As startling admissions went, that took the prize.
“Here, you must be hungry by now.” Vane dropped the sack he’d brought onto the grass beside Gerrard, who jumped like a scalded cat.
Gerrard looked around, then stared as Vane lowered himself to the grassy top of the old burial mound. “How did you know I’d be here?”
His gaze on the horizon, Vane shrugged. “Just a guess.” A lilting smile touched his lips. “You hid your horse well enough, but you left tracks aplenty.”
Gerrard humphed. His gaze fell on the sack. He pulled it closer and opened it.
While Gerrard munched on cold chicken and bread, Vane idly studied the views. After a while, he felt Gerrard’s gaze on his face.
“I’m not the Spectre, you know.”
Vane raised his brows arrogantly. “I do, as it happens.”
“You do?”
“Hmm. I saw him last night—not well enough to recognize but enough to know it definitely wasn’t you.”
“Oh.” After a moment, Gerrard went on, “All that talk of me being the Spectre—well, it always was just so much rot. I mean, as if I’d be silly enough to do such a thing anywhere near Patience.” He snorted derisively. “Of course she’d go to look. Why—she’s worse than I am.” A second later, he asked, “She is all right, isn’t she? I mean, her knee?”
Vane’s expression hardened. “Her knee’s as well as can be expected—she has to stay off it for at least a few days, which, as you can imagine, is not improving her temper. At the moment, however, she’s worrying—about you.”
Gerrard colored. Looking down, he swallowed. “I lost my temper. I suppose I’d better go back.” He started to pack up the sack.
Vane halted him. “Yes, we’d better get back and put a stop to her worrying, but you haven’t asked about our plan.”
Gerrard looked up. “Plan?”
Vane filled him in. “So, you see, we need you to continue to behave”—he gestured widely—“exactly as you have been—like a sapskull with his nose put out of joint.”
Gerrard chuckled. “All right, but I am allowed to sneer dismissively, aren’t I?”
“As much as you like, just don’t forget your role.”
“Minnie knows? And Timms?”
Vane nodded and got to his feet. “And Masters and Mrs. Henderson. I told Minnie and Timms this morning. As the staff are all reliable, there seemed little point keeping them in the dark, and we can use all the eyes we can get.”
“So,” Gerrard said, untangling his legs and rising, “we let it appear that I’m still chief suspect, all but convicted, and wait for the Spectre—”
“Or the thief—don’t forget you’re prime suspect there, too.”
Gerrard nodded. “So we wait and we watch for their next move.”
“Right.” Vane started down the mound. “That, at the moment, is all we can do.”
Chapter 9
Two days later, Patience sat in her private parlor and applied herself to her embroidery. The cloths for the drawing room were almost finished; she’d be glad to see the last of them. She was still confined to the daybed, her knee still bound, her foot propped on a cushion. Her suggestion, made earlier that morning, that she could probably hobble perfectly well using a stick, had made Mrs. Henderson purse her lips, shake her head, and pronounce that four days’ complete rest would be wiser. Four days! Before she could voice her utter antipathy to the idea, Vane, in whose arms she’d been at the time, had weighed in, backing Mrs. Henderson.
When, after breakfast, Vane had carried her here and laid her on the daybed, he’d reminded her of his earlier threat to tie her to it should he discover her on her feet. The reminder had been couched in sufficiently intimidating terms to keep her reclining, attending to the household linens with apparent equanimity.
Minnie and Timms had come to bear her company; Timms was busy knotting a fringe while Minnie watched, lending a finger whenever an extra was needed. They were all used to spending hours in quiet endeavors; none saw any reason to fill the peace with chatter.
Which was just as well; Patience’s mind was fully occupied elsewhere—mulling over what had ensued the first time Vane had carried her to this room. What with hiding her reaction, and her worries over Gerrard and the accusations hurled his way, it had been that night before she’d had time to fully examine the event.
Ever since, she had, at one level or another, thought of little else.
She should, of course, feel scandalized, or at the very least, shocked. Yet whenever she allowed herself to recall all that had happened, sweet pleasure washed through her, leaving her skin tingling and her breasts deliciously warm. Her “shock” was exciting, thrilling, an enticing reaction, not one of revulsion. She should feel guilty, yet whatever guilt she possessed was swamped beneath a compulsion to know, to experience, and an intense recollection of how much she’d enjoyed that particular experience.
Lips firming, she set a stitch. Curiosity—it was her curse, her bane, the cross she had to bear. She knew it. Unfortunately, knowing didn’t quell the impulse. This time, curiosity was prompting her to waltz with a wolf—a dangerous enterprise. For the last two days, she’d watched him, waiting for the pounce she’d convinced herself would come, but he’d behaved like a lamb—a ridiculously strong, impossibly arrogant, not to say masterful lamb, but with a guileless newborn innocence, as if a halo had settled over his burnished locks.
Squinting at her work, Patience swallowed a disbelieving humph. He was playing some deep game. Unfortunately, due to lack of experience, she had no idea what.
“Actually”—Minnie settled back in her chair as Timms shook out the shawl they’d been working on—“this thief is worrying me. Vane might have scared the Spectre off, but the thief seems made of sterner stuff.”
Patience glanced at Timms. “Your bracelet’s still missing?”
Timms grimaced. “Ada turned my room upside down, and Minnie’s, too. Masters and the maids have hunted high and low.” She sighed. “It’s gone.”
“You said it was silver?”
Timms nodded. “But I wouldn’t have thought it of any great value. It was engraved with vine leaves—you know the sort of thing.” She sighed again. “It was my mother’s and I’m really quite . . .”—she looked down, fiddling with the fringe she’d just knotted—“bothered that I’ve lost it.”
Patience frowned absentmindedly and set another stitch.
Minnie sighed gustily. “And now here’s Agatha similarly afflicted.”
Patience looked up; so did Timms. “Oh?”
“She came to me this morning.” Minnie frowned worriedly. “She was quite upset. Poor woman—what with all she’s had to cope with, I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world.”
“What?” Patience prompted.
“Her earrings.” Her expression as grim as it ever got, Minnie shook her head. “The last small piece she had left, poor dear. Oval drop garnets surrounded by white sapphires. You must have seen her wearing them.”
“When last did she see them?” Patience remembered the earrings well. While handsome enough, they couldn’t have been overly valuable.
“She wore them to dinner two nights ago,” Timms put in.
“Indeed,” Minnie nodded. “That was the last she saw of them—when she took them out that night and placed them in her box on her dressing table. When she went to get them last night, they were gone.”
Patience frowned. “I thought she seemed a bit distracted last night.”
“Agitated.” Timms nodded grimly.
“She searched everywhere later,” Minnie said, “but she’s now quite sure they’ve vanished.”
“Not vanished,” Patience corrected. “They’re with the thief. We’ll find them when we catch him.”
The door opened at that moment; Vane, followed by Gerrard, strolled in.
“Good morning, ladies.” Vane nodded to Minnie and Timms, then turned his smile on Patience. His eyes, teasing grey, met hers; the quality
of his smile, the expression at the back of his eyes, altered. Patience felt the warmth of his gaze as it slid lazily over her, over her cheeks, her throat, the swell of her upper breasts revealed by the scooped neckline of her morning gown. Her skin tingled; her nipples tightened.
She suppressed a warning scowl. “Did you enjoy your ride?” Her tone was as guilelessly innocent as his; both yesterday and today had been gloriously fine—while she’d been stuck inside, metaphorically tied to the daybed, he and Gerrard had enjoyed themselves on horseback, cantering about the county.
“Actually,” Vane drawled, gracefully settling in a chair facing the daybed, “I’ve been introducing Gerrard to all the hedge-taverns within reach.”
Patience’s head jerked up; aghast, she stared at him.
“We’ve been checking if any of the others have been there,” Gerrard eagerly explained. “Perhaps selling small things to tinkers or travelers.”
From beneath her lashes, Patience threw Vane a darkling glance. He smiled, far too sweetly. His halo continued to glow. Patience sniffed and looked down at her work.
“And?” Minnie prompted.
“Nothing,” Vane replied. “No one from the Hall—not even one of the grooms—has visited any of the local dives recently. No one’s heard any whispers of anyone selling small items to tinkers and the like. So we still have no clue as to why the thief is stealing things, nor what he’s doing with his ill-gotten gains.”
“Speaking of which.” Briefly, Minnie described the loss of Timms’s bracelet and Mrs. Chadwick’s earrings.
“So,” Vane said, his expression hardening, “whoever it is has not been dissuaded by our pursuit of the Spectre.”
“So what now?” Timms asked.
“We’ll need to check Kettering and Northampton. It’s possible the thief has a connection there.”
The mantel clock chimed the half hour—twelve-thirty. Minnie gathered her shawls. “I’m due to see Mrs. Henderson about the menus.”
“I’ll leave the rest of this ’til later.” Timms folded the shawl they’d been fringing.
Vane rose and offered Minnie his arm, but she waved him away. “No, I’m all right. You stay and keep Patience company.” Minnie grinned at Patience. “Such a trying thing—to be tied to a daybed.”
Suppressing her reaction to those innocent words, Patience smiled graciously, accepting Minnie’s “gift”; once Minnie had passed on her way to the door, Patience lifted her embroidery, fixed her gaze upon it, and grasped the needle firmly.
Gerrard held the door open for Minnie and Timms. They passed through; he looked back at Vane. And grinned engagingly. “Duggan mentioned he’d be exercising your greys about now. I might just nip down and see if I can catch him.”
Patience whipped her head around, just in time to catch Gerrard’s brotherly wave as he went out of the door. It shut behind him. In disbelief, she stared at the polished panels.
What were they all thinking of—leaving her alone with a wolf? She might be twenty-six—but she was an inexperienced twenty-six. Worse, she had a strong notion Vane viewed her age, let alone her inexperience, more as a positive than a negative.
Looking back at her work, she recalled his earlier jibe. Her temper rose, a helpful shield. Lifting her head, she studied him, standing before the daybed some four feet away. Her gaze was coolly measuring. “I do hope you don’t intend to drag Gerrard into every inn—every ‘dive’—in Kettering and Northampton.”
His gaze, already fixed on her, didn’t waver; a slow, untrustworthy smile curved his lips. “No inns or taverns—not even dives.” His smile deepened. “In the towns, we’ll need to visit the jewelers, and the moneylenders. They often advance cash against goods.” He paused, then grimaced. “My one problem is that I can’t see what anyone at the Hall would want with extra cash. There’s nowhere about to wager or game.”
Lowering her embroidery to her lap, Patience frowned. “Perhaps they need the money for something else.”
“I can’t see the General or Edgar—much less Whitticombe—paying upkeep for some village maid and her brat.”
Patience shook her head. “Henry would be shocked at the notion—he’s stolidly conservative.”
“Indeed—and, somehow, the notion doesn’t ring true for Edmond.” Vane paused. Patience looked up—he trapped her gaze. “As far as I can see,” he said, his voice lowering to a purr, “Edmond seems more inclined to planning, rather than performance.”
The implication, so strong Patience couldn’t doubt she’d read it aright, was that he placed more emphasis on the latter. Ignoring the vise slowly choking off her breathing, she raised a haughty brow. “Indeed? I would have thought planning was always to be recommended.” Greatly daring, she added, “In any enterprise.”
Vane’s slow smile curved his lips. Two prowling strides brought him to the daybed’s side. “You misunderstand me—good planning’s essential to any successful campaign.” Trapping Patience’s gaze, he reached for the embroidery lying forgotten in her lap.
Patience blinked free of his hold as the linen slipped from her lax grasp. “I daresay.” She frowned—just what were they talking about? She followed the embroidery as Vane lifted it—and met his eyes over the top of the hoop.
He smiled—all wolf—and tossed her work—linen, hoop and needle—into the basket beside the daybed. Leaving her without protection.
Patience felt her eyes grow round. Vane’s smile deepened—a dangerous glint gleamed in his grey eyes. Languidly, he lifted a hand and, long fingers sliding beneath her chin, gripped it gently. Deliberately, he brushed his thumb—gently—over her lips.
They throbbed; Patience wished she had the strength to pull free of his light hold, to wrench free of his gaze.
“What I meant,” he said, his voice very deep, “was that planning without the subsequent performance is worthless.”
He meant she should have hung on to her embroidery. Too late, Patience caught his drift. He’d seen through her plan to use her work as a shield. Breath bated, she waited for her temper to come to her aid, to rise in response to being read so effortlessly, to being affected so readily.
Nothing happened. No searing fury erupted.
The only thought in her head as she studied his grey eyes was what he was planning to do next.
Because she was watching, was so deep in the grey, she caught the change, the subtle shift, the flash of what looked suspiciously like satisfaction that glowed, briefly, in his eyes. His hand fell; lids lowering, he turned away.
“Tell me what you know of the Chadwicks.”
Patience stared at him—at his back as he returned to his chair. By the time he sat and faced her, she’d managed to school her features, although they felt curiously blank.
“Well”—she moistened her lips—“Mr. Chadwick died about two years ago—missing at sea.”
With the help of Vane’s prompts, she recounted, stiltedly, all she knew of the Chadwicks. As she reached the end of her knowledge, the gong sounded.
His rake’s smile returning, Vane stood and strolled toward her. “Speaking of performance, would you like me to carry you to lunch?”
She wouldn’t—narrowing her eyes at him, Patience would have given half her fortune to avoid the sensation of being scooped so easily into his arms, and carried away so effortlessly. His touch was unnerving, distracting; it made her think of things she really should not. And as for the sensation of being helpless in his arms, trapped, at his mercy, a pawn to his whim—that was even worse.
Unfortunately, she had no choice. Coolly, inwardly girding her loins, she inclined her head. “If you would.”
He grinned—and did.
The next day—the fourth and, Patience vowed, the very last day of her incarceration—she once more found herself committed to the daybed in her quiet parlor. After their usual early breakfast, Vane had carried her upstairs—he and Gerrard were to spend the day checking Northampton for any sign of items stolen from the Hall. The day was fine. The idea of a
long drive, the wind whipping her hair as she sat on his box seat, behind the greys she’d already heard far too much about, had seemed like heaven. She’d been sorely tempted to ask that they put off the excursion—just for a day or so—until her knee improved sufficiently to allow her to sit in a carriage for a few hours, but, in the end, she’d held her tongue. They needed to discover who the thief was as soon as possible, and the weather, while fine today, could not be guaranteed.
Minnie and Timms had sat with her through the morning; as she couldn’t go downstairs, they’d taken lunch on trays. Then Minnie had retired for her nap. Timms had helped Minnie to her room, but hadn’t returned.
She’d finished the cloths for the drawing room. Idly examining designs, Patience wondered what project she should attempt next. Perhaps a delicate tray-piece for Minnie’s dresser?
A knock on the door had her looking up in surprise. Neither Minnie nor Timms usually knocked.
“Come in.”
The door opened tentatively; Henry’s head appeared around its edge. “Am I disturbing you?”
Patience inwardly sighed, and waved to a chair. “By all means.” She was, after all, bored.
Henry’s puppy grin split his face. Straightening his shoulders, he entered, one hand held rather obviously behind his back. He advanced on the daybed, then halted—and, like a magician, produced his gift—a collection of late roses and autumn border blooms, greenery provided by Queen Anne’s lace.
Primed, Patience widened her eyes in feigned surprise and delight. The delight waned as she focused on the ragged stems and the dangling remnants of roots. He’d ripped the flowers from the bushes and borders, not caring of the damage he did. “How—” She forced a smile to her lips. “How lovely.” She took the poor flowers from him. “Why don’t you ring for a maid so I can ask for a vase?”
Smiling proudly, Henry crossed to the bellpull and yanked it vigorously. Then, clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked on his toes. “Wonderful day outside.”