A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Indeed,” Vane replied dryly. “And if you hear anything, come straight to me.”

  Leaving Duggan musing on how to organize his searches, Vane strode back to the house. The sun was long past its zenith. Entering the front hall, he encountered Masters on his way to the dining room with the silverware. “Is Mr. Debbington about?”

  “I haven’t seen him since breakfast, sir. But he might have come in and be somewhere about.”

  Vane frowned. “He hasn’t been into the kitchen after food?”

  “No, sir.”

  Vane’s frown deepened. “Where’s his room?”

  “Third floor, west wing—one but the last.”

  Vane took the stairs two at a time, then swung through the gallery and into the west wing. As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he heard footsteps descending. He looked up, half-expecting to see Gerrard. Instead, he saw Whitticombe.

  Whitticombe didn’t see him until he swung onto the same flight; he hesitated fractionally, then continued his purposeful descent. He inclined his head. “Cynster.”

  Vane returned his nod. “Have you seen Gerrard?”

  Whitticombe’s brows rose superciliously. “Debbington’s room is at the end of the wing, mine is by the stairhead. I didn’t see him up there.”

  With another curt nod, Whitticombe passed on down the stairs. Frowning, Vane continued his climb.

  He knew he had the right room the instant he opened the door; the combined smell of paper, ink, charcoal, and paint was confirmation enough. The room was surprisingly neat; Vane cynically suspected Patience’s influence. A large wooden table had been pushed up to the wide windows; its surface, the only cluttered area in the room, was covered with piles of loose sketches, sketchbooks, and an array of pens, nibs, and pencils, nestling amidst a straw of pencil shavings.

  Idly, Vane strolled to the desk and looked down.

  The light streaming low through the window glanced off the surface of the table. Vane saw that the pencil shavings had recently been disturbed, then regathered. There were scraps of shavings between the edges of the loose sketches, and between the pages of the sketchbooks.

  As if someone had leafed through the lot, then noticed the disturbed shavings and tidied them again.

  Vane frowned, then he shook aside the idea. Probably just a curious—or smitten—maid.

  He looked out of the windows. The west wing was on the opposite side of the house from the ruins. But the sun was steadily descending; Gerrard’s rare morning light was long gone.

  A tingle, an unnerving touch of premonition, slithered down Vane’s spine. Vividly recalling the sight of Gerrard’s easel and stool, but no Gerrard, Vane swore.

  He descended the stairs much more rapidly than he’d climbed them.

  His expression bleak, he strode through the hall, down the corridor, and out through the side door. And halted.

  He was an instant too late in wiping the grim expression from his face. Patience, strolling in company with her harem, had instantly focused on him; alarm had already flared in her eyes. Inwardly, Vane cursed. Belatedly assuming his customary facade, he strolled to meet her.

  And her harem.

  Penwick was there. Vane gritted his teeth and returned Penwick’s nod with distant arrogance.

  “Minnie’s resting,” Patience informed him. Her eyes searched his. “I thought I’d get some air.”

  “A sound notion,” Penwick pronounced. “Nothing like a turn about the gardens to blow away the megrims.”

  Everyone ignored him and looked at Vane.

  “Thought you were going riding with young Gerrard,” Henry said.

  Vane resisted the urge to kick him. “I was,” he replied. “I’m just going to haul him in.”

  Edmond frowned. “That’s odd.” He looked back at the ruins. “I can imagine he might miss lunch, but it’s not that easy to put off the pangs this long. And the light’s almost gone. He can’t still be sketching.”

  “Perhaps we’d better mount a search,” Henry suggested. “He must have moved on from where he was this morning.”

  “He could be anywhere,” Edmond put in.

  Vane gritted his teeth. “I know where he was—I’ll fetch him.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Patience’s words were a statement. One look at her face told Vane arguing would be wasted effort. He nodded curtly.

  “Allow me, my dear Miss Debbington.” Unctuously, Penwick offered his arm. “Naturally, we’ll all come, to make sure your mind is set at rest. I’ll have a word or two to say to Debbington, never fear. We can’t allow him to so heedlessly overset you.”

  The look Patience sent him was scathing. “You’ll do no such thing. I have had quite enough of your attempted interference, sir!”

  “Indeed.” Seizing opportunity, Vane seized Patience’s hand. Stepping forward, brushing Penwick aside, he drew her around. And set off for the ruins at a clipping pace.

  Patience hurried beside him. Eyes scanning the ruins, she made no protest at having to half run to keep up.

  Vane glanced down at her. “He was set up on the far-side, beyond the cloister, facing the abbot’s lodge.”

  Patience nodded. “He might have forgotten lunch, but he wouldn’t have forgotten an engagement to ride with you.”

  Glancing back, Vane saw Edmond and Henry, throwing themselves into the excitement of a search, turn aside, Edmond heading for the old church, Henry for the opposite side of the cloisters. They, at least, were being helpful; Penwick, on the other hand, followed doggedly in their wake.

  “Regardless,” Vane said, as they reached the first crumbling wall, “he should have been back by now—the light’s gone, and the angles would have changed by lunchtime.”

  He helped Patience over a patch of uneven stones, then they hurried along the west side of the cloister. Henry had just gained the east side. In the nave, they could hear Edmond, his poet’s voice ringing, calling for Gerrard. No answer came.

  Reaching the far wall, Vane helped Patience up onto the line of toppled stones from which she’d fallen so many nights before. Then he turned and looked toward the abbot’s lodge.

  The scene he beheld was as he’d seen it earlier. Precisely as he’d seen it earlier.

  Vane swore. He didn’t bother apologizing. Jumping down, he lifted Patience down to the old flags. Her hand tight in his, he headed for Gerrard’s easel.

  It took them ten minutes of scrambling—essentially crossing the entire abbey compound—to reach the grassed expanse on which Gerrard had stationed himself. The lawn rose gently as it led away from the abbot’s lodge, then dipped into the scrubby edges of the wood. Gerrard had set up below the highest point of the rise, well in front of the dip, a few feet before a crumbling arched gateway, all that was left of the wall that had enclosed the abbot’s garden.

  Clasping Patience’s hand, feeling her fingers clutch his, Vane strode straight to the easel. The page fluttering on it was blank.

  Patience blanched. “He never started.”

  Vane’s jaw set. “He started all right.” He flicked the tattered remnants of paper caught under the pins. “It’s been ripped away.” Tightening his hold on Patience’s hand, he looked toward the trees.

  “Gerrard!”

  His roar faded into silence.

  A scuffling of boots heralded Henry’s appearance. He clambered over a ruined wall, then, straightening, stared at the untended easel. Then he looked at Patience and Vane. “No sign of him the way I came.”

  Edmond appeared around the far edge of the ruins. Like Henry, he stared at the easel, then gestured behind him. “He’s not anywhere around the church.”

  Stony-faced, Vane waved them to the trees. “You start from that end.” They nodded and went. Vane looked down at Patience. “Would you rather wait here?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll come with you.”

  He’d expected nothing less. Her hand locked in his, they backtracked off the lawn and circled into the wood.

  Penwick
, huffing and puffing, caught up with them deep in the trees. Calling Gerrard’s name, they were quartering the area; after pausing to catch his breath, Penwick tut-tutted censoriously. “If you’d allowed me to talk to Debbington earlier—bring him to a proper sense of his responsibilities—none of this nonsense, I flatter myself, would have occurred.”

  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 fe
atures 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.”