All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “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.”

  “That’s just melodramatic. He’s pressuring you. He doesn’t have any evidence you were there—why would Sir Jasper believe him?”

  “How often do I succumb to sick headaches?”

  Mary Anne pouted; her expression turned obstinate. “You can’t tell him about my letters—you swore you’d tell no one.”

  “But this is murder. Horatio was killed. Mr. Cynster needs to know what happened and what I saw.” She hadn’t mentioned the brown hat; that would only distract Mary Anne, who was distracted enough as it was. “He needs to know about your letters so he can be sure they aren’t anything to do with why Horatio was killed.”

  Mary Anne stared at her. “No! If you tell him about the letters, he’ll think Robert killed Horatio.”

  “Don’t be silly. Robert wasn’t anywhere near . . .” Phyllida stared at Mary Anne. “Don’t tell me Robert was here on Sunday morning.”

  “I walked home after church—it was a lovely sunny day.” Mary Anne slid her eyes from Phyllida’s. “We met in the Ballyclose wood.”

  “It’s impossible that Robert killed Horatio and then made it there to meet you, so he can’t be the murderer.”

  “But we can’t tell anyone we met in the wood!”

  Phyllida swallowed a groan. She wasn’t getting anywhere; she tried another tack. “What is in these letters?” She hadn’t asked before—before, it had only mattered that Mary Anne was hysterical and getting the letters back—an easy enough task, it had seemed—would calm her down. She’d given her oath not to reveal the existence of the letters to anyone without a second thought. But now Horatio’s murder had turned her simple plan to retrieve Mary Anne’s letters into a nightmare—and she was still bound by that oath.

  Mary Anne picked at her skirt. “I told you—they’re letters I sent Robert that he gave back, and some he sent to me.”

  Robert Collins was Mary Anne’s intended, not her betrothed. Her parents had stood firm against the match since Mary Anne and Robert first met at the Exeter Assembly when Mary Anne was seventeen. Robert was an articled clerk in a solicitor’s office in Exeter. His fortune was nonexistent, but once he took his final exams next year, he would be able to practice and thus support a wife. Through the years, Mary Anne’s devotion to Robert and his to her had never wavered. Her parents had hoped the attachment would wane. However, they’d known better than to feed their daughter’s stubbornness; assuming that with Robert in Exeter, physical meetings would be rare, they’d allowed the usual exchange of correspondence.

  The existence of the letters would therefore surprise no one; it was the content that constituted the threat. Phyllida wasn’t, however, convinced that the threat was all that serious—not compared with murder. “I can’t see why telling Mr. Cynster that your letters were the reason I was in Horatio’s house, searching for them because they’d been accidentally put in the writing desk and then forgotten, is going to cause a scandal.”

  “Because if you tell him that, he’ll want to know why you—or, more to the point, I—didn’t simply call and ask Horatio for them.”

  Phyllida grimaced. She’d asked precisely that question when Mary Anne, distraught and barely coherent, had come to her for help. The answer had been that Horatio might look at the letters before he handed them over—and then he might hand them to Mary Anne’s parents instead.

  “And,” Mary Anne continued, her tone increasingly obstinate, “if Mr. Cynster is half as clever as you think him, he’ll guess why I want them back so desperately. He’s investigating—if he finds them, he’ll read them.”


  “Even if he does, he wouldn’t hand them to your parents.” Phyllida glimpsed a way out. “Wait—what if I make him promise that if I tell him all and he finds the letters, he’ll hand them to me without reading them?”

  Mary Anne frowned. “Do you trust him?”

  Phyllida returned her gaze steadily. She trusted Lucifer to find Horatio’s killer if that were humanly possible. She would trust him with any number of things. But could she trust him with Mary Anne’s secret? She still didn’t know what was in those damned letters. “These letters—in them you described what happened at your meetings? How you felt—that sort of thing?”

  Tight-lipped, Mary Anne nodded; she was clearly not going to say more.

  A few kisses, a cuddle or two—how scandalous could that be? “I’m certain that even if Mr. Cynster read the letters, they wouldn’t shock him. And he’s a stranger. He’ll leave after Horatio’s murderer’s found and we’ll never see him again. There’s no reason he’ll feel any great need to hand even the most scandalous letters to your parents.”

  Mary Anne pondered. “If you tell him about the letters, you wouldn’t tell him they were scandalous?”

  “Of course not! I’ll tell him they’re private letters you don’t want anyone else reading.” Phyllida waited, then said, “So—can I tell him?”

  Mary Anne shifted. “I . . . I want to talk to Robert.” She lifted eyes clouded with worry to Phyllida’s face. “I haven’t told him the letters are missing. I want to know what he thinks.”

  Oh, how she wished she could infuse a little of her own steel into Mary Anne’s backbone. But Mary Anne was, beneath her social veneer, nearly frantic with worry. Phyllida sighed. “All right. Talk to Robert. But please talk to him soon.” She swallowed the words I don’t know how long I can hold Mr. Cynster at bay.

  She looked up—and discovered the wolf a lot closer than she’d thought; her heart leaped to her throat, then somersaulted back into place.

  He stood fifteen feet away, framed by the arch leading into the garden. White roses nodded above his dark head, the delicate blooms emphasizing his strength and the latent power in his stance. Hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze was fixed on them. Phyllida was relieved to see the tails of his coat settle—he’d only just arrived.

  Summoning a serene smile, she rose and strolled toward him. “We’ve been catching up. Have they let you escape?”

  His dark blue eyes watched her approach. He waited until she halted before him to say, “I escaped a while ago to check on my horses.”

  His gaze went beyond her; Phyllida turned as Mary Anne nervously joined them. “Allow me to present my close friend, Miss Farthingale.”

  He bowed gracefully.

  Mary Anne bobbed a curtsy. “I should return to my mother—she’ll be wanting to leave.”

  He stepped aside and Mary Anne slipped past him. She glanced at Phyllida. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  With that, she hurried away. Phyllida suppressed a grimace. From under her lashes she glanced at her nemesis. Drawing his gaze from Mary Anne, he fixed it on her. He studied her face; she kept her expression calm and collected. Lifting her lids, she gave him back stare for stare.

  After an instant of hesitation; he raised one dark brow. “My horses? No one here seems to know where they are.”

  “They’re in the Manor’s stables. There wasn’t enough space here, while the stables there were empty. I asked John Ostler from the Red Bells to look after them. He’s very good with horses.”

  He considered her, then nodded. “Thank you for arranging it. Now”—he looked toward the lawn—“I’d better head back to the Manor.”

  There was a slight frown in his eyes; Phyllida didn’t think it was due to worry about his horses. He took a step—she put a hand on his arm. He glanced at her, brows rising. She searched his eyes. “Are you in pain?”

  After a moment, he inclined his head. “A little.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider waiting until tomorrow to see your horses?”

  “No.” His lips curved just a little at the ends. “You know how gentlemen are about their horses.”

  She pressed her lips tight and considered. “There’s a shortcut through the wood. It’s much faster than going via the village.”

  His interest was immediate; his speculation that that was the route she’d used to go from the Grange to the Manor on Sunday morning gleamed in his eyes. “Where does this shortcut start?”

  Phyllida hesitated, but only for a moment. If his head was aching, she couldn’t let him walk through the wood alone. She turned away from the lawn. “I’ll show you.”

  He followed her through the wood, claiming her hand often, helping her over roots and up and down rocky dips. The path was clear, but not designed for strolling; long before the Manor’s roof came into sight, Phyllida was wishing she was in her boots and breeches. Then she wouldn’t have needed to let him take her hand—wouldn’t have been so conscious of his strength prowling at her heels, all but surrounding her every time he steadied her.

  She wouldn’t have been so conscious that he could physically manage her without any difficulty at all.

  Despite the fact she was neither tall nor large, she’d never felt at a physical disadvantage with any other man.

  As they reached the trees bordering the back of the Manor and stepped into the mild sunshine, she reminded herself that this man was different—he was like no other she had met before, altogether a very different proposition.

  She’d do well to remember that.

  “Your horses will be in there.” She indicated the stone stables that stood to one side. “I’ll let the Hemmingses and Bristleford know you’re here.” Evening was approaching. “John will probably look in shortly.”

  She headed on through the kitchen garden, aware that Lucifer’s dark gaze lingered on her before he turned to the stables.

  The Hemmingses were in the kitchen, Mrs. Hemmings cooking, Hemmings by the fire. Hemmings immediately went out to the stables. Phyllida discussed the preparations for Horatio’s wake, then excused herself and went into the house, ostensibly to take a last look at Horatio.

  She did. Then she looked around the drawing room and Horatio’s library across the hall. Mary Anne’s grandmother’s traveling writing desk had to be somewhere. It was small enough and ornate enough to be placed on a side table as an ornament, especially in a house full of antiques. Phyllida searched, but didn’t find it. Going back down the hall, she checked in the dining room, then in the back parlor and its adjoining garden room. In vain.

  Returning to the hall, she halted at the foot of the stairs and looked up. The thud of a drawer being shut reached her ears. Covey, most likely, tidying his late master’s effects. Phyllida grimaced. The desk had to be upstairs. There were bedrooms on the first level with attics above. Covey and the Hemmingses had rooms in the attics, but that would account for only part of the space. She would have to find time, and some excuse, to search upstairs.

  Retreating through the kitchen, she bade Mrs. Hemmings an absentminded farewell and strolled out into the kitchen garden, pondering the how and when. No answers leaped to mind.

  Standing before the stables, Lucifer watched her amble along the path. He’d glimpsed her in one of the back rooms. What had she been doing there? Yet another question to which she’d be giving him an answer. Soon.

  His blacks were eating their heads off; John Ostler had just left. Hemmings nodded and headed back to the house. Phyllida looked up as Hemmings passed her, smiled a vague greeting, then saw Lucifer waiting. She moved forward more purposefully and joined him. “Ready?”

  He fell into step beside her. “You were right—John Ostler knows his horses.”

  She smiled; her gaze lingered on his eyes, then slid over his face. “How’s your head?”

  “Better.”

  She looked ahead. “The fresh air should help.”

  They walked into the wood and cool silence enveloped them. The westering sun thre
w slanting beams through the trees, golden shafts to light their way. The bustle of day faded as evening approached; birds settled on boughs, into nests; soft cooing filled the air.

  Nearing the Grange, they reached a spot where the path dipped sharply. Phyllida halted, assessing it. Lucifer stepped past and over the gap; turning, he held out a hand. She took it and leaped—her narrow skirt restricted her stride; her sole slipped in the leaf mold lining the dip’s edge.

  He caught her around the waist and swung her clear. She landed against his chest.

  The unexpected contact shocked them both. He heard her indrawn breath, felt the tensing of her spine. Felt his own inevitable reaction. She looked up, lustrous brown eyes wide . . . the procession of emotions through their depths held him spellbound.

  Wonder—fleeting, innocent thoughts of what it might be like . . .

  Her fingers, spread across his upper chest, fluttered, then stilled.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips; his dropped to hers.

  Her lips parted, just a little.

  He bent his head and covered them.

  They were petal-soft, and sweet—a delicate, fresh sweetness that hinted, not of innocence, but of innocent pleasures.

  He hadn’t intended this. He knew he should stop, draw back, let her escape even if she didn’t know enough to run. He didn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to release her without tasting her, without giving his clamoring senses at least that much reward.

  No easy task, to take that much in a first kiss without frightening her. The implicit challenge tantalized.

  He kept the caress gentle, undemanding, waiting with the patience of one who knew for her curiosity to overcome her scruples. It didn’t take long—she was inherently confident, with little reason to doubt her ability to cope, even if, in this arena, she was out of her league. Just how out of her league was not a point she appreciated. Not yet.

  When her lips firmed, tentatively molding, gently returning his kiss, the pirate within him gloated. He swooped, but was careful to disguise his attack. Skillfully fanning her interest, teasing, tantalizing, he set himself to captivate with simple kisses laced with potent temptation.