All About Love (36 page)

“How opportune, Mr. Cynster. I was about to mention that I understand Phyllida’s been forced to spend the past two days at the Manor for safety’s sake. That must be both boring for Phyllida and a distraction for you, what with all you have to do to settle Horatio’s estate.” With a patronizing air that stated louder than words that he believed every word he said, Basil smiled at Phyllida. “I’ll send the carriage around tomorrow morning, my dear. Mama would be delighted to have you spend the day.”

Lucifer glanced at Phyllida’s face, calm as always, and resisted the urge to applaud. She returned Basil’s smile. “Thank you, Basil, that’s a kind thought. But I have other plans for tomorrow.”

“Indeed?” Basil clearly considered asking what; instead, he said, “Then perhaps—”

“The day after tomorrow is Sunday, so that’s out of the question. After that . . . well, the endeavors with which I’m assisting Mr. Cynster have yet to be completed, so I’ll still be helping him at the Manor.”

Her tone as she uttered that last sentence was enough to give even Basil pause. After a moment, he bowed. “My apologies, my dear, if I did not properly understand—”

There was no apology in his tone, only irritation and faint rebuke; Phyllida stopped him with a raised hand. “There’s a great deal you fail to properly understand, Basil, usually because you don’t wish to understand it.”

A violin hummed, then screeched. Phyllida turned to Lucifer. “I believe that’s our waltz commencing.”

Lucifer bowed and took her hand. He nodded to Basil. “You’ll excuse us, Smollet.”

No question, of course; Basil bowed stiffly. With a bob, Phyllida turned on Lucifer’s arm and let him lead her to the floor. She went into his arms, following his lead without thought; after a moment, she felt his hand stroke her back.

“Relax.”

She threw him a glance—one she knew he would interpret correctly. “Where he ever got the idea that he
owned
me, that he could simply appropriate me and dictate my life, I have no notion.”

Lucifer said nothing. He drew her closer, just enough so their bodies brushed lightly as they whirled. She softened, relaxing into his embrace.

“Not all men are like that, surely?” She glanced around them. “Well, of course they’re not, but just look at Basil, and Cedric, and Henry Grisby. No woman of sense would marry such a man.” After a moment, she added, “Perhaps it’s something in the water hereabouts.”

Lucifer held her protectively tighter as they went through the turn, then he murmured, “Appleby. How long’s he been with Cedric?”

“Appleby?” Phyllida scanned the dancers. “He’s been here . . . well, it seems a long time, but he only joined the household last February. Why?”

“I wondered before if he’d been in the military—I think he must have been. He seems popular with the ladies.”

“He is. They approve of his style and his person, and his behavior is such as must please.”

“You don’t sound particularly taken.”

“I’ve never seen the attraction, I must confess.”

Lucifer was glad to hear it; her tone left no doubt she found the other ladies’ interest puzzling. Her comments on Basil were less reassuring.

“I think,” she said, “that it’s time to speak to Cedric.”

Lucifer glanced at their host, now listening to Lady Huddlesford. “At the end of this dance. Follow my lead.”

“What tack do you intend to take? You can hardly walk up and ask if he was aware he might be illegitimate.”

“I thought I’d ask if he was interested in acquiring any of Horatio’s tomes.” Lucifer looked to where Silas Coombe, resplendent in a green silk coat and a canary-yellow waistcoat, stood conversing. “How likely is Coombe to have mentioned to anyone that I don’t intend to break up Horatio’s collection?”

“Silas is an inveterate gabblemonger.”

“In that case, I’ll have to watch my phrasing.”

The music ended. Lucifer released Phyllida, raised her from her curtsy, then tucked her hand in his arm and strolled toward Cedric. He was with Lady Huddlesford. Everyone exchanged bows; then her ladyship, overwhelming in bronze bombazine, regally glided away.

Cedric smiled at Phyllida, then looked at Lucifer. “Well, sir, I hope our simple country gathering measures up in some small way against what you’re accustomed to.”

“It’s been a thoroughly felicitous evening,” Lucifer returned. “Your mother is to be congratulated, as I’ve already told her.”

“Indeed, indeed. Mama delights in these sorts of affairs. She used to be a feature in the capital before the pater’s health forced them to retire here. You may be sure she’s pleased to have reason to entertain in such style again.”

“If that’s so, then I’m pleased to have been of service.” Lucifer considered the bluff geniality that colored Cedric’s expression. Was it a facade, or his true nature? “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve decided to keep Horatio’s library essentially intact.”

“Ah, yes! I did hear Silas bemoaning that fact. He seemed to think some of Horatio’s collection would be better housed with his own.”

“Unfortunately for Coombe, my mind is made up, in the general sense. However, in checking Horatio’s records, I noticed he’d acquired some volumes from your library.”

Cedric was nodding. “Before his death, the pater—greatly taken with Horatio, he was—went through the library and sold quite a few tomes to him.”

“Indeed. As your father is now dead, and as I’ll be preserving the collection more as a memorial to Horatio than from any real interest of my own, I wondered if you wished to repurchase any of those books. At the same price Horatio paid your father, of course.”

Cedric pulled a face. “Not much of a book man myself. I always thought it wise of the pater to get rid of a few of the books. There’s a blessed lot left if you’re interested.”

Lucifer smiled easily. “It’s not my field.”

“Ah, well, worth a try.” Cedric turned to Phyllida. “Now, my dear, we’ve been neglecting you shamefully. I hear you’ve been spending your days at the Manor.”

Cedric glanced at Lucifer; Phyllida stiffened. If he intimated she just sat there, twiddling her thumbs . . .

Cedric looked back at her. “Daresay there’s all manner of things you’ve been helping Cynster with, heh?”

Her stiffness easing, Phyllida inclined her head. “Indeed.” She glanced at Lucifer. “All manner of things.”

Lucifer’s dark eyes smiled at her, then his gaze went past her and he bowed. “Miss Smollet.”

Phyllida turned as Jocasta joined them. Jocasta exchanged greetings with Cedric, then glanced at her. Phyllida inclined her head.

Jocasta mirrored the movement, then, smiling a touch brittlely, fixed her gaze on Lucifer. “I understand, Mr. Cynster, that you’re considering life as a farmer. Basil tells me you’re talking of setting up a stud.”

“It’s one of the possibilities I’m investigating. The fields and meadows of the Manor are currently underused.”

“True, very true.” Cedric frowned. “Tend to forget how much land there is, back of those woods of yours.”

Lucifer regarded him. “Have you been that way recently?”

Cedric shook his head. “Can’t recall being down that side of the valley for over a year. Not hunting country.”

“Cedric hunts with the local pack,” Jocasta said. “Will you be joining them, Mr. Cynster?”

Lucifer smiled. “I only ride hounds to ride, rather than to hunt.”

Phyllida swallowed the observation that, for him, a fox was the wrong sort of prey. She stood and pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. Eventually, Lucifer excused them; they left Jocasta with Cedric. Her hand on Lucifer’s sleeve, she strolled with him through the milling crowd.

“Was it my imagination, or was Cedric less . . . fixated on you than when last we met?”

Phyllida blinked. “Now you mention it, yes. In fact, he seemed rather relaxed. He didn’t seem perturbed that I’ve been helping you at the Manor.”

“You know him better than I, but I would almost say he was
relieved
you were spending so much time at the Manor.”

Phyllida looked forward. Lucifer was right. And how did she feel about that? “If he’s relieved, then I’m relieved.” She glanced at Lucifer. “I’ve known Cedric all my life. I’ve always considered him a friend; I never wanted him as a suitor.”

Lucifer held her gaze, read her eyes. “And you don’t think he’s a murderer, either.”

“No.” She sighed. “It’s so horrible, knowing how you feel about people but logically knowing it’s possible.”

“I detected not the slightest degree of consciousness over the books, or about my fields beyond the wood.”

“No, that was simply Cedric. What you see is what there is.”

“Speaking of facades”—Lucifer steered her toward the side of the room—“Jocasta Smollet was making an effort to be conciliating. I can’t help suspecting she’s the victim of some sad story.” She struck him as a woman who’d missed her chance at happiness, yet still searched for it every day. “Perhaps that’s the reason for her normally acid tongue.”

Gaining the side of the room, Phyllida faced him. “Having usually been a target for her acid tongue, but then, almost everyone in the village is, you know, I hadn’t really thought of it, but she does seem sad. I’ve never seen her smile or laugh, not happily, not for years.”

“You don’t know her story?”

“No. And that’s really rather odd, because if I don’t know, then it must be a secret, and in a village this size . . . that’s amazing.”

For a moment, they both pondered, then Phyllida shook aside her thoughts and looked into Lucifer’s face. “I think we should search Cedric’s room for the hat.”

Lucifer’s blue gaze fixed on her eyes. “Why? I thought we’d agreed he’d passed our tests.”

Phyllida grimaced. “I
like
Cedric. I don’t want him to be the murderer. Or my attacker. But you know as well as I do that beneath Cedric’s genial
bonhomie
is an intelligent man, and the threat implied by those inscriptions is a real motive for him. It would destroy his life.” She gestured about them. “It would destroy all this. And this simple country life is important to Cedric.”

She studied Lucifer’s face, then narrowed her eyes. “And despite what you just said, you haven’t crossed him off the top of our list of suspects.”

Lucifer’s lips thinned. “No, but—”

“We owe it to ourselves, the village, and Cedric to turn every possible stone to determine whether he’s the murderer or not.”

“Searching his room for the hat.” Lucifer fixed her with a gaze too patronizing for her liking. “As you yourself pointed out—”

“I know he
should
have got rid of it, but what if he hasn’t? This isn’t London—decent hats aren’t easy to come by. He might have laid it aside, intending to get rid of it, but I’ve made no mention of the hat—even of being there that Sunday. He might reason nothing will ever come of it. Who knows—he might even have forgotten about the hat. It might be something quite different that he thought I saw.”

She turned toward the ballroom door. “If you wish to remain here,
I
will go and search Cedric’s room.”

She took one step. Long fingers curled about her elbow and stopped her in her tracks.

“Not. Alone.” The two words rumbled just above her ear; they carried a weighted warning she could not have described in words, but her senses translated effortlessly. She waited, her gaze fixed on the door.

A sigh brushed her ear. “Where is Cedric’s room? Do you know?”

“Upstairs to the right—the last door along the corridor.”

“Very well.” He drew her to face him. “In a moment, we’ll part. I’ll head for the refreshment table. You stroll a little—not enough to get caught—then go out as if heading for the withdrawing room. I’ll be watching. I’ll give you enough time to reach Cedric’s room, then I’ll follow.”

Phyllida looked at him. “You’ve done this before.”

He simply smiled, then he bowed and they parted.

Phyllida followed his instructions to the letter—not something that came naturally, but she could see no good reason to do otherwise. He’d agreed to search Cedric’s room—that was what mattered. And not only in terms of their investigation. It meant he could be reasoned with, which, did he but know it, was a definite point in his favor.

Henry Grisby tried to solicit her for the next dance; she politely declined and headed for the withdrawing room. No one was about to see her glide up the stairs. Once in the gallery, she turned right. She reached Cedric’s room; her hand was on the knob when she heard a distant footfall. Glancing back, she saw Lucifer step up from the stairs.

He saw her; she waved, then opened the door and walked in. Less than a minute later, he joined her, easing the door closed behind him. Phyllida watched him straighten, watched him prowl toward her, his gaze scanning the room; it came to rest on her.

Moonlight slanted through the uncurtained windows and lit his face. She suddenly recalled how he had looked three nights before, when he had crossed such a room toward her. The same heavy-lidded eyes, the same sensual lips. His gaze dropped to her lips; she could swear he was having the same sensual, wicked thoughts.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He stopped before her, less than a foot away. His heat reached her; his gaze rose to her eyes. He studied them. His hand rose; one thumb brushed her lips and she shivered.

His lips curved, just a little—not taunting, but self- deprecatory. “Hats,” he murmured. “Where would Cedric store his hats?”

Phyllida blinked. Weakly, she waved to a small door. “In his dressing room. There’s a hat shelf.”

Lucifer looked at the small door, half ajar, then back at her, one brow rising.

“This was Sir Bentley’s room—he was ill for years. I often visited.”

Phyllida bustled to the door, ignoring the tempting warmth that had slid under her skin. She tried to ignore the presence following at her heels, but that was beyond her.

Lucifer stepped into the dressing room—long and narrow, it ran the length of the main bedroom. A hat shelf was fixed along the wall facing him at head height. It was packed with hats.

“This
isn’t
London.” He glanced at Phyllida. “Cedric owns more hats than any gentleman of fashion I know.”