effeminate weakling. Percy was pasty-faced, but otherwise presentable—it was the competition that served him so ill.
Her aunt continued to proclaim the impossibility of the murderer being local. Phyllida grasped the moment when she paused for breath. “I must call on Mrs. Hemmings, Papa, to make sure she has all she needs for the wake. I also need to stop at the church and speak with Mr. Filing.”
Her nemesis spoke. “Perhaps I could accompany you, Miss Tallent?”
“Ah . . .” Transfixed by blue eyes that warned her there was no alternative to his company, Phyllida bit back a refusal, couched as a polite reminder about his head.
His lips curved; his gaze remained steady. “I know I promised not to overtax myself, but as I’ll be in your company, there’s surely no risk.”
He’d kept her secret; now she had to pay the price. She inclined her head. “If you wish. A walk in the fresh air might ease your head.”
“An excellent notion.” As Lucifer straightened from bowing to her aunt, her father caught his eye. “Give you a chance to get the lay of the land, heh?”
“Indeed.” The reprobate turned to her, a definite glint in his eyes. He smiled and gestured elegantly. “Lead on, my dear Miss Tallent.”
She took him to the Manor by way of the lane through the village; it was too dangerous to walk through the woods with a predator, especially one in whose power she now was. Her father, of course, had no idea—he was impressed with the fiend, she could tell.
As she walked through the sunshine with him prowling beside her, she grudgingly admitted that if he hadn’t been such a threat to her, she might have been impressed, too. He felt just as he ought to about Horatio. But being managed was a novel experience for her, one she didn’t like. However, he hadn’t done the unforgivable and given her the ultimate ultimatum—that either she tell him the whole truth, or he would tell her father she’d been in Horatio’s drawing room. She was therefore willing to humor him.
She glanced at him. His dark hair shone mahogany brown in the sun. “You forgot your hat.”
“I rarely wear one.”
So much for that. She walked on. The village proper lay just ahead.
Lucifer looked at her; her bonnet shielded her face from his view. “I think”—he waited until she glanced up at him—“that, given we’ve formed an alliance of sorts, you’d better tell me what happened after I was discovered.”
She studied his eyes, then faced forward. “You were discovered by Hemmings, Horatio’s gardener. Mrs. Hemmings, the housekeeper, went upstairs, imagining Horatio to be there. Hemmings went into the drawing room to lay the fire. He raised the alarm and Bristleford, Horatio’s butler, sent for Juggs and Thompson.”
“To take me, as the murderer, into custody?”
Her bonnet bobbed. “Bristleford was overset—he thought you were the murderer. There’s a cell beneath the inn where prisoners are held awaiting transportation to the assizes. Thompson’s the blacksmith—they used his dray to shift you.”
“And where were you?”
She glanced swiftly at him, then away. A full minute passed before she said, “I was laid upon my bed with a sick headache—that was why I hadn’t gone to church.”
When she said no more, he prompted her. “You appeared in the cell insisting I wasn’t the murderer.”
“I didn’t know whether you remembered.”
“I remember. How did you come to be there?”
“I often borrowed books of poetry from Horatio. I recovered from my headache and thought I’d fetch a new volume. But just as I reached our front door, Aunt Huddlesford’s carriage drew up. I’d forgotten she was arriving that morning, but all the arrangements were already in place—or so I thought.”
The irritation in that last reached Lucifer clearly. “But . . . ?”
“Percy and Frederick—I wasn’t expecting them. They don’t usually favor us with their gracious presence.”
“I’d wager
Her aunt continued to proclaim the impossibility of the murderer being local. Phyllida grasped the moment when she paused for breath. “I must call on Mrs. Hemmings, Papa, to make sure she has all she needs for the wake. I also need to stop at the church and speak with Mr. Filing.”
Her nemesis spoke. “Perhaps I could accompany you, Miss Tallent?”
“Ah . . .” Transfixed by blue eyes that warned her there was no alternative to his company, Phyllida bit back a refusal, couched as a polite reminder about his head.
His lips curved; his gaze remained steady. “I know I promised not to overtax myself, but as I’ll be in your company, there’s surely no risk.”
He’d kept her secret; now she had to pay the price. She inclined her head. “If you wish. A walk in the fresh air might ease your head.”
“An excellent notion.” As Lucifer straightened from bowing to her aunt, her father caught his eye. “Give you a chance to get the lay of the land, heh?”
“Indeed.” The reprobate turned to her, a definite glint in his eyes. He smiled and gestured elegantly. “Lead on, my dear Miss Tallent.”
She took him to the Manor by way of the lane through the village; it was too dangerous to walk through the woods with a predator, especially one in whose power she now was. Her father, of course, had no idea—he was impressed with the fiend, she could tell.
As she walked through the sunshine with him prowling beside her, she grudgingly admitted that if he hadn’t been such a threat to her, she might have been impressed, too. He felt just as he ought to about Horatio. But being managed was a novel experience for her, one she didn’t like. However, he hadn’t done the unforgivable and given her the ultimate ultimatum—that either she tell him the whole truth, or he would tell her father she’d been in Horatio’s drawing room. She was therefore willing to humor him.
She glanced at him. His dark hair shone mahogany brown in the sun. “You forgot your hat.”
“I rarely wear one.”
So much for that. She walked on. The village proper lay just ahead.
Lucifer looked at her; her bonnet shielded her face from his view. “I think”—he waited until she glanced up at him—“that, given we’ve formed an alliance of sorts, you’d better tell me what happened after I was discovered.”
She studied his eyes, then faced forward. “You were discovered by Hemmings, Horatio’s gardener. Mrs. Hemmings, the housekeeper, went upstairs, imagining Horatio to be there. Hemmings went into the drawing room to lay the fire. He raised the alarm and Bristleford, Horatio’s butler, sent for Juggs and Thompson.”
“To take me, as the murderer, into custody?”
Her bonnet bobbed. “Bristleford was overset—he thought you were the murderer. There’s a cell beneath the inn where prisoners are held awaiting transportation to the assizes. Thompson’s the blacksmith—they used his dray to shift you.”
“And where were you?”
She glanced swiftly at him, then away. A full minute passed before she said, “I was laid upon my bed with a sick headache—that was why I hadn’t gone to church.”
When she said no more, he prompted her. “You appeared in the cell insisting I wasn’t the murderer.”
“I didn’t know whether you remembered.”
“I remember. How did you come to be there?”
“I often borrowed books of poetry from Horatio. I recovered from my headache and thought I’d fetch a new volume. But just as I reached our front door, Aunt Huddlesford’s carriage drew up. I’d forgotten she was arriving that morning, but all the arrangements were already in place—or so I thought.”
The irritation in that last reached Lucifer clearly. “But . . . ?”
“Percy and Frederick—I wasn’t expecting them. They don’t usually favor us with their gracious presence.”
“I’d wager
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