A Rake's Vow (14 page)

“You can put me down now,” Patience hissed as he strode into the front hall.

“I’ll put you down in your room”

In the light from the hall candle, Patience saw what she hadn’t been able to see before—his face. It was set. In uncompromisingly grim lines.

To her surprise, he headed for the back of the hall, and shouldered open the green baize door. “Masters!”

Masters popped out from the butler’s pantry. “Yes, sir?—oh my!”

“Indeed,” Vane replied. “Summon Mrs. Henderson and one of the maids. Miss Debbington went wandering in the ruins and has turned her ankle and wrenched her knee.”

That, of course, did for her. Very thoroughly. Patience had to put up with Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Minnie’s old dresser, Ada, fussing nonstop about her. Vane led the bleating procession up the stairs—as he’d said, he set her down in her room, not before.

He set her, very gently, on the end of her bed. Frowning, he stood back. Hands on hips, he watched as Mrs. Henderson and Ada fussed with a mustard bath for her ankle and the makings of a poultice for her knee.

Apparently satisfied, Vane turned and trapped Patience’s gaze. His eyes were hard. “For God’s sake, do as you’re told.” With that, he strode for the door.

Utterly dumbfounded, Patience stared after him. She couldn’t think of anything halfway suitable to hurl at him before he disappeared. The door clicked shut. She snapped her mouth shut, let herself fall back on the bed, and relieved her feelings with a teeth-gritted groan.

Ada fluttered over. “It’ll be all right, dear.” She patted Patience’s hand. “We’ll make it all better in a moment.”

Patience set her teeth—and glared at the ceiling.

Mrs. Henderson came to wake her the next morning. Patience, lying on her back in the middle of her bed, was surprised to see the motherly housekeeper; she’d expected one of the maids.

Mrs. Henderson smiled as she drew the curtains wide. “I’ll need to remove that poultice and bind up your knee.”

Patience grimaced. She’d hoped to escape a bandage. She glanced idly at her clock, then stared. “It’s only seven o’clock.”

“Aye. We doubted you’d sleep all that well, what with the awkwardness.”

“I couldn’t turn over.” Patience struggled to sit up.

“It won’t be so bad tonight. Just a bandage should be enough from now on.”

With the housekeeper’s help, Patience got up. She sat patiently while Mrs. Henderson removed the poultice, clucked over her knee, then bound it up in a fresh bandage.

“I can’t walk,” Patience protested, the instant Mrs. Henderson helped her to her feet.

“Of course not. You must stay off your feet for a few days if that knee’s to heal.”

Patience closed her eyes and stifled a groan.

Mrs. Henderson helped her to wash and dress, then let her prop against the bed. “Now, would you like a tray up here, or would you rather go downstairs?”

To
think
of spending the entire day closeted in her room was bad enough; to be forced to do so would be torture. And if she was to go down the stairs, it had best be now, before anyone else was about. “Downstairs,” Patience replied decisively.

“Right then.”

To her amazement, Mrs. Henderson left her and headed for the door. Opening it, she put her head out, said something, then stood back, holding the door wide.

Vane walked in.

Patience stared.

“Good morning.” His expression impassive, he crossed the room. Before she could formulate her thoughts, let alone the words to express them, he stooped and scooped her into his arms.

Patience swallowed her gasp. Just like last night—with one highly pertinent alteration.

Last night, she’d been wearing her cloak; its thick folds had muted his touch sufficiently to render it undisturbing. Now, clad in a morning gown of fine twill, even through her petticoats she could feel every one of his fingers, one set gripping her lower thigh, the others firm beneath her arm, close by the swell of her breast.

As he angled her through the door, then straightened and headed for the gallery, Patience tried to steady her breathing, and prayed her blush wasn’t as vivid as it felt. Vane’s gaze touched her face, then he looked ahead and started down the stairs.

Patience risked a glance at his face—the hard planes were still set, locked and stony, as they had been last night. His fascinating lips were a straight line.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not actually incapacitated, you know.”

The glance he sent her was unreadable. He studied her eyes for an instant, then looked ahead once more. “Mrs. Henderson says you must keep off your feet. If I find you on them, I’ll tie you to a daybed.”

Patience’s jaw dropped. She stared at him, but, reaching the bottom of the stairs, he didn’t look her way. His boots rang on the hall tiles. Patience drew a deep breath, intending to make her views on his high-handedness plain, only to have to swallow her words; Vane swept into the breakfast parlor—Masters was there. He hurried to pull out the chair next to Vane’s, angling it so it faced the head of the table. Gently, Vane deposited her in it. Masters rolled an ottoman into position; Vane set her injured ankle upon it.

“Would you like a cushion, miss?” Masters inquired.

What could she do? Patience conjured a grateful smile.

“No, thank you, Masters.” Her gaze shifted to Vane, standing in front of her. “You’ve been more than kind.”

“Not at all, miss. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

Between them, Vane and Masters saw her supplied with suitable nourishment—then watched over her as she ate. Patience bore with their male version of fussing as stocially as she could. And waited.

Vane’s shoulders were coated with fine droplets of mist. His hair was darker than usual, an occasional droplet glittering amid the thick locks. He also broke his fast, working steadily through a plate piled with various meats. Patience inwardly sniffed—he was obviously a carnivore.

Eventually, Masters returned to the kitchen, to fetch chafing dishes to keep the fare warm.

As his footsteps faded, Patience pounced. “You’ve been out investigating.”

Vane looked up, then nodded and reached for his coffee cup.

“Well?” Patience prompted, when he simply sipped.

Lips compressing, he studied her face, then grudgingly informed her: “I thought there might be a footprint or two—a track I could follow.” He grimaced. “The ground was wet enough, but the ruins are all either flags, rocks, or matted grass. Nothing to hold any impression.”

“Hmm.” Patience frowned.

Masters returned. He set down his tray, then crossed to Vane’s side. “Grisham and Duggan are waiting in the kitchen, sir.”

Vane nodded and drained his coffee cup. He set it down and pushed back his chair.

Patience caught his eye and held it. She clung to the contact; her unspoken question hung in the air.

Vane’s face hardened. His lips thinned.

Patience narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll go to the ruins myself.”

Vane narrowed his eyes back. He flicked a glance at Masters, then, somewhat grimly, looked back at Patience. “We’re going to check for any sign that the Spectre came from outside. Hoofprints, anything to suggest he didn’t come from the Hall itself.”

Her expression relaxing, Patience nodded. “It’s been so wet, you should find something.”

“Precisely.” Vane stood. “If there’s anything to find.”

Masters left the parlor, on a return trip to the kitchens. From the direction of the stairs came an airy voice, “Good morning, Masters. Is anyone about yet?”

Angela. They heard Masters’s low-voiced answer; Vane looked down and met Patience’s wide eyes.

“That’s obviously my cue to depart.”

Patience grinned. “Coward,” she whispered, as he passed her chair.

A heartbeat later, he’d swung about and bent over her, his breath feathering the side of her neck. His strength flowed around her, surrounded her.

“Incidentally,” he murmured, in his deepest purr, “I meant what I said about the daybed.” He paused. “So, if you have the slightest inkling of self-preservation, you won’t move from this chair.” Cool, hard lips brushed her ear, then slid lower, to lightly caress, with just the barest touch, the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. Patience lost the fight and shivered; her lids lowered.

Vane tipped her chin up; his lips touched hers in a fleeting, achingly incomplete kiss. “I’ll be back before breakfast is over.”

Angela’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

Patience opened her eyes to see Vane striding out of the parlor. She heard Angela’s delighted greeting, then Vane’s answering rumble, dying away as he continued striding. A second later, Angela appeared. She was pouting.

Feeling infinitely older, infinitiely wiser, Patience smiled. “Come and have some breakfast. The eggs are particularly good.”

The rest of the breakfast crowd gradually wandered in. To Patience’s dismay, they, one and all, had already heard of her injury, courtesy of the household grapevine. Luckily, neither she nor Vane had seen fit to inform anyone of the reason for her nighttime excursion, so no one knew how she’d come by her hurts.

Everyone was suitably shocked by her “accident”; all were quick to proffer their sympathy.

“Distressing business,” Edgar offered with one of his meek smiles.

“Twisted m’knee once, when I was in India.” The General directed a curious glance up the table. “Horse threw me. Native wallahs wrapped it up in evil-smelling leaves. Knee, not the horse. Came good in no time.”

Patience nodded and sipped her tea.

Gerrard, beside her, occupying the chair she usually used, asked softly, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Ignoring the ache in her knee, Patience smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. “I’m hardly a weak creature. I promise you I’m not about to swoon from the pain.”

Gerrard grinned, but his expression remained watchful, concerned.

With her pleasant smile firmly in place, Patience allowed her gaze to roam. Until, across the table, she met Henry’s frown.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t quite understand how you came to wrench your knee.” His inflection made the statement a question.

Patience kept smiling. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a stroll.”

“Outside?” Edmond’s surprise faded to consideration. “Well, yes, I suppose you’d have to stroll outside—strolling
inside
this mausoleum at night would give anyone nightmares.” His swift grin dawned. “And presumably you wouldn’t have wanted them.”

Smiling over clenched teeth was not easy; Patience managed it, just. “I did go outside, as it happened.” Silence would have been wiser, but they were all hanging on her words, as avidly curious as only those leading humdrum lives could be.

“But . . .” Edgar’s brow folded itself into pin tucks. “The fog . . .” He looked at Patience. “It was a pea-souper last night. I looked out before I blew out my candle.”

“It was rather dense.” Patience looked at Edmond. “You would have appreciated the eerieness.”

“I had heard,” Whitticombe diffidently commented, “that Mr. Cynster carried you in.”

His words, quietly spoken, hung over the breakfast table, raising questions in every mind. A sudden stillness ensued, fraught with surprise and shocked calculation. Calmly, her smile no longer in evidence, Patience turned and, her expression distant, regarded Whitticombe.

Her mind raced, considering alternatives, but there was only one answer she could give. “Yes, Mr. Cynster did help me back to the house—it was lucky he found me. We’d both seen a light in the ruins and gone to investigate.”

“The Spectre!” The exclamation came from both Angela and Edmond. Their eyes glowed, their faces lit with excitement.

Patience tried to dampen their imminent transports. “I was following the light when I fell down a hole.”

“I had thought,” Henry said sternly, and all heads swung his way, “that we all promised Minnie we wouldn’t go chasing the Spectre in the dark.” The tenor of his voice and the expression on his face were quite surprising in their intensity. Patience felt a blush touch her cheeks.

“I’m afraid I forgot my promise,” she admitted.

“In the chill of the moment, so to speak.” Edmond leaned across the table. “Did your spine tingle?”

Patience opened her mouth, eager to grasp Edmond’s distraction, but Henry spoke first.

“I think, young man, that this nonsense of yours has gone quite far enough!”

The words were wrath-filled. Startled, everyone looked at Henry—his face was set, skin slightly mottled. His eyes were fixed on Gerrard.

Who stiffened. He met Henry’s gaze, then slowly put down his fork. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Henry replied, biting off the words, “that given the pain and suffering you’ve caused your sister, I’m shocked to discover you such an unfeeling whelp that you can sit there, beside her, and pretend to innocence.”

“Oh, come on,” Edmond said. Patience nearly sighed with relief. A second later she stiffened and stared as Edmond continued, his tone the very essence of reasonableness, “How could he know Patience would break her word to Minnie and come out after him?” Edmond shrugged and turned a winning smile on both Patience and Gerrard. “Hardly his fault she did.”

With supporters like that . . . Patience swallowed a groan and charged into the breach. “It wasn’t Gerrard.”

“Oh?” Edgar looked at her hopefully. “You saw the Spectre then?”

Patience bit her lip. “No, I didn’t. But—”

“Even if you had, you would still defend your brother, wouldn’t you, my dear?” Whitticombe’s smooth tones floated up the table. He directed a smile of paternalistic superiority at Patience. “Quite commendable devotion, my dear, but in this case, I fear”—his gaze switched to Gerrard; his features hardened, and he shook his head—“sadly misplaced.”

“It wasn’t I.” Pale, Gerrard made the statement evenly. Beside him, Patience sensed the battle he waged to hold his temper in check. Silently, she sent him support. Under the table, she gripped his thigh briefly.

Abruptly, he turned to her. “I’m not the Spectre.”

Patience held his furious gaze levelly. “I know.” She filled those two words with complete and utter conviction, and felt some of his heat leave him.