All About Love c-6 Read online

  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 fall 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.

  Except that Lucifer would be living in the village. He wasn't going to leave. She wouldn't be able to avoid him.

  There was only one solution-to behave with her usual confidence and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened on the cliff. Pretend he didn't affect her at all.

  Not too easy when he was glowering at her.

  "You can't possibly be so witless as to believe that it was some benighted huntsman who shot at you."

  "You can't argue that it's not a possibility."

  "It became much less of a possibility when we found hoofprints, just like those behind the Manor's shrubbery, beside the copse in that field."

  Her stride faltered; she slowed. "Someone rode there… it could still have been a huntsman."

  "There was nothing to hunt in the field."

  Except her. A cold hand gripped her nape; icy fingers trailed her spine. Phyllida suppressed a shiver. She continued walking. Her mind darted, sifting, rearranging the known facts in light of that new one.

  She'd almost convinced herself it had been a careless hunter-despite her instinctive fear, there'd been no logical reason to think otherwise. Now… could the murderer be trying to kill her?

  Why? She'd seen the hat, true, but it was just a brown hat-she'd know it again if she saw it, but she couldn't recall seeing it before. She'd kept her eyes peeled, but she hadn't sighted it again. In fact, until they'd confirmed otherwise, she'd assumed some outsider must have ridden in and stabbed Horatio. That no longer seemed likely. If Lucifer was correct and the same horse that had been tethered by the shrubbery on Sunday had been by the copse this morning, then she could only agree with him.

  The murderer was a local and had tried to kill her.

  He must think she could identify him, but surely not because of the hat? He'd have burned it by now, and as she hadn't said anything, it must be obvious she hadn't recognized it. Was there something else she'd seen?

  Frowning, she walked on.

  A disgusted sound came from beside her. She felt Lucifer's gaze on her face and swiftly banished her frown.

  "I should tell your father of your connection with the murder."

  She rounded on him. "You haven't?"

  He scowled at her. "No-but I should. I will, if that's the only way to ensure you remain safe."

  She breathed easily again. "I'll take care."

  "Take care? Just look at you! Traipsing about in the dead of night-alone!"

  "But no one knows I'm out here."

  "Except all those involved."

  She snorted softly. "None of them is the murderer and you know it."

  A charged silence ensued.

  "Are you going to tell me that no one ever notices the light shining from the church every few nights?"

  "Of course they notice-they think it's smugglers."

  "So everyone knows you're there."

  "No! No one even imagines I'm there-I'm a woman, remember?"

  That shut him up. Only for a moment. "Believe me, that's one thing I'm highly unlikely to forget."

  She tripped. He caught her arm, hauling her up, swinging her to him. She steadied, facing diagonally down the common. "Good Lord!" She stared. "A light just winked in your drawing room."

  They both froze, staring down at the Manor. All was dark, then a pinprick of light flashed again. Before they could blink, a faint glow suffused the windows of the drawing room. A lamp had been lit and turned low.

  Phyllida sucked in a breath. "It must be the murderer!"

  "Stay here!"

  Releasing her, Lucifer plunged down the slope.

  "Hah!" Phyllida headed after him, in his wake, trusting that if there was a place to stumble, he'd find it first.

  They skirted the duck pond, then picked their way across the lane, careful to avoid loose stones. Gaining the cottages' front fences, they hugged the shadows, ducking low as they rushed along the Manor's garden wall. Lucifer reached the gate before her; he stood and swung it open-

  It creaked.

  The sound seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

  Lucifer flung himself up the path, gravel crunching under his feet. Phyllida followed at his heels.

  The light in the drawing room abruptly died.

  They skidded up against the front door, Lucifer juggling a set of unfamiliar keys. From within came the sound of footsteps fleeing across the tiles. Lucifer stopped, lifted his head, listened…

  He swore and shoved the keys back in his pocket. He focused on her. "Dammit! Stay here!" He turned and charged along the front of the house.

  Phyllida followed.

  Lucifer rounded the corner and stopped; Phyllida cannoned into him. Steadying herself against his back, hands clutching his coat, she peered around his shoulder-

  And caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure at the edge of her vision. "There!" She pointed.

  The moon sailed free as the man fled across a stretch of open lawn. He was heading for the shrubbery.

  "Stay here!" Lucifer took off after him.

  Phyllida hesitated. There were only two other exits from the shrubbery-one to the lake, one… She looked at the entrance to the narrow path beside the lane. Dragging in a quick breath, she raced for it.

  It was the fact that she wasn't following him that made Lucifer glance back. At first, he couldn't see her-then he did; she was a shadow streaking across the stretch of lawn by the main gates. His heart stopped.

  "No!" he roared. "Come back!"

  She dove into the dark entrance of the path.

  Swearing violently, he swerved and headed after her.

  He plunged along the path. It twisted and turned, a tunnel whose walls were impenetrable black, whose ceiling was the night sky obscured by dark branches. He could barely see the ground beneath his pounding feet. Branches grabbed at his coat; he pressed on at full tilt.

  Phyllida was fast-faster than he'd expected-unencumbered as she was by skirts. She was still ahead of him, but he thought he could hear her footfalls over his own and the pounding in his ears.

  The pertinent question was not how fast she was, but how fast the murderer was. And whether he was armed or
not.

  Would they reach the end of the shrubbery in time?

  Would he catch Phyllida before she ran headlong into the murderer's arms?

  Then he rounded a bend and saw her; exerting every last ounce of strength, he forged ahead. He caught up with her where the shrubbery hedges ended; shoulder to shoulder, they burst into the clearing beyond.

  The mocking thud of retreating hooves greeted them.

  They halted, sagged. Chest heaving, hands on his hips, Lucifer looked at Phyllida. Half bent over, hands on her knees, she puffed and puffed.

  He waited, then asked, "Did you recognize him?"

  She shook her head, then straightened. "I barely glimpsed him at all."

  They'd been too late to even catch a glimpse of the horse. Beneath his breath, Lucifer swore. He scowled at Phyllida, then brusquely gestured back up the path. He'd give her his opinion of her behavior later-after he'd caught his breath.

  They retraced their steps. At the end of the path, they emerged onto the lawn. Phyllida looked ahead, sucked in a breath, and stepped back.

  Lucifer halted. Dodswell and Hemmings were prowling the lawn. Inwardly sighing, he murmured, "Stay here." He began to walk forward, then paused and added, "You don't want to know what I'll do if you are not in that precise spot when I get back."

  He thought he heard a haughty sniff, but he didn't look back. Pushing into a lope, he crossed the lawn, waving when Dodswell saw him.

  "An intruder-I gave chase but lost him." He waited until Hemmings came up, then said, "I'm going to prowl around a bit more. You can check through the house, see how he got in and out, then lock up. I've got my keys-we can compare notes in the morning."

  Both Hemmings and Dodswell were in their nightshirts; they nodded and started toward the house.

  Lucifer waited until they'd gone indoors, then turned and headed back to the path.

  Chapter 10

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  Phyllida was waiting where he'd left her, just inside the entrance to the path. Arms folded, she might have been scowling at him; he couldn't be sure in the dark.