If Jocasta's nose rose any higher, she'd tip backward.

"I'm unsure how long I'll be staying." Lucifer watched Phyllida returning through the crowd. She didn't see Jocasta until she was almost upon them. Her smile faded; she changed tack so she could slide past them.

Calmly, he reached out, caught her hand, and drew her to his side. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he looked at Jocasta. "Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I've enjoyed meeting those round about. People have been very welcoming." He glanced at Phyllida. "Miss Tallent has been particularly helpful."

"Indeed?" There was a wealth of meaning in the word. Jocasta drew herself up and stiffly inclined her head. "Dear Phyllida is so good to everyone. If you'll excuse us, I really must speak with Mrs. Farthingale."

She glided away. Basil, embarrassed, didn't follow. He chatted inconsequentially; Lucifer determined that he'd been in church when Horatio had been murdered.

When Basil moved on, Lucifer looked down at Phyllida. "Why does Miss Smollet so dislike you?"

She shook her head. "I really don't know."

Lucifer glanced across the room. "There are three gentlemen I've yet to meet."

The first proved to be Lucius Appleby. Phyllida introduced them, then left to chat with Lady Fortemain. Lucifer made no effort to disguise his purpose. Appleby answered directly, but was hardly forthcoming.

Collecting Phyllida, Lucifer guided her down the room. "Is Appleby always so reserved? So self-effacing?"

"Yes, but he's Cedric's secretary, after all."

His eye on their next target, Lucifer murmured, "What was Appleby before he became Cedric's secretary? Has he ever mentioned?"

"No. I assumed he always was a clerk or something similar. Why?"

"I'm sure he's been in the army. He's the right age-I just wondered. Now, who's this?"

A moment later, Phyllida said, "Allow me to present Pommeroy Fortemain, Sir Cedric's brother."

Lucifer held out his hand.

Pommeroy's eyes bulged; he edged back. "Ah…" Wide-eyed, he looked at Phyllida. "I mean… well…"

Phyllida sighed exasperatedly. "Mr. Cynster did not murder Horatio, Pommeroy."

"He didn't?" Pommeroy glanced from one to the other.

"No! This is Horatio's wake, for heaven's sake! We wouldn't knowingly have invited the murderer."

"B-but… he had the knife."

"Pommeroy"-Phyllida spoke very distinctly-"no one knows who the murderer is, but the one thing we do know is that it could not be Mr. Cynster."

"Oh."

After that, Pommeroy behaved reasonably, answering Lucifer's questions with, if anything, an overeagerness to please. He'd accompanied his mother to church on Sunday and, he assured them, knew nothing about anything.

"That last is unfortunately true." Obedient to the touch on her arm, Phyllida moved to the side of the room.

"So I'd gathered." Lucifer was looking ahead. "Our last potential suspect is scanning the bookshelves."

She'd guessed who it was before they stepped around the Farthingales and came face-to-face with Silas Coombe, fingering a gold-plated spine. He snatched his hand back as if the book had bitten him and stared at them, blank-faced.

"Good day. Mr. Coombe, is it not?" Lucifer smiled. "Miss Tallent mentioned you know something of books. Horatio's amassed quite a collection, don't you think?"

His glance along the shelves clearly invited Silas's opinion. It was a masterly stroke. Phyllida practiced self-effacement while Silas waxed lyrical, putty in the hands of a gentleman he didn't even realize was his interrogator.

"Well, I don't normally confess this, but you're a gentleman who knows a bit about life." Silas lowered his voice.

"Not much of a churchgoer, you understand. Got out of the habit in my youth-can't see the point in rubbing shoulders with all the starched-up matrons, not at my age. I've better things to do with my time."

Silas's gaze ranged the nearby shelves. "I don't suppose you have any idea who will inherit these, do you?"

Lucifer shook his head. "No doubt we'll learn soon enough."

"Ah, yes-the solicitor fellow's here, isn't he?" Silas scanned the room, then frowned. "He's staring at you."

Lucifer looked; Phyllida did, too. It was instantly apparent that Mr. Crabbs was hovering, hoping for a word.

"If you'll excuse us," Lucifer murmured, "I'll see what he wants."

The instant they stepped away, Crabbs headed toward them. Lucifer stopped by the bookshelves and waited. Crabbs smiled perfunctorily as he joined them.

"Mr. Cynster, I just wanted to be sure that it would be convenient to read the will immediately the guests leave."

"Convenient?" Lucifer frowned. "For whom?"

"Why, for you" Mr. Crabbs searched Lucifer's face. "Well, dear me-I assumed you knew."

"Knew what?"

"That, barring some minor bequests, you are the sole principal beneficiary of Mr. Welham's will."

Crabbs's statement had been uttered within the hearing of Lady Huddlesford, Percy Tallent, and Sir Cedric and Lady Fortemain. Within seconds, all of Colyton had heard the news. The wake terminated as if a gong had sounded. People quickly took their leave, their alacrity plainly due to a wish to have the unexpected details of the will disclosed as soon as possible.

Despite the fact that the reading had been attended by very few, for the last hour the attention of Colyton had been focused on Horatio's library.

Pushing back from the desk, Lucifer laid the will down.

He'd just finished going through it a second time with Crabbs, making sure he understood the details. For someone familiar with the complex assignment of a ducal purse, Horatio's stipulations were straightforward. Leaning back in the leather chair, Lucifer scanned the room.

At one corner of the desk, Crabbs sat checking documents. At the sideboard, his assistant, Robert Collins, was carefully packing a satchel. The Hemmingses', Covey, and Bristleford had slipped out after the reading, all intensely relieved, all clearly pleased with the outcome.

For himself, Lucifer was… faintly stunned.

"Ah-hem."

He looked at Crabbs, then raised a brow.

"I was wondering if you planned to sell the Manor. I could get matters started if you wish."

Lucifer stared at Crabbs without seeing him. Then he shook his head. "I don't intend to sell."

The statement surprised him more than Crabbs, but when impulse struck this strongly, it rarely served to fight it. "Tell me." He refocused on Crabbs. "Were there any others who might have expected to inherit?"

Crabbs shook his head. "There was no family-not even any legal connections. The estate was Mr. Welham's outright, his to leave as he pleased."

"Do you know who Horatio's heir was, who was in line for the estate, before this present will was drawn up?"

"As far as I'm aware, there was no previous will. I drew this one up three years ago, when Mr. Welham came into these parts and engaged me to act for him. He gave me to understand he had not made a will before."

Later, with the shadows lengthening, Lucifer strode back to the Grange through the wood. Hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground, he stepped over roots and ditches blindly, his mind engrossed with other things.

Crabbs had taken his leave, retreating to the Red Bells. Given he was not presently residing under the Manor's roof,

Lucifer had not invited him to stay there. He hadn't wanted to impose the duty of entertaining the solicitor on Bristleford, the Hemmingses and Covey, not tonight.

He'd instructed Crabbs to contact Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. With Montague involved, the formal transfer of the estate would be accomplished quickly and efficiently. Lucifer made a mental note to write to Montague.

And Gabriel. And Devil. And his parents.

Lucifer sighed. The first tugs of the reins of responsibility. He'd avoided them most of his life. He couldn't avoid them now. Horatio had bequeathed them to him-the responsibility for his collection, the responsibility for the Manor, for Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses. Together with the responsibility for his garden.

That last worried him more than the others combined.

Horatio had trained him in how to oversee a collection; his family had prepared him to manage an estate and servants. No one had ever taught him about a garden, much less the sort of garden Horatio had created.

He had a very odd feeling about the garden.

The path joined the Grange shrubbery, leading into a maze of interconnecting walks. Lucifer checked he was taking the right one, then paced on, deep in thought.

Until a fury in patterned cambric came storming through a gap in the hedge and walked into him.

Phyllida lost all her breath in the collision. Even before she'd glanced up, her senses had recognized whose arms had locked around her. If she'd been the type of female who gave way to every impulse, she'd have shrieked and leaped away. Instead, she fixed him with a glittering glance and stepped back.

His arms fell from her. The reprobate had the gall to raise one arrogant black brow.

"My apologies." Calmly correct, she whirled around and headed for the house.

He fell in beside her as she walked, with ladylike gentility, along the path. His gaze lingered on her face; she refused to look at him-refused to see if his lips were straight and what type of amusement lurked in his blue eyes. The fiend had just made her life immeasurably more difficult.

His, too, did he but know it.