A Rake's Vow (38 page)

Denied the music, denied all natural justice, she fell back on imagining the reward she would claim in recompense for the destruction of her evening. When next she saw Vane. Later. Whenever that proved to be.

At least Edith Swithins and the Colbys had had the good sense to stay home.

At precisely that moment, in the hallowed half gloom of the cardroom of White’s, Vane, his gaze on the General and Edgar, both seated at a table playing whist, took a slow sip of the club’s excellent claret and reflected that Patience’s evening would not be—could not be—more boring than his.

Hanging back in the shadows, cloaked in the quiet, restrained ambience, redolent with the masculine scents of fine leather, cigar smoke, and sandalwood, he’d been forced to decline numerous invitations, forced to explain, with a languidly raised brow, that he was bear-leading his godmother’s nephew. That, in itself, had raised no eyebrows. The fact that he apparently believed bear-leading precluded sitting down to a game of cards had.

He could hardly explain his real aim.

Stifling a yawn, he scanned the room, easily picking out Gerrard, watching the play at the hazard table. The interest Gerrard showed was academic—he seemed to harbor no deep wish to join in the play.

Making a mental note to inform Patience that her brother showed little susceptibility to the lure that brought too many men low, Vane straightened, eased his shoulders, then returned to propping the wall.

Five totally uneventful minutes later, Gerrard joined him.

“Any action yet?” Gerrard nodded to the table at which Edgar and the General sat.

“Not unless you count the General getting clubs confused with spades.”

Gerrard grinned, and glanced over the room. “This doesn’t seem a likely place for someone to pass on stolen goods.”

“It is, however, a very good venue in which to unexpectedly bump into an old friend. Neither of our two pigeons, however, is showing any signs of wanting to curtail their scintillating activity.”

Gerrard’s grin broadened. “At least it makes watching them easy enough.” He glanced at Vane. “I can manage here if you’d like to join your friends. I’ll fetch you if they move.”

Vane shook his head. “I’m not in the mood.” He gestured to the tables. “Seeing we’re here, you may as well widen your horizons. Just don’t accept any challenges.”

Gerrard laughed. “Not my style.” He moved off again to stroll between the tables, many surrounded by gentlemen vicariously enjoying the play.

Vane sank back into the shadows. He hadn’t been tempted, even vaguely, to take Gerrard up on his offer. At present, he was in no good mood to join in the usual camaraderie over a pack of cards. At present, his mind was entirely consumed by one unanswered question, by one conundrum, by one glaring anomaly.

By Patience.

He desperately needed to talk to Minnie, alone. Patience’s home life, her father, held the key—the key to his future.

This evening had been wasted: no headway had been made. On any level.

Tomorrow would be different. He’d see to it.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Vane strode up the steps of Number 22 as early as he dared. In the far distance, a bell tolled—eleven deep bongs. Face set, Vane grasped the knocker. Today, he was determined to see progress.

Two minutes later, he strode back down the steps. Leaping into his curricle, he flicked the reins free, barely waiting for Duggan to scramble up behind before setting the greys clattering toward the park.

Minnie had hired a brougham.

He knew the instant he spotted them that something momentous had occurred. They were—there was no other word for it—aflutter. They were all there, packed into the brougham—Patience, Minnie, Timms, Agatha Chadwick, Angela, Edith Swithins and, amazing though it seemed, Al-ice Colby. She was dressed in something so dark and drab it might have been widow’s weeds; the others looked much more inviting. Patience, gowned in a stylish walking dress of fresh green, looked good enough to eat.

Drawing his curricle up behind the brougham, Vane reined in his appetites along with his horses, and languidly descended to the verge.

“You’ve just missed Honoria,” Minnie informed him before he’d even reached the carriage. “She’s holding one of her impromptu balls and has invited us all.”

“Indeed?” Vane summoned his most innocent look.

“A real ball!” Angela jigged up and down on the seat. “It’ll be simply
wonderful
! I’ll have to get a new ball gown.”

Agatha Chadwick nodded in greeting. “It was very kind of your cousin to invite us all.”

“I haven’t been to a ball since I don’t know when.” Edith Swithins beamed at Vane. “It’ll almost be an
adventure
.”

Vane couldn’t help returning her smile. “When’s it to be?”

“Hasn’t Honoria told you?” Minnie frowned. “I thought she said you knew—it’s next Tuesday.”

“Tuesday.” Vane nodded, as if committing the fact to memory. He looked at Patience.

“Giddy nonsense, balls.” Alice Colby very nearly sniffed. “But as the lady’s a duchess, I daresay Whitticombe will say we must go. At least it’s sure to be a suitably refined and dignified affair.” Alice made the comment to the world at large. Concluding, she shut her pinched lips and stared straight ahead.

Vane stared, po-faced, at her. So did Minnie and Timms. All of them had attended impromptu balls Honoria had given. With all the Cynsters gathered in one room, refined and dignified tended to be overwhelmed by robust and vigorous. Deciding it was time Alice learned how the other half lived, Vane merely raised a brow and returned his attention to Patience.

At precisely the same moment she looked at him. Their gazes met and held; inwardly, Vane cursed. He needed to talk to Minnie; he wanted to talk to Patience. With her sitting there, waiting for him to invite her for a stroll, he couldn’t ask Minnie instead. Not without adding to his problems, without leaving Patience feeling that he had, after all, started to ease back in his affections.

His affections, which were currently ravenous. Starved. Slavering for attention. And her.

He raised a languid brow. “Would you care for a stroll, Miss Debbington?”

Patience saw the hunger in his eyes, briefly, fleetingly, but quite clearly enough to recognize. The vise already locked about her chest tightened. Inclining her head graciously, she held out one gloved hand—and struggled to suppress the thrill that raced through her when his fingers closed strongly about hers.

He opened the door and handed her down. She turned to the carriage. Mrs. Chadwick smiled; Angela pouted. Edith Swithins positively grinned. Minnie, however, fluffed up her shawls and exchanged a quick glance with Timms.

“Actually,” Timms said, “I rather think we should be getting back. The breeze is a mite chilly.”

It was an Indian summer’s day. The sun shone brightly, the breeze was almost balmy.

“Humph! Perhaps you’re right,” Minnie grumbled gruffly. She shot a glance at Patience. “No reason you can’t go for your stroll—Vane can bring you home in his curricule. I know how much you miss your rambles.”

“Indeed. We’ll see you back at the house later.” Timms poked the coachman with the tip of her parasol. “Home, Cedric!”

Left on the verge staring bemusedly after the carriage, Patience shook her head. Vane’s arm appeared beside her. Placing her fingers on his sleeve, she glanced up into his face. “What was all that about?”

His eyes met hers. His brows rose. “Minnie and Timms are inveterate matchmakers. Didn’t you know?”

Patience shook her head again. “They’ve never behaved like that with me before.”

They’d never had him in their sights before either. Vane kept that thought to himself and guided Patience across the lawn. There were many couples strolling close to the carriageway. As they nodded and smiled, returning greetings as they headed for less-crowded terrain, Vane let his senses revel in the experience of having Patience once more by his side. He’d drawn her as close as propriety allowed; her green skirts swished against his boots. She was all woman, soft and curvaceous, mere inches away; he grew harder simply at the thought. The breeze, wafting past, lifted her perfume to his face—honeysuckle, roses, and that indefinable scent that evoked every hunter’s instinct he possessed.

Abruptly, he cleared his throat. “Nothing happened last evening?” It was an effort to lift his voice from the gravelly depths to which it had sunk.

“Nothing.” Patience slanted him a sharp, slightly curious glance. “Distressingly, Edmond and Henry have reverted to their competitive worst. Stolen items, or the disposal of same, seemed exceedingly far from their minds. If either of them are the thief or the Spectre, I’ll eat my new bonnet.”

Vane grimaced. “I don’t think your new bonnet’s in any danger.” He studied the stylish creation perched atop her curls. “Is this it?”

“Yes,” Patience returned, somewhat waspishly. He could at least have noticed.

“I thought it looked different.” Vane flicked the cockade perched over her eyebrow—and met her gaze with a far-too-innocent look.

Patience humphed. “I take it the General and Edgar made no suspicious moves last night?”

“Suspicious moves aplenty, but more along the line of being suspiciously foxed. More to the point, however, Masters has heard from the Hall.”

Patience’s eyes widened. “And?”

Vane grimaced. “Nothing.” Looking forward, he shook his head. “I can’t understand it. We know the items haven’t been sold. We haven’t found them in the luggage brought up to town. But they aren’t at the Hall. Grisham and the staff have been very thorough—they even checked the wainscot for hidden panels. There are a few. I didn’t tell Grisham where they were, but he found them all. Empty, of course—I’d checked before we left. They searched every room, every nook and cranny. They checked under loose floorboards. They also searched the grounds and the ruins. Thoroughly. Incidentally, they did find some disturbance just beyond the door of the abbot’s lodge.”

“Oh?”

“Someone had cleared off a section of the flags. There’s an iron ring set in a stone—an old hatch. But the hatch
hasn’t
been opened recently.” Vane caught Patience’s gaze. “Devil and I lifted it years ago—the cellar beneath was filled in. There’s nothing beneath that stone, not even a hole in which something might be hidden. So it doesn’t explain anything, least of all why Gerrard was struck down.”

“Hmm.” Patience frowned. “I’ll ask him if he’s remembered anything more about what he saw before he was hit.”

Vane nodded absently. “Unfortunately, none of that sheds any light on our mystery. The puzzle of where the stolen goods, including Minnie’s pearls, have gone darkens with every passing day.”

Patience grimaced and briefly tightened her hold on his arm—simply because it seemed the right thing to do, to comfort and sympathize. “We’ll just have to remain vigilant. On our guard. Something will happen.” She looked up and met Vane’s eyes. “It has to.”

There was no arguing with that. Vane slid his free hand over her fingers, anchoring her hand on his sleeve.

They walked for some minutes in silence, then Vane glanced at Patience’s face. “Are you excited by the prospect of Honoria’s ball?”

“Indeed.” Patience glanced fleetingly up at him. “I understand it’s an honor to be invited. As you saw, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela are in alt. I can only hope awe is sufficient to overcome Henry. Edmond, however, will remain unimpressed. I’m sure he’ll come, but I doubt even a ducal ball has sufficient weight to puncture his self-assurance.”

Vane made a mental note to mention that to Honoria.

Patience glanced up at him, a frown in her eyes. “Will you be there?”

Vane raised his brows. “When Honoria issues a summons, we all fall in.”

“You do?”

“She’s Devil’s duchess.” When Patience’s puzzled frown persisted; Vane elaborated: “He’s the head of the family.”

Looking ahead, Patience mouthed an “Oh.” She was clearly still puzzled.

Vane’s lips twisted wryly.

“There were two other ladies in the carriage with Honoria when she stopped to invite us.” Patience looked at Vane. “I think they were Cynsters, too.”

Vane kept his expression impassive. “What did they look like?”

“They were older. One was dark and spoke with a French accent. She was introduced as the Dowager.”

“Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives—Devil’s mother.” His other godmother.

Patience nodded. “The other was brown-haired, tall, and stately—a Lady Horatia Cynster.”

Vane’s expression turned grim. “My mother.”

“Oh.” Patience glanced his way. “Both your mother and the Dowager were . . . very kind.” She looked ahead. “I didn’t realize. All three—Honoria and the other two ladies—seemed very close.”

“They are.” Resignation rang in Vane’s tone. “Very close. The whole family’s very close.”

Mouthing another “Oh,” Patience looked ahead again.

Glancing sidelong, Vane studied her profile, and wondered what she’d made of his mother—and what his mother had made of her. Not that he anticipated any resistance on that front. His mother would welcome his chosen bride with open arms. And a great deal of otherwise classified information and far-too-insightful advice. Within the Cynster clan, that was the way things were done.

A deep requirement, a need, for commitment to family, formed, he was now sure, part of Patience’s bulwark, one part of the hurdle that stood between her and marriage. That was one element of her problem he barely needed to take aim at—all he needed to do was introduce her to
his
family to blow that part of her problem away.

Despite the sacrifices it demanded of him, St. Ives House next Tuesday night was definitely the right address to send her to. After she saw the Cynsters all together, in their natural setting, she would rest easy on that score.

She would see, and believe, that he cared about family. And then . . .

Unconsciously, his fingers tightened about hers; Patience looked up inquiringly.

Vane smiled—wolfishly. “Just dreaming.”