All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  A chill touched his spine. “Every Friday morning?”

  She nodded.

  His grip on her hand tightened; he forced himself to relax it. He looped her arm through his. “I want you to show me where.”

  He turned her back along the track, an old right-of-way. She resisted. “It’s no use—they won’t still be there.”

  “I know.” He kept his tone calm, even; that wasn’t how he felt, but it was what she needed. “I just want you to show me where you were. We won’t go any further.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

  He guided her along and helped her over the stile. A sliver of blue fabric was caught in the crossbar where she’d ripped her gown in her haste.

  Despite her fury, she’d been very frightened.

  She still was.

  They reached the boundary of the next field and she stopped. “I was there.” She waved with her ruined bonnet. “Right in the middle of the field.”

  Lucifer held her hand and looked, gauging distances. “Can I have your bonnet?”

  She handed it to him; he took it and raised it—there were two holes punched through the crown. Without a word, he handed it back. His face felt like stone. She’d glanced down at the critical moment; the ball had entered through the back of the bonnet just below the crown seam, then exited through the bonnet’s top, on the other side of the seam. “Let me check your head.”

  “I didn’t get hit,” she grumbled, but she let him look.

  Her hair lay like mahogany silk, sleek and undisturbed—no wound. He imagined the way her bonnet would sit, then touched his fingers to her hair. Grit, very fine, came away on the pads of his fingers. He sniffed them. Powder—the bullet had come that close.

  He looked back at the field. The path didn’t run directly across but angled away toward the river. “Did you hear anything? Glimpse anyone?”

  “No, but . . .” She lifted her head. “I ran. Silly, I know, but I just did.”

  Running might have saved her life. He said nothing, just drew a breath and held it until his violent reaction faded. She’d been walking this way; the only possible place of concealment was a copse on the far side of the field.

  “I’ll walk with you to the Grange.”

  The glance she shot him said she felt she should protest. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, she inclined her head and acquiesced.

  Sir Jasper was out when they reached the Grange. Lucifer delivered Phyllida into Gladys’s hands, making sure, despite Phyllida’s dismissive remarks, that Gladys understood that her mistress had had a severe shock.

  He left with Phyllida glaring at him; he didn’t care. She was safe.

  He strode back to the Manor via the wood, and was pleased to find Dodswell had arrived with the rest of his horses. Dodswell had paced the string well; they had enough in reserve to go for a quick gallop.

  Taking Dodswell with him, he rode back to the copse. Dismounting at the edge of the field, they tethered their mounts while he told Doswell what they were looking for.

  They found it close by one side of the copse, the side screened from the walking track.

  “Just the one horse.” Dodswell examined the hoofprints in the rain-softened earth. “Nice, clean front shoes.”

  Lucifer stared at the ground farther back. “I can’t find any impressions of the back hooves.”

  “Nah. That turf there’s too thick, more’s the pity.”

  Grimly, Lucifer nodded at the hoofprints they had found. “What do you make of them?”

  “Decently looked-after horse, fresh shoes, no nicks or cracks, well-filed hooves.”

  “A gentleman’s horse.”

  “A horse from a gentleman’s stable, anyway.” Dodswell studied Lucifer’s face. “Why are we interested?”

  Briefly, Lucifer told him of the horse that had stood at the back of the Manor’s shrubbery. Told him who had a hole in her bonnet. He didn’t tell him why.

  “Wasn’t no hunter. What would they be shooting at? No quail or skeet yet, and they’d be too far from the wood for pigeons. Rabbits won’t be out at present.” Grim-faced, Dodswell scanned the area. “Nothing here to shoot at.”

  Only one female given to solitary walks and addicted to doing good deeds by a regular schedule. Lucifer looked at the hoofprints and tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Let’s get back. We’ve learned all we can here.”

  Bristleford was waiting when he walked into the front hall.

  “Mr. Coombe has called, sir. I put him in the library.”

  “Thank you, Bristleford.” Lucifer walked straight to the library door and opened it. Silas Coombe jumped back from one of the bookshelves, his hand raised. Lucifer would have wagered Horatio’s entire collection that Coombe had been fingering the gold-encrusted spines. Face impassive, he nodded, shut the door, and stalked to the desk. “Gold leaf doesn’t wear all that well—but then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you.”

  He arched a brow at Coombe, who drew himself up and tugged at his waistcoat; its black-and-white horizontal stripes made him appear more rotund than he was.

  “Oh, quite. Quite! I was just admiring the tooling.” He approached the desk.

  Waving him to a chair, Lucifer sank into the one behind the desk. “Now—to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Coombe sat, making a great show of settling his coattails. Then he looked at Lucifer. “Naturally, I feel Horatio’s loss keenly. I daresay I’m one of the few hereabouts who truly appreciated his greatness.”

  A wave indicated the room about them; Lucifer was left in no doubt that in Coombe’s eyes, Horatio’s greatness had resided in his possessions. Coombe’s gaze drifted along the shelves. “It must be quite puzzling to you that someone would spend his life gathering all these musty tomes. Such a fantastic number of them.”

  Lucifer kept his expression impassive. He’d told only Sir Jasper and Phyllida of his interest in collecting; clearly, neither had talked.

  “Now, it may seem odd to you, but I’ve an interest in books myself, as you might have heard around the village. I’m viewed as quite the eccentric because of it, y’know.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, oh, yes. Now, to come to my point, I realize you’ll want to be rid of these—doubtless you’ll start clearing them soon. They take up such a great space. All through the ground floor and even, I daresay, abovestairs?”

  Lucifer pretended not to hear the question.

  “Yes, well.” Coombe shifted, tugging at his coat. “That’s where I believe I could help you.”

  He sat back and said nothing more. Lucifer was forced to ask, “How?”

  Coombe leaned forward like a well-rehearsed puppet. “Oh, I couldn’t take them all, of course! Dear me, no! But I would like to add just a few of Horatio’s books to my collection.” He brightened. “In memorium, you might say. I’m sure Horatio would have wanted it that way.”

  Smiling, Coombe sat back again. “I’ll just come and take a look at the books as you’re packing them—I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “You won’t.” Lucifer tried to imagine Coombe with a knife in his hand. The picture wasn’t convincing. If there was any man in the village liable to swoon at the sight of blood, he would have bet it was Coombe. Still, he hadn’t been in church last Sunday. “I haven’t thought about selling the books, but if I do, I’ll probably call in an agent from London.”

  A frown creased Coombe’s brow. “I hope that you’ll agree, when the time comes, to grant me first refusal?”

  Lucifer shrugged. “I’ll have to see how things fall out. Some agents may not take the commission if they believe the juiciest plums have already been picked.”

  “Well, my word!” Coombe puffed like an agitated hen. “I must say, I think Horatio would have wanted me to have some of his gems.”

  “Is that so?” His dry tone had Coombe deflating. He held the man’s gaze. “Unfortunately for you, Horatio is no longer here. I am.” He rose and tugged the bellp
ull, then looked at Coombe. “If there’s nothing else, I’ve a considerable amount of business awaiting my attention.”

  The door opened; Lucifer glanced up. “Ah, Bristleford—Mr. Coombe is leaving.”

  Coombe got to his feet, face mottling. But he drew himself up and bowed from the waist. “Good day, sir.”

  Lucifer inclined his head.

  As Coombe neared the door, Lucifer signaled to Bristleford; Bristleford almost imperceptibly nodded, then ushered Coombe out and shut the door.

  Lucifer was sorting correspondence when Bristleford returned.

  “You wanted something, sir?”

  “Send Covey to me.”

  “At once, sir.”

  Covey slipped into the room some minutes later. Lucifer sat back. “I’ve a job for you, Covey.”

  “Yes, sir?” Covey stopped before the desk, hands clasped before him.

  Lucifer glanced at the bookshelves. “I want you to take a complete inventory of all Horatio’s books.”

  “All of them?” Covey looked at the long, high bookshelves.

  “Start in the drawing room, then in here, then in the other rooms. For every book I want the title, publisher, and date of publication, and I want you to check for inscriptions or page notes. If you find any notations, set those books aside and show them to me at the end of each day.”

  Covey squared his shoulders. “Indeed, sir.” He was transparently pleased to be following orders again. “Shall I use a ledger for the list?”

  Lucifer nodded. Collecting a fresh ledger and a pencil from a chest, Covey headed for the drawing room. Lucifer watched the door close; he sat back—leather squeaked.

  The books he’d found misaligned in the drawing room—now he thought of it, they’d been tight in the shelf. They couldn’t have accidentally slid forward.

  Now Silas Coombe was requesting first dibs on Horatio’s books. Could Coombe be the murderer?

  Lucifer looked down at the pile of correspondence he’d stacked on the blotter. He had other questions, too, at present equally unanswerable.

  What was it Horatio had wanted him to appraise?

  And where on earth was it?

  Late that evening, he stood looking out from his bedchamber window, watching the moonlight play over the common. He’d spent half the afternoon searching the house in the hope that something, some piece, would strike him as unfamiliar and unique enough to have been Horatio’s mystery item. He’d learned the extent of his inheritance, but was no nearer to solving the mystery.

  The house was a treasure trove, understated in its magnificence. Every piece had a history, had a value greater than its functional worth. Yet, as was common with many great collectors, Horatio’s best items were used as they’d been designed to be used, not hidden away. So where was his mystery item? In full view? Or hidden away in some other item designed to provide a hiding place?

  That was a possibility. Lucifer made a mental note to check.

  Identifying the mystery item—possibly the reason Horatio had been killed—was only one of his problems. The most pressing, the most critical, was learning why some man, riding a horse that might well have been the same horse that had waited in the shrubbery while Horatio was killed, had attempted to kill Phyllida.

  Lucifer rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the knots that had been there since late afternoon, when he’d gone back to the Grange to speak with Sir Jasper.

  And Phyllida, of course, but she hadn’t been there.

  Not in the library, not in the drawing room, not lying on her bed prostrate with shock. The damned woman had ordered out the carriage and gone to visit some other deserving soul. At least she hadn’t walked.

  Of course, she’d been the first to Sir Jasper with the story—her version had stressed that it had been some misguided hunter; she had clearly downplayed her fright.

  He’d tried to correct those impressions, but had been severely handicapped by two things. First, as Sir Jasper did not know of Phyllida’s presence in Horatio’s drawing room, he therefore had no reason to suppose Horatio’s killer would have any interest in her. Without telling Sir Jasper all, without exposing Phyllida, there was no point making the connection between the horses, and without that, his ability to invest the situation with suitable gravity was severely compromised.

  The second obstacle was the fact that Sir Jasper had been well trained to accept everything his daughter told him, at least about herself. With all that against him, shaking Sir Jasper out of his complacency and into a sufficiently protective frame of mind had been beyond him. All he’d managed was to convey his own deep unease over the shooting, and over Phyllida’s safety in general.

  Sir Jasper had smiled too knowingly and assured him that Phyllida could take care of herself.

  Not against a murderer. He’d held the words back, but only just.

  He’d stridden back through the wood in something perilously close to a temper; the emotion had converted to a nagging disquiet by the time he’d reached the Manor.

  Gazing out at the moonlit common, he felt decidedly grim. Tomorrow, he’d find her—

  A figure crossed the lane and started up the common.

  Lucifer stared. He knew what he was seeing, but his brain refused to take it in. “Damnation! What in Hades does she think she’s doing?”

  Swinging on his heel, he went to get an answer.

  She was standing on the side porch, ledger in hand, when he reached the church.

  Phyllida saw him emerge from the shadows, large, dark, and menacing, like a god not at all pleased with a disciple. She lifted her chin and fixed him with a warning glance; Mr. Filing stood beside her.

  “Mr. Cynster!” Filing shut his ledger.

  “It’s all right,” she reassured him. “Mr. Cynster knows all about the Company and how we operate.”

  “Oh, well, then.” Reopening his ledger, Filing smiled at Lucifer. “It’s quite a little enterprise.”

  “So I understand.” Lucifer didn’t return the curate’s smile. He stalked past Filing, circled her, and halted on her other side, hands on his hips, doing an excellent imitation of a disapproving deity. “What are you doing?”

  He’d bent his head so his words fell by her ear in an angry rumble. She didn’t look up. “I’m checking the goods against the bill of lading—see?” She demonstrated as Hugey lumbered up with a box. “Put that to the left of the Mellows’ sarcophagus.”

  Hugey nodded circumspectly to the looming menace beside her and headed into the church.

  Oscar took his place, eyeing Lucifer more directly. She felt forced to introduce them. Oscar bobbed his head, his arms locked around a small tun.

  Lucifer nodded. “You’re Thompson’s brother, I hear.”

  “Aye, that be right.” Oscar grinned, pleased to have been known. “Hear tell you’ve decided to make Colyton your home.”

  “Yes. I don’t plan to leave.”

  Bent over her ledger, Phyllida pretended not to hear. Oscar shuffled on to be replaced by Marsh. He coughed and she had to introduce him, too. Before the night’s cargo was stored, all the men had been introduced to Lucifer; he’d been accepted by them all far too easily for her liking.

  She glanced at him as she headed for the crypt—and had to grudgingly admit that he was a commanding figure, especially in the shadowy night. Like his namesake, dark and forbidding, he followed her down the stone stairs.

  Nose elevated to a telling angle, she pointedly settled to her accounts. He hovered for a moment, then made his way to where Mr. Filing was shifting boxes. She heard him offer to help, heard Filing’s ready acceptance. Boxes scraped on stone; she concentrated on her figures.

  Finally shutting the ledger, she stretched her back; only then did she realize Lucifer and Filing had finished moving boxes long before. Turning, she saw them leaning against a monument, talking earnestly. Filing was facing away from her; Lucifer’s voice was too low for her to hear.

  Quickly clearing her “desk,” she went to join them.


  Lucifer watched her approach. “So, other than Sir Jasper and Jonas, Basil Smollet and Pommeroy Fortemain, the bulk of the males were not at church.”

  Filing nodded. “Sir Cedric is an irregular attendee, as is Henry Grisby. The ladies I can count on”—he smiled at Phyllida—“but I’m afraid the males of the parish are rather more recalcitrant.”

  “Inconvenient, in this case.”

  Phyllida looked at Filing. “Indeed. I’ve entered everything. All is in order, so I’ll bid you a good night.”

  “And a good night to you, my dear.”

  Filing bowed. Phyllida smiled and turned away.

  Lucifer straightened. “I’ll walk you to the Grange.”

  She wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear that. She inclined her head and started up the stairs. “If you wish.”

  She led the way out of the church and onto the common. He lengthened his stride until he was pacing beside her, almost shoulder to shoulder. Her skin prickled; awareness rushed over her and left all her nerves standing on end.

  Their mad dash from the cliffs to Colyton—a careening drive—had left no time, let alone breath, for embarrassment or consciousness, but once she’d regained her bedchamber, consciousness had swamped her. She’d been sure she could not possibly meet his eyes again—look at his lips again—not without blushing so fierily everyone would guess why. She’d almost made up her mind to avoid him—certainly to avoid his arms.

  Then someone had shot at her and he’d arrived—and she’d wanted nothing more than to fling herself into his arms and feel safe. The urge had been so strong she’d quivered with it; only by a supreme effort had she quelled it.

  It was utter nonsense to feel so—to feel that the only place she would truly feel safe was in his arms. Dangerous, too, when she knew his interest in her was transient. Once she told him what she knew, he would have no reason to seduce her.

  She’d spent the afternoon lecturing herself, pointing out that she’d survived perfectly well until now, that she would still be safe in the village. All she needed to do was exercise a little extra caution and all would be well. She’d find Mary Anne’s letters, tell Lucifer everything, then they’d unmask the murderer and life could go on as it had before.