A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  His first stop was the library. The door opened noiselessly, revealing a long room, paneled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves down its entire length. Long windows punctuated the bookcases along one side, giving access to the terrace; one window was presently ajar, letting a light breeze, warmed by autumn sunshine, waft in.

  Two desks faced each other down the length of the room. The larger, more imposing example, closer to the door, was weighed down with tomes, the remaining surface blanketed by papers covered in a cramped fist. The well-padded chair behind the desk was empty. In contrast, the desk at the far end of the room was almost bare. It played host to one book only, a heavy leather-covered volume with gilt-edged pages, presently open and supported by Edgar, who sat behind the desk. His head bent, his brow furrowed, he gave no indication he had heard Vane enter.

  Vane advanced down the carpeted floor. He was abreast of the wing chair flanking the hearth, its back to the door, before he realized it was occupied. He halted.

  Happily ensconced in the deep chair, Edith Swithins busily tatted. Her gaze fixed on the threads she was twining, she, too, gave no sign of noticing him. Vane suspected she was partially deaf, but hid it by reading people’s lips.

  Stepping more heavily, he approached her. She sensed his presence only when he was close. Starting, she glanced up.

  Vane summoned a reassuring smile. “I apologize for interrupting. Do you often spend your mornings here?”

  Recognizing him, Edith smiled easily. “I’m here most mornings—I come down immediately after my breakfast and take my seat before the gentlemen get in. It’s quiet and”—with her head she indicated the fire—“warm.”

  Edgar lifted his head at the sound of voices; after one myopic glance, he retreated to his reading. Vane smiled at Edith. “Do you know where Colby is?”

  Edith blinked. “Whitticombe?” She peered around the edge of the wing chair. “Good heavens—fancy that! I thought he was there all the time.” She smiled confidingly at Vane. “I sit here so I don’t have to look at him. He’s a very . . .”—she pursed her lips—“cold sort of man, don’t you think?” She shook her head, then shook out her tatting. “Not at all the sort of gentleman one needs dwell on.”

  Vane’s fleeting smile was genuine. Edith returned to her tatting. He resumed his progress down the room.

  Edgar looked up as he neared and smiled ingenuously. “I don’t know where Whitticombe is either.”

  There was nothing wrong with Edgar’s hearing. Vane halted by the desk.

  Removing his pince-nez, Edgar polished them, staring up the long room at his archrival’s desk. “I must confess I don’t pay all that much attention to Whitticombe at the best of times. Like Edith, I thought he was there—behind his desk.” Replacing the pince-nez, Edgar looked up at Vane through the thick lenses. “But then, I can’t see that far, not with these on.”

  Vane raised his brows. “You and Edith have worked out how to keep Whitticombe neatly at a distance.”

  Edgar grinned. “Were you after something from the library? I’m sure I could help.”

  “No, no.” Vane deployed his rakish smile—the one designed to allay all suspicions. “I was just aimlessly wandering. I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  So saying, he retraced his steps. From the door of the library, he looked back. Edgar had retreated to his tome. Edith Swithins was not visible at all. Peace reigned in the library. Letting himself out, Vane frowned.

  Without, he was the first to admit, any logical basis, he had an instinctive feeling the thief was female. Edith Swithins’s capacious tatting bag, which went everywhere with her, exerted an almost overpowering fascination. But to separate it from her long enough to search it was, he suspected, beyond his present powers. Besides, if she’d been in the library since before Whitticombe had left the breakfast parlor, it seemed unlikely she could have rifled Minnie’s room during the short time it had been empty.

  Unlikely—but not impossible.

  As he headed for the side door, Vane wrestled with another, even more complicating possiblity. Minnie’s thief—the one who’d stolen the pearls—may not be the same person who’d perpetrated the earlier thefts. Someone might have seen the opportunity to use the “magpie” thief as scapegoat for a more serious crime.

  Nearing the side door, Vane grimaced—and hoped that scenario, while not beyond him, was at least beyond the majority of the occupants of Bellamy Hall. Minnie’s household affairs were tangled enough as it was.

  He’d intended to stroll to the ruins, to see if he could locate Edmond, Gerrard, Henry, and the General—according to Masters, they were all still outside. The voices emanating from the back parlor halted him.

  “I can’t see why we can’t drive into Northampton again.” Angela’s whine was pronounced. “There’s nothing to do here.”

  “My dear, you really should cultivate some thankfulness.” Mrs. Chadwick sounded weary. “Minnie’s been more than kind in taking us in.”

  “Oh, of course, I’m grateful.” Angela’s tone made it sound like a disease. “But it’s just so boring, being stuck out here with nothing to look at but old stones.”

  Holding silent in the corridor, Vane could easily envisage Angela’s pout.

  “Mind you,” she went on, “I did think that when Mr. Cynster came it would be different. You said he was a rake, after all.”

  “Angela! You’re sixteen. Mr. Cynster is entirely out of your league!”

  “Well, I know that—he’s so old, for a start! And he’s far too serious. I did think Edmond might be my friend, but these days he’s forever mumbling verses. Most times, they don’t even make sense! And as for Gerrard—”

  Comforted by the fact he wouldn’t have to fend off any more of Angela’s juvenile advances, Vane backtracked a few steps, and took a secondary stair upward.

  From all he’d gleaned, Mrs. Chadwick kept Angela close, undoubtedly a wise decision. As Angela no longer attended the breakfast table, he suspected that meant she and Mrs. Chadwick had spent the whole morning together. Neither, to his mind, were good candidates for the role of thief, either of Minnie’s pearls, or more generally.

  Which left only one female member of the household as yet unaccounted for. Strolling down one of the Hall’s endless corridors, Vane reflected that he had no idea how Alice Colby spent her days.

  On the night he’d arrived, Alice had told him her room was on the floor below Agatha Chadwick’s. Vane started at one end of the wing, and knocked on every door. If no answer came, he opened the door and looked in. Most rooms were empty, the furniture swathed in covers.

  Halfway down the wing, however, just as he was about to push yet another door wide, the handle was hauled from his light grip—and he discovered himself the focus of Alice’s black-eyed stare.

  Malevolent black-eyed stare.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing, sir? Disturbing God-fearing people at their prayers! It’s outrageous! Bad enough this mausoleum of a house doesn’t have a chapel—not even a decent sanctuary—but I have to put up with interruptions from such as you.”

  Letting the tirade drift past him, Vane scanned the room, conscious of a curiosity to rival Patience’s. The curtains were drawn tight. There was no fire in the hearth, not even embers. There was a palpable coldness, as if the room was never warmed, never aired. What furniture he could see was plain and utilitarian, with none of the items of beauty generally found scattered throughout the Hall. As if Alice Colby had taken possession of the room and stamped her character on it.

  The last items he noted were a prie-dieu with a well-worn cushion, a tattered Bible open on the shelf, and the elephant of Mrs. Henderson’s tale. This last stood beside the fireplace, its gaudy metal flanks glinting in the light lancing through the open door.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, that’s what I’d like to know. What excuse do you have for interrupting my prayers?” Alice folded her arms across her scrawny chest and stared black daggers at him.

 
Vane brought his gaze back to her face. His expression hardened. “I apologize for disrupting your devotions, but it was necessary. Minnie’s pearls have been stolen. I wanted to know if you’d heard anything or seen anyone strange about.”

  Alice blinked. Her expression changed not at all. “No, you stupid man. How could I see anyone? I was praying!”

  With that, she stepped back and shut the door.

  Vane stared at the panels—and fought down the urge to break them in. His temper—a true Cynster temper—was never a wise thing to prod. Right now, it was already prowling, a hungry beast seeking blood. Someone had harmed Minnie; to some, not exactly small, part of his mind, that equated to an act of aggression against him. He—the warrior concealed beneath the veneer of an elegant gentleman—reacted. Responded. Appropriately.

  Drawing a deep breath, Vane forced himself to turn from Alice’s door. There was no evidence to suggest she was involved, any more than anyone else.

  He headed back to the side door. He might not stumble instantly over the culprit by checking people’s whereabouts, but, at present, it was all he could do. Having located all the women, he went in search of the other males.

  Warring with his instinctive conviction that the “magpie” thief was a woman had been a half-fledged hope the whole affair might prove a simple misdemeanor—like Edgar, Henry, or Edmond being strapped for cash and being foolish enough, and weak enough, to be tempted to the unthinkable. As he strode over the lawn, Vane let that idea die. Minnie’s pearls were worth a small fortune.

  Their simple thief, assuming it was one and the same, had just made the step up to grand larceny.

  The ruins appeared deserted. From the wall of the cloisters, Vane saw Gerrard’s easel, set up on the other side of the ruins, facing the abbot’s lodge, a section of woods at Gerrard’s back. The paper pinned to the easel riffled in the breeze. Gerrard’s pencil box sat beneath the easel; his painter’s stool sat behind it.

  All that, Vane could see. Gerrard he couldn’t see at all. Assuming he’d taken a moment to stretch his legs and wander, Vane turned away. No point asking Gerrard if he’d seen anything—he’d left the breakfast table with one goal in mind and had doubtless been blind to all else.

  Turning back into the cloisters, Vane heard, faint on the breeze, an intense mumbling. He discovered Edmond in the nave, sitting by the ruined font, creating out aloud.

  When the situation had been explained to him, Edmond blinked. “Didn’t see anyone. But then, I wasn’t looking. Whole troop of cavalry might have charged past, and I wouldn’t have noticed.” He frowned and looked down; Vane waited, hoping for some help, however slight.

  Edmond looked up, his brows still knit. “I really can’t decide whether this scene should be acted in the nave or the cloisters. What do you think?”

  With remarkable restraint, Vane didn’t tell him. After a pregnant pause, he shook his head, and headed back to the house.

  He was skirting the tumbled stones when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Henry and the General striding up from the woods. As they neared, he asked: “You went for a stroll together, I take it?”

  “No, no,” Henry assured him. “I stumbled across the General in the woods. I went for a ramble to the main road—there’s a track that leads back through the woods.”

  Vane knew it. He nodded and looked at the General, huffing slightly as he leaned on his cane.

  “Always go out by way of the ruins—a good, rousing walk over uneven terrain. Good for the heart, y’know.” The General’s eyes fastened on Vane’s face. “But why’d you want to know, heh? Not into rambles yourself, I know.”

  “Minnie’s pearls have disappeared. I was going to ask if you’d seen anyone acting strangely on your walks?”

  “Good God—Minnie’s pearls!” Henry looked shocked. “She must be terribly upset.”

  Vane nodded; the General snorted. “Didn’t see anyone until I ran into Henry here.”

  Which, Vane noted, did not actually answer his question. He fell into step beside the General. Henry, on his other side, reverted to his garrulous best, filling the distance to the house with futile exclamations.

  Shutting his ears to Henry’s chatter, Vane mentally reviewed the household. He’d located everyone, excepting only Whitticombe, who was doubtless back in the library poring over his precious volumes. Vane supposed he’d better check, just to be sure.

  He was saved the need by the gong for luncheon—Masters struck it as they reached the front hall. The General and Henry headed for the dining room. Vane hung back. In less than a minute, the library door opened. Whitticombe led the way, nose in the air, his aura of ineffable superiority billowing like a cloak about him. In his wake, Edgar helped Edith Swithins and her tatting bag from the library.

  His expression impassive, Vane waited for Edgar and Edith to pass him, then followed in their wake.

  Chapter 15

  Minnie did not appear at the luncheon table; Patience and Timms were also absent. Gerrard did not show either, but, remembering Patience’s comments on his ability to forget all while in pursuit of a particular view, Vane didn’t fret about Gerrard.

  Minnie was a different story.

  Grim-faced, Vane ate the bare minimum, then climbed the stairs. He hated coping with feminine tears. They always left him feeling helpless—not an emotion his warrior self appreciated.

  He reached Minnie’s room; Timms let him in, her expression absentminded. They’d pulled Minnie’s chair to the window. A lunch tray was balanced across the broad arms. Seated on the window seat before Minnie, Patience was coaxing her to eat.

  Patience glanced up as Vane neared; their eyes touched briefly. Vane stopped beside Minnie’s chair.

  Minnie looked up, a heart-breakingly hopeful expression in her eyes.

  Exuding impassivity, Vane hunkered down. His face level with Minnie’s, he outlined what he’d done, what he’d learned—and a little of what he thought.

  Timms nodded. Minnie tried to smile confidently. Vane put his arm around her and hugged her. “We’ll find them, never fear.”

  Patience’s gaze locked on his face. “Gerrard?”

  Vane heard her full question in her tone. “He’s been out sketching since breakfast—apparently there’s a difficult view rarely amenable to drawing.” He held her gaze. “Everyone saw him go—he hasn’t returned yet.”

  Relief flashed through her eyes; her swift smile was just for him. She immediately returned to her task of feeding Minnie. “Come—you must keep up your strength.” Deftly, she got Minnie to accept a morsel of chicken.

  “Indeed,” Timms put in from along the window seat. “You heard your godson. We’ll find your pearls. No sense fading to a cypher in the meantime.”

  “I suppose not.” Picking at the fringe of her outermost shawl, Minnie glanced, woe-stricken and frighteningly fragile, at Vane. “I’d willed my pearls to Patience—I’d always intended them for her.”

  “And I’ll have them someday, to remind me of all this, and of how stubborn you can be about eating.” Determinedly, Patience presented a piece of parsnip. “You’re worse than Gerrard ever was, and heaven knows, he was quite bad enough.”

  Manufacturing a chuckle, Vane bent and kissed Minnie’s paper-thin cheek. “Stop worrying and do as you’re told. We’ll find the pearls—surely you don’t doubt me? If so, I must be slipping.”

  That last gained him a weak smile. Relieved to see even that, Vane bestowed a rakishly confident smile on them all and left.

  He went in search of Duggan.

  His henchman was out exercising the greys; Vane passed the time in the stables, chatting to Grisham and the grooms. Once Duggan returned and the greys had been stabled, Vane strolled out to take a look at a young colt in a nearby field—and took Duggan with him.

  Duggan had been a young groom in his father’s employ before being promoted to the position of personal groom to the eldest son of the house. He was an experienced and reliable servant. Vane trusted his abilitie
s, and his opinions of other servants, implicitly. Duggan had visited Bellamy Hall many times over the years, both in his parents’ entourage as well as with him.

  And he knew Duggan well.

  “Who is it this time?” Vane asked once they were clear of the stables.

  Duggan tried an innocent expression. When Vane showed no sign of believing it, he grinned roguishly. “Pretty little parlormaid. Ellen.”

  “Parlormaid? That might be useful.” Vane stopped by the fence of the colt’s field and leaned on the top rail. “You’ve heard of the latest theft?”

  Duggan nodded. “Masters told us all before lunch—even called in the gamekeeper and his lads.”

  “What’s your reading of the servants. Any likely prospects there?”

  Duggan considered, then slowly, definitely, shook his head. “A good bunch they are—none light-fingered, none hard-pressed. Her ladyship’s generous and kind—none would want to hurt her.”

  Vane nodded, unsurprised to have Masters’s confidence echoed. “Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada will watch doings in the house; Grisham will handle the stables. I want you to spend as much time as you can keeping an eye on the grounds—from the perimeter of the house to as far as a man might walk.”

  Duggan’s eyes narrowed. “You think someone might try to pass the pearls on?”

  “That, or bury them. If you see any disturbance of the ground, investigate. The gardener’s old—he won’t be planting anywhere at this time of year.”

  “True enough.”

  “And I want you to listen to your parlormaid—encourage her to talk as much as she likes.”

  “Gawd.” Duggan grimaced. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Nevertheless,” Vane insisted. “While Masters and Mrs. Henderson will report anything odd, young maids, not wanting to appear silly, or to draw attention to something they’ve come across while doing something they shouldn’t, might not mention an odd incident in the first place.”

  “Aye, well.” Duggan tugged at his earlobe. “I suppose—seeing as it’s the old lady and she’s always been a good’un—I can make the sacrifice.”