"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; because 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.
She left, and he grew restless again. But before the pain could peak, she returned and changed the cloths, then sat beside the bed, one cool hand on the back of his wrist.
He relaxed. Eventually, he slept.
When he awoke, she was gone.
It was dark; the house was quiet, slumbering. Lucifer lifted his head-the pain stopped him. Gritting his teeth, he shifted onto his side; raising his head just a fraction, he looked around. An older woman in a mobcap sat slumped in an armchair by the window. Focusing his hearing, he could detect gentle snores.
The fact that he could reassured him. Setting his temple back down on the pillow, he took stock. While still painful when he moved, his head was otherwise much better. He could think without agony. He stretched, flexing his limbs, careful not to shift his head. Relaxing again, he did the same with his senses; all seemed in working order. He might not yet be hale, but he was whole.
That established, he reconnoitered his surroundings. Bit by bit, the immediate past cleared and his memories fell into coherent order. He was in a chamber comfortably furnished in a manner befitting a gentleman's residence. Recollecting that "Papa" had been called upon to pass judgment over his involvement in Horatio's death, "Papa" might well be the local magistrate. If so, he'd made contact with the one gentleman above all others he needed to know. As soon as he was well enough to lift his head, he intended finding Horatio's killer.
His thoughts paused… he pushed them in a different direction. His guardian angel wasn't here-doubtless she was asleep in her bed…
Not that direction.
Inwardly, he sighed. Then, closing his eyes, sinking into the bed, he opened his mind and let his grief take him.
Let sorrow for the good times he would not now share with Horatio rise and spill over-let grief for the passing of one who had, in one way, been a kind of father, well and pour through him. No more the joy of shared discoveries, the eager quest for information, the shared hunt to pin down some elusive provenance.
The memories lived, but Horatio was gone. A formative chapter in his life had ended. It was difficult to accept that he'd reached the last page and now had to close the book.
Grief ebbed and left him empty. He'd seen death too many times for the shock to hold him for long. He came from a warrior caste; unjust death was the trigger for one of his most primal responses. Revenge-not for personal satisfaction, but in the name of justice.
Horatio's death would not go unavenged.
He lay in the soft sheets while grief transmuted to anger, eventually coalescing into icy resolution. His emotions hardened, he mentally returned to the scene, replaying every step, every recollection, until he came to the touch…
Fingers that small belonged to a child or a woman. Given the fascination behind the touch-one he recognized instinctively-he would wager his entire collection that a woman had been there. A woman who was not the murderer. Horatio might have been old, but he hadn't been so infirm that a woman could have stabbed him so neatly. Few women would have the strength, or the knowledge.
So-Horatio had been murdered. Then he had entered and the murderer had coshed him with the halberd. Then the woman had entered and found him.
No-that couldn't be right. Horatio's body had been turned onto its back before he'd arrived; he agreed with "Papa"-it hadn't been the murderer who'd done that. The woman must have, then she'd hidden when he appeared.
She must have seen the murderer strike him, then leave. Why hadn't she raised the alarm? Some man called Hemmings had done that.
Something more than the obvious was afoot. He revisited the facts, but couldn't shake that conclusion.
A board in the hallway creaked. Lucifer listened. A minute later, the door to his room opened.
He remained relaxed on his side, lids lowered so he appeared asleep, but he could see through his lashes. He heard a soft click as the door shut, then footsteps padded across the floorboards; a pool of candlelight approached.
His guardian angel came into view. She was in her nightgown.
She halted six feet away, studying his face. One hand held the candlestick; the other rested between her breasts, anchoring her shawl. It was the first time he'd seen all of her; he didn't try to stop himself looking, noting, assessing. Her face was as he recalled, wide eyes, tapered chin, and sleek dark hair giving an impression of intelligence and feminine resolve. She was of average height, slender but not thin. Her breasts were full and high, nipples just discernible beneath the shawl's fringe. He couldn't judge her waist under the nightgown, but her hips were neatly rounded, her thighs sleek.
Her feet were bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.
While he'd studied her, she'd been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.