All About Love (Cynster 6)

He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. "Who did the garden?"

"Papa told you-Horatio. Well"-she glanced at the beds-"Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio's was always the guiding hand." She studied his face. "Why?"

He looked at the garden. "When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden-it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn't have known a hollyhock from a nettle."

Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. "All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden."

After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.

The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio's coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they-yes, they-had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.

A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.

For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio's face. It had been there when she'd found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.

She'd liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He'd been murdered in the village she'd virtually managed for twelve years; that she'd been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.

It was as if something she'd worked for all her life-the peace and serenity of Colyton-had been violated, tainted.

The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she'd found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she'd realized she'd heard no one leaving…

Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She'd only just remembered.

She'd come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she'd been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She'd idled in the hall, then decided on searching t

he drawing room.

How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she'd found him?

What if the murderer hadn't left but had still been in the drawing room when she'd entered?

She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.

He must have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.

Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer's hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio's lined face and made a vow-a binding, resolute vow-that she would find whoever had hidden between the bookcases and watched her discover Horatio's body.

This was one murderer who would not escape.

Even as she made her silent declaration, she was aware another, very similar one was being made not a foot away. Lucifer's words to her father had rung with determination; she needed no convincing that he would regard his vow as seriously as she regarded hers.

They could work together-together they might succeed. Alone, even with her father's support, bringing a murderer to justice might well be more than she could accomplish. Despite his dubious talents, she was certain the reprobate beside her could achieve anything he set his mind to. So…

She slanted a glance at him. She needed to tell him all that had happened, even to admitting that it was she who had hit him over the head. Confessing to that wouldn't be comfortable, but he needed to know.

He especially needed to know about the hat.

Which meant she had to speak with Mary Anne straightaway.

She took in Lucifer's bleak expression, the planes of his face harsh without any lurking laughter to soften them. His large eyes were hooded. He'd been much closer to Horatio than she had.

Sliding her fingers from his, she retreated and left him with his grief.

Lucifer heard her go. Part of his mind tracked her movements; part of him relaxed when she turned deeper into the house. He remembered she'd mentioned speaking with the housekeeper. Reassured, he returned his attention to Horatio.

Their last farewell-there wouldn't be another. He let the memories spill through his mind, like water running through his fingers. Their shared interests, their successes, their mutual appreciation, the long afternoons spent on the terrace overlooking Lake Windemere. All good times-there'd been none bad.

At the last, he drew in a deep breath, then laid a hand atop Horatio's, clasped on his chest. "Go twit Martha on her pansies. As for revenge, leave that to me."