A Rake's Vow (31 page)

M
innie did not appear at the luncheon table; Patience and Timms were also absent. Gerrard did not show either, but, remembering Patience’s comments on his ability to forget all while in pursuit of a particular view, Vane didn’t fret about Gerrard.

Minnie was a different story.

Grim-faced, Vane ate the bare minimum, then climbed the stairs. He hated coping with feminine tears. They always left him feeling helpless—not an emotion his warrior self appreciated.

He reached Minnie’s room; Timms let him in, her expression absentminded. They’d pulled Minnie’s chair to the window. A lunch tray was balanced across the broad arms. Seated on the window seat before Minnie, Patience was coaxing her to eat.

Patience glanced up as Vane neared; their eyes touched briefly. Vane stopped beside Minnie’s chair.

Minnie looked up, a heart-breakingly hopeful expression in her eyes.

Exuding impassivity, Vane hunkered down. His face level with Minnie’s, he outlined what he’d done, what he’d learned—and a little of what he thought.

Timms nodded. Minnie tried to smile confidently. Vane put his arm around her and hugged her. “We’ll find them, never fear.”

Patience’s gaze locked on his face. “Gerrard?”

Vane heard her full question in her tone. “He’s been out sketching since breakfast—apparently there’s a difficult view rarely amenable to drawing.” He held her gaze. “Everyone saw him go—he hasn’t returned yet.”

Relief flashed through her eyes; her swift smile was just for him. She immediately returned to her task of feeding Minnie. “Come—you must keep up your strength.” Deftly, she got Minnie to accept a morsel of chicken.

“Indeed,” Timms put in from along the window seat. “You heard your godson. We’ll find your pearls. No sense fading to a cypher in the meantime.”

“I suppose not.” Picking at the fringe of her outermost shawl, Minnie glanced, woe-stricken and frighteningly fragile, at Vane. “I’d willed my pearls to Patience—I’d always intended them for her.”

“And I’ll have them someday, to remind me of all this, and of how stubborn you can be about eating.” Determinedly, Patience presented a piece of parsnip. “You’re worse than Gerrard ever was, and heaven knows, he was quite bad enough.”

Manufacturing a chuckle, Vane bent and kissed Minnie’s paper-thin cheek. “Stop worrying and do as you’re told. We’ll find the pearls—surely you don’t doubt me? If so, I must be slipping.”

That last gained him a weak smile. Relieved to see even that, Vane bestowed a rakishly confident smile on them all and left.

He went in search of Duggan.

His henchman was out exercising the greys; Vane passed the time in the stables, chatting to Grisham and the grooms. Once Duggan returned and the greys had been stabled, Vane strolled out to take a look at a young colt in a nearby field—and took Duggan with him.

Duggan had been a young groom in his father’s employ before being promoted to the position of personal groom to the eldest son of the house. He was an experienced and reliable servant. Vane trusted his abilities, and his opinions of other servants, implicitly. Duggan had visited Bellamy Hall many times over the years, both in his parents’ entourage as well as with him.

And he knew Duggan well.

“Who is it this time?” Vane asked once they were clear of the stables.

Duggan tried an innocent expression. When Vane showed no sign of believing it, he grinned roguishly. “Pretty little parlormaid. Ellen.”

“Parlormaid? That might be useful.” Vane stopped by the fence of the colt’s field and leaned on the top rail. “You’ve heard of the latest theft?”

Duggan nodded. “Masters told us all before lunch—even called in the gamekeeper and his lads.”

“What’s your reading of the servants. Any likely prospects there?”

Duggan considered, then slowly, definitely, shook his head. “A good bunch they are—none light-fingered, none hard-pressed. Her ladyship’s generous and kind—none would want to hurt her.”

Vane nodded, unsurprised to have Masters’s confidence echoed. “Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada will watch doings in the house; Grisham will handle the stables. I want you to spend as much time as you can keeping an eye on the grounds—from the perimeter of the house to as far as a man might walk.”

Duggan’s eyes narrowed. “You think someone might try to pass the pearls on?”

“That, or bury them. If you see any disturbance of the ground, investigate. The gardener’s old—he won’t be planting anywhere at this time of year.”

“True enough.”

“And I want you to listen to your parlormaid—encourage her to talk as much as she likes.”

“Gawd.” Duggan grimaced. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Nevertheless,” Vane insisted. “While Masters and Mrs. Henderson will report anything odd, young maids, not wanting to appear silly, or to draw attention to something they’ve come across while doing something they shouldn’t, might not mention an odd incident in the first place.”

“Aye, well.” Duggan tugged at his earlobe. “I suppose—seeing as it’s the old lady and she’s always been a good’un—I can make the sacrifice.”

“Indeed,” Vane replied dryly. “And if you hear anything, come straight to me.”

Leaving Duggan musing on how to organize his searches, Vane strode back to the house. The sun was long past its zenith. Entering the front hall, he encountered Masters on his way to the dining room with the silverware. “Is Mr. Debbington about?”

“I haven’t seen him since breakfast, sir. But he might have come in and be somewhere about.”

Vane frowned. “He hasn’t been into the kitchen after food?”

“No, sir.”

Vane’s frown deepened. “Where’s his room?”

“Third floor, west wing—one but the last.”

Vane took the stairs two at a time, then swung through the gallery and into the west wing. As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he heard footsteps descending. He looked up, half-expecting to see Gerrard. Instead, he saw Whitticombe.

Whitticombe didn’t see him until he swung onto the same flight; he hesitated fractionally, then continued his purposeful descent. He inclined his head. “Cynster.”

Vane returned his nod. “Have you seen Gerrard?”

Whitticombe’s brows rose superciliously. “Debbington’s room is at the end of the wing, mine is by the stairhead. I didn’t see him up there.”

With another curt nod, Whitticombe passed on down the stairs. Frowning, Vane continued his climb.

He knew he had the right room the instant he opened the door; the combined smell of paper, ink, charcoal, and paint was confirmation enough. The room was surprisingly neat; Vane cynically suspected Patience’s influence. A large wooden table had been pushed up to the wide windows; its surface, the only cluttered area in the room, was covered with piles of loose sketches, sketchbooks, and an array of pens, nibs, and pencils, nestling amidst a straw of pencil shavings.

Idly, Vane strolled to the desk and looked down.

The light streaming low through the window glanced off the surface of the table. Vane saw that the pencil shavings had recently been disturbed, then regathered. There were scraps of shavings between the edges of the loose sketches, and between the pages of the sketchbooks.

As if someone had leafed through the lot, then noticed the disturbed shavings and tidied them again.

Vane frowned, then he shook aside the idea. Probably just a curious—or smitten—maid.

He looked out of the windows. The west wing was on the opposite side of the house from the ruins. But the sun was steadily descending; Gerrard’s rare morning light was long gone.

A tingle, an unnerving touch of premonition, slithered down Vane’s spine. Vividly recalling the sight of Gerrard’s easel and stool, but no Gerrard, Vane swore.

He descended the stairs much more rapidly than he’d climbed them.

His expression bleak, he strode through the hall, down the corridor, and out through the side door. And halted.

He was an instant too late in wiping the grim expression from his face. Patience, strolling in company with her harem, had instantly focused on him; alarm had already flared in her eyes. Inwardly, Vane cursed. Belatedly assuming his customary facade, he strolled to meet her.

And her harem.

Penwick was there. Vane gritted his teeth and returned Penwick’s nod with distant arrogance.

“Minnie’s resting,” Patience informed him. Her eyes searched his. “I thought I’d get some air.”

“A sound notion,” Penwick pronounced. “Nothing like a turn about the gardens to blow away the megrims.”

Everyone ignored him and looked at Vane.

“Thought you were going riding with young Gerrard,” Henry said.

Vane resisted the urge to kick him. “I was,” he replied. “I’m just going to haul him in.”

Edmond frowned. “That’s odd.” He looked back at the ruins. “I can imagine he might miss lunch, but it’s not that easy to put off the pangs this long. And the light’s almost gone. He can’t still be sketching.”

“Perhaps we’d better mount a search,” Henry suggested. “He must have moved on from where he was this morning.”

“He could be anywhere,” Edmond put in.

Vane gritted his teeth. “I know where he was—I’ll fetch him.”

“I’ll go with you.” Patience’s words were a statement. One look at her face told Vane arguing would be wasted effort. He nodded curtly.

“Allow me, my dear Miss Debbington.” Unctuously, Penwick offered his arm. “Naturally, we’ll all come, to make sure your mind is set at rest. I’ll have a word or two to say to Debbington, never fear. We can’t allow him to so heedlessly overset you.”

The look Patience sent him was scathing. “You’ll do no such thing. I have had quite enough of your attempted interference, sir!”

“Indeed.” Seizing opportunity, Vane seized Patience’s hand. Stepping forward, brushing Penwick aside, he drew her around. And set off for the ruins at a clipping pace.

Patience hurried beside him. Eyes scanning the ruins, she made no protest at having to half run to keep up.

Vane glanced down at her. “He was set up on the far-side, beyond the cloister, facing the abbot’s lodge.”

Patience nodded. “He might have forgotten lunch, but he wouldn’t have forgotten an engagement to ride with you.”

Glancing back, Vane saw Edmond and Henry, throwing themselves into the excitement of a search, turn aside, Edmond heading for the old church, Henry for the opposite side of the cloisters. They, at least, were being helpful; Penwick, on the other hand, followed doggedly in their wake.

“Regardless,” Vane said, as they reached the first crumbling wall, “he should have been back by now—the light’s gone, and the angles would have changed by lunchtime.”

He helped Patience over a patch of uneven stones, then they hurried along the west side of the cloister. Henry had just gained the east side. In the nave, they could hear Edmond, his poet’s voice ringing, calling for Gerrard. No answer came.

Reaching the far wall, Vane helped Patience up onto the line of toppled stones from which she’d fallen so many nights before. Then he turned and looked toward the abbot’s lodge.

The scene he beheld was as he’d seen it earlier. Precisely as he’d seen it earlier.

Vane swore. He didn’t bother apologizing. Jumping down, he lifted Patience down to the old flags. Her hand tight in his, he headed for Gerrard’s easel.

It took them ten minutes of scrambling—essentially crossing the entire abbey compound—to reach the grassed expanse on which Gerrard had stationed himself. The lawn rose gently as it led away from the abbot’s lodge, then dipped into the scrubby edges of the wood. Gerrard had set up below the highest point of the rise, well in front of the dip, a few feet before a crumbling arched gateway, all that was left of the wall that had enclosed the abbot’s garden.

Clasping Patience’s hand, feeling her fingers clutch his, Vane strode straight to the easel. The page fluttering on it was blank.

Patience blanched. “He never started.”

Vane’s jaw set. “He started all right.” He flicked the tattered remnants of paper caught under the pins. “It’s been ripped away.” Tightening his hold on Patience’s hand, he looked toward the trees.

“Gerrard!”

His roar faded into silence.

A scuffling of boots heralded Henry’s appearance. He clambered over a ruined wall, then, straightening, stared at the untended easel. Then he looked at Patience and Vane. “No sign of him the way I came.”

Edmond appeared around the far edge of the ruins. Like Henry, he stared at the easel, then gestured behind him. “He’s not anywhere around the church.”

Stony-faced, Vane waved them to the trees. “You start from that end.” They nodded and went. Vane looked down at Patience. “Would you rather wait here?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll come with you.”

He’d expected nothing less. Her hand locked in his, they backtracked off the lawn and circled into the wood.

Penwick, huffing and puffing, caught up with them deep in the trees. Calling Gerrard’s name, they were quartering the area; after pausing to catch his breath, Penwick tut-tutted censoriously. “If you’d allowed me to talk to Debbington earlier—bring him to a proper sense of his responsibilities—none of this nonsense, I flatter myself, would have occurred.”