Contents
Chapter
1 Abstinence. It didn’t even sound comfortable.
2 Phyllida stared into eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black.
3 She took him to the Manor by way of the lane through the village. . .
4 He caught Phyllida up as she negotiated the last bend in the drive.
5 Phyllida knew why he’d kissed her. He wasn’t an ogre, he wasn’t her enemy. . .
6 The emotions stirred by the incident on the terrace did not rapidly subside.
7 Late the next morning, Lucifer walked into the front corner bedchamber. . .
8 “What was it you wanted to tell me?” Lucifer glanced at Phyllida. . .
9 Late the next morning, Lucifer tramped through the wood behind the Manor. . .
10 Phyllida was waiting where he’d left her, just inside the entrance to the path.
11 Not to be outdone by the Fortemains, the Smollets had arranged to host a dance. . .
12 Midnight. Phyllida lay in her bed and listened to the clocks. . .
13 Phyllida woke. She lifted her lids; through the nearby window. . .
14 After lunching alone, Lucifer strode into the wood and headed for the Grange.
15 “You said Covey had uncovered something about Lady Fortemain. . .”
16 “Jonas, I wonder if we might have a word.” Phyllida by his side. . .
17 The next day was Sunday. Lucifer strode briskly up the common.
18 Cedric excused himself and returned to Ballyclose.
19 Early the next morning, Lucifer stood at his bedchamber windows. . .
20 The day of the fete dawned still and clear. Throughout the morning. . .
21 As afternoon edged into evening, Lucifer, Phyllida. . .
Epilogue
It was nearly two years to the day that she’d first sighted this house. . .
Author’s Note
Other Books by Stephanie Laurens
Copyright
About the Author
About the Publisher
June 1820
Devon
Abstinence.
It didn’t even sound comfortable.
Alasdair Reginald Cynster, widely known, with good reason, as Lucifer, pushed the word from his mind with a disgusted snort and concentrated on turning his pair of highbred blacks down a narrow lane. The lane led south, toward the coast; Colyton, his destination, lay along it.
Around him, early summer clasped the countryside in a benevolent embrace. Breezes rippled the corn; swallows rode the currents high above, black darts against the blue sky. Thick hedges bordered the lane; from the box seat of his curricle, Lucifer could only just see over them. Not that there was anything to see in this quiet rural backwater.
That left him with his thoughts. Holding the blacks to a slow but steady pace along the winding lane, he considered the unwelcome proposition of having to survive without the type of feminine company to which he was accustomed. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but he’d rather suffer that torture than risk succumbing to the Cynster curse.
It wasn’t a curse to be trifled with—it had already claimed five of his nearest male relatives, all the other members of the notorious group that had, for so many years, lorded it over the ton. The Bar Cynster had cut swaths through the ranks of London’s ladies, leaving them languishing, exhausted in their wake. They’d been daring, devilish, invincible—until, one by one, the curse had caught them. Now he was the last one free—unshackled, unwed, and unrepentant. He had nothing against marriage per se, but the unfortunate fact—the crux of the curse—was that Cynsters did not simply marry. They married ladies they loved.
The very concept made him shudder. Its implied vulnerability was something he would never willingly accept.
Yesterday, his brother, Gabriel, had done just that.
And that was one of the two principal reasons he was here, going to ground in deepest Devon.
He and Gabriel had been close all their lives; only eleven months separated them. Other than Gabriel, the one person he knew better than anyone in the world was their childhood playmate Alathea Morwellan. Now Alathea Cynster. Gabriel had married her yesterday, and in so doing had opened Lucifer’s eyes to how potent the curse was, how irresistible it could be. Love had bloomed in the most unlikely ground. The curse had struck boldly, ruthlessly, powerfully, and had conquered against all odds.
He sincerely wished Gabriel and Alathea joy, but he had no intention of following their lead.
Not now. Very possibly not ever.
What need had he of marriage? What would he gain that he didn’t already have? Women—ladies—were all very well; he enjoyed dallying with them, enjoyed the subtleties of conquering the more resistant, encouraging them into his bed. He enjoyed teaching them all he knew of shared pleasure. That, however, was the extent of his interest. He was involved in other spheres, and he liked his freedom, liked being answerable to no one. He preferred his life as it was and had no wish to change it.
He was determined to avoid the curse—he could manage very well without love.
So he’d slipped away from Gabriel and Alathea’s wedding breakfast and left London. With Gabriel married, he’d succeeded to the title of principal matrimonial target for the ladies of the ton; consequently, he’d dismissed all invitations to the summer’s country house parties. He’d driven to Quiverstone Manor, his parents’ estate in Somerset. Leaving his groom, Dodswell, a local, there to visit with his sister, he’d left Quiverstone early this morning and headed south through the countryside.
On his left, three cottages came into view, huddled around a junction with an even narrower lane that ambled down beside a ridge. Slowing, he passed the cottages and rounded the ridge—the village of Colyton opened out before him. Reining in, he looked about.
And inwardly grimaced. He’d been right. From the looks of Colyton, his chances of finding any local lady with whom to dally—a married one who met his exacting standards and with whom he could ease the persistent itch all Cynsters were prey to—were nil.
Abstinence it would be.
The village, neat and tidy in the bright sunshine, looked like an artist’s vision of the rustic ideal, steeped in peace and harmony. Ahead to the right, the common sloped upward; a church stood on the crest, a solid Norman structure flanked by a well-tended graveyard. Beyond the graveyard, another lane ran down, presumably joining the main lane farther on. The main lane itself curved to the left, bordered by a line of cottages facing the common; the sign of an inn jutted over the lane just before it swung out of sight. Nearer to hand was a duck pond on the common; the blacks stamped and shook their heads at the quacking.
Quieting them, Lucifer looked to the left, to the first house of the village standing back in its gardens. A name was carved on the portico. He squinted. Colyton Manor. His destination.
The Manor was a handsome house of pale sandstone, two stories and attics in the Georgian style with rows of long pedimented windows flanking the portico and front door. The house faced the lane, set back behind a waist-high stone wall and a large garden filled with flowering plants and roses. A circular fountain stood at the garden’s center, interrupting the path joining the front door and a gate to the lane. Beyond the garden, a stand of trees screened the Manor from the village beyond.
A gravel drive skirted the nearer side of the house, eventually leading to a stable set back against more trees. The drive was separated from a shrubbery by an expanse of lawn punctuated here and there by ancient shade trees. Somewhat overgrown, the shrubbery extended almost to where the curricle stood; a glimpse of water beyond suggested an ornamental lake.
Colyton Manor looked what it was, a prosperous gentleman’s residence. It was the home of Horati
o Welham—the reason Lucifer had chosen Colyton as his temporary bolt-hole.
Horatio’s letter had reached him three days ago. An old friend and his mentor in all matters pertaining to collecting, Horatio had invited him to visit at Colyton at his earliest convenience. With the grande dames turning their sights on him, convenient had been immediately—he’d grasped the excuse to disappear from the social whirl.
At one time he had haunted Horatio’s house in the Lake District, but although he and Horatio had remained as close as ever, over the three years since Horatio had moved to Devon, they’d met only at collectors’ gatherings around the country and in London; this was his first visit to Colyton.
The blacks shook their heads; their harness clinked. Straightening, gathering the reins, Lucifer was conscious of a welling impatience—to see Horatio again, to clasp his hand, to spend time in his erudite company. Coloring that anticipation was Horatio’s reason for asking him to visit—a request for his opinion on an item that, in Horatio’s words, might tempt even him to extend his collection beyond his preferred categories of silver and jewelry. He’d spent the drive from Somerset speculating on what the item was, but had reached no conclusion.
He’d learn soon enough. Clicking the reins, he set the blacks in motion. Turning smartly in between the tall gateposts, he drew the curricle up by the side of the house with the usual crunching and stamping of hooves.
No one came running.
He listened—and heard nothing but the sounds of birds and insects.
Then he remembered it was Sunday; Horatio and all his household would be at church. Glancing up the common, he verified that the church door stood ajar. He looked at the Manor’s front door—it, too, stood partially open. Someone, it appeared, was home.
Tying off the reins, he jumped down and strode along the gravel path to the portico. Ablaze with summer blooms, the garden caught and held his gaze. The sight teased some long-buried memory. Pausing before the portico, he struggled to pin it down.
This was Martha’s garden.
Martha was Horatio’s late wife; she’d been the anchor around which the Lake District household had revolved. Martha had loved gardening, striving through all weathers to create glorious displays—just like this. Lucifer studied the plantings. The layout was similar to the garden in the Lake District. But Martha had been dead for three years.
Outside of his mother and aunts, Lucifer had felt closer to Martha than any other older woman—she’d occupied a special place in his life. He’d often listened to her lectures, whereas to his mother he’d been deaf. Martha had not been related—it had always been easier to hear the truth from her lips. It was Martha’s death that had lessened his enthusiasm for visiting Horatio at home. Too many memories; too acute a sense of shared loss.
Seeing Martha’s garden here felt odd, like a hand on his sleeve when there was no one there. He frowned—he could almost hear Martha whispering in her soft, gentle voice.
Abruptly turning, he entered the portico. The front door was half open; he pushed it wide. The hall was empty.
“Hello! Is anyone about?”
No response. All he could hear was the summer buzz outside. He stepped over the threshold and paused. The house was cool, quiet, still . . . waiting. Frowning more definitely, he strode forward, bootheels clacking on black-and-white tiles. He headed for the first door on the right. It stood open, pushed wide.
He smelled blood before he reached the door. After Waterloo, it was one scent he’d never mistake. The hairs at his nape lifted; he slowed.
At his back, the sun glowed bright and warm—the cold quiet of the house intensified. It drew him on.
He halted in the doorway, his gaze drawn down to the body sprawled a few feet inside the room.
His skin turned cold. After an instant’s hiatus, he forced his gaze to travel the old, lined face, the straggly white hair covered by a tasseled cap. In a long white nightshirt with a knitted shawl wound around heavy shoulders, twisted onto his back with one arm outflung, bare feet poking out toward the door, the dead man looked as if he might be asleep, here in his drawing room surrounded by his antique tomes.
But he wasn’t asleep—he hadn’t even collapsed. Blood still seeped from a small cut on his left side, directly beneath his heart.
Lucifer dragged in a breath. “Horatio!”
On his knees, he searched for a pulse at wrist and throat, and found none. Hand on Horatio’s chest, he felt a lingering warmth; slight color still graced the old man’s cheeks. Mind reeling, Lucifer sat back on his heels.
Horatio had been murdered—minutes ago.
He felt numb, detached; some part of his brain continued cataloguing facts, like the experienced cavalry officer he’d once been.
The single killing stroke had been an upward thrust into the heart—like a bayonet wound. Not much blood, just a little . . . oddly little. Frowning, he checked. There was more blood beneath the body. Horatio had been turned onto his back later—originally he’d fallen facedown. Catching a glimpse of gilt under the shawl, Lucifer searched with fingers that shook—and drew out a long, thin letter knife.
His fingers curled around the ornate hilt. He scanned the immediate area but could see no sign of any struggle. The rug wasn’t rumpled; the table between the body and the rug appeared correctly aligned in its normal place.
The numbness was wearing off. Emotions welled; Lucifer’s senses flickered, then flared to life.
He was cursing beneath his breath; he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. After the serenity outside, finding Horatio like this seemed obscene—a nightmare he knew there’d be no waking from. Deadening loss engulfed him; his earlier anticipation lay like bitter ashes on his tongue. Pressing his lips tight, he drew in a deep breath—
He wasn’t alone.
In the instant he sensed it, he heard a sound. Then came a clunk and a scuffle behind him.
He sprang to his feet, gripping the letter knife—
A heavy weight crashed down on his skull.
It hurt like hell.
He lay slumped on the floor. He must have gone down like a sack of bricks, but he couldn’t remember the impact. He had no idea whether he’d lost consciousness and only just regained it, or whether he’d only just reached the floor. Exerting every last ounce of his will, he cracked open his lids. Horatio’s face swam into—and out of—focus. Closing his eyes, he bit back a groan. With luck, the murderer would think he was insensate. He almost was. The black tide of unconsciousness surged and dragged, trying to suck him under. Grimly, he resisted its pull.
The letter knife was still in his fist, but his right arm was trapped beneath his body. He couldn’t move. His body felt like a lead weight he was trapped within; he couldn’t defend himself. He should have checked the room first, but the sight of Horatio, lying there still bleeding . . . damn!
He waited, oddly detached, wondering if the murderer would stop to finish him off or just flee. He hadn’t heard anyone leave, but he wasn’t sure he could hear at all.
How long had he been lying there?
From behind the door, Phyllida Tallent stared wide-eyed at the gentleman now stretched lifeless beside Horatio Welham’s body. A squeak of dismay escaped her—the ridiculous sound prodded her into action. Dragging in a breath, she stepped forward, bent, and wrapped both hands around the pole of the halberd now lying across the fallen man.
Bracing, she counted to three, then hauled. The heavy head of the halberd rose. She staggered, boots shuffling as she fought to swing the unwieldy weapon aside.
She hadn’t meant it to fall.
Having only just walked in and discovered Horatio’s body, she hadn’t been thinking at all clearly when the stranger’s footsteps had sounded on the gravel outside. She’d panicked, thinking him the murderer returning to remove the body. With all the village in church, she couldn’t imagine who else it could have been.
He’d called a “Hello,” but so might a murderer checking to see if anyone else had come u
pon the scene. She’d frantically searched for a hiding place, but the long drawing room was lined with bookcases—the only gap that would have hidden her from the door had been too far away for her to reach in time. Desperate, she’d secreted herself in the only available spot—in the shadows behind the open door, between the frame and the last bookshelf, squeezing in alongside the halberd.
The hiding place had served, but once she’d realized from his actions and his muttered expletives that this man was no murderer, and after she’d debated the wisdom of showing herself—the daughter of the local magistrate and quite old enough to know better than to slip into other peoples’ houses dressed in breeches to search for still other peoples’ misplaced personal belongings—once she’d got past all that and realized that this was murder and she’d gone to step forward to make herself known, her shoulder had nudged the halberd.
Its descent had been inexorable.
She’d grabbed it and fought vainly to halt it or deflect it; in the end, all she’d been able to do was twist it enough so that the heavy blade had not struck the man’s head. If it had, he’d have died. As it was, the hemisphere at the side of the iron axe-head had connected with a sickening thud.
With the halberd finally angled to the side, she lowered it to the floor. Only then did she realize she’d been repeating a breathless litany: Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!
Wiping her palms on her breeches, sick to her stomach, she looked at her innocent victim. The sound of the halberd connecting with his skull echoed in her ears. It hadn’t helped that he’d chosen that precise moment to leap to his feet. He’d come up propelled like a spring, only to meet the halberd going down.
He’d hit the floor with a sickening thud, too. He hadn’t moved since.
Steeling herself, she stepped over the pole. “Oh, God—please don’t let me have killed him!” Horatio had been murdererd, and now she’d murdered a stranger. What was her world coming to?
Panic gnawing at her nerves, she sank to her knees; the gentleman lay slumped forward, facing Horatio. . . .
Lucifer sensed a presence approaching. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, but he knew when they knelt at his back. The murderer. He had to assume that. If only he could gather enough strength, even to lift his lids. He tried, but nothing happened. Unconsciousness welled, lapping about him—he refused to let go and sink under. There was a roaring in his head. Even through it he knew when the murderer reached out. The roaring in his head escalated—
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