Temptation and Surrender (14 page)

He leered at her. “I helped you with your hobby—only fair I get a reward.” Tightening his arms, he leaned in and tried to kiss her.

“No!” Ducking, she managed to evade his thick lips.

She pushed against his chest with all her might. Her dress was getting horribly crushed, yet she couldn’t seem to gain any leverage, certainly not enough to break from his hold. And the more she struggled, the more he seemed to think it was some game—that she wasn’t in earnest, but teasing him! The sounds he was making were all of escalating excitement.

Panic bloomed. Her earlier comment regarding the dangers to be found in gentlemen’s libraries returned to taunt her.

She lifted her head, peeked—and he came at her again. She shrieked and ducked again; his lips collided with her head just above her forehead. The thought of those lips on her skin—anywhere—was too awful to even contemplate. She redoubled her struggles. Tried to stamp on his foot. All but screamed, “Stop it, or I’ll tell your mother!”

“Nonsense—no harm in a bit of—
oophmm!
”

He was suddenly gone. Just like that, he was plucked from her and sent sailing into the opposite corner. He fetched up against the shelves like a bag of potatoes, dully rattling, then slowly slid down, stunned, to sit on the floor.

He blinked at her, dazed, then transferred his gaze to her rescuer.

Jonas.

Em knew it was him although she hadn’t yet glanced his way. She was, she discovered, short of breath, and panicky, and just a touch giddy. The first order for the immediate moment was to breathe—to gain enough breath to calm her wits and steady her nerves.

For a long moment, no one said a word. Then, her breathing gradually evening, her hand at her throat, she looked at Jonas.

His face was all hard angles and planes. He was looking at Pommeroy as if debating the ethics of dismembering his hostess’s son.

He felt her gaze.

She knew he did because a different sort of tension infused his long frame.

He turned his head slowly and met her gaze.

And she stopped breathing again.

They were close enough for her to see his eyes, see the emotions roiling in their dark depths, violent and powerful.

He waited, but she couldn’t find her tongue. Faced with what she could see in his eyes, she couldn’t lay her wits to any words, let alone find the breath to utter them. Primitive instinct had her in its grip. She wasn’t sure it was safe to make a sound.

Jonas turned back to Pommeroy. A compulsion unlike any he’d known had him in a merciless grip; it was all he could do not to haul Pommeroy up just so he could knock him down again. Rational thought had little purchase in his brain. He was all instinct and impulse; some dark side of him had broken loose from all civilized bonds and now roared.

Pommeroy seemed to sense that; eyes wide, he flailed, trying to sit up.

Jonas trapped his gaze. “You’ve just developed a hideous headache, Pommeroy, and you’re going to retire to your room. Now.”

Managing to sit upright, Pommeroy goggled at him. “I-I am?”

Grimly, he nodded. “And if you have any trouble feigning feeling ill, I’ll be only too happy to make it easier for you.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you understand me, Pommeroy?”

Pale, Pommeroy looked from him to Em, who glanced up from straightening her gown to glare ferociously. Pommeroy looked down. Mumbled, “Not well. Think I’ll go to m’room.”

“Very good.” Turning to Em, Jonas reached for her arm. “Meanwhile, we’ll finish our stroll on the terrace.”

She let him take her elbow and steer her toward the French doors. She glanced into his face, frowned. “What stroll?”

“The stroll all the guests in the ballroom are going to see us returning from.” Hauling open the door to the terrace, he met her gaze. “That stroll.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, then stepped out onto the terrace.

He followed, closing the door, sparing not a glance for Pommeroy, struggling to his feet in the corner.

She’d halted, looking down the terrace; it ran the length of the house. At the far end, a pair of French doors stood ajar, spilling light and noise, the sounds of gaiety, into the night, but as the October evening was chilly, no other couples had ventured outside.

Somewhat stiffly, he offered her his arm.

She considered it, then consented to place her hand on his sleeve.

He resisted the urge to clamp his other hand over hers and not let go. He was hanging on to his temper by his fingernails, and was determined to make no further comment; speech of any kind was too dangerous in his current, highly charged state. Fury, outrage, a ferocious protectiveness, and something exceedingly more primitive, coursed his veins. The touch of her hand on his sleeve, the smallness, the fragility of her dainty fingers felt through the fabric, only heightened and exacerbated that primitive response…

They’d taken no more than five paces along the terrace when against his better judgment, all but against his will, he growled, “I can’t believe you plotted to go apart alone with that nincompoop Pommeroy.”

From the way she’d assisted Mrs. Crockforth in urging her daughter on him, he’d known she was planning something—that she was about to make some move.

He’d seen her slip from the ballroom. He’d had to wait until the end of the dance and he’d parted from Miss Crockforth before he’d been able to follow. Knowing she’d been searching through books, the library had been his first port of call. He hadn’t been surprised to find her there, but he’d been stunned to discover her in Pommeroy’s arms.

Then he’d seen she was struggling, had heard her shriek, and instinct had taken hold.

He tried to tell himself it would have been the same with any other young lady he’d discovered in Pommeroy’s clutches.

He wished he could believe that, but while he would certainly have gone to the aid of any female in such a situation, he wouldn’t—he knew he wouldn’t—have felt the raw black rage that had swamped him, all because it was her.

She didn’t immediately reply to his remark; she tipped up her nose and took three more steps before saying, “
Not
that it’s any concern of yours, but I didn’t plot, plan, scheme, or in any way
arrange
to meet privately with Pommeroy Fortemain. It’s beyond my comprehension why you think I would.” Her tone had grown increasingly heated. Pulling her hand from his sleeve, she halted and swung to face him. “Why the devil would I want to have anything to do with him?” Fists clenched, she glared up into his face as he halted, too. “Next you’ll accuse me of having designs on him!”

He glowered back. “I would hope you’d have better taste. But how else—” He broke off. “He followed you?”

“Well, of course he followed me! That’s how he found me alone and tried to take advantage.”

“He couldn’t have found you alone if you hadn’t slipped off to search for whatever it is you’re damned well searching for.”

Em narrowed her eyes on his. “I was about to thank you for your timely intervention, but regardless of any gratitude I might feel, nothing—I repeat
nothing
—gives you the right to dictate to me about where I might go, and when, or even with whom!” Sheer aggravation brought her up on her toes; she jabbed a finger at his nose. “
You
are not my keeper! No one elected you to that role. It’s beyond my comprehension why you believe you have any claim to interfere in my life. What do you imagine gives you that right?”

His expression hadn’t softened, but it had gone strangely blank. He stared at her as the seconds ticked by.

She was about to humph and rock back on her heels, judging her message had finally struck home, when he reached for her.

Hauled her into his arms, up against his chest, bent his head, and crushed his lips to hers.

W
ild, passionate, intense—from the first meeting of lips the kiss swept her away, far beyond rational thought.

Her wits whirled into a maelstrom of delight, of heat and sensation, the epitome of temptation.

Something new, wonderful, fascinating—a new world to explore, a scintillating new horizon that called to her Colyton soul, to that part of her that thrived on the novel and the wild, that craved adventure and the thrills of exploration.

Far from reeling back in shock, she seized the moment and plunged in.

Into the heat, into the fire, into the searing wonder of the kiss.

Her hands were trapped against his chest. Instead of pushing, they clung. Her fingers hooked into the fabric of his coat and closed, holding him to her every bit as much as the steel bands of his arms held her to him.

Crushed her to him. She could feel the heavy muscles of his chest, his ridged abdomen, all down her front.

His tongue thrust boldly, enticing, igniting. His arms tightened as he angled his head; his lips locked on hers, devouring, claiming.

She kissed him back, hungry and greedy, some slumbering part of her brought alive by passion undisguised, by desire unveiled.

Both might be new to her, but some part of her recognized and knew them for what they were, and rejoiced.

Greedily incited. Beckoned and invited.

As the kiss continued and the heat spun out, her breasts grew heavy, swollen, and achy, their tips ruching into tight buds.

She wanted to get closer, to press kisses on him, to ease the unfamiliar restless ache by pressing herself to him. She tried to move into him, but apparently sensing her need, he instead moved into her, backing her step by deliberate step until she felt the cool wall at her back—a shocking contrast to the heat of him, of which she couldn’t get enough.

His hands clamped about her waist and he shifted closer, his heavy body pressing into hers, fitting against hers. One long, hard thigh wedged between hers, bringing her up on her toes. A sharp thrill cascaded down her spine; delicious heat and wanton sensation erupted in its wake, then flowed, flooded, raced through her to pool low in her belly.

She clung to the kiss, an equal participant, overwhelmed by sensation entirely by choice. Glorying and savoring and wanting more.

Eager, enthusiatic—demanding.

Jonas drank in her response, sensed it to his bones, felt sensual anticipation grip and sink its claws deep.

He couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn’t find the reins. He’d somehow relinquished control of the exchange—not to her, but to the conflagration that between them they’d ignited.

A fire that was familiar yet not, more intense, too intense, almost frightening in its power.

Unbidden, his arms had tightened and he’d gathered her in, hard against him. Enough lucidity had remained to make him back her into the shadows, trapping her soft form between him and the wall, holding her there, savoring how she, her curves and hollows, cradled his long frame.

At the mercy of some force stronger than his will, he couldn’t stop from steeping himself in the glories of her mouth, in the evocatively feminine caress of her body, couldn’t stop himself from kissing her with a passion so raw and undisguised he shocked even himself.

That anything could be so powerful as to strip away his civilized veneer rocked him to his toes. Shattered his heretofore absolute belief in his self-control.

What had erupted between them was both sweet and hot, a combination he found impossibly alluring. The kiss had turned ravenous, a flagrant mating of mouths, one she fed as much as he.

He had to fight not to press his hips to hers, to suggestively shift against her. Even in his current fraught state, he knew that would be one step too far, at least at this point.

Yet although she should have been fighting to make him stop, frightened by the intensity of the exchange, instead she was fighting to make him continue. Tempting him to.

Therein lay a good part of his problem.

He knew she’d never been kissed like this before—the evidence was there in her innocent eagerness, her unbounded unfettered delight. He doubted she knew, had any idea of, what she was doing.

What she was inciting. Inviting.

How dangerous playing with this particular fire could be.

Her hands, until then clutching his coat, eased their convulsive grip and slid upward. Pressed over his collarbones, cruised the sides of his throat to gently frame his jaw, to oh-so-gently hold him while she rose even higher on her toes and kissed him like a wanton angel.

Her touch sent awareness of a different sort through him, awoke, drew forth, another part of what he felt for her, one until then overwhelmed.

They were on the terrace, in full view should any other guests decide to take the air.

Her reputation would be severely damaged if they were seen like this; for that matter, given she was now the village darling, so would his.

What they were doing was dangerous. They had to stop.

So much easier said than done.

Drawing back from the exchange took every ounce of resolution he possessed. In the end he had to force his hands from her, plant both palms flat on the wall, and slowly brace his arms to make himself pull away.

He finally succeeded; their lips parted, the kiss ended.

It took still more effort to lift his head, and not plunge back into it.

He was breathing rapidly; so was she.

He looked down at her face, watched her lids rise…on eyes starry with awakened desire.

The sight shook him, drew him.

Abruptly he pushed away from her, managed to take a single step back.

Through the dimness he held her wide eyes.

“That”—his voice was a gravelly threat—“is what makes me your keeper. What gives me the right—no, lays on me the duty—to watch over you and keep you safe.”

She blinked; in her eyes he could see awareness returning, hand in hand with her stubborn resistance.

“You can deny it for however long you choose, but I won’t.” He held her gaze. “It’s real. All of it. And I have no intention of ignoring it, or turning my back on it. This”—he gestured between them—“comes but once in a lifetime. I don’t intend to let the chance pass.”

Her expression had shuttered, her eyes slightly narrowed; her lips slowly set in a firm line.

Still holding her gaze, he drew in a deep breath. “You asked me before what I thought, and wanted, this—what’s between us—to mean. To me, it means—can mean—only one thing. You’re mine.
Mine
. Mine to hold, mine to defend, mine to protect. And no matter how long it takes, I fully intend you to see that, too—and to agree.”

Her eyes had flared, denial bright and absolute filling them. Decisively she shook her head. “No.” Her voice was low and husky. She swallowed, then went on, “You might think—might believe, might have decided—that I’m yours, but I’m not.” Her chin firmed as she lifted it. “And I never will be.”

He nodded grimly. “Yes, you are—and will be. What’s more, you’ll definitely agree.”

Her eyes narrowed to bright slivers; she held his gaze belligerently, stubborn to stubborn. She longed to have the last word, he knew—he waited to hear what it would be.

Instead, tipping her nose higher in the air, she swung on her heel and stalked off.

He watched her walk down the terrace; recalling where they were, he settled his coat and followed. Catching up to her just short of the ballroom, he wound her arm in his. She cast him a sharp look, but allowed it, and permitted him to escort her inside.

S
he was going to concentrate—wholly, solely, to the exclusion of all else—on locating the Colyton treasure.

The next morning, Em sat in the church pew—fast becoming her family’s pew—and pretended to listen to the Sunday sermon. Given Filing was delivering it, Issy was paying rapt attention—enough for them both. Em felt not the slightest guilt in giving her mind over to her hunt.

If their “house of the highest” wasn’t Ballyclose Manor, then the next most likely house was the Grange.

Unfortunately the Grange would be even harder to search than Ballyclose. It was a smaller, neater house, with a smaller but highly active staff, all of whom knew her, at the very least by sight. And it was Jonas Tallent’s home, his lair, an even bigger complication.

Without conscious direction, her eyes locked on his dark head. She could still hear his “mine” echoing in her ears. As usual he was in the front pew; as least he couldn’t gaze, unrelenting and unsettling, at her.

Regrettably her gaze seemed irresistibly drawn to him, to his well-shaped dark head with its silky near-black hair, to his broad shoulders exquisitely encased in sober gray superfine.

His declaration replayed in her head. Even more than the words, it was his tone—diabolically, blatantly possessive—that had affected her. Still affected her, even as a memory, in a thoroughly unsettling way.

Just what it made her feel she wasn’t sure; she’d never experienced such a reaction, had no prior knowledge on which to base a judgment. Regardless, she was perfectly certain gentlemen weren’t supposed to go around declaring young ladies “theirs.”

She kept telling herself she should shift her gaze, kept intending to, yet it remained locked on him.

Filing’s sermon proved no competition for her attention.

She drew breath, felt tightness in her chest. She might not be able to deny the attraction that flared between them—after that interlude on the terrace denial in any form would be so much wasted breath—but she could still resist it, resist giving in to her wilder side and letting it and him lead her onto paths she hadn’t yet trod. Paths she’d assumed she never would explore—never have the chance to, not with her family so reliant on her.

Paths she didn’t have time to even ponder, not now.

The service drew to a close and they all rose. On exiting the church, she paused to exchange greetings with others of the congregation. She steadily moved further from the door, eventually reaching the first of the graves. Turning, she scanned the gathering for her siblings. The twins had gone down the steps just ahead of her; they were playing a game of tag in and around the gravestones. With their blond hair gleaming golden in the sunshine, they looked like angels flitting about; far from earning censure, the departing congregation smiled on their antics.

Issy had hung back by the door; she was now talking to Filing, both fair heads close.

As for Henry…for a moment, Em couldn’t spot him—he was in the last place she allowed herself to look, standing at the bottom of the church steps with Jonas Tallent.

Speaking with Jonas Tallent. Em felt her eyes narrow as she took in her brother’s eager, animated expression. She wanted to go and retrieve him, yet hesitated; getting closer to Tallent wasn’t on her agenda. But what was he saying to make Henry, so often too sober, so enthusiastic?

She learned the answer a minute later. Parting from Jonas, Henry looked about, searching the crowd—for her. Jonas, who knew exactly where she was, met her gaze and smiled—smug, knowing, yet she sensed a certain challenge in the gesture.

Henry spotted her and trotted over. His eyes were alight. “I say—Jonas—Mr. Tallent—said he’ll take me for a drive in his curricle this afternoon. He’s going down the coast road to check on something, and asked if I wanted to come along.” Eagerness shone in Henry’s eyes. “He said he’d teach me how to handle the reins. It’s all right if I go, isn’t it? I’ve already said I would—I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Denying the temptation to narrow her eyes in Jonas Tallent’s direction, Em kept her gaze on her brother’s face. What she could see there, glowing in his eyes, lighting his whole face, made it impossible to do anything other than acquiesce. “Yes, all right. As long as you’re back in good time for dinner.”

Henry crowed, beamed her a brilliant smile, then turned and rushed back to confirm the arrangement with Jonas, who’d wisely kept his distance.

“How come he asked Henry instead of us?”

Em glanced down at Gert, who’d come up in time to hear Henry’s news. Bea stood a step behind, an incipient pout on her lips.

“Age before beauty,” Em informed them. “Now come along—we need to get home.”

Home being the inn; strange how it had so easily become their place. Herding the girls before her, Em glanced at Issy, who had noticed the signs of their imminent departure; taking her leave of Filing, she hurried to join them.

Glancing at Henry, Em caught his eye and beckoned. He nodded. As she turned down the hill, from the corner of her eye, she saw Henry set out—with Jonas Tallent beside him.

But then Filing called to Jonas and he halted, then waved Henry to go on without him. Jonas turned back to speak with Filing. Em breathed easier; she wasn’t yet ready to converse with her employer, not if she could avoid it.

With Issy smiling contendedly by her side, she followed the twins down the slope and around the duck pond. Henry caught up, then eagerly strode ahead.

She knew Jonas was trailing somewhere behind them; she could feel his gaze on her back. She in turn studied Henry. Wondered if she was being too cynical in thinking that Jonas had invited her brother to go driving to get into her good graces, reasoning—correctly—that being kind to her siblings would achieve that goal. A goal he was intelligent enough to know he needed to achieve.

But perhaps she was seeing ulterior motives where there were none.

Regardless, if Jonas Tallent was spending the afternoon out driving with Henry, he wouldn’t be at home at the Grange.

I
t was only sensible to strike when opportunity presented itself. At a few minutes after two o’clock that afternoon, having seen Jonas drive off with Henry beside him, Em knocked on the back door of the Grange. Gladys, the housekeeper, answered the door.

“Miss Beauregard! Good gracious me—you should have come to the front, miss.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Or is Mortimer napping and not heard you knock?”

“No, no—it’s quite all right. I came this way deliberately—it’s you and”—Em nodded to the presence in the cozy kitchen beyond—“Cook that I came to see.”

Gladys looked surprised, but entirely amenable. “If that’s the case, dearie, you come right in and sit yourself down.”

Em complied, exchanging smiles and greetings with Cook—never known as anything but Cook—who was standing at the kitchen table kneading dough. “Orange scones,” Cook said in response to her inquiring look.

“Ah! Well, that’s what I’ve come to speak with you about. I wanted to pick your brains about recipes, those that are special to this area. I’ve been thinking that the inn should concentrate on local dishes.” Her excuse was genuine; the idea had indeed been fomenting for some days. “It will give the Red Bells a point of distinction—something we could say we did that no one else did, dishes and menus unique to Colyton. But that would depend on getting enough local special recipes.”

Cook exchanged a look with Gladys. “Well, I should think we’d be able to help you with that.”

Gladys nodded. “You’ll want to ask Cilla at Dottswood, and Cook at Ballyclose, and Mrs. Hemmings at the manor, too.”

“And Mrs. Farquarson,” Cook said. “She has a great old book of recipes from her aunt who lived in Colyton all her life. The aunt’s gone now, but the recipes are still here.”

Em pulled paper and pencil from her reticule and began to take notes. Gladys made tea. Mortimer joined them. It took Em a little while to find the right moment, but eventually she said, “The cellars at the inn are surprisingly extensive.” She glanced at the wooden door just visible along the corridor to the scullery. “Is that normal for houses around here, do you know? Was there a particular need for such large cellars?”

Mortimer smiled. “I don’t know about need, but the cellars here, too, are quite large. Rooms leading into more rooms. Perhaps, being such an old house, in days gone by those who lived here had more of a need to store food and the like. They even had underground tunnels linking the various outbuildings, like the stables and buttery, to the house cellars.”

It required no effort for Em to look interested. “How old is this house?”

“As to that, I couldn’t say, miss.” Mortimer set down his teacup. “But Mr. Jonas would know.”

The one person she didn’t want to ask. She smiled and let the subject slide, returning instead to her pursuit of local recipes.

Two minutes later, a tap on the back door was followed by it opening to reveal Miss Sweet, with Phyllida Cynster behind her.

“Good morning, Gladys, dear.” Miss Sweet breezed in. “Oh, Miss Beauregard. How lovely to see you here…” Miss Sweet’s expression showed she was at a loss as to why Em was sitting in the kitchen.

With a smile, Em greeted her and explained her errand. Miss Sweet promptly waxed enthusiastic.

Phyllida, too, was encouraging. “Mrs. Hemmings has a number of particular recipes I’m sure she’d be happy to share in such a cause.”

It transpired that Phyllida had walked Miss Sweet to the Grange merely to keep an eye on the older woman along the woodland path. “I must get back—my imps can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble for long.”

“If you don’t mind,” Em said, gathering her notes, “I’ll walk with you. I’ve finished here, and while I know there’s a path that leads to the back of the inn, I’m not sure of the way.”

Phyllida smiled. “I can show you. Indeed, I’ll be glad of your company.”

Em thanked Gladys, Cook, and Mortimer, and farewelled Miss Sweet, then she and Phyllida set off along the path.

Phyllida waved ahead of them at the narrow beaten path just wide enough for them to walk along side by side. “It leads from the rear of the Grange almost directly north through the wood. Further along, there’s a path leading off to the left which will take you to the inn’s back door. Beyond that, the path skirts the rear of the cottages along the lane, eventually ending near the stables at the manor.”

“So it’s a shortcut between the manor, the Grange, and the inn.”

Phyllida nodded. “Jonas and I use it most, and have for decades. He’ll occasionally send the Grange gardener along to clear the way, but it’s been there for as long as I can remember.”

They strolled along in companionable amity. “I mentioned the cellars at the inn,” Em said, “and was told that you, or your brother, might know more about their history.”

“Ah, yes.” Smiling, Phyllida nodded. “The connection between the Grange, long the home of the local magistrate, who happened to own the inn and therefore placed the local holding cells in the inn’s cellars rather than his own.”

“Is that what those rooms are? I did wonder.”

“They’re rarely used,” Phyllida assured her. “Indeed, the last person to have been incarcerated there was Lucifer.” When Em looked shocked, she laughed. “It was a mistake, but he was unconscious at the time. I had to rescue him, and we looked after him at the Grange until he came to his senses.”

Em was tempted to inquire further, but decided it was more important to ask, “I’m still trying to get a feeling for the village’s history, and the role of the major houses in that. Can you tell me anything about the Grange?” She glanced at Phyllida. “I understand it’s been in your family for generations.”

“Oh, indeed—almost since the Conquest. Of course the current building isn’t that old—the oldest parts of it date from the early fifteenth century, although it’s been extensively added to over the years.”

“And your family’s been the local magistrates, or equivalent, for most of that time?”

“More or less.” Phyllida glanced at Em, smiled. “And now if I might ask, where does your family hail from, Miss Beauregard?”

Em smiled back. “Please call me Emily, or Em, as most do.”

“If you will drop formality and call me Phyllida.”

Em inclined her head. “As to your question, my grandfather moved around the country somewhat, but then settled in York. My father was born there—within sound of the cathedral bells, as he often said—and lived there all his life. My mother was from a local family, and so was my stepmother—the twins’ mother.”

“Ah—so they’re your half sisters.”

“Yes, but all of us have always been close. When their mother died, they came to live with us.”

“Oh—so you were separated for a while?”

She hadn’t meant to divulge that. “After my father’s death, we—Henry, Issy, and I—lived with our maternal uncle for a time. But then it became necessary for us to make our way, and I started managing inns.” She was straying onto shaky ground, and sought to come about. “I understand the manor’s as old as the Grange.”

Looking ahead, she noted the opening of a side path to the left.

“As far as I know. I went to the manor on my marriage—I’m not as au fait with its history as I am with the Grange’s. You should ask Lucifer.”

Em was pleased to have skated successfully over the thin ice of her recent past. “I’ll try to remember the next time I meet him.” She halted at the intersection of the paths. “This must be my turning.”

“It is.” Smiling, Phyllida held out her hand. “I’ll no doubt see you in the inn. Your revitalization is proceeding apace—it’s wonderful to have such a comfortable place even ladies can use.”

“It’s certainly proving popular.” Em shook hands, then turned toward the inn. “I just hope we can live up to expectations.”

“I’m sure you will.” Phyllida waved, then headed on along the path.

Thinking, wondering. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that Emily Beauregard was well born, more, of the same social class as herself. When they were together without others about, there was a…camaraderie, for want of a better description, that Phyllida recognized. It was the same sense of shared experiences, shared types of lives, that she felt with the other Cynster ladies—the wives of Lucifer’s brother and cousins.

They were not all the same, not by any means, yet they shared the same goals, the same problems, the same ambitions. She recognized all those aspects in Emily Beauregard; she was a kindred spirit.

The manor appeared ahead. Phyllida strolled through her kitchen garden, taking note of what was up and what needed cutting back. She went in through the kitchen, stopped to consult with Mrs. Hemmings as to dinner, then continued on into the house—to the back parlor, where she’d left her handsome husband in charge of their sons.

All was strangely silent behind the parlor’s closed door. She quietly eased it open; the sight that met her eyes brought a smile, a softly glowing one, to her face.

Lucifer was sprawled on the rug before the sofa, on his back, arms at his sides, each cradling one son as said sons slumbered. Whatever he’d been doing with them had clearly tired them out.

She crept in, not sure if he, too, was asleep. Sliding onto the sofa, she sat and looked down lovingly at the three faces, the younger two softer, more rounded versions of their sire’s. Even in respose, his held the hard lines and angular planes that so unambiguously marked him as a member of the aristocracy.

Slowly his ridiculously long black lashes lifted and his eyes—those dark blue eyes that always seemed to see straight to her soul—looked into hers. He smiled. “What have you been up to?”

He’d spoken in a whisper. She whispered back, “I walked back with Miss Beauregard—Emily.” She paused, then asked, “Do we know anyone in York?”

She explained what she’d learned about their new innkeeper. “She didn’t mention Ballyclose at all, but she did ask after the history of the Grange.”

“What about the manor? They’re of much the same vintage.”

Phyllida shook her head. “She mentioned it in passing, but I got the impression she was now concentrating on the Grange.”

Lucifer’s brows rose. “Interesting. What it means, however, I can’t begin to guess.”

A footstep on the hall tiles had Phyllida glancing at the door. It cracked open, and Jonas looked in. Seeing the family tableau, he grinned, and as Phyllida had, crept in.

Coming to stand by the end of the sofa where Lucifer could see him, he nodded in greeting, then glanced at Phyllida. “I just returned Henry Beauregard to the inn—we went out driving. Em wasn’t there—have you seen her?”

Phyllida’s brows rose. “As it happens, I have.” She explained, and recounted what she’d learned.

None of them knew anyone in York from whom they might inquire of the Beauregards.

Phyllida studied Jonas. “Did you learn anything from Henry?”

Jonas shook his head. “The instant I make any inquiry as to his family’s past, he becomes very careful and circumspect. He’s too intelligent to trick in any way. If he doesn’t want to discuss an issue, he simply won’t, so I got no further there.”

He hesitated, then looked from Phyllida to Lucifer. “I’ve come to the conclusion that whatever Em’s quest—her goal—is, whatever it is she’s searching for, the most sensible way forward is to help her to it. To tell her whatever she wants to know.”

Lucifer grimaced. “It would help if she asked direct questions, or better yet, told us what she’s after.”

“She might soon, now she’s getting to know us,” Jonas suggested.

“Her interest seems to have switched from Ballyclose to the Grange.” Phyllida raised her brows. “I wonder why?”

Jonas frowned. “If you see Pommeroy about, you might ask him whether Em spoke to him about Ballyclose. At the moment, he’s avoiding me.” He wasn’t about to explain why, although Lucifer’s suddenly sharpened gaze suggested he, at least, could guess.

Phyllida was nodding. “I get the impression that whatever she’s searching for, it’s something old—something connected to history and days long gone. And it definitely is a ‘something’—some actual object.”

Jonas nodded in agreement. “If only we knew what.”