A Rake's Vow (5 page)

The answer came, swift, decisive, and in distinctly bitter tones. “Nothing.” After a second’s pause, during which the defensive tension in her shoulders eased slightly, she added: “They’ve simply got totally inaccurate views of how youths of Gerrard’s age might behave.”

“Hmm.” The explanation, Vane noted, shed very little light. Finishing his stroll, he halted by her side. “In that case, you owe me a vote of thanks.” Surprised, she looked up; he met her eyes and smiled. “I stepped into the breach and stopped Gerrard responding to one of Whitticombe’s set-downs with rather too much heat.”

She searched his eyes, then looked away. “You only did so because you didn’t want to listen to a deal of pointless wrangling.”

Watching as she sipped, Vane haughtily raised his brows; she was, as it happened, half-right. “You also,” he said, lowering his voice, “haven’t yet thanked me for saving you from sitting in the flower bed.”

She didn’t even look up. “It was entirely your fault that I nearly did. If you hadn’t sneaked up on me, I wouldn’t have been in any danger of landing in the weeds.” She glanced briefly at him, a touch of color in her cheeks. “A gentleman would have coughed or something.”

Vane trapped her gaze, and smiled—a slow, Cynster smile. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice very low. He shifted fractionally closer. “But, you see, I’m not a gentleman. I’m a Cynster.” As if letting her into some secret, he gently informed her: “We’re conquerors—not gentlemen.”

Patience looked into his eyes, into his face, and felt a most peculiar shiver slither down her spine. She’d just finished her tea, but her mouth felt dry. She blinked, then blinked again, and decided to ignore his last comment. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not, by any chance, attempting to make me feel grateful—so that I’ll imagine myself in your debt?”

His brows quirked; his mesmerizing lips curved. His eyes, grey, intent, and oddly challenging, held hers. “It seemed the natural place to start to undermine your defenses.”

Patience felt her nerves vibrate to the deep tenor of his voice, felt her senses quake as she registered his words. Her eyes, locked on his, widened; her lungs seized. In a mental scramble, she struggled to marshal her wits, to lay her tongue on some sharp retort with which to break his spell.

His eyes searched hers; one brow lifted arrogantly, along with the ends of his long lips. “I didn’t cough because I was entirely distracted, which was entirely
your
fault.” He seemed very close, totally commanding her vision, her senses. Again his eyes scanned hers, again one brow quirked. “Incidentally,” he murmured, his voice velvety dark, “what were you searching for in the flower bed?”

“
There
you are!”

Breathless, Patience turned—and beheld Minnie, descending like a galleon in full sail. The entire British fleet wouldn’t have been more welcome.

“You’ll have to excuse an old woman, Patience dear, but I really must speak with Vane privately.” Minnie beamed impartially on them both, then laid her hand on Vane’s sleeve.

He immediately covered it with his. “I’m yours to command.”

Despite his words, Patience sensed his irritation, his annoyance that Minnie had spiked the gun he’d turned on her. There was an instant’s hiatus, then he smiled charmingly down at Minnie. “Your rooms?”

“Please—so sorry to drag you away.”

“Not at all—you’re the reason I’m here.”

Minnie beamed at his flattery. Vane raised his head and met Patience’s eyes. His smile still in place, he inclined his head. “Miss Debbington.”

Patience returned his nod and quelled another shiver. He might have surrendered gracefully, but she had the distinct impression he hadn’t given up.

She watched him cross the room, Minnie on his arm, chattering animatedly; he walked with head bent, his attention fixed on Minnie. Patience frowned. From the instant she’d recognized his style, she’d equated Vane Cynster with her father, another smooth-tongued, suavely elegant gentleman. All she knew about the species she’d learned from him, her restless, handsome sire. And what she’d learned she’d learned well—there was no chance she’d succumb to a well-set pair of shoulders and a devilish smile.

Her mother had loved her father—dearly, deeply, entirely too well. Unfortunately, men such as he were not the loving kind—not the kind wise women loved, for they did not value love, and would not accept it, nor return it. Worse, at least in Patience’s eyes, such men had no sense of family life, no love in their soul to tie them to their hearth, their children. From all she had seen from her earliest years, elegant gentlemen avoided deep feelings. Avoided commitment, avoided love.

To them, marriage was a matter of estate, not a matter of the heart. Woe betide any woman who failed to understand that.

All that being so, Vane Cynster was high on her list of gentlemen she would definitely
not
wish Gerrard to have as his mentor. The very last thing she would allow was for Gerrard to turn out like his father. That he had that propensity none could deny, but she would fight to the last gasp to prevent him going that road.

Straightening her shoulders, Patience glanced around the room, noting the others, before the fireplace and about the
chaise
. With Vane and Minnie gone, the room seemed quieter, less colorful, less alive. As she watched, Gerrard threw a brief, watchful glance at the door.

Draining her teacup, Patience inwardly humphed. She would need to protect Gerrard from Vane Cynster’s corrupting influence—nothing could be clearer.

A niggle of doubt slid into her mind, along with the image of Vane behaving so attentively—and, yes, affectionately—toward Minnie. Patience frowned. Possibly corrupting. She shouldn’t, she supposed, judge him by his wolf’s clothing, yet that characteristic, in all her twenty-six years, had never proved wrong.

Then again, neither her father, nor his elegant friends, nor the others of that ilk she had met, had possessed a sense of humor. At least, not the sort of sparring, fencing humor Vane Cynster deployed. It was very hard to resist the challenge of striking back—of joining in the game.

Patience’s frown deepened. Then she blinked, stiffened, and swept across the room to return her empty teacup to the trolley.

Vane Cynster was
definitely
corrupting.

V
ane helped Minnie up the stairs and down the gloomy corridors. After Sir Humphrey’s death, she’d removed to a large suite at the end of one wing; Timms occupied the room next door.

Minnie paused outside her door. “A stroke of fate you should stop by just now.”

I know
. Vane suppressed the words. “How so?” He set the door wide.

“There’s something strange going on.” Leaning heavily on her cane now she was no longer “in public,” Minnie crossed to the armchair by the hearth. Closing the door, Vane followed. “I’m not at all sure what it is”—Minnie settled in the chair, arranging her shawls—“but I do know I don’t like it.”

Vane propped his shoulder against the mantelpiece. “Tell me.”

Minnie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t recall when it actually started, but it was sometime after Patience and Gerrard arrived.” She looked up at Vane. “That’s not to say I think they have anything to do with it—their arrival is merely a convenient gauge of time.”

Vane inclined his head. “What did you notice?”

“The thefts started first. Little things—small items of jewelry, snuff boxes, trinkets, knickknacks. Anything small and portable—things that could fit in a pocket.”

Vane’s face hardened. “How many thefts have there been?”

“I don’t know. None of us do. Often, things have been gone for days, even weeks, before they’re noticed as missing. They’re those sort of things.”

Things that might fall into a flower bed. Vane frowned. “You said the thefts came first—what followed?”

“Odd happenings.” Minnie’s sigh overflowed with exasperation. “They’re calling it ‘the Spectre.’ ”

“A ghost?” Vane blinked. “There are no ghosts here.”

“Because you and Devil would have found them if there had been?” Minnie chuckled. “Quite right.” Then she sobered. “Which is why I know it’s the work of someone alive. Someone in my household.”

“No new servants—new helpers in the gardens?”

Minnie shook her head. “Everyone’s been with me for years. Masters is as mystified as I.”

“Hmm.” Vane straightened. The disapproval aimed at Gerrard Debbington started to make sense. “What does this Spectre do?”

“It makes noises, for a start.” Minnie’s eyes flashed. “Always starts up just after I’ve fallen asleep.” She gestured to the windows. “I’m a light sleeper, and these rooms look out over the ruins.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Moans and clunks—and a grating noise, as if stones are grinding against each other.”

Vane nodded. He and Devil had shifted enough stones in the ruins for him to remember the sound vividly.

“And then there’s lights darting about the ruins. You know what it’s like here—even in summer, we get a ground fog at night, rolling up from the river.”

“Has anyone attempted to catch this Spectre?”

Chins setting, Minnie shook her head. “I refused to countenance it—I insisted they all give me their word they won’t venture it. You know what the ruins are like, how dangerous it can be, even in broad daylight. Chasing a will-o’-the-wisp at night through the fog is insanity. Broken limbs, broken heads—no! I won’t hear of it.”

“And have they all held to their promise?”

“As far as I know.” Minnie grimaced. “But you know this house—there’s doors and windows aplenty they could get in or out. And I
know
one of them is the Spectre.”

“Which means if he’s getting out and in without being detected, others could.” Vane folded his arms. “Go through the household—who has any interest in the ruins?”

Minnie held up her fingers. “Whitticombe, of course. I told you of his studies?” Vane nodded. Minnie went on: “Then there’s Edgar—he’s read all the biographies of the abbots and those of the early Bellamys. He has quite an interest there. And I should include the General—the ruins have been his favorite walk for years.” She progressed to her last finger. “And Edmond with his play—and Gerrard, of course. Both spend time in the ruins—Edmond communing with his muse, Gerrard sketching.” She frowned at her hand, having run out of fingers. “And lastly, there’s Patience, but her interest is simply abiding curiosity. She likes to poke about on her walks.”

Vane could imagine. “None of the other women or Henry Chadwick has any particular interest?”

Minnie shook her head.

“That’s quite a cast of characters—five men all told.”

“Exactly.” Minnie stared at the fire. “I don’t know what worries me more, the Spectre or the thief.” She heaved a sigh, then looked up at Vane. “I wanted to ask, dear boy, if you would stay and sort it out.”

Vane looked down, into Minnie’s face, at the soft cheeks he’d kissed innumerable times, at the bright eyes that had scolded and teased and loved him so well. For one instant, the image of another face interposed, that of Patience Debbington. Similar bone structure, similar eyes. Fate, once again, stared him in the face.

But he couldn’t refuse, couldn’t walk away—every particle of his Cynster character refused to consider it. Cynsters never accepted defeat, although they often courted danger. Minnie was family—to be defended to the death.

Vane refocused on Minnie’s face, her own once again; he opened his lips—

A shrill scream split the stillness, rending the night.

Vane hauled open Minnie’s door before the first echo faded. Less intense screeches guided him through the maze of the Hall, through the ill-lit corridors, up and down stairways joining the uneven levels. He tracked the screams to the corridor in the wing opposite Minnie’s, one floor up.

The source of the screams was Mrs. Chadwick.

When he reached her she was near swooning, propped against a side table, one hand pressed to her ample breast.

“A man!” She clutched Vane’s sleeve and pointed down the corridor. “In a long cloak—I saw him standing there, just in front of my door.”

The door in question was shrouded in gloom. Only one sconce holding a single candle lit the corridor, casting a weak glow by the intersection behind them. Footsteps came hurrying, pounding on the polished floors. Vane put Mrs. Chadwick from him. “Wait here.”

Boldly, he strode down the corridor.

There was no one lurking in the shadows. He strode to the end, to where stairs led up and down. There was no sound of retreating footsteps. Vane retraced his steps. The household was gathering about Mrs. Chadwick—Patience and Gerrard were there; so, too, was Edgar. Reaching Mrs. Chadwick’s door, Vane set it wide, then entered.

There was no one in the room, either.

By the time he returned to Mrs. Chadwick, she was bathed in light cast by a candelabrum Patience held high and sipping water from a glass. Her color had improved.

“I’d just come from Angela’s room.” She glanced fleetingly at Vane; he could have sworn her color deepened. “We were having a little chat.” She took another sip, then continued, her voice strengthening, “I was going to my room when I saw him.” She pointed down the corridor. “Right there.”