A Rake's Vow

  “Is it?” Patience tried not to sound wistful.

  The maid arrived and returned quickly with a vase and a pair of garden shears. While Henry prattled on about the weather, Patience tended the flowers, loping off the ragged ends and roots and setting them in the vase. Finished, she set the shears aside and turned the small side table she’d worked on toward Henry. “There.” With a gracious wave, she sat back. “I do thank you for your kindness.”

  Henry beamed. He opened his lips—a knock cut off his words.

  Brows rising, Patience turned to the door. “Come in.”

  As she’d half expected, it was Edmond. He’d brought his latest stanza. He beamed an ingenuous grin at both Patience and Henry. “Tell me what you think.”

  It wasn’t just one stanza—to Patience, trying to follow the intricacies of his phrasing, it seemed more like half a canto.

  Henry shifted and shuffled, his earlier brightness fading into petulance. Patience fought to stifle a yawn. Edmond prosed on.

  And on.

  When the next knock sounded, Patience turned eagerly, hoping for Masters or even a maid.

  It was Penwick.

  Patience gritted her teeth—and forced her lips to curve over them. Resigned, she held out her hand. “Good morning, sir. I trust you are well?”

  “Indeed, my dear.” Penwick bowed low—too low, he nearly hit his head on the side of the daybed. Pulling back just in time, he frowned—then banished the expression to smile, far too intently, into Patience’s eyes. “I’ve been waiting to fill you in on the latest developments—the figures on production after we instituted the new rotation scheme. I know,” he said, smiling fondly down at her, “how interested you are in ‘our little patch.’ ”

  “Ah—yes.” What could she say? She’d always used agriculture, and having run the Grange for so long she had a more than passing knowledge of the subject, to distract Penwick. “Perhaps—?” She glanced hopefully at Henry. Tight-lipped, his gaze was fixed, not amiably, on Penwick. “Henry was just telling me how fine the weather’s been these last few days.”

  Henry obligingly followed her lead. “Should stay fine for the foreseeable future. I was talking to Grisham only this morning—”

  Unfortunately, despite considerable effort, Patience could not get Henry to switch to the effect of the weather on the crops, nor could she get Penwick to, as he usually did, distract Henry and himself with such matters.

  To crown all, Edmond kept taking snippets from both Henry’s and Penwick’s words and fashioning them into verse, then, across whoever was speaking, trying to engage her in a discussion of how such verses might fit with the development of his drama.

  Within five minutes, the conversation descended into a three-way tug-of-war for her attention—Patience was ready to throttle whichever foolish servant it was who’d divulged her up-until-then-secret location.

  At the end of ten minutes, she was ready to throttle Henry, Edmond and Penwick as well. Henry held his position and pontificated on the elements; Edmond, nothing loath, was now talking of including mythological gods as commentators on his main characters’ actions. Penwick, losing out to the chorus, puffed out his chest and portentously asked: “Where’s Debbington? Surprised he isn’t here, bearing you company.”

  “Oh, he tagged along with Cynster,” Henry offhandedly informed him. “They escorted Angela and Mama to Northampton.”

  Finding Patience’s gaze riveted on his face, Henry beamed at her. “Deal of sunshine, today—shouldn’t wonder if Angela doesn’t claim a turn in Cynster’s curricle.”

  Patience’s brows rose. “Indeed?”

  There was a note in her voice which successfully halted all conversation; the three gentlemen, suddenly wary, glanced sidelong at each other.

  “I think,” Patience declared, “that I have rested long enough.” Tossing aside the rug that had lain across her lap, she pushed herself to the edge of the daybed, and carefully let down her good leg, then the damaged one. “If you would be so good as to give me your arm . . . ?”

  They all rushed to help. In the end, it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought—her knee was still tender, and very stiff. Taking her full weight on that leg was out of the question.

  Which made the stairs impossible. Edmond and Henry made a chair of their arms; Patience sat and held their shoulders for balance. Puffed with importance, Penwick led the way down, talking all the while. Henry and Edmond couldn’t talk—they were concentrating too much on balancing her weight down the steep stairs.

  They made it to the front hall without mishap, and set her carefully on her feet on the tiles. By then Patience was having second thoughts—or rather, she would have entertained second thoughts, if she hadn’t been so exercised by the news that Vane had taken Angela to Northampton.

  That Angela had enjoyed the drive—would even now be enjoying the drive—she herself had fantasized over, but had, for the greater good, not sought to claim.

  She was not in a very good mood.

  “The back parlor,” she declared. Leaning on both Henry’s and Edmond’s arms, she hobbled along between them, trying not to wince. Penwick rattled on, recounting the number of bushels “their little patch” had produced, his matrimonial assumptions waving like flags in his words. Patience gritted her teeth. Once they gained the back parlor, she would dismiss them all—and then, very carefully, massage her knee.

  No one would look for her in the back parlor.

  “You’re not supposed to be on your feet.”

  The statement, uttered in a flat tone, filled the sudden gap where Penwick’s babble had been.

  Patience looked up, then had to tip her chin higher—Vane was standing directly in front of her. He was wearing his caped greatcoat; the wind had ruffled his hair. Behind him, the side door stood open. Light streamed into the dim corridor, but didn’t reach her. He blocked it—a very large, very male figure, made even larger by the capes of his greatcoat, spread wide by his broad shoulders. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, in his eyes—she didn’t need to. She knew his face was hard, his eyes steel grey, his lips thin.

  Irritation poured from him in waves; in the confines of the corridor, it was a tangible force. “I did warn you,” he said, his tones clipped, “what would happen.”

  Patience opened her lips; all she uttered was a gasp.

  She was no longer on her feet, she was in his arms.

  “Just a minute!”

  “I say—!”

  “Wait—!”

  The ineffectual exclamations died behind them. Vane’s swift strides had them back in the front hall before Penwick, Edmond, and Henry could do more than collectively blink.

  Catching her breath, Patience glared. “Put me down!”

  Vane glanced, very briefly, into her face. “No.” He started up the stairs.

  Patience drew in a breath—two maids were coming down the stairs. She smiled as they passed. And then they were in the gallery. It had taken the others ten full minutes to get her downstairs; Vane had accomplished the reverse in under a minute. “The other gentlemen,” she acidly informed him, “were helping me to the back parlor.”

  “Sapskulls.”

  Patience’s breasts swelled. “I wanted to be in the back parlor!”

  “Why?”

  Why? Because then, if he came looking for her after his fine day out at Northampton with Angela, he wouldn’t have known where she was and might have been worried? “Because,” Patience tartly replied, folding her arms defensively across her breasts, “I’ve grown sick of the upstairs parlor.” The parlor he’d arranged for her. “I’m bored there.”

  Vane glanced at her as he juggled her to open the door. “Bored?”

  Patience looked into his eyes and wished she’d used some other word. Bored was, apparently, a red rag to a rake. “It’s not long to dinner, perhaps you should just take me to my room.”

  The door swung wide. Vane stepped through, then kicked it shut behind them. And smiled. “There’s more t
han an hour before you need change. I’ll carry you to your room—later.”

  His eyes had narrowed, silvery with intent. His voice had changed to his dangerous purr. Patience wondered if any of the other three would have the courage to follow—she couldn’t believe they would. Ever since Vane had so coldly annihilated their senseless accusations of Gerrard, both Edmond and Henry treated him with respect—the sort of respect accorded dangerous carnivores. And Penwick knew Vane disliked him—intensely.

  Vane advanced on the daybed. Patience eyed it with increasing misgiving. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Tying you to the daybed.”

  She tried to humph, tried to ignore the premonition tickling her spine. “Don’t be silly—you just said that as a threat.” Would it be wise to wind her arms about his neck?

  He reached the back of the bed, and stopped. “I never issue threats.” His words floated down to her as she stared at the cushions. “Only warnings.”

  With that, he swung her over the wrought-iron back and set her down with her spine against it. Patience immediately squirmed, trying to twist around. One large palm, splayed across her midriff, kept her firmly in place.

  “And then,” Vane continued, in the same, dangerous tone, “we’ll have to see what we can do to . . . distract you.”

  “Distract me?” Patience stopped her futile wriggling.

  “Hmm.” His words feathered her ear. “To alleviate your boredom.”

  There was enough sensual weight in the words to temporarily freeze her wits—capture them and hold them in fascinated speculation—just long enough for him to grab a scarf from the pile of mending left in the basket by the daybed, thread it through the holes in the swirls of the ornate back and cinch it tight about her waist.

  “What . . . ?” Patience looked down as his hand disappeared and the scarf drew tight. Then she glared. “This is ridiculous.” She tugged at the scarf and tried to shift forward, but he’d already secured the knot. The silk gave just so far, then held. Vane strolled around to face her; Patience shot him a dagger glance—she didn’t want to know about the smile on his lips. Compressing her own, she lifted her arms and reached over the back of the bed. The ornately worked railing reached halfway up her back—while she could lift her arms over it, she couldn’t reach very far down. She couldn’t touch his knot, let alone untie it.

  Eyes narrowed, Patience looked up; Vane was watching her, a cool smile of ineffable male superiority etched on his too-fascinating lips. She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You will never live this down.”

  The curve of his lips deepened. “You’re not uncomfortable. Just sit still for the next hour.” His gaze sharpened. “It’ll do your knee good.”

  Patience gritted her teeth. “I’m not some infant who needs to be restrained!”

  “On the contrary it’s clear you need someone to exercise some control over you. You heard Mrs. Henderson—four full days. Your four days is up tomorrow.”

  Astounded, Patience stared at him. “And just who appointed you my keeper?”

  She caught his gaze, held the contact defiantly—and waited. His eyes narrowed. “I feel guilty. I should have sent you back to the house as soon as I found you in the ruins.”

  All expression drained from Patience’s face. “You wish you’d sent me back to the house?”

  Vane frowned. “I feel guilty because you were following me when you got hurt.”

  Patience humphed and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You told me it was my fault for not staying where you’d told me to stay. Anyway, if Gerrard at seventeen is old enough to be responsible for his own actions, why would it be otherwise with me?”

  Vane looked down at her; Patience felt sure she’d won her point. Then he raised an arrogant brow. “You’re the one with the wrenched knee. And the twisted ankle.”

  Patience refused to surrender. “My ankle’s fine.” She put her nose in the air. “And my knee’s just a bit stiff. If I could test it—”

  “You can test it tomorrow. Who knows?” Vane’s expression hardened. “You might need an extra day or two’s rest after today’s excitement.”

  Patience narrowed her eyes. “Don’t,” she advised, “even suggest it.”

  Vane raised both brows, then, turning away, prowled to the window. Patience watched him, and tried to locate the anger she felt sure she should feel. It simply wasn’t to be found. Stifling a disaffected humph, she settled more comfortably. “So what did you discover in Northampton?”

  He glanced back, then fell to prowling back and forth between the windows. “Gerrard and I made the acquaintance of a very helpful individual—the Northampton Guildmaster, so to speak.”

  Patience frowned. “Of which guild?”

  “The guild of moneylenders, thieves, and rogues—assuming there is one. He was intrigued with our investigations and amused enough to be helpful. His contacts are extensive. After two hours of consuming the best French brandy—at my expense, of course—he assured us no one had recently attempted to sell any items of the sort we’re seeking.”

  “Do you think he’s reliable?”

  Vane nodded. “There was no reason for him to lie. The items, as he so succinctly put it, are of insufficient quality to attract his personal interest. He’s also well-known as ‘the man to contact.’

  “Patience grimaced. “You’ll check Kettering?”

  Still pacing, Vane nodded.

  Watching him, Patience conjured her most innocent expression. “And what did Mrs. Chadwick and Angela do while you and Gerrard met with this Guildmaster?”

  Vane stopped pacing. He looked at Patience—studied her. His expression was unreadable. Eventually, he said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  His voice had altered, a subtle undercurrent of awakened interest sliding beneath the suave tones. Patience opened her eyes wide. “You mean Angela didn’t tell you every last detail on the drive back?”

  With long, languid strides, Vane came toward her. “She traveled—both ways—in the carriage.”

  Vane reached the edge of the daybed. His eyes gleamed with a predator’s satisfaction. He leaned nearer—

  “Patience? Are you awake?”

  A peremptory knock was followed immediately by the sound of the latch lifting.

  Patience swung around—as far as she could. Vane straightened; as the door opened, he reached the back of the daybed. Before he could tug the knotted scarf loose, Angela breezed in.

  “Oh!” Angela stopped, eyes widening with delight. “Mr. Cynster! Perfect! You must give us your opinion of my purchases.”

  Eyeing the bandbox dangling from Angela’s fingers with distinct disapprobation, Vane nodded a noncommittal greeting. As Angela eagerly made for the chairs facing the day-bed, he stooped slightly, fingers reaching for the knot in the scarf, screened from view by his legs—only to have to straighten quickly as the door swung wider and Mrs. Chadwick entered.

  Angela, settling in a chair, looked up. “See here, Mama—Mr. Cynster can tell us if the ribbons that I bought aren’t just the right shade.”

  With a calm nod for Vane and a smile for Patience, Mrs. Chadwick headed for the second chair. “Now, Angela, I’m sure Mr. Cynster has other engagements . . .”

  “No, how can he have? There’s no one else here. Besides,”—Angela threw Vane a sweet, truly ingenuous smile—“that’s how tonnish gentlemen pass their time—commenting on ladies’ fashions.”

  The sigh of relief Patience had heard behind her was abruptly cut off. For one fractured instant, she was sorely tempted to twist about, look up—and inquire if Angela’s foppish notion of his character found greater favor with him than her earlier, overly rakish one. Then again, both notions were partly right. Vane, she felt sure, when he commented on ladies’ fashions, would do so while divesting the subject of his interest of them.

  Mrs. Chadwick heaved a motherly sigh. “Actually, my dear, that’s not quite right.” She sent Vane an apologetic glance. “Not all gentlemen . . .” For
Angela’s edification, Mrs. Chadwick embarked on a careful explanation of the distinctions prevailing amongst tonnish males.

  Leaning forward, ostensibly to straighten the wrap over Patience’s legs, Vane murmured, “That’s my cue to retreat.”

  Patience’s gaze remained glued to Mrs. Chadwick. “I’m still tied,” she murmured back. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  Fleetingly, her eyes met Vane’s. He hesitated, then his face hardened. “I’ll release you on condition that you wait here until I return to carry you to your room.”

  Reaching farther over her, he flicked out the edge of the wrap. Patience glared at his profile. “This is all your fault,” she informed him in a whisper. “If I’d made it to the back parlor, I’d have been safe.

  Straightening, Vane met her gaze. “Safe from what? There’s a daybed there, too.”

  Her gaze trapped in his, Patience tried hard not to let the likely outcomes take shape in her mind. Determinedly, she blotted out all thought of what might have transpired had Angela not arrived as she had. If she thought too much of that, she’d very likely throttle Angela, too. The ranks of her potential victims were growing by the hour.

  “Anyway . . .”—Vane’s gaze flicked to Angela and Mrs. Chadwick. He stooped slightly; Patience felt the tug as he worked the knotted scarf free—“you said you were bored.” The knot gave, and he straightened. Patience looked up and back—and met his eyes. His lips curved, too knowingly. One brown brow arched, subtlely wicked. “Isn’t this what usually distracts ladies?”

  He knew very well what ladies found most distracting—the look in his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips said as much, screamed as much. Patience narrowed her eyes at him, then, folding her arms, looked back at Mrs. Chadwick. “Coward,” she taunted, just loudly enough for him to hear.

  “When it comes to gushing schoolgirls, I freely admit it.” The words fell softly, then he stepped away from the daybed’s back. The movement caught both Angela’s and Mrs. Chadwick’s attention. Vane smiled, smoothly suave. “I’m afraid, ladies, that I’ll have to leave you. I need to check on my horses.” With a nod to Mrs. Chadwick, a vague smile for Angela, and a last, faintly challenging glance for Patience, he sketched an elegant bow and made his escape.