All About Love (7 page)

Her nemesis spoke. “Perhaps I could accompany you, Miss Tallent?”

“Ah . . .” Transfixed by blue eyes that warned her there was no alternative to his company, Phyllida bit back a refusal, couched as a polite reminder about his head.

His lips curved; his gaze remained steady. “I know I promised not to overtax myself, but as I’ll be in your company, there’s surely no risk.”

He’d kept her secret; now she had to pay the price. She inclined her head. “If you wish. A walk in the fresh air might ease your head.”

“An excellent notion.” As Lucifer straightened from bowing to her aunt, her father caught his eye. “Give you a chance to get the lay of the land, heh?”

“Indeed.” The reprobate turned to her, a definite glint in his eyes. He smiled and gestured elegantly. “Lead on, my dear Miss Tallent.”

She took him
to the Manor by way of the lane through the village; it was too dangerous to walk through the woods with a predator, especially one in whose power she now was. Her father, of course, had no idea—he was impressed with the fiend, she could tell.

As she walked through the sunshine with him prowling beside her, she grudgingly admitted that if he hadn’t been such a threat to her, she might have been impressed, too. He felt just as he ought to about Horatio. But being managed was a novel experience for her, one she didn’t like. However, he hadn’t done the unforgivable and given her the ultimate ultimatum—that either she tell him the whole truth, or he would tell her father she’d been in Horatio’s drawing room. She was therefore willing to humor him.

She glanced at him. His dark hair shone mahogany brown in the sun. “You forgot your hat.”

“I rarely wear one.”

So much for that. She walked on. The village proper lay just ahead.

Lucifer looked at her; her bonnet shielded her face from his view. “I think”—he waited until she glanced up at him—“that, given we’ve formed an alliance of sorts, you’d better tell me what happened after I was discovered.”

She studied his eyes, then faced forward. “You were discovered by Hemmings, Horatio’s gardener. Mrs. Hemmings, the housekeeper, went upstairs, imagining Horatio to be there. Hemmings went into the drawing room to lay the fire. He raised the alarm and Bristleford, Horatio’s butler, sent for Juggs and Thompson.”

“To take me, as the murderer, into custody?”

Her bonnet bobbed. “Bristleford was overset—he thought you were the murderer. There’s a cell beneath the inn where prisoners are held awaiting transportation to the assizes. Thompson’s the blacksmith—they used his dray to shift you.”

“And where were you?”

She glanced swiftly at him, then away. A full minute passed before she said, “I was laid upon my bed with a sick headache—that was why I hadn’t gone to church.”

When she said no more, he prompted her. “You appeared in the cell insisting I wasn’t the murderer.”

“I didn’t know whether you remembered.”

“I remember. How did you come to be there?”

“I often borrowed books of poetry from Horatio. I recovered from my headache and thought I’d fetch a new volume. But just as I reached our front door, Aunt Huddlesford’s carriage drew up. I’d forgotten she was arriving that morning, but all the arrangements were already in place—or so I thought.”

The irritation in that last reached Lucifer clearly. “But . . . ?”

“Percy and Frederick—I wasn’t expecting them. They don’t usually favor us with their gracious presence.”

“I’d wager Percy’s on a repairing lease.”

“Very likely, but their arrival meant that I had to wait until our staff returned from church to give orders for extra rooms, and entertain them and Aunt Huddlesford until Papa and Jonas appeared.”

“And when that happened?”

“I left as soon as I could, but when I reached the Manor, you’d already been taken away.”

“Is this the inn?” Lucifer stopped; Phyllida did, too. The building beside them was a half-timbered structure, worn and a little shabby but still serviceable.

“Yes—the Red Bells.”

“And Juggs is the innkeeper.”

She started walking again. “He gets paid for holding prisoners, so you shouldn’t judge him too harshly.”

He swallowed his response to that. “What happened next?”

“I made sure they’d sent for Papa, then I came to the Bells.” She glanced at his face. “How much do you remember?”

“Not all of it, but enough. You stayed until your father arrived, and then he rode home and was to send the carriage. The next thing I remember clearly was . . .”—he studied her eyes while he replayed his memories—“waking up in the witching hour.”

“Yes, well, that’s really all there was to it.” Looking ahead, she paced on. “You were restless, but your skull was intact—it was all just the pain.”

Lucifer glanced at her. Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity to tell him of her vigil by his bed? He’d put her in a position of being grateful to him; why hadn’t she evened the score?

They strolled past a succession of neat cottages and on around the curving lane. The Manor came into sight.

“Very well,” he said. “I now know your story. I also know that you were in Horatio’s drawing room before I entered, and that you were there after I was hit.”

“You know nothing of the sort.”

He looked smugly superior—she was watching from the corner of her eye.

“You can’t possibly tell it was me from a mere touch.” The glance she flung at him was both irate and uncertain.

“I can. I did. I know it was you.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“Hmm . . . perhaps not. Why not touch me again, just to see if I’m certain?”

She stopped and faced him, latent sparks in her eyes—

“Hoi! Miss Phyllida!”

They swung around. A heavy man in a leather apron and vest was lumbering down the common toward them.

“The blacksmith?”

“Yes—Thompson.”

Thompson approached. His gaze on Lucifer, he nodded respectfully. “Sir.” He nodded at Phyllida, then looked back at Lucifer. “I just wanted to apologize, like, for any bruises you mighta taken when we dumped you in my dray. ‘Course, we thought you was the murderer and you weren’t easy to lift, but I wouldn’t want no hard feelings.”

Lucifer smiled. “None taken. I don’t bruise easily.”

“Well.” Thompson blew out a relieved breath and grinned back. “That’s all right, then. Not but what it was no fit welcome to the village, ‘specially not with a bash on the head an’ all.”

Phyllida inwardly squirmed. She glanced up the lane toward the Manor.

“Has Sir Jasper got any clues as to this murderer, then, sir?”

Her “No” clashed with Lucifer’s “None”—Phyllida nearly outwardly squirmed when she realized the question had not been addressed to her.

With a subtly amused glance, Lucifer added, “Sir Jasper’s investigations are proceeding.”

“Aye, well . . .”

Phyllida waited while Thompson pointed out the forge on the far side of the common and assured Lucifer that he could count on him for any assistance, either in laying the murderer by the heels or with his horses.

With a final nod, Thompson took himself off back over the common.

She stepped out again; Lucifer prowled by her side, his stride an exercise in effortless grace. He murmured, “It seems a peaceful little place.”

“Usually.” She glanced up and found him scanning the common and the church on the crest.

They avoided the duck pond and its vocal inhabitants and reached the Manor’s gate. She opened it and stepped through; Lucifer had to duck the trailing fingers of wisteria hanging from the framing arch. She led the way around the small fountain. Gaining the porch, she realized he’d fallen behind. Looking back, she saw him studying a bed of burgeoning peonies. His gaze moved on to a bed of roses and lavender; then he glanced up, saw her waiting, and lengthened his stride.

He joined her on the porch, but glanced back at the garden.

“What is it?”

He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. “Who did the garden?”

“Papa told you—Horatio. Well”—she glanced at the beds—“Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio’s was always the guiding hand.” She studied his face. “Why?”

He looked at the garden. “When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden—it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn’t have known a hollyhock from a nettle.”

Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. “All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden.”

After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.

The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio’s coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they—yes,
they
—had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.

A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.

For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio’s face. It had been there when she’d found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.

She’d liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He’d been murdered in the village she’d virtually managed for twelve years; that she’d been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.

It was as if something she’d worked for all her life—the peace and serenity of Colyton—had been violated, tainted.

The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she’d found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she’d realized she’d heard no one leaving . . .

Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She’d only just remembered.

She’d come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she’d been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She’d idled in the hall, then decided on searching the drawing room.

How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she’d found him?

What if the murderer hadn’t left but had still been in the drawing room when she’d entered?

She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.

He
must
have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.

Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer’s hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio’s lined face and made a vow—a binding, resolute vow—that she would find whoever had hidden between the bookcases and watched her discover Horatio’s body.

This was one murderer who would not escape.

Even as she made her silent declaration, she was aware another, very similar one was being made not a foot away. Lucifer’s words to her father had rung with determination; she needed no convincing that he would regard his vow as seriously as she regarded hers.

They could work together—together they might succeed. Alone, even with her father’s support, bringing a murderer to justice might well be more than she could accomplish. Despite his dubious talents, she was certain the reprobate beside her could achieve anything he set his mind to. So . . .

She slanted a glance at him. She needed to tell him all that had happened, even to admitting that it was she who had hit him over the head. Confessing to that wouldn’t be comfortable, but he needed to know.

He especially needed to know about the hat.

Which meant she had to speak with Mary Anne straightaway.

She took in Lucifer’s bleak expression, the planes of his face harsh without any lurking laughter to soften them. His large eyes were hooded. He’d been much closer to Horatio than she had.

Sliding her fingers from his, she retreated and left him with his grief.

Lucifer heard her go. Part of his mind tracked her movements; part of him relaxed when she turned deeper into the house. He remembered she’d mentioned speaking with the housekeeper. Reassured, he returned his attention to Horatio.

Their last farewell—there wouldn’t be another. He let the memories spill through his mind, like water running through his fingers. Their shared interests, their successes, their mutual appreciation, the long afternoons spent on the terrace overlooking Lake Windemere. All good times—there’d been none bad.

At the last, he drew in a deep breath, then laid a hand atop Horatio’s, clasped on his chest. “Go twit Martha on her pansies. As for revenge, leave that to me.”