A Rake's Vow (19 page)

“What . . . ?” Patience looked down as his hand disappeared and the scarf drew tight. Then she glared. “This is ridiculous.” She tugged at the scarf and tried to shift forward, but he’d already secured the knot. The silk gave just so far, then held. Vane strolled around to face her; Patience shot him a dagger glance—she didn’t want to know about the smile on his lips. Compressing her own, she lifted her arms and reached over the back of the bed. The ornately worked railing reached halfway up her back—while she could lift her arms over it, she couldn’t reach very far down. She couldn’t touch his knot, let alone untie it.

Eyes narrowed, Patience looked up; Vane was watching her, a cool smile of ineffable male superiority etched on his too-fascinating lips. She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You will never live this down.”

The curve of his lips deepened. “You’re not uncomfortable. Just sit still for the next hour.” His gaze sharpened. “It’ll do your knee good.”

Patience gritted her teeth. “I’m not some infant who needs to be restrained!”

“On the contrary it’s clear you need someone to exercise some control over you. You heard Mrs. Henderson—four full days. Your four days is up tomorrow.”

Astounded, Patience stared at him. “And just who appointed you my keeper?”

She caught his gaze, held the contact defiantly—and waited. His eyes narrowed. “I feel guilty. I should have sent you back to the house as soon as I found you in the ruins.”

All expression drained from Patience’s face. “You wish you’d sent me back to the house?”

Vane frowned. “I feel guilty because you were following me when you got hurt.”

Patience humphed and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You told me it was
my
fault for not staying where you’d told me to stay. Anyway, if Gerrard at seventeen is old enough to be responsible for his own actions, why would it be otherwise with me?”

Vane looked down at her; Patience felt sure she’d won her point. Then he raised an arrogant brow. “
You’re
the one with the wrenched knee.
And
the twisted ankle.”

Patience refused to surrender. “My ankle’s fine.” She put her nose in the air. “And my knee’s just a bit stiff. If I could test it—”

“You can test it tomorrow. Who knows?” Vane’s expression hardened. “You might need an extra day or two’s rest after today’s excitement.”

Patience narrowed her eyes. “Don’t,” she advised, “even suggest it.”

Vane raised both brows, then, turning away, prowled to the window. Patience watched him, and tried to locate the anger she felt sure she should feel. It simply wasn’t to be found. Stifling a disaffected humph, she settled more comfortably. “So what did you discover in Northampton?”

He glanced back, then fell to prowling back and forth between the windows. “Gerrard and I made the acquaintance of a very helpful individual—the Northampton Guildmaster, so to speak.”

Patience frowned. “Of which guild?”

“The guild of moneylenders, thieves, and rogues—assuming there is one. He was intrigued with our investigations and amused enough to be helpful. His contacts are extensive. After two hours of consuming the best French brandy—at my expense, of course—he assured us no one had recently attempted to sell any items of the sort we’re seeking.”

“Do you think he’s reliable?”

Vane nodded. “There was no reason for him to lie. The items, as he so succinctly put it, are of insufficient quality to attract his personal interest. He’s also well-known as ‘the man to contact.’

“Patience grimaced. “You’ll check Kettering?”

Still pacing, Vane nodded.

Watching him, Patience conjured her most innocent expression. “And what did Mrs. Chadwick and Angela do while you and Gerrard met with this Guildmaster?”

Vane stopped pacing. He looked at Patience—studied her. His expression was unreadable. Eventually, he said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

His voice had altered, a subtle undercurrent of awakened interest sliding beneath the suave tones. Patience opened her eyes wide. “You mean Angela didn’t tell you every last detail on the drive back?”

With long, languid strides, Vane came toward her. “She traveled—both ways—in the carriage.”

Vane reached the edge of the daybed. His eyes gleamed with a predator’s satisfaction. He leaned nearer—

“Patience? Are you awake?”

A peremptory knock was followed immediately by the sound of the latch lifting.

Patience swung around—as far as she could. Vane straightened; as the door opened, he reached the back of the daybed. Before he could tug the knotted scarf loose, Angela breezed in.

“Oh!” Angela stopped, eyes widening with delight. “Mr. Cynster!
Perfect
! You must give us your opinion of my purchases.”

Eyeing the bandbox dangling from Angela’s fingers with distinct disapprobation, Vane nodded a noncommittal greeting. As Angela eagerly made for the chairs facing the day-bed, he stooped slightly, fingers reaching for the knot in the scarf, screened from view by his legs—only to have to straighten quickly as the door swung wider and Mrs. Chadwick entered.

Angela, settling in a chair, looked up. “See here, Mama—Mr. Cynster can tell us if the ribbons that I bought aren’t just the right shade.”

With a calm nod for Vane and a smile for Patience, Mrs. Chadwick headed for the second chair. “Now, Angela, I’m sure Mr. Cynster has other engagements . . .”

“No, how can he have? There’s no one else here. Besides,”—Angela threw Vane a sweet, truly ingenuous smile—“that’s how
ton
nish gentlemen pass their time—commenting on ladies’ fashions.”

The sigh of relief Patience had heard behind her was abruptly cut off. For one fractured instant, she was sorely tempted to twist about, look up—and inquire if Angela’s foppish notion of his character found greater favor with him than her earlier, overly rakish one. Then again, both notions were partly right. Vane, she felt sure, when he commented on ladies’ fashions, would do so while divesting the subject of his interest of them.

Mrs. Chadwick heaved a motherly sigh. “Actually, my dear, that’s not quite right.” She sent Vane an apologetic glance. “Not all gentlemen . . .” For Angela’s edification, Mrs. Chadwick embarked on a careful explanation of the distinctions prevailing amongst
ton
nish males.

Leaning forward, ostensibly to straighten the wrap over Patience’s legs, Vane murmured, “That’s my cue to retreat.”

Patience’s gaze remained glued to Mrs. Chadwick. “I’m still tied,” she murmured back. “You can’t leave me like this.”

Fleetingly, her eyes met Vane’s. He hesitated, then his face hardened. “I’ll release you on condition that you wait here until I return to carry you to your room.”

Reaching farther over her, he flicked out the edge of the wrap. Patience glared at his profile. “This is all your fault,” she informed him in a whisper. “If I’d made it to the back parlor, I’d have been safe.

Straightening, Vane met her gaze. “Safe from what? There’s a daybed there, too.”

Her gaze trapped in his, Patience tried hard not to let the likely outcomes take shape in her mind. Determinedly, she blotted out all thought of what might have transpired had Angela not arrived as she had. If she thought too much of that, she’d very likely throttle Angela, too. The ranks of her potential victims were growing by the hour.

“Anyway . . .”—Vane’s gaze flicked to Angela and Mrs. Chadwick. He stooped slightly; Patience felt the tug as he worked the knotted scarf free—“you said you were bored.” The knot gave, and he straightened. Patience looked up and back—and met his eyes. His lips curved, too knowingly. One brown brow arched, subtlely wicked. “Isn’t this what usually distracts ladies?”

He knew very well what ladies found most distracting—the look in his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips said as much, screamed as much. Patience narrowed her eyes at him, then, folding her arms, looked back at Mrs. Chadwick. “Coward,” she taunted, just loudly enough for him to hear.

“When it comes to gushing schoolgirls, I freely admit it.” The words fell softly, then he stepped away from the daybed’s back. The movement caught both Angela’s and Mrs. Chadwick’s attention. Vane smiled, smoothly suave. “I’m afraid, ladies, that I’ll have to leave you. I need to check on my horses.” With a nod to Mrs. Chadwick, a vague smile for Angela, and a last, faintly challenging glance for Patience, he sketched an elegant bow and made his escape.

The door closed behind him. Angela’s bright face darkened into a sulky pout. Patience inwardly groaned, and swore she’d extract suitable revenge. Meanwhile . . . Plastering an interested smile on her lips, she looked at the items spilling from Angela’s bandox. “Is that a comb?”

Angela blinked, then brightened. “Yes, it is. Quite inexpensive, but so pretty.” She held up a tortoiseshell comb dotted with paste “diamonds.” “Don’t you think it’s just the thing for my hair?”

Patience resigned herself to perjury. Angela had bought cerise ribbon, too—by the yard. Patience silently added that to Vane’s bill, and continued to smile sweetly.

D
anger.

It should have been his middle name.

It should have been tatooed on his forehead.

“A warning would at least make it fairer.” Patience waited for Myst to react; eventually, the cat blinked. “Humph!” Patience cut another branch of autumn color. Narrow-eyed, she bent and stuffed the branch into the pannier at her feet.

Three days had passed since she’d escaped the daybed; this morning, she’d eschewed Sir Humphrey’s cane. Her first excursion had been a ramble about the old walled garden. In company with Vane.

That, in retrospect, had been a most peculiar outing—it had certainly left her in a most peculiar state. They’d been alone. Anticipation had soared, only to be frustrated—by Vane. By their location. Unfortunately, there had been no other private moments in the intervening days.

Which had left her in no very good mood—as if her emotions, raised by that one, intense, unfulfilled moment in the walled garden, were still swirling hotly, as yet unappeased. Her knee was weak, but no longer painful. She could walk freely, but could not yet go far.

She’d gone as far as the shrubbery, to collect a sheaf of bright leaves for the music room.

Picking up the full pannier, Patience balanced it against her hip. Waving Myst ahead, she started along the grassy path leading back to the house.

Life at the Hall, temporarily disrupted by Vane’s arrival and her accident, was settling back into its usual routine. The only hitch in the smooth flow of mild household events was Vane’s continuing presence. He was about somewhere—she had no idea where.

Emerging from the shrubbery, Patience scanned the lawns rolling away into the ruins. The General was striding up from the river, walking briskly and swinging his cane. In the ruins themselves, Gerrard sat on a stone, his easel before him. Patience studied the stones and archways nearby, then swept the ruins and lawns again.

Then realized what she was doing.

She headed for the side door. Edgar and Whitticombe would be buried in the library—not even sunshine would lure them out. Edmond’s muse had turned demanding: He barely attended meals, and even then, was sunk in abstraction. Henry, of course, was as idle as ever. He had, however, developed a penchant for billiards and was frequently to be found practicing shots.

Opening the side door, Patience waited for Myst to trip daintily in, then followed and shut the door. Myst led the way up the corridor. Resettling her pannier, Patience heard voices in the back parlor. Angela’s whine, followed by Mrs. Chadwick’s patient reply. Grimacing, Patience walked on. Angela was town-bred, not used to the country, with its mild pursuits and slow seasons. Vane’s arrival had transformed her into a typical, bright-eyed miss. Unfortunately, she’d now tired of that image and reverted to her usual, die-away airs.

Of the rest of the household, Edith continued with her tatting. And Alice had been so silent of late one could be forgiven for forgetting her existence.

From the front hall, Patience turned into a narrow corridor, and thus reached the garden hall. Setting the pannier on a side table, she selected a heavy vase. As she arranged her branches, she considered Minnie and Timms. Timms was happier, more relaxed now that Vane was here. The same and more could be said of Minnie. She was clearly sleeping better—her eyes were back to their sparkling best and her cheeks no longer sagged with worry.

Patience frowned, and concentrated on her twigs.

Gerrard was also more relaxed. The accusations and insinuations surrounding him had died, sunk without trace, dispersed like so much river mist. Just like the Spectre.

That was also Vane’s doing—another benefit his presence had brought them. The Spectre hadn’t been sighted again.

The thief, however, continued to strike: His latest trophy was nothing short of bizarre. Edith Swithin’s pincushion—a beaded, pink-satin cushion four inches square, embroidered with a likeness of His Majesty George III, could hardly be considered valuable. That last disappearance had perplexed them all. Vane had shaken his head and given it as his opinion that they had a resident magpie roosting within the Hall.