All About Love (Cynster 6)

"Then… good night."

"Good night." Phyllida nodded without looking up; as she corrected a figure, the light from Mr. Filing's lamp receded. A moment later, she heard him on the stairs, then heard the scrape of the church door closing.

She was alone.

In silence, her concentration absolute, she finished adding the figures in five minutes, then calculated and recorded the payments due to the men in another five. Pleased, she sat back, surveying her handiwork.

A shadow loomed on the page.

With a gasp, she swung around-

Lucifer stood beside the lamp, arms crossed, dark blue eyes narrowed. Her heart thudding in her throat, she stared at him.

"Would you care to tell me what this is all about?"

She drew breath into her lungs-and narrowed her eyes back. "No. And might I suggest that, given you intend to reside in this village, you'd do well not to prowl around at night scaring the occupants out of their wits!" She'd started her tirade evenly; the last word was shrill. Swinging back to stare at her ledger, she concentrated on breathing. Grabbing a piece of blotting paper, she blotted her figures.

After a moment, he replied, "You might have momentarily been frightened, but you haven't lost your wits. And you may as well tell me what's going on, because you know I won't leave you be until I know."

She did know that; he wasn't easily deflected. And there really was no reason he couldn't know the truth, especially as he was remaining in Colyton. Shutting the ledger, she returned it to its niche. "I'm running an import business."

He hesitated, then asked, "Is that the new name for smuggling?"

"It's all perfectly legal." Rummaging in a niche, she drew out a sheet of printed paper and handed it to him.

He took it and read, "The Colyton Import Company." He looked up. "A legal importing company that operates in the dead of night?"

His incredulity was transparent; nose in the air, she slid from the stool. "There's no law against it."

She reached past him for the lamp-he anticipated her and lifted it. Laying the paper on the sarcophagus, he waved her to the stairs. Head high, she led the way; as she climbed she became increasingly conscious of the side-to-side sway of her hips. She scampered up the last stairs, but with one step he was beside her, looking beyond her to the church door. Phyllida shut the small door to the crypt; he extinguished the lamp, set it aside, and pulled open the church door. Together, they went out into the night.

He tugged the door shut. She felt his gaze on her face.

"Explain."

Phyllida headed for the common. He fell in beside her, his dark presence more comforting than unnerving. He had the sense not to repeat his command; if he had, she might not have obliged. "This is a smuggling coast. There's always been smugglers here, running goods either heavily taxed or, in more recent times, prohibited because of the war with France. The end of the war led to trade resuming, so the goods previously prohibited could once again be openly imported."

Leaving the graveyard, she continued down the common. "Virtually overnight, smuggling was no longer, or only marginally, profitable. Selling smuggled goods became difficult because merchants could buy the same goods legally at a reasonable price-there was no longer any incentive to take risks. Most of the smugglers are farm laborers-they turn to the night trade to supplement their incomes and support their families. Suddenly, that extra income was no longer there, and the wh

ole"-she gestured-"balance of things hereabouts was in jeopardy."

They crossed the lane and headed down the alley; she waited until they were in the wood before continuing. "The only way I could see to help was to set up the Colyton Import Company. Papa knows all about it-it's entirely legitimate. We pay our excise duties to the Revenue Office in Exeter. Mr. Filing is an accredited collector."

He was following close at her shoulder, head bent as he listened. She glanced his way and saw him shake his head.

"Legitimized smuggling." Through the gloom, he caught her eye. "You arranged it all?"

She shrugged. "Who else?"

A fair answer, Lucifer supposed, but it led to the next question. "What do you get out of it?" An impertinent question, but he wanted to know.

"Get out of it?" The concept puzzled her; she halted and looked at him, then moved on again. "I suppose peace of mind."

Not what he'd expected. Excitement, the thrill of being in charge, something along those lines, but… "Peace of mind?"

"Just consider the alternative to smuggling in these parts." Her voice hardened. "We're two miles from a coast riddled and raked with reefs and sandbars."

"Wrecking?" His blood ran cold.