All About Love Read online

  “Oh, I do.”

  She inclined her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll attempt to answer them while you eat. You need to build your strength.” He nodded in acquiescence; she continued. “You are presently at the Grange, my father’s house. It lies south of the village. You were found at the Manor, which as you probably recall lies on the village’s north boundary.”

  “That much I remember.”

  “My father is Sir Jasper Tallent—”

  “Is he the local magistrate?”

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  “Has he any idea who killed Horatio?”

  Phyllida pressed her lips together, then relented. “No.”

  “Do you?”

  She’d looked at him before she’d thought; his gaze locked with hers. Phyllida looked into eyes diabolically blue, took in the hard lines of his face, the unwavering determination, the hard mask that concealed his intention not at all. “No.”

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Perhaps not.”

  She almost sighed with relief.

  He looked down at his soup. “You do, however, know something.”

  His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air—there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, “I daresay you’re ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe—you’ll need time to recover full use of your faculties.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to force majeure. With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.

  “My faculties,” he murmured, “are returning in leaps and bounds.”

  Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.

  Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. “You’ll need to be careful.”

  She kept her expression blank, her tone direct.

  He opened his eyes wide; innocence wasn’t what she saw in them. “Shouldn’t you check my wound?”

  “Your wound needs nothing more than time to heal.” No power on earth would get her closer to the bed—closer to him. Phyllida frowned, and held tight to her role. She was in charge, not he. “Papa would like you to join us for afternoon tea, if you’re able.”

  His smile made her nerves tingle. “I’m able.”

  “Good.” She turned to the door. “I’ll have your bags brought up—as a precaution, we left them downstairs.”

  “Precaution?”

  “Why, yes.” Reaching the door, she looked back. “We kept your clothes from you in case you turned difficult over remaining abed.”

  His lips curved; his eyes glinted. The combination looked positively wicked. “Lying abed is one of my favorite pastimes. However, if I’d wanted to get up, the mere absence of clothes wouldn’t have deterred me.” His gaze slid over her; his voice deepened. “Not in the least.”

  Gripping the doorknob, Phyllida met his gaze blankly and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “I’ll let Papa know you’ll be joining us later. Your name?”

  His untrustworthy smile deepened. “Lucifer.”

  Phyllida stared at him; even with the width of the room separating them, all her instincts were screaming, warning her not to call his bluff. Any of his bluffs.

  Some part of her knew he wasn’t the sort who bluffed.

  It went seriously against her grain to let him trifle with her and escape retribution, but arguing would simply be playing into his hands. She forced herself to incline her head and evenly state, “Sweetie—Miss Sweet—will return shortly. She’ll take away your tray.”

  On that note, she opened the door; with a regal nod, she left.

  Later, after he’d bathed and dressed, Lucifer sat on the window seat in his bedchamber and looked north, over a dense wood. Through the shifting canopies he could occasionally glimpse the gray slate roof of the Manor.

  Gaze fixed, he thought of Horatio, and of Martha, and of what he should do next, how best to move forward. Horatio’s death was an accepted fact in his mind, but the tale had only just begun.

  It was quiet beyond the open window. The snoozy quality of a summer’s afternoon blanketed the village, yet somewhere in that peace a murderer waited, and watched and worried. Horatio’s death had not been neat. Not only had he, Lucifer, stumbled on the scene far too soon, but so, too, had Phyllida Tallent.

  Lucifer pondered that last, and all that it might mean.

  A knock interrupted his reverie. He faced the door, keen to see if intuition proved correct. “Come in.”

  Phyllida entered; he smiled in private triumph. Retreating earlier and leaving the field to him must have been difficult; despite her wariness, he’d predicted she wouldn’t stay away. She glanced around the room, then discovered him. She hesitated, then, leaving the door wide, crossed toward him. Frowning, she studied his face, his eyes. He let her draw near before smoothly rising—no sudden movements.

  Her lovely eyes widened. She immediately halted. “Ah . . .” From four feet away, she stared up at him, her expression a telltale blank. Her gaze drifted, passing over him, then she wrenched it back to his face. And caught him returning the favor. Her eyes snapped even as her expression smoothed to impassivity. “Are you sure you’ve recovered enough to join us downstairs?”

  He continued to smile, relishing her resistance. “I’m quite recovered enough to brave a drawing room.” The frown in her eyes deepened; he added, “My head only aches—it no longer throbs.”

  “Well . . .” She searched his eyes once more. “I’m afraid my aunt and cousins have arrived for the summer, and, of course, they’re agog to meet you. You must promise you won’t overtax yourself.”

  Fussing was not something he readily endured, yet the idea that she’d elected herself his keeper, and was determined to do her duty despite the urgings of her common sense to keep a safer distance between them, was oddly satisfying. Oddly endearing. He smiled charmingly, too wise to smirk. “If I weaken and need support, you’ll be the first to know.”

  She glared, but the concern in her dark eyes was very real. As was her suspicion.

  “Very well.” She lifted her head. “And now, if you please, your real name?”

  Lucifer looked down at her; he made no attempt to disguise the tenor of his smile. “I told you. Lucifer.”

  She met his gaze directly. “No one is called Lucifer.”

  “I am.” He stepped forward; she backed.

  “That’s ludicrous. That cannot be your real name.”

  He continued his advance; she continued to fall back.

  “It’s the name I’m known by. There are many who would tell you it suits me.” He held her gaze and continued his prowling stroll. “If you ask anyone in the ton for Lucifer, they’ll instantly send you to me.”

  Her eyes had grown wider—their expression informed him she’d never encountered a man such as he. She was both fascinated and defensive—and, he suspected, disapproving. Desire flared; he tamped it down, kept that truth from his eyes. That he delighted in transforming disapproving ladies into wanton houris was a truth she didn’t need to know.

  He took the last step that backed her over the room’s threshold. Glancing about, she discovered herself in the corridor. She stiffened; the look she threw him as she stepped aside was distinctly irate. And not a little surprised. He hid a grin. It seemed likely that no one had ever managed her as he just had. He’d herded her out of the room—no hands, no voice—simply him. And there was hay yet to be made on this fine summer’s day.

  Closing the door, he looked down at her. “You shouldn�
��t be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom.”

  She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.

  Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.

  Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he’d imagined it; his body’s reaction confirmed he hadn’t. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.

  “Thank you for the warning.” Her words drifted back to him. “You may tell Papa your name directly. If you’ll follow me?” Head high, she moved toward the stairs.

  Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.

  The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a chaise. A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched—another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.

  Two other gentlemen stood beside the chaise. The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.

  Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. “Papa?”

  Lucifer joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. “Allow me to present . . .”

  He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. “Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer.”

  “Lucifer, heh?” Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. “What names you youngsters do take. Now! How’re you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks to your daughter’s care.”

  Sir Jasper smiled on Phyllida, who had turned to the tea trolley. “Aye, well, that was a nasty blow, no doubt of that. Now let me make you known to m’sister-in-law; then we’ll take our tea and you can tell me all you know about this distressing business.”

  His sister-in-law, Lady Huddlesford, summoned a smile and held out her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Cynster.”

  Lucifer politely shook hands. Sir Jasper gestured to the dandy. “M’nephew, Percy Tallent.”

  Percy, it transpired, was her ladyship’s son by her first marriage to Sir Jasper’s late brother. One minute of affected conversation and Lucifer had Percy pegged—he was on a repairing lease. Nothing else could account for his presence in rural Devon. His sullen half brother, Frederick Huddlesford, openly stared at Lucifer’s well-cut coat, hard pressed, it seemed, to marshal the words for even a simple greeting.

  With a nod, Lucifer turned to the young man so like Phyllida, who promptly grinned and stuck out his hand. “Jonas. Phyllida’s little brother.”

  Clasping the proffered hand, Lucifer smiled and raised his brows. Loose-limbed, with the same careless grace that characterized his sister, Jonas stood a good six inches taller than she. Lucifer glanced at her as she straightened from the tea trolley. For all his transparent, good-natured insousiance, Jonas didn’t appear younger than she.

  Phyllida caught his glance; her chin rose. “We’re twins, but I’m the elder.”

  “Ah. I see. Always the leader.”

  Her brows rose haughtily. Jonas chuckled.

  So did Sir Jasper. “Quite, quite. Phyllida keeps us all in line—don’t know what we’d do without her. Now”—he waved to a grouping of chairs at the end of the room—“let’s move down there and you can tell me what you can about this terrible business.”

  As he turned, Lucifer felt Phyllida’s gaze on his face.

  “Indeed, Papa. I do think Mr. Cynster should sit down. I’ll bring you your cups.”

  Sir Jasper nodded. Lucifer followed him down the room. They settled in wing chairs angled to each other, a small table between. The length of the room assured them of privacy; the others watched them go, their curiosity palpable, then reluctantly returned to their own company.

  As he gingerly rested his head back on the chair’s cushion, Lucifer considered Sir Jasper. His host was a type he knew well. Men like him were the backbone of county England. Bluffly good-natured, genial if unimaginative, they were, nevertheless, no one’s fools. They could be counted on to hold the line, to do whatever needed to be done to keep their community stable, yet they had no taste for power; it was appreciation of their comfort plus trenchant common sense that drove them.

  Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, busy at the tea trolley. Like father, like daughter? He suspected so, at least in part.

  “So”—Sir Jasper stretched out his legs—“are you familiar with Devon?”

  Lucifer went to shake his head, but stopped. “No. My family home lies north of here, to the east of the Quantocks.”

  “Somerset, heh? So you’re a west countryman?”

  “At heart, but I’ve lived in London for the last decade.”

  Phyllida arrived with cups on saucers; she handed one to each of them, then whisked back up the room. Sir Jasper sipped; Lucifer did, too, conscious of reawakening hunger. An instant later, Phyllida reappeared with a cake plate piled high. She offered it around, then subsided onto a love seat beside her father’s chair, and patently settled to listen.

  Lucifer glanced at Sir Jasper. His host was aware of his daughter’s presence, and clearly saw nothing odd in her being privy to his investigations. His flippant remark about her being a born leader was not, it seemed, far from the mark.

  Hands folded in her lap, she sat quiet and contained. Lucifer studied her as he consumed a piece of cake. She wouldn’t see twenty again, but how much older was she? Her cool composure he suspected was misleading. Jonas’s age was easier to estimate; his body was still all long bones and spare frame. He was in his early-to-mid twenties, at least four years younger than Lucifer’s twenty-nine.

  Which made Phyllida the same.

  And a puzzle. There was no ring on her finger, nor had there ever been one. He’d noted that last night; even in extremis, his rakish instincts hadn’t failed him. She was twenty-three, twenty-four, and still unwed. Definitely a puzzle.

  She was aware of his scrutiny, but not a smidgen of that awareness showed. The urge to shake her—to see her lose that cool control—flared. Lucifer looked down, set aside his cake plate, and picked up his cup.

  Sir Jasper did the same. “Now, to business. Let’s start with your arrival. What brought you to the Manor yesterday morning?”

  “I received a letter from Horatio Welham.” Lucifer settled his head back on the cushion. “It was delivered in London on Thursday. Horatio invited me to visit the Manor at my earliest convenience.”

  “So you were previously acquainted with Welham?”

  “I’ve known Horatio for over nine years. I first met him when I was twenty, while staying with friends in the Lake District. Horatio introduced me to serious collecting. He was my mentor in that field and became a close, very trusted friend. Over the years, I frequently visited Horatio and his wife, Martha, at their house by Lake Windemere.”

  “Lake District, was it? Always wondered where Horatio hailed from. He never said and one didn’t like to pry.”

  Lucifer hesitated, then said, “Horatio was deeply attached to Martha. When she died three years ago, he couldn’t face living alone in the house they’d shared for so long. He sold up and moved south. Devon appealed because of the milder climate—he used to say he chose to move here because of his old bones and because he liked this village. He said it was small and comfortable.” With no managing local me
sdames. Lucifer glanced at Phyllida—how had Horatio viewed her?

  Her eyes had grown dark. “No wonder he never spoke of his past. He must have been deeply in love with his Martha.”

  Lucifer inclined his head, then looked at Sir Jasper.

  “Would any of Welham’s servants know you?”

  “I don’t know who he kept on. Is Covey still with him?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then he knows me, certainly.” Lucifer frowned. “If Covey’s here, why did the servants suspect me of killing Horatio? Covey knows how long I’ve known Horatio and the nature of our relationship.”

  “Covey wasn’t here,” Phyllida said. “He visits an old aunt in Musbury, a village nearby, every Sunday. By the time he returned, you were here at the Grange.”

  “Covey would be very cut up by Horatio’s death.”

  Phyllida nodded.

  Sir Jasper sighed. “No getting any sense out of him yesterday—I did try. Daresay he’s still feeling it today.”

  “Covey was devoted to Horatio over all the years I knew them.”

  Sir Jasper threw Lucifer a shrewd glance. “Quite—no reason to suppose Covey knows anything about his master’s death.” He sat back. “Now, let’s see. This is your first visit to Colyton?”

  “Yes. Until now, matters never fell out suitably for a visit. Horatio and I discussed it, but . . . We met at least every three months, sometimes more frequently, in London and at collectors’ gatherings around the country.”

  “So you’re a collector, too?”

  “I specialize in silver and jewelry. Horatio, on the other hand, was an acknowledged expert on antique books and a highly regarded authority in a number of other areas, too. He was an inspired teacher. It was an honor to have learned from him.”

  “Were there others who learned from him?”

  “A few, but none who remained so closely in touch. The others took up collecting in Horatio’s own spheres, and so became competitors of sorts.”