"Who's Pommeroy?"
"Cedric's younger brother." After a moment, she added, "He's much worse than Cedric."
The rattle of carriage wheels came from behind them; they both slowed, stepping further to the side of the lane. The carriage swept past; a hatchet-faced, stony-eyed lady gazed haughtily down on them.
Lucifer raised his brows as the carriage rattled on. "Who was that harbinger of sunshine and delight?"
He looked across in time to see Phyllida's lips twitch. "Jocasta Smollet."
"Who is?"
"Sir Basil Smollet's sister."
"And Sir Basil is?"
"The gentleman approaching us. He owns Highgate, up the lane past the Rectory."
Lucifer studied the gentleman in question; he was neatly, even severely dressed, and of an age similar to Cedric. But where Cedric's expression had been choleric yet open, Basil's was guarded, as if he had a lot on his mind, but was above explaining himself to anyone.
He tipped his hat in greeting. Introduced, he shook hands with Lucifer.
"Dreadful business, this. Sets the whole village on its ears. No rest for any of us until the villain's caught. Pray accept my condolences on the death of your friend."
Lucifer thanked him. With polite nods to them both, Basil continued on his way.
"Punctilious," Lucifer murmured.
"Indeed." Phyllida stepped out again, looked ahead, and slowed. "Oh. Dear."
The words were uttered through her teeth; she might as well have cursed. Lucifer considered the cause of her consternation. Red-haired, in his late twenties, the gentleman strode toward them with a purposeful air. Only just taller than Phyllida, he was plainly dressed in corduroy breeches and riding boots, topped by a loose, flapping coat.
Phyllida's chin rose; she moved forward decisively. "Good day, Mr. Grisby." She inclined her head, her intention plainly to continue on her way.
Grisby planted himself directly in front of her. Phyllida halted and smoothly turned to Lucifer. "Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Mr. Grisby."
Lucifer nodded coolly. Grisby hesitated, then curtly responded. He returned his gaze to Phyllida. "Miss Tallent, please allow me to escort you home." The glance he shot Lucifer brimmed with poorly concealed dislike. "I'm surprised Sir Jasper hasn't forbidden you to roam, what with this knife-wielding murderer on the loose."
"My father-"
"One never knows," Grisby sententiously continued, "from what direction danger may come." Pugnaciously, he reached for her arm.
Phyllida reached for Lucifer's.
Bending his arm, covering her hand with his, Lucifer drew her closer. He caught Grisby's gaze, all humor flown. "I assure you, Grisby, that Miss Tallent is in no danger from knife-wielding felons, or any others, while in my care." He'd only been waiting for some sign from Phyllida before stepping in; if he hadn't been feeling his way, Grisby would already be flailing in the duck pond. "We're on our way back to the Grange. You may rest assured I will see Miss Tallent safe into Sir Jasper's keeping."
Grisby flushed.
Lucifer inclined his head. "If you'll excuse us?"
He gave Grisby no choice, solicitously steering Phyllida, censoriously haughty, down the lane. He kept her close, her skirts brushing his boots. Under his hand, her fingers fluttered. They strolled on; eventually her fingers relaxed under his.
"Thank you."
"It was entirely my pleasure. Aside from being an insensitive clod, who, exactly, is Grisby?"
"He owns Dottswood Farm. It's up past the Rectory, beyond Highgate."
"So he's a prosperous gentleman farmer?"
"Among other things."
Her disgusted tone gave him his clue. "Am I to understand Mr. Grisby is another aspirant to your fair hand?"
"They all are-Cedric, Basil, and Grisby."
Her tone wasn't improving; Lucifer raised his brows. "You have cut a swath through the local ranks."
She cast him a repressive glance, one his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, could not have bettered, then, head high, looked forward.
The common ended just ahead where the lane leading to the graveyard and the forge joined the village lane. Along the lesser lane lay a row of small houses, bigger than the cottages but not as large as the Manor or the Grange. Each house had its own garden with a fence and a gate.
A gentleman stepped through the nearest gate; in breeches, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, he minced down the lane toward them. In a bottle-green coat with a bright yellow-and-black kerchief tied in a floppy bow and sporting a periwig, the gentleman was unquestionably the most colorful figure Lucifer had seen for many a long year.
He glanced at Phyllida; she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed ahead; she'd yet to see the gentleman.
"I hesitate to ask, but is the gentleman to our right another of your suitors?"
She looked. "No, thank God. Unfortunately, that's the best I can say for him. His name is Silas Coombe."
"Does he always dress like that?"
"I've heard that in earlier years, he dressed as a macaroni. These days, he contents himself with adopting all the extremes of fashion and wearing them all at once."
"A gentleman of independent means?"
"He lives off inherited investments. His main interest in life is posturing. That, and reading. Until Horatio arrived, Silas had the most extensive library in the area."
"So he and Horatio were friends?"
"No. Quite the opposite." She paused as the gentleman neared; he crossed the comer of the common, sparing them not one glance. They continued to stroll; as they left the village behind, Phyllida mused, "In fact, Silas is possibly the only one in the locality who sincerely hated Horatio."
"Hated Horatio?" Lucifer shot her a glance. "Horatio wasn't an easy person to hate."
"Nevertheless. You see, for years, Silas had touted himself as a renowned antiquarian bibliophile. I think it was his ambition, and here in the country there was no one to challenge his claim. Not that it meant anything to anyone else, but it meant a lot to Silas. Then Horatio arrived and exploded his myth. Horatio's library eclipsed Silas's completely and Silas did not know books as Horatio did. Even to us, untutored though we are, the difference was obvious. Horatio was genuine; Silas, a poor imitation."
The Grange drive appeared before them; as they turned through the gateposts, Phyllida drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. "You don't think…?"
He met her gaze. "I don't know what to think. At the moment, I'm merely gathering information."
"Silas is effeminate. I wouldn't think him very strong."
"Weaklings can kill quite effectively-rage can lend strength to the most ineffectual."
"I suppose…" She frowned. "But I still can't see Silas stabbing anyone."
He was silent for a moment, then asked, "So who do you think killed Horatio?"
The question hung between them; she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "I don't know who killed Horatio."
She enunciated each word clearly. Their gazes held; it was she who turned away. Head high, she continued down the drive. After a moment, he fell in beside her, his stride longer and slower than hers. "Tell me, how many more are there in the locality-people like the Fortemains who would have known Horatio socially?"
"Not that many. You've met about half." They continued strolling down the winding drive, hemmed in by trees on all sides. Phyllida drew in a breath. "Do you seriously think someone from the village killed Horatio?"
She glanced up; Lucifer caught her eye. "Horatio was killed by someone he knew well-someone he let get close to him, well within arm's reach." When she frowned, he added, "There was no sign of any struggle."
Her frown cleared as she remembered; refocusing, she saw the intensity in his gaze and looked away. "Perhaps it was someone he knew from outside-another collector."
"If so, we'll find out. I'll be making inquiries in all the surrounding towns."
They walked on in silence. She felt his gaze on her face. Th
ey'd gone another fifty yards before he asked, "Indelicate question though it is, why, with so many suitors, aren't you married?"
She glanced up but could see nothing in his eyes beyond simple interest. The question was indeed impertinent, yet she felt no compunction in answering; she knew the answer so well. "Because every man who has ever asked for my hand has wanted to marry me to suit his own ends-because having me as his wife would improve his lot. For Cedric and Basil, marrying me would be sensible-I'm suitable, I know the locals, and I could manage their households with my eyes shut. For Grisby, I can add that marrying me would be a step upward socially-he's ambitious in that sphere."
She looked up and discovered Lucifer studying her. After a moment, he asked, "Don't you have any wishes, any requirements of marriage-anything they might provide you?"
She shook her head. "All they can offer is a household and a position-I already have both. Why marry and take a husband when I'd gain nothing I desire in the process?"
His lips twitched, then curved into a smile. "How very clearheaded of you."
The dangerous purr had returned to his voice; there was a look in his eyes she didn't understand. Facing forward, she kept strolling.
The house lay just ahead, screened by the last bend, when he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She faced him, her question in her eyes. He looked down at her, his gaze disturbingly direct. "What actually happened?"
Phyllida held his gaze and thought about telling him. But it was a case of all or nothing-she'd seen enough of him to know she would have to tell him all once she admitted that she was there. He wouldn't let her keep anything back. And for once in her life, she doubted her ability to stand against a man.
This man was something else-some different species she hadn't before encountered. She was old enough, wise enough, to recognize the difference and acknowledge in her mind that she'd be unwise to challenge him.
Of course, not telling him was a blatant challenge, but that simply had to be. She would not break her word. She might prevaricate for a good cause, but her oath was absolute, and a vow given to a friend was sacred.
"I can't tell you. Not yet." She turned away. He stopped her, long fingers closing around her elbow. Her temper flared; she looked up at him. "I've kept my part of the bargain."
He blinked. "What bargain?"
"You didn't tell Papa you believed that I was there, in Horatio's drawing room, and so I took you around the village, introduced you to Horatio's acquaintances, and answered your questions about them."
He frowned, the gesture more evident in his eyes than on his face. His hold on her arm anchored her before him; she didn't bother trying to wriggle free. He studied her eyes and she let him; emotionally, she had nothing to hide.
"Is that why you thought I invited myself along?"
"That, and so you could try to trip me up. Why else?"
He released her, but his gaze held hers. "Couldn't I have wanted to spend time in your company?"
She stared at him. The suggestion was so unexpected, she couldn't at first imagine it. Then she did, and the truth washed over her-she would have liked it if he had. If he'd simply wanted to spend a summer afternoon strolling with her around the village, idly commenting, relaxed in her company. Her chest tightened; haughtily, she turned away. "You didn't. That wasn't why you came walking with me today."
Lucifer heard the calm statement but left it unchallenged. He watched her walk away, and let the impulse to correct her fade. She was such a contrary female-handling her was difficult, not to say dangerous; she was so different from the women he knew. God knew, he'd never before been so attracted to a virgin.
A stubborn, willful, innocent, headstrong, intelligent, far-too-untouched-for-her-own-good virgin.
It made everything so much more complicated.
Chapter 4
Contents – Prev | Next
He caught Phyllida up as she negotiated the last bend in the drive. The side lawn of the Grange opened before them; a knot of people were gathered around tables and chairs, enjoying the late afternoon. They both halted, but they'd been seen; Lady Huddlesford beckoned imperiously.
"Who are they?"
"Some of the half you've yet to meet." Phyllida searched the group; then she saw Mary Anne and felt giddy with relief. "Come. I'll introduce you."
They crossed the lawn. Lady Huddlesford, presiding over the gathering from a chair at a wrought-iron table, beamed delightedly. "Mr. Cynster! Excellent! I was just telling Mrs. Farthingale…"
Phyllida left Lucifer to fend for himself, something he was patently well able to do; he smiled, effortlessly charming, and the ladies all preened. Directing a general smile on those present, she strolled to Mary Anne's side.
Mary Anne stared at Lucifer. "He's…" She gestured.
"From London." Phyllida slipped her arm through Mary Anne's. "We need to talk."
Mary Anne turned huge blue eyes her way. "Did you find them?" she whispered as they turned from the group.
Mary Anne's fingers clamped like talons around her wrist; something close to panic filled her eyes. Phyllida inwardly frowned and drew her on. "The rose garden's more private. Pretend we're simply strolling."
Luckily, the entire gathering-Mary Anne's mother, Mrs. Farthingale, Lady Fortemain, Mrs. Weatherspoon, and a gaggle of other ladies, with Percy and Frederick for leavening-was hanging on Lucifer's every word. Phyllida glanced back as she and Mary Anne entered the yew walk that led to the rose garden. Lucifer's attention appeared fully engaged.
Surrounded by thick stone walls, the rose garden was a secluded paradise of lush growth, vibrant splashes of color, and rich, exotic scents. The instant they entered its privacy, Mary Anne's public demeanor crumbled. She swung to face Phyllida, gripping her hands tightly. "Say you found them! Please say you did!"
"I looked, but…" Phyllida frowned. "Come-let's sit down. We need to discuss this."
"There's nothing to discuss!" Mary Anne wailed. "If I don't get those letters back, my life will be ruined!"
Phyllida towed her to a seat set against the wall. "I didn't say we won't get them back-I promised we would. But there's been a complication."
"Complication?"
"A large one." Over six feet tall and difficult to manage. Phyllida sat on the seat and pulled Mary Anne down beside her. "Now, first, are you absolutely sure Horatio was the one your father sold the writing desk to?"
"Yes. I saw Horatio take it away last Monday."
"And you definitely, positively, hid your letters in the secret drawer in the desk? You haven't by accident left them somewhere else?"
"They were too dangerous to leave anywhere else!"
"And it is your grandmother's traveling writing desk that we're talking about, with the rose leather on the top?"
Mary Anne nodded. "You know it."
"Just checking." Phyllida considered Mary Anne, considered how much to tell her. "I went to Horatio's on Sunday morning to search for the desk."
"And?" Mary Anne waited; then understanding dawned. Horror replaced her panic. Her mouth opened, then closed, then she squeaked, "You witnessed the murder?"
"No, not exactly."
"Not exactly? What does that mean? You saw something?"
Phyllida grimaced. "Let me tell it from the beginning." She related how she'd invented a sick headache, then dressed in boots and breeches-Jonas's castoffs that she often wore when engaged in nonpublic activities that might necessitate running. "Sunday morning was the perfect time because there shouldn't have been anyone at home."
"But Horatio was sick."
"Yes, but I didn't know that. I slipped through the wood and searched that outbuilding he used as his warehouse, then I went in through the kitchen and searched the storerooms. They were filled with furniture as well. I didn't see your grandmother's desk anywhere, so I assumed it was somewhere in the main rooms. I went back through the kitchen, into the hall-"
"And you saw the murderer."
"No. I found Horatio just after he
'd been killed."
"After the murderer had hit Mr. Cynster and left him for dead."
Phyllida gritted her teeth. "No. I got there before Mr. Cynster."
"You saw the murderer hit Mr. Cynster?"
"No!" She glared at Mary Anne. "Just listen."
In the baldest terms, she recounted what had happened. By the time she finished, Mary Anne had traveled from horror-struck to aghast. "You hit Mr. Cynster?"
"I didn't mean to! The halberd tipped and fell-I stopped it from killing him."
Mary Anne's face cleared. "Well, he's obviously recovered. He must have a thick skull."
"Perhaps. But that's not the complication." Phyllida caught Mary Anne's eye. "He knows I was there."
"I thought he was knocked unconscious."
"Not entirely-not at first."
"He saw you?"
Phyllida described what had happened.
Mary Anne bent a look of utter disbelief upon her. "He couldn't possibly tell from a touch. He's bamming you."
"That's what I thought at first. But he knows, Mary Anne-he knows and he wants to know what happened."
"Well, why not just tell him that yes, you were there, and tell him what happened and that you had to leave?"
Phyllida fixed her with a direct look. "I haven't admitted that I was there, because as soon as I do he's going to want to know why."
Mary Anne blanched. "You can't tell him that!"
"He's determined to find out what happened-he's investigating Horatio's murder. From his point of view, he needs to know everything that happened that morning."
"But he doesn't-he doesn't need to know about my letters." Mary Anne's lower lip protruded. "And he can't make you tell him."
"He can."
"Nonsense." Mary Ann tossed her head. "You're always the one in charge-you're Sir Jasper's daughter. You can just look at him haughtily and refuse to say anything. How can he force you to tell?"
"I can't explain it, but he will." She couldn't describe the sensation of being mentally stalked, trapped, and held, the pressure of knowing he was waiting, watching… patient now, but how long would that last? On top of that, she felt she should tell him, that he deserved to know. "He hasn't yet threatened to tell Papa that he knows I was there, but he could-he knows he could. It's like Damocles' sword hanging over my head."
All About Love c-6 Page 7