Read Online All About Love by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Ads: Link
inhabitants and reached the Manor’s gate. She opened it and stepped through; Lucifer had to duck the trailing fingers of wisteria hanging from the framing arch. She led the way around the small fountain. Gaining the porch, she realized he’d fallen behind. Looking back, she saw him studying a bed of burgeoning peonies. His gaze moved on to a bed of roses and lavender; then he glanced up, saw her waiting, and lengthened his stride.
He joined her on the porch, but glanced back at the garden.
“What is it?”
He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. “Who did the garden?”
“Papa told you—Horatio. Well”—she glanced at the beds—“Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio’s was always the guiding hand.” She studied his face. “Why?”
He looked at the garden. “When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden—it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn’t have known a hollyhock from a nettle.”
Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. “All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden.”
After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.
The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio’s coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they—yes, they —had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.
A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.
For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio’s face. It had been there when she’d found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.
She’d liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He’d been murdered in the village she’d virtually managed for twelve years; that she’d been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.
It was as if something she’d worked for all her life—the peace and serenity of Colyton—had been violated, tainted.
The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she’d found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she’d realized she’d heard no one leaving . . .
Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She’d only just remembered.
She’d come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she’d been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She’d idled in the hall, then decided on searching the drawing room.
How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she’d found him?
What if the murderer hadn’t left but had still been in the drawing room when she’d entered?
She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.
He must have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.
Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer’s hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio’s lined face and made a vow—a binding,
He joined her on the porch, but glanced back at the garden.
“What is it?”
He looked at her, his expression closed, his eyes screened. “Who did the garden?”
“Papa told you—Horatio. Well”—she glanced at the beds—“Hemmings helped, of course, but Horatio’s was always the guiding hand.” She studied his face. “Why?”
He looked at the garden. “When they lived in the Lake District, Martha did the garden—it was hers, totally. I would have sworn Horatio wouldn’t have known a hollyhock from a nettle.”
Phyllida considered the garden with new eyes. “All the time he was here he was most particular about the garden.”
After a moment, Lucifer turned; she noted his closed face. Swinging around, she led the way inside.
The house was silent; they walked quietly forward, halting level with the open drawing room door. Horatio’s coffin rested on the table just beyond the spot where they—yes, they —had found his body. For a moment, they both simply looked, then Phyllida led the way in.
A yard from the coffin, she stopped. It suddenly required effort to breathe. Long fingers touched hers; instinctively, she clung. His hand closed about hers, warm and alive. He stepped forward to stand beside her. She felt his gaze on her face. Without looking at him, she nodded. Side by side, they stepped to the polished wooden box.
For long moments, they stood gazing down. Phyllida drew comfort from the peaceful expression that had settled on Horatio’s face. It had been there when she’d found him, as if his departure from this world, although violent and unexpected, had been a release. Perhaps there truly was a Heaven.
She’d liked him, approved of him, and was sad that he was gone. She could say good-bye and let him go, but the manner of his going was not something she could let be. He’d been murdered in the village she’d virtually managed for twelve years; that she’d been the one to find him, already gone and beyond her help, had only increased her outrage.
It was as if something she’d worked for all her life—the peace and serenity of Colyton—had been violated, tainted.
The memory returned to her, crystal-clear, that moment when she’d found Horatio dead. She felt again her shock, the chill touch of fear, the paralyzing fright when she’d realized she’d heard no one leaving . . .
Lifting her head, she stared down the room. She’d only just remembered.
She’d come to the drawing room from the back of the hall; before that, she’d been in the kitchen. Even from there, if anyone had left the house, she would have heard them cross the hall or cross the gravel. No one had. She’d idled in the hall, then decided on searching the drawing room.
How long had all that taken? How long had Horatio been dead before she’d found him?
What if the murderer hadn’t left but had still been in the drawing room when she’d entered?
She focused on the gap between two bookcases, almost at the end of the room. It was the only hiding place the murderer could have used.
He must have been there. That was the only explanation for the disappearing hat. There was certain to have been a gap between her exit and Hemmings deciding to lay the fire. Mrs. Hemmings would have been upstairs. A small window of opportunity, but the murderer had grasped it, and his hat, and disappeared without a trace.
Phyllida drew in a breath; the warmth of Lucifer’s hand clasped around hers anchored her, steadied her. She looked down at Horatio’s lined face and made a vow—a binding,
Similar Books
