A Rake's Vow (7 page)

She knew the male members of the household too well—there was no possiblity they’d omitted to mention last night’s contretemps, nor that they hadn’t, in one way or another, accused Gerrard of it. But he was clearly unperturbed, which could mean only one thing. For whatever reason, Vane Cynster had taken up the cudgels in her stead and deflected the household’s unreasoning suspicions of Gerrard. Her frown deepened as she heard Gerrard’s voice, youthful enthusiasm ringing as he described a nearby ride.

Eyes widening, Patience picked up her plate and whirled. She advanced on the table, to the chair beside Gerrard. Masters drew it out and held it while she sat.

Gerrard turned to her. “I was just telling Vane that Minnie kept the best of Sir Humphrey’s hunters. And the rides hereabouts are quite reasonable.”

His eyes glowed with a light Patience hadn’t seen in them before. Smiling, he turned back to Vane. Her heart sinking, Patience looked to the head of the table, too. Vane sat relaxed, wide shoulders encased in a grey hacking jacket settled comfortably against the chair back, one hand resting on the chair’s arm, the other stretched on the table, long fingers crooked about the handle of a coffee cup.

In daylight, his features were as hard-edged as she’d thought them, his face every bit as strong. His heavy lids hid his eyes as, with lazy interest, he listened to Gerrard extol the equestrian virtues of the locality.

To her right, the General snorted, then pushed back his chair. Whitticombe rose, too. One after the other, they left the room. Frowning, Patience applied herself to her breakfast and tried to think of another subject with which to capture the conversation.

Vane saw her frown. The devil in him stirred and stretched, then settled to contemplate this latest challenge. She would, he felt sure, avoid him. Shifting his hooded gaze, he studied Gerrard. Vane smiled. Lazily. He waited until Patience took a bite of her toast.

“Actually,” he drawled, “I was thinking of filling in the morning with a ride. Anyone interested?”

Gerrard’s eager response was instantaneous; Patience’s response, though far less eager, was no less rapid. Vane stifled a grin at the sight of her stunned expression as, with her mouth inhibitingly full, she heard Gerrard accept his invitation with undisguised delight.

Patience looked out through the long parlor windows. The day was fine, a brisk breeze drying the puddles. She swallowed, and looked at Vane. “I thought you would be leaving.”

He smiled, a slow, devilish, fascinating smile. “I’ve decided to stay for a few days.”

Damn
! Patience bit back the word and looked across the table at Edmond.

Who shook his head. “Not for me. The muse calls—I must do her bidding.”

Patience inwardly cursed, and switched her gaze to Henry. He considered, then grimaced. “A good idea, but I should check on Mama first. I’ll catch up if I can.”

Vane inclined his head, and slanted a smiling glance at Gerrard. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, then.”

“No!” Patience coughed to disguise the abruptness of her answer; then took a sip of tea and looked up. “If you’ll wait while I change, I’ll come, too.”

She met Vane’s eyes, and saw the grey glint wickedly. But he smoothly, graciously, inclined his head, accepting her company, which was all she cared about. Setting down her teacup, she rose. “I’ll meet you at the stables.”

Rising with his customary grace, Vane watched as she left, then sank back, elegantly asprawl. He lifted his coffee cup, thus hiding his victorious smile. Gerrard, after all, wasn’t blind. “Ten minutes, do you think?” He lifted a brow at Gerrard.

“Oh, at least.” Gerrard grinned and reached for the coffeepot.

B
y the time she gained the stable yard, Patience had the bit firmly between her teeth. Vane Cynster was not a suitable mentor for Gerrard, but, given the evidence of her eyes, Gerrard was already well on the way to an unhealthy respect, which could all too easily lead to adulation. Hero worship. Dangerous emulation.

It was all very clear in her mind.

The train of her lavender-velvet riding habit over her arm, she strode into the yard, heels ringing on the cobbles. Her reading of the situation was instantly confirmed.

Vane sat a massive grey hunter with elegant ease, effortlessly controlling the restive beast. Beside him, on a chestnut gelding, Gerrard blithely chatted. He looked happier, more relaxed, than he had since they’d arrived. Patience noted it, but, halting in the shadows of the stable arch, her attention remained riveted on Vane Cynster.

Her mother had often remarked that “true gentlemen” looked uncommonly dashing on horseback. Quelling an inward sniff—her normal reaction to that observation, which had invariably alluded to her father—Patience reluctantly conceded she could now see her mother’s point: There was something about the harnessed power of the man, dominating and harnessing the power of the beast, that made her stomach tighten. The clop of hooves had drowned out her approach; she stared for a minute longer, then gave herself a mental shake, and walked forward.

Grisham had the brown mare she favored saddled and waiting; Patience ascended the mounting block, then climbed into the saddle. She settled her skirts and picked up the reins.

“Ready?”

The question came from Vane. Patience nodded.

Naturally,
he
led the way out.

The morning greeted them, crisp and clear. Pale grey clouds dotted the washed-out sky; the smell of damp greenery was all-pervasive. Their first stop was a knoll, three miles from the Hall. Vane had ridden the fidgets from his mount in a series of short gallops that Patience had tried hard not to watch. After that, the grey had cantered beside her mare. Gerrard had ridden on her other side. None of them had spoken, content to look about and let the cool air refresh them.

Reining in beside Vane on the top of the knoll, Patience looked around. Beside her, Gerrard scanned the horizon, gauging the view. Twisting in his saddle, he eyed the steep mound beyond Vane, covering one end of the knoll.

“Here.” Thrusting his reins into her hands, Gerrard dismounted. “I’m going to check the view.”

Patience glanced at Vane, sitting his grey with deceptive ease, hands crossed on the saddlebow. He smiled lazily at Gerrard but made no move to follow. They watched as Gerrard scrambled up the steep sloping side of the mound. Gaining the top, he waved, then looked about. After a moment, he sank down, his gaze fixed in the distance.

Patience grinned and transferred her gaze to Vane’s face. “I’m afraid he might be hours. He’s very much taken with landscapes at present.”

To her surprise, the grey eyes watching her showed no sign of alarm at that news. Instead, Vane’s long lips curved. “I know,” he said. “He mentioned his current obsession, so I told him about the old burial mound.”

He paused, then added, his eyes still on hers, his smile deepening, “The views are quite spectacular.” His eyes glinted. “Guaranteed to hold a budding artist’s attention for a considerable space of time.”

Patience, her gaze locked in the grey of his, felt a tingling sensation run over her skin. She blinked, then frowned. “How kind of you.” She turned to study the views herself. And again felt that odd sensation, a ripple of awareness sliding over her nerves, leaving them sensitized. It was most peculiar. She would have put it down to the touch of the breeze, but the wind wasn’t that cold.

Beside her, Vane raised his brows, his predator’s smile still in evidence. Her lavender habit was not new, hardly fashionable, yet it hugged her contours, emphasizing their softness, leaving him with an urgent longing to fill his arms with their warmth. The grey shifted; Vane steadied him. “Minnie mentioned you and your brother hail from Derbyshire. Do you ride much while there?”

“As much as I can.” Patience glanced his way. “I enjoy the exercise, but the rides in the vicinity of the Grange are rather restricted. Are you familiar with the area around Chesterfield?”

“Not specifically.” Vane grinned. “That’s a bit farther north than my usual hunting grounds.”

For foxes—or females? Patience stifled a humph. “From your knowledge of the locality”—she glanced at the mound beside them—“I take it you’ve visited here before?”

“Often as a child. My cousin and I spent a few weeks here most summers.”

Patience humphed. “I’m surprised Minnie survived.”

“On the contrary—she thrived on our visits. She always delighted in our exploits and adventures.”

When she returned no further comment, Vane softly said, “Incidentally, Minnie mentioned the odd thefts that have occurred at the Hall.” Patience looked up; he trapped her gaze. “Is that what you were looking for in the flower bed? Something that disappeared?”

Patience hesitated, searching his eyes, then nodded. “I told myself Myst must have knocked it out of the window, but I hunted high and low, in the room and in the flower bed. I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“What was ‘it’?”

“A small silver vase.” She sketched the shape of a bud vase. “About four inches high. I’ve had it for years—I don’t suppose it’s particularly valuable, but . . .”

“You’d rather have it than not. Why were you so keen not to mention it last night?”

Her face setting, Patience met Vane’s eyes. “You aren’t going to tell me the
gentlemen
of the household didn’t happen to mention over the breakfast table this morning that they think Gerrard is behind all these odd occurrences—the Spectre, as they call it, and the thefts as well?”

“They did, as it happens, but we—Gerrard, myself, and, surprisingly enough, Edmond—pointed out that that notion has no real foundation.”

The unladylike sound Patience made was eloquent—of irritation, frustration, and overstretched tolerance.

“Indeed,” Vane concurred, “so you have yet another reason to feel grateful to me.” As Patience swung his way, he frowned. “And Edmond, unfortunately.”

Despite herself, Patience’s lips quirked. “Edmond would gainsay the elders simply for a joke—he doesn’t take anything seriously, other than his muse.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Instead of being distracted, Patience continued to study his face. Vane raised one brow. “I did tell you,” he murmured, holding her gaze, “that I’m determined to put you in my debt. You needn’t concern yourself over the gentlemen’s attitude to Gerrard while I’m about.” He didn’t think her pride would allow her to accept an outright offer of a broad shoulder to deflect the slings and arrows of the present Hall society; presenting his aid in the guise of a rake’s machinations, would, he hoped, permit her to let the matter go with a shrug and a tart comment.

What he got was a frown. “Well, I do thank you if you tried to set them straight.” Patience glanced up to where Gerrard was still communing with the horizon. “But you can see why I didn’t want to make a fuss over my vase—they’d only blame Gerrard.”

Vane raised his brows noncommittally. “Whatever. If anything more disappears, tell me, or Minnie, or Timms.”

Patience looked at him and frowned. “What—”

“Who’s this?” Vane nodded at a horseman cantering toward them.

Patience looked, then sighed. “Hartley Penwick.” Although her expression remained bland, her tone grimaced. “He’s the son of one of Minnie’s neighbors.”

“Well met, my dear Miss Debbington!” Penwick, a well-set gentleman attired in tweed jacket and corduroy breeches, and astride a heavy roan, swept Patience a bow more wide than it was elegant. “I trust I find you well?”

“Indeed, sir.” Patience gestured to Vane. “Allow me to make you known to Lady Bellamy’s godson.” Briefly, she introduced Vane, adding the information that he had stopped to take shelter from last night’s storm.

“Ah.” Penwick shook Vane’s hand. “So your visit’s in the nature of a forced halt. Daresay you’ll be on your way soon. The sun’s drying the roads nicely, and there’s nothing in this backwater to compare with
ton
nish pursuits.”

If Penwick had declared that he wanted him gone, he could not have been more explicit. Vane smiled, a gesture full of teeth. “Oh, I’m in no especial hurry.”

Penwick’s brows rose; his eyes, watchful from the instant he had beheld Vane, grew harder. “Ah—on a repairing lease, I take it?”

“No.” Vane’s gaze grew chilly, his diction more precise. “I’m merely in the way of pleasing myself.”

That information did not please Penwick. Patience was about to step into the breach, to protect Penwick from likely annihilation, when Penwick, searching for the person to match the third horse, glanced up.

“Great heavens!
Get down
from there, you scallywag!”

Vane blinked and glanced up. Eyes glued to the horizon, the scallywag feigned deafness. Turning back, Vane heard Patience haughtily state: “It’s perfectly all right, sir. He’s looking at the views.”

“Views!” Penwick snorted. “The sides of that mound are steep and slippery—what if he should fall?” He looked at Vane. “I’m surprised, Cynster, that you permitted young Debbington to embark on a mad scheme guaranteed to overturn his sister’s sensiblities.”

Patience, suddenly no longer sure of Gerrard’s safety, looked at Vane.