Colyton Manor looked what it was, a prosperous gentleman's residence. It was the home of Horatio Welham-the reason Lucifer had chosen Colyton as his temporary bolt-hole.

Horatio's letter had reached him three days ago. An old friend and his mentor in all matters pertaining to collecting, Horatio had invited him to visit at Colyton at his earliest convenience. With the grande dames turning their sights on him, convenient had been immediately-he'd grasped the excuse to disappear from the social whirl.

At one time he had haunted Horatio's house in the Lake District, but although he and Horatio had remained as close as ever, over the three years since Horatio had moved to Devon, they'd met only at collectors' gatherings around the country and in London; this was his first visit to Colyton.

The blacks shook their heads; their harness clinked. Straightening, gathering the reins, Lucifer was conscious of a welling impatience-to see Horatio again, to clasp his hand, to spend time in his erudite company. Coloring that anticipation was Horatio's reason for asking him to visit-a request for his opinion on an item that, in Horatio's words, might tempt even him to extend his collection beyond his preferred categories of silver and jewelry. He'd spent the drive from Somerset speculating on what the item was, but had reached no conclusion.

He'd learn soon enough. Clicking the reins, he set the blacks in motion. Turning smartly in between the tall gateposts, he drew the curricle up by the side of the house with the usual crunching and stamping of hooves.

No one came running.

He listened-and heard nothing but the sounds of birds and insects.

Then he remembered it was Sunday; Horatio and all his household would be at church. Glancing up the common, he verified that the church door stood ajar. He looked at the Manor's front door-it, too, stood partially open. Someone, it appeared, was home.