"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."

"My father-"

"One never knows," Grisby sententiously continued, "from what direction danger may come." Pugnaciously, he reached for her arm.

Phyllida reached for Lucifer's.

Bending his arm, covering her hand with his, Lucifer drew her closer. He caught Grisby's gaze, all humor flown. "I assure you, Grisby, that Miss Tallent is in no danger from knife-wielding felons, or any others, while in my care." He'd only been waiting for some sign from Phyllida before stepping in; if he hadn't been feeling his way, Grisby would already be flailing in the duck pond. "We're on our way back to the Grange. You may rest assured I will see Miss Tallent safe into Sir Jasper's keeping."

Grisby flushed.

Lucifer inclined his head. "If you'll excuse us?"

He gave Grisby no choice, solicitously steering Phyllida, censoriously haughty, down the lane. He kept her close, her skirts brushing his boots. Under his hand, her fingers fluttered. They strolled on; eventually her fingers relaxed under his.

"Thank you."

"It was entirely my pleasure. Aside from being an insensitive clod, who, exactly, is Grisby?"

"He owns Dottswood Farm. It's up past the Rectory, beyond Highgate."

"So he's a prosperous gentleman farmer?"

"Among other things."

Her disgusted tone gave him his clue. "Am I to understand Mr. Grisby is another aspirant to your fair hand?"

"They all are-Cedric, Basil, and Grisby."

Her tone wasn't improving; Lucifer raised his brows. "You have cut a swath through the local ranks."

She cast him a repressive glance, one his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, could not have bettered, then, head high, looked forward.

The common ended just ahead where the lane leading to the graveyard and the forge joined the village lane. Along the lesser lane lay a row of small houses, bigger than the cottages but not as large as the Manor or the Grange. Each house had its own garden with a fence and a gate.

A gentleman stepped through the nearest gate; in breeches, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, he minced down the lane toward them. In a bottle-green coat with a bright yellow-and-black kerchief tied in a floppy bow and sporting a periwig, the gentleman was unquestionably the most colorful figure Lucifer had seen for many a long year.

He glanced at Phyllida; she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed ahead; she'd yet to see the gentleman.

"I hesitate to ask, but is the gentleman to our right another of your suitors?"

She looked. "No, thank God. Unfortunately, that's the best I can say for him. His name is Silas Coombe."

"Does he always dress like that?"

"I've heard that in earlier years, he dressed as a macaroni. These days, he contents himself with adopting all the extremes of fashion and wearing them all at once."

"A gentleman of independent means?"

"He lives off inherited investments. His main interest in life is posturing. That, and reading. Until Horatio arrived, Silas had the most extensive library in the area."

"So he and Horatio were friends?"

"No. Quite the opposite." She paused as the gentleman neared; he crossed the comer of the common, sparing them not one glance. They continued to stroll; as they left the village behind, Phyllida mused, "In fact, Silas is possibly the only one in the locality who sincerely hated Horatio."