A Rake's Vow (6 page)

“Standing before your door?”

Mrs. Chadwick nodded. “With his hand on the latch.”

Just going in. Considering the time it had taken him to traverse half the house, the thief—if that’s who it had been—would have had ample time to disappear. Vane frowned. “You said something about a cloak.”

Mrs. Chadwick nodded. “A long cloak.”

Or the skirts of a woman’s dress. Vane looked back down the corridor. Even with the additional light thrown by the candelabrum, it would be hard to be sure if a figure was male or female. And a thief could be either.

“Just
think
! We could be murdered in our beds!”

All heads, and it was indeed all—Minnie’s household had assembled in its entirety—swung Angela’s way.

Eyes huge, she stared back. “It must be some madman!”

“Why?”

Vane had opened his mouth to voice the question; Patience beat him to it. “Why on earth would someone come all the way out here,” she continued, “struggle into this particular house, go to your mother’s door—and then vanish as soon as she screamed? If it was a madman intent on murder, he had plenty of time to do the deed.”

Both Mrs. Chadwick and Angela stared at her, stunned by her ruthless common sense.

Vane forced his lips straight. “There’s no need for melodrama—whoever it was is long gone.” But possibly not far away.

The same thought had occurred to Whitticombe. “Is everybody here?” He looked about, as did the others, comfirming that indeed, everyone was present, even Masters, who stood at the back of the crowd. “Well, then,” Whitticombe said, scanning the faces, “where
was
everyone? Gerrard?”

Vane was quite sure it wasn’t chance that had brought that name first to Whitticombe’s lips.

Gerrard was standing behind Patience. “I was in the billiard room.”

“Alone?” Whitticombe’s insinuation was transparent.

Gerrard’s jaw set. “Yes, alone.”

The General grunted. “Why on earth would someone spend time in the billiard room alone?”

Color crept into Gerrard’s cheeks. He flicked a glance at Vane. “I was just knocking a few balls around.”

That swift glance was enough for Vane; Gerrard had been practicing shots, waiting for him to come down. The billiard room was precisely the sort of place a gentleman such as he might be expected to choose to spend an hour or so before retiring. Indeed, if events had not taken the course they had, he would have gone there himself.

Vane didn’t like the accusing stares that were being aimed at Gerrard. Neither did Patience, Minnie, or Timms. He spoke before they could. “That’s you accounted for. Where was everyone else?”

He made each one state their last location. Bar himself and Minnie, Angela, Mrs. Chadwick, Patience, and Timms, not one had been in sight of anyone else. Whitticombe had returned to the library; Edgar had gone in to retrieve a tome, then retreated to the back parlor. Edmond, oblivious to all once his muse had taken hold, as apparently it had, had remained in the drawing room. The General, irritated by Edmond’s spontaneous spoutings, had slipped back to the dining room. From his deepened color, Vane suspected the brandy decanter had been his goal. Henry Chadwick had retired to his room.

When Vane asked for her whereabouts, Alice Colby glared at him. “I was in my room, one floor below this.”

Vane merely nodded. “Very well. I suggest that now the thief is long gone, we should all retire.”

In the face of that dampeningly dull suggestion, most of the party, muttering and grumbling, did so. Gerrard hung back, but when Patience noticed and gave him a push, he shot an apologetic glance at Vane and went. Predictably, Patience, Minnie, and Timms stood their ground.

Vane eyed their set faces, then sighed and waved them back. “In Minnie’s room.” He took Minnie’s arm, concerned when he felt how heavily she leaned on him. He was tempted to carry her, but knew her pride of old. So he matched his pace to hers. By the time they reached her rooms, Timms had the fire blazing and Patience had plumped the cushions in Minnie’s chair. Vane helped her to it and she sank down with a weary sigh.

“It wasn’t Gerrard.”

The trenchant statement came from Timms. “I can’t abide how they all cast suspicion his way. They’re making him a scapegoat.”

Minnie nodded. Patience simply met Vane’s eyes. She stood by Minnie’s chair, head up, hands clasped too tightly before her, daring him to accuse her brother.

Vane’s lips twisted wryly. “He was waiting for me.” Strolling forward, he took up his customary position, shoulders propped against the mantelpiece. “Which, the last time I checked, wasn’t a crime.”

Timms sniffed. “Exactly so. That much was obvious.”

“If we’re agreed on that, then I suggest we forget the incident. There’s no way I can see to link it to anyone.”

“Masters couldn’t fault any of the other alibis.” Patience lifted her chin when Vane looked her way. “I asked him.”

Vane regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “So tonight has revealed nothing—there’s nothing more to do but head for bed.”

He kept his eyes on Patience’s face; after a moment, she inclined her head. “As you say.” She bent down to Minnie. “If you don’t need me, ma’am?”

Minnie forced a tired smile. “No, my love.” She clasped Patience’s hand. “Timms will take care of me.”

Patience kissed Minnie’s cheek. Straightening, she exchanged a conspiratorial look with Timms, then glided to the door. Vane fell in in her wake, reaching around her as she halted before the door to open it. Their positions were the same as they’d been that afternoon, when he’d deliberately discomposed her. This time it was she who hesitated, then glanced up, into his face. “You don’t believe it was Gerrard.”

Half question, half statement. Vane held her gaze, then shook his head. “I know it wasn’t Gerrard. Your brother couldn’t lie to save himself—and he didn’t try.”

Briefly, she searched his eyes, then inclined her head. Vane opened the door, closed it behind her, then headed back to the fire.

“Well,” Minnie sighed. “Will you take on my commission?”

Vane looked down at her and let his Cynster smile show. “After that little interlude, how could I refuse?” How indeed.

“Thank heavens!” Timms declared. “Lord knows we need a little sound sense around here.”

Vane stored that comment up in case of later need—he suspected Patience Debbington thought she had the sound sense market cornered. “I’ll start nosing around tomorrow. Until then—” He looked at Minnie. “As I said, it would be best to forget about tonight.”

Minnie smiled. “Knowing you’ll be staying will be enough to ease my mind.”

“Good.” With a nod, Vane straightened and turned.

“Oh—ah, Vane . . . ?”

He glanced back, one brow rising, but didn’t halt in his progress to the door. “I know—but don’t ask me for a promise I won’t keep.”

Minnie frowned. “Just take care of yourself—I wouldn’t want to have to face your mother if you break a leg, or, worse yet, your head.”

“Rest assured—I don’t intend to break either.” Vane glanced back from the door, one brow arrogantly high. “As you’ve no doubt heard, we Cynsters are invincible.”

With a rakish grin, he left; Minnie watched the door close. Reluctantly smiling, she tugged at her slipping shawls. “Invincible? Huh!”

Timms came to help. “Given all seven of the present generation returned from Waterloo, unscathed and with nary a scratch, I’d say they have some claim to the title.”

Minnie made a distinctly rude sound. “I’ve known Vane and Devil from the cradle—and the others almost as well.” She poked Timms’s arm affectionately. With her help, she struggled to her feet. “They’re very much mortal men, as hot-blooded and bold as they come.” Her words gave her pause, then she chuckled. “They may not be invincible, but be damned if they’re not the next best thing.”

“Precisely.” Timms smiled. “So we can leave our problems on Vane’s shoulders—Lord knows, they’re broad enough.”

Minnie grinned. “Very true. Well, then—let’s get me to bed.”

Vane made sure he was early down to breakfast. When he entered the breakfast parlor, only Henry was present, working his way through a plate of sausages. Exchanging an amiable nod, Vane headed for the sideboard.

He was heaping a plate with slices of ham when Masters appeared, bearing another platter. He set it down on the sideboard. Raising a brow, Vane caught his eye. “No sign of any break-in?”

“No, sir.” Masters had been Minnie’s butler for twenty and more years. He knew Vane well. “I did my rounds early. The ground floor had already been secured before the . . . incident. I checked again afterward—there was no door or window left open.”

Which was no more nor less than Vane had expected. He nodded noncommittally and Masters left.

Strolling to the table, Vane drew out the chair at its end.

Henry, in the next chair along, looked up as he sat. “Dashed odd business, last night. The mater’s still shaken. Hate to say it, but I really do feel young Gerrard’s gone far enough with this ‘Spectre’ nonsense.”

Vane raised his brows. “Actually—”

A snort from the door cut him off; Whitticombe entered. “The young bounder should be thrashed—scaring gently bred females like that. Needs a firm hand applied to his reins—he’s been left in the care of women too long.”

Inwardly, Vane stiffened; outwardly, not a ripple marred his habitually urbane expression. He swallowed an impulse to defend Patience, and Minnie, too. Instead, he manufactured an expression of boredom only mildly piqued. “Why are you so sure it was Gerrard last night?”

At the sideboard, Whitticombe turned, but was beaten to speech by the General. “Stands to reason,” he wheezed, stumping in. “Who else could it have been, heh?”

Again, Vane’s brows rose. “Almost anyone, as far as I could see.”

“Nonsense!” the General huffed, leaning his stick against the sideboard.

“Other than myself, Minnie, Timms, Miss Debbington, Angela, and Mrs. Chadwick,” Vane reiterated, “any one of you could have been the culprit.”

Turning, the General glared at him from under overhanging brows. “You’ve shaken a screw loose with too much racketing about. Why the devil would any of
us
want to put the wind up Agatha Chadwick?”

Gerrard, bright-eyed, swung through the door—and came to a dead halt. His face, initially filled with boyish anticipation, drained of expression.

Vane trapped Gerrard’s gaze, then, with his eyes, indicated the sideboard. “Indeed,” he drawled as Gerrard, now stiff and tense, moved to serve himself, “but, using precisely the same reasoning, why would Gerrard?”

The General scowled and shot a glance at Gerrard’s back. Carrying a plate piled high with kedgeree, the General pulled out a chair farther along the table. Whitticombe, tight-lipped, censoriously silent, took a place opposite.

Frowning, Henry shifted in his seat. He, too, looked at Gerrard, busy at the sideboard, then studied his now-empty plate. “I don’t know—but I suppose boys will be boys.”

“As one who used that excuse to extremes, I feel compelled to point out that Gerrard is several years past the stage where that explanation applies.” Vane met Gerrard’s eyes as he turned from the sideboard, a full plate in his hands. Gerrard’s face was lightly flushed, his gaze watchful. Vane smiled easily and waved to the chair beside his. “But perhaps he can suggest something? What say you, Gerrard—can you give us a reason why someone might want to scare Mrs. Chadwick?”

To his credit, Gerrard didn’t rush into speech; he frowned as he set his plate down, then shook his head slowly as he sat. “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would want to make Mrs. Chadwick screech.” He grimaced at the memory. “But”—he flicked a grateful glance at Vane—“I did wonder if the fright was incidental and the person at the door was really the thief.”

The suggestion made all at the table think—after a moment, Henry nodded. “Could be—indeed, why not?”

“Regardless,” Whitticombe put in, “I can’t conceive who this thief could be either.” His tone made it clear he still suspected Gerrard.

Vane directed a mildly questioning glance at Gerrard.

Encouraged, Gerrard shrugged. “I can’t see what any of us would want with all the knickknacks and fripperies that have disappeared.”

The General gave one of his distinguishing snorts. “Perhaps because they’re fripperies? Just the sort of things to woo a flighty maid with, heh?” His penetrating stare again fixed on Gerrard.

Ready color rose to Gerrard’s cheeks.

“Not guilty! On my honor, I swear it!”

The words came in ringing tones from the doorway. They all looked around—on the threshold, Edmond stood poised in the attitude of a supplicant pleading for justice from the bench. He broke from his pose; grinning, he bowed, then straightened and loped to the sideboard. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I feel obliged to puncture that fantasy. None of the maids here would accept such tokens of esteem—the staff have all been alerted to the thefts. And as for the surrounding villages”—he paused dramatically and rolled an anguished eye at Vane—“
believe me
, there’s not a likely miss within a day’s ride!”

Vane hid his grin behind his coffee cup; over the rim, he met Gerrard’s laughing eyes.

The sound of briskly swishing skirts drew all eyes to the door. Patience appeared in the doorway. Chairs scraped as they all made to rise. She waved them back. Pausing on the threshold, she swiftly scanned the room, her gaze fixing at the last on Gerrard. And his affectionate smile.

Vane noticed the way Patience’s breasts rose and fell, noticed the light blush in her cheeks. She’d been scurrying.

She blinked, then, with a general nod, headed for the sideboard.

Vane redirected the conversation to matters less fraught.

“The Northants Hunt is the nearest,” Henry replied to his question.

At the sideboard, Patience forced herself to breathe deeply while absentmindedly filling her plate. She’d intended to wake early and be here in time to protect Gerrard. Instead, she’d slept in, drained by escalating worry, followed by unsettling dreams. The other ladies generally took breakfast on trays in their chambers, a habit to which she’d never subscribed. Ears tuned to the rumble of conversation behind her, she heard Vane’s lazy drawl and felt her skin prickle. She frowned.