A Rake's Vow (36 page)

Honoria’s gaze remained steady on his face long enough to make Patience wonder how much of Vane’s glib explanation she believed. Then Honoria switched her gaze to her—and smiled warmly, welcomingly—far more personally than Patience had expected. “I’m sure we’ll meet again shortly, Miss Debbington.” Honoria pressed Patience’s fingers. “I’ll let you get on—you doubtless have a busy morning ahead of you. Indeed”—she shifted her gaze to Vane—“I’ve some calls to make, too.”

Vane, tight-lipped, nodded curtly—and gave his horses the office.

As they bowled down the avenue, Patience glanced at his set face. “The duchess seems very nice.”

“She is. Very nice.” Also very nosy, and definitely too perceptive. Vane inwardly gritted his teeth. He’d known the family would find out sometime, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon. “Honoria’s effectively the matriarch of the family.” He struggled to find words to explain precisely what that meant—but gave up. Acknowledging the power Honoria—or any of the Cynster women—wielded within the family was something he, and all his male relatives, always found exceedingly difficult.

Vane narrowed his eyes and headed his team toward the park gates. “I’ll call for you tomorrow, at much the same time. A drive or a walk seems the best way for us to exchange information on what the others have done, and where they’re intending to go.”

Patience stiffened. He’d taken her for this drive so they could coordinate their plans—he viewed the outing as a campaign meeting. “Indeed,” she replied, somewhat tartly. An instant later, she said, “Perhaps we should get Sligo to accompany us?” When Vane, frowning, glanced her way, she added, “So we can get his views firsthand.”

Vane frowned harder—his horses distracted him.

As they negotiated the park gates and turned into the crowded thoroughfare, Patience sat, stiffly erect; inside, her emotions churned. As the horses’ hooves struck the cobbles of Aldford Street, she lifted her chin. “I realize that you feel committed to identifying the thief and the Spectre, but, now you’ve returned to London, I daresay you have other engagements—other distractions—on which you’d much rather spend your time.” She drew a tight breath; a cold vise had fastened about her chest. She felt Vane’s quick glance. Head high, eyes forward, she continued, “I’m sure, now Sligo has joined us, we could find some way to get the relevant information to you without having to waste your time on unnecessary walks or drives.”

She would not cling. Now they were in town, and he could see that she didn’t fit within his elegant world, couldn’t hold a candle to the exquisitely arrayed beauties he was accustomed to consorting with, she would not try to hold on to him. Like her mother had clung to her father. Theirs was a temporary relationship; in her mind, she could already see its end. By taking the first step and acknowledging the inevitable, she might, just possibly, prepare her heart for the blow.

“I have no intention of not seeing you at least once a day.”

The words were bitten off, infused with a steely rage Patience could not possibly mistake. Taken aback, she glanced at Vane. The carriage rocked to a halt, he tied off the reins and jumped down.

Then swung around. He grasped her waist and lifted her bodily from the seat—and placed her, with quiveringly rigid control, on the pavement before him.

Steel shards, his eyes held hers. Breathless, Patience blinked up at him. His face was hard, a warrior’s mask. Waves of anger and aggression lapped about her.

“When it comes to distraction,” he informed her through clenched teeth, “nothing in this world could top you.”

His words were invested with meaning—a meaning she didn’t understand. Mentally at sea, Patience struggled to catch her breath. Before she succeeded, Vane had marched her up the steps and deposited her in the front hall.

Narrow-eyed, he looked down at her. “Don’t expect to see the last of me anytime soon.”

With that, he swung on his heel and stalked out.

T
wo days later, Vane stalked up the steps of Number 22 Aldford Street, on his way to see Patience. If she wasn’t ready to drive out with him this morning, there’d be trouble.

He was not in a good mood.

He hadn’t been for the past two days.

After last leaving Patience in Aldford Street, his temper gnashing at the bit, he’d gone off to seek refuge at White’s to calm down and think. He’d assumed, given their closeness, how much of himself he’d already revealed to her, that she wouldn’t—couldn’t possibly—confuse him with her father. He’d obviously assumed wrong. Her attitude, her comments, made it plain she was judging him against Reginald Debbington’s standard—and was failing to perceive any significant difference.

His initial reaction had been a violent hurt he had not, even now, entirely suppressed. After her earlier efforts that had sent him fleeing from Bellamy Hall, he’d thought he’d surmounted “hurt.” He’d been wrong on that score, too.

Sunk in a quiet corner of White’s, he’d spent fruitless hours composing terse, pithy speeches designed to elucidate precisely how and in what manner he differed from her sire—a man to whom family had meant little. His periods had grown increasingly forceful; in the end, he’d jettisoned phrases in favor of action. That, as all Cynsters well knew, spoke far louder than words.

Judging that, by that time, the damage within the family had already been done, he’d swallowed his pride and gone to call on Honoria—to ask, innocently, if she might consider giving one of her impromptu balls. Just for family and friends. Such a ball would be a useful tool in his avowed endeavor—to convince Patience that, to him as for all the Cynsters, the word “family” meant a great deal.

Honoria’s wide eyes, and thoughtful consideration, had set his teeth on edge. But her agreement that an impromptu ball might, perhaps, be a good idea had gone some way to easing his temper. Leaving Devil’s duchess to her plans, he’d retired to formulate his own. And to brood, darkly.

By the time yesterday morning had dawned, and he’d again set his horses’ heads for Aldford Street, he’d come to the conclusion that there had to be more—more than just a simple misconception holding Patience back from marriage. He was absolutely certain what style of woman he’d chosen; he knew, soul-deep, that his reading of her was not wrong. Only a powerful reason would force a woman such as she, with so much affection and devotion to give, to view marriage as an unacceptable risk.

There was something more—something he had not yet learned about her parents’ marriage.

He’d climbed the steps of Number 22 determined to learn what that something was—only to be informed Miss Debbington was not available to go driving with him. She had, it seemed, been seduced by the Bruton Street modistes. His temper had taken a downhill turn.

Luckily for Patience, Minnie had been watching for him. Unexpectedly spry, she’d claimed his escort for her promised stroll along the graveled walks of Green Park. On the way, she’d gaily informed him that, by some stroke of benign fate, Honoria had happened on Patience in Bruton Street the afternoon before, and had insisted on introducing her to her favored modiste, Celestine, the result being the fitting Patience was then attending for a series of gowns including, Minnie had taken great delight in assuring him, a positively
dashing
golden evening gown.

Arguing with benign fate was impossible. Even if, by virtue of Edith Swithins who had joined them for the stroll, said fate had ensured he had no chance to question Minnie about Patience’s father, and the depths of his ignominy.

An hour later, reassured that Minnie’s constitution was fully restored, he’d returned her to Number 22, only to discover Patience still absent. Leaving a tersely worded message with Minnie, he’d departed to find distraction elsewhere.

Today, he wanted Patience. If he had his way, he’d have Patience, but that was unlikely. Privacy of that sort, in the present circumstances, was unlikely to be on offer—and he had a wary premonition he’d be unwise to embark on any further seductive manuevers until he had their relationship on a steady, even keel.

With
his
hand firmly on the tiller.

Sligo opened the door to his peremptory knock. With a curt nod, Vane strode in. And stopped dead.

Patience was in the hall, waiting—the sight literally stole his breath. As his gaze, helplessly, slid over her, over the soft green merino pelisse, severely cut and snugly fitted, its upstanding collar framing her face, over the tan gloves and half boots, over the pale green skirts peeking beneath the pelisse’s hem, Vane felt something inside him tighten, click, and lock.

Breathing was suddenly more difficult than if someone had buried a fist in his gut.

Her hair, glinting in the light streaming in through the door, was coiffed differently, to more artfully draw attention to her wide golden eyes, to the creaminess of her forehead and cheeks, and the delicate yet determined line of her jaw. And the soft vulnerability of her lips.

In some far corner of his thoroughly distracted brain, Vane uttered a thank-you to Honoria, then followed it with a curse. Before had been bad enough. How the hell was he supposed to cope with this?

Chest swelling, he forced his mind to draw back. He focused on Patience’s face—and read her expression. It was calm, untinged by any emotion. She was dutifully waiting—as required by their plans—there was nothing more, so her expression declared, behind her drive with him.

It was her “dutiful” stance that did it—pricked his temper anew. Fighting to keep a scowl from his face, he nodded curtly and held out his arm. “Ready?”

Something flickered in her large eyes, but the hall was too dim for him to identify the emotion. Lightly, she inclined her head and glided forward to take his arm.

Patience sat, stiffly erect, on the box seat of Vane’s curricle, and struggled to breathe through the iron cage locked about her chest. At least he couldn’t disapprove of her appearance; she’d been assured, both by Celestine and Honoria, that her new pelisse and bonnet were all the crack. And her new gown, beneath it, was a definite improvement over her old one. Yet from his reaction, it seemed her appearance was of little consequence. She hadn’t, she reminded herself sternly, really expected it would be. She’d bought the gowns because she hadn’t refurbished her wardrobe for years and now seemed the perfect opportunity. After they caught the thief—and the Spectre—and Gerrard had acquired sufficient town bronze, she and he would retire once more to Derbyshire. She would probably never come to London again.

She’d bought a new wardrobe because it was the sensible thing to do, and because it wasn’t reasonable to force Vane Cynster, elegant gentleman, to appear in public with a dowd.

Not that he seemed to care either way. Patience suppressed a sniff and tilted her chin. “As I told you, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela visited Bruton Street on our first afternoon. Angela dragged us into every modiste’s establishment, even those designing for the dowagers. And asked the price of everything in sight. It was really most embarrassing. Luckily, the answers she received eventually took their toll. She seems to have accepted that it might be more practical to have a seamstress in to make up some gowns for her.”

Eyes on his horses, Vane humphed. “Where were An-gela and Mrs. Chadwick while you were in Celestine’s?”

Patience colored. “Honoria came upon us in Bruton Street. She insisted on introducing me to Celestine—and things”—she gestured—“went on from there.”

“
Things
have a habit of going that way once Honoria’s involved.”

“She was very kind,” Patience retorted. “She even engaged Mrs. Chadwick and Angela in conversation all the while I was with Celestine.”

Vane wondered how much Honoria was going to make him pay for that. And in what coin.

“Luckily, being able to haunt Celestine’s salon and talk to a duchess quite buoyed Angela’s spirits. We went on to Bond Street without further dramas. Neither Mrs. Chadwick nor Angela showed any hint of wanting to speak to any of the jewelers whose establishments we passed, nor in meeting anyone else along the way.”

Vane grimaced. “I really don’t think it’s either of them. Mrs. Chadwick’s bone-honest, and Angela’s too witless.”

“Indeed.” Patience’s tone turned ascerbic. “So witless nothing would do but she must cap the afternoon with a visit to Gunter’s. Nothing would dissuade her. It was full to bursting with young sprigs, too many of whom spent the time ogling her. She wanted to go again yesterday afternoon—Mrs. Chadwick and I took her to Hatchards instead.”

Vane’s lips twitched. “She must have enjoyed that.”

“She moaned the whole time.” Patience shot him a glance. “That’s all I have to report. What have the gentlemen been up to?”

“Sight-seeing.” Vane uttered the word with loathing. “Henry and Edmond have been possessed by some demon which compells them to set eyes on every monument within the metropolis. Luckily, Gerrard is happy enough to go along and keep a watchful eye on them. So far, he’s had nothing to report. The General and Edgar have settled on Tattersalls as the focus of their daily interest. Sligo or one of his minions follows and keeps watch, so far to no avail. I’ve been arranging their afternoons and evenings. The only ones who’ve not yet stirred from the house are the Colbys.” Vane glanced at Patience. “Has Alice emerged from her room?”