His gaze fell on the small grey cat which had hugged Patience Debbington’s skirts; it now sat on the runner, considering him. As he watched, it rose, turned, and, tail high, started up the corridor—then stopped. Turning its head, it looked back at him. “Meeow!”
From its imperious tone, Vane deduced it was female.
Behind him, lightning flashed. He looked back at the darkened day. Thunder rolled—a second later, the heavens opened. Rain pelted down, sheets of heavy drops obliterating the landscape.
Fate’s message couldn’t have been clearer: escape was impossible.
His features grim, Vane closed the door—and followed the cat.
“Nothing could be more fortuitous!” Araminta, Lady Bellamy, beamed delightedly at Vane. “Of course you must stay. But the second gong will go any minute, so cut line. How is everyone?”
Propping his shoulders against the mantelpiece, Vane smiled. Wrapped in expensive shawls, her rotund figure encased in silk and lace, a frilled widow’s cap atop sprightly white curls, Minnie watched him through eyes bright with intelligence, set in a soft, lined face. She sat enthroned in her chair before the fire in her bedchamber; in its mate sat Timms, a gentlewoman of indeterminate years, Minnie’s devoted companion. “Everyone,” Vane knew, meant the Cynsters. “The youngsters are thriving—Simon’s starring at Eton. Amelia and Amanda are cutting a swath through the ton, scattering hearts right and left. The elders are all well and busy in town, but Devil and Honoria are still at the Place.”
“Too taken with admiring his heir, I’ll wager. Daresay that wife of his will keep him in line.” Minnie grinned, then sobered. “Still no word of Charles?”
Vane’s face hardened. “No. His disappearance remains a mystery.”
Minnie shook her head. “Poor Arthur.”
“Indeed.” Minnie sighed, then slanted an assessing glance at Vane. “And what about you and those cousins of yours? Still keeping the ton’s ladies on their toes?”
Her tone was all innocence; head bowed over her knitting, Timms snorted. “More like on their backs.”
Vane smiled, suavely charming. “We do our poor best.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled. Still smiling, Vane looked down and smoothed his sleeve. “I’d better go and change, but tell me—who do you have staying at present?”
“A whole parcel of odds and ends,” Timms offered.
Minnie chuckled and drew her hands free of her shawl. “Let’s see.” She counted on her fingers. “There’s Edith Swithins—she’s a distant Bellamy connection. Utterly vague, but quite harmless. Just don’t express any interest in her tatting unless you’ve an hour to spare. Then there’s Agatha Chadwick—she was married to that unfortunate character who insisted he could cross the Irish Sea in a coracle. He couldn’t, of course. So Agatha and her son and daughter are with us.”
“Daughter?”
Minnie’s gaze lifted to Vane’s face. “Angela. She’s sixteen and already a confirmed wilter. She’ll swoon away in your arms if you give her half a chance.”
Vane grimaced. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Henry Chadwick must be about your age,” Minnie mused, “but not at all in the same mold.” Her gaze ran appreciatively over Vane’s elegant figure, long muscular legs displayed to advantage in tight buckskins and top boots, his superbly tailored coat of Bath superfine doing justice to his broad shoulders. “Just setting eyes on you should do him some good.”
Vane merely raised his brows.
“Now, who else?” Minnie frowned at her fingers. “Edmond Montrose is our resident poet and dramatist. Needless to say, he fancies himself the next Byron. Then there’s the General and Edgar, who you must remember.”
Vane nodded. The General, a brusque, ex–military man, had lived at Bellamy Hall for years; his title was not a formal one, but a nickname earned by his emphatically regimental air. Edgar Polinbrooke, too, had been Minnie’s pensioner for years—Vane placed Edgar in his fifties, a mild tippler who fancied himself a gamester, but who was, in reality, a simple and harmless soul.
“Don’t forget Whitticombe,” Timms put in.
“How could I forget Whitticombe?” Minnie sighed. “Or Alice.”
Vane raised a questioning brow.
“Mr. Whitticombe Colby and his sister, Alice,” Minnie supplied. “They’re distant cousins of Humphrey’s. Whitticombe trained as a deacon and has conceived the notion of compiling the History of Coldchurch Abbey.” Coldchurch was the abbey on whose ruins the Hall stood.
“As for Alice—well, she’s just Alice.” Minnie grimaced. “She must be over forty and, though I hate to say it of one of my own sex, a colder, more intolerant, judgmental being it has never been my misfortune to meet.”
Vane’s brows rose high. “I suspect it would be wise if I steered clear of her.”
“Do.” Minnie nodded feelingly. “Get too close, and she’ll probably have the vapors.” She glanced at Vane. “Then again, she might just have hysterics anyway, the instant she sets eyes on you.”
Vane cast her a jaundiced look.
“I think that’s it. Oh, no—I forgot Patience and Gerrard.” Minnie looked up. “My niece and nephew.”
Studying Minnie’s radiant face, Vane didn’t need to ask if she was fond of her young relatives. “Patience and Gerrard?” He kept the question mild.
“My younger sister’s children. They’re orphans now. Gerrard’s seventeen—he inherited the Grange, a nice little property in Derbyshire, from his father, Sir Reginald Debbington.” Minnie frowned at Vane. “You might be too young to remember him. Reggie died eleven years ago.”
Vane sifted through his memories. “Was he the one who broke his neck while out with the Cottesmore?”
Minnie nodded. “That’s the one. Constance, m’sister, died two years ago. Patience has been holding the fort for Gerrard pretty much since Reggie died.” Minnie smiled. “Patience is my project for the coming year.”
Vane studied that smile. “Oh?”
“Thinks she’s on the shelf and couldn’t care less. Says she’ll think about marrying after Gerrard’s settled.”
Timms snorted. “Too single-minded for her own good.”
Minnie folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve decided to take Patience and Gerrard to London for the Season next year. She thinks we’re going to give Gerrard a little town bronze.”
Vane raised a cynical brow. “While in reality, you plan to play matchmaker.”
“Precisely.” Minnie beamed at him. “Patience has a tidy fortune invested in the Funds. As for the rest, you must give me your opinion once you’ve seen her. Tell me how high you think she can reach.”
Vane inclined his head noncommittally.
A gong boomed in the distance.
“Damn!” Minnie clutched her slipping shawls. “They’ll be waiting in the drawing room, wondering what on earth’s going on.” She waved Vane away. “Go pretty yourself up. You don’t stop by that often. Now you’re here, I want the full benefit of your company.”
“Your wish is my command.” Vane swept her an elegant bow; straightening, he slanted her an arrogantly rakish smile. “Cynsters never leave ladies unsatisfied.”
Timms snorted so hard she choked.
Vane left the room to chortles, chuckles, and gleeful, anticipatory whispers.
Chapter 2
Something odd was afoot. Vane knew it within minutes of entering the drawing room. The household was gathered in groups about the large room; the instant he appeared, all heads swung his way.
The expressions displayed ranged from Minnie’s and Timms’s benevolent welcomes, through Edgar’s approving appraisal and a similar response from a young sprig, who Vane assumed was Gerrard, to wary calculation to outright chilly disapproval—this last from three—a gentleman Vane tagged as Whitticombe Colby, a pinch-faced, poker-rigid spinster, presumably Alice Colby, and, of course, Patience Debbington.
Vane understood the Colbys’ reaction. He did, however, wonder what he’d done to deserve Patience Debb
ington’s censure. Hers wasn’t the response he was accustomed to eliciting from gently bred ladies. Smiling urbanely, he strolled across the wide room, simultaneously letting his gaze touch hers. She returned his look frostily, then turned and addressed some remark to her companion, a lean, dramatically dark gentleman, undoubtedly the budding poet. Vane’s smile deepened; he turned it on Minnie.
“You may give me your arm,” Minnie declared the instant he’d made his bow. “I’ll introduce you, then we really must go in, or Cook will be in the boughs.”
Before they reached even the first of Minnie’s “guests,” Vane’s social antennae, exquisitely honed, detected the undercurrents surging between the groups.
What broth was Minnie concocting here? And what, Vane wondered, was brewing?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cynster.” Agatha Chadwick gave him her hand. A firm-faced matron with greying blond hair half-hidden by a widow’s cap, she gestured to the pretty, fair-haired girl beside her. “My daughter, Angela.”
Round-eyed, Angela curtsied; Vane returned a noncommittal murmur.
“And this is my son, Henry.”
“Cynster.” Heavily built and plainly dressed, Henry Chadwick shook Vane’s hand. “You must be glad to be able to break your journey.” He nodded at the long windows through which the rain could be heard, drumming on the terrace flags.
“Indeed.” Vane smiled. “A fortuitous chance.” He glanced at Patience Debbington, still engrossed with the poet.
The General and Edgar were both pleased that he remembered them. Edith Swithins was vague and flustered; in her case, Vane surmised that wasn’t due to him. The Colbys were as frigidly disapproving as only those of their ilk could be; Vane suspected Alice Colby’s face would crack if she smiled. Indeed, it occurred to him that she might never have learned how.
Which left, last but very definitely not least, the poet, Patience Debbington, and her brother Gerrard. As Vane approached, Minnie on his arm, both men looked up, their expressions eager and open. Patience did not even register his existence.
“Gerrard Debbington.” Brown eyes glowing beneath a shock of brown hair, Gerrard thrust out his hand, then colored; Vane grasped it before he could tie himself in knots.
“Vane Cynster,” he murmured. “Minnie tells me you’re for town next Season.”
“Oh, yes. But I wanted to ask—” Gerrard’s eyes were alight, fixed on Vane’s face. His age showed in the length of his lanky frame, his youth in his eager exuberance. “I came past the stables just before the storm broke—there’s a bang-up pair of greys stabled there. Are they yours?”
Vane grinned. “Half-Welsh. High-steppers with excellent endurance. My brother, Harry, owns a stud; he supplies all my cattle.”
Gerrard glowed. “I thought they looked prime-uns.”
“Edmond Montrose.” The poet leaned across and shook Vane’s hand. “Have you come up from town?”
“Via Cambridgeshire. I had to attend a special church service near the ducal seat.” Vane glanced at Patience Debbington, mute and tight-lipped on the other side of Minnie. The information that he was permitted to enter a church did not melt her ice one jot.
“And this is Patience Debbington, my niece,” Minnie put in, before Gerrard and Edmond could monopolize him further.
Vane bowed elegantly in response to Patience’s abbreviated bob. “I know,” he drawled, his gaze on her stubbornly averted eyes. “We’ve met.”
“You have?” Minnie blinked at him, then looked at Patience, now staring, dagger-eyed, at Vane.
Patience glanced, somewhat evasively, at Minnie. “I was in the garden when Mr. Cynster arrived.” The glance she flicked Vane was exceedingly careful. “With Myst.”
“Ah.” Minnie nodded and scanned the room. “Right then—now everyone’s been introduced, Vane, you may lead me in.”
He dutifully did so, the others filing in in their wake. As he conducted Minnie to the foot of the long table, Vane wondered why Patience did not want it known she’d been searching for something in the flower bed. As he settled Minnie in her chair, he noticed a place had been set directly opposite, at the table’s head.
“Daresay you’d like to chat with your godson.” Whitticombe Colby stopped beside Minnie’s chair. He smiled unctuously. “I would be happy to surrender my place—”
“No need for that, Whitticombe,” Minnie cut in. “What would I do without your erudite company?” She looked up at Vane, on her other side. “You take the chair at the head, dear boy.” She held his gaze; Vane raised a brow, then bowed—Minnie tugged and he leaned closer. “I need a man I can trust sitting there.”
Minnie’s whisper reached only him; Vane inclined his head slightly and straightened. As he strolled down the room, he studied the seating arrangements—Patience had already claimed the chair to the left of his alloted place, with Henry Chadwick beside her. Edith was settling in opposite Patience while Edgar was making for the next seat along. Nothing in the arrangement suggested a reason for Minnie’s comment; Vane couldn’t imagine that Minnie, with wits like quicksilver, thought her niece, presently armored in cold steel, could possibly need protection from the likes of Colby.
Which meant Minnie’s utterance had some deeper meaning; Vane inwardly sighed, and made a mental note to ferret it out. Before he escaped from Bellamy Hall.
The first course was served the instant they all sat. Minnie’s cook was excellent; Vane applied himself to the meal with unfeigned appreciation.
Edgar started the conversational ball rolling. “Heard that the Whippet’s odds on for the Guineas.”
Vane shrugged. “There’s been a lot of blunt laid on Blackamoor’s Boy and Huntsman’s well fancied, too.”
“Is it true,” Henry Chadwick asked, “that the Jockey Club’s thinking of changing their rules?”
The ensuing discussion even drew a tittering comment from Edith Swithins: “Such fanciful names you gentlemen give the horses. Never anything like Goldie, or Muffins, or Blacky.”
Neither Vane, Edgar, or Henry felt qualified to take that point further.
“I had heard,” Vane drawled, “that the Prince Regent’s battling debtors again.”
“Again?” Henry shook his head. “A spendthrift through and through.” Under Vane’s subtle direction, the talk turned to Prinny’s latest eccentricities, on which Henry, Edgar, and Edith all entertained firm opinions.
On Vane’s left, however, perfect silence reigned.
A fact which only increased his determination to do something about it, about Patience Debbington’s adamant disapproval. The itch to tweak her nose, to prick her into response, waxed strong. Vane kept the lid on his temper; they were not alone—yet.
The few minutes he’d spent changing, slipping into a familiar routine, had settled his mind, cleared his vision. Just because fate had succeeded in trapping him here, under the same roof as Patience Debbington, was no reason to consider the battle lost. He would stay the night, catch up with Minnie and Timms, deal with whatever was making Minnie uneasy, and then be on his way. The storm would probably blow itself out overnight; at the worst, he’d be held up only a day or so.
Just because fate had shown him the water, didn’t mean he had to drink.
Of course, before he shook the gravel of the Bellamy Hall drive from his boots, he’d deal with Patience Debbington, too. A salutary jolt or three should do it—just enough to let her know that he knew that her icy disapproval was, to him, a transparent facade.
He was, of course, too wise to take things further.
Glancing at his prey, Vane noted her clear complexion, soft, delicate, tinged with gentle color. As he watched, she swallowed a mouthful of trifle, then sent her tongue gliding over her lower lip, leaving the soft pink sheening.
Abruptly, Vane looked down—into the big blue eyes of the small grey cat—the cat known as Myst. She came and went as she pleased, generally hugging Patience’s skirts; she was presently seated beside Patience’s chair, staring unblinkingly up at h
im.
Arrogantly, Vane lifted a brow.
With a silent mew, Myst stood, stretched, then padded forward to twine about his leg. Vane reached down and rubbed his fingers over the sleek head, then ran his nails down her spine. Myst arched, tail stiffening; the rumble of her purr reached Vane.
It also reached Patience; she glanced down. “Myst!” she hissed. “Stop bothering Mr. Cynster.”
“She’s not bothering me.” Capturing Patience’s gaze, Vane added: “I enjoy making females purr.”
Patience stared at him, then blinked. Then, frowning slightly, she turned back to her plate. “Well, as long as she doesn’t bother you.”
It took a moment before Vane could get his lips back to straight, then he turned to Edith Swithins.
Not long after, they all rose; Minnie, with Timms beside her, led the ladies to the drawing room. Her gaze on Gerrard, Patience hesitated, her expression alternating between consternation and uncertainty. Gerrard didn’t notice. Vane watched Patience’s lips set; she almost glanced his way, then realized he was watching—waiting. She stiffened and kept her lids lowered. Reaching out, Vane drew her chair farther back. With a brief, excessively haughty inclination of her head, Patience turned and followed in Minnie’s wake.
Her pace wouldn’t have won the Guineas.
Dropping back into his chair at the head of the table, Vane smiled at Gerrard. With a lazy wave, he indicated the vacant chair to his right. “Why don’t you move up?”
Gerrard’s grin was radiant; eagerly, he left his place for the one between Edgar and Vane.
“Good idea. Then we can talk without shouting.” Edmond moved closer, taking Patience’s chair. With a genial grunt, the General moved up the table. Vane suspected Whitticombe would have kept his distance, but the insult would have been too obvious. His expression coldly severe, he moved to Edgar’s other side.
Reaching for the decanter Masters had placed before him, Vane looked up—directly at Patience, still lingering, half-in and half-out of the door. Obviously torn. Vane’s eyes touched hers; coolly arrogant, he raised his brows.