A Rake's Vow (15 page)

Turning, he flung a challenging stare around the table.

The General snorted. “Touching, but there’s no ducking the truth. Boy’s tricks, that’s what this Spectre is. And you, boy—you’re the only boy about.”

Patience felt the blow strike, a direct hit to the core of Gerrard’s emerging adulthood. He stilled, his face deathly pale, his expression bleak. Her heart wept for him; she longed to throw her arms about him, to shield and comfort him—but knew she could not.

Slowly, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood. He cast a burning glance around the table, excusing only Patience from its scorn. “If none of you has any more insults to hurl my way . . .” He paused, then continued, his voice threatening to break, “I’ll bid you a good morning.”

Brusquely, he nodded. With a swift, blank glance for Patience, he swung on his heel and left the room.

Patience would have given her entire fortune to be able to rise and, with haughty scorn, sweep out in his wake. Instead, she was trapped—condemned by her injury to have to keep her own soaring temper within bounds and deal with her aunt’s witless household. Despite her threat to Vane, she could not stand, let alone hobble.

Lips compressed, she swept a glance around the table. “Gerrard is not the Spectre.”

Henry smiled wearily. “My dear Miss Debbington, I’m afraid you really must face facts.”

“Facts?” Patience snapped. “What facts?”

With weighty condescension, Henry proceeded to tell her.

Vane was strolling up from the stables when he saw Gerrard, jaw grimly set, striding toward him.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

Stony-faced, eyes burning, Gerrard halted before him, drew a deep breath, met his gaze briefly, then abruptly shook his head. “Don’t ask.” With that, he flung past, and continued to the stables.

Vane watched him go. Gerrard’s clenched fists and rigid back spoke volumes. Vane hesitated, then his face hardened. Abruptly, he turned and strode for the house.

He reached the breakfast parlor in record time. One glance, and all expression left his face. Patience still sat where he’d left her, but instead of the bright sparkle he’d left in her large eyes, the light flush that had tinted her cheeks, her hazel eyes were now narrowed, flashing with temper, while flags of color flew high on her cheekbones.

Beyond that, she was pale, almost vibrating with suppressed fury. She didn’t see him immediately; Henry Chadwick was the current focus of her ire.

“There you are, Cynster! Come and add your voice to ours.” The General, swiveling in his chair, appealed to him. “We’ve been trying to tell Miss Debbington here that she has to see sense. No point bucking the truth, don’t you see? That ramshackle brother of hers needs a firmer hand on his reins. A good whipping will bring him into line and stop all this Spectre tommyrot.”

Vane looked at Patience. Her eyes, positively blazing, had fixed on the General. Her breasts swelled as she drew breath. If looks could kill, the General was dead. From her expression, she was ready to throttle Henry, too, with Edmond thrown in for good measure.

Smoothly, Vane strolled forward. His movement caught Patience’s attention; she looked up, and blinked. Vane trapped her gaze in his. He didn’t halt until he stood beside her chair. Then he held out his hand. Commandingly. Without hesitation, Patience laid her fingers in his palm.

Vane closed his hand strongly about hers; with a shudder, Patience felt warmth and strength flow into her. Her temper, almost at the breaking point, fell back from the brink. She drew in another breath and looked again at those about the table.

Vane did the same, his cool grey gaze scanning their faces. “I do hope,” he mumured, his languid drawl low but clearly audible, “that, after your ordeal of last night, no one has been insensitive enough to discompose you in any way?”

The quiet words, and the cold steel behind his eyes, were enough to make everyone else at the table still.

“Naturally,” he continued, in the same smooth tones, “events such as those of last night lend themselves to speculation. But, of course”—he smiled at them all—“it is just speculation.”

“Ah—” Edgar broke in to ask, “You found no evidence—no clue—to the Spectre’s identity?”

Vane’s smile deepened fractionally. “None. So any thoughts on the identity of the Spectre are, as I said, pure fancy.” He caught Edgar’s eye. “Based on rather less substance than a tip for the Guineas.”

Edgar smiled briefly.

“But,” interrupted the General, “stands to reason it’s got to be
someone
.”

“Oh, indeed,” Vane replied, at his languid best. “But ascribing the blame to any particular individual without reasonable
proof
seems to me to smack of . . .” He paused and met the General’s eye. “Quite unnecessary slander.”

“Humph!” The General sank lower in his chair.

“And, of course”—Vane’s gaze swung to Henry—“there’s always the thought of how foolish one will look if one’s overly enthusiastic assertions prove wrong.”

Henry frowned. His gaze dropped to the tablecloth.

Vane looked down at Patience. “Are you ready to go upstairs?”

Patience looked up at him and nodded. Vane bent and scooped her into his arms. Having got used to the sensation of being lifted so easily, Patience made herself comfortable, draping her arms about Vane’s neck. The men at the table all came to their feet; Patience glanced across the table—and almost smiled. The look on Henry’s and Edmond’s faces was priceless.

Vane turned and headed for the door. Edmond and Henry came rushing around the table, almost tripping in their haste.

“Oh, I say—here, let me help.” Henry rushed to hold back the already open door.

“Perhaps if we form a chair with our arms?” Edmond suggested.

Vane paused as Edmond moved to intercept them. Patience froze Edmond with an icy glare. “Mr. Cynster is more than capable of managing on his own.” She allowed the chill in her voice to strike home, before adding, in precisely the same tone, “I am going to retire—I do not wish to be disturbed. Not by any further speculation, nor unwarranted slander. And least of all”—she shifted her sights to Henry—“by any overly enthusiastic assertions.”

She paused, then smiled, and looked at Vane. Utterly unmoved, he raised a brow at her. “Upstairs?”

Patience nodded. “Indeed.”

Without further ado, and no further hindrance, Vane carried her from the room.

“W
hy, Vane asked, as he steadily climbed the main stairs, “are they so convinced it’s Gerrard?”

“Because,” Patience waspishly stated, “they can’t imagine anything else. It’s a
boy’s
trick; ergo it must be Gerrard.” As Vane gained the top of the stairs, she continued, her tone vitriolic. “Henry has no imagination; neither has the General. They’re blockheads. Edmond has imagination to spare, but doesn’t care enough to engage it. He’s so irresponsible, he considers it all a lark. Edgar is cautious over jumping to conclusions, but his very timidity leaves him permanently astride the fence. And as for Whitticombe”—she paused, breasts swelling, eyes narrowing—“
he
’s a self-righteous killjoy who positively delights in calling attention to others’ supposed misdemeanors, all with a sickeningly superior air.”

Vane shot her a sidelong glance. “Clearly breakfast didn’t agree with you.”

Patience humphed. Looking ahead, she focused on their surroundings. She didn’t recognize them. “Where are you taking me?”

“Mrs. Henderson has set up one of the old parlors for you—so you won’t be bothered with the others unless you choose to summon them.”

“Which will be after hell freezes.” After a moment, Patience glanced up at Vane. In a very different tone, she asked: “You don’t think it’s Gerrard, do you?”

Vane looked down at her. “I
know
it isn’t Gerrard.”

Patience’s eyes widened. “You saw who it was?”

“Yes and no. I only caught a glimpse as he went through a thinner patch of fog. He clambered over a rock, holding his light high, and I saw him outlined by the light. A grown man from his build. Height’s difficult to judge at a distance, but build is harder to mistake. He was wearing a heavy coat, something like frieze, although my impression was it wasn’t that cheap.”

“But you’re sure it wasn’t Gerrard?”

Vane glanced down at Patience riding comfortably in his arms. “Gerrard’s still too lightweight to be mistaken for a fully grown man. I’m quite certain it wasn’t he.”

“Hmm.” Patience frowned. “What about Edmond—he’s rather thin. Is he eliminated, too?”

“I don’t think so. His shoulders are broad enough to carry a coat well, and with his height, if he was hunched, either against the cold or because he was playing the role of ‘the Spectre,’ then he could have been the man I saw.”

“Well, whatever else,” Patience said, brightening, “you can put an end to this scurrilous talk of Gerrard being the Spectre.” Her brightness lasted all of ten yards, then she frowned. “Why didn’t you clear Gerrard’s name just now, in the breakfast parlor?”

“Because,” Vane said, ignoring the sudden chill in her voice, “it’s patently obvious that someone—someone about the breakfast table—is quite content to cast Gerrard as the Spectre. Someone wants Gerrard as scapegoat, to distract attention from himself. Given the mental aptitudes you so accurately described, the gentlemen are, by and large, easily led. Present the matter right, and they’ll happily believe it. Unfortunately, as none of them is
un
intelligent, it’s difficult to tell just who’s doing the leading.”

He stopped before a door; frowning, Patience absent-mindedly leaned forward and opened it. Vane shouldered the door wide and carried her in.

As he had said, it was a parlor, but not one usually in use. It lay at the end of the wing housing Patience’s bedchamber, one floor down. The windows were long, reaching almost to the floor. Maids had obviously been in, throwing back dust covers, dusting ferociously, and refurbishing the huge cast-iron Empire daybed that faced the long windows. Their curtains tied back, the windows looked over the shrubbery and a section of wilderness—most of the Hall’s gardens were wilderness—to the golden brown canopies of the woods beyond. It was as pleasant a prospect as could be found in the present season. Farther to the right lay the ruins; in the distance, the grey ribbon of the Nene wound its way through lush meadows. Patience could recline on the daybed and contemplate the scenery. As the room was on the first floor, her privacy was assured.

Vane carried her to the daybed and carefully lowered her onto it. He plumped the pillows, arranging them supportively about her.

Patience lay back, watching as he settled a tapestry-covered cushion under her sore ankle. “Just what are your intentions over the Spectre?”

Vane met her gaze, then, raising one brow, strolled back to the door—and turned the key in the lock. Returning with the same long-strided prowl, he sat on the bed, beside her hip, bracing one hand on the daybed’s iron back. “The Spectre now knows that he was followed last night—that, but for your untimely accident, he might well have been caught.”

Patience had the grace to blush.

“All the household,” Vane continued, his eyes locking on hers, “the Spectre included, are coming to the realization that I know the Hall well, possibly better than they do. I’m a real threat to the Spectre—I think he’ll lie low and wait for me to depart before making another appearance.”

Patience made an effort to live up to her name; she pressed her lips tightly together.

Vane smiled understandingly. “Consequently, if we’re to lure the Spectre to reveal himself, I suspect it would be wise to let it appear that I’m still willing to entertain the notion that Gerrard—the obvious candidate—is to blame.”

Patience frowned. She studied the cool grey of his eyes, then opened her lips.

“I would suggest,” Vane said, before she could speak, “that it’s not going to hurt Gerrard to let the household think what they like, at least for the immediate future.”

Patience’s frown deepened. “You didn’t hear what they said.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “The General called him a boy.”

Vane’s brows rose. “Highly insensitive, I agree—but I think you’re underestimating Gerrard. Once he knows all the people he cares about
know
he’s innocent, he won’t worry over what the others think. I suspect he’ll view it as an exciting game—a conspiracy to catch the Spectre.”

Patience narrowed her eyes. “You mean that’s how you’ll present it to him.”

Vane grinned. “I’ll suggest he responds to any aspersions cast his way with scornful boredom.” He raised his brows. “Perhaps he can cultivate a superior sneer?”

Patience tried to eye him with disapproval. She was sure that, as Gerrard’s guardian, she shouldn’t approve of such plans. Yet she did; she could see Vane’s plan was the fastest way to resuscitate Gerrard’s confidence, and that, above all, was her primary concern. “You’re rather good at this, aren’t you?” And she didn’t just mean his reading of Gerrard.

Vane’s grin converted to a rakish smile. “I’m rather good at lots of things.”

His voice had lowered to a rumbling purr. He leaned closer.