He halted in the doorway, almost blocking out the light; propping one shoulder against the frame, he watched her.

The vestry suddenly seemed very small. Awareness prickled over her skin.

"The funeral will be tomorrow, late morning. I'll send flowers over first thing-in this weather, they wilt so quickly." She was babbling. She'd never babbled in her life. "Especially if they're not picked before the sun strikes them."

"Does that mean you'll be flitting among the flowers at dawn?"

She wanted to look at him but didn't. "Of course not. Our gardener knows just how I like them picked."

"Ah. No need, then, to get up too early."

It was his tone, the deep resonance in his voice, that gave his words their full meaning. For an instant, she froze, her hands on the urn, then she sucked in a breath, grasped the urn, set it on the shelf, and swung to face him. Her expression, she was sure, remained calmly superior, unruffled, and serene. No one in the village ever saw beyond that, which made protecting herself and managing them very easy.

His gaze, however, settled on her eyes. He saw further, deeper-she wasn't at all comfortable with what he might see. "I need to speak with Mr. Filing, the curate. Given your injury, you should rest for a few minutes. I suggest you sit in a pew in the cool of the church. I'll collect you when I've finished with Mr. Filing."

He continued to study her face, her eyes. After an unnerving moment, he glanced back outside, over his left shoulder. "Is that the curate's house?"

"Yes. That's the Rectory."

He straightened away from the doorframe; the movement did nothing to reduce the sense of entrapment she felt. "I'll come with you."

Phyllida drew in a breath, and held it. With anyone else she would have argued, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that warned her she had no chance of swaying him. Not without a fight-and fighting with him was too dangerous. "As you wish."

He moved back and she stepped past him, into the sunshine. She led the way down the winding path to the Rectory, snug in a hollow just below the crest. Shutting the vestry door, he followed on her heels.

His intention was impossible to mistake. He knew she was hiding something; he was going to cling to her side-unnerve her as much as he could-until she told him what it was. Or until he uncovered her secrets for himself.

The latter, Phyllida decided, was not a fate to tempt. How soon could she see Mary Anne?

Lucifer followed her to the Rectory, too conscious of the lithe grace of her stride, the unfettered freedom with which she moved. To senses steeped in consideration of the feminine, she registered as something beyond the norm. Infinitely more desirable, and infinitely more elusive.

Why, he wondered, did she not wish him to be a party to her meeting with the curate?

That gentleman had seen them coming; he stood waiting for them at his front door. Fair, pale, and slightly built, his clothes fastidiously neat, Filing had the appearance of a gentleman aesthete. He greeted Phyllida with a smile, one that held the warmth of long-standing friendship.

"Good morning, Mr. Filing. Allow me to present Mr. Cynster, an old friend of Horatio's."

"Indeed?" Filing offered his hand; Lucifer shook it. "Such a sad occurrence. It must have been a shock to discover Horatio slain."

Lucifer inclined his head.

"As you'll have heard, the funeral's tomorrow morning. Perhaps, as an old friend, you'd like to give the eulogy?"

Lucifer considered, then shook his head. "With this knock on the head, I'm not sure I'll be up to it, and frankly, I think Horatio would consider his connection with the people here of more importance to him over these last years than his professional associations."

And he suspected he'd be of more use to Horatio by studying those attending the funeral.

"I see, I see." Filing nodded. "Well, then, if there's no objection, I'll give the eulogy myself. Horatio and I often shared a glass of port of an evening. He had a wonderful collection of ecclesiastical texts and kindly gave me free rein to browse through them. He was truly a gentleman and a scholar-that will be the theme of my eulogy."

"Very apt." Lucifer turned his gaze on Phyllida, and waited; Filing did the same.

Her expression calm, her eyes watchful, she glanced at him. "There are a number of organizational matters I must discuss with Mr. Filing."

Lucifer nodded, as if giving her permission to speak. Shifting back, he let his gaze roam the common, down to the cottages lining the lane.

"Our discussion will take a few minutes. Perhaps you should rest on that bench over there."

The bench was halfway down the slope overlooking the duck pond, well out of hearing range. He frowned and glanced at her. "It might be wiser if we descend together. Just in case I'm overcome with giddiness."

Her annoyance reached him in a wash of heat; anger glowed momentarily in her eyes. But she inclined her head, her expression cool, unconcerned-a perfect social mask. Filing glanced back and forth; he sensed something, but couldn't define it. Couldn't see past her facade.

Lucifer wondered why he could-and why he wanted to see so much further, to know so much more.

She turned to Filing. "About the flowers for tomorrow…"

Fixing his gaze down the common, Lucifer let their discussion flow past him. There seemed a great deal to be said about the flowers. Then, with not the slightest shift in her tone to mark the shift in her subject, she continued. "Which brings us to our other business."

Lucifer suppressed a cynical smile. She was good. Unfortunately for her, he was better.

"You have the collection complete, I believe?"

From the corner of his eye Lucifer saw Filing nod-and shoot a glance at him.

"I assume you foresee no difficulties in the distribution to those deserving?"

"No," Filing murmured. "All seems… straightforward."

"Good. Our next outing will be as scheduled. I've had a letter confirming there's been no change to the plans. If you could pass the word on to those interested?"

"Of course."

"And do remind them that we'll need the group assembled in good time-we can't wait for stragglers. If they're not there from the very first, then we really cannot include them in the group, so they'll miss out on the benefits of the excursion."

Filing nodded. "If any want to argue that point, I'll suggest they speak with Thompson."

Phyllida shot him a glance. "Do." She straightened. "Until tomorrow, then."

Lucifer returned his attention to her, then nodded a farewell to Filing.

Phyllida gestured down the common. "We should get back-you really should rest your head."

He fell into step beside her; they descended the slope at an easy pace.

What in all Hades was the woman up to?

He assumed he was supposed to imagine that they'd been discussing some excursion for Filing's parishioners. He might have believed it but for her dogged attempts to keep the knowledge from him. While the correct interpretation presently eluded him, he couldn't believe it was anything heinous or illegal. She was the magistrate's daughter, devoted to good works, and Filing was patently honest and upright. So why didn't she want him to know what she was about?

If she'd been younger, he would have suspected some lark. Not only was she too old for that, but her behavior tended to the mature, the managing; she was no irresponsible hoyden.

The mystery about her had just deepened; the urge to take her somewhere private, back her against a wall, and keep her there until she told him all he wished to know, grew with every step.

He glanced at her and was rewarded with a full view of her face as she lifted it to the breeze, shaking back her tangling bonnet ribbons. He drank in her features, the resolution in her face, the challenge implicit in the defiant tilt of her chin. Facing forward again, he reminded himself that she was a gently reared virgin-no fit prey for him. She was not a woman with whom he could dally.

He would learn her secrets, then he'd have to let her go.

They stepped into the lane. A carriage was drawn up just ahead, the occupants-a large gentleman and an older lady-patently waiting to speak with them.

"Sir Cedric Fortemain and his mother, Lady Fortemain," Phyllida supplied sotto voce.

"And they are?"

"Cedric owns Ballyclose Manor-it lies over the hill past the forge."

They neared the carriage. Sir Cedric, in his late thirties and already tending portly with a florid face and thinning hair, rose and bowed to Phyllida, then leaned over the side to shake her hand.

Phyllida performed the introductions. Lucifer bowed to her ladyship and shook hands with Cedric.

"I hear you were the first to discover the body, Mr. Cynster," Lady Fortemain said.

"Shocking business!" Cedric declared.

They chatted inconsequentially about London and the weather; Lucifer noted Cedric's gaze rarely left Phyllida. His comments were a touch too patronizing, a touch too particular. When, contained and unresponsive, she stepped back, preparing to leave, Cedric caught her eye.

"I'm pleased to see, m'dear, that you're not rambling about the village on your own. There's no telling but that Welham's murderer is still about."

"Indeed!" Lady Fortemain smiled at Lucifer. "So comforting to see you're keeping an eye on dear Phyllida. We'd be devastated were anything to happen to our village treasure.

That was accompanied by a beam of sincere approbation, which brought a frown to the village treasure's eyes. "We must be getting on."

Lucifer bowed to Lady Fortemain, exchanged nods with Cedric, then strolled beside Phyllida as she crossed the lane to walk along the cottages' front fences. "Why," he murmured, "does Lady Fortemain think you a treasure?"

"Because she wants me to marry Cedric. And because I helped her to find a ring she misplaced at the Hunt Ball one year. And once I guessed where Pommeroy was hiding one of the times he ran away, but that was years ago."

"Who's Pommeroy?"

"Cedric's younger brother." After a moment, she added, "He's much worse than Cedric."

The rattle of carriage wheels came from behind them; they both slowed, stepping further to the side of the lane. The carriage swept past; a hatchet-faced, stony-eyed lady gazed haughtily down on them.

Lucifer raised his brows as the carriage rattled on. "Who was that harbinger of sunshine and delight?"

He looked across in time to see Phyllida's lips twitch. "Jocasta Smollet."

"Who is?"

"Sir Basil Smollet's sister."

"And Sir Basil is?"

"The gentleman approaching us. He owns Highgate, up the lane past the Rectory."

Lucifer studied the gentleman in question; he was neatly, even severely dressed, and of an age similar to Cedric. But where Cedric's expression had been choleric yet open, Basil's was guarded, as if he had a lot on his mind, but was above explaining himself to anyone.

He tipped his hat in greeting. Introduced, he shook hands with Lucifer.

"Dreadful business, this. Sets the whole village on its ears. No rest for any of us until the villain's caught. Pray accept my condolences on the death of your friend."

Lucifer thanked him. With polite nods to them both, Basil continued on his way.

"Punctilious," Lucifer murmured.

"Indeed." Phyllida stepped out again, looked ahead, and slowed. "Oh. Dear."

The words were uttered through her teeth; she might as well have cursed. Lucifer considered the cause of her consternation. Red-haired, in his late twenties, the gentleman strode toward them with a purposeful air. Only just taller than Phyllida, he was plainly dressed in corduroy breeches and riding boots, topped by a loose, flapping coat.

Phyllida's chin rose; she moved forward decisively. "Good day, Mr. Grisby." She inclined her head, her intention plainly to continue on her way.

Grisby planted himself directly in front of her. Phyllida halted and smoothly turned to Lucifer. "Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Mr. Grisby."

Lucifer nodded coolly. Grisby hesitated, then curtly responded. He returned his gaze to Phyllida. "Miss Tallent, please allow me to escort you home." The glance he shot Lucifer brimmed with poorly concealed dislike. "I'm surprised Sir Jasper hasn't forbidden you to roam, what with this knife-wielding murderer on the loose."