A Rake's Vow (10 page)

Poker-straight, Patience met his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

Vane felt his control quake, felt his reins slither from his grasp. He clenched his jaw, and both fists. Every muscle in his body locked, every mental sinew strained with the effort of holding on to his temper.

All Cynsters had one—a temper that normally lazed like a well-fed cat but could, if pricked, change to a snarling predator. For one instant, his vision clouded, then the beast responded to the rein and drew back, hissing. As his fury subsided, he blinked dazedly.

Hauling in a deep breath, he swung halfway around and, dragging his gaze from Patience, forced himself to scan the room. Slowly, he exhaled. “If you were a man, my dear, you wouldn’t still be upright.”

There was an instant’s pause, then she said, “Not even you would strike a lady.”

Her “not even” nearly set him off again. Jaw clenched, Vane slowly turned his head, caught her wide hazel gaze—and raised his brows. His hand itched to make contact with her bottom. Positively burned. For one instant, he teetered on the brink—her widening gaze, as, frozen like prey, she read the intent in his eyes, was small comfort. But the thought of Minnie made him fight down the nearly overpowering compulsion to bring Miss Patience Debbington to an abrupt understanding of her temerity. Minnie, supportive though she was, was unlikely to prove
that
forgiving. Vane narrowed his eyes, and spoke very softly. “I have only one thing to say to you, Patience Debbington. You’re
wrong
—on every count.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off.

Patience watched him go, watched him stride directly across the room, looking neither left nor right. There was nothing languid in his stride, no vestige of his usual lazy grace; his every movement, the rigid set of his shoulders, shrieked of reined power, of temper, of fury barely leashed. He opened the door and, without even a nod to Minnie, left; the door clicked shut behind him.

Patience frowned. Her head throbbed remorselessly; she felt empty and—yes—cold inside. As if she’d just done something terribly wrong. As if she’d just made a big mistake. But she hadn’t, had she?

She woke the next morning to a grey and dripping world. Through one eye, Patience stared at the unrelenting gloom beyond her window, then groaned and buried her head beneath the covers. She felt the dipping of the mattress as Myst jumped up, then padded closer. Settling against the curve of her stomach, Myst purred.

Patience sank her head deeper into her pillow. This was clearly a morning to avoid.

She dragged her limbs from the comfort of her bed an hour later. Shivering in the chilly air, she hurriedly dressed, then reluctantly headed downstairs. She had to eat, and cowardice was not, in her book, sufficient reason to put the staff to the unexpected trouble of making up a tray for her. She noted the time as she passed the clock on the stairs—nearly ten o’clock. Everyone else should have finished and departed; she should be safe.

She walked into the breakfast parlor—and discovered her error.
All
the gentlemen were present. As they rose to greet her most nodded benignly—Henry and Edmond even conjured smiles. Vane, at the head of the table, didn’t smile at all. His grey gaze settled on her, coldly brooding. Not a muscle in his face flickered.

Gerrard, of course, beamed a welcome. Patience summoned a weak smile. Steps dragging, she headed for the sideboard.

She took her time filling her plate, then slipped into the chair beside Gerrard, wishing he was somewhat larger. Large enough to shield her from Vane’s darkling gaze. Unfortunately, Gerrard had finished all but his coffee; he lay sprawled comfortably back in his chair.

Leaving her exposed. Patience bit her tongue against the impulse to tell Gerrard to sit straight; he was still too coltish to bring off that lounging pose. Unlike the gentleman he was copying, who brought it off all too well. Patience kept her eyes on her plate and her mind on eating. Other than the brooding presence at the head of the table, there was precious little other distraction.

As Masters cleared their plates, the gentlemen fell to discussing the day’s possibilities. Henry looked at Patience. “Perhaps, Miss Debbington, if the skies clear, you might be interested in a short walk?”

Patience glanced very briefly at the sky beyond the windows. “Too muddy,” she pronounced.

Edmond’s eyes gleamed. “How about charades?”

Patience’s lips thinned. “Perhaps later.” She was in a waspish mood; if they weren’t careful, she’d sting.

“There’s a pack of cards in the library,” Edgar volunteered.

The General, predictably, snorted. “Chess,” he stated. “Game of kings. That’s what I shall do. Any takers?”

There were no volunteers. The General subsided into vague mutterings.

Gerrard turned to Vane. “How about a round of billiards?”

One of Vane’s brows rose; his gaze remained on Gerrard’s face, yet, watching him from beneath her lashes, Patience knew his attention was on her. Then he looked directly at her. “A capital idea,” he purred, then both voice and face hardened. “But perhaps your sister has other plans for you.”

His words were soft, distinct, and clearly loaded with some greater significance. Patience ground her teeth. She was avoiding his eye; he was focusing every eye on her. Not content with that, he was making no attempt to mask the coolness between them. It colored his words, his expression; it positively shrieked in the absence of his suavely charming smile. He sat very still, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on her. His grey eyes were coldly challenging.

It was Gerrard, the only one of the company apparently insensitive to the powerful undercurrent, who broke the increasingly awkward silence. “Oh, Patience won’t want me about, under her feet.” He flicked a confident grin her way, then turned back to Vane.

Vane’s gaze didn’t shift. “I rather think that’s for your sister to say.”

Setting down her teacup, Patience lifted one shoulder. “I can’t see any reason you shouldn’t play billiards.” She made the comment to Gerrard, steadfastly ignoring Vane. Then she pushed back her chair. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must look in on Minnie.”

They all rose as she stood; Patience walked to the door, conscious of one particular gaze on her back, focused right between her shoulder blades.

There was nothing wrong with playing billiards.

Patience kept telling herself that, but didn’t believe it. It wasn’t the billiards that worried her. It was the chatting, the easy camaraderie that the exercise promoted—the very sort of interaction she did not wish Gerrard to engage in with
any
elegant gentleman.

Just the knowledge that he and Vane were busily potting balls and exchanging God knew what observations on life reduced her to nervous distraction.

Which was why, half an hour after she’d seen Gerrard and Vane head for the billiard room, she slipped into the adjacent conservatory. One section of the irregularly shaped garden room overlooked one end of the billiard room. Screened by an assortment of palms, Patience peered between the fringed leaves.

She could see half the table. Gerrard stood leaning on his cue beyond it. He was talking; he paused, then laughed. Patience gritted her teeth.

Then Vane came into view. His back to her, he moved around the table, studying the disposition of the balls. He’d taken off his coat; in form-fitting waistcoat and soft white shirt, he looked, if anything, even larger, more physically powerful, than before.

He halted at the corner of the table. Leaning over, he lined up his shot. Muscles shifted beneath his tight waistcoat; Patience stared, then blinked.

Her mouth was dry. Licking her lips, she refocused. Vane took his shot, then, watching the ball, slowly straightened. Patience frowned, and licked her lips again.

With a satisfied smile, Vane circled the table and stopped by Gerrard’s side. He made some comment; Gerrard grinned.

Patience squirmed. She wasn’t even eavesdropping, yet she felt guilty—guilty of not having faith in Gerrard. She should leave. Her gaze went again to Vane, taking in his lean, undeniably elegant form; her feet remained glued to the conservatory tiles.

Then someone else came into view, pacing about the table. Edmond. He looked back up the table and spoke to someone out of her sight.

Patience waited. Eventually, Henry came into view. Patience sighed. Then she turned and left the conservatory.

The afternoon continued damp and dreary. Grey clouds lowered, shutting them in the house. After luncheon, Patience, with Minnie and Timms, retired to the back parlor to set stitches by candlelight. Gerrard had decided to sketch settings for Edmond’s drama; together with Edmond, he climbed to the old nurseries for an unrestricted view of the ruins.

Vane had disappeared, only God knew where.

Satisfied Gerrard was safe, Patience embroidered meadow grasses on a new set of cloths for the drawing room. Minnie sat dozing in an armchair by the fire; Timms, ensconced in its mate, busily plied her needle. The mantelpiece clock ticked on, marking the slow passage of the afternoon.

“Ah, me,” Minnie eventually sighed. She stretched her legs, then fluffed up her shawls and glanced at the darkening sky. “I must say, it’s a huge relief that Vane agreed to stay.”

Patience’s hand stopped in midair. After a moment, she lowered the needle to the linen. “Agreed?” Head down, she carefully set her stitch.

“Hmm—he was on his way to Wrexford’s, that’s why he was passing so close when the storm struck.” Minnie snorted. “I can just imagine what devilry that crew had planned, but, of course, once I asked, Vane immediately agreed to stay.” She sighed fondly. “No matter what else one might say of the Cynsters, they’re always reliable.”

Patience frowned at her stitches. “Reliable?”

Timms exchanged a grin with Minnie. “In some ways, they’re remarkably predictable—you can always rely on help if needed. Sometimes, even if you don’t ask for it.”

“Indeed.” Minnie chuckled. “They can be quite terrifyingly protective. Naturally, as soon as I mentioned the Spectre and the thief, Vane wasn’t going anywhere.”

“He’ll clear up this nonsense.” Timms’s confidence was transparent.

Patience stared at her creation—and saw a hard-edged face with grey, accusing eyes. The lump of cold iron that had settled in her stomach the previous night grew colder. Weightier.

Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes, then snapped them open as a truly sickening thought occurred. It couldn’t be, wouldn’t be, true—but the dreadful premonition wouldn’t go away. “Ah . . .” She tugged her last stitch tight. “Who are the Cynsters, exactly?”

“The family holds the dukedom of St. Ives.” Minnie settled herself comfortably. “The principal seat is Somersham Place, in Cambridgeshire. That’s where Vane was coming from. Devil’s the sixth duke; Vane’s his first cousin. They’ve been close from the cradle, born a mere four months apart. But the family’s quite large.”

“Mrs. Chadwick mentioned six cousins,” Patience prompted.

“Oh, there’s more than that, but she would have been referring to the Bar Cynster.”

“The Bar Cynster?” Patience looked up.

Timms grinned. “That’s the nickname the
ton
’s gentlemen use to refer to the six eldest cousins. They’re all male.” Her grin widened. “In every way.”

“Indeed.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled. “The six of them all together are a veritable sight to behold. Known to make weak females swoon.”

Looking down at her stitching, Patience swallowed an acid retort. Elegant gentlemen, all, it seemed. The lead weight in her stomach lightened; she felt better. “Mrs. Chadwick said that . . . Devil had recently married.”

“Last year,” Minnie corroborated. “His heir was christened about three weeks ago.”

Frowning, Patience looked at Minnie. “Is that his real name—Devil?”

Minnie grinned. “Sylvester Sebastian—but better, and, to my mind, more accurately known as Devil.”

Patience’s frown grew. “Is ‘Vane’ Vane’s real name?”

Minnie chuckled evilly. “Spencer Archibald—and if you dare call him that to his face, you’ll be braver than any other in the
ton
. Only his mother can still do so with impunity. He’s been known as Vane since before he went to Eton. Devil named him—said he always knew which way the wind was blowing and what was in the breeze.” Minnie raised her brows. “Oddly far-sighted of Devil, actually, for there’s no doubt that’s true. Instinctively intuitive, Vane, when all’s said and done.”

Minnie fell pensive; after two minutes, Patience shook out her cloth. “I suppose the Cynsters—at least, the Bar Cynster—are . . .” Vaguely, she gestured. “Well, the usual gentlemen about town.”

Timms snorted. “It would be more accurate to say that they’re the pattern card for ‘gentlemen about town.’ ”

“All within the accepted limits, of course.” Minnie folded her hands across her ample stomach. “The Cynsters are one of the oldest families in the
ton
. I doubt any of them could be bad
ton
, not even if they tried—quite out of character for them. They might be outrageous, they might be the
ton
’s most reckless hedonists, they might sail within a whisker of that invisible line—but you can guarantee they’ll never cross it.” Again, she chuckled. “And if any of them sailed too close to the wind, they’d hear about it—from their mothers, their aunts—and the new duchess. Honoria’s certainly no insipid cypher.”

Timms grinned. “It’s said the only one capable of taming a Cynster male is a Cynster woman—by which they mean a Cynster wife. Strange to tell, that’s proved true, generation after generation. And if Honoria’s any guide, then the Bar Cynster are not going to escape that fate.”

Patience frowned. Her previously neat, coherent mental image of Vane as a typical, if not the archetype, “elegant gentleman” had started to blur. A reliable protector, amenable if not positively subject to the opinions of the women in his family—none of that sounded the least like her father. Or the others—the officers from the regiments based about Chesterfield who had so tried to impress her, the London friends of neighbors who, hearing of her fortune, had called, thinking to beguile her with their practiced smiles. In many respects, Vane fitted the bill to perfection, yet the Cynster attitudes Minnie had expounded were quite contrary to her expectations.