A Rake's Vow (11 page)

Grimacing, Patience started on a new sheaf of grasses. “Vane said something about being in Cambridgeshire to attend a church service.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Detecting amusement in Minnie’s tone, Patience looked up, and saw Minnie exchange a laughing glance with Timms. Then Minnie looked at her. “Vane’s mother wrote to me about it. Seems the five unmarried members of the Bar Cynster got ideas above their station. They ran a wagers book on the date of conception of Devil’s heir. Honoria heard of it at the christening—she promptly confiscated all their winnings for the new church roof and decreed they all attend the dedication service.” A smile wreathing her face, Minnie nodded. “They did, too.”

Patience blinked and lowered her work to her lap. “You mean,” she said, “that just because the duchess said they had to, they did?”

Minnie grinned. “If you’d met Honoria, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

“But . . .” Brow furrowing, Patience tried to imagine it—tried to imagine a woman ordering Vane to do something he didn’t wish to do. “The duke can’t be very assertive.”

Timms snorted, choked, then succumbed to gales of laughter; Minnie was similarly stricken. Patience watched them double up with mirth—adopting a long-suffering expression, she waited with feigned patience.

Eventually, Minnie choked her way to a stop and mopped her streaming eyes. “Oh, dear—that’s the most ridiculously funny—ridiculously
wrong
—statement I’ve ever heard.”

“Devil,” Timms said, in between hiccups, “is the most outrageously arrogant dictator you’re ever likely to meet.”

“If you think Vane is bad, just remember it was Devil who was born to be a duke.” Minnie shook her head. “Oh, my—just the thought of a nonassertive Devil . . .” Mirth threatened to overwhelm her again.

“Well,” Patience said, frowning still, “he doesn’t sound particularly strong, allowing his duchess to dictate to his cousins over what is held to be a male prerogative.”

“Ah, but Devil’s no fool—he could hardly gainsay Honoria on such a matter. And, of course, the reason Cynster men always indulge their wives was very much to the fore.”

“The reason?” Patience asked.

“Family,” Timms replied. “They were all gathered for the christening.”

“Very family-focused, the Cynsters.” Minnie nodded. “Even the Bar Cynster—they’re always so good with children. Entirely trustworthy and utterly reliable. Probably comes from being such a large brood—they always were a
prolific
lot. The older ones are used to having younger brothers and sisters to watch out for.”

Cold, heavy, the weight of dismay started to coalesce in Patience’s stomach.

“Actually,” Minnie said, chins wobbling as she resettled her shawls, “I’m very glad Vane will be staying for a while. He’ll give Gerrard a few hints on how to go on—just the thing to prepare him for London.”

Minnie looked up; Patience looked down. The lump of cold iron swelled enormously; it sank straight through her stomach and settled in her gut.

In her head, she replayed her words to Vane, the thinly veiled insults she’d leveled at him in the drawing room the previous night.

Her gut clenched hard about the lump of cold iron. She felt positively ill.

T
he next morning, Patience descended the stairs, a brittlely bright smile on her face. She swept into the breakfast parlor and nodded with determined cheerfulness to the gentlemen sitting at the table. Her smile froze, just for an instant, when she saw, wonder of wonders, Angela Chadwick, chatting loquaciously, greatly animated, in the chair to Vane’s left.

He sat at the table’s head as usual; Patience allowed her smile to flow over him, but didn’t meet his eyes. Despite Angela’s outpourings, from the moment she’d appeared, Vane’s attention had fixed on her. She helped herself to kedgeree and kippers, then, with a smile for Masters as he held her chair, took her place beside Gerrard.

Angela immediately appealed to her. “I was just saying to Mr. Cynster that it would be
such
a welcome diversion if we could get up a party to go to Northampton. Just
think
of all the shops!” Eyes bright, she looked earnestly at Patience. “Don’t you think that’s a
wonderful
idea?”

For one instant, Patience was sorely tempted to agree. Anything—even a day shopping with Angela—was preferable to facing what had to be faced. Then the idea of sending Vane shopping with Angela occurred. The vision that rose in her mind, of him in some milliner’s establishment, teeth gritted as he coped with Angela’s witlessness, was priceless. She couldn’t stop herself glancing up the table . . . her priceless image evaporated. Vane wasn’t interested in Angela’s wardrobe. His grey gaze was fixed on her face; his expression was impassive, but there was a frown in his eyes. He narrowed them slightly, as if he could see through her facade.

Patience immediately looked at Angela and increased the intensity of her smile. “I think it’s a little far to do much shopping in a day. Perhaps you should ask Henry to escort you and your mother down for a few days?”

Angela looked much struck; she leaned forward to consult Henry, farther down the table.

“It looks like it’ll stay fine.” Gerrard glanced at Patience. “I think I’ll take my easel out and make a start on the scenes Edmond and I decided on yesterday.”

Patience nodded.

“Actually”—Vane lowered his voice so its rumble ran beneath Angela’s excited chatter—“I wondered if you’d show me the areas you’ve been sketching.”

Patience looked up; Vane trapped her gaze.

“If”—his voice turned steely—“your sister approves?”

Patience inclined her head graciously. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

A frown flashed through Vane’s eyes; Patience looked down at her plate.

“But what can we do today?” Angela looked about, clearly expecting an answer.

Patience held her breath, but Vane remained silent.

“I’m going sketching,” Gerrard declared, “and I won’t want to be disturbed. Why don’t you go for a walk?”

“Don’t be silly,” Angela returned scornfully. “It’s far too wet to go strolling.”

Patience inwardly grimaced and forked up her last mouthful of kedgeree.

“Well then,” Gerrard retorted, “you’ll just have to amuse yourself doing whatever it is that young ladies do.”

“I will,” Angela declared. “I’ll read to Mama in the front parlor.” So saying, she stood. As the gentlemen rose, Patience blotted her lips with her napkin and grasped the moment to make her exit, too.

She needed to hunt out her most waterproof walking shoes.

An hour later, she stood at the side door and surveyed the expanse of sodden grass between her and the ruins. Between her and the apology she had to make. A brisk breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of rain; there seemed little likelihood the grass would dry soon. Patience grimaced and glanced down at Myst, sitting neatly beside her. “I suppose it’s part of my penance.”

Myst looked up, enigmatic as ever, and twitched her tail.

Patience determinedly stepped out. In one hand, she twirled her furled parasol; there was just enough weak sunshine to excuse it, but she’d really picked it up simply to have something in her hands. Something to fiddle with, something defensive—something to glance at if things got truly bothersome.

Ten yards from the door, and the hem of her lilac walking dress was wet. Patience gritted her teeth and glanced around for Myst—and realized the cat wasn’t there. Looking back, she saw Myst, sitting primly on the stone stoop of the side door. Patience pulled a face at her. “Fine-weather friend,” she muttered, and resumed her stroll.

Her hem got wetter and wetter; gradually, water found its way through the seams of her kid boots. Patience doggedly slogged on. Wet feet might be part of her penance, but she was sure it would be the lesser part. Vane, she was certain, would provide the greater.

Abruptly, she pushed that thought aside—it was not a thought she need dwell on. What was to come would not be easy, but if she allowed herself to think too much, her courage would desert her.

Quite how she had come to be so wrong she really couldn’t fathom. To have been wrong on one point would have been bad enough, but to find herself so comprehensively off target was incomprehensible.

As she detoured around the first of the fallen stones, her jaw set. It wasn’t fair. He
looked
like an elegant gentleman. He
moved
like an elegant gentleman. In many ways, he
behaved
like an elegant gentleman! How could she have known that in nonphysical ways he was so different?

She clung to the thought, trying it on for comfort, seeing if it would bolster her courage—then relucantly shrugged it aside. She couldn’t duck the fact that she was very much at fault. She’d judged Vane entirely by his wolf’s clothing. Although he was, indeed, a wolf, he was, apparently, a
caring
wolf.

There was no way out but to apologize. Her self-respect wouldn’t accept anything less; she didn’t think he would either.

Reaching the ruins proper, she looked about. Her eyes ached; she’d got even less sleep last night than she had the night before. “Where are they?” she muttered. If she could get this over with, and free her mind of its most vexing problem, perhaps she could nap this afternoon.

But first, she had to give the wolf his due. She was here to apologize. She wanted to do it quickly—before she lost her nerve.

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Gerrard’s voice led her to the old cloisters. His easel before him, he was sketching the arches along one side. Stepping into the open courtyard, Patience searched—and spotted Vane lounging in the shadows of a half-shattered cloister arch some paces behind Gerrard.

Vane had already spotted her.

Gerrard glanced up as her boots scraped on the flags. “Hello. Vane’s just been telling me that sketching’s considered quite the thing among the
ton
at present. Apparently, the Royal Academy holds an exhibition every year.” Charcoal in hand, he turned back to his sketch.

“Oh?” Her gaze on Vane, Patience wished she could see his eyes. His expression was unreadable. Shoulders propped against the stone arch, arms folded across his chest, he watched her like a hawk. A brooding, potentially menacing hawk. Or a wolf anticipating a meal.

Giving herself a mental shake, she stepped up to Gerrard’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can visit the Academy when we go up to town.”

“Hmm,” Gerrard said, entirely absorbed with his work.

Patience studied Gerrard’s sketch.

Vane studied her. He’d seen her the instant she’d appeared, framed by a break in the old wall. He’d known she was near an instant before that, warned by some sixth sense, by a faint ripple in the atmosphere. She drew his senses like a lodestone. Which, at present, was not helpful.

Gritting his teeth, he fought to block his memories of the previous night from crystallizing in his mind. Every time they did, his temper took flight, which, given she was near, within easy reach, was the opposite of wise. His temper was very like a sword—once unsheathed, it was all cold steel. And it took real effort to resheathe it. Something he hadn’t yet accomplished.

If Miss Patience Debbington was wise, she would keep her distance until he had.

If he was wise, he’d do the same.

His gaze, dwelling, entirely without his permission, on her curves, on the play of her skirts about her legs, dropped to inspect her ankles. She was wearing kid half boots—and her skirts were distinctly wet.

Inwardly, Vane frowned. He stared at her wet hems. She
had
changed tack—he’d thought she had over breakfast, then dismissed the idea as hopeful fancy. He couldn’t see why she would have changed her mind. He’d already convinced himself there was nothing he could say to refute her accusations—they all held a grain of truth, and, if he was honest, he’d set himself up with his attempts at masterful manipulation. He’d concluded there was only one way to correct her misguided notions—he would
prove
them wrong, not by word, but by deed. And then he would be able to savor her confusion, and her apologies.

Straightening, pushing away from the stone arch, Vane realized that, somehow or other, her apologies were coming early. He wasn’t about to place extra hurdles in her path. Slowly, he strolled forward.

Patience was instantly aware of him. She glanced swiftly his way, then looked back at Gerrard’s sketch. “Will you be much longer?”

“Hours,” Gerrard replied.

“Well . . .” Patience lifted her head and boldly met Vane’s eyes. “I wonder, Mr. Cynster, if I could prevail on you to lend me your arm back to the house. It’s more slippery than I’d thought. Some of the stones are quite treacherous.”

Vane raised one brow. “Indeed?” Smoothly, he offered her his arm. “I know a route back that has a number of advantages.”

Patience shot him a suspicious look, but she placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to turn her toward the old church. Gerrard absentmindedly acknowledged their good-byes, and Patience’s sisterly admonition to return to the house in time for lunch.

Giving her no time to think of anything further to tell Gerrard, Vane led her into the nave. The single remaining arch soared above them; within minutes they were out of Gerrard’s sight and hearing, strolling side by side down the long central aisle.