A Rake's Vow (50 page)

The light rose again briefly; in its beam, Vane saw a large, dark figure lumbering along the side of the lawn, heading their way.

“Back!” he hissed, pushing Patience, who’d edged up to his shoulder, into the hedge behind him. In the lee of the hedge, he waited, counting the seconds, then the lumbering figure swung into the path—and was upon them.

Vane grabbed him in a headlock; Duggan clung to one muscled arm. The figure tensed to fight.

“Cynster!” Vane hissed, and the figure went limp.

“Thank Gawd!” Grisham blinked at them. Vane released him. Looking down the path, Vane was mollified to see that the rest of the party had frozen, strung out in the shadows. Now, however, they clustered closer.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Grisham rubbed his neck.

Vane checked; the carrier of the bobbing light was still some distance away, negotiating the tumbled stones. He turned back to Grisham. “What happened?”

“The Colbys arrived late afternoon. I figured it was the sign we was watching for. I told ’em straight off there was only me and two maids in the house—if anything, Colby seemed well pleased. He had me make up the fire in the library, then called for dinner early. After that, he told us we could retire, as if he was doing us a favor an’all.” Grisham snorted softly. “I kept a close eye on ’em, of course. They waited a while, then took one of the library lamps and headed for the ruins.”

Grisham glanced back. Vane checked, then nodded for him to continue. They still had a few minutes before whispers became too dangerous.

“They went all the way across to the abbot’s lodge.” Grisham grinned. “I stayed close. Miss Colby grumbled all the way, but I wasn’t near enough to make out what she said. Colby went straight for that stone I told you about.” Grisham nodded at Vane. “Checked it over real careful-like, making sure no one had lifted it. He was right pleased with himself after that. They started back then—I came on ahead, so’s I’d be here to see what’s next.”

Vane raised his brows. “What indeed?”

The light flashed again, much closer now—everyone froze. Vane clung to the edge of the hedge, aware of Patience pressed to his side. The others edged closer, wedged together so they could all see the section of lawn before the side door.

“It’s not
fair
! I don’t see
why
you had to give back my treasure.” Alice Colby’s disgruntled whine floated on the frosty air. “You’re going to get
your
treasure, but
I
won’t have anything!”

“I told you those things weren’t yours!” Whitticombe’s tone turned from aggravated to scathing. “I would have thought you’d have learned after last time. I won’t have you caught with things that
aren’t yours
. The very idea of being branded the brother of a thief!”

“Your treasure isn’t yours
either
!”

“That’s different.” Whitticombe stumped into view before the side door; he looked around at Alice, trailing after him. And sniffed contemptuously. “At least, this time, I could put your little foible to some use. It was just what I needed to deflect Cynster’s attention. While he’s getting young Debbington cleared, I’ll have the time I need to complete my work.”

“
Work
?” Alice’s contempt matched Whitticombe’s.

“You’re obsessed with this foolish treasure hunt. Is it here, or is it there?” she parroted in a singsong voice.

Whitticombe threw open the door. “Just go inside.”

Still singing her little ditty, Alice walked in.

Vane looked at Grisham. “Run like the devil—through the kitchen, into the old parlor behind the library. We’ll come to the windows.”

Grisham nodded and set off at a run.

Vane turned to the others; they all looked at him in mute expectation. He set his teeth. “We’re going to backtrack, quickly and quietly, around the house to the terrace. On the terrace, we’ll have to be especially quiet—Whitticombe will probably make for the library. We need to know more about this treasure of his, and whether he was, indeed, the one who struck Gerrard.”

As one, they all nodded. Resisting a strong urge to groan, Vane, Patience’s hand locked in his, led the way back through the shrubbery.

They picked their way along the verge bordering the carriage drive, then gingerly climbed to the terrace flags. Myst, a swift shadow, ran ahead; Vane silently cursed—and prayed the fiendish animal would behave.

Grisham was waiting, a wraith at the long parlor windows. He eased back the catch—Vane stepped in, then helped Patience over the raised sill.

“They’re arguing in the hall,” Grisham whispered, “over who owns some elephant or other.”

Vane nodded. He looked back and saw Timms and Edmond help Minnie in. Turning, he strode to the wall—and opened a door concealed in the paneling—revealing the back of another door, set into the paneling of the next room, the library. His hand on the latch of the second door, Vane glanced, frowning, over his shoulder.

The assembled company obediently held their breaths.

Vane eased opened the door.

The library was empty, lit only by the flames dancing in the hearth.

Scanning the room, Vane saw two large, four-paneled screens, used during summer to protect the old tomes from sunlight. The screens hadn’t been folded away; they stood open, parallel to the fireplace, effectively screening the area before the hearth from the terrace windows.

Stepping back, Vane drew Patience to him. Nodding to the screens, he gently pushed her through the door. Quickly, her gaze on the library door, she scooted across the floor, blessedly covered in a long Turkish rug, and took refuge behind the farthest screen.

Before Vane could blink, Gerrard followed his sister.

Vane glanced back, nodded the others toward the room, then followed his brother-in-law-to-be.

When footsteps fell outside the library door, the entire company, barring only Grisham, who’d elected to remain in the parlor, were all crammed behind the two screens, eyes glued to the fine slits between the panels.

Vane prayed no one would sneeze.

The door handle turned; Whitticombe led the way in, his expression disdainful. “It matters not who
owned
the elephant. The fact is, the goods
inside it
weren’t
yours
!”

“But
I
wanted them!” Face mottled, Alice clenched her fists. “The others lost them, and they became mine—but you took them away! You always take my things away!”

“That’s because they’re not yours to begin with!” Grinding his teeth, Whitticombe pushed Alice into the chair by the fire. “Just sit there and keep quiet!”

“I will
not
keep quiet!” Alice’s eyes blazed. “You always tell me I can’t have things I want—that it’s wrong to take them—but you’re going to take the abbey treasure. And
that
doesn’t belong to
you
!”

“
It’s not the same!
” Whitticombe thundered. He fixed Alice with a baleful eye. “I know the distinction is hard for you to grasp, but retrieving—resurrecting—lost church plate—restoring the magnificence of Coldchurch Abbey—is not the same as
stealing
!”

“But you want it all for
yourself
!”

“
No
!” Whitticombe forced himself to draw a calming breath, and lowered his voice. “
I
want to be the one to
find
it. I fully intend to hand it over to the proper authorities,
but
. . .” He lifted his head and straightened. “The
fame
of finding it, the glory of being the one who, through his tireless scholarship, traced and restored the lost plate of Coldchurch Abbey—
that
,” he declared, “will be
mine
.”

Behind the screen, Patience caught Vane’s eye. He smiled grimly.

“All very well,” Alice grumped. “But you needn’t make out you’re such a saint. Nothing saintly about hitting that fool boy with a rock.”

Whitticombe stilled. He stared down at Alice.

Who smirked. “Didn’t think I knew, did you. But I was in dear Patience’s room at the time and chanced to look out over the ruins.” She smiled maliciously. “I saw you do it—saw you pick up the rock, then creep up close. Saw you strike him down.”

She sat back, her gaze fixed on Whitticombe’s face. “Oh, no, dear brother,
you’re
no saint.”

Whitticombe sniffed, and waved dismissively. “Just a concussion—I didn’t hit him that hard. Just enough to make sure he never finished that sketch.” He started to pace. “When I think of the shock I got when I saw him poking about the abbot’s cellar door! It’s a wonder I didn’t hit him too hard. If he’d been more curious, and mentioned it to one of those other dunderheads—Chadwick, Edmond, or, heaven forbid, Edgar—Lord knows what might have happened. The fools might have stolen my discovery!”

“
Your
discovery?”

“
Mine
! The glory will be
mine
!” Whitticombe paced on.

“As it is, everything’s worked out perfectly. That tap on the head was enough to scare the old woman into taking her precious nephew off to London—mercifully, she took all the others as well. So now—tomorrow—I can hire some itinerants to help me lift that stone, and then—!”

Triumphant, Whitticombe whirled—and froze.

All those peeking through the screens saw him, hand upraised as if to exhort adulation, staring, goggle-eyed, into the shadows at the side of the room. Everyone tensed. No one could see, or imagine, what he was staring at.

His mouth started to work first, opening and closing to no effect. Then: “
Aaarrrrgh!!!
” His face a mask of abject horror, Whitticombe pointed. “
What’s that cat doing here
?”

Alice looked, then frowned at him. “That’s Myst. Patience’s cat.”

“I
know
.” Whitticombe’s voice shook; his gaze didn’t shift.

Risking a glance around the screen, Vane sighted Myst, sitting neatly erect, her ancient, all-seeing blue gaze fixed, unwinking, on Whitticombe’s face.

“But it was in
London
!” Whitticombe gasped. “How did it get here?”

Alice shrugged. “It didn’t come down with us.”

“
I know that
!”

Someone choked on a laugh; the second screen wobbled, then teetered. A hand appeared at the top and righted it, then disappeared.

Vane sighed, and stepped out, around the other screen. Whitticombe’s eyes, which Vane would have sworn could not get any wider, did.

“Evening, Colby.” Vane waved Minnie forward; the others followed.

As the company assembled in full sight, Alice chortled. “So much for your secrets, dear brother.” She sank back in her chair, grinning maliciously, clearly unconcerned by her own misdemeanors.

Whitticombe threw her a swift glance and drew himself up. “I don’t know how much you heard—”

“All of it,” Vane replied.

Whitticombe blanched—and glanced at Minnie.

Who stared at him, disgust and disaffection clear in her face. “Why?” she demanded. “You had a roof over your head and a comfortable living. Was fame so important you would commit crimes—and for what? A foolish dream?”

Whitticombe stiffened. “It’s
not
a foolish dream. The church plate and the abbey’s treasure were buried before the Dissolution. There’s clear reference made in the abbey records—but after the Dissolution there’s no mention of it at all. It took me forever to track down where they’d hidden it—the crypt was the obvious place, but there’s nothing but rubble there. And the records clearly state a cellar, but the old cellars were excavated long ago—and nothing was found.” He drew himself up, inflated with self-importance. “Only
I
traced the abbot’s cellar. It’s there—I found the trapdoor.” He looked at Minnie, avaricious hope lighting his eyes. “You’ll see—tomorrow. Then you’ll understand.” Confidence renewed, he nodded.

Bleakly, Minnie shook her head. “I’ll never understand, Whitticombe.”

Edgar cleared his throat. “And I’m afraid you won’t find anything, either. There’s nothing to be found.”

Whitticombe’s lip curled. “Dilettante,” he scoffed. “What would you know of research?”

Edgar shrugged. “I don’t know about research, but I do know about the Bellamys. The last abbot was one—not in name—but he became the grandfather of the next generation. And he told his grandsons of the buried treasure—the tale was passed on until, at the Restoration, a Bellamy asked for and was granted the old abbey’s lands.”

Edgar smiled vaguely at Minnie. “The treasure is all around us.” He gestured to the walls, the ceiling. “That first Bellamy of Bellamy Hall dug up the plate and treasure as soon as he set foot on his new lands—he sold them, and used the proceeds to build the Hall, and to provide the foundation for the future wealth of the family.”

Meeting Whitticombe’s stunned stare, Edgar smiled. “The treasure’s been here, in plain sight, all along.”

“No,” Whitticombe said, but there was no strength in his denial.

“Oh, yes,” Vane replied, his gaze hard. “If you’d asked, I—or Grisham—could have told you the abbot’s cellar was filled in more than a hundred years ago. All you’ll find under that trapdoor is solid earth.”

Whitticombe continued to stare, then his eyes glazed.

“I rather think, Colby, that it’s time for some apologies, what?” The General glared at Whitticombe.

Whitticombe blinked, then stiffened, and lifted his head arrogantly. “I don’t see that I’ve done anything particularly reprehensible—not by the standards of
this
company.” Features contorting, he scanned the others. And gestured disdainfully. “There’s Mrs. Agatha Chadwick, struggling to bury a nincompoop of a husband and settle a daughter with not two wits to her name and a son not much better. And Edmond Montrose—a poet and dramatist with so much flair he never accomplishes anything. And we mustn’t forget you, must we?” Whitticombe glared vituperatively at the General. “A General with no troops, who was nothing but a sergeant major in a dusty barracks, if truth be known. And we shouldn’t forget Miss Edith Swithins, so sweet, so mild—oh, no. Don’t forget her, and the fact she’s consorting with Edgar, the rambling historian, and thinking no one knows. At her age!”

Whitticombe poured out his scorn. “And last but not least,” he pronounced with relish, “we have Miss Patience Debbington, our esteemed hostess’s niece—”