Vane shook his head. “Not in our terms.”
Patience didn’t need to ask what their terms were. Devil got to his feet, and the room shrank. It was clear that, if Vane had said there’d be danger, Devil would have accompanied them. Instead, he grinned at Vane. “We’re going back to the Place tomorrow. Head our way once you’ve finished tidying up for Minnie.”
“Indeed.” Honoria seconded her husband’s edict. “We’ll need to discuss the arrangements.”
Patience stared at her. Honoria smiled, openly affectionate. Both Devil and Vane shot Honoria, then Patience, identical, unreadable, masculine looks, then exchanged a long-suffering glance.
“I’ll see you out.” Devil gestured to the hall.
Honoria came, too, Sebastian at her shoulder. While they stood chatting, waiting for Gerrard to fetch his coat, the baby, bored, fell to tugging Honoria’s earring. Noticing his wife’s difficulty, without pausing in his discussion with Vane, Devil reached out, scooped his heir out of Honoria’s arms, and settled Sebastian against his chest, so the diamond pin anchoring his cravat was level with the baby’s eyes.
Sebastian cooed, and happily grasped the winking pin in a chubby fist—and proceeded to destroy what had been a perfectly tied Trone d’Amour. Patience blinked, but neither Devil, Vane, nor Honoria seemed to find anything remarkable in the sight.
An hour later, as London fell behind and Vane whipped up his horses, Patience was still mulling over Devil, his wife, and his son. And the atmosphere that hung, a warm, welcoming glow, throughout their elegant house. Family—family feeling, family affection—of the sort the Cynsters took for granted, was something she’d never known.
Having a family like that was her dearest, deepest, wildest dream.
She glanced at Vane, beside her, his eyes fixed on the road, his face a mask of concentration as he drove his horses into the lowering night. Patience smiled softly. With him, her dream would come true; she’d made her decision—she knew it was right. To see him with their son, lounging by the fire like Devil, caring without even stopping to think—that was her new aim.
It was his aim, too—she knew without asking. He was a Cynster—that was their code. Family. The most important thing in their lives.
Vane glanced down. “Are you warm enough?”
Wedged between him and Gerrard, with, at his insistence, two rugs tucked firmly around her, she was in no danger of taking a chill. “I’m fine.” She smiled, and snuggled closer. “Just drive.”
He grunted, and did.
About them, an eerie twilight fell; thick, swirling clouds, pale grey, hung low. The air was bitter, the wind laced with ice.
Vane’s powerful greys drew the curricle on, wheels rolling smoothly over the macadam. They raced through the evening, into the night.
On toward Bellamy Hall, to the last act in the long drama, to the final curtain call for the Spectre and their mysterious thief. So they could bring the curtain down, send the players on their way—and then get on with living their lives.
Creating their dream.
Chapter 22
It was full dark when Vane eased his horses off the road onto the back track leading to the Bellamy Hall stables. The night had turned icy, crisply chill; the horses’s breaths steamed in the still air.
“The fog will be heavy tonight,” Vane whispered.
Beside him, pressed close, Patience nodded.
The back barn, second of two, loomed ahead; Vane uttered a silent prayer. It went unanswered. As he rolled the curricle to a halt just inside the barn, he saw Minnie’s menagerie milling at the other entrance, peering toward the main barn, the stables, and the house beyond. They were all there, even, he noted, glimpsing a grey shadow darting about, Myst. He jumped to the ground, then lifted Patience down. The others came hurrying up, Myst in the lead.
Leaving Patience to deal with Minnie and the rest, Vane helped Duggan and Gerrard stable the greys. Then, grim-faced, he returned to the whispering group thronging the barn’s center.
Minnie immediately stated, “If you’re entertaining the notion of ordering us to wait in this drafty barn, you may save your breath.”
Her belligerence was reflected in her stance and was echoed by the usually practical Timms, who nodded direfully. Every member of Minnie’s ill-assorted ménage was likewise imbued with decisive determination.
The General summed up their mood. “Blighter’s kinged it over us all—need to see him exposed, don’t y’know.”
Vane scanned their faces, his features set. “Very well.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “But if any of you makes the slightest sound, or are so witless as to alert Colby or Alice to our presence before we’ve gained sufficient details to prove beyond doubt who the Spectre and the thief are . . .”—he let the moment stretch as he scanned their faces—“they’ll answer to me. Is that understood?”
A flurry of nodding heads replied.
“You’ll need to do exactly as I say.” He looked pointedly at Edmond and Henry. “No bright ideas, no sudden elaborations to the plan.”
Edmond nodded. “Right.”
“Indubitably,” Henry swore.
Vane glanced around again. They all looked back, meek and earnest. He gritted his teeth and grabbed Patience’s hand. “Come on, then. And no talking.”
He strode for the main barn. Halfway there, shielded from the house by the bulk of the stables, he halted, and, rigidly impatient, waited for the others to catch up.
“Don’t walk on the gravel or on the paths,” he instructed. “Keep to the grass. It’s foggy; sound travels well in fog. We can’t assume they’re snug in the parlor—they might be in the kitchen, or even outside.”
He turned and strode on, blocking out all thoughts of how Minnie was coping. She wouldn’t thank him, and, at the moment, he needed to concentrate on other things.
Like where Grisham was.
Leading Patience, with Gerrard close behind, he reached the stables. Grisham’s quarters gave off it. “Wait here,” Vane whispered, his lips close by Patience’s ear. “Stop the others here. I’ll return in a moment.”
With that, he slid into the shadows. The last thing he wanted was Grisham imagining they were intruders and sounding the alarm.
But Grisham’s room was empty; Vane rejoined his ill-assorted hunting party at the rear of the dark stables. Duggan had checked the grooms’ rooms. He shook his head and mouthed, “No one here.” Vane nodded. Minnie had mentioned she’d given most of the staff leave.
“We’ll try the side door.” They could force the window of the back parlor—that wing was farthest from the library, Whitticombe’s favorite bolt-hole. “Follow me, not too close together. And remember—no sound.”
They all nodded mutely.
Swallowing a futile curse, Vane made for the shrubbery. The high hedges and grassed paths eased his mind of one worry, but as he and Patience, Duggan and Gerrard at their backs, neared the place where the hedges gave way to open lawn, a light flashed across their path.
They froze. The light disappeared.
“Wait here.” On the whisper, Vane edged forward until he could look across the lawn. Beyond lay the house, the side door closed. But a light was bobbing up from the ruins—the Spectre was walking tonight.
The light rose again briefly; in its beam, Vane saw a large, dark figure lumbering along the side of the lawn, heading their way.
“Back!” he hissed, pushing Patience, who’d edged up to his shoulder, into the hedge behind him. In the lee of the hedge, he waited, counting the seconds, then the lumbering figure swung into the path—and was upon them.
Vane grabbed him in a headlock; Duggan clung to one muscled arm. The figure tensed to fight.
“Cynster!” Vane hissed, and the figure went limp.
“Thank Gawd!” Grisham blinked at them. Vane released him. Looking down the path, Vane was mollified to see that the rest of the party had frozen, strung out in the shadows. Now, however, they clustered closer.
“I did
n’t know what to do.” Grisham rubbed his neck.
Vane checked; the carrier of the bobbing light was still some distance away, negotiating the tumbled stones. He turned back to Grisham. “What happened?”
“The Colbys arrived late afternoon. I figured it was the sign we was watching for. I told ’em straight off there was only me and two maids in the house—if anything, Colby seemed well pleased. He had me make up the fire in the library, then called for dinner early. After that, he told us we could retire, as if he was doing us a favor an’all.” Grisham snorted softly. “I kept a close eye on ’em, of course. They waited a while, then took one of the library lamps and headed for the ruins.”
Grisham glanced back. Vane checked, then nodded for him to continue. They still had a few minutes before whispers became too dangerous.
“They went all the way across to the abbot’s lodge.” Grisham grinned. “I stayed close. Miss Colby grumbled all the way, but I wasn’t near enough to make out what she said. Colby went straight for that stone I told you about.” Grisham nodded at Vane. “Checked it over real careful-like, making sure no one had lifted it. He was right pleased with himself after that. They started back then—I came on ahead, so’s I’d be here to see what’s next.”
Vane raised his brows. “What indeed?”
The light flashed again, much closer now—everyone froze. Vane clung to the edge of the hedge, aware of Patience pressed to his side. The others edged closer, wedged together so they could all see the section of lawn before the side door.
“It’s not fair! I don’t see why you had to give back my treasure.” Alice Colby’s disgruntled whine floated on the frosty air. “You’re going to get your treasure, but I won’t have anything!”
“I told you those things weren’t yours!” Whitticombe’s tone turned from aggravated to scathing. “I would have thought you’d have learned after last time. I won’t have you caught with things that aren’t yours. The very idea of being branded the brother of a thief!”
“Your treasure isn’t yours either!”
“That’s different.” Whitticombe stumped into view before the side door; he looked around at Alice, trailing after him. And sniffed contemptuously. “At least, this time, I could put your little foible to some use. It was just what I needed to deflect Cynster’s attention. While he’s getting young Debbington cleared, I’ll have the time I need to complete my work.”
“Work?” Alice’s contempt matched Whitticombe’s.
“You’re obsessed with this foolish treasure hunt. Is it here, or is it there?” she parroted in a singsong voice.
Whitticombe threw open the door. “Just go inside.”
Still singing her little ditty, Alice walked in.
Vane looked at Grisham. “Run like the devil—through the kitchen, into the old parlor behind the library. We’ll come to the windows.”
Grisham nodded and set off at a run.
Vane turned to the others; they all looked at him in mute expectation. He set his teeth. “We’re going to backtrack, quickly and quietly, around the house to the terrace. On the terrace, we’ll have to be especially quiet—Whitticombe will probably make for the library. We need to know more about this treasure of his, and whether he was, indeed, the one who struck Gerrard.”
As one, they all nodded. Resisting a strong urge to groan, Vane, Patience’s hand locked in his, led the way back through the shrubbery.
They picked their way along the verge bordering the carriage drive, then gingerly climbed to the terrace flags. Myst, a swift shadow, ran ahead; Vane silently cursed—and prayed the fiendish animal would behave.
Grisham was waiting, a wraith at the long parlor windows. He eased back the catch—Vane stepped in, then helped Patience over the raised sill.
“They’re arguing in the hall,” Grisham whispered, “over who owns some elephant or other.”
Vane nodded. He looked back and saw Timms and Edmond help Minnie in. Turning, he strode to the wall—and opened a door concealed in the paneling—revealing the back of another door, set into the paneling of the next room, the library. His hand on the latch of the second door, Vane glanced, frowning, over his shoulder.
The assembled company obediently held their breaths.
Vane eased opened the door.
The library was empty, lit only by the flames dancing in the hearth.
Scanning the room, Vane saw two large, four-paneled screens, used during summer to protect the old tomes from sunlight. The screens hadn’t been folded away; they stood open, parallel to the fireplace, effectively screening the area before the hearth from the terrace windows.
Stepping back, Vane drew Patience to him. Nodding to the screens, he gently pushed her through the door. Quickly, her gaze on the library door, she scooted across the floor, blessedly covered in a long Turkish rug, and took refuge behind the farthest screen.
Before Vane could blink, Gerrard followed his sister.
Vane glanced back, nodded the others toward the room, then followed his brother-in-law-to-be.
When footsteps fell outside the library door, the entire company, barring only Grisham, who’d elected to remain in the parlor, were all crammed behind the two screens, eyes glued to the fine slits between the panels.
Vane prayed no one would sneeze.
The door handle turned; Whitticombe led the way in, his expression disdainful. “It matters not who owned the elephant. The fact is, the goods inside it weren’t yours!”
“But I wanted them!” Face mottled, Alice clenched her fists. “The others lost them, and they became mine—but you took them away! You always take my things away!”
“That’s because they’re not yours to begin with!” Grinding his teeth, Whitticombe pushed Alice into the chair by the fire. “Just sit there and keep quiet!”
“I will not keep quiet!” Alice’s eyes blazed. “You always tell me I can’t have things I want—that it’s wrong to take them—but you’re going to take the abbey treasure. And that doesn’t belong to you!”
“It’s not the same!” Whitticombe thundered. He fixed Alice with a baleful eye. “I know the distinction is hard for you to grasp, but retrieving—resurrecting—lost church plate—restoring the magnificence of Coldchurch Abbey—is not the same as stealing!”
“But you want it all for yourself!”
“No!” Whitticombe forced himself to draw a calming breath, and lowered his voice. “I want to be the one to find it. I fully intend to hand it over to the proper authorities, but . . .” He lifted his head and straightened. “The fame of finding it, the glory of being the one who, through his tireless scholarship, traced and restored the lost plate of Coldchurch Abbey—that,” he declared, “will be mine.”
Behind the screen, Patience caught Vane’s eye. He smiled grimly.
“All very well,” Alice grumped. “But you needn’t make out you’re such a saint. Nothing saintly about hitting that fool boy with a rock.”
Whitticombe stilled. He stared down at Alice.
Who smirked. “Didn’t think I knew, did you. But I was in dear Patience’s room at the time and chanced to look out over the ruins.” She smiled maliciously. “I saw you do it—saw you pick up the rock, then creep up close. Saw you strike him down.”
She sat back, her gaze fixed on Whitticombe’s face. “Oh, no, dear brother, you’re no saint.”
Whitticombe sniffed, and waved dismissively. “Just a concussion—I didn’t hit him that hard. Just enough to make sure he never finished that sketch.” He started to pace. “When I think of the shock I got when I saw him poking about the abbot’s cellar door! It’s a wonder I didn’t hit him too hard. If he’d been more curious, and mentioned it to one of those other dunderheads—Chadwick, Edmond, or, heaven forbid, Edgar—Lord knows what might have happened. The fools might have stolen my discovery!”
“Your discovery?”
“Mine! The glory will be mine!” Whitticombe paced on.
“As it is, everything’s worked out perfectly. That tap
on the head was enough to scare the old woman into taking her precious nephew off to London—mercifully, she took all the others as well. So now—tomorrow—I can hire some itinerants to help me lift that stone, and then—!”
Triumphant, Whitticombe whirled—and froze.
All those peeking through the screens saw him, hand upraised as if to exhort adulation, staring, goggle-eyed, into the shadows at the side of the room. Everyone tensed. No one could see, or imagine, what he was staring at.
His mouth started to work first, opening and closing to no effect. Then: “Aaarrrrgh!!!” His face a mask of abject horror, Whitticombe pointed. “What’s that cat doing here?”
Alice looked, then frowned at him. “That’s Myst. Patience’s cat.”
“I know.” Whitticombe’s voice shook; his gaze didn’t shift.
Risking a glance around the screen, Vane sighted Myst, sitting neatly erect, her ancient, all-seeing blue gaze fixed, unwinking, on Whitticombe’s face.
“But it was in London!” Whitticombe gasped. “How did it get here?”
Alice shrugged. “It didn’t come down with us.”
“I know that!”
Someone choked on a laugh; the second screen wobbled, then teetered. A hand appeared at the top and righted it, then disappeared.
Vane sighed, and stepped out, around the other screen. Whitticombe’s eyes, which Vane would have sworn could not get any wider, did.
“Evening, Colby.” Vane waved Minnie forward; the others followed.
As the company assembled in full sight, Alice chortled. “So much for your secrets, dear brother.” She sank back in her chair, grinning maliciously, clearly unconcerned by her own misdemeanors.
Whitticombe threw her a swift glance and drew himself up. “I don’t know how much you heard—”
“All of it,” Vane replied.
Whitticombe blanched—and glanced at Minnie.
Who stared at him, disgust and disaffection clear in her face. “Why?” she demanded. “You had a roof over your head and a comfortable living. Was fame so important you would commit crimes—and for what? A foolish dream?”
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