will find out which regiment Appleby served with, and who his immediate superior was, and have a chat with the man. If he says Appleby’s straight as an arrow, we’ll have at least learned that much.”
Phyllida studied Lucifer’s face. “You think it’s him.”
Lucifer grimaced. “I think the murderer has shown an odd combination of planning carefully, acting ruthlessly, but being so cautious, his caution has interfered with his success. When things go wrong, he doesn’t lose his nerve. He acts, but he misses opportunities and doesn’t quite succeed in his purpose.”
He swiveled to face her. “That’s a good description of the characteristics of a regimented foot soldier, one who’s reasonably clever. They always have a plan; they don’t like operating extemporaneously. They’re cautious. And although they don’t lose their nerve when things go wrong, their responses aren’t always the most likely to succeed—because they haven’t had time to plan.”
“You sound like you know a lot about soldiering.”
“I
saw
a lot of soldiering—a lot of infantry fighting—at Waterloo.”
She remembered the saber. “You were in the cavalry.”
He nodded. “We played by different rules—following plans was never our forte. Making it up as we went was much more our style.”
“Why couldn’t it be Basil? He’s cautious.”
“He was in church when Horatio was murdered, but I’m not taking any chances and assuming it’s Appleby.” Lucifer caught Phyllida’s gaze. “With luck, we’ll have proof of who it is soon enough.”
By Sunday night, she felt wound tight—waiting for that proof to arrive. Lucifer understood. In that peaceful hour after the sun had set but darkness had yet to descend, he drew her outside to stroll in the scented sweetness of Horatio’s garden.
Her hand in his, she walked beside him down the gravel paths. Apart from the main ones from the gate and the side of the house to the front door, there were many others winding through the carefully tended beds.
“He might be out there.” Phyllida looked at the shadows deepening beyond the trees.
“He isn’t. We don’t make a habit of walking in the garden of an evening.”
“We don’t make a habit of anything anymore—“ Phyllida caught herself and amended, “Not outside.”
Lucifer laughed; the sound was like a warm hand sliding comfortingly down her back, an invitation to relax. Phyllida breathed deeply—the scent of night stock wreathed around them. “He hasn’t gone away.”
“No.”
They knew that because, just that morning, Dodswell had reported that someone had tried to force the dining room window, the one that used to have a faulty latch. They’d all gone to look, even Sweetie. There’d been scrapes on the window frame and gouges in the earth where the man’s heels had dug in, but no clear footprints.
Phyllida exhaled, long and slow. “It’s been a week.”
“Only a week—Thompson said it might take two.” Lucifer drew her closer and turned down another path. “Did you read Honoria’s missive?”
The rest of the packet that had come from the duke had proved to be a long letter from the duchess to her. Lucifer had remembered to give it to her after they’d discovered the attempted break-in. Given what Honoria had written, she had to wonder if he would otherwise have “remembered” it at all.
It had certainly distracted her. Honoria had opened by saying that she realized she might be a trifle precipitate in welcoming her to the family, but if they were so unwise as to live their lives according to their menfolk’s whims . . . from there, the letter had got only more interesting. Phyllida smiled. “You have a fascinating family.”
“A big one, certainly, especially if you add all the connections.”
“You mentioned a brother—Gabriel.”
“He’s a year older than me.” Lucifer glanced at her as they strolled. “He got married a few weeks ago—the day before I arrived here.”
“The day before?”
“Hmm. Gabriel and Alathea—we used to be a threesome when we were young. When they married and left London, I felt like they’d gone off on some adventure and left me behind. Instead, here I am, with you, neck-deep in adventure.” He glanced at her again. “Heart-deep in something more.”
She wasn’t yet ready to inquire into that last statement. “Do you have other brothers and sisters?”
“Three sisters—they’re half my age. Heather, Eliza, and Angelica. Gabriel is harboring fond hopes that Alathea will succeed in teaching them not to giggle.”
Phyllida smiled. “They’ll grow out of it.”
“Hmm—that’s not something we like to envisage. We don’t, as a rule, deal well with our sisters growing up.”
Alerted by his tone, she studied his face. “Now who are you thinking of?”
He looked at her, then grimaced. “Two of our cousins—the twins. Due to a sad accident some years ago, they haven’t any older brother to watch over them, so we all do. Did.”
“We?”
He slanted her a glance. “Didn’t Honoria mention the Bar Cynster?”
Phyllida smiled and looked ahead. “She did, as a matter of fact. Very interesting, I found it.”
Lucifer snorted. “Don’t read too much into it—those days are gone.”
“Really?”
“Yes—really!” He frowned. “Though I’m not at all happy about the twins.”
“According to Honoria, the twins are quite capable of managing their own lives, and if you mention interfering, I’m to remind you of that fact.”
“With all due respect, Honoria is a duchess, and Devil’s her duke. She’s never set foot in the ton without him metaphorically if not physically at her elbow. Not quite the same as swanning through the ballrooms totally unprotected.”
“I’m to tell you your cousins are sensible young ladies and they’ll manage perfectly well.”
“I know—but I don’t have to like it.”
His disgusted tone very nearly had her laughing. She glanced at him. “What are you going to be like with your own daughters?”
“I shudder to think.” He looked at her. “Of course, I’ll need to beget them first.”
He drew her nearer, one arm sliding around her waist, then his hand spread, warm and alive, over her hip, urging her back against him. The gravel path ended in an arbor framed by a bed of rioting peonies. They halted. Holding her before him, he bent his head; his lips touched, tracing lightly, laying a line of heat from temple to ear, then down the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly.
“How many children would you like?” Her whisper was a little shaky.
“A dozen would be nice.” He murmured the words against her throat, then turned her and brushed her lips. “But at least one boy and one girl, I think.”