The twins, his fair and beauteous cousins, had most recently been his release, but they'd turned into harpies and insisted he leave them to their own devices. Under considerable duress and the none-too-subtle threat behind the smothering attention of society's mesdames, he'd retreated to Colyton-only to discover here the perfect answer to his need.
What, after all, was he supposed to do with his life if not to have a wife-and a family, too-to protect? What else was he, under the elegant glamour, if not a knight-protector? Until the twins had refused him and his cousins' marriages had left him too exposed to brave the ton, he hadn't fully appreciated his own nature.
To Have and to Hold, the Cynster family motto-he understood it now, appreciated all that it meant.
For him, it meant Phyllida.
He followed her through the shadows of the wood, and considered how best to break the news to her.
Phyllida plunged a gladiolus spike into the heart of the vase and stepped back. She eyed the arrangement through narrowed eyes, studiously avoiding the lounging presence darkening the vestry door. Collecting a handful of cornflowers, she started setting them in the vase.
She'd arrived at the Manor midmorning and searched the first-floor rooms, all except Horatio's and Lucifer's. Horatio's she'd already searched; Lucifer's… she didn't need to check there. While not large, the traveling writing desk wasn't so small it was difficult to see.
"How thorough was your search of the attics?"
He seemed to be following her train of thought. "Very thorough. So now you've looked, and I've looked-the desk isn't there."
She didn't look at him-she'd sworn she'd give him no encouragement. If he insisted on clinging to her skirts against her clearly expressed, not to say forcefully stated, wishes, she wasn't going to put herself out to entertain him.
Descending from the attics, disappointed yet again, she'd run into Mrs. Hemmings in the front hall. The housekeeper had been flustered. She had a pot of jam at the crucial stage and didn't dare leave it, but she hadn't yet done the church flowers. Hemmings had picked the best blooms that morning; they were in a pail in the laundry.
She'd gladly agreed to do the vases. The notion that the murderer might be haunting the church she'd dismissed as irrational; a brisk walk up the common followed by the soothing ambience of the church had sounded just perfect. Unfortunately, the door to the library had been open. Lucifer had materialized in the doorway-he'd insisted on coming, too.
A short argument had ensued. Once again, she'd lost. It was becoming a habit-one she indulged in with no one else. Losing arguments was not her forte.
By not one word would she encourage him further.
Sticking a finger in the vase, she checked the water. "Too low." Grasping a jar, she walked to the door, looked out, then stepped into the sunshine. She crossed the few feet to the pump-and listened to hear if he followed. No sound-he must still be brooding darkly in the doorway.
Indeed, he seemed to find her as irritating-that was not the right word, but it was something very similar-as she found him. Irritating, puzzling, unaccountable. Utterly impossible to comprehend.
She filled the jar, then lowered the pump handle. As she turned away, her gaze swept the graveyard-a vase on a grave had blown over. She tsked and went over to the grave. Righting the vase, she filled it from her jar and resettled it against the gravestone. Straightening, she approved of the alignment, then turned to retrace her steps.
In the lane beyond the lych-gate, Silas Coombe clicked sedately along in his high-heeled shoes.
Phyllida hesitated, then waved. He didn't see; she put the jar down on a nearby slab and waved both arms.
Silas noticed-Phyllida beckoned.
She thought furiously while he made his way under the lych-gate and up the path. Halting before her, he bowed extravagantly, flourishing a silk handkerchief.
When he straightened, she was smiling. "Mr. Coombe." She curtsied-Silas liked the formalities. "I was wondering… I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Cynster last afternoon." She summoned her most sympathetic expression. "He seems quite set on not selling any of Horatio's treasures."
"Indeed." Silas frowned. "A great pity."
"I hadn't realized you were interested in Horatio's volumes." Sinking onto the marble slab, she gestured, inviting Silas to join her. "I had thought your own collection was quite extensive in its own right."
"Oh, it is-indeed, it is!" Silas flicked his coattails and sat beside her. "Just because I wish to purchase one or two of Horatio's more interesting tomes is not to say my own collection needs them for validity."
"I had wondered…"
"No, no! I do assure you. My collection is quite worthy as it stands!"
"So what is it that attracts you to buying certain of Horatio's books?"
"Well-" Silas blinked. "I…" He focused on her face, then leaned closer, raising a finger to tap the side of his nose. "There's more reason for buying a book than just to read it, m'dear."
"Oh?"
"Can't say more." Silas sat back, clearly pleased with Phyllida's intrigued expression. "But I'm not one to be interested for no reason, m'dear."
"A mystery," Phyllida murmured. "I do so love secrets. Surely you could tell me-I would tell no one else."
Striving to appear foolishly fascinated, she leaned closer, then wished she hadn't. Silas blinked; the look in his eyes changed. His gaze lowered to her lips, then drifted lower still.
Phyllida fought a blush-fought the urge to jerk upright. Leaning forward as she was, the scooped neckline of her gown was revealing more to Silas than she'd intended. But… Silas knew something. "Isn't there anything you'd like to tell me, Silas?"
She uttered the question gently, encouragingly. Silas wrenched his gaze up to her face. Then he grabbed her.
Phyllida gasped and tried to straighten, but Silas had his arms around her.
"My dear, if I'd known you preferred more elegant men-more sophisticated gentlemen-I'd have gone down on my knees years ago."
"Mr. Coombe!" Crushed against his chest, Phyllida dragged in a breath. His cologne nearly suffocated her.
"My dear, I've waited and watched-you'll need to forgive the strength of my passions. I know you're unversed in the art of-"
"Silas! Let me go!"
"Coombe."
The single word fell like the sound of doom. A vengeful, threatening doom.
Silas started. He uttered a sound like a shriek, released her, and leaped to his feet-almost landing against Lucifer. Silas whirled, clutching his chest, ruining his floppy bow. "Oh, my! My word. You-you startled me."
Lucifer said nothing at all.
Silas looked into his face and started to back down the path. "Just having a friendly word with Miss Tallent. No harm in it-none at all… you'll have to excuse me." With that, he whirled around and clattered down the path as fast as his high heels would allow.
Still seated on the slab, Phyllida watched him go. "Good Lord."
She knew when Lucifer's gaze left Silas's retreating figure and fixed on her. "Are you all right?"
The words sounded like they'd been said through clenched teeth. She regarded him calmly and stood. "Of course I'm all right."
"I assume the impression Coombe was laboring under was mistaken?"
She shot him a frosty look, straightened her skirts, lifted her head, pointedly stepped past him, and headed up the path. "Silas knows something-something about one of Horatio's books."