Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Phyllida settled in his arms and lightly kissed him back. “At least.”
He stood with his arms loosely about her, their bodies just touching. There was honeysuckle close; the perfume drifted over them, subtly tempting. The same scent wreathed their bed. His palms moved, just a little, on her back. He looked into her face. “Have I told you the story about this garden?”
Night was falling, slowly closing about them, gently creeping over the land.
“Story?” Enough light remained for them to see each other’s face, and the expression in each other’s eyes.
“When I first came here, the garden caught me.” He looked around. “Even before I’d gone into the house, I stopped and stared. Then I realized it was Martha’s garden.”
“Martha—Horatio’s wife?”
“Yes. This is a copy of the garden she designed and grew beside their house overlooking Lake Windemere.”
“Horatio re-created it here?”
“Yes, and that truly puzzled me. That first day, before I went inside, I felt as if Martha was trying to tell me something. Later, I thought it must have been some presentiment that Horatio was dead. Later yet, I realized it wasn’t that at all.”
Lucifer returned his gaze to Phyllida’s face. “It was Martha who always created things—as women do. She created the atmosphere that filled their house, created the garden that surrounded it. Horatio knew nothing about gardening—I can still see them walking arm in arm down the paths with Martha showing him this and that. The garden in many ways personified Martha and, even more, the love she bore Horatio. The garden was part of her expression of that love, a permanent and public declaration. That’s what I felt—still feel—in this garden.
“I said I was puzzled to find it here. I knew Horatio left the house at Lake Windemere because he couldn’t bear the memories of Martha all around him. It was too painful. Yet here was Martha’s garden, now Horatio’s garden. Why?
“It took a while to work it out, but there’s only one explanation that fits.” His lips twisted wryly; he looked into Phyllida’s eyes. “And I now know what Martha was trying to metaphysically jog my elbow about that first day.”
“What?”
“You. Not just you, but the possibility of what we could share. Martha was trying to tell me to open my eyes so I wouldn’t miss it.”
He glanced around again; his arms tightened as he brought his gaze back to her face. “Horatio re-created Martha’s garden because he realized, as I now do, that you can’t turn aside from love. You can’t choose to love—it doesn’t work like that—but once you do love, you love forever. You can’t move counties and leave it behind; it stays with you, in your heart, your mind—it becomes a part of your soul. Horatio re-created the garden for the same reason Martha created it in the first place—as an expression of his love for her and recognition of her love for him. Martha was still with Horatio when he died—I know that as definitely as I stand here with you. They’re still here, both of them, memories living within this garden. Their love, shared love, created it; while it lives, their love lives, too.”
His lips twisted again, this time in self-deprecation. “For all that we—the men in my family—try to avoid love, for the best and most logical of reasons, when it strikes, there’s not one of us, not through all the generations, who has turned his back and walked away. For us, not walking away is harder, more frightening, than fighting any battle, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my family, it’s that surrendering to love, to the demands of love, is the only road to real happiness.
“While I’ve seen love in action in my family, I’ve learned a great deal from Horatio and Martha. Love simply is—it asks no permissions. Acceptance is all love asks, the only demand it makes, but it is an absolute one. You can either admit it to your heart or refuse it, but there’s no other option.”
For a long moment, he studied her dark eyes, wide and lustrous. “You wondered what love was, what it was like—it’s surrounded you for the past week. Have you felt it?”
“Yes.” Her lips softened; her eyes searched his. “It’s a frightening, sometimes scarifying reality, but so wonderful and glowing, so vital.” She drew a shaky breath.
He bent his head and drew it from her. “Have you made your decision—whether to accept love or not?”
He whispered the question against her lips. They curved gently. “You know I have.”
He kissed her again, gentle and easy. “When the time comes, I’ll ask and you can tell me.”
“Why not now?”
“It’s not the right time.”
When Phyllida surfaced from the next kiss, she managed to breathe, “When will be the right time?”
“Soon.”
The next kiss made it clear that that was all the answer she would get that night. But he’d told her enough, shown her enough; she was content.
Content to let him awaken her, slowly, expertly, until she floated, languid, on a sea of anticipation. They drew back, turned; arms around each other, her head on his shoulder, they strolled through the garden—redolent with perfumes, burgeoning growth, and the never-ending promise of love—back to the house, to the bed, to the love they already shared.
Day followed day and the tension mounted. Jonas spent most of his time at the Manor; Sir Jasper called at least twice a day. Even Sweetie seemed more highly strung, although Lucifer wasn’t sure how much she understood. She was the sweetest ditherer he’d ever met, and he knew quite a few; the idea of introducing her to his great-aunt Clara grew to an obsession.
The only thing that, however transiently, broke the tedium and, temporarily, the escalating tension was the replies that arrived from other collectors. The responses distracted Phyllida, and for that Lucifer was grateful. Unfortunately, although all of them expressed horror over Horatio’s demise, none had any light to shed on the twin mysteries surrounding Horatio’s collection.
Doggedly, Lucifer and Phyllida plowed through it, searching for . . . something. Some hint as to why Horatio had been killed, some hint as to what he had wanted Lucifer to appraise. Although no one stated it aloud, they were aware they had no idea what they were looking for. That put a definite dampener on their enthusiasm.
By Wednesday afternoon, Lucifer started to wonder why he’d received no further communication from Devil. His cousin was never one to drag his boots. The answer to his question arrived late that evening, just as he, Phyllida, and Sweetie were rising from the dining table.
The rattle of wheels on the drive was followed by the heavy thud of stamping hooves. Lucifer looked at Phyllida. “That, I believe, will be Devil’s messenger.”
It was—but it was a vision with guinea-gold curls and a neat figure encased in cerulean blue that first reached the front door.
“Felicity!” Lucifer went forward, hands outstretched. He should, of course, have expected it, but he hadn’t thought things through.
“Hello!” Demon’s youthful wife took his hands and raised her face for a cousinly kiss, but her gaze had already traveled past him. “And you must be Phyllida.” Releasing Lucifer, Felicity stepped past him and descended on Phyllida. “Honoria wrote and told me. I’m Felicity. We’ve come to help.”
Phyllida smiled—impossible not to when faced with Felicity’s charm. She could see no point in dissembling, so she touched cheeks and clasped hands as if they were already related.
“Good God! You’re almost at Land’s End.”
Phyllida looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired Cynster shake Lucifer’s hand.
“Not quite—it’s a few miles farther on.” Lucifer grinned and clapped Demon’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” He glanced at Felicity. “Are you sure you can spare the time?”
Turning from greeting Sweetie, Felicity shot a warning glance at her husband, tilted her chin at Lucifer, and slipped her arm into Phyllida’s. “We were with Vane and Patience when Devil’s and Honoria’s letters arrived.”
Demon came forward. Taking the hand Phyllida held out, he calmly kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to the family, my dear. We did tell him running into the country wouldn’t help—and here he is, right enough. Captivated.”
Phyllida looked into a pair of blue eyes many shades lighter than Lucifer’s. They did, however, contain a familiar devil-may-care gleam. She ignored it. “Welcome to the Manor and to Colyton, too.”
“Perhaps . . . ?” Lucifer cocked an eyebrow at Phyllida.
He was asking her to act as his hostess—as his wife. With a calm smile, she gestured to the drawing room. “Why don’t we sit comfortably and you can tell us the family news. You must be parched. Have you dined?”
“At Yeovil,” Felicity replied. “We weren’t sure how much further Colyton was. Demon didn’t want to take any chances.”
Lucifer blinked, but said nothing. He ushered Felicity and Demon into the drawing room. Phyllida gave orders to Bristleford to prepare rooms and bring the tea trolley in, then joined them.
“Well,” Felicity said as Phyllida joined her on the
chaise
, “you two seem to be having all the excitement in the family at present, so we came to share. Honoria would have come, but in her condition Devil refuses to let her as far as the front door. And Vane’s much the same—he seems to imagine Patience is made of bone china. Scandal was tempted, but Catriona agreed he could come if he brought her, so they’re still at Somersham. And no one has any idea where Gabriel and Alathea are.” She smiled at Lucifer. “So it’s just us, I’m afraid.”
The ingenuous speech had made Lucifer blanch—its conclusion revived him. “Thank God!” He glanced at Demon. “I didn’t expect the whole troop to descend.”
Demon shrugged. “It’s summer—what else have we to do?”
Bristleford entered with the tea trolley and plates of cakes. They broke off to partake; Phyllida and Felicity sipped and nibbled delicately while they chatted; Demon and Lucifer settled for brandy and demolishing the cakes.
“So,” Lucifer said as Demon finished the last cake. “Cut line—what have you learned?”
Demon didn’t glance his way; his gaze was fixed on the
chaise
. Following it, Lucifer was just in time to see Felicity try to smother, then hide, a yawn.
“On the other hand,” Lucifer said, “it’s getting late and you’ll need to get settled. Is there anything that won’t wait until morning?”
Demon threw him a grateful look. “No.” He considered, then shook his head and stood. “There’s nothing that’ll make any difference tonight, and I’d rather you told us what’s been happening here before I fill you in on my discoveries, minor though they are. Knowing the details will help me set what I found in better perspective.”
Phyllida stood, drawing Felicity with her. She’d seen the yawn and caught the earlier, fleeting reference, too. “Indeed. A good night’s sleep all around, then we can start first thing in the morning.” She smiled at Felicity. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Hemmings and show you your room.”
They all met the next morning at the breakfast table. Rested and refreshed, Flick—she insisted everyone call her that—was agog to hear their tale. Demon, relieved of his own anxiety, was similiarly eager. Lucifer and Phyllida started their story over the teacups, then continued when they adjourned to the library. Concisely, they described incident after incident; Demon interrupted with a question here and there. Flick sat and simply stared.
“How atrocious!” she declared when they’d concluded their tale. “That’s monstrous—leaving you to die in a burning cottage!”
Phyllida agreed.
Lucifer looked at Demon. “So what’s the news from London?”
“First of all, your neighbors are exceedingly law-abiding souls—Montague gave them all a clean bill of health. No debts, no peculiar past histories, nothing. All he found on Appleby was that he’s the illegitimate son of a minor peer—old Croxton, now deceased. His papa was not fond, but did educate him and pave the way into the army. Infantry—you were right about that.”
“So,” Lucifer concluded, “Appleby is an impoverished ex-infantryman with an education sufficient to allow him to serve as a gentleman’s amanuensis.”
“Yes, but there’s more. Appleby was the only one on your list who’d served in any capacity, so I had a relatively easy time. I tracked down his regiment—he saw action at Waterloo.” Demon glanced at Lucifer. “He was with the Ninth. I managed to locate his immediate superior, a Captain Hastings. That’s where things got interesting. I had to all but drink Hastings under the table to wring the nightmare from him, but it transpires that Hastings suspects that Appleby committed murder on the battlefield.”
“Murder during a battle?” Flick frowned. “Can that happen?”
Lucifer nodded. “If you shoot someone on your own side deliberately.”
Phyllida shivered. “How horrible.”
“Indeed,” Demon concurred. “During one particular cavalry charge—“ He glanced at Phyllida and Flick. “The cavalry often charge from the flank, across the infantry’s line of sight—the infantry usually put up their pieces during the charge. Most would use the time to clean and reload. Well, during this one charge, Hastings was standing almost directly behind Appleby. He swears Appleby drew a line on one of our own. He believes he saw Appleby shoot and one of the guardsmen fall, but . . . it was midmorning, and that was a hellish day. By the end of it, so many were dead and we all had our own nightmares. Hastings wasn’t sure enough to make any immediate charge, but he’d seen enough to check who the fallen man was.
“It turned out to be Appleby’s best friend. They’d even shared a tent the previous night. Although wounded himself, Appleby had gone out and retrieved the body and was, to all appearances, deeply cut up. Hastings concluded that Appleby had merely been using his sight to keep a steadier eye on his friend through the charge. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he still tells himself, but when his tongue is loosened by good brandy, the truth tumbles out. Hastings still believes in his heart that he saw Appleby kill his best friend, Corporal Sherring.” Demon looked at Lucifer. “Incidentally, Hastings said Appleby was an excellent shot with a musket.”
“So”—Lucifer looked at Phyllida—“it
could
be Appleby.”
“But is it?” Demon asked. “All we have is an unprovable possibility that Appleby has killed in cold blood before. We haven’t anything to tie him to Horatio or his collection.”