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 corner. 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 menti
on 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 w
hy 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.”