“I wouldn’t sell young Gerrard short. His artist’s eye is remarkably keen.” Vane slanted a glance at Patience. “And he still has the ears of a child.”
Patience grinned. “He does love to listen.” Then she sobered. “Unfortunately, he heard nothing to the point.” She caught Vane’s eye. “Minnie’s starting to fret again.”
“I’ve set Lucifer on the trail of the pearls. If they’ve made their way to London’s jewelers, he’ll hear of it.”
“He will?”
Vane explained. Patience frowned. “I really don’t understand how they can have so thoroughly disappeared.”
“Along with everything else. Just consider—” Vane checked, then wheeled his team for the turn. “If there’s only one thief, and, given none of the other stolen items have been found either, that seems a reasonable bet, then all the items are probably hidden in one place. But where?”
“Where indeed? We’ve hunted all over, yet they must be somewhere.” Patience glanced at Vane. “Is there anything more I can do?”
The question hung in the air between them; Vane kept his gaze on his horses until he could keep the words “Agree to marry me” from his lips. Now was not the time—pressing her was the wrong tack to take. He knew it, but swallowing the words took real effort.
“Check Minnie’s inmates one more time.” At a spanking pace, he set the curricle for the park gates. “Don’t look for anything specific, anything suspicious. Don’t prejudge what you see—just study each one.” He breathed deeply, and flicked Patience a hard glance. “You’re the one closest and yet most detached—look again, and tell me what you see. I’ll call for you tomorrow.”
Patience nodded. “Same time?”
Curtly, Vane acquiesced. And wondered how much longer he could refrain from doing something—saying something—rash.
“Miss Patience!”
Hurrying along the gallery on her way to join Vane, impatiently waiting downstairs, Patience paused, and waited for Mrs. Henderson, deserting her post supervising the maids down one corridor, to join her.
With a conspiratorial look, Mrs. Henderson came close and lowered her voice. “If you’d be so good, miss, as to tell Mr. Cynster that the sand’s back.”
“Sand?”
One hand to her ample bosom, Mrs. Henderson nodded. “He’ll know. Same as before, just a trickle here and there about that heathenish elephant. I can see it sparkling between the floorboards. Not that it comes from the gaudy beast—I took a cloth to it myself, but it was perfectly clean. Other than that, even with these London maids—and Sligo’s hired ones with the sharpest eyes in Christendom—we’ve not spotted anything awry.”
Patience would have requested an explanation, if the expression on Vane’s face when he’d called and found her in the drawing room, rather than ready, waiting for their drive, had not been indelibly imprinted on her mind.
He was impatient, champing at some invisible bit.
She smiled at Mrs. Henderson. “I’ll tell him.”
With that, she whirled, and, clutching her muff, hurried down the stairs.
“Sand?” Her gaze fixed on Vane’s face, Patience waited for clarification. They were in the park, taking their usual route far from the fashionable throng. She’d delivered Mrs. Henderson’s message; it had been received with a frown.
“Where the devil is she getting it from?”
“Who?”
“Alice Colby.” Grim-faced, Vane told her of the earlier report of sand in Alice’s room. He shook his head. “Heaven only knows what it means.” He glanced at Patience. “Did you check out the others?”
Patience nodded. “There was nothing remotely odd about any of them, or their activities. The only thing I learned that I didn’t know before was that Whitticombe brought books up from the Hall. I imagined, when he took such immediate possession of the library, that he’d found some tomes there and had settled to a new interest.”
“And he hasn’t?”
“Far from it. He lugged at least six huge volumes along as luggage; no wonder their coach was straggling behind.”
Vane frowned. “What’s he studying at the moment—still Coldchurch Abbey?”
“Yes. He goes for a constitutional every afternoon—I slipped into the library and checked. All six books focus on the Dissolution—either just before or just after. The only exception was a ledger, dated nearly a century before.”
“Hmm.”
When Vane said nothing more, Patience jogged his elbow. “Hmm what?”
He flicked her a glance, then looked back at his leader. “Just that Whitticombe seems obsessed with the abbey. One would have thought he’d know everything there was to know of it by now—at least enough to write his thesis.” After a moment, he asked, “Nothing suspicious to report about any of the others?”
Patience shook her head. “Did Lucifer learn anything?”
“In a way, yes.” Vane threw her a frustrated glance. “The pearls have not been cleared through London. In fact, Lucifer’s sources, which are second to none, are very sure the pearls have not, in their idiom, ‘become available.’ ”
“Available?”
“Meaning that whoever stole them still has them. No one’s attempted to sell them.”
Patience grimaced. “We seem to meet blank walls at every turn.” After a moment, she added, “I calculated how big a space would be needed to store everything that’s been stolen.” She caught Vane’s eye. “Edith Swithin’s tatting bag, emptied of everything else, would barely hold it all.”
Vane’s frown turned grim. “It’s all got to be somewhere. I had Sligo search everyone’s room again, but he turned up empty-handed.”
“But it is somewhere.”
“Indeed. But where?”
Vane was back in Aldford Street at one o’clock the next morning, assisting a weak-kneed Edmond up the front steps. Gerrard was steering Henry, chortling at his own loquaciousness. Edgar, a wide, distinctly silly grin on his face, brought up the rear.
The General, thank heavens, had stayed home.
Sligo opened the door to them, and instantly took charge. Nevertheless, it took another half hour and the concerted efforts of the sober members of the group, to install Edmond, Henry, and Edgar in their respective beds.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Gerrard slumped against the corridor wall. “If we don’t find the pearls soon, and get this lot back to the Hall, they’ll run amok—and run us into the ground.”
The comment accurately reflected Vane’s thoughts. He grunted and resettled his coat.
Gerrard yawned, and nodded sleepily. “I’m off to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Vane nodded. “Good night.”
Gerrard headed down the corridor. His expression sober, Vane crossed the gallery to the stairs. At their head, he paused, looking down into the darkened front hall. About him, the house lay slumberous, the cloak of night, temporarily disturbed, settling back, a muffling shroud.
Vane felt the night drag at him, draining his strength. He was tired.
Tired of getting nowhere. Frustrated at every turn.
Tired of not winning, not succeeding.
Too tired to fight the compulsion that drove him. The compulsion to seek succor, support, surcease from his endeavors, in his love’s arms.
He drew in a deep breath and felt his chest swell. He kept his gaze locked on the stairs, denying the impulse to look right, down the corridor that led to Patience’s room.
It was time to go home, time to walk down the stairs, out through the front door, stroll the few blocks to his own house in Curzon Street, let himself into the silence of an empty house, walk up the elegant stairs and into the master bedroom. To sleep alone in his bed, between silken sheets, cold, unwarmed, unwelcoming.
A whisper of sound, and Sligo materialized beside him. Vane glanced sideways. “I’ll let myself out.”
If Sligo was surprised, he didn’t show it. With a nod, he descended the stairs. Vane waited, watched as Sligo moved through
the hall, checking the front door. He heard the bolt slide home, then the bobbing candle crossed the hall and disappeared through the green-baize door.
Leaving him in the silent darkness.
Still as a statue, Vane stood at the top of the stairs. In the present circumstances, inviting himself into Patience’s bed was unacceptable, even reprehensible.
It was also inevitable.
His eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he turned right. Silently, he walked down the corridor, to the room at its end. Facing the door, he raised his hand—and hesitated. Then the planes of his face shifted, and set.
He knocked. Softly.
A silent minute passed, then he heard the soft patter of bare feet on the boards. A heartbeat later, the door opened.
Flushed with sleep, her hair a tousled crown, Patience blinked at him. Her long white gown clung to her figure, outlined by the glow from the hearth. Lips parted, her breasts rising and falling, she radiated warmth and the promise of paradise.
Her eyes found his; for a long minute, she simply looked, then she stepped back and gestured him in.
Vane crossed the threshold and knew it to be his Rubicon. Patience shut the door behind him, then turned—into his arms.
He drew her close and kissed her; he needed no words for what he wanted to say. She opened to him instantly, offering all he wanted, all he needed. She sank against him, all soft womanly curves enticing, encouraging.
Vane caught his breath, caught the reins of his demons, and knew, this time, he wouldn’t hold them for long. She set his blood afire too easily; she was the very essence of need to him.
The sole and dominant object of his desire.
Lifting his lids, he glanced at her bed. Reassuringly large, it was shrouded in shadow. The only light in the room came from the embers glowing in the hearth.
He wanted her in his bed, but tonight, he’d make do with hers. He also wanted to see her, to let his eyes, all his senses feast. His demons needed feeding. He also had to find a way to tell her the truth, to tell her what was in his heart. To utter the words he knew he had to say.
Minnie, damn her ancient shrewdness, had pointed unerringly to the truth. And, as much as one part of him wished to, he was powerless to duck, powerless to escape.
He had to do it.
Lifting his head, he drew in a breath so huge, his chest strained against his coat. “Come to the fire.”
Sliding one arm around her, registering the glide of fine lawn over bare skin, he guided her toward the hearth. Pressing close, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her hip against his, she acquiesced readily.
As one, they stopped before the hearth. With a naturalness he found enthralling, she turned into his arms. Sliding her hands over his shoulders, she lifted her face, her lips. He was kissing her before he thought of it.
With an inward sigh, Vane caught hold of his impulses, locked a mental fist about them, then, easing his arms from her, he closed his hands about her waist. And tried not to register the warmth beneath his palms, the softness under his fingers.
He lifted his head, breaking their kiss. “Patience—”
“Sssh.” She stretched up on her toes and set her lips to his. Hers clung, softly teased; his firmed. Instinctively, he took charge again, effortlessly sliding into the next kiss.
Inwardly, Vane cursed. His reins were steadily fraying. His demons were grinning. In devilish anticipation. He tried again, this time whispering the words against her lips. “I need to t—”
She silenced him again, just as effectively.
Even more effectively, she reached for him, slim fingers closing possessively about his already rigid length.
Vane caught his breath—and gave up. There was no point battling on—he’d forgotten what it was he had to say. He slid his hands down and around; cupping her bottom, he drew her hips hard against his thighs. Her lips parted, her tongue flicked temptingly; he accepted her invitation and plundered. Ravenously.
Patience sighed with satisfaction and sank into his hard embrace. She wasn’t interested in words. She was prepared to listen to pants, moans, even groans—but no words.
She didn’t need to hear him explain why he was here; she didn’t need to hear any excuses for why he needed her—his reasons had been there, shining silver in his eyes, when he’d stood in the dark on her threshold, his gaze locked, so hungrily, on her. The strength of that silvery force was etched in the driven planes of his face, there for her to see. She didn’t want to hear him explain—and risk tarnishing the silver with mere words. Words could never do it justice—they’d only detract from the glory.
The glory of being needed. Needed like that. It had never happened to her before; it would likely never happen again.
Only with him. His was a need she could fill; she knew, to her bones, she was made for the task. The unalloyed pleasure she received from giving to him—giving herself to him and assuaging his need—was beyond all words, beyond all earthly measures.
This was what it meant to be a woman. A wife. A lover. This, of all things, was what her soul craved.
She wanted no words to get in her way.
Patience opened her singing heart and welcomed him in. She kissed him as ravenously as he kissed her, hands greedily searching through his clothes.
With a hissed curse, he drew back. “Wait.”
Dragging the long pin from his cravat, he laid it on the mantelpiece; swiftly, he unknotted and unwound the long folds. Patience smiled and reached for him; his expression granite hard, he stepped aside and around—linen folds blocked her sight.
“What . . . ?” Patience raised her hands to her face.
“Trust me.” Now behind her, Vane brushed her hands aside and deftly wound the linen twice about her head, then knotted it tight at the back. Then, closing his hands about her shoulders, he bent his head and trailed his lips, feather-light, up the curve of her throat. “It’ll be better this way.”
Better for him—he might retain some degree of control. He felt the responsiblity of being her love keenly; taking without giving was not in his nature. He needed to tell her what was in his heart. If he couldn’t manage the words, at least he could demonstrate his feelings. For now, with desire rampant, pounding through his veins, that was the best he could do.
He knew very well what being “blind” would do to her. Without sight, her remaining senses would heighten—her sexual sensitivity, physical and emotional, would reach new peaks.
Slowly, he turned her to face him, and lifted his hands from her.
Senses flickering wildly, Patience waited. Her breathing was shallow, tight with anticipation; her skin prickled. Hands lax at her sides, she listened to her heartbeat, listened to desire thrum in her veins.
The first tug was so gentle she wasn’t sure it was real, then another button on her nightgown slid free. Her senses told her Vane was near, close, but precisely where she couldn’t tell. Tentatively, she reached out—
“No. Just stand still.” Obedient to his deep voice, to its compelling tone, she let her arms fall.
Her gown was buttoned down the front, all the way to the floor. Only the waft of air on her skin and the slightest of tugs told her when the last button fell free. Before she could imagine what might come next, quick tugs at her wrists had the lacings undone.
Blind, helpless, she shivered.
And felt her gown part and lift away, then it was sliding down her arms, down her back, slithering free of her hands to fall to the floor behind her.
She sucked in a tight breath—and felt Vane’s gaze upon her. He stood before her; his gaze roved—her nipples puckered; heat spread beneath her skin. A warm flush followed his gaze, over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She felt herself soften, felt anticipation surge.
He shifted—to the side. Tilting her head slightly, she strained to track his movements. Then he stepped closer. He stood to her left, bare inches away; she could sense him with every pore of her skin.
A hard fingertip slid beneath
her chin and tipped her face up. Her lips throbbed; he covered them with his.
The kiss was long and deep, ardent, brutually candid. He surged deep and claimed her softness, then tasted her, languidly but thoroughly, a demonstration of what was to come. Then he drew back—and the fingertip slid away.
Naked, unable to see, with nothing beyond the soft glow from the fire and the heat of desire to warm her, Patience simmered. And waited.
One fingertip touched her right shoulder, then lazily meandered down, over the swell of her breast to circle her nipple. At the last, it flicked the achingly tight bud, then disappeared.
His second caress mirrored the first, teasing her left nipple, sending a long quivering shiver through her. She sucked in a fractured breath.
He leaned closer, reaching behind her to trace the long muscles framing her spine, one, then the other, stopping where they trailed into the hollow below her waist.
Again his touch was withdrawn; again Patience waited. Then his palm, hard, hot, slightly rough on her smooth skin, settled low on her back, in the curve below her waist, then boldly traced down. And around. Proprietorially claiming the full curves, knowingly, appreciatively assessing. Patience felt desire flare, hot and urgent inside her, felt its dew dampen her skin.
She gasped softly; the sound echoed in the stillness. Vane bent his head; she sensed it and lifted her lips. They met his in a kiss so full of aching wanting she swayed. She lifted a hand to grasp his shoulder—
“No. Stand still.” He breathed the words against her lips, then kissed her again. Then his lips trailed to her temple. “Don’t move. Just feel. Don’t do anything. Just let me love you.”
Patience shivered—and mutely acquiesced.
The hand fondling her bottom remained, distractingly intimate. It dropped to briefly trace the backs of her thighs, then, long fingers trailing up the line between, returned to caressing her tensed curves.
Then a rogue fingertip found the hollow at the base of her throat. Involuntarily, Patience straightened. The finger slowly tracked down, sliding smoothly over her skin. It passed between her swollen breasts, continued down her sensitive midriff, over the line of her waist, to her navel. There, it circled, slowly, then trailed diagonally, to one hip, then down the midline of her thigh, stopping and disappearing just above her knee.