Phyllida returned his nod. "Good afternoon, sir." Many local ladies considered Appleby's fair good looks attractive, but she found him too cold for her taste.
"Sir Cedric asked me to inquire as to the details of Mr. Welham's death," Appleby explained, clearly conscious of the need to excuse his intrusion. He was secretary to Sir Cedric Fortemain, a local landowner; no one would be surprised at Sir Cedric's interest. "Bristleford was just telling me that Sir Jasper has declared himself satisfied that the gentleman discovered by the body is not the murderer."
"That's correct. The murderer is as yet unknown." Unwilling to encourage further discussion, Phyllida turned to Bristleford. "I've asked John Ostler to tend the gentleman's horses." His magnificent horses-even to her untutored eye, the pair were expensive beauties. Her twin brother, Jonas, would be over to see them just as soon as he learned of their existence. "We'll put them in the stables here-the stables at the Grange are full now my aunt Huddlesford and my cousins have arrived."
They'd arrived that afternoon, just as she'd been rushing off to rescue the unknown gentleman; because of her useless cousins, she'd been too late to save him from Juggs's clutches.
Bristleford frowned. "If you think that's best…"
"I do. It seems obvious the gentleman was coming here to visit-presumably he was a friend of Mr. Welham's."
"I don't know, miss. The Hemmingses and I haven't been with the master long enough to know all his friends."
"Quite. No doubt Covey will know." Covey was Horatio's valet and had been with him for many years. "I take it he's not back yet?"
"No, miss. He'll be devastated."
Phyllida nodded. "I just looked in to pick up the gentleman's hat."
"Hat?" Bristleford stared. "There was no hat, miss."
Phyllida blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Nothing in the drawing room or out here." Bristleford looked around. "Perhaps in his carriage?"
Phyllida fabricated a smile. "No, no-I just assumed he must have had a hat. No cane, either?"
Bristleford shook his head.
"Well, then, I'll be off." With a nod for Appleby, who returned it politely, Phyllida walked out of the house.
She paused beneath the portico,
looking out over Horatio's gorgeous garden. A chill washed down her spine.
There had been a hat-a brown one. If it didn't belong to the gentleman and hadn't been there when the Hemmingses and Bristleford discovered the body…
The chill intensified. Lifting her head, Phyllida glanced about, then walked quickly to the gate and hurried home.
The pain in his head grew worse.
Lucifer tossed and turned, struggling to escape the needles driving into his brain. Hands tried to restrain him; gentle voices tried to soothe him. He realized they wanted him to lie still-he tried, but the pain wouldn't let him.
Then his guardian angel returned. He heard her voice at the edge of his awareness; for her, he found strength and lay still. She bathed his face, neck, and the backs of his shoulders with lavender water, then placed cool cloths over his wound. The pain ebbed, and he sighed.
She left, and he grew restless again. But before the pain could peak, she returned and changed the cloths, then sat beside the bed, one cool hand on the back of his wrist.
He relaxed. Eventually, he slept.
When he awoke, she was gone.
It was dark; the house was quiet, slumbering. Lucifer lifted his head-the pain stopped him. Gritting his teeth, he shifted onto his side; raising his head just a fraction, he looked around. An older woman in a mobcap sat slumped in an armchair by the window. Focusing his hearing, he could detect gentle snores.
The fact that he could reassured him. Setting his temple back down on the pillow, he took stock. While still painful when he moved, his head was otherwise much better. He could think without agony. He stretched, flexing his limbs, careful not to shift his head. Relaxing again, he did the same with his senses; all seemed in working order. He might not yet be hale, but he was whole.
That established, he reconnoitered his surroundings. Bit by bit, the immediate past cleared and his memories fell into coherent order. He was in a chamber comfortably furnished in a manner befitting a gentleman's residence. Recollecting that "Papa" had been called upon to pass judgment over his involvement in Horatio's death, "Papa" might well be the local magistrate. If so, he'd made contact with the one gentleman above all others he needed to know. As soon as he was well enough to lift his head, he intended finding Horatio's killer.
His thoughts paused… he pushed them in a different direction. His guardian angel wasn't here-doubtless she was asleep in her bed…