All About Love

Chapter 19

Contents – Prev | Next

Early the next morning, Lucifer stood at his bedchamber windows and looked out over Horatio's garden. The sight soothed him, helped clear his mind and focus his thinking.

He couldn't ask Phyllida to marry him-not yet. Not while the murderer was still loose, with her very much in his sights. The man had to be growing desperate; that gave him an overwhelmingly powerful reason for wanting Phyllida completely within his protective care. If he asked her to marry him now… no. He wasn't going to risk it. He would not give her even the flimsiest reason to imagine his proposal had any motive bar one.

She wanted to learn about love-so be it. He would make sure she saw it clearly, uncamouflaged, undisguised. Make sure she learned enough so she would recognize it instantly, so that no possibility of confusion would exist when he finally asked her to be his.

He took a determined breath, then exhaled. His gaze was drawn to the jeweled tapestry below, bedewed and glittering with the first touch of the morning sun. A self-conscious smile tugged at his lips. Turning, he grabbed his coat, shrugged into it, and headed downstairs.

When Phyllida joined him at the breakfast table half an hour later, a spray of summer blooms lay beside her plate. She blinked at them; hesitantly, with one fingertip, she touched the velvet petal of a perfect white rose. Then she glanced up at him as, having held her chair for her, he moved back to his. "I didn't know you'd been out."

"Only for those. Only for you." He sat. "Through one impulsive act, I've shattered my suave London persona. I filched the shears from the garden room. When I came back in, the Hemmingses were turning the place upside down looking for them. I'd forgotten today is the day Mrs. Hemmings does the church flowers."

Phyllida raised the fragrant blooms to her face to hide her smile. As well as the white rose, there was rose lavender and honeysuckle, all set off with violets. "Thank you," she murmured. "I appreciate the sacrifice."

He reached for the coffeepot. "Strange to tell, it didn't hurt at all."

That made her giggle. Laying aside the spray, making a mental note to set it in a vase by her bed-the bed they presently shared-she helped herself to toast. "What now? We can't simply sit on our hands for the next two weeks and hope everything comes right in the end."

Lucifer hesitated, then said, "I sent a letter off yesterday while you were busy with the Farthingales. The contents aren't important so much as any results it might bring."

"Results?"

"I wrote to my cousin Devil. He'll be at Somersham at present-that's in Cambridgeshire. I gave him a brief outline of what's happened here, and the names of the gentlemen we've not yet eliminated."

"What do you expect him-Devil-to do?"

"Ask questions. Or have other people ask them. That's something Devil does well. He'll be discreet, but if there's any useful information lying about the capital, you can rest assured Devil and his troops will find it."

"His troops?"

"Whoever he calls on."

Head tilted, Phyllida regarded him. "What aren't you telling me?"

Lucifer grinned. "Devil is the Duke of St. Ives. If he wants something, he'll get it."

"Ah." Phyllida nodded. "I take it he's a despot. Is he a close relation?"

"First cousin."

Her face blanked. "You're first cousin to a duke?"

Thankful that Sweetie was twittering about outside, helping the Hemmingses, Lucifer nodded. "Don't let it bother you."

It was obvious it did. "If you're a near relative of a duke-"

"Near but a long way from the title, so I can marry as I choose." Brows rising, he added, "Not that any of us ever do anything else."

Frowning, Phyllida studied him. "You're serious."

"There's no reason to hold my birth against me."

She glared, but let the point slide. "So you've asked your cousin for help-"

"And I think, now matters have reached this pass, that it's time to inform Horatio's peers of his murder and appeal for their help."

"Other collectors like Horatio?"

Lucifer nodded. "I know most of them. Covey will have the addresses. I'll write and ask if they can shed any light on what might be in Horatio's collection that could have led to his murder, and also if they know of any special item he might have recently discovered."

"Would you like me to help?"

"If you would, we'd get the letters out faster. There must be someone who knows something to the point."

Phyllida looked at him, so large and darkly handsome he dominated the room. "I should help Mrs. Hemmings with the church vases-I didn't clear them yesterday."

"Mrs. Hemmings can take Sweetie-they'll be delighted to relieve you of the burden." Lucifer returned her gaze steadily; he reached out and closed his hand over hers. "I don't want to keep you locked inside like some maiden in a tower, but until we have this man in keeping, you should not go out on your usual errands. No church flowers, no Colyton Import Company. No visiting Mrs. Dewbridge or any of your other old ducks. No excursion that anyone could predict or anticipate."

She stared at him. "What does that leave?"

Later that afternoon, she found herself on the box seat of his curricle with the blacks trotting smartly along the lane. Despite her position, she was surrounded by male-Jonas to one side, Lucifer on the other, and as Jonas was handling the ribbons, Lucifer had stretched one arm behind her along the seat. There was absolutely no doubt she was safe from the murderer. As she watched Jonas work to keep the blacks in line, she wasn't so certain she was safe from her twin landing them all in a ditch.

Lucifer seemed much more sanguine, issuing instructions and explanations in a relaxed tone. Phyllida watched and listened. When they reached the end of the lane and Lucifer took back the reins and wheeled his pair, she held out her gloved hand commandingly. "My turn."

They both looked at her. Their jaws set.

She ignored that and all other evidence of masculine disapproval, along with all their arguments. She drove the curricle back into Colyton and felt a great deal better for the outing.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm-an uneasy one. After penning missives to all Horatio's known associates, they refocused their attention on the large number of books not yet inspected.

"It's amazing how long it takes to do just one shelf."

"Indeed," Lucifer returned without looking up. "I don't want to know how many shelves there are."

The activity ate the hours; visits from others punctuated the sessions and, in some measure, relieved the tedium. Her father stopped in, bright and surprisingly sprightly-all for show, she could tell. Worry and deep concern lurked in his eyes, permanent residents; she wished she could send them away. All she could do was smile and squeeze his hand, and let him know she was happy. That, at least, seemed to honestly cheer him.

Jonas was frequently on hand, but she didn't count him a visitor. He was like a shadow, simply there; she didn't need to entertain or even consider him. Others, however, proved much more distracting.

Her aunt Eliza called with her brood, a noisy invasion. She was guiltily grateful when Lucifer, abetted by her aunt Huddlesford, shooed the children across the lane to the duck pond. Eliza remained to squeeze her hand, comment on Lucifer's handsomeness, and set her mind at rest; they were remaining at the Grange for only eight days.

Lady Fortemain was an early caller. While shocked by the attempt on Phyllida's life, she clearly believed fate had made some monumental mistake in having Lucifer, rather than Cedric, save her. Beyond that, however, she was cloyingly solicitous, insisting she would send a footman with some of Ballyclose's damson jam.

Cedric and Jocasta, Phyllida had expected; their newfound happiness radiated from them and made her smile. They were concerned, but not smotheringly so-their visit was a definite success.

Not so Basil's. He called when Lucifer had, at her insistence, gone to have a word with Thompson. Basil's concern for her health was clearly genuine, but he found her presence under Lucifer's roof difficult to comprehend. Luckily, Lucifer returned before she lost her temper; he clarified matters-Basil departed with no false illusions.

They were just the first. Mr. Filing visited regularly, as did the Farthingales. Henry Grisby called twice, bringing daisies; he spoke reasonably and made no unwelcome protestations. Phyllida thought better of him than she previously had. Wednesday brought a deluge-all the older ladies and women Phyllida visited came to call, to hear how she was faring, to press their advice and cast measuring glances at Lucifer. All brought gifts, little tokens of affection-a crocheted pot warmer, a sprig of broom tied with ribbon, a pot of salve for her scorched skin. When old Mrs. Grisby herself stumped up the front path, Phyllida felt overwhelmed.

The ladies fussed and fretted and clearly enjoyed it immensely; she could not find it in her to push them away. When they finally left, all pressing her hands and beaming their approval, she slumped back in an armchair and looked at Lucifer. "What on earth has got into them?"

He smiled and sat on the chair's arm. "You have."

"Me? Nonsense! I'm the one who takes care of them, not the other way about."

Lucifer put an arm around her and hugged, then dropped a kiss on her hair. "True, but unless I miss my guess, this is the first time in recent memory that you've needed to be taken care of. They're seizing the opportunity to let you know how much they-to borrow Lady Fortemain's phrase-treasure you. They want to pay you back."

Phyllida humphed. Beneath his arm, she wriggled. "It was uncomfortable, being the object of their… care."

Lucifer's arm tightened, then eased. "For some, it is difficult-sometimes very difficult-to let someone take care of them. Yet sometimes that's precisely what the other person needs most. Caring for them means letting them care for you."

Phyllida turned her head and looked up at him. His dark blue eyes met hers without guile. Then his lips curved, not teasing but inviting her to laugh with him-the joke, after all, was on them.

There was a bustle in the hall, Mrs. Hemmings coming to clear the tea tray. Lucifer lifted one hand, tapped a finger to the tip of her nose, then rose and left her.

Day followed day. Despite the activities that filled their time, there was an inescapable sense of waiting for something to happen-for that horseshoe to fall. It was as if they were living through some hiatus, the dead calm before a storm. As the week lengthened, the tension grew.

On Friday, a packet arrived with "St. Ives" boldly scrawled across one comer. Seated at his desk behind a stack of tomes, Lucifer broke the seal. Phyllida watched as he spread out the sheets, many more than one.

He read the first, started on the second, then stopped. Refolding the second and subsequent sheets, he slipped them into his pocket, leaving the first sheet on the blotter. "It's a progress report from Devil. He's got Montague following up the names I sent." Lucifer glanced at Phyllida. "Montague's the family's man of business. He's exceedingly thorough. If there's anything to be learned in the City, he'll find it."

Lucifer looked back at the note. "At first sounding, however, the names rang no bells. Devil has recruited one of my other cousins-Harry, better known as Demon. He was kicking his heels down in Kent with his older brother, so Devil sent him word and Demon's now in London, haunting the taverns off Whitehall, looking up all our ex-guardsmen friends."

"Why the Guards?" Phyllida asked.

"Not the Guards. He wasn't a guardsman."

"Who? Appleby?"

"He's one of the men we have to check on."

"But-"

"But you decided he wasn't the murderer because he should have been in the ballroom doing his duty in Cedric's place while we were dodging the murderer upstairs?"

Phyllida grimaced. "I suppose you're going to say that's an assumption, and as we don't know he was in the ballroom, then he might have been the villain?"

"There's also the fact that the note from Molly looked as if a female had written it. That it was supposed to be labored over helped, but not many men would have thought of it."

"But someone who spent his life writing and reading letters might have thought of it."

"Precisely."

"Why were you so sure Appleby was in the army?"

"It's his stance, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he bows. It's something learned, and the place you learn it is on the drill field. I'd wager he was in the infantry."

"So, again: Why the Guards?"

"Ex-Guards. Plenty of those about who served with us at Waterloo. They're now secretaries and aides-de-camp to the generals and commanders. They're the ones with access to the records. Demon will find out which regiment Appleby served with, and who his immediate superior was, and have a chat with the man. If he says Appleby's straight as an arrow, we'll have at least learned that much."

Phyllida studied Lucifer's face. "You think it's him." Lucifer grimaced. "I think the murderer has shown an odd combination of planning carefully, acting ruthlessly, but being so cautious, his caution has interfered with his success. When things go wrong, he doesn't lose his nerve. He acts, but he misses opportunities and doesn't quite succeed in his purpose."

He swiveled to face her. "That's a good description of the characteristics of a regimented foot soldier, one who's reasonably clever. They always have a plan; they don't like operating extemporaneously. They're cautious. And although they don't lose their nerve when things go wrong, their responses aren't always the most likely to succeed-because they haven't had time to plan."

"You sound like you know a lot about soldiering."

"I saw a lot of soldiering-a lot of infantry fighting-at Waterloo."

She remembered the saber. "You were in the cavalry." He nodded. "We played by different rules-following plans was never our forte. Making it up as we went was much more our style."

"Why couldn't it be Basil? He's cautious."

"He was in church when Horatio was murdered, but I'm not taking any chances and assuming it's Appleby." Lucifer caught Phyllida's gaze. "With luck, we'll have proof of who it is soon enough."

By Sunday night, she felt wound tight-waiting for that proof to arrive. Lucifer understood. In that peaceful hour after the sun had set but darkness had yet to descend, he drew her outside to stroll in the scented sweetness of Horatio's garden.

Her hand in his, she walked beside him down the gravel paths. Apart from the main ones from the gate and the side of the house to the front door, there were many others winding through the carefully tended beds.

"He might be out there." Phyllida looked at the shadows deepening beyond the trees.

"He isn't. We don't make a habit of walking in the garden of an evening."

"We don't make a habit of anything anymore-" Phyllida caught herself and amended, "Not outside."

Lucifer laughed; the sound was like a warm hand sliding comfortingly down her back, an invitation to relax. Phyllida breathed deeply-the scent of night stock wreathed around them. "He hasn't gone away."

"No."

They knew that because, just that morning, Dodswell had reported that someone had tried to force the dining room window, the one that used to have a faulty latch. They'd all gone to look, even Sweetie. There'd been scrapes on the window frame and gouges in the earth where the man's heels had dug in, but no clear footprints.

Phyllida exhaled, long and slow. "It's been a week."

"Only a week-Thompson said it might take two." Lucifer drew her closer and turned down another path. "Did you read Honoria's missive?"

The rest of the packet that had come from the duke had proved to be a long letter from the duchess to her. Lucifer had remembered to give it to her after they'd discovered the attempted break-in. Given what Honoria had written, she had to wonder if he would otherwise have "remembered" it at all.

It had certainly distracted her. Honoria had opened by saying that she realized she might be a trifle precipitate in welcoming her to the family, but if they were so unwise as to live their lives according to their menfolk's whims… from there, the letter had got only more interesting. Phyllida smiled. "You have a fascinating family."

"A big one, certainly, especially if you add all the connections."

"You mentioned a brother-Gabriel."

"He's a year older than me." Lucifer glanced at her as they strolled. "He got married a few weeks ago-the day before I arrived here."

"The day before?"

"Hmm. Gabriel and Alathea-we used to be a threesome when we were young. When they married and left London, I felt like they'd gone off on some adventure and left me behind. Instead, here I am, with you, neck-deep in adventure." He glanced at her again. "Heart-deep in something more."

She wasn't yet ready to inquire into that last statement. "Do you have other brothers and sisters?"

"Three sisters-they're half my age. Heather, Eliza, and Angelica. Gabriel is harboring fond hopes that Alathea will succeed in teaching them not to giggle."

Phyllida smiled. "They'll grow out of it."

"Hmm-that's not something we like to envisage. We don't, as a rule, deal well with our sisters growing up."

Alerted by his tone, she studied his face. "Now who are you thinking of?"

He looked at her, then grimaced. "Two of our cousins-the twins. Due to a sad accident some years ago, they haven't any older brother to watch over them, so we all do. Did."

"We?"

He slanted her a glance. "Didn't Honoria mention the Bar Cynster?"

Phyllida smiled and looked ahead. "She did, as a matter of fact. Very interesting, I found it."

Lucifer snorted. "Don't read too much into it-those days are gone."

"Really?"

"Yes-really!" He frowned. "Though I'm not at all happy about the twins."

"According to Honoria, the twins are quite capable of managing their own lives, and if you mention interfering, I'm to remind you of that fact."

"With all due respect, Honoria is a duchess, and Devil's her duke. She's never set foot in the ton without him metaphorically if not physically at her elbow. Not quite the same as swanning through the ballrooms totally unprotected."

"I'm to tell you your cousins are sensible young ladies and they'll manage perfectly well."

"I know-but I don't have to like it."

His disgusted tone very nearly had her laughing. She glanced at him. "What are you going to be like with your own daughters?"

"I shudder to think." He looked at her. "Of course, I'll need to beget them first."

He drew her nearer, one arm sliding around her waist, then his hand spread, warm and alive, over her hip, urging her back against him. The gravel path ended in an arbor framed by a bed of rioting peonies. They halted. Holding her before him, he bent his head; his lips touched, tracing lightly, laying a line of heat from temple to ear, then down the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly.

"How many children would you like?" Her whisper was a little shaky.

"A dozen would be nice." He murmured the words against her throat, then turned her and brushed her lips. "But at least one boy and one girl, I think."

Phyllida settled in his arms and lightly kissed him back. "At least."

He stood with his arms loosely about her, their bodies just touching. There was honeysuckle close; the perfume drifted over them, subtly tempting. The same scent wreathed their bed. His palms moved, just a little, on her back. He looked into her face. "Have I told you the story about this garden?"

Night was falling, slowly closing about them, gently creeping over the land.

"Story?" Enough light remained for them to see each other's face, and the expression in each other's eyes.

"When I first came here, the garden caught me." He looked around. "Even before I'd gone into the house, I stopped and stared. Then I realized it was Martha's garden."

"Martha-Horatio's wife?"

"Yes. This is a copy of the garden she designed and grew beside their house overlooking Lake Windemere."

"Horatio re-created it here?"

"Yes, and that truly puzzled me. That first day, before I went inside, I felt as if Martha was trying to tell me something. Later, I thought it must have been some presentiment that Horatio was dead. Later yet, I realized it wasn't that at all."

Lucifer returned his gaze to Phyllida's face. "It was Martha who always created things-as women do. She created the atmosphere that filled their house, created the garden that surrounded it. Horatio knew nothing about gardening-I can still see them walking arm in arm down the paths with Martha showing him this and that. The garden in many ways personified Martha and, even more, the love she bore Horatio. The garden was part of her expression of that love, a permanent and public declaration. That's what I felt-still feel-in this garden.

"I said I was puzzled to find it here. I knew Horatio left the house at Lake Windemere because he couldn't bear the memories of Martha all around him. It was too painful. Yet here was Martha's garden, now Horatio's garden. Why?

"It took a while to work it out, but there's only one explanation that fits." His lips twisted wryly; he looked into Phyllida's eyes. "And I now know what Martha was trying to metaphysically jog my elbow about that first day."

"What?"

"You. Not just you, but the possibility of what we could share. Martha was trying to tell me to open my eyes so I wouldn't miss it."

He glanced around again; his arms tightened as he brought his gaze back to her face. "Horatio re-created Martha's garden because he realized, as I now do, that you can't turn aside from love. You can't choose to love-it doesn't work like that-but once you do love, you love forever. You can't move counties and leave it behind; it stays with you, in your heart, your mind-it becomes a part of your soul. Horatio re-created the garden for the same reason Martha created it in the first place-as an expression of his love for her and recognition of her love for him. Martha was still with Horatio when he died-I know that as definitely as I stand here with you. They're still here, both of them, memories living within this garden. Their love, shared love, created it; while it lives, their love lives, too."

His lips twisted again, this time in self-deprecation. "For all that we-the men in my family-try to avoid love, for the best and most logical of reasons, when it strikes, there's not one of us, not through all the generations, who has turned his back and walked away. For us, not walking away is harder, more frightening, than fighting any battle, but if there's one thing I've learned from my family, it's that surrendering to love, to the demands of love, is the only road to real happiness.

"While I've seen love in action in my family, I've learned a great deal from Horatio and Martha. Love simply is-it asks no permissions. Acceptance is all love asks, the only demand it makes, but it is an absolute one. You can either admit it to your heart or refuse it, but there's no other option."

For a long moment, he studied her dark eyes, wide and lustrous. "You wondered what love was, what it was like-it's surrounded you for the past week. Have you felt it?"

"Yes." Her lips softened; her eyes searched his. "It's a frightening, sometimes scarifying reality, but so wonderful and glowing, so vital." She drew a shaky breath.

He bent his head and drew it from her. "Have you made your decision-whether to accept love or not?"

He whispered the question against her lips. They curved gently. "You know I have."

He kissed her again, gentle and easy. "When the time comes, I'll ask and you can tell me."

"Why not now?"

"It's not the right time."

When Phyllida surfaced from the next kiss, she managed to breathe, "When will be the right time?"

"Soon."

The next kiss made it clear that that was all the answer she would get that night. But he'd told her enough, shown her enough; she was content.

Content to let him awaken her, slowly, expertly, until she floated, languid, on a sea of anticipation. They drew back, turned; arms around each other, her head on his shoulder, they strolled through the garden-redolent with perfumes, burgeoning growth, and the never-ending promise of love-back to the house, to the bed, to the love they already shared.

Day followed day and the tension mounted. Jonas spent most of his time at the Manor; Sir Jasper called at least twice a day. Even Sweetie seemed more highly strung, although Lucifer wasn't sure how much she understood. She was the sweetest ditherer he'd ever met, and he knew quite a few; the idea of introducing her to his great-aunt Clara grew to an obsession.

The only thing that, however transiently, broke the tedium and, temporarily, the escalating tension was the replies that arrived from other collectors. The responses distracted Phyllida, and for that Lucifer was grateful. Unfortunately, although all of them expressed horror over Horatio's demise, none had any light to shed on the twin mysteries surrounding Horatio's collection.

Doggedly, Lucifer and Phyllida plowed through it, searching for… something. Some hint as to why Horatio had been killed, some hint as to what he had wanted Lucifer to appraise. Although no one stated it aloud, they were aware they had no idea what they were looking for. That put a definite dampener on their enthusiasm.

By Wednesday afternoon, Lucifer started to wonder why he'd received no further communication from Devil. His cousin was never one to drag his boots. The answer to his question arrived late that evening, just as he, Phyllida, and Sweetie were rising from the dining table.

The rattle of wheels on the drive was followed by the heavy thud of stamping hooves. Lucifer looked at Phyllida. "That, I believe, will be Devil's messenger."

It was-but it was a vision with guinea-gold curls and a neat figure encased in cerulean blue that first reached the front door.

"Felicity!" Lucifer went forward, hands outstretched. He should, of course, have expected it, but he hadn't thought things through.

"Hello!" Demon's youthful wife took his hands and raised her face for a cousinly kiss, but her gaze had already traveled past him. "And you must be Phyllida." Releasing Lucifer, Felicity stepped past him and descended on Phyllida. "Honoria wrote and told me. I'm Felicity. We've come to help."

Phyllida smiled-impossible not to when faced with Felicity's charm. She could see no point in dissembling, so she touched cheeks and clasped hands as if they were already related.

"Good God! You're almost at Land's End."

Phyllida looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired Cynster shake Lucifer's hand.

"Not quite-it's a few miles farther on." Lucifer grinned and clapped Demon's shoulder. "It's good to see you." He glanced at Felicity. "Are you sure you can spare the time?"

Turning from greeting Sweetie, Felicity shot a warning glance at her husband, tilted her chin at Lucifer, and slipped her arm into Phyllida's. "We were with Vane and Patience when Devil's and Honoria's letters arrived."

Demon came forward. Taking the hand Phyllida held out, he calmly kissed her on both cheeks. "Welcome to the family, my dear. We did tell him running into the country wouldn't help-and here he is, right enough. Captivated."

Phyllida looked into a pair of blue eyes many shades lighter than Lucifer's. They did, however, contain a familiar devil-may-care gleam. She ignored it. "Welcome to the Manor and to Colyton, too."

"Perhaps…?" Lucifer cocked an eyebrow at Phyllida.

He was asking her to act as his hostess-as his wife. With a calm smile, she gestured to the drawing room. "Why don't we sit comfortably and you can tell us the family news. You must be parched. Have you dined?"

"At Yeovil," Felicity replied. "We weren't sure how much further Colyton was. Demon didn't want to take any chances."

Lucifer blinked, but said nothing. He ushered Felicity and Demon into the drawing room. Phyllida gave orders to Bristleford to prepare rooms and bring the tea trolley in, then joined them.

"Well," Felicity said as Phyllida joined her on the chaise, "you two seem to be having all the excitement in the family at present, so we came to share. Honoria would have come, but in her condition Devil refuses to let her as far as the front door. And Vane's much the same-he seems to imagine Patience is made of bone china. Scandal was tempted, but Catriona agreed he could come if he brought her, so they're still at Somersham. And no one has any idea where Gabriel and Alathea are." She smiled at Lucifer. "So it's just us, I'm afraid."

The ingenuous speech had made Lucifer blanch-its conclusion revived him. "Thank God!" He glanced at Demon. "I didn't expect the whole troop to descend."

Demon shrugged. "It's summer-what else have we to do?"

Bristleford entered with the tea trolley and plates of cakes. They broke off to partake; Phyllida and Felicity sipped and nibbled delicately while they chatted; Demon and Lucifer settled for brandy and demolishing the cakes.

"So," Lucifer said as Demon finished the last cake. "Cut line-what have you learned?"

Demon didn't glance his way; his gaze was fixed on the chaise. Following it, Lucifer was just in time to see Felicity try to smother, then hide, a yawn.

"On the other hand," Lucifer said, "it's getting late and you'll need to get settled. Is there anything that won't wait until morning?"

Demon threw him a grateful look. "No." He considered, then shook his head and stood. "There's nothing that'll make any difference tonight, and I'd rather you told us what's been happening here before I fill you in on my discoveries, minor though they are. Knowing the details will help me set what I found in better perspective."

Phyllida stood, drawing Felicity with her. She'd seen the yawn and caught the earlier, fleeting reference, too. "Indeed. A good night's sleep all around, then we can start first thing in the morning." She smiled at Felicity. "Come, I'll introduce you to Mrs. Hemmings and show you your room."

They all met the next morning at the breakfast table. Rested and refreshed, Flick-she insisted everyone call her that-was agog to hear their tale. Demon, relieved of his own anxiety, was similiarly eager. Lucifer and Phyllida started their story over the teacups, then continued when they adjourned to the library. Concisely, they described incident after incident; Demon interrupted with a question here and there. Flick sat and simply stared.

"How atrocious!" she declared when they'd concluded their tale. "That's monstrous-leaving you to die in a burning cottage!"

Phyllida agreed.

Lucifer looked at Demon. "So what's the news from London?"

"First of all, your neighbors are exceedingly law-abiding souls-Montague gave them all a clean bill of health. No debts, no peculiar past histories, nothing. All he found on Appleby was that he's the illegitimate son of a minor peer-old Croxton, now deceased. His papa was not fond, but did educate him and pave the way into the army. Infantry-you were right about that."

"So," Lucifer concluded, "Appleby is an impoverished ex-infantryman with an education sufficient to allow him to serve as a gentleman's amanuensis."

"Yes, but there's more. Appleby was the only one on your list who'd served in any capacity, so I had a relatively easy time. I tracked down his regiment-he saw action at Waterloo." Demon glanced at Lucifer. "He was with the Ninth. I managed to locate his immediate superior, a Captain Hastings. That's where things got interesting. I had to all but drink Hastings under the table to wring the nightmare from him, but it transpires that Hastings suspects that Appleby committed murder on the battlefield."

"Murder during a battle?" Flick frowned. "Can that happen?"

Lucifer nodded. "If you shoot someone on your own side deliberately."

Phyllida shivered. "How horrible."

"Indeed," Demon concurred. "During one particular cavalry charge-" He glanced at Phyllida and Flick. "The cavalry often charge from the flank, across the infantry's line of sight-the infantry usually put up their pieces during the charge. Most would use the time to clean and reload. Well, during this one charge, Hastings was standing almost directly behind Appleby. He swears Appleby drew a line on one of our own. He believes he saw Appleby shoot and one of the guardsmen fall, but… it was midmorning, and that was a hellish day. By the end of it, so many were dead and we all had our own nightmares. Hastings wasn't sure enough to make any immediate charge, but he'd seen enough to check who the fallen man was.

"It turned out to be Appleby's best friend. They'd even shared a tent the previous night. Although wounded himself, Appleby had gone out and retrieved the body and was, to all appearances, deeply cut up. Hastings concluded that Appleby had merely been using his sight to keep a steadier eye on his friend through the charge. That's what he told himself. That's what he still tells himself, but when his tongue is loosened by good brandy, the truth tumbles out. Hastings still believes in his heart that he saw Appleby kill his best friend, Corporal Sherring." Demon looked at Lucifer. "Incidentally, Hastings said Appleby was an excellent shot with a musket."

"So"-Lucifer looked at Phyllida-"it could be Appleby."

"But is it?" Demon asked. "All we have is an unprovable possibility that Appleby has killed in cold blood before. We haven't anything to tie him to Horatio or his collection."

"And that," Lucifer acknowledged, "is the rub."

The entire matter hinged on the mysterious volume the murderer thought was buried in Horatio's collection. Demon and Flick joined the party searching through Horatio's tomes.

After an hour, Flick stepped back from the bookcase she was working through. "Why are we doing this?" She turned to Lucifer. "Whoever it is, they've presumably been searching every Sunday for months. But if they knew which book they were searching for, and presumably they must, then it wouldn't take that long to find it."

"Unfortunately, it would." Lucifer strolled along the shelves, then stopped and pulled out an innocuous-looking volume. He showed it to Flick. "Brent's Roman Legions. Nice binding, worth a few guineas, but nothing to get excited over." Then he slid the entire cover free. "In reality, however, this is a first edition of Cruickshank's Treatise of the Powers, worth a small fortune."

"Oh." Flick studied the cover and the book it had concealed. "Are there many like that in here?"

"Every few shelves and sometimes more often." Phyllida reached for the next book on her shelf.

"Many collectors use fake covers to hide their most precious works." Lucifer returned the priceless volume to its protective cover. "So in order to search Horatio's collection, every book would need to be checked."

They went back to checking.

After lunch, Lucifer and Demon, at their ladies' behest, walked up to the forge to confer with Thompson. No horse with a loose shoe had yet been brought in. As they ambled back down the lane, Lucifer slid a glance at Demon. "I have to say I'm surprised you agreed to bring Flick into this-I assume she's in an interesting condition?"

"Yes." Demon's proud grin was exceedingly brief. "But the damned woman wouldn't be left behind. She insists she's perfectly well and refuses to be cosseted. It's as much as a warm bed's worth to argue too hard. And, of course, Honoria supported her."

"Honoria?"

"Honoria, who is so damned pregnant, Devil has all but lost his ducal authority. He bowed to her decree that Flick was perfectly well enough to travel down here-he even urged me to bring her! Not, of course, because he thought it was a good idea, but because he didn't want Honoria upset!"

"Good God! Is that what I've got to look forward to?"

"Unless you're thinking of a platonic relationship-and I can't believe you are-yes, and that's the least of what's in store. Judging by the state Vane's presently in, it only gets worse."

Lucifer shook his head. "Why do we do this?"

"God only knows."

They exchanged glances, then smiled and lengthened their strides.

It was Flick who, late in the afternoon, put what they were all independently thinking into words. She waved her arms at the library's bookshelves. "If the murderer's after something here, why don't we just let him come and get it?"

She faced the rest of the room. "I don't mean let him get away with it, of course, but what if we organized a household picnic or some such affair, made sure the whole village heard of it so everyone would know there would be no one left at home, and then we'd go, but circle back and keep watch?" She looked at them. "What do you think?"

Demon looked at Lucifer. "I think there's some merit in the idea. We need to accept that there's a definite possibility that the murderer's taken care of that loose shoe in some way other than bringing the horse to Thompson."

"The village fete is two days from now."

They all looked at Phyllida.

"It's on Saturday," she said. "Everyone for miles around attends. It's virtually compulsory." Standing, she crossed to the window; Flick joined her as she waved. "It's held in the field just behind the church."

Both Lucifer and Demon joined them at the window, looking up the slope of the common to the church. Demon narrowed his eyes. "That's a very attractive proposition."

"Easy enough to arrange for a watch to be kept on the house-and on the possible suspects, too." Lucifer slowly nodded. "And the doors here, while locked at night, are never locked during the day, even now."

"On the morning of the fete, we'll all be coming and going, taking food and trestles up." Phyllida faced the others. "It should be easy for anyone to watch unobtrusively and note when we're all out of the house."

They considered, exchanging glances, then Lucifer nodded. "Right. Let's do it. But we'll need to work out all the details first."

They spent the whole evening planning, and were still arguing over the details of who should watch whom, when and from where, the next morning when the mail arrived. Bristleford brought the letters into the library on a salver and placed them on the big desk by Lucifer's elbow.

When they paused in their deliberations to consume tea and a plate of Mrs. Hemmings's butter cakes, Lucifer sifted through the pile. He tossed some to Phyllida and started opening the rest. "More replies from other collectors."

He'd finished opening and perusing those he'd kept and laid them aside with a shake of his head when Phyllida sat bolt upright, staring at the sheet she was holding in her hand. "Good gracious! Listen to this! It's from a solicitor in Huddersfield. He writes that our recent letter to one of his late clients was brought to his attention. In the circumstances, he felt he should bring to our notice the fact that his late client, an associate of Horatio's, died at the hands of an unknown assailant some eighteen months ago."

"Heavens!"

They all rose and went to read over Phyllida's shoulder. She held the letter out so they could see. "It says the other collector was strangled late one night and his records were ransacked."

Lucifer reached out to steady the sheet. "Shelby. I wonder…" He returned to the desk and sat. From a bottom drawer, he retrieved a stack of cards. "Horatio always noted on his name-cards what sort of items he'd most recently traded with each person. The notes refer back to his ledgers." He flipped through the cards. "Shelby, Shelby… hullo!"

The shock in his voice had the other three looking up at him. Lucifer sat, frozen, a card in his hand. "Well, well." He glanced at Demon. "Sherring."

"Sherring?" Demon came to look over his shoulder. "The Sherring Corporal Hastings thinks Appleby shot?"

"More likely his father." Lucifer laid the card down, then checked the stack further. "There's entries for Shelby, but they're more than three years ago and it looks like they were only trading furniture."

He restacked the other cards and put them back in the drawer, then returned his attention to the card for Sherring. "Books. One buy, just over five years ago."

"Almost immediately after Waterloo," Demon added.

Lucifer nodded. "Where are those ledgers?"

Demon laid a hand on his shoulder. "Before you do that, write a letter to this solicitor. Give him Appleby's name-see if he recognizes it."

Lucifer hesitated, then pulled out a sheet of paper. "We won't hear in time, presuming that horseshoe falls, but if all else fails… I'll include a description of Appleby as well. If it was him, he might not have used his real name."

The letter was quickly written. Dodswell was dispatched to race it into Chard to catch the night mail.

Then Lucifer unearthed Horatio's ledgers-this time, they had a date and quickly found the entry. It listed nine books. They wrote the list on four scraps of paper, then they each took one and started along the shelves.

Jonas arrived. Amazed at the news, he joined in the hunt. Covey did, too. He checked the inventory they'd made thus far, which cut down the bookshelves they needed to search.

Lucifer told them to scan the titles on the grounds that none of the books appeared valuable enough to warrant a false cover. Even with six of them scanning, it still took most of the day, but finally they located all nine books. Along the way, they found three fake covers of Dr. Johnson's Sermons, six fake covers of Gulliver's Travels, and a staggering eight of Aesop's Fables.

"Enough to confuse anyone," Demon remarked.

"No wonder the murderer has had to search so carefully." Phyllida glanced along the ranks of bookshelves. "And there's no telling if Horatio, for whatever reason, concealed one of the Sherring volumes."

Lucifer shook his head. Carrying Horatio's card, he was checking the nine books. "No-these are the Sherring volumes. Horatio noted all the details, and he never doubled up on specific volumes."

"Only to use for fake covers," Demon replied.

At Lucifer's instructions, they'd pulled the books forward in the shelves, but left them where they found them.

At five o'clock, Lucifer went around the nine books for the third time, paying special attention to the Sermons, the Travels, and the Fables. He noted the location of each book on his list, then pushed them back to stand unobtrusively with their fellows.

He, Phyllida, Flick, Demon, Jonas, and Covey had all studied each book. There was absolutely nothing to explain why anyone would commit murder for any of them.

Demon sank onto the chaise beside Flick. "We must be missing something."

"Presumably." Lucifer settled into an armchair and considered the list. "Let's assume our man started searching in the library."

"Why?" Jonas asked.

"Because if I'd wanted to search for a valuable book in this house, I'd assume Horatio would keep it in his inner sanctum," Demon supplied.

Lucifer nodded. "So he finished in the library, tripping over heaps of fake covers in the process, and had started in here"-he paused to glance at the bookcases covering almost every foot of wall space in the drawing room-"when Horatio disturbed him. The night Phyllida and I saw him, he was still trying to search in here."

"Most of the Sherring books are in the library or in here," Phyllida said. "Only the real Travels and Fables are in the dining room." She looked at Lucifer. "Is that why you studied the books here and those two books especially?"

He nodded. "Four books, and while it's not my area of expertise, I would happily swear there's not a thing that makes any of them valuable. The Aesop's Fables has been used to hide something-the front cover's been hollowed out, but that's not unusual. The front of such books was a popular place to hide wills and such at one time. There's nothing there now except some canvas padding-I peeled away a corner of the covering paper and checked."

They all sat, digesting the information. In the end, Demon sighed. "This could, of course, all be some remarkable coincidence and the murderer is in fact someone else."

Lucifer grimaced. "Very true, which is why we need to give even more thought to how we approach tomorrow."

They returned to their plans, to the arguments, the suggestions-the possibilities of how to trap a murderer.