Stephanie Laurens - All About Love

Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.

The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a chaise . A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched-another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.

Two other gentlemen stood beside the chaise . The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.

Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. “Papa?”

Lucifer joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. “Allow me to present…”

He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. “Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer.”

“Lucifer, heh?” Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. “What names you youngsters do take. Now! How’re you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks to your daughter’s care.”

Sir Jasper smiled on Phyllida, who had turned to the tea trolley. “Aye, well, that was a nasty blow, no doubt of that. Now let me make you known to m’sister-in-law; then we’ll take our tea and you can tell me all you know about this distressing business.”

His sister-in-law, Lady Huddlesford, summoned a smile and held out her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Cynster.”

Lucifer politely shook hands. Sir Jasper gestured to the dandy. “M’nephew, Percy Tallent.”

Percy, it transpired, was her ladyship’s son by her first marriage to Sir Jasper’s late brother. One minute of affected conversation and Lucifer had Percy pegged-he was on a repairing lease. Nothing else could account for his presence in rural Devon. His sullen half brother, Frederick Huddlesford, openly stared at Lucifer’s well-cut coat, hard pressed, it seemed, to marshal the words for even a simple greeting.

With a nod, Lucifer turned to the young man so like Phyllida, who promptly grinned and stuck out his hand. “Jonas. Phyllida’s little brother.”

Clasping the proffered hand, Lucifer smiled and raised his brows. Loose-limbed, with the same careless grace that characterized his sister, Jonas stood a good six inches taller than she. Lucifer glanced at her as she straightened from the tea trolley. For all his transparent, good-natured insousiance, Jonas didn’t appear younger than she.

Phyllida caught his glance; her chin rose. “We’re twins, but I’m the elder.”

“Ah. I see. Always the leader.”

Her brows rose haughtily. Jonas chuckled.

So did Sir Jasper. “Quite, quite. Phyllida keeps us all in line-don’t know what we’d do without her. Now”-he waved to a grouping of chairs at the end of the room-“let’s move down there and you can tell me what you can about this terrible business.”

As he turned, Lucifer felt Phyllida’s gaze on his face.

“Indeed, Papa. I do think Mr. Cynster should sit down. I’ll bring you your cups.”

Sir Jasper nodded. Lucifer followed him down the room. They settled in wing chairs angled to each other, a small table between. The length of the room assured them of privacy; the others watched them go, their curiosity palpable, then reluctantly returned to their own company.

As he gingerly rested his head back on the chair’s cushion, Lucifer considered Sir Jasper. His host was a type he knew well. Men like him were the backbone of county England. Bluffly good-natured, genial if unimaginative, they were, nevertheless, no one’s fools. They could be counted on to hold the line, to do whatever needed to be done to keep their community stable, yet they had no taste for power; it was appreciation of their comfort plus trenchant common sense that drove them.

Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, busy at the tea trolley. Like father, like daughter? He suspected so, at least in part.

“So”-Sir Jasper stretched out his legs-“are you familiar with Devon?”

Lucifer went to shake his head, but stopped. “No. My family home lies north of here, to the east of the Quantocks.”

“Somerset, heh? So you’re a west countryman?”

“At heart, but I’ve lived in London for the last decade.”

Phyllida arrived with cups on saucers; she handed one to each of them, then whisked back up the room. Sir Jasper sipped; Lucifer did, too, conscious of reawakening hunger. An instant later, Phyllida reappeared with a cake plate piled high. She offered it around, then subsided onto a love seat beside her father’s chair, and patently settled to listen.

Lucifer glanced at Sir Jasper. His host was aware of his daughter’s presence, and clearly saw nothing odd in her being privy to his investigations. His flippant remark about her being a born leader was not, it seemed, far from the mark.

Hands folded in her lap, she sat quiet and contained. Lucifer studied her as he consumed a piece of cake. She wouldn’t see twenty again, but how much older was she? Her cool composure he suspected was misleading. Jonas’s age was easier to estimate; his body was still all long bones and spare frame. He was in his early-to-mid twenties, at least four years younger than Lucifer’s twenty-nine.

Which made Phyllida the same.

And a puzzle. There was no ring on her finger, nor had there ever been one. He’d noted that last night; even in extremis, his rakish instincts hadn’t failed him. She was twenty-three, twenty-four, and still unwed. Definitely a puzzle.

She was aware of his scrutiny, but not a smidgen of that awareness showed. The urge to shake her-to see her lose that cool control-flared. Lucifer looked down, set aside his cake plate, and picked up his cup.

Sir Jasper did the same. “Now, to business. Let’s start with your arrival. What brought you to the Manor yesterday morning?”

“I received a letter from Horatio Welham.” Lucifer settled his head back on the cushion. “It was delivered in London on Thursday. Horatio invited me to visit the Manor at my earliest convenience.”

“So you were previously acquainted with Welham?”

“I’ve known Horatio for over nine years. I first met him when I was twenty, while staying with friends in the Lake District. Horatio introduced me to serious collecting. He was my mentor in that field and became a close, very trusted friend. Over the years, I frequently visited Horatio and his wife, Martha, at their house by Lake Windemere.”

“Lake District, was it? Always wondered where Horatio hailed from. He never said and one didn’t like to pry.”

Lucifer hesitated, then said, “Horatio was deeply attached to Martha. When she died three years ago, he couldn’t face living alone in the house they’d shared for so long. He sold up and moved south. Devon appealed because of the milder climate-he used to say he chose to move here because of his old bones and because he liked this village. He said it was small and comfortable.” With no managing local mesdames . Lucifer glanced at Phyllida-how had Horatio viewed her?

Her eyes had grown dark. “No wonder he never spoke of his past. He must have been deeply in love with his Martha.”

Lucifer inclined his head, then looked at Sir Jasper.

“Would any of Welham’s servants know you?”

“I don’t know who he kept on. Is Covey still with him?”

“Yes, indeed.”