A Rake's Vow (32 page)

Pushing back a lock of hair from her forehead, Patience stared at him. “What nonsense?”

“It’s obvious.” Penwick had regained his breath and his customary attitude. “The boy’s got an assignation with some flighty maid. Says he’s busy drawing and slips away into the wood.”

Patience’s jaw dropped.

“Is that what you did at his age?” Vane inquired, forging ahead without pause.

“Well . . .” Penwick tugged his waistcoat into place, then he caught Patience’s eye. “No! Of course not. Anyway, it’s not me but young Debbington we’re talking about here. Loose screw in the making, I’ve not the slightest doubt. Brought up by women. Pampered. Allowed to run wild without proper male guidance. What else can you expect?”

Patience stiffened.

“Penwick.” Vane caught Penwick’s eye. “Either go home or shut up. Or I’ll take great delight in knocking your teeth down your throat.”

The inflexible steel in his voice made it clear he was speaking the truth.

Penwick paled, then flushed and drew himself up. “If my assistance isn’t welcome, naturally, I’ll take myself off.”

Vane nodded. “Do.”

Penwick looked at Patience; she stared stonily back. With the air of a rejected martyr, Penwick sniffed and turned on his heel.

When the crump of his retreating footsteps died, Patience sighed. “Thank you.”

“It was entirely my pleasure,” Vane growled. He flexed his shoulders. “Actually, I was hoping he’d stay and keep talking.”

Patience’s giggle tangled in her throat.

After a further ten minutes of fruitless searching, they saw Edmond and Henry through the trees. Patience halted and heaved a troubled sigh. “You don’t think,” she said, turning to Vane as he stopped beside her, “that Gerrard actually might be off with some maid?”

Vane shook his head. “Trust me.” He looked around—the belt of woodland was narrow; they hadn’t missed any area. He looked down at Patience. “Gerrard’s not that interested in females yet.”

Henry and Edmond came up. Hands on hips, Vane glanced around one last time. “Let’s get back to the ruins.”

They stood on the lawn before Gerrard’s easel and surveyed the gigantic pile of toppled stones and crumbling rock. The sun was painting the sky red; they would have only an hour before fading light made searching dangerous.

Henry put their thoughts into words. “It’s really relatively open. It’s not as if there’s all
that
many places someone might lie concealed.”

“There are holes, though,” Patience said. “I fell into one, remember?”

Vane looked at her, then he looked back at the easel—at the rise of the lawn behind it. Swinging about, he strode to the lip, and looked down.

His jaw locked. “He’s here.”

Patience rushed to Vane’s side; clutching his arm, teetering on the lip’s edge, she looked down.

Gerrard lay sprawled on his back, arms flung out, his eyes closed. The dip, which appeared gentle enough from any other vantage point, was quite steep, dropping six feet vertically into a narrow cleft, concealed by the sloping banks on either side.

The blood drained from Patience’s face. “Oh, no!”

Vane jumped down, landing by Gerrard’s feet. Patience immediately sank onto the edge, gathering her skirts about her legs. Vane heard the rustling. He looked around. His eyes lit with warning; Patience tilted her chin stubbornly and wriggled closer to the edge.

Cursing softly, Vane swung back, gripped her waist, and lifted her down, setting her on her feet beside Gerrard.

Immediately Vane released her, Patience flung herself on her knees beside her brother. “Gerrard?” A cold fist clutched her heart. He was dreadfully pale, his lashes dark crescents against chalk white cheeks. With a shaking hand, she brushed back a lock of hair, then framed his face in her hands.

“Gently,” Vane warned. “Don’t try to shift him yet.” He checked Gerrard’s pulse. “His heartbeat’s strong. He’s probably not badly injured, but we should check for broken bones before we shift him.”

Relieved on one score, she sat back and watched Vane check Gerrard’s torso, arms, and legs. Reaching Gerrard’s feet, he frowned. “Nothing seems broken.”

Patience frowned back, then reached for Gerrard’s head, spreading her hands, sliding her fingers through the thick hair to check his skull. Her searching fingers found a roughness, a deep abrasion, then her palm turned sticky. Patience froze—and looked up at Vane. She drew a shaky breath, then, gently laying Gerrard’s head back down, she retrieved her hand and peered at the palm. At the red streaks upon it. Her expression blanking, she held up her hand for the others to see. “He’s been . . .”

Her voice died.

Vane’s expression turned granite-hard. “Hit.”

Gerrard came to his senses with a painful groan.

Patience immediately flew to his side. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she squeezed out a cloth in a basin perched on the bedside table. Shoulders propped against the wall beyond the bed, Vane watched as she bathed Gerrard’s forehead and face.

Gerrard groaned again, but surrendered to her ministrations. Grimly impassive, Vane waited. Once they’d established Gerrard had been knocked unconscious, he’d carried him back to the house. Edmond and Henry had packed up Gerrard’s gear and followed. Patience, distraught and struggling to master it, had kept by his side.

She’d come into her own once they’d got Gerrard upstairs. She’d known just what to do, and had gone about doing it in her usual competent way. While she’d remained pale and drawn, she hadn’t panicked. With silent approval, he’d left her issuing orders left and right, and gone to break the news to Minnie.

Crossing the gallery, he’d seen, in the hall below, Edmond and Henry holding court, informing the other household members of Gerrard’s “accident.” Before leaving the ruins, they’d found the rock that had hit him—part of the old gateway arch. To Edmond and Henry, that meant Gerrard had been standing beneath the arch at the wrong moment, been struck by the falling masonry, then stumbled back and fallen into the cleft. Vane’s view was not so sanguine. Concealed in the shadows of the gallery, he’d studied each face, listened to each exclamation of horror. All had rung true—true to form, true to character; none gave any indication of prior knowledge, or of guilt. Grimacing, he’d continued to Minnie’s rooms.

After informing Minnie and Timms, he’d returned to assist Patience in evicting all those who’d gathered—all of Minnie’s odd household—from Gerrard’s room. While he’d succeeded in that, he hadn’t been able to evict Minnie and Timms.

Vane glanced to where Minnie sat huddled in the old chair by the fireplace, wherein a fire now roared. Timms stood beside her, one hand gripping Minnie’s shoulder, imparting wordless comfort. Their attention was focused on the bed. Vane studied Minnie’s face, and chalked up another entry in the Spectre’s—or was it the thief’s?—account. They’d pay—for every deepening line in Minnie’s face, for the worry and fretful concern in her old eyes.

“
Oh
! My head!” Gerrard tried to sit up. Patience pushed him back down.

“You have a gash at the back, just lie quietly on your side.”

Still dazed, Gerrard obeyed, blinking owlishly across the now dim room. His gaze fixed on the window. The sun had set; last banners of vermilion streaked the sky. “It’s evening?”

“ ’Fraid so.” Pushing away from the wall, Vane strolled forward to where Gerrard could see him. He smiled reassuringly. “You’ve missed the day.”

Gerrard frowned. Patience rose to remove her basin; Gerrard raised a hand and gingerly felt the back of his head. His features contorted as he touched his wound. Lowering his hand, he looked at Vane. “What happened?”

Relieved, both by the clarity and directness of Gerrard’s gaze, and his eminently sensible question, Vane grimaced. “I was hoping
you’d
be able to tell
us
that. You went out to sketch this morning, remember?”

Gerrard’s frown returned. “The abbot’s lodge from the west. I remember setting up.”

He paused; Patience returned to sit beside him. She took one of his hands in hers. “Did you start sketching?”

“Yes.” Gerrard went to nod, and winced. “I
did
sketch. I got the general lines down, then I got up and went to study the detail.” He frowned in his effort to recall. “I went back to my stool, and kept sketching. Then ” He grimaced, and glanced at Vane. “Nothing.”

“You were hit on the back of the head with a rock,” Vane informed him. “One that originally came from the gateway arch behind you. Try to think back—had you stood up, and stepped back? Or did you never leave your seat?”

Gerrard’s frown deepened. “I didn’t stand up,” he eventually said. “I was sitting, sketching.” He looked at Patience, then at Vane. “That’s the last I remember.”

“Did you see anything, sense anything? What’s the very last thing you recall?”

Gerrard screwed up his face, then he shook his head—very slightly. “I didn’t see or sense anything. I had my pencil in my hand and I was sketching—I’d started filling in the details around what’s left of the abbot’s front door.” He looked at Patience. “You know what I’m like—I don’t see anything, hear anything.” He shifted his gaze to Vane. “I was well away.”

Vane nodded. “How long were you sketching?”

Gerrard raised his brows in a facial shrug. “One hour? Two?” He lifted a shoulder. “Who knows. It could have been three, but I doubt it was that long. Give me a look at my sketch, and I’ll have a better idea.”

He looked up expectantly; Vane exchanged a glance with Patience, then looked back at Gerrard. “The sketch you were working on was torn from your easel.”

“
What
?”

Gerrard’s incredulous exclamation was echoed by Timms. Gerrard carefully shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. My sketches aren’t worth anything—why would the thief steal one? It wasn’t even finished.”

Vane exchanged a long glance with Patience, then transferred his gaze back to Gerrard’s face. “It’s possible that’s why you were rendered unconscious—so you never did finish your latest view.”

“But why?” The bewildered question came from Minnie.

Vane turned to face her. “If we knew that, we’d know a great deal more.”

Later that night, by unanimous accord, they held a conference in Minnie’s room. Minnie and Timms, Patience and Vane, gathered before Minnie’s fire. Sinking onto the footstool beside Minnie’s chair, one of Minnie’s frail hands clasped in hers, Patience scanned the others’ faces, lit by the flickering firelight.

Minnie was worried, but beneath her fragility ran a streak of pure stubborness, and a determination to learn the truth. Timms seemed to consider the malefactors in their midst as a personal affront, if not to her dignity, then certainly to Minnie’s. She was doggedly fixated on unmasking the villains.

As for Vane . . . Patience let her gaze roam his features, more austere than ever in the shifting golden light. All hard angles and planes, his face was set. He looked like . . . a warrior sworn. The fanciful notion popped into her head, but she didn’t smile. The epithet fitted all too well—he looked set on eradicating, annihilating, whoever had dared disturb Minnie’s peace.

And hers.

She knew that last was true—the knowledge had come to her borne by the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he’d helped her with Gerrard, in the way his eyes had searched her face, watching for worry, for signs of distress.

The sensation of being within his protective circle was sweetly comforting. Even though she told herself it was only for now—for the present and not for the future—she couldn’t stop herself drinking it in.

“How’s Gerrard?” Timms asked, settling her skirts in the second chair.

“Safely sleeping,” Patience replied. He’d turned fretful as the evening wore on, until she’d insisted on dosing him with laudanum. “He’s snug in his bed, and Ada’s watching over him.”

Minnie looked down at her. “Is he truly all right?”

Vane, leaning against the mantelpiece, shifted. “There was no sign of concussion that I could see. I suspect that, other than a sore head, he’ll be his usual self in the morning.”

Timms snorted. “But who hit him? And why?”

“Are we sure he was hit?” Minnie looked at Vane.

Grimly, he nodded. “His recollections are clear and lucid, not hazy. If he was seated as he said, there’s no way a falling stone could have struck him at that angle, with that sort of force.”

“Which brings us back to my questions,” Timms said. “Who? And why?”

“As to the who, it must be the Spectre or the thief.” Patience glanced at Vane. “Presuming they’re not one and the same.”

Vane frowned. “There seems little reason to imagine they’re the same person. The Spectre has lain low since I chased him, while the thief has continued his activities without pause. There’s also been no hint that the thief has any interest in the ruins, while they’ve always been the Spectre’s special haunt.” He didn’t mention his conviction that the thief was a female, and thus unlikely to have had the strength, or intestinal fortitude, to cosh Gerrard. “We can’t rule out the thief as today’s culprit, but the Spectre seems the more likely villain.” Vane shifted his gaze to Timms’s face. “As for the why, I suspect Gerrard saw something—something he may not even realize he’s seen.”

“Or the villain
thought
he saw something,” Timms replied.

“He’s really very good with noting detail,” Patience said.

“A fact the whole household knew. Anyone who’s ever seen any of his sketches would be aware of the detail he includes.” Vane stirred. “I think, given the disappearance of his last sketch, that we can safely conclude that he did indeed see something someone didn’t want him to see.”

Patience grimaced. “He doesn’t remember anything special about what he’d sketched.”

Vane met her gaze. “There’s no reason whatever it is would appear out of the ordinary to him.”

They fell silent, then Minnie asked, “Do you think he’s in any danger?”

Patience’s gaze flew to Vane’s face. He shook his head decisively. “Whoever it is knows Gerrard knows nothing to the point, and poses no real threat to Gerrard now.” Reading a lack of conviction in all their eyes, he reluctantly elaborated, “He was lying out there for hours, unconscious. If he was a real threat to the villain, said villain had ample time to remove him permanently.”