A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  To have to bear with the others at such close quarters looked set to drive her demented.

  And Vane had not yet arrived.

  When he did, she would inform him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his idea of removing to London. They had better flush out the thief and the Spectre. Soon.

  The clock ticked on. Patience gritted her teeth and persevered with her needle.

  A knock on the street door had her looking up. Along with everyone else but Edith Swithins—she happily tatted on. The next instant, a deep rumbling voice reached all their straining ears. Patience inwardly sighed—with a relief she had no intention of examining too closely. Minnie’s face lit up as familiar prowling footsteps neared. Timms grinned.

  The door opened. Vane strolled in, to be greeted with a panoply of smiles. His gaze flicked to Patience. She met it coolly. She studied him as he nodded to them all, then greeted Minnie elegantly and affectionately, inquiring after her health and how she’d spent the night.

  “I very likely got more sleep than you,” Minnie replied, a roguish twinkle in her eye.

  Vane smiled lazily down at her and made no move to deny it. “Are you ready to brave the park?”

  Minnie grimaced. “Perhaps tomorrow I might let you persuade me to a stroll. For today, I’m content to sit quietly, gathering my failing strength.”

  Her color, better than it had been for days, showed she was in no danger of fading away. Reassured, Vane glanced at Patience, watching with a reserved coolness he didn’t appreciate. “Perhaps,” he said, looking back at Minnie, “if you’re settled today, I might take Miss Debbington up in your stead.”

  “By all means.” Minnie beamed at Patience and made shooing motions. “So trying for Patience to be cooped up inside.”

  Vane slanted a rakish glance at Patience. “Well, Miss Debbington? Are you game for a turn about the park?”

  Her gaze locked with his, Patience hesitated.

  Angela opened her mouth and stepped forward; Mrs. Chadwick motioned her back, mouthing a definite “No!” Angela subsided, sulking.

  Unable to read anything in Vane’s eyes to explain the challenge in his words, Patience raised a brow. “Indeed, sir. I would be glad of the chance of some fresh air.”

  Vane inwardly frowned at her temperate acceptance. He waited while she set aside her work and stood, then, with a nod to Minnie and the rest, offered Patience his arm from the room.

  He halted in the hall.

  Patience lifted her hand from his sleeve and turned to the stairs. “I won’t keep you above a minute.”

  Vane reached out, grasped her elbow, and drew her back to him. All the way back until he looked down into her now wide eyes. After a moment, he softly asked, “The others. Where are they?”

  Patience struggled to think. “Whitticombe has taken over the library—it’s well stocked but unfortunately quite small. Edgar and the General had nowhere else to go, so they’ve braved the chill, but I don’t know how long they’ll remain there. Edgar said something about looking in at Tattersalls.”

  “Hmm.” Vane frowned. “I’ll make sure Sligo knows.” He refocused on Patience. “The others?”

  “Henry, Edmond, and Gerrard made straight for the billiard room.” Vane’s grip on her elbow slackened; twisting free, Patience straightened—and shot him a severe glance. “I won’t tell you what I think of a house that has a billiard room but no music room.”

  Vane’s lips twitched. “It is a gentleman’s residence.”

  Patience humphed. “Regardless, I don’t believe the allure of billiards will keep that trio satisfied. They were planning all manner of excursions.” She gestured widely. “To Exeter Exchange, the Haymarket, Pall Mall. I even heard them mention some place called the Peerless Pool.”

  Vane blinked. “That’s closed.”

  “Is it?” Patience raised her brows. “I’ll tell them.”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell them myself.” Vane glanced at her again. “I’ll have a chat with them while you fetch your pelisse and bonnet.”

  With a haughty nod, Patience acquiesced. Vane watched as she ascended the stairs, then, frowning more definitely, strode for the billiard room—to lay down a few ground rules.

  He returned to the front hall as Patience regained the tiles. Minutes later, he handed her into his curricle and climbed up beside her. The park was close; as he headed his horses toward the trees, Vane checked over the list of Minnie’s household. And frowned. “Alice Colby.” He glanced at Patience. “Where’s she?”

  “She didn’t come down to breakfast.” Patience’s brows rose. “I suppose she must be in her room. I haven’t seen her about at all, now you mention it.”

  “She’s probably praying. She seems to spend a good part of her time thus employed.”

  Patience shrugged and looked ahead. Vane glanced at her, letting his gaze slide appreciatively over her. Head high, face to the breeze, she scanned the avenue ahead. Beneath the poke of her bonnet, wispy tendrils of burnished brown fluttered against her cheeks. Her pelisse was the same powder blue as the simple morning gown she wore beneath it. His brain registered the fact that neither was new, much less in the latest style, but, to his eyes, the picture she presented as she sat on the box seat of his curricle was perfect. Even if her chin was tilted a touch too high, and her expression was a touch too reserved.

  Inwardly, he frowned, and looked to his horses. “We’ll need to ensure that none of Minnie’s menagerie has a chance to get loose on their own. I think we can assume there’s no conspiracy or partnership, at least between unrelated individuals. But we must ensure none of them has a chance to pass on any stolen valuables, like the pearls, to an accomplice. Which means we—you, me, Gerrard, Minnie, and Timms, with Sligo’s help—will have to accompany them whenever they leave the house.”

  “Angela and Mrs. Chadwick plan to visit Bruton and Bond Streets this afternoon.” Patience wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I could go with them.”

  Vane suppressed his grin. “Do.” Most ladies of his acquaintance would hie off to Bruton and Bond Streets at the drop of a hat. Patience’s lukewarm enthusiasms augered well for a peaceful life in Kent. “I’ve agreed, suitably reluctantly, to act as guide for Henry, Edmond, and Gerrard this afternoon, and I tipped Sligo the wink to keep his eye on Edgar and the General.”

  Patience frowned. “There are rather many to watch if they should decide to go out on their own.”

  “We’ll have to curb their taste for town delights.” Vane noted the carriages drawn up to the verge ahead. “Speaking of which . . . behold, the grandes dames of the ton.”

  Even without the warning, Patience would have recognized them. They sat delicately draped over velvet or leather seats, elegant turbans nodding, sharp eyes bright, gloved hands artfully waving as they dissected and discussed every snippet of potential gossip. From youthful but elegant matrons to eagle-eyed dowagers, they were assured, secure in their social positions. Their carriages lined the fashionable route as they exchanged information and invitations.

  Many heads turned their way as they bowled steadily along. Turbans were graciously inclined; Vane returned the nods easily but did not stop. Patience noted that many of the eyes beneath the turbans came to rest on her. The expressions she detected were either arrested, haughtily disapproving, or both. Chin rising, she ignored them. She knew her pelisse and bonnet were unfashionable. Dowdy. Possibly even frumpish.

  But she would only be in London for a few weeks—to catch a thief—so her wardrobe hardly mattered.

  At least, not to her.

  She glanced sidelong at Vane, but could detect no glimmer of consciousness in his expression. She couldn’t read anything in it at all. He gave no sign of registering, let along responding, to the more artful of the looks directed his way. Patience cleared her throat. “There seem to be a lot of ladies present—I didn’t think so many would have returned to town.”

  Vane shrugged. “Not everyone does, but Parliament’s back in session, so the p
olitical hostesses are in residence, exerting their influence with the usual balls and dinners. That’s what draws many of the ton back. The few weeks of social whirl nicely fill the time between the summer and the start of the shooting season.”

  “I see.” Scanning the carriages ahead, Patience noted one lady who, rather than reclining languidly and watching them go by, had sat bolt upright. A second later, she waved—imperiously.

  Patience glanced at Vane; from the direction of his gaze and his set lips, he’d already seen the lady. His hesitation was palpable, then, gathering tension as if girding his loins, he slowed his horses. The curricle rocked to a stop beside the elegant brougham.

  Occupied by the lady, of similar age to Patience, with bright chesnut hair and a pair of exceedingly shrewd, blue-grey eyes. Said eyes instantly locked on Patience’s face. Their owner smiled delightedly.

  Grimly, Vane nodded. “Honoria.”

  The lady switched her bright smile to him. It deepened fractionally. “Vane. And who is this?”

  “Allow me to present Miss Patience Debbington. Minnie’s niece.”

  “Indeed?” Without waiting for more, the lady held out her hand to Patience. “Honoria, my dear Miss Debbington.”

  “Duchess of St. Ives,” Vane grimly announced.

  Honoria ignored him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. Is Minnie well?”

  “She’s much better than she was.” Patience forgot about her shabby clothes and responded easily to the duchess’s openness. “She took a chill a few weeks back, but she survived the journey down surprisingly well.”

  Honoria nodded. “How long does she plan to stay in town?”

  Until they caught their thief—unmasked their Spectre. Patience held the duchess’s clear gaze. “Ah . . .”

  “We’re not certain,” Vane drawled. “It’s just one of Minnie’s usual bolts to town, but this time she’s brought her entire menagerie with her.” He raised his brows in patent boredom. “Presumably for distraction.”

  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.

  Chapter 17

  Two 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 tim
e 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.