Mr. Filing appeared with a glass of water. Gratefully, she took it and sipped.

Lucifer stepped back, then prowled around the chaise. Without looking, she knew he came to stand just behind her, a protective presence hovering over her.

Mr. Filing paced back and forth before the hearth. "This is shocking-most shocking. That anyone would dare-!" Words failed him; pressing his hands together in silent prayer, he stood for a moment, then turned to Phyllida. "Perhaps, my dear, you could tell us what happened."

Phyllida took another sip of water. "I was emptying the vases-"

"Do you always do that on Monday mornings?"

She glanced up and back at Lucifer. "In this weather, yes. Mrs. Hemmings brings flowers up on Tuesday, and then I change the vases again on Saturday. That's what we usually do-last week was different because of Horatio's funeral."

Lucifer looked down into her wide eyes, still dark, still huge, still frightened. "So it was common knowledge that you'd be at the church, most likely alone, with the vestry door open this morning?"

Phyllida hesitated, then nodded. She looked at Filing.

"If we could start at the beginning," Filing suggested. "You reached the church…?"

Phyllida sipped, then lifted her head. "I reached the church and as usual entered through the main door from the common. I left Jem outside, sitting on the steps."

"There was no one inside?" Filing asked.

Phyllida shook her head. "I picked up the vase from the altar and carried it through to the vestry. I opened the vestry door, propped it open, and took the vase out to empty it. Then I took it back inside."

"You didn't see or hear anyone about?" Lucifer asked.

"No. But…" Phyllida glanced up at him. "I was… absorbed. Someone might have been near, but I wasn't paying attention."

The fleeting awareness in her eyes told him what she'd been absorbed with-she'd been annoyed at him, which was exactly what he'd intended. He'd wanted to irk her, to prod the temper he'd sensed and occasionally glimpsed behind her calm facade; wanted to bring it to life and use it to get her to tell him the truth. Instead, he'd distracted her and made her an even easier target for the murderer.

No more games. Jaw setting, he looked at Filing as Phyllida did the same.

"And then…?" the curate prompted.

Phyllida drew in a deeper breath. "I fetched the urn. It's heavy and cumbersome-I have to wrap both arms about it. I reached the door and stepped out…" She paused, then went on. "That's when the cloth fell over my head. Then the rope-" She broke off and took another sip of water.

"Quite, quite," Mr. Filing soothed.

After a moment, she added, "He was behind me. I struggled, then I screamed-I heard a door crash."

"That was here." Filing glanced at Lucifer. "Mr. Cynster and I were considering the list of men who did not come to church last Sunday when we heard your scream."

"What happened next?" Lucifer asked.

"He flung me aside and ran off." Phyllida glanced back at Lucifer. "I never saw him."

He looked down at her. "Think back. He was standing behind you-how tall was he?"

She considered. "He was taller than me, but not as tall as you." She glanced across the room. "About Thompson's height."

"Did you get any sense of build?"

"Not as heavy as Thompson"-her gaze swung to Filing-"but not as slim as Mr. Filing."

Lucifer turned to Jem, standing by the door. "Does that sound right for the glimpse you caught, Jem? A man about Thompson's height but of average weight?"

Jem nodded. "Aye. And he had brown hair-leastways, not dark like yours."

"Good. What about clothes? Any idea?"

Jem scrunched up his face. "Neat. Couldn't rightly say gentl'man or not, but neat. Not a smock or anything shabby."

Lucifer glanced down at Phyllida. She'd gone quiet, withdrawn. She was not moving, barely breathing. "Phyllida?"

She raised her face; her eyes were drowning dark pools filled with revisited fear. "A coat," she said, then shivered and looked away. "When I was struggling… I think he was wearing a proper coat."

Lucifer left Phyllida with Filing and strode back to the Manor to fetch his curricle. Returning to the Rectory, he carried Phyllida out to the carriage, ignoring her hissed protests, and set her gently on the seat.

When he flung a rug over her knees, she stared at him. "It's summer," she said as they rattled down the Rectory drive.

"You're in shock," he replied, and said nothing more.

Silence was definitely wise; God alone knew what might tumble out if he let the chaos of emotions inside him free.

He concentrated on driving as quickly as he dared; he wanted her safe indoors again as soon as possible. They reached the Grange gates in a few minutes; a minute later, he pulled up before the steps.

Phyllida flicked back the rug and clambered out before he could tie off the reins. Jem, who had hustled back earlier, came running; Lucifer threw him the reins and followed Phyllida. He caught up with her on the porch.

She stopped him with a look. "I am not going to faint."

This was her home; she should be safe here. "All right." His tone was grudging, precisely how he felt. He looked up as Mortimer opened the door. "Miss Tallent has been attacked-she'll need Gladys and Miss Sweet. If Sir Jasper's at home, I'd like to speak with him immediately."

An hour later, Lucifer stood before the window in Sir Jasper's study and stared out over the Grange lawns. Behind him, seated in the big chair behind his desk, Sir Jasper raised a glass and sipped, then sighed heavily.

Summoned by a horrified Mortimer, Miss Sweet and Gladys had descended on Phyllida and borne her off upstairs. Lady Huddlesford had swept majestically after them, declaring her intent to see that her niece did not play fast and loose with her nerves. Whose nerves, Lucifer wasn't quite sure.

Miss Sweet had popped her head into the study half an hour ago. She'd informed them that Phyllida was resting quietly on her bed and had agreed to the wisdom of remaining there for the rest of the afternoon.

That much he'd accomplished. She was fussed over and safe, at least for the time being.

Lucifer turned. Sir Jasper had aged years in the past hour. The lines in his face had deepened; fretful worry had taken up residence in his eyes.

"What's this place coming to, that's what I'd like to know." Sir Jasper set his glass down with a snap. "Dreadful business when a lady can't go to fix the church flowers without being attacked, what?"

Lucifer opened his mouth, then shut it. Again he felt compelled to bite his tongue. Telling Sir Jasper that the attack was not general but quite specific might dampen his concerns as local magistrate, but would only escalate his fatherly fears.

Sir Jasper fixed him with a frowning glance. "From what you said, it seems unlikely this was some itinerant laborer passing through. Not a gypsy or a tinker."

"No. Phyllida's impression that the culprit wore a coat tallies with Jem's description of him being neatly dressed. In Jem's words, 'not a smock or anything shabby.'"

"Hmm." After a long moment of staring into space, Sir Jasper looked at him. "Any chance this attack is connected to Horatio's murder?"

Lucifer looked down into eyes that were very like Phyllida's but had seen a great deal more. "I can't say."

That was the literal truth.

He turned back to the window. He felt even grimmer than his grim expression showed. "With your permission, I'd like to talk to Phyllida tomorrow morning." He glanced at Sir Jasper, meeting his gaze. "There are a number of matters I'd like to discuss with her, and if I could speak with her privately, I think there are various points we might clarify."

Sir Jasper held his gaze, then turned back to his desk. "Privately, heh? Well, you might be right-not easy to get her to open her budget." He paused, then asked, "Should I mention you'll be dropping by to speak with her?"

Lucifer looked out of the window. "It might be better if my visit came as a surprise."

Chapter 12

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Midnight. Phyllida lay in her bed and listened to the clocks throughout the Grange chime. The last echoes died and left her in silvered darkness.

She'd slept through half the afternoon, then, after dinner, she'd been harried and hounded until, simply to gain some peace, she'd retired early to her room and her bed. She'd slept. Now she was wide awake.

Nothing hurt. The scrape on her calf and the bruise on her arm were distant irritations.

Her thoughts were more tortured.

Being shot at across a field was something she'd been able to push aside-despite the evidence of the horse Lucifer had uncovered, it could still have been a hunter. Being shot at was distant; she hadn't seen her attacker.

At the church, she hadn't seen him, but she'd felt him.

Felt his strength, and known the threat was real.

Fear. She could still taste it at the back of her tongue. She'd never known real fear before-not here in her peaceful, maybe not quite happy but content, existence.

That existence was under threat; she felt it like cold iron at her back. Her life was not something she'd thought of before-she'd taken it for granted. Just like all those around her. How ironic.

She didn't want to die. Especially for no reason. Especially at the hands of some cowardly murderer. Lucifer had been right. The murderer obviously thought she knew more than she did. He was after her in earnest.

Dragging in a breath, she held it, forced the chill from her skin, waited until the shivery tremors had died. She couldn't go on like this-she hated the sense of not being in control, of not being safe. She hated the taste of fear.

So-what to do?

It should have been an easy question; thanks to her promise about Mary Anne's letters, it was anything but. Phyllida lay on her back and stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling.

She would bet her best bonnet Lucifer would be back tomorrow morning; this time, he wouldn't let be. He'd insist she tell him all, and if she refused, he would speak to her father. She felt confident in predicting how he would react, certainly in those circumstances where honor and duty ruled. He might be many things, a reprobate, a rake, an elegant charmer of questionable constancy, but at his core he was a gentleman, one of the highest caliber.

It would not be in his lexicon to allow her to endanger herself-that was how he would see it. That, for him, would be the crux of the matter, regardless of how she felt.

After nearly being strangled, she could hardly argue. She would have to tell him all tomorrow. She would tell him about the hat-and then she would have to tell him about the rest, too.

But what of her promise to Mary Anne, her sworn oath that she'd say nothing to anyone about the letters?

What price an oath to a friend?

She'd never imagined facing such a decision. Finding the letters should have been so easy. Even now, if only she could search upstairs at the Manor. She'd been thinking of going one night, when the servants were abed. She knew which room to avoid, but the other rooms… Mary Anne's grandmother's traveling writing desk had to be in one of them. She doubted it had been put in the attic. No-it would be sitting on some chest somewhere, looking dainty and delicate, just waiting for her to retrieve the letters…

Lifting her head, she looked across her room. The moonlight was bright; she could see her dresser clearly, even make out the scrollwork around her mirror's rim.

She pushed up onto her elbows.

Before tomorrow morning dawned and brought Lucifer with it, she had at least four hours of deep night. Time enough to search the first floor rooms at the Manor, find the letters, and return home. And the window in the Manor's dining room still had a loose latch.

She flung aside the covers. If she didn't find the desk tonight, then tomorrow she'd tell Lucifer all and ask for his aid in finding the letters. Despite Mary Anne's and Robert's paranoia, she felt confident that if he bothered to read them at all, the contents of the letters would gain no more than a raised eyebrow from Lucifer; she couldn't imagine him giving the letters to Mr. Crabbs.

But for Mary Anne, and to honor her promise, she'd make one last attempt to find the letters.