All About Love, Page 2

  Fingers—small fingers—touched his cheek gently, hesitantly.

  The touch blazed across his brain.

  Not the murderer. Relief swept through him, and relentlessly carried him into the black.

  Phyllida traced the fallen man’s cheek, mesmerized by the stark beauty of his face. He looked like a fallen angel—such classically pure lines could not possibly be found on mortal men. His brow was wide, his nose patrician, his thick hair very dark, sable black. His eyes were large under arched black brows. His lids didn’t flicker; her stomach clenched tight. Then she saw his lips, lean and mobile, ease, softening as if he’d exhaled.

  “Please, please, don’t die!”

  Frantically, she searched for a pulse at his throat, ruining his cravat in the process. She nearly fainted with relief when she found the throbbing beat, steady and strong. “Thank God!” She sagged. Without thinking, she carefully rearranged his cravat, smoothing the folds—he was so beautiful and she hadn’t killed him.

  Wheels crunched heavily on the gravel drive.

  Phyllida jerked upright. Her eyes flew wide. The murderer?

  Her panicky wits calmed enough for her to distinguish voices as the conveyance rolled on around the house. Not the murderer—the Manor staff. She looked at the unconscious stranger.

  For the first time in her life, she found it difficult to think. Her heart was still racing; she felt light-headed. Dragging in a breath, she fought to concentrate. Horatio was dead; she couldn’t change that. Indeed, she knew nothing of any relevance. His friend was unconscious and would remain so for some time—she should make sure he was well tended. That was the least she should do.

  But here she was in Horatio’s drawing room, in breeches, instead of being laid down on her bed at the Grange with a sick headache. And she couldn’t explain why, not without revealing her reason for being here—those misplaced personal belongings. Worse, they weren’t hers. She didn’t actually know why they were so important, why their revelation was to be avoided at all costs, which made it all the more incumbent on her not to reveal their existence. Aside from anything else, she’d been sworn to secrecy.

  Damn! She was going to be discovered any minute. Mrs. Hemmings, the Manor housekeeper, would even now be entering the kitchen.

  Think!

  What if, instead of waiting here and landing herself in a morass of impossible explanations, she left, cut home through the wood, changed, and returned? She could easily think of an errand. She could be back in ten minutes. Then she could make sure Horatio’s body had been discovered, and oversee the tending of the stranger.

  That was a sensible plan.

  Phyllida clambered to her feet. Her legs wobbled; she still felt woozy. She was about to turn away when the hat on the table beyond Horatio’s body caught her eye.

  Had the stranger carried a hat when he’d entered? She hadn’t noticed it, but he was so large, he could have reached forward and put it on the table without her seeing.

  Gentlemen’s hats often had their owners’ names embroidered on the inside band. Stepping around Horatio’s body, Phyllida reached for the brown hat—

  “I’ll just go up and check on the master. Keep an eye on that pot, will you?”

  Phyllida forgot about the hat. She shot through the hall, out of the front door, then raced across the side lawn and dove into the shrubbery.

  “Juggs, open this door.”

  The words, uttered in a tone Lucifer usually associated with his mother, jerked him back to consciousness.

  “Nah—can’t do that,” a heavy male voice answered. “Mightn’t be wise.”

  “Wise?” The woman’s tone had risen. After a pause, during which Lucifer could almost hear her rein in her temper, she asked, “Has he regained consciousness at all since you picked him up from the Manor?”

  So he was no longer at the Manor. Where the hell was he?

  “Nah! Out like a light, he is.”

  He wasn’t, but he might as well have been. Beyond hearing, his senses weren’t functioning well—he couldn’t feel much beyond the massive ache in his head. He was lying on his side on some very hard surface. The air was cool and held a hint of musty dust. He couldn’t lift his lids—even that much movement was still beyond him.

  He was helpless.

  “How do you know he’s still alive?” The woman’s imperious tone left little doubt she was a lady.

  “Alive? ’Course he’s alive—why wouldn’t he be? Just swooned, that’s all.”

  “Swooned? Juggs, you’re an innkeeper. For how long do swooned men stay swooned, especially if they’re jolted about in a cart in the fresh air?”

  Juggs snorted. “He’s a swell—who knows how long they stay swooned for? Right liverish lot, they are.”

  “They found him slumped by Mr. Welham’s body. What if he hasn’t swooned but sustained some injury?”

  “How could he have sus—got any injury?”

  “Maybe he fought with the murderer, trying to save Mr. Welham.”

  “Nah! That way, we’d have his nibs here and someone else the murderer—that’d make two people coming in separate from outside in one day with no one seeing either of ’em, and that just plain doesn’t happen.”

  The lady lost all patience. “Juggs—open this door! What if the gentleman dies, all because you decided he’d swooned when that wasn’t so at all? We have to check.”

  “He’s swooned, I tell you—not a mark on him that Thompson or I could see.”

  Lucifer gathered every last shred of his strength. If he wanted help, he was going to have to assist the lady; he didn’t want her going away defeated, leaving him with the uncaring innkeeper. He lifted one hand—his arm shook . . . he forced the hand to his head. He heard a groan, then realized it was his.

  “There! See?” The lady sounded triumphant. “It’s his head that hurts—the back of his head. Why, if he’d simply swooned? Quickly, Juggs—open the door! There’s something very wrong here.”

  Lucifer let his hand fall. If he could have, he would have roared at Juggs to open the damned door. Of course there was something wrong—the murderer had coshed him. What on earth did they think had happened?

  “Maybe he hit his head when he fell,” Juggs grumbled.

  Why the hell did they imagine he’d fallen? But the jingle of keys pushed the thought from Lucifer’s mind. The lady had won; she was coming to his aid. A lock clanked, then a heavy door scraped. Quick footsteps briskly crossed stone, heading his way.

  A small hand touched his shoulder. A warm, feminine-soft presence leaned near.

  “Everything will be all right in a moment.” Her tone was low and soothing. “Just let me check your head.”

  She was hovering over him; his senses had returned enough to tell him she wasn’t as old as he’d thought. The realization gave him the strength to lift his lids, albeit only a fraction.

  She saw and smiled encouragingly, brushing back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

  The pain in his head evaporated. Opening his eyes further, Lucifer drank in the details of her face. She was not a girl, but she would still qualify as a young lady. Somewhere in her early twenties, yet her face held more character, more strength and blatant determination than was common for her years. He noted it, but it was not that that held him, that captured his awareness to the exclusion of the debilitating pain in his head.

  Her brown eyes were large, wide, and filled with concern—with an open empathy that reached past his cynical shields and touched him. Those lovely eyes were framed by a wide forehead and delicately arched brows, by dark hair, almost as dark as his, cut short to curve about her head like a sleek helmet. Her nose was straight, her chin tapered, her lips . . .

  The sudden surge of sensual thoughts and impulses for once didn’t sit well: Horatio was dead. He let his lids fall.

  “You’ll feel much better directly,” she promised, “once we move you to a more comfortable bed.”

  Behind her, Juggs snorted. “Aye—
he’s that sort of gentleman, I’d wager. A murderer and the other, too.”

  Lucifer ignored Juggs. The lady knew he was no murderer, and she now had the upper hand. Her fingers slid through his hair, carefully feeling around his wound. He tensed, then bit back a groan when she gingerly probed.

  “See?” She pressed aside his hair so the air touched his wound. “He’s been hit on the back of the head with something—some weapon.”

  Juggs harrumphed. “P’rhaps he hit his head on that table in the Manor drawing room when he swooned.”

  “Juggs! You know as well as I do this wound is too severe for that.”

  Eyes closed, Lucifer breathed shallowly. Pain was rolling over him in sickening waves. In desperation, he conjured the image of the lady’s face, struggled to concentrate on that and hold the pain at bay. Her throat had been slender, graceful. That augered well for the rest of her. She’d mentioned a bed— He broke off that train of thought, once again disconcerted by its direction.

  “ ’Ere, let me see,” Juggs grudgingly said.

  A heavy hand touched Lucifer’s skull—his head exploded with pain.

  “Papa, this man is seriously injured.”

  His guardian angel’s voice drew Lucifer back to the living. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since last he’d been with them.

  “He’s been hit very violently on the back of the head. Juggs has seen the wound, too.”

  “Hmm.” Heavier footsteps approached. “That right, Juggs?”

  A new voice, deep, cultured, but tinged with the local county accent—Lucifer wondered just who “Papa” was.

  “Aye. Looks like he’s been coshed good and proper.” Juggs—the clod—was still with them.

  “The wound’s on the back of his skull, you say?”

  “Yes—here.” Lucifer felt the lady’s fingers part his hair. “But don’t touch.” “Papa” thankfully didn’t. “It seems very sensitive—he regained consciousness for a moment, but fainted when Juggs touched his head.”

  “Hardly surprising. That’s quite a blow he’s taken. Administered with that old halberd of Horatio’s by the look of it. Hemmings said he found it beside this gentleman. Given the thing’s weight, it’s a wonder he isn’t dead.”

  Letting his hair fall, the lady stated, “So it’s obvious he’s not the murderer.”

  “Not with that wound and the halberd lying beside him. Looks like the murderer hid behind the door and coshed him when he discovered the body. Mrs. Hemmings swears the thing couldn’t have fallen on its own. Seems clear enough. So we’ll just have to wait and see what this gentleman can tell us once he regains his senses.”

  Precious little, Lucifer mentally answered.

  “Well, he’s not going to get better lying in this cell.” The lady’s voice had developed a decisive note.

  “Indeed not. Can’t understand what Bristleford was about, thinking this fellow was the murderer who’d swooned at the sight of blood.”

  Swooned at the sight of blood? If he’d been able, Lucifer would have snorted derisively, but he still couldn’t speak or move. The pain in his head was just waiting for a chance to bludgeon him into unconsciousness. The most he could do was lie still and listen, and learn all he could. While the lady held sway, he was safe—she seemed to have taken his best interests to heart.

  “I thought Bristleford said he had the knife in ‘is fist.”

  That came from Juggs, of course.

  “Papa” snorted. “Self-defense. Had a moment’s warning the murderer was behind him and grabbed the only weapon to hand. Not much use against a halberd, unfortunately. No—it was obvious someone had found the body and turned it over. Can’t see the murderer bothering—it wasn’t as if Horatio would have been carrying any valuables in his nightshirt.”

  “So this man is innocent,” the lady reiterated. “We really should move him to the Grange.”

  “I’ll ride back and send the carriage,” “Papa” replied.

  “I’ll wait here. Tell Gladys to pile as many cushions and pillows as she can into the carriage, and . . .”

  The lady’s words faded as she moved away; Lucifer stopped trying to listen. She’d said she’d stay by him. It sounded like the Grange was “Papa’s” residence, so presumably she lived there, too. He hoped she did. He wanted to see more of her once the pain had gone. The pain in his head, and the pain around his heart.

  Horatio had been a very dear friend—how dear he hadn’t realized until now, now that he was gone. He touched on his grief, but was too weak to deal with it. Shifting his mind away, he tried to find some way past the pain, but it seemed to feed on the effort.

  So he simply lay there and waited.

  He heard the lady return; others were with her. What followed wasn’t pleasant. Luckily, he wasn’t far removed from unconsciousness; he was only dimly aware of being lifted. He expected to feel the jolting of a carriage; if he did, the sensation didn’t make it past the pain.

  Then he was on a bed, being undressed. His senses flickered weakly, registering that there were two women present; from their hands and voices, they were both older than his guardian angel. He would have helped them if he could, but even that was beyond him. They fussed and insisted on pulling a nightshirt over his head, being inordinately careful of his injured skull.

  They made him comfortable in soft pillows and sweet-smelling sheets, then they left him in blessed peace.

  Phyllida looked in on her patient as soon as Gladys, their housekeeper, reported that he was settled.

  Miss Sweet, her old governess, sat tatting in a chair by the window. “He’s resting quietly,” Sweetie mouthed.

  Phyllida nodded and went to the bed. They’d left him sprawled on his stomach to spare his sore head. He was much larger than she’d realized—the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest, the long lines of his back, the even longer length of his legs—his body dominated the bed. He wasn’t, perhaps, the largest man she’d seen, but she suspected he should have been the most vital. Instead, a sullen heaviness invested his limbs, a weighted tension quite unlike relaxation. She peered at his face; the section she could see was pale, still starkly handsome but stony, lacking all sense of life. The lips that should have held the hint of a wicked smile were compressed to a thin line.

  Sweetie was wrong—he was unconscious, not truly resting at all.

  Phyllida straightened. Guilt swept her. It had been her fault he’d been hit. She glided back to Sweetie. “I’m going to the Manor—I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Sweetie smiled and nodded. With one last glance at the bed, Phyllida left the room.

  “I really couldn’t say, sir.”

  Phyllida entered the Manor’s front hall to find Bristleford, Horatio’s butler, being interrogated by Mr. Lucius Appleby directly before the closed drawing room door. They both turned. Appleby bowed. “Miss Tallent.”

  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; bec
ause 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.