The dangerous purr had returned to his voice; there was a look in his eyes she didn't understand. Facing forward, she kept strolling.
The house lay just ahead, screened by the last bend, when he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She faced him, her question in her eyes. He looked down at her, his gaze disturbingly direct. "What actually happened?"
Phyllida held his gaze and thought about telling him. But it was a case of all or nothing-she'd seen enough of him to know she would have to tell him all once she admitted that she was there. He wouldn't let her keep anything back. And for once in her life, she doubted her ability to stand against a man.
This man was something else-some different species she hadn't before encountered. She was old enough, wise enough, to recognize the difference and acknowledge in her mind that she'd be unwise to challenge him.
Of course, not telling him was a blatant challenge, but that simply had to be. She would not break her word. She might prevaricate for a good cause, but her oath was absolute, and a vow given to a friend was sacred.
"I can't tell you. Not yet." She turned away. He stopped her, long fingers closing around her elbow. Her temper flared; she looked up at him. "I've kept my part of the bargain."
He blinked. "What bargain?"
"You didn't tell Papa you believed that I was there, in Horatio's drawing room, and so I took you around the village, introduced you to Horatio's acquaintances, and answered your questions about them."
He frowned, the gesture more evident in his eyes than on his face. His hold on her arm anchored her before him; she didn't bother trying to wriggle free. He studied her eyes and she let him; emotionally, she had nothing to hide.
"Is that why you thought I invited myself along?"
"That, and so you could try to trip me up. Why else?"
He released her, but his gaze held hers. "Couldn't I have wanted to spend time in your company?"
She stared at him. The suggestion was so unexpected, she couldn't at first imagine it. Then she did, and the truth washed over her-she would have liked it if he had. If he'd simply wanted to spend a summer afternoon strolling with her around the village, idly commenting, relaxed in her company. Her chest tightened; haughtily, she turned away. "You didn't. That wasn't why you came walking with me today."
Lucifer heard the calm statement but left it unchallenged. He watched her walk away, and let the impulse to correct her fade. She was such a contrary female-handling her was difficult, not to say dangerous; she was so different from the women he knew. God knew, he'd never before been so attracted to a virgin.
A stubborn, willful, innocent, headstrong, intelligent, far-too-untouched-for-her-own-good virgin.
It made everything so much more complicated.
Chapter 4
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He caught Phyllida up as she negotiated the last bend in the drive. The side lawn of the Grange opened before them; a knot of people were gathered around tables and chairs, enjoying the late afternoon. They both halted, but they'd been seen; Lady Huddlesford beckoned imperiously.
"Who are they?"
"Some of the half you've yet to meet." Phyllida searched the group; then she saw Mary Anne and felt giddy with relief. "Come. I'll introduce you."
They crossed the lawn. Lady Huddlesford, presiding over the gathering from a chair at a wrought-iron table, beamed delightedly. "Mr. Cynster! Excellent! I was just telling Mrs. Farthingale…"
Phyllida left Lucifer to fend for himself, something he was patently well able to do; he smiled, effortlessly charming, and the ladies all preened. Directing a general smile on those present, she strolled to Mary Anne's side.
Mary Anne stared at Lucifer. "He's…" She gestured.
"From London." Phyllida slipped her arm through Mary Anne's. "We need to talk."
Mary Anne turned huge blue eyes her way. "Did you find them?" she whispered as they turned from the group.
Mary Anne's fingers clamped like talons around her wrist; something close to panic filled her eyes. Phyllida inwardly frowned and drew her on. "The rose garden's more private. Pretend we're simply strolling."
Luckily, the entire gathering-Mary Anne's mother, Mrs. Farthingale, Lady Fortemain, Mrs. Weatherspoon, and a gaggle of other ladies, with Percy and Frederick for leavening-was hanging on Lucifer's every word. Phyllida glanced back as she and Mary Anne entered the yew walk that led to the rose garden. Lucifer's attention appeared fully engaged.
Surrounded by thick stone walls, the rose garden was a secluded paradise of lush growth, vibrant splashes of color, and rich, exotic scents. The instant they entered its privacy, Mary Anne's public demeanor crumbled. She swung to face Phyllida, gripping her hands tightly. "Say you found them! Please say you did!"
"I looked, but…" Phyllida frowned. "Come-let's sit down. We need to discuss this."
"There's nothing to discuss!" Mary Anne wailed. "If I don't get those letters back, my life will be ruined!"
Phyllida towed her to a seat set against the wall. "I didn't say we won't get them back-I promised we would. But there's been a complication."
"Complication?"
"A large one." Over six feet tall and difficult to manage. Phyllida sat on the seat and pulled Mary Anne down beside her. "Now, first, are you absolutely sure Horatio was the one your father sold the writing desk to?"
"Yes. I saw Horatio take it away last Monday."
"And you definitely, positively, hid your letters in the secret drawer in the desk? You haven't by accident left them somewhere else?"
"They were too dangerous to leave anywhere else!"
"And it is your grandmother's traveling writing desk that we're talking about, with the rose leather on the top?"
Mary Anne nodded. "You know it."
"Just checking." Phyllida considered Mary Anne, considered how much to tell her. "I went to Horatio's on Sunday morning to search for the desk."
"And?" Mary Anne waited; then understanding dawned. Horror replaced her panic. Her mouth opened, then closed, then she squeaked, "You witnessed the murder?"
"No, not exactly."
"Not exactly? What does that mean? You saw something?"
Phyllida grimaced. "Let me tell it from the beginning." She related how she'd invented a sick headache, then dressed in boots and breeches-Jonas's castoffs that she often wore when engaged in nonpublic activities that might necessitate running. "Sunday morning was the perfect time because there shouldn't have been anyone at home."
"But Horatio was sick."
"Yes, but I didn't know that. I slipped through the wood and searched that outbuilding he used as his warehouse, then I went in through the kitchen and searched the storerooms. They were filled with furniture as well. I didn't see your grandmother's desk anywhere, so I assumed it was somewhere in the main rooms. I went back through the kitchen, into the hall-"
"And you saw the murderer."
"No. I found Horatio just after he'd been killed."
"After the murderer had hit Mr. Cynster and left him for dead."
Phyllida gritted her teeth. "No. I got there before Mr. Cynster."
"You saw the murderer hit Mr. Cynster?"
"No!" She glared at Mary Anne. "Just listen."
In the baldest terms, she recounted what had happened. By the time she finished, Mary Anne had traveled from horror-struck to aghast. "You hit Mr. Cynster?"
"I didn't mean to! The halberd tipped and fell-I stopped it from killing him."
Mary Anne's face cleared. "Well, he's obviously recovered. He must have a thick skull."
"Perhaps. But that's not the complication." Phyllida caught Mary Anne's eye. "He knows I was there."
"I thought he was knocked unconscious."