A Rake's Vow

  “Please—so sorry to drag you away.”

  “Not at all—you’re the reason I’m here.”

  Minnie beamed at his flattery. Vane raised his head and met Patience’s eyes. His smile still in place, he inclined his head. “Miss Debbington.”

  Patience returned his nod and quelled another shiver. He might have surrendered gracefully, but she had the distinct impression he hadn’t given up.

  She watched him cross the room, Minnie on his arm, chattering animatedly; he walked with head bent, his attention fixed on Minnie. Patience frowned. From the instant she’d recognized his style, she’d equated Vane Cynster with her father, another smooth-tongued, suavely elegant gentleman. All she knew about the species she’d learned from him, her restless, handsome sire. And what she’d learned she’d learned well—there was no chance she’d succumb to a well-set pair of shoulders and a devilish smile.

  Her mother had loved her father—dearly, deeply, entirely too well. Unfortunately, men such as he were not the loving kind—not the kind wise women loved, for they did not value love, and would not accept it, nor return it. Worse, at least in Patience’s eyes, such men had no sense of family life, no love in their soul to tie them to their hearth, their children. From all she had seen from her earliest years, elegant gentlemen avoided deep feelings. Avoided commitment, avoided love.

  To them, marriage was a matter of estate, not a matter of the heart. Woe betide any woman who failed to understand that.

  All that being so, Vane Cynster was high on her list of gentlemen she would definitely not wish Gerrard to have as his mentor. The very last thing she would allow was for Gerrard to turn out like his father. That he had that propensity none could deny, but she would fight to the last gasp to prevent him going that road.

  Straightening her shoulders, Patience glanced around the room, noting the others, before the fireplace and about the chaise. With Vane and Minnie gone, the room seemed quieter, less colorful, less alive. As she watched, Gerrard threw a brief, watchful glance at the door.

  Draining her teacup, Patience inwardly humphed. She would need to protect Gerrard from Vane Cynster’s corrupting influence—nothing could be clearer.

  A niggle of doubt slid into her mind, along with the image of Vane behaving so attentively—and, yes, affectionately—toward Minnie. Patience frowned. Possibly corrupting. She shouldn’t, she supposed, judge him by his wolf’s clothing, yet that characteristic, in all her twenty-six years, had never proved wrong.

  Then again, neither her father, nor his elegant friends, nor the others of that ilk she had met, had possessed a sense of humor. At least, not the sort of sparring, fencing humor Vane Cynster deployed. It was very hard to resist the challenge of striking back—of joining in the game.

  Patience’s frown deepened. Then she blinked, stiffened, and swept across the room to return her empty teacup to the trolley.

  Vane Cynster was definitely corrupting.

  Chapter 3

  Vane helped Minnie up the stairs and down the gloomy corridors. After Sir Humphrey’s death, she’d removed to a large suite at the end of one wing; Timms occupied the room next door.

  Minnie paused outside her door. “A stroke of fate you should stop by just now.”

  I know. Vane suppressed the words. “How so?” He set the door wide.

  “There’s something strange going on.” Leaning heavily on her cane now she was no longer “in public,” Minnie crossed to the armchair by the hearth. Closing the door, Vane followed. “I’m not at all sure what it is”—Minnie settled in the chair, arranging her shawls—“but I do know I don’t like it.”

  Vane propped his shoulder against the mantelpiece. “Tell me.”

  Minnie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t recall when it actually started, but it was sometime after Patience and Gerrard arrived.” She looked up at Vane. “That’s not to say I think they have anything to do with it—their arrival is merely a convenient gauge of time.”

  Vane inclined his head. “What did you notice?”

  “The thefts started first. Little things—small items of jewelry, snuff boxes, trinkets, knickknacks. Anything small and portable—things that could fit in a pocket.”

  Vane’s face hardened. “How many thefts have there been?”

  “I don’t know. None of us do. Often, things have been gone for days, even weeks, before they’re noticed as missing. They’re those sort of things.”

  Things that might fall into a flower bed. Vane frowned. “You said the thefts came first—what followed?”

  “Odd happenings.” Minnie’s sigh overflowed with exasperation. “They’re calling it ‘the Spectre.’ ”

  “A ghost?” Vane blinked. “There are no ghosts here.”

  “Because you and Devil would have found them if there had been?” Minnie chuckled. “Quite right.” Then she sobered. “Which is why I know it’s the work of someone alive. Someone in my household.”

  “No new servants—new helpers in the gardens?”

  Minnie shook her head. “Everyone’s been with me for years. Masters is as mystified as I.”

  “Hmm.” Vane straightened. The disapproval aimed at Gerrard Debbington started to make sense. “What does this Spectre do?”

  “It makes noises, for a start.” Minnie’s eyes flashed. “Always starts up just after I’ve fallen asleep.” She gestured to the windows. “I’m a light sleeper, and these rooms look out over the ruins.”

  “What sort of noises?”

  “Moans and clunks—and a grating noise, as if stones are grinding against each other.”

  Vane nodded. He and Devil had shifted enough stones in the ruins for him to remember the sound vividly.

  “And then there’s lights darting about the ruins. You know what it’s like here—even in summer, we get a ground fog at night, rolling up from the river.”

  “Has anyone attempted to catch this Spectre?”

  Chins setting, Minnie shook her head. “I refused to countenance it—I insisted they all give me their word they won’t venture it. You know what the ruins are like, how dangerous it can be, even in broad daylight. Chasing a will-o’-the-wisp at night through the fog is insanity. Broken limbs, broken heads—no! I won’t hear of it.”

  “And have they all held to their promise?”

  “As far as I know.” Minnie grimaced. “But you know this house—there’s doors and windows aplenty they could get in or out. And I know one of them is the Spectre.”

  “Which means if he’s getting out and in without being detected, others could.” Vane folded his arms. “Go through the household—who has any interest in the ruins?”

  Minnie held up her fingers. “Whitticombe, of course. I told you of his studies?” Vane nodded. Minnie went on: “Then there’s Edgar—he’s read all the biographies of the abbots and those of the early Bellamys. He has quite an interest there. And I should include the General—the ruins have been his favorite walk for years.” She progressed to her last finger. “And Edmond with his play—and Gerrard, of course. Both spend time in the ruins—Edmond communing with his muse, Gerrard sketching.” She frowned at her hand, having run out of fingers. “And lastly, there’s Patience, but her interest is simply abiding curiosity. She likes to poke about on her walks.”

  Vane could imagine. “None of the other women or Henry Chadwick has any particular interest?”

  Minnie shook her head.

  “That’s quite a cast of characters—five men all told.”

  “Exactly.” Minnie stared at the fire. “I don’t know what worries me more, the Spectre or the thief.” She heaved a sigh, then looked up at Vane. “I wanted to ask, dear boy, if you would stay and sort it out.”

  Vane looked down, into Minnie’s face, at the soft cheeks he’d kissed innumerable times, at the bright eyes that had scolded and teased and loved him so well. For one instant, the image of another face interposed, that of Patience Debbington. Similar bone structure, similar eyes. Fate, once again, stared him in the face.

/>   But he couldn’t refuse, couldn’t walk away—every particle of his Cynster character refused to consider it. Cynsters never accepted defeat, although they often courted danger. Minnie was family—to be defended to the death.

  Vane refocused on Minnie’s face, her own once again; he opened his lips—

  A shrill scream split the stillness, rending the night.

  Vane hauled open Minnie’s door before the first echo faded. Less intense screeches guided him through the maze of the Hall, through the ill-lit corridors, up and down stairways joining the uneven levels. He tracked the screams to the corridor in the wing opposite Minnie’s, one floor up.

  The source of the screams was Mrs. Chadwick.

  When he reached her she was near swooning, propped against a side table, one hand pressed to her ample breast.

  “A man!” She clutched Vane’s sleeve and pointed down the corridor. “In a long cloak—I saw him standing there, just in front of my door.”

  The door in question was shrouded in gloom. Only one sconce holding a single candle lit the corridor, casting a weak glow by the intersection behind them. Footsteps came hurrying, pounding on the polished floors. Vane put Mrs. Chadwick from him. “Wait here.”

  Boldly, he strode down the corridor.

  There was no one lurking in the shadows. He strode to the end, to where stairs led up and down. There was no sound of retreating footsteps. Vane retraced his steps. The household was gathering about Mrs. Chadwick—Patience and Gerrard were there; so, too, was Edgar. Reaching Mrs. Chadwick’s door, Vane set it wide, then entered.

  There was no one in the room, either.

  By the time he returned to Mrs. Chadwick, she was bathed in light cast by a candelabrum Patience held high and sipping water from a glass. Her color had improved.

  “I’d just come from Angela’s room.” She glanced fleetingly at Vane; he could have sworn her color deepened. “We were having a little chat.” She took another sip, then continued, her voice strengthening, “I was going to my room when I saw him.” She pointed down the corridor. “Right there.”

  “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 bro
ther 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.”