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—”
Crunnnch! Whitticombe sailed backward and landed on the floor, some yards away.
Patience, who’d been standing beside Vane, quickly stepped forward—to come up with Vane, who’d stepped forward as he delivered the blow that had lifted Whitticombe from his feet.
Clutching Vane’s arm, Patience looked down—and prayed Whitticombe had the sense to stay down. She could feel the steel in the muscles beneath her fingers. If Whitticombe was foolish enough to fight back, Vane would demolish him.
Stunned, Whitticombe blinked back to full consciousness. As the others gathered about, he raised one hand to his jaw. And winced. “Assault!” he croaked.
“The battery might yet follow.” The warning—entirely unneccessary from Patience’s perspective—came from Vane. One look at his face, as hard as granite and equally unyielding, would have informed any sane person of that fact.
Whitticombe stared—then he scanned the circle about him. “He hit me!”
“Did he?” Edmond opened his eyes wide. “Didn’t see it myself.” He looked at Vane. “Would you care to do it again?”
“No!” Whitticombe looked shocked.
“Why not?” the General inquired. “A sound thrashing—do you good. Might even knock some sense into you. Here—we’ll all come and watch. Ensure fair play and all that. No blows below the belt, what?”
The horrified look on Whitticombe’s face as he gazed around the circle of faces—and found not one showing the slightest glimmer of sympathy—would have been comic if any had been in the mood to be amused. When his gaze returned to Vane, he sucked in a breath, and sniveled: “Don’t hit me.”
Narrow-eyed, Vane looked down at him, and shook his head. His battle-ready tension eased; he stepped back. “A coward—through and through.”
The verdict was greeted with nods and humphs of agreement. Duggan pushed forward and grasped Whitticombe by the collar. He hauled the miserable figure upright. Duggan looked at Vane. “I’ll lock him in the cellar, shall I?”
Vane looked at Minnie. Tight-lipped, she nodded.
Alice, who had watched it all, face alight with vindictive glee, laughed and waved at Whitticombe. “Off you go, brother! You wanted to look at a cellar all these months—enjoy it while you can.” Cackling, she slumped back in her chair.
Agatha Chadwick laid a hand on Minnie’s arm. “Allow me.” With considerable dignity, she descended on Alice. “Angela.”
For once, Angela did not drag her heels. Joining her mother, her face a mask of determination, she grasped Alice’s other arm; together, they hoisted Alice to her feet.
“Come along, now.” Mrs. Chadwick turned to the door.
Alice glanced from one to the other. “Did you bring my elephant? It is mine, you know.”
“It’s on its way from London.” Agatha Chadwick glanced at Minnie. “We’ll lock her in her room.”
Minnie nodded.
All watched the trio pass through the door. The instant it closed behind them, the iron that had kept Minnie’s spine straight for the past hours dissolved. She slumped against Timms. Vane softly cursed—without requesting permission, he scooped Minnie up in his arms and gently eased her into the chair Alice had vacated.
Minnie smiled tremulously up at him. “I’m all right—just a bit rattled.” She grinned. “But I enjoyed seeing Whitticombe fly through the air.”
Relieved to see that grin, Vane stepped back, letting Patience get closer. Edith Swithins, likewise at the end of her resources, was being solicitously helped into the second armchair by Edgar.
As she sank down, she, too, smiled at Vane. “I’ve never seen any fisticuffs before—it was quite exciting.” Rummaging in her bag, she retrieved two bottles of smelling salts. She handed Minnie one. “I thought I’d lost this one years ago, but lo and behold, it turned up at the top of my bag last week.”
Edith sniffed from her bottle, eyes twinkling at Vane.
Who discovered he could still blush. He glanced around; the General and Gerrard had been conferring—the General looked up. “Just discussing the dispositions, what? No staff here—and we haven’t dined yet.”
The observation got them all moving, lighting fires, making up beds, and preparing and serving a hot, sustaining dinner. Grisham, Duggan, and the two maids assisted, but everyone, bar only Alice and Whitticombe, readily contributed their share.
As no fire had been lit in the drawing room, the ladies remained at the table while the port did the rounds. The glow of common experience, of camaraderie, was evident as they shared thoughts of the past weeks.
At the end, as yawns started to interrupt their reminiscences, Timms turned to Minnie. “What will you do with them?”
Everyone quieted. Minnie grimaced. “They really are pitiful. I’ll speak to them tomorrow, but, in al
l Christian charity, I can’t throw them out. At least not at the moment, not into the snow.”
“Snow?” Edmond raised his head, then rose and pulled back one of the drapes. Fine flakes swirled across the beam of light shining out. “Well, fancy that.”
Vane did not fancy that. He had plans—a heavy fall of snow was not part of them. He glanced at Patience, seated beside him. Then he smiled, and quaffed the last of his port.
Fate couldn’t be that cruel.
He was the last to climb the stairs, after walking a last round about the huge house. All was silent, all was still. It seemed the only other life in the old house was Myst, darting up the stairs before him. The small cat had elected to follow him on his round, weaving about his boots, then dashing into the shadows. He’d walked out of the side door to study the sky. Myst had disappeared into the dark, only to return a few minutes later, sneezing snowflakes off her pink nose, shaking them disdainfully from her fur.
His thoughts in the future, Vane followed Myst up the stairs, through the gallery, down one flight, and along the corridor. He reached his room and opened the door; Myst darted through.
Vane grinned and followed—then remembered he’d meant to go to Patience’s room. He looked around, to call Myst back—and saw Patience, dozing in the chair by the fire.
Lips curving, Vane closed the door. Myst woke Patience before he reached her—she looked up, then smiled, rose—and walked straight into his arms. He closed them about her.
Eyes shining, she looked into his. “I love you.”
Vane’s lips lifted as he bent to kiss her. “I know.”
Patience returned the gentle caress. “Was I that obvious?”
“Yes.” Vane kissed her again. “That part of the equation was never in doubt.” Briefly, his lips brushed hers. “Nor was the rest of it. Not from the moment I first held you in my arms.”
The rest of it—his part of the equation—his feelings for her.
Patience drew back so she could study his face. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “I needed to know.”
The planes of his face shifted; desire flared in his eyes. “Now you do.” He lowered his head and kissed her again. “Incidentally, don’t ever forget it.”
Already breathless, Patience chuckled. “You’ll have to make sure you remind me.”
“Oh, I will. Every morning and every night.”
The words were a vow—a promise. Patience found his lips with hers and kissed him until she was witless. Chuckling, Vane lifted his head. Wrapping one arm around her, he steered her to the bed. “Theoretically, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Why? What’s the difference—your bed or mine?”
“Quite a lot, by servants’ standards. They’ll accept the sight of gentlemen wandering the house in the early hours, but for some reason, the sight of ladies flitting through the dawn in their nightgowns incites rampant speculation.”
“Ah,” Patience said, as they halted by the bed. “But I’ll be fully clothed.” She gestured to her gown. “There’ll be no reason for speculation.”
Vane met her gaze. “What about your hair?”
“My hair?” Patience blinked. “You’ll just have to help me put it up again. I assume ‘elegant gentlemen,’ such as you, learn such useful skills very early in life.”
“Actually, no.” Straight-faced, Vane reached for her pins. “Us rakes-of-the-first-order . . .” Dropping pins left and right, he set her hair cascading down. With a satisfied smile, he caught her about the waist and drew her hard against him. “We,” he said, looking into her eyes, “spend our time concentrating on rather different skills—like letting ladies’ hair down. And getting them out of their clothes. Getting them into bed. And other things.”
He demonstrated—very effectively.
As he spread her thighs and sank deeply into her, Patience’s breath fractured on a gasp.
He moved within her, claiming her, pressing deep, only to withdraw and fill her again. Arms braced, he reared above her, and loved her; beneath him, Patience writhed. When he bent his head and found her lips, she clung to the caress, clung to the moment. Clung to him.
Their lips parted, and she sighed. And felt his words against her lips as he moved deeply within her.
“With my body, I thee worship. With my heart, I thee adore. I love you. And if you want me to say it a thousand times, I will. Just as long as you’ll be my wife.”
“I will.” Patience heard the words in her head, tasted them on her lips—she felt them resonate in her heart.
The next hour passed, and not a single coherent phrase passed their lips. The warm stillness within the room was broken only by the rustling of sheets, and soft, urgent murmurs. Then the silence gave way to soft moans, groans, breathless pants, desperate gasps. Culminating in a soft, piercingly sweet scream, dying, sobbing, into a deep guttural groan.
Outside, the moon rose; inside, the fire died.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, limbs and hearts entwined, they slept.
“Bye!” Gerrard stood on the front steps and, smiling hugely, waved them away.
With a cheery wave, Patience faced forward, settling herself under the thick rug. The rug Vane had insisted she needed in order to go driving with him. She glanced at him. “You aren’t going to fuss over me, are you?”
“Who? Me?” He threw her an uncomprehending glance. “Perish the thought.”
“Good.” Patience tipped her head back and looked at the sky, still threatening snow. “There’s really no need—I’m perfectly accustomed to looking after myself.”
Vane kept his eyes on his horses’s ears.
Patience slanted him another glance. “Incidentally, I meant to mention . . .” When he merely raised an inquiring brow, and kept his gaze forward, she put her nose in the air and baldly stated, “If you dare, ever, to go into a conservatory with a beautiful woman, even if she’s related—even a first cousin—I will not be held accountable for the outcome.”
That got her a glance, a mildly curious one.
“Outcome?”
“The fracas that will inevitably ensue.”
“Ah.” Vane looked forward again, easing his horses down the lane to the main road. “What about you?” he eventually asked. Meekly mild, he raised his brows at her. “Don’t you like conservatories?”
“You may take me to see any conservatory you please,” Patience snapped. “My liking for pot plants is not, as you well know, the subject of this discussion.”
Vane’s lips quirked, then lifted—lightly. “Indeed. But you may put that particular subject from your head.” The look in his eyes told Patience he was deadly serious. Then he smiled, his wolfish, Cynster smile. “What would I want with other beautiful women, if I can show you conservatories instead?”
Patience blushed, and humphed, and looked ahead.
A fine sprinkling of snow covered the landscape and sparkled in the weak sunshine. The breeze was chilly, the clouds leaden grey, but the day remained fine—fine enough for their drive. They reached the main road, and Vane turned north. He flicked the reins, and his greys stepped out. Lifting her face to the breeze, Patience thrilled to the steady rolling rhythm, to the sense of traveling quickly along a new road. In a new direction.
The roofs of Kettering lay ahead. Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I suppose we should start making plans.”
“Probably,” Vane conceded. He slowed the greys as they entered the town. “I’d imagined we’d spend most of our time in Kent.” He glanced at Patience. “The house in Curzon Street is big enough for a family, but other than the obligatory appearances during the height of the Season, I can’t imagine we’ll be there all that much. Unless you’ve discovered a liking for town life?”
“No—of course not.” Patience blinked. “Kent sounds wonderful.”
“Good—did I mention there’s a deal of redecorating to do?” Vane grinned at her. “Infinitely better you than me. Most of the house needs attention—especially the nurseries.”
 
; Patience mouthed an “Oh.”
“Of course,” Vane continued, deftly steering his cattle through the main street, “before we get to the nurseries, I suppose we should consider the main bedchamber.” His expression impossibly innocent, he caught Patience’s eye. “I daresay you’ll need to make changes there, too.”
Patience narrowed her eyes at him. “Before we get to the main bedchamber, don’t you think we should get to a church?”
Vane’s lips twitched; he looked ahead. “Ah, well. Now that poses some problems.”
“Problems?”
“Hmm—like which church.”
Patience frowned. “Is there some tradition in your family?”
“Not really. Nothing we need concern ourselves with. It really comes down to personal preference.” With the town behind then, Vane set the greys pacing. And turned his attention to Patience. “Do you want a big wedding?”
She frowned. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Well, do. And you might like to ponder the fact that there are approximately three hundred friends and connections who will have to be invited from the Cynster side alone, should you elect to go that route.”
“Three hundred?”
“That’s just the close ones.”
It didn’t take Patience long to shake her head. “I really don’t think a big wedding is called for. It sounds like it’ll take forever to organize.”
“Very likely.”
“So—what’s the alternative?”
“There are a few,” Vane admitted. “But the fastest method would be to marry by special license. That can be done at virtually anytime, and would take next to no time to organize.”
“Beyond obtaining the license.”
“Hmm.” Vane looked ahead. “So, the question is, when would you like to marry?”
Patience considered. She looked at Vane, at his profile, puzzled when he kept his eyes forward and refused to meet her gaze. “I don’t know,” she said. “You pick a date.”
He looked at her then. “You’re sure? You won’t mind what I decide?”
Patience shrugged. “Why should I? The sooner the better, if we’re to go on as we are.”