All About Love (Cynster 6)

She took one step. Long fingers curled about her elbow and stopped her in her tracks.

"Not. Alone." The two words rumbled just above her ear; they carried a weighted warning she could not have described in words, but her senses translated effortlessly. She waited, her gaze fixed on the door.

A sigh brushed her ear. "Where is Cedric's room? Do you know?"

"Upstairs to the right-the last door along the corridor."

"Very well." He drew her to face him. "In a moment, we'll part. I'll head for the refreshment table. You stroll a little-not enough to get caught-then go out as if heading for the withdrawing room. I'll be watching. I'll give you enough time to reach Cedric's room, then I'll follow."

Phyllida looked at him. "You've done this before."

He simply smiled, then he bowed and they parted.

Phyllida followed his instructions to the letter-not something that came naturally, but she could see no good reason to do otherwise. He'd agreed to search Cedric's room-that was what mattered. And not only in terms of their investigation. It meant he could be reasoned with, which, did he but know it, was a definite point in his favor.

Henry Grisby tried to solicit her for the next dance; she politely declined and headed for the withdrawing room. No one was about to see her glide up the stairs. Once in the gallery, she turned right. She reached Cedric's room; her hand was on the knob when she heard a distant footfall. Glancing back, she saw Lucifer step up from the stairs.

He saw her; she waved, then opened the door and walked in. Less than a minute later, he joined her, easing the door closed behind him. Phyllida watched him straighten, watched him prowl toward her, his gaze scanning the room; it came to rest on her.

Moonlight slanted through the uncurtained windows and lit his face. She suddenly recalled how he had looked three nights before, when he had crossed such a room toward her. The same heavy-lidded eyes, the same sensual lips. His gaze dropped to her lips; she could swear he was having the same sensual, wicked thoughts.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He stopped before her, less than a foot away. His heat reached her; his gaze rose to her eyes. He studied them. His hand rose; one thumb brushed her lips and she shivered.

His lips curved, just a little-not taunting, but self-deprecatory. "Hats," he murmured. "Where would Cedric store his hats?"

Phyllida blinked. Weakly, she waved to a small door. "In his dressing room. There's a hat shelf."

Lucifer looked at the small door, half ajar, then back at her, one brow rising.

"This was Sir Bentley's room-he was ill for years. I often visited."

Phyllida bustled to the door, ignoring the tempting warmth that had slid under her skin. She tried to ignore the presence following at her heels, but that was beyond her.

Lucifer stepped into the dressing room-long and narrow, it ran the length of the main bedroom. A hat shelf was fixed along the wall facing him at head height. It was packed with hats.

"This isn't London." He glanced at Phyllida. "Cedric owns more hats than any gentleman of fashion I know."

"All the more reason to check-it looks like he's never thrown one away in his life."

That was true. Phyllida couldn't reach the hats. He stood there, her assistant, and handed them to her, one by one. She took each specimen in both hands, studied it, held it at arm's length, then shook her head and handed it back. In the moonlight streaming through the high single window, all the hats appeared the same color-brown.

Slowly, they progressed the length of the shelf. With a sigh, she handed the last hat back and shook her head. He was reaching up to the shelf, setting it back, when a faint sound-not a click, not a tap-reached his ears. He froze.

Phyllida froze, too, head tilted. Then she looked at him. He held a finger to his lips, then turned.

The bedroom had two doors-the one they'd entered by, near to the wall of the dressing room, and another, leading to the adjoining room, presumably a sitting room. They would have heard someone coming along the corridor. Had someone just entered from the sitting room?

Cedric? But would a host leave a country ball?

If he was a murderer, he might.

> Lucifer drew in a breath and stepped into the bedroom.

A rush of air, a faint whistle, warned him-he ducked back-a heavy rod cracked across his left shoulder.

The impact drove him to his knees; he caught himself, bracing with his right arm on the doorframe, and saw a man's figure, shrouded in shadows, whip around the door into the corridor. The sound of fleeing footsteps thudding on the corridor runner reached them.