A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  Eventually, Masters returned to the kitchen, to fetch chafing dishes to keep the fare warm.

  As his footsteps faded, Patience pounced. “You’ve been out investigating.”

  Vane looked up, then nodded and reached for his coffee cup.

  “Well?” Patience prompted, when he simply sipped.

  Lips compressing, he studied her face, then grudgingly informed her: “I thought there might be a footprint or two—a track I could follow.” He grimaced. “The ground was wet enough, but the ruins are all either flags, rocks, or matted grass. Nothing to hold any impression.”

  “Hmm.” Patience frowned.

  Masters returned. He set down his tray, then crossed to Vane’s side. “Grisham and Duggan are waiting in the kitchen, sir.”

  Vane nodded and drained his coffee cup. He set it down and pushed back his chair.

  Patience caught his eye and held it. She clung to the contact; her unspoken question hung in the air.

  Vane’s face hardened. His lips thinned.

  Patience narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll go to the ruins myself.”

  Vane narrowed his eyes back. He flicked a glance at Masters, then, somewhat grimly, looked back at Patience. “We’re going to check for any sign that the Spectre came from outside. Hoofprints, anything to suggest he didn’t come from the Hall itself.”

  Her expression relaxing, Patience nodded. “It’s been so wet, you should find something.”

  “Precisely.” Vane stood. “If there’s anything to find.”

  Masters left the parlor, on a return trip to the kitchens. From the direction of the stairs came an airy voice, “Good morning, Masters. Is anyone about yet?”

  Angela. They heard Masters’s low-voiced answer; Vane looked down and met Patience’s wide eyes.

  “That’s obviously my cue to depart.”

  Patience grinned. “Coward,” she whispered, as he passed her chair.

  A heartbeat later, he’d swung about and bent over her, his breath feathering the side of her neck. His strength flowed around her, surrounded her.

  “Incidentally,” he murmured, in his deepest purr, “I meant what I said about the daybed.” He paused. “So, if you have the slightest inkling of self-preservation, you won’t move from this chair.” Cool, hard lips brushed her ear, then slid lower, to lightly caress, with just the barest touch, the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. Patience lost the fight and shivered; her lids lowered.

  Vane tipped her chin up; his lips touched hers in a fleeting, achingly incomplete kiss. “I’ll be back before breakfast is over.”

  Angela’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Patience opened her eyes to see Vane striding out of the parlor. She heard Angela’s delighted greeting, then Vane’s answering rumble, dying away as he continued striding. A second later, Angela appeared. She was pouting.

  Feeling infinitely older, infinitiely wiser, Patience smiled. “Come and have some breakfast. The eggs are particularly good.”

  The rest of the breakfast crowd gradually wandered in. To Patience’s dismay, they, one and all, had already heard of her injury, courtesy of the household grapevine. Luckily, neither she nor Vane had seen fit to inform anyone of the reason for her nighttime excursion, so no one knew how she’d come by her hurts.

  Everyone was suitably shocked by her “accident”; all were quick to proffer their sympathy.

  “Distressing business,” Edgar offered with one of his meek smiles.

  “Twisted m’knee once, when I was in India.” The General directed a curious glance up the table. “Horse threw me. Native wallahs wrapped it up in evil-smelling leaves. Knee, not the horse. Came good in no time.”

  Patience nodded and sipped her tea.

  Gerrard, beside her, occupying the chair she usually used, asked softly, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Ignoring the ache in her knee, Patience smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. “I’m hardly a weak creature. I promise you I’m not about to swoon from the pain.”

  Gerrard grinned, but his expression remained watchful, concerned.

  With her pleasant smile firmly in place, Patience allowed her gaze to roam. Until, across the table, she met Henry’s frown.

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t quite understand how you came to wrench your knee.” His inflection made the statement a question.

  Patience kept smiling. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a stroll.”

  “Outside?” Edmond’s surprise faded to consideration. “Well, yes, I suppose you’d have to stroll outside—strolling inside this mausoleum at night would give anyone nightmares.” His swift grin dawned. “And presumably you wouldn’t have wanted them.”

  Smiling over clenched teeth was not easy; Patience managed it, just. “I did go outside, as it happened.” Silence would have been wiser, but they were all hanging on her words, as avidly curious as only those leading humdrum lives could be.

  “But . . .” Edgar’s brow folded itself into pin tucks. “The fog . . .” He looked at Patience. “It was a pea-souper last night. I looked out before I blew out my candle.”

  “It was rather dense.” Patience looked at Edmond. “You would have appreciated the eerieness.”

  “I had heard,” Whitticombe diffidently commented, “that Mr. Cynster carried you in.”

  His words, quietly spoken, hung over the breakfast table, raising questions in every mind. A sudden stillness ensued, fraught with surprise and shocked calculation. Calmly, her smile no longer in evidence, Patience turned and, her expression distant, regarded Whitticombe.

  Her mind raced, considering alternatives, but there was only one answer she could give. “Yes, Mr. Cynster did help me back to the house—it was lucky he found me. We’d both seen a light in the ruins and gone to investigate.”

  “The Spectre!” The exclamation came from both Angela and Edmond. Their eyes glowed, their faces lit with excitement.

  Patience tried to dampen their imminent transports. “I was following the light when I fell down a hole.”

  “I had thought,” Henry said sternly, and all heads swung his way, “that we all promised Minnie we wouldn’t go chasing the Spectre in the dark.” The tenor of his voice and the expression on his face were quite surprising in their intensity. Patience felt a blush touch her cheeks.

  “I’m afraid I forgot my promise,” she admitted.

  “In the chill of the moment, so to speak.” Edmond leaned across the table. “Did your spine tingle?”

  Patience opened her mouth, eager to grasp Edmond’s distraction, but Henry spoke first.

  “I think, young man, that this nonsense of yours has gone quite far enough!”

  The words were wrath-filled. Startled, everyone looked at Henry—his face was set, skin slightly mottled. His eyes were fixed on Gerrard.

  Who stiffened. He met Henry’s gaze, then slowly put down his fork. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Henry replied, biting off the words, “that given the pain and suffering you’ve caused your sister, I’m shocked to discover you such an unfeeling whelp that you can sit there, beside her, and pretend to innocence.”

  “Oh, come on,” Edmond said. Patience nearly sighed with relief. A second later she stiffened and stared as Edmond continued, his tone the very essence of reasonableness, “How could he know Patience would break her word to Minnie and come out after him?” Edmond shrugged and turned a winning smile on both Patience and Gerrard. “Hardly his fault she did.”

  With supporters like that . . . Patience swallowed a groan and charged into the breach. “It wasn’t Gerrard.”

  “Oh?” Edgar looked at her hopefully. “You saw the Spectre then?”

  Patience bit her lip. “No, I didn’t. But—”

  “Even if you had, you would still defend your brother, wouldn’t you, my dear?” Whitticombe’s smooth tones floated up the table. He directed a smile of paternalistic superiority at Patience. “Quite commendable devotion, my dear, but in this case,
I fear”—his gaze switched to Gerrard; his features hardened, and he shook his head—“sadly misplaced.”

  “It wasn’t I.” Pale, Gerrard made the statement evenly. Beside him, Patience sensed the battle he waged to hold his temper in check. Silently, she sent him support. Under the table, she gripped his thigh briefly.

  Abruptly, he turned to her. “I’m not the Spectre.”

  Patience held his furious gaze levelly. “I know.” She filled those two words with complete and utter conviction, and felt some of his heat leave him.

  Turning, he flung a challenging stare around the table.

  The General snorted. “Touching, but there’s no ducking the truth. Boy’s tricks, that’s what this Spectre is. And you, boy—you’re the only boy about.”

  Patience felt the blow strike, a direct hit to the core of Gerrard’s emerging adulthood. He stilled, his face deathly pale, his expression bleak. Her heart wept for him; she longed to throw her arms about him, to shield and comfort him—but knew she could not.

  Slowly, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood. He cast a burning glance around the table, excusing only Patience from its scorn. “If none of you has any more insults to hurl my way . . .” He paused, then continued, his voice threatening to break, “I’ll bid you a good morning.”

  Brusquely, he nodded. With a swift, blank glance for Patience, he swung on his heel and left the room.

  Patience would have given her entire fortune to be able to rise and, with haughty scorn, sweep out in his wake. Instead, she was trapped—condemned by her injury to have to keep her own soaring temper within bounds and deal with her aunt’s witless household. Despite her threat to Vane, she could not stand, let alone hobble.

  Lips compressed, she swept a glance around the table. “Gerrard is not the Spectre.”

  Henry smiled wearily. “My dear Miss Debbington, I’m afraid you really must face facts.”

  “Facts?” Patience snapped. “What facts?”

  With weighty condescension, Henry proceeded to tell her.

  Vane was strolling up from the stables when he saw Gerrard, jaw grimly set, striding toward him.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded.

  Stony-faced, eyes burning, Gerrard halted before him, drew a deep breath, met his gaze briefly, then abruptly shook his head. “Don’t ask.” With that, he flung past, and continued to the stables.

  Vane watched him go. Gerrard’s clenched fists and rigid back spoke volumes. Vane hesitated, then his face hardened. Abruptly, he turned and strode for the house.

  He reached the breakfast parlor in record time. One glance, and all expression left his face. Patience still sat where he’d left her, but instead of the bright sparkle he’d left in her large eyes, the light flush that had tinted her cheeks, her hazel eyes were now narrowed, flashing with temper, while flags of color flew high on her cheekbones.

  Beyond that, she was pale, almost vibrating with suppressed fury. She didn’t see him immediately; Henry Chadwick was the current focus of her ire.

  “There you are, Cynster! Come and add your voice to ours.” The General, swiveling in his chair, appealed to him. “We’ve been trying to tell Miss Debbington here that she has to see sense. No point bucking the truth, don’t you see? That ramshackle brother of hers needs a firmer hand on his reins. A good whipping will bring him into line and stop all this Spectre tommyrot.”

  Vane looked at Patience. Her eyes, positively blazing, had fixed on the General. Her breasts swelled as she drew breath. If looks could kill, the General was dead. From her expression, she was ready to throttle Henry, too, with Edmond thrown in for good measure.

  Smoothly, Vane strolled forward. His movement caught Patience’s attention; she looked up, and blinked. Vane trapped her gaze in his. He didn’t halt until he stood beside her chair. Then he held out his hand. Commandingly. Without hesitation, Patience laid her fingers in his palm.

  Vane closed his hand strongly about hers; with a shudder, Patience felt warmth and strength flow into her. Her temper, almost at the breaking point, fell back from the brink. She drew in another breath and looked again at those about the table.

  Vane did the same, his cool grey gaze scanning their faces. “I do hope,” he mumured, his languid drawl low but clearly audible, “that, after your ordeal of last night, no one has been insensitive enough to discompose you in any way?”

  The quiet words, and the cold steel behind his eyes, were enough to make everyone else at the table still.

  “Naturally,” he continued, in the same smooth tones, “events such as those of last night lend themselves to speculation. But, of course”—he smiled at them all—“it is just speculation.”

  “Ah—” Edgar broke in to ask, “You found no evidence—no clue—to the Spectre’s identity?”

  Vane’s smile deepened fractionally. “None. So any thoughts on the identity of the Spectre are, as I said, pure fancy.” He caught Edgar’s eye. “Based on rather less substance than a tip for the Guineas.”

  Edgar smiled briefly.

  “But,” interrupted the General, “stands to reason it’s got to be someone.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Vane replied, at his languid best. “But ascribing the blame to any particular individual without reasonable proof seems to me to smack of . . .” He paused and met the General’s eye. “Quite unnecessary slander.”

  “Humph!” The General sank lower in his chair.

  “And, of course”—Vane’s gaze swung to Henry—“there’s always the thought of how foolish one will look if one’s overly enthusiastic assertions prove wrong.”

  Henry frowned. His gaze dropped to the tablecloth.

  Vane looked down at Patience. “Are you ready to go upstairs?”

  Patience looked up at him and nodded. Vane bent and scooped her into his arms. Having got used to the sensation of being lifted so easily, Patience made herself comfortable, draping her arms about Vane’s neck. The men at the table all came to their feet; Patience glanced across the table—and almost smiled. The look on Henry’s and Edmond’s faces was priceless.

  Vane turned and headed for the door. Edmond and Henry came rushing around the table, almost tripping in their haste.

  “Oh, I say—here, let me help.” Henry rushed to hold back the already open door.

  “Perhaps if we form a chair with our arms?” Edmond suggested.

  Vane paused as Edmond moved to intercept them. Patience froze Edmond with an icy glare. “Mr. Cynster is more than capable of managing on his own.” She allowed the chill in her voice to strike home, before adding, in precisely the same tone, “I am going to retire—I do not wish to be disturbed. Not by any further speculation, nor unwarranted slander. And least of all”—she shifted her sights to Henry—“by any overly enthusiastic assertions.”

  She paused, then smiled, and looked at Vane. Utterly unmoved, he raised a brow at her. “Upstairs?”

  Patience nodded. “Indeed.”

  Without further ado, and no further hindrance, Vane carried her from the room.

  Chapter 8

  “Why, Vane asked, as he steadily climbed the main stairs, “are they so convinced it’s Gerrard?”

  “Because,” Patience waspishly stated, “they can’t imagine anything else. It’s a boy’s trick; ergo it must be Gerrard.” As Vane gained the top of the stairs, she continued, her tone vitriolic. “Henry has no imagination; neither has the General. They’re blockheads. Edmond has imagination to spare, but doesn’t care enough to engage it. He’s so irresponsible, he considers it all a lark. Edgar is cautious over jumping to conclusions, but his very timidity leaves him permanently astride the fence. And as for Whitticombe”—she paused, breasts swelling, eyes narrowing—“he’s a self-righteous killjoy who positively delights in calling attention to others’ supposed misdemeanors, all with a sickeningly superior air.”

  Vane shot her a sidelong glance. “Clearly breakfast didn’t agree with you.”

  Patience humphed. Looking ahead, she focused on their surro
undings. She didn’t recognize them. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Mrs. Henderson has set up one of the old parlors for you—so you won’t be bothered with the others unless you choose to summon them.”

  “Which will be after hell freezes.” After a moment, Patience glanced up at Vane. In a very different tone, she asked: “You don’t think it’s Gerrard, do you?”

  Vane looked down at her. “I know it isn’t Gerrard.”

  Patience’s eyes widened. “You saw who it was?”

  “Yes and no. I only caught a glimpse as he went through a thinner patch of fog. He clambered over a rock, holding his light high, and I saw him outlined by the light. A grown man from his build. Height’s difficult to judge at a distance, but build is harder to mistake. He was wearing a heavy coat, something like frieze, although my impression was it wasn’t that cheap.”

  “But you’re sure it wasn’t Gerrard?”

  Vane glanced down at Patience riding comfortably in his arms. “Gerrard’s still too lightweight to be mistaken for a fully grown man. I’m quite certain it wasn’t he.”

  “Hmm.” Patience frowned. “What about Edmond—he’s rather thin. Is he eliminated, too?”

  “I don’t think so. His shoulders are broad enough to carry a coat well, and with his height, if he was hunched, either against the cold or because he was playing the role of ‘the Spectre,’ then he could have been the man I saw.”

  “Well, whatever else,” Patience said, brightening, “you can put an end to this scurrilous talk of Gerrard being the Spectre.” Her brightness lasted all of ten yards, then she frowned. “Why didn’t you clear Gerrard’s name just now, in the breakfast parlor?”

  “Because,” Vane said, ignoring the sudden chill in her voice, “it’s patently obvious that someone—someone about the breakfast table—is quite content to cast Gerrard as the Spectre. Someone wants Gerrard as scapegoat, to distract attention from himself. Given the mental aptitudes you so accurately described, the gentlemen are, by and large, easily led. Present the matter right, and they’ll happily believe it. Unfortunately, as none of them is unintelligent, it’s difficult to tell just who’s doing the leading.”