All About Love by Stephanie Laurens

at Lucifer, who nodded. “You drove into the village . . . ?”
    Lucifer leaned back, his gaze fixed above Phyllida’s head. “I passed no one on the road, nor did I see anyone about. I turned into the drive . . .” Simply and succinctly, he described his movements. “And then someone hit me over the head and I collapsed beside Horatio.”
    “You were hit with an old halberd,” Sir Jasper said. “Nasty weapon—you’re lucky not to have died.”
    Lucifer lowered his gaze to Phyllida’s calm face. “Indeed.”
    “This letter knife Horatio was stabbed with—do you recall it?”
    “It was his—Louis Quinze—he’d had it for years.”
    “Hmm—so that’s not this special item.” Sir Jasper kept his gaze on his boots. “So as things stand, you have no idea who might have killed Welham?”
    Phyllida stared into deep blue eyes and prayed her welling panic didn’t show. It hadn’t occurred to her, not until he started recounting his movements, that, in truth, Lucifer held her in the palm of his hand. If he told her father that someone had been there after the murderer had struck, and that he was convinced—no, he knew —that that person was she . . .
    Her father would instantly know she’d lied—not by act but by omission. He’d realize her uncharacteristic surrender to a headache last Sunday morning had been a ruse, that it would be easy for her to cut through the wood and reach the Manor without being seen. That she’d known no one else should have been in the house.
    What he wouldn’t understand was why—why she’d done it and then so deceitfully kept silent. And that was the one thing she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t yet explain—not until she was released from her oath.
    The dark blue gaze never wavered. “No.”
    She breathed shallowly and waited, knowing he knew, knowing he was debating whether or not to expose her. To her father, one of the few people whose good opinion mattered to her.
    Time slowed. As if from a distance, she heard her father ask the fateful question, the one she’d realized he would eventually ask. “And there’s nothing else bearing on this matter you can tell me?”
    Lucifer’s eyes held hers steadily. Giddiness threatened.
    It suddenly occurred to her to consider the next step: What if he didn’t tell?
    “No.”
    She blinked.
    He held her gaze for an instant longer, then glanced at her father. “I have no notion who killed Horatio, but, with your permission, I intend to find out.”
    “Indeed, indeed.” Her father nodded. “Commendable goal.” He looked up, and frowned.
    “Good gracious, Jasper!” Lady Huddlesford swept forward. “You’ve been interrogating Mr. Cynster for quite long enough. His poor head must be aching.”
    Lucifer rose, as did Sir Jasper.
    “Nonsense, Margaret, we have to sort this matter out.”
    “Indeed! I haven’t been so shocked in years. The very thought of a London cutthroat slipping into the village and stabbing Mr. Welham is more than enough to overset me.”
    “There’s no reason to think it was someone from London.”
    Lady Huddlesford stared at her brother-in-law. “Really, Jasper! This is such a sleepy little place—everyone knows everyone. Of course it must be someone from outside.”
    Phyllida sensed her father’s resistance. He doggedly held to the logical approach, which meant that at any second he was going to turn to her and ask if she knew of anyone local with a reason to wish Horatio dead.
    She didn’t, but her answer might come close to being a lie. An outright lie. She avoided prevarication on principle, except in pursuit of the greater good. As her gaze touched Mr. Cynster—Lucifer—she acidly wished she’d made no exception. Just look where it had landed her.
    First swamped by guilt. Now chin-deep in his debt.
    Percy sauntered up to them. Phyllida glanced his way, then let her gaze drift to Lucifer. Percy was unwise to stand beside him; the comparison left Percy looking like a pasty-faced,