All About Love (14 page)

Phyllida straightened. “Percy, I’m perfectly comfortable here—”

“Precisely. That’s the beauty of it. We can be married and you can stay down here in the country—daresay your father would prefer it. He wouldn’t want to have to run the Grange without you. On the other hand,
I
don’t need a hostess. I’ve never had one.” He nodded. “I’ll be perfectly happy rattling ’round London on my own.”

“I can quite see that. Let’s see if I fully understand your proposal.” Her terse accents had Percy tensing. “Are you, by any chance, currently at
point-non-plus
?”

Stony-faced, Percy glared at her.

Phyllida waited.

“I might, at present, have outrun the constable a trifle, but it’s merely a temporary setback. Nothing serious.”

“Nevertheless. Now, let’s see . . . you came into your inheritance from your father some years ago and you have no further expectation from our side of the family.”

“Not with Grandmother making you her beneficiary and Aunt Esmeralda leaving her blunt to you and Jonas.”

“Quite. And, of course, when Huddlesford dies, his estate will pass to Frederick.” Phyllida fixed her gaze on Percy’s now petulant face. “Which means that beyond any inheritance from your mother, who everyone knows enjoys the best of health, there’s no pot of gold waiting just over your horizon.” She paused. “Am I right?”

“You know you’re right, damn you.”

“And am I also right in thinking that the cent-per-cents will no longer advance you funds—not unless you can show them some evidence of further expectations—like a wife with various inheritances attached?”

Percy glowered. “That’s all very well, but you’re straying from the point.”

“Oh, no! The point is you’ve run aground, and you’re looking to me to tug you out of the mire.”

“And so you
should
!” Face mottled, fists clenched, Percy stepped close. “If I’m prepared to marry you out of family duty, you should be pleased to marry me and resurrect my fortunes.”

Phyllida shut her lips on an unladylike utterance. She gave Percy back stare for glare. “I will
not
marry you—there’s absolutely no reason that I should.”

“Reason?” Percy’s features contorted. “
Reason
? I’ll give you reason.”

He grabbed her, clearly intending to kiss her. Phyllida jerked back and wrestled half out of his hold. She’d never been afraid of Percy; he was three years older, but she’d run rings around him from her earliest years—she’d grown accustomed to treating him with contempt.

To her shock, he was much stronger than she’d realized. She struggled, but couldn’t break his hold. With a growl, he hauled her back into his arms, cruelly pressing her back into the balustrade, trying to force her face to his—

Suddenly he was gone, literally plucked off her.

Phyllida collapsed against the balustrade, dragging in air, one hand at her heaving breast. She stared at Percy, dangling, choking, at the end of one long, blue-suited arm.

“Is there a pond or lake closer than the duck pond? I believe your cousin needs to cool off.”

Tracking along his arm, Phyllida located Lucifer’s face in the dimness. Then she looked back at Percy, feet still swinging helplessly four inches clear of the flagstones. His face was turning purple. “Umm—no.”

Lucifer’s lip curled. He shook Percy, then flung him away—he landed with an “Ooof!” and a clatter of limbs. He lay wheezing on the flags, shaking his head weakly, not daring to look up.

Reluctantly accepting that that was the worst he could do, Lucifer slammed a door on the chaos of emotions whirling inside him and looked at Phyllida. She was still breathing rapidly, but her color, as far as he could judge in the poor light, was acceptable. Her gown and hair were still neat—he’d been in time to spare her that much of the ordeal. He resettled his coat and cuffs, then offered her his arm. “I suggest we return before anyone else misses you.”

Looking up at him, she swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you.” Placing her hand on his arm, she straightened, stiffening her spine and lifting her head. Her mask of calm composure slid into place, hiding her shock—the sudden comprehension of her physical vulnerability—that had, until that moment, sat naked on her face.

It was not a look he had ever liked seeing on any woman’s face. He would have given a great deal to have saved her from the realization entirely. She shouldn’t need to know that men could physically harm her. Her physical safety, here in her home, in and around the village, was something she’d taken for granted all her life. Percy had violated the “comfort” she had alluded to—the sense of security she enjoyed in this place.

As for Percy’s so elegant proposal, just the thought of it made Lucifer see red. Grimly clinging to his own mask of calm indifference, he steered Phyllida along the terrace. They reached the French doors and she stepped into the light. He let his gaze slide over her, from her pale, hauntingly lovely face, over the slender frame and feminine curves concealed beneath lavender silk, down to the tips of her satin slippers. Other than her breathing, still too shallow, there was no overt evidence of any distress.

Chest tightening, he looked into her eyes. They were shuttered, all emotions locked away.

As he handed her over the threshold, then followed, Lucifer wondered if it was too late to slip out again and thrash Percy to within an inch of his life.

The emotions stirred
by the incident on the terrace did not rapidly subside. Later that night, with the moon riding the sky, Lucifer paced before his bedchamber window.

Tomorrow, he’d remove to the Manor. Tomorrow, he’d start investigating Horatio’s murder with a great deal more intensity than he’d yet employed. Horatio had been killed on Sunday morning. Tomorrow would be Wednesday. The first rush of shock and speculation would have died; people would have had time to think and, he hoped, remember.

Pausing before the window, he glanced out. The moon broke free of the wispy clouds and shone down; the night was a cauldron of shifting shadows stirred by the pale light.

A figure left the house, striding purposefully across the back lawn. Lucifer stared. A low cap hid the man’s head—or was it a youth? The stride was swinging, graceful, and easy, long legs encased in breeches and boots. A hacking jacket hung to hip length. Jonas?

The figure neared the entrance to the shrubbery; the graceful stride faltered, slowed.

That instant of hesitation ripped the veils from Lucifer’s eyes. “What the
devil
. . . ?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His quarry was into the wood before he had drawn close enough to be sure of not losing her. He trailed her; he wanted to see where she was going.

And then he would want to know why.

He would have wagered a great deal that her goal would be the Manor—she knew he would be taking up residence there tomorrow. Instead, she turned left off the main path onto a narrower one heading into the village.

He followed, closing the gap so he could keep her in sight; the path twisted through the trees—it would be easy to lose her. Head down, she tramped along, apparently absorbed in her thoughts.

The path became an alley running between two cottages to join the lane. Without pause, Phyllida crossed the lane and continued up the common. Lucifer hung back in the alley, letting the distance between them increase. The common was open ground, and there was little doubt now of her destination. She was making for the church.

Her peculiar conversation with the curate replayed in his mind. What in all Hades was going on?

On reaching the graveyard, he saw faint light spilling from the church’s side door. Using gravestones for cover, he crept closer, exercising greater caution than before.

Phyllida was no longer alone.

A tall gravestone stood by the path leading from the side door; concealed in its shadow, Lucifer watched Phyllida standing beside Filing in the narrow porch before the open door. Both had ledgers in their hands; heads down, they were making notes, occasionally comparing entries.

Lucifer looked down the path to the lane bordering the graveyard. The lych-gate was shrouded in gloom; eyes straining, he could make out shapes and movement in the lane beyond. Then figures separated from the shadows and came up the path—men toting small barrels, boxes, packages. They passed his hiding place. Swiveling, Lucifer watched as Phyllida checked each box and barrel, speaking in low tones to the men and to Filing.

Then the men carried their loads into the church.

Lucifer slumped back, his shoulders against the gravestone.
Smuggling?

The daughter of the local magistrate running a smuggling gang, aided and abetted by the local curate?

It was too hard to swallow, especially given what he knew of the daughter of the local magistrate.

Phyllida checked each item brought to the church door against the bill of lading. Beside her, Mr. Filing created a separate list, noting which men were assisting tonight and who brought what up to the crypt.

One of the men, Hugey, held a package up for her perusal. “This be almost it.”

Phyllida nodded. “Good. That can go down now.”

Hugey bobbed his head and trudged past them. She heard his boots clatter on the stairs down to the crypt.

“This be the last for tonight.” Oscar, another heavy, hulking man, sat a barrel on the step.

Oscar was the leader of the band and a solid supporter of their enterprise. Smiling, Phyllida bent to check the barrel’s markings. “A quiet and uneventful night?”

“Aye—just how I likes it.” Oscar grinned back. At Phyllida’s nod, he hefted the barrel to his shoulder. “I’ll stow this, then we’ll be away.”

Phyllida closed her ledger and turned to Mr. Filing.

He smiled. “It’s all running so smoothly.”

“Thank heaven.” Phyllida headed for the crypt stairs. “I want to get these figures into the accounts.” She and Filing stood back as Oscar and Hugey came back up the stone steps. With nods and good-byes, the men trudged down the path to join the others. They would quietly disperse, returning the ponies to their respective stables, then go home to their cottages and their beds.

It would be an hour or so before she could do the same. Phyllida led the way down into the crypt. “I expect to be busy over the next few days, so I’ll bring all the accounts up-to-date and work out the payments in advance. That way, once you’ve collected the money, you can disburse the men’s share without having to find me first.”

“A very good notion.” Filing looked around as they reached the crypt floor. “I’ll just make sure everything’s where it ought to be.”

Phyllida crossed to the sarcophagus she used as a desk. It was built flush to the wall, with various niches carved above it, presumably for offerings. The niches presently contained a set of ledgers, assorted writing implements, and the other paraphernalia she required to keep the accounts. There was a wooden stool beside the sarcophagus; she drew it out and sat, winding her boots around the stool’s legs. Moving the lamp that had been left on the sarcophagus to a higher perch on a stack of boxes nearby, she checked that the light thrown on her ledger was even, then settled to her task.

Behind her, Filing moved between the rows of goods which largely filled the crypt. Phyllida transcribed numbers, then worked through the calculations. The sound of something sliding on stone reached her. She glanced back at the stairs. No one came down. Then Filing stepped out from one row, concentrating as he counted boxes. He rounded the next row; Phyllida turned back to her columns.

Fifteen minutes later, the intensity of light increased. Phyllida looked up. Filing stood beside her.

“Everything’s as it should be. Thompson and I should encounter no problem sorting the next delivery.”

“Good.” Phyllida looked at the ledger before her. “I’ll be a little while yet, so I’ll wish you a good night.”

She glanced up. Filing frowned.

“I don’t like to leave you here at this hour, alone . . .”

“Nonsense!” Phyllida made the disclaimer with a confident smile, although, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone, away from her home at this hour. She wasn’t, however, about to display her fear—doubtless an irrational one—to Mr. Filing.

“I’ll be perfectly all right and, truth to tell, I work faster in complete silence. If you shut the church door, no one’s likely to come in. I’ll be quite safe.” She returned her attention to the ledger. “I’ll probably only be another fifteen minutes.”

Mr. Filing hesitated, but she’d spoken realistically. Why would anyone climb to the church so late at night?

“Very well—if you’re sure . . . ?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then . . . good night.”

“Good night.” Phyllida nodded without looking up; as she corrected a figure, the light from Mr. Filing’s lamp receded. A moment later, she heard him on the stairs, then heard the scrape of the church door closing.

She was alone.

In silence, her concentration absolute, she finished adding the figures in five minutes, then calculated and recorded the payments due to the men in another five. Pleased, she sat back, surveying her handiwork.