A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  With his hand firmly on the tiller.

  Sligo opened the door to his peremptory knock. With a curt nod, Vane strode in. And stopped dead.

  Patience was in the hall, waiting—the sight literally stole his breath. As his gaze, helplessly, slid over her, over the soft green merino pelisse, severely cut and snugly fitted, its upstanding collar framing her face, over the tan gloves and half boots, over the pale green skirts peeking beneath the pelisse’s hem, Vane felt something inside him tighten, click, and lock.

  Breathing was suddenly more difficult than if someone had buried a fist in his gut.

  Her hair, glinting in the light streaming in through the door, was coiffed differently, to more artfully draw attention to her wide golden eyes, to the creaminess of her forehead and cheeks, and the delicate yet determined line of her jaw. And the soft vulnerability of her lips.

  In some far corner of his thoroughly distracted brain, Vane uttered a thank-you to Honoria, then followed it with a curse. Before had been bad enough. How the hell was he supposed to cope with this?

  Chest swelling, he forced his mind to draw back. He focused on Patience’s face—and read her expression. It was calm, untinged by any emotion. She was dutifully waiting—as required by their plans—there was nothing more, so her expression declared, behind her drive with him.

  It was her “dutiful” stance that did it—pricked his temper anew. Fighting to keep a scowl from his face, he nodded curtly and held out his arm. “Ready?”

  Something flickered in her large eyes, but the hall was too dim for him to identify the emotion. Lightly, she inclined her head and glided forward to take his arm.

  Patience sat, stiffly erect, on the box seat of Vane’s curricle, and struggled to breathe through the iron cage locked about her chest. At least he couldn’t disapprove of her appearance; she’d been assured, both by Celestine and Honoria, that her new pelisse and bonnet were all the crack. And her new gown, beneath it, was a definite improvement over her old one. Yet from his reaction, it seemed her appearance was of little consequence. She hadn’t, she reminded herself sternly, really expected it would be. She’d bought the gowns because she hadn’t refurbished her wardrobe for years and now seemed the perfect opportunity. After they caught the thief—and the Spectre—and Gerrard had acquired sufficient town bronze, she and he would retire once more to Derbyshire. She would probably never come to London again.

  She’d bought a new wardrobe because it was the sensible thing to do, and because it wasn’t reasonable to force Vane Cynster, elegant gentleman, to appear in public with a dowd.

  Not that he seemed to care either way. Patience suppressed a sniff and tilted her chin. “As I told you, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela visited Bruton Street on our first afternoon. Angela dragged us into every modiste’s establishment, even those designing for the dowagers. And asked the price of everything in sight. It was really most embarrassing. Luckily, the answers she received eventually took their toll. She seems to have accepted that it might be more practical to have a seamstress in to make up some gowns for her.”

  Eyes on his horses, Vane humphed. “Where were An-gela and Mrs. Chadwick while you were in Celestine’s?”

  Patience colored. “Honoria came upon us in Bruton Street. She insisted on introducing me to Celestine—and things”—she gestured—“went on from there.”

  “Things have a habit of going that way once Honoria’s involved.”

  “She was very kind,” Patience retorted. “She even engaged Mrs. Chadwick and Angela in conversation all the while I was with Celestine.”

  Vane wondered how much Honoria was going to make him pay for that. And in what coin.

  “Luckily, being able to haunt Celestine’s salon and talk to a duchess quite buoyed Angela’s spirits. We went on to Bond Street without further dramas. Neither Mrs. Chadwick nor Angela showed any hint of wanting to speak to any of the jewelers whose establishments we passed, nor in meeting anyone else along the way.”

  Vane grimaced. “I really don’t think it’s either of them. Mrs. Chadwick’s bone-honest, and Angela’s too witless.”

  “Indeed.” Patience’s tone turned ascerbic. “So witless nothing would do but she must cap the afternoon with a visit to Gunter’s. Nothing would dissuade her. It was full to bursting with young sprigs, too many of whom spent the time ogling her. She wanted to go again yesterday afternoon—Mrs. Chadwick and I took her to Hatchards instead.”

  Vane’s lips twitched. “She must have enjoyed that.”

  “She moaned the whole time.” Patience shot him a glance. “That’s all I have to report. What have the gentlemen been up to?”

  “Sight-seeing.” Vane uttered the word with loathing. “Henry and Edmond have been possessed by some demon which compells them to set eyes on every monument within the metropolis. Luckily, Gerrard is happy enough to go along and keep a watchful eye on them. So far, he’s had nothing to report. The General and Edgar have settled on Tattersalls as the focus of their daily interest. Sligo or one of his minions follows and keeps watch, so far to no avail. I’ve been arranging their afternoons and evenings. The only ones who’ve not yet stirred from the house are the Colbys.” Vane glanced at Patience. “Has Alice emerged from her room?”

  “Not for long.” Patience frowned. “She may actually have been the same at Bellamy Hall. I’d imagined her in the gardens, or in one of the parlors, but she might have stayed in her room the whole time. It’s really rather unhealthy.”

  Vane shrugged.

  Patience glanced sideways, studying his face. He’d headed his horses down a less-frequented drive, away from the fashionable avenue. While there were carriages about, they didn’t need to exchange greetings. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to Sligo, but I presume he found nothing?”

  Vane’s expression turned grim. “Not a thing. There was no clue in the luggage. Sligo’s surreptitiously searching all the rooms in case the stolen items were somehow smuggled in.”

  “Smuggled? How?”

  “Edith Swithins’s tatting bag springs to mind.”

  Patience stared. “You don’t think she . . . ?”

  “No. But it’s possible someone else has noticed how deep that bag is, and is using it for the pearls, if nothing else. How often do you think Edith empties the bag out?”

  Patience grimaced. “Probably never.”

  Vane came to an intersection and turned smartly to the right. “Where is Edith now?”

  “In the drawing room—tatting, of course.”

  “Does her chair face the door?”

  “Yes.” Patience frowned. “Why?”

  Vane shot her a glance. “Because she’s deaf.”

  Patience continued to frown, then understanding dawned. “Ah.”

  “Precisely. So . . .”

  “Hmm.” Patience’s expression turned considering. “I suppose . . .”

  Half an hour later, the drawing-room door at Number 22 opened; Patience looked in. Edith Swithins sat on the chaise facing the door, tatting furiously. Her large knitted bag sat on the rug beside the chaise. There was no one else present.

  Smiling brightly, Patience entered, and set the door to, ensuring the latch did not fall home. Just how deaf Edith was they didn’t know. With determined cheerfulness, she swept down on Edith.

  Who looked up—and returned her smile.

  “I’m so glad I caught you,” Patience began. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to tat. I wonder if you could show me the basics?”

  Edith positively beamed. “Why of course, dear. It’s really quite simple.” She held up her work.

  Patience squinted. “Actually”—she looked around—“perhaps we should move over by the window. The light’s much better there.”

  Edith chuckled. “I must confess I really don’t need to see the stitches, I’ve been doing it for so long.” She eased off the chaise. “I’ll just get my bag . . .”

  “I’ll get it.” Patience reached for the bag—and inwardly conceded Vane was right. It
was deep, full, and surprisingly heavy. It definitely needed to be searched. Hefting the bag, she whirled. “I’ll pull that chair into place for you.”

  By the time Edith, cradling her work in progress, had crossed the room, Patience had a deep armchair positioned facing the window, its back to the door. Placing the tatting bag beside it, hidden from the occupant by the overhang of the arm, she helped Edith into the chair. “Now if I sit here, on the window seat, there’ll be plenty of light for us both to see.”

  Obligingly, Edith settled back. “Now.” She held up her work. “The first thing to note . . .”

  Patience gazed at the fine threads. At the edge of her vision, the door slowly opened. Vane entered, and carefully shut the door. On silent feet, he drew closer. A board creaked under his weight. He froze. Patience tensed. Edith blithely chatted on.

  Patience breathed again. Vane glided forward, then sank out of sight behind Edith’s chair. From the corner of her eye, Patience saw Edith’s tatting bag slide away.

  She forced herself to listen to Edith’s lecture, forced herself to follow enough to ask sensible questions. Beaming with pride, Edith imparted her knowledge; Patience encouraged and admired, and hoped the Almighty would forgive her her perjury, given it was committed in the pursuit of justice.

  Hunkered down behind the chair, Vane poked about in the bag, then, realizing the futility of that, gingerly upended it on the rug. The contents, a welter of odds and ends, many unidentifiable, at least, to him, rolled out on the soft pile. He spread them, frowning, trying to recall the list of items pilfered over the past months. Whatever, Minnie’s pearls were not in the tatting bag.

  “And now,” Edith said, “we just need a crochet hook . . .” She looked to where her tatting bag had been placed.

  “I’ll get it.” Patience crouched, eyes down, hands reaching as if the bag was actually there. “A crochet hook,” she repeated.

  “A fine one,” Edith added.

  Crochet hook. A fine one. Behind the chair, Vane stared at the array of unnameable implements. What the hell was a crochet hook? What did it look like—fine or otherwise? Frantically examining and discarding various items in tortoiseshell, his fingers finally closed about a thin wand sprouting a fine steel prong, hooked at the end—a miniature fisherman’s net hook.

  “I know it’s there somewhere.” Edith’s voice, slightly querulous, jolted Vane to action. Reaching around the chair back, he slid the implement into Patience’s outstretched palm.

  She clutched it. “Here it is!”

  “Oh, good. Now, we just put it in here, like this . . .”

  While Edith continued her lesson, and Patience dutifully learned, Vane stuffed the contents of the tatting bag back into the gaping maw. Giving the bag a shake to settle it, he eased it back into position beside the chair. Moving with intense care, he stood and crept to the door.

  Hand on the knob, he glanced back; Patience did not look up. Only when he’d regained the front hall, with the drawing room door securely closed, did he breathe freely again.

  * * *

  Patience joined him in the billiard room half an hour later.

  Blowing aside the fine errant curls tangling with her lashes, she met his gaze. “I now know more about tatting than I could possibly need to know, even should I live to be a hundred.”

  Vane grinned. And leaned over the table.

  Patience grimaced. “I take it there was nothing there?”

  “Nothing.” Vane lined up his next shot. “No one’s using Edith’s tatting bag as a store, presumably because, once something goes in, it might never be found again.”

  Patience stifled a giggle. She watched as Vane shifted, lining up the ball. As at Bellamy Hall, when she’d watched from the conservatory, he’d taken off his coat. Under his tight waistcoat, muscles rippled, then tensed. He clipped the ball neatly, sending it rolling into the pocket opposite.

  Vane straightened. He looked at Patience, and noted her fixed gaze. Lifting his cue from the table, he sauntered closer. And stopped directly in front of her.

  She blinked, then drew in a quick breath and dragged her gaze up to his face.

  Vane captured her gaze. After a moment, he murmured, “I foresee certain complications.”

  “Oh?” Patience’s gaze had already drifted from his, fastening instead on his lips.

  Leaning more heavily on the cue, Vane let his gaze roam her face. “Henry and Edmond.” The curves of her lips caught and held his attention. “They’re getting restless.”

  “Ah.” The tip of Patience’s tongue appeared between her lips, then delicately traced them.

  Vane hauled in a desperate breath. And leaned closer. “I can hold their reins during the day, but the evenings . . .” He angled his head. “Could be a problem.”

  His words died away as Patience stretched upward.

  Their lips touched, brushed, then locked. Both stopped breathing. Vane’s hands closed tight about the billiard cue; Patience shivered. And sank into the kiss.

  “He must be in the billard room.”

  Vane’s head jerked up; he swore and shifted, screening Patience from the door. She scooted farther into the shadows beyond the table, where her blush would be less visible. Along with the heat in her eyes. The door swung open and Vane was potting a ball with nonchalant ease.

  “There you are!” Henry ambled into the room.

  Followed by Gerrard and Edmond.

  “Seen enough sights for one day.” Henry rubbed his hands together. “Perfect time for a quick game.”

  “Not for me, I fear.” Coolly, Vane handed his cue to Gerrard, and resisted the urge to throttle them all. He reached for his coat. “I only dallied to tell you I’ll come by at three. I’m expected elsewhere for lunch.”

  “Oh. All right.” Henry cocked a brow at Edmond. “You game?”

  Edmond, having exchanged a smile with Patience, shrugged. “Why not?”

  Gerrard, with a nod for his sister, joined them. Her pulse thundering, still breathless, Patience preceded Vane as he left the room.

  She heard the door shut behind them, but didn’t stop. She didn’t dare. She led the way into the front hall; only then did she turn and, with what calm she could muster, face Vane.

  He looked down at her. His lips twisted wryly. “I meant what I said about Henry and Edmond. I’ve agreed to take Gerrard, Edgar, and the General to White’s this evening. Henry and Edmond don’t want to go, and we couldn’t keep them in sight if they did. Any chance you could call them to heel?”

  The look Patience cast him spoke volumes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If you can keep them on their leashes, I’ll be forever grateful.”

  Patience studied the glint in his grey eyes and wondered how to best use such indebtedness. Just what she might have him do. Then she realized her gaze had refastened on his lips. She blinked and nodded curtly. “I’ll try.”

  “Do.” Capturing her gaze, Vane raised one finger and traced the line of her cheek. Then lightly tapped. “Later.” With a nod, he strode for the door.

  * * *

  For Patience, Lady Hendricks’s musicale that evening proved to be an eminently forgettable experience. As well as herself, Minnie and Timms, all three Chadwicks, and Edmond, attended.

  Inducing Henry and Edmond to join the party had been simplicity itself; over luncheon, she’d blithely asked Gerrard to escort their otherwise all-female party that evening. Put on the spot, Gerrard had blushed and stumbled into an apology; from the corner of her eye, Patience had seen Henry and Edmond glance surreptitiously at each other. Before Gerrard got to the end of his explanation, Henry interrupted to offer his services. Edmond, recalling the connection between music and drama, declared he would come, too.

  As they crossed the threshold of Lady Hendricks’s music room, Patience congratulated herself on her masterful success.

  They made their bows to their hostess, then passed on, into the already crowded room. In Minnie’s wake, Patience walked on Edmond’s
arm. Henry’s had been claimed by his mother. Minnie and Timms were well-known; those greeting them nodded and smiled at Patience, too. Garbed in a new gown, she returned the greetings serenely, inwardly amazed at the confidence imparted by a sheath of moss green silk.

  Timms steered Minnie to a half-vacant chaise. They took possession of the free space, striking up a conversation with the lady already ensconced in the other corner. Leaving the rest of the party milling aimlessly.

  With an inward sigh, Patience took charge. “There’s a chair over there, Henry. Perhaps you might fetch it for your mama.”

  “Oh. Right.” Henry strode to where a chair remained unclaimed by the wall. At the exhortation of their hostess, all the guests were settling; seating was suddenly in short supply.

  They sat Mrs. Chadwick beside Minnie’s chaise.

  “What about me?” Angela, gowned in a white dress overendowed with pink rosettes and cerise ribbon, stood twisting her fingers in said ribbon.

  “There’re some chairs over there.” Edmond indicated a few empty seats in the ranks of straight-backed chairs lined up before the pianoforte and harp.

  Patience nodded. “We’ll sit there.”

  They headed for the chairs. They’d almost gained their objective when Angela balked. “I think the other side might be better.”

  Patience was not deceived. The few youthful sprigs forced by their mamas to attend had clumped in a petulant group on the other side of the room. “Your mama would expect you to sit with your brother.” Deftly twining arms, she anchored Angela to her side. “Young ladies who venture about on their own rapidly gain a reputation for being fast.”

  Angela pouted. And cast longing looks across the room. “It’s only a few yards away.”

  “A few yards too many.” Reaching the vacant chairs, Patience sat, dragging Angela down beside her. Edmond slid into the chair on Patience’s left; rather than sit beside his sister, Henry opted to sit behind Patience. As the performers appeared to polite applause, Henry shuffled his chair forward, hissing sotto voce to Angela to move aside.