"Ah, yes! I did hear Silas bemoaning that fact. He seemed to think some of Horatio's collection would be better housed with his own."

"Unfortunately for Coombe, my mind is made up, in the general sense. However, in checking Horatio's records, I noticed he'd acquired some volumes from your library."

Cedric was nodding. "Before his death, the pater-greatly taken with Horatio, he was-went through the library and sold quite a few tomes to him."

"Indeed. As your father is now dead, and as I'll be preserving the collection more as a memorial to Horatio than from any real interest of my own, I wondered if you wished to repurchase any of those books. At the same price Horatio paid your father, of course."

Cedric pulled a face. "Not much of a book man myself. I always thought it wise of the pater to get rid of a few of the books. There's a blessed lot left if you're interested."

Lucifer smiled easily. "It's not my field."

"Ah, well, worth a try." Cedric turned to Phyllida. "Now, my dear, we've been neglecting you shamefully. I hear you've been spending your days at the Manor."

Cedric glanced at Lucifer; Phyllida stiffened. If he intimated she just sat there, twiddling her thumbs…

Cedric looked back at her. "Daresay there's all manner of things you've been helping Cynster with, heh?"

Her stiffness easing, Phyllida inclined her head. "Indeed." She glanced at Lucifer. "All manner of things."

Lucifer's dark eyes smiled at her, then his gaze went past her and he bowed. "Miss Smollet."

Phyllida turned as Jocasta joined them. Jocasta exchanged greetings with Cedric, then glanced at her. Phyllida inclined her head.

Jocasta mirrored the movement, then, smiling a touch brittlely, fixed her gaze on Lucifer. "I understand, Mr. Cynster, that you're considering life as a farmer. Basil tells me you're talking of setting up a stud."

"It's one of the possibilities I'm investigating. The fields and meadows of the Manor are currently underused."

"True, very true." Cedric frowned. "Tend to forget how much land there is, back of those woods of yours."

Lucifer regarded him. "Have you been that way recently?"

Cedric shook his head. "Can't recall being down that side of the valley for over a year. Not hunting country."

"Cedric hunts with the local pack," Jocasta said. "Will you be joining them, Mr. Cynster?"

Lucifer smiled. "I only ride hounds to ride, rather than to hunt."

Phyllida swallowed the observation that, for him, a fox was the wrong sort of prey. She stood and pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. Eventually, Lucifer excused them; they left Jocasta with Cedric. Her hand on Lucifer's sleeve, she strolled with him through the milling crowd.

"Was it my imagination, or was Cedric less… fixated on you than when last we met?"

Phyllida blinked. "Now you mention it, yes. In fact, he seemed rather relaxed. He didn't seem perturbed that I've been helping you at the Manor."

"You know him better than I, but I would almost say he was relieved you were spending so much time at the Manor."

Phyllida looked forward. Lucifer was right. And how did she feel about that? "If he's relieved, then I'm relieved." She glanced at Lucifer. "I've known Cedric all my life. I've always considered him a friend; I never wanted him as a suitor."

Lucifer held her gaze, read her eyes. "And you don't think he's a murderer, either."

"No." She sighed. "It's so horrible, knowing how you feel about people but logically knowing it's possible."

"I detected not the slightest degree of consciousness over the books, or about my fields beyond the wood."

"No, that was simply Cedric. What you see is what there is."

"Speaking of facades"-Lucifer steered her toward the side of the room-"Jocasta Smollet was making an effort to be conciliating. I can't help suspecting she's the victim of some sad story." She struck him as a woman who'd missed her chance at happiness, yet still searched for it every day. "Perhaps that's the reason for her normally acid tongue."

Gaining the side of the room, Phyllida faced him. "Having usually been a target for her acid tongue, but then, almost everyone in the village is, you know, I hadn't really thought of it, but she does seem sad. I've never seen her smile or laugh, not happily, not for years."

"You don't know her story?"

"No. And that's really rather odd, because if I don't know, then it must be a secret, and in a village this size… that's amazing."

For a moment, they both pondered, then Phyllida shook aside her thoughts and looked into Lucifer's face. "I think we should search Cedric's room for the hat."

Lucifer's blue gaze fixed on her eyes. "Why? I thought we'd agreed he'd passed our tests."

Phyllida grimaced. "I like Cedric. I don't want him to be the murderer. Or my attacker. But you know as well as I do that beneath Cedric's genial bonhomie is an intelligent man, and the threat implied by those inscriptions is a real motive for him. It would destroy his life." She gestured about them. "It would destroy all this. And this simple country life is important to Cedric."

She studied Lucifer's face, then narrowed her eyes. "And despite what you just said, you haven't crossed him off the top of our list of suspects."

Lucifer's lips thinned. "No, but-"

"We owe it to ourselves, the village, and Cedric to turn every possible stone to determine whether he's the murderer or not."

"Searching his room for the hat." Lucifer fixed her with a gaze too patronizing for her liking. "As you yourself pointed out-"

"I know he should have got rid of it, but what if he hasn't? This isn't London-decent hats aren't easy to come by. He might have laid it aside, intending to get rid of it, but I've made no mention of the hat-even of being there that Sunday. He might reason nothing will ever come of it. Who knows-he might even have forgotten about the hat. It might be something quite different that he thought I saw."

She turned toward the ballroom door. "If you wish to remain here, / will go and search Cedric's room."

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.

"Good Lord! He's getting away!" Trapped behind him, Phyllida lifted her skirts and leaped over him.

He caught her in mid-leap and hauled her back. "No!"

She fell on him. "But-" She wriggled furiously, silk skirts a-froth in his lap. "I might catch him!"

"Or he might catch you!" He tightened his arm around her and she quieted.

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed." Teeth gritted, he shifted her so her hip wasn't grinding into him, then tried to ease his shoulder.

She turned to him. "He was waiting."

"With this." Lucifer reached out and pulled a cane toward them, then lifted it so they both could see. The top of the cane was a lion's head, brass and very heavy.

"It usually sits in the corner by the door." Phyllida looked at the corridor door, and tried not to think about what might have happened if Lucifer's reflexes hadn't been so honed. If he hadn't ducked and the cane had connected with his skull, he might have died, or at least lost consciousness. Leaving her facing the murderer.

She turned to Lucifer and saw the same realization in his gaze. "We have to get back to the ballroom."

Chapter 16

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"Jonas, I wonder if we might have a word." Phyllida by his side, Lucifer smiled at the two young ladies with whom Jonas had been conversing.

The young ladies giggled; they bobbed curtsies, then bustled away, casting coy glances over their shoulders.

Jonas met Lucifer's eyes. "Any trouble?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Lucifer smiled as if they were bandying observations.