"Generalizations will do-I'll extrapolate."
He fell silent; eventually he said, "Mary Anne and I have been meeting secretly for nearly a year. You know how long we've waited and…" He dragged in a breath. "Anyway, Mary Anne used to fill in the time between my visits by writing to me about our last meeting-about what we'd done and what we might do the next time-well, she wrote in a very detailed way." He cast Phyllida an anguished glance.
She met it, blank-faced. After a moment, she said, her tone flat, "I think I understand, Robert."
Thanks to Lucifer, she now had some inkling of what could transpire between a lady and a gentleman where desire was involved. And she had no doubt Mary Anne desired Robert-she always had. Phyllida cleared her throat.
"I used to bring the letters with me to our next meeting and we'd try to… well…" Robert hauled in another breath and rushed on. "So you see, if Mr. Farthingale got hold of the letters, it would be very… bad. But if he showed them to Mr. Crabbs-if anyone showed them to Mr. Crabbs…"
"Hmm." A vision of the starchily conservative, stern-faced solicitor flashed into Phyllida's mind.
"I wouldn't get my registration, and then we'd never be able to marry." Robert looked at her, his plea in his eyes.
She forced a reassuring smile. "We'll find them."
Robert squeezed her hand. "I can't thank you enough-you're such a good friend."
Phyllida took back her hand, and wished she could be a bad friend. But she couldn't. On top of that, she'd given her word. She turned from Robert-and found Lucifer almost upon her.
She met his eyes. "No!"
A violin sang-they both glanced toward the musicians. Then Phyllida looked back. She considered Lucifer, then stepped closer and flicked a hand against his chest. "Waltz with me."
He looked at her, arrested. "Why?"
"Because you might as well be useful and I don't want to waltz with anyone else."
His arm closed around her and he steered her into the whirl. His eyes searched hers. "You're trying to distract me."
"Perhaps." She was also trying to distract herself, and he was simply perfect for the task.
How could Mary Anne have been so idiotic as to write such things down? Love-induced stupidity-that was the only reason Phyllida could imagine.
The sun shone brightly, the air was fresh and clean as she strolled briskly down the common. Behind her, the Sunday-morning congregation was streaming home. Ten paces to her rear, Jem strode, her concession to male notions of feminine vulnerability. Her aunt and the rest of the females of the Grange were rolling home in the carriage, but she had elected to stroll back via the wood.
And the Manor.
All the Manor's household bar Lucifer had been in church, even the newcomer, his groom. Bristleford had informed her that Mr. Cynster had elected to watch over the house in light of the recent intrusion.
Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.
Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.
From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He'd been deep in Horatio's ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He'd glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida's destination wasn't hard to guess.
He'd waited in the hall-he didn't want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn't help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio's garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.
She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness-a keen anticipation he could feel. He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.
She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.
She tilted her head, her eyes on his. "Good morning. Bristleford said you'd stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn't reappear?"
"No. All was quiet."
She waited, then said, "I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything-any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder."
How much to tell her? "Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?"