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.