Rakes Vow

Chapter 14

A deep, regular vibration woke Vane in the eerie hour before dawn. Blinking his eyes wide, struggling to make out shapes in the dim light, it was a full minute before he realized the vibration was emanating from the warm weight in the center of his chest.

Myst lay curled in the hollow just below his breastbone, looking at his face through unblinking blue eyes.

And purring fit to wake the dead.

Another source of warmth, the soft female body curled against his side, registered. Vane glanced sideways. Patience was clearly accustomed to Myst's roar of a purr-she remained dead to the world.

He couldn't stop the grin that curved his lips. Just as well she was asleep. Despite the ups and downs of yesterday, especially the downs, the ups, particularly the last up, dominated his mind.

Coming straight back and making passionate love to her had been the right tack to take. Masterful, yet not forceful. If he pushed too hard, she would dig in her heels and resist-and he'd never learn what it was that was holding her back from marriage.

This way, he could indulge his senses, slake his demons' urges, and wrap her in a sensual web that, regardless of what she might imagine, was quite as strong as the web she'd dready woven, albeit unwittingly, about him. And in between tying knot after knot in the net that would bind her to him, he would, gently, carefully, win her confidence, her trust, and she would, in the end, confide in him.

Then it would simply be a matter of slaying her particular dragon, and carrying her off. Simple.

Vane's grin turned wry. He struggled to subdue his cynical laugh. Myst did not appreciate his quaking chest; she dug in her claws, which abruptly cut off his laughter. He frowned at her, but, given her sterling assistance in the night, did not push her from her comfortable perch.

Aside from anything else, he was feeling decidedly comfortable-sunk in a warm bed with the lady he wanted as his wife softly sleeping beside him. At this precise moment, he couldn't think of anything else he wanted in the world; this haven was complete. Last night he'd confirmed, beyond all shadow of doubt, that Patience loved him. She might not know it-or she might, but be unwilling to admit it, even to herself. He didn't know which, but he knew the truth.

A lady like her could not give herself to him, take him into her body and love him as she had, if she didn't, truly, in her heart care for him. It needed more than curiosity, more than lust, or even trust, for a woman to give herself completely, utterly, as Patience did every time she gave herself to him.

That degree of selfless giving sprang from love and nothing else.

He'd had too many women not to know the difference, not to sense it and value it as a gift beyond price. How much Patience understood of it he didn't know, but the longer their association persisted, the more accustomed to it she would become.

Which seemed eminently desirable to him.

Vane smiled, devilishly, at Myst.

Who yawned and flexed her claws.

Vane hissed. Myst stood, stretched, then regally stepped off him and padded to the end of the bed. Pausing, she turned and stared back at him.

Frowning, Vane stared back-but the cat's action raised the question of "what next?" in his mind.

His body replied instantly, with an entirely predictable suggestion; he considered it, but rejected it. Henceforth, as far as he was concerned, Patience was his-his to care for, his to protect. At this juncture, protecting her meant preserving appearances. It would never do for some maid to stumble in and discover them, limbs entwined.

Grimacing, Vane edged to his side. Patience lay sunk in down, deeply asleep. He stared at her face, drank in her beauty, breathed in her warmth; he raised a hand to brush aside a curl-and stopped. If he touched her, she might wake-and he might not be able to leave. He stifled a sigh.

Silently, he slipped from her bed.

Before going down to breakfast, Vane detoured by Minnie's rooms. Her surprise at seeing him was written all over her face. Speculation filled her eyes. Before she could start in on him, he nonchalantly stated: "Halfway down, I realized that my London appointment was of far less moment than my obligations here. So I came back."

Minnie opened her old eyes wide. "Indeed?"

"Indeed." Vane saw Minnie exchange a laden glance with Timms-who'd clearly been informed of his departure. Knowing from experience the tortures they could put him to, he nodded curtly to them both. "So I'll leave you to your breakfasts, and go and find mine."

He got himself out of Minnie's room before they could recover and start to tease him.

He entered the breakfast parlor to the usual nods and greetings. The gentlemen of the household were all present; Patience was not. Suppressing a smug grin, Vane helped himself from the sideboard, then took his seat.

The glow that had suffused him since the early hours had yet to leave him; he responded to Edmond's variation on his latest scene with an easy smile and a few perfectly serious suggestions, which caused Edmond to depart in a rush, revived and eager to serve his demanding muse.

Vane turned to Gerrard. Who grinned.

"I'm determined to start a new sketch today. There's a particular view of the ruins, taking in the remains of the abbot's lodge, that I've always wanted to draw. The light's rarely good in that quarter, but it will be this morning." He drained his coffee cup. "I should get the essentials down by lunchtime. How about a ride this afternoon?"

"By all means." Vane returned Gerrard's grin. "You shouldn't spend all your days squinting at rocks."

"What I've always told him," humphed the General as he stumped out.

Gerrard pushed back his chair and followed the General. Which left Vane gazing at Edgar's mild profile.

"Which Bellamy are you currently researching?" Vane inquired.

Whitticombe's contemptuous sniff was clearly audible. He pushed aside his plate and rose. Vane's smile deepened. He raised his brows encouragingly at Edgar.

Edgar slid a careful glance at Whitticombe. Only when his archrival had passed through the door did he turn back to Vane. "Actually," Edgar confessed, "I've started on the last bishop. He was one of the family, you know."

"Indeed?"

Henry looked up. "I say-was this place-the abbey, I mean-as important as Colby makes out?"

"Well…" Edgar proceeded to give them a neat picture of Coldchurch Abbey in the years immediately preceding the Dissolution. His dissertation was refreshingly short and succinct; both Vane and Henry were sincerely impressed.

"And now I'd better get back to it." With a smile, Edgar left the table.

Leaving Vane and Henry. By the time Patience arrived, in a frantic froth of skirts, Vane's mellow mood had stretched to granting Henry his long-sought return match over the billiard table. Happy as a lark, Henry stood, and smiled at Patience. "Best go look in on Mama." With a nod to Vane, he ambled off.

Thoroughly enamored-softened by his mood and this unexpected consequence-Vane subsided into his chair, angling it so he could gaze unimpeded at Patience as she helped herself from the sideboard, then came to the table. She took her usual seat, separated from his by Gerrard's vacant place. With a brief smile and a warning look, she applied herself to her breakfast. To the large mound she'd heaped on her plate.

Vane eyed it, straightfaced, then lifted his gaze to her face. "Something must have agreed with you-your appetite's certainly improved."

Patience's fork froze in midair; she glanced down at her plate. Then she shrugged, ate the portion on her fork, then calmly looked at him. "I vaguely remember being excessively hot." She raised her brows, then looked back at her plate. "Quite feverish, in fact. I do hope it isn't catching." She forked up another mouthful, then slanted him a glance. "Did you pass a quiet night?"

Masters and his minions were hovering-well within earshot-waiting to clear the table.

"Actually, no." Vane met Patience's gaze. Memory had him shifting in his chair. "Whatever had you in its grip must have disturbed me, too-I suspect the malady might last for some time."

"How… distracting," Patience managed.

"Indeed," Vane returned, warming to his theme. "There were moments when I felt enclosed in damp hotness."

A blush spread over Patience's cheeks; Vane knew it extended to the tips of her breasts.

"How odd," she countered. She picked up her teacup and sipped. "To me, it felt like heat exploding inside."

Vane stiffened-further; he fought to avoid a telltale shuffle in his seat.

Setting down her cup, Patience pushed aside her plate. "Luckily, the affliction had vanished by morning."

They stood. Patience strolled to the door; Vane sauntered beside her. "Perhaps," he murmured as they passed into the front hall, his voice low, for her ears alone. "But I suspect you'll find your affliction will return tonight." She cast a half-wary, half-scandalized glance at his face; he smiled, all teeth. "Who knows? You might find yourself even more heated."

For one instant, she looked… intrigued. Then haughty dignity came to her aid. Coolly, she inclined her head. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and practice my scales."

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Vane watched as she glided across the hall-watched her hips sway with their usual unrestrained license; he couldn't quite stifle his wolfish grin. He was contemplating following-and trying his hand at disrupting her scales-when a footman came hurrying down the stairs.

"Mr. Cynster, sir. Her Ladyship's asking after you. Urgent, she says-quite in a tizz. She's in her parlor."

Vane shed his wolf's fur in the blink of an eye. With a curt nod for the footman, he started up the stairs. He took the second flight two at a time. Frowning, he strode rapidly for Minnie's rooms.

The instant he opened the door, he saw the footman hadn't lied; Minnie was huddled in her chair, shawls fluffed, looking like nothing so much as an ill owl-except for the tears streaming down her lined cheeks. Closing the door, Vane swiftly crossed the room and went down on one knee beside the chair. He clasped one of her frail hands in his. "What's happened?"

Minnie's eyes were swimming in tears. "My pearls," she whispered, her voice quavering. "They're gone."

Vane glanced at Timms, hovering protectively. Grim-faced, she nodded. "She wore them last night, as usual. I put them on the dresser myself, after we-Ada and I-helped Min to bed." She reached back, lifting a small brocade box from the side table behind her. ' They were always kept in this, not locked away. Min wore them every night, so there never seemed much point. And with the thief delighting in tawdry glitter, there didn't seem much threat to the pearls."

Two long, matched strands, with matching drop earrings. Vane had seen them on Minnie for as long as he could remember.

"They were my bride gift from Humphrey." Minnie sniffed tearfully. "They were the one thing-the one piece of all he gave me-that was the most personal."

Vane swallowed the oath that sprang to this lips, swallowed the wave of anger that one of Minnie's charity cases should repay her in this way. He squeezed her hand, imparting sympathy and strength. "If they were here last night, when did they disappear?"

"It had to be this morning, when we went for our constitutional. Otherwise, there wasn't any time someone wasn't in the room." Timms looked angry enough to swear. "We're in the habit of going for a short amble around the walled garden whenever the weather permits. These mornings, we usually go as soon as the fog lifts. Ada tidies in here while we're away, but she's always gone before we return."

"Today"-Minnie had to gulp before continuing-"as soon as we got through the door, I saw the box wasn't in its usual place. Ada always leaves everything just so, but the box was askew."

"It was empty." Timms's jaw locked. "This time, the thief has gone well and truly too far."

"Indeed." Grim-faced, Vane stood. He squeezed Minnie's hand, then released it. "We'll get back your pearls-I swear on my honor. Until then, try not to worry." He glanced at Timms. "Why not go down to the music room? You can tell Patience while I set a few matters in train."

Timms nodded. "An excellent idea."

Minnie frowned. "But it's Patience's practice time-I wouldn't want to intrude."

"I think you'll find," Vane said, helping Minnie to her feet, "that Patience won't forgive you if you don't intrude on her practice." Over Minnie's head, he exchanged a glance with Timms. "She won't want to be left out."

After seeing Minnie and Timms to the music room, and leaving his godmother in Patience's capable hands, Vane met with Masters, Mrs. Henderson, Ada, and Grisham, Minnie's senior servants.

Their shock, and their instant anger against whoever had dared hurt their generous mistress, was palpable. After assuring them that none of them was suspected, and receiving assurances that all the current staff was utterly reliable, Vane did what he could to bolt the stable door.

"The theft has only just occurred." He looked at Grisham. "Has anyone requested a horse or the gig?"

"No, sir." Grisham shook his head. "They're not much for getting out an' about, this lot."

"That should make our task easier. If anyone asks for transportation-or even for a groom to deliver something-put them off and get word to me immediately."

"Aye, sir." Grisham's face was grim. "I'll do that, right enough."

"As for indoors…" Vane swung to face Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada. "I can't see any reason the staff can't be informed-the outdoor staff, too. We need everyone to keep their eyes peeled. I want to hear of anything that strikes anyone as odd, no matter how inconsequential."

Mrs. Henderson fleetingly grimaced. Vane raised his brows. "Has anything odd been reported recently?"

"Odd enough." Mrs. Henderson shrugged. "But I can't see as it could mean anything-not to do with the thief or the pearls."

"Nevertheless…" Vane gestured for her to speak.

"The maids have reported it again and again-it's making terrible scratches on the floor."

Vane frowned. "What's making terrible scratches?"

"Sand!" Mrs. Henderson heaved a put-upon sigh. "We can't make out where she gets it from, but we're constantly sweeping it up-just a trickle, every day-in Miss Colby's room. Scattered on and around the hearth rug, mostly." She wrinkled her nose. "She has this garish tin elephant-heathenish thing-she told one of the maids it was a memento left her by her father. He was a missionary in India, seemingly. The sand's usually not far from the elephant, but that doesn't seem to be the source. The maids have had a good go dusting it, but it seems perfectly clean. Yet still the sand is there-every day."

Vane's brows rose high, visions of Alice Colby sneaking out in the dead of night to bury pilfered items floating through his mind. "Perhaps she tracks the sand in from outside?"

Mrs. Henderson shook her head; her double chins wobbled vehemently. "Sea sand. I should have said-it's that that makes the whole so strange. Nice and silver-white, the grains are. And where, near here, could you find sand like that?"

Vane frowned, and let his fanciful images fade. He met Mrs. Henderson's eye. "I agree the matter's odd, but, like you, I can't see that it could mean anything. But that's precisely the sort of odd occurrence I want reported, whether it's obviously connected with the thief or not."

"Indeed, sir." Masters drew himself up. "We'll speak to the staff immediately. You may rely on us."

Who else could he rely on?

That question revolved in Vane's brain as, leaving Mrs. Henderson's parlor, he wandered into the front hall. In his estimation, Patience, Minnie, and Timms-'-and Gerrard-had always been beyond suspicion. There was an element of openness, of candor, in both Patience and Gerrard that reminded Vane of Minnie herself; he knew, soul-deep, that neither they, nor Timms, were involved.

That left a host of others-others he felt far less sure of.

His first stop was the library. The door opened noiselessly, revealing a long room, paneled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves down its entire length. Long windows punctuated the bookcases along one side, giving access to the terrace; one window was presently ajar, letting a light breeze, warmed by autumn sunshine, waft in.

Two desks faced each other down the length of the room. The larger, more imposing example, closer to the door, was weighed down with tomes, the remaining surface blanketed by papers covered in a cramped fist. The well-padded chair behind the desk was empty. In contrast, the desk at the far end of the room was almost bare. It played host to one book only, a heavy leather-covered volume with gilt-edged pages, presently open and supported by Edgar, who sat behind the desk. His head bent, his brow furrowed, he gave no indication he had heard Vane enter.

Vane advanced down the carpeted floor. He was abreast of the wing chair flanking the hearth, its back to the door, before he realized it was occupied. He halted.

Happily ensconced in the deep chair, Edith Swithins busily tatted. Her gaze fixed on the threads she was twining, she, too, gave no sign of noticing him. Vane suspected she was partially deaf, but hid it by reading people's lips.

Stepping more heavily, he approached her. She sensed his presence only when he was close. Starting, she glanced up.

Vane summoned a reassuring smile. "I apologize for interrupting. Do you often spend your mornings here?"

Recognizing him, Edith smiled easily. "I'm here most mornings-I come down immediately after my breakfast and take my seat before the gentlemen get in. It's quiet and"-with her head she indicated the fire-"warm."

Edgar lifted his head at the sound of voices; after one myopic glance, he retreated to his reading. Vane smiled at Edith. "Do you know where Colby is?"

Edith blinked. "Whitticombe?" She peered around the edge of the wing chair. "Good heavens-fancy that! I thought he was there all the time." She smiled confidingly at Vane. "I sit here so I don't have to look at him. He's a very…"-she pursed her lips-"cold sort of man, don't you think?" She shook her head, then shook out her tatting. "Not at all the sort of gentleman one needs dwell on."

Vane's fleering smile was genuine. Edith returned to her tatting. He resumed his progress down the room.

Edgar looked up as he neared and smiled ingenuously. "I don't know where Whitticombe is either."

There was nothing wrong with Edgar's hearing. Vane halted by the desk.

Removing his pince-nez, Edgar polished them, staring up the long room at his archrival's desk. "I must confess I don't pay all that much attention to Whitticombe at the best of times. Like Edith, I thought he was there-behind his desk." Replacing the pince-nez, Edgar looked up at Vane through the thick lenses. "But then, I can't see that far, not with these on."

Vane raised his brows. "You and Edith have worked out how to keep Whitticombe neatly at a distance."

Edgar grinned. "Were you after something from the library? I'm sure I could help."

"No, no." Vane deployed his rakish smile-the one designed to allay all suspicions. "I was just aimlessly wandering. I'll let you get back to your work."

So saying, he retraced his steps. From the door of the library, he looked back. Edgar had retreated to his tome. Edith Swithins was not visible at all. Peace reigned in the library. Letting himself out, Vane frowned.

Without, he was the first to admit, any logical basis, he had an instinctive feeling the thief was female. Edith Swithins's capacious tatting bag, which went everywhere with her, exerted an almost overpowering fascination. But to separate it from her long enough to search it was, he suspected, beyond his present powers. Besides, if she'd been in the library since before Whitticombe had left the breakfast parlor, it seemed unlikely she could have rifled Minnie's room during the short time it had been empty.

Unlikely-but not impossible.

As he headed for the side door, Vane wrestled with another, even more complicating possiblity. Minnie's thief-the one who'd stolen the pearls-may not be the same person who'd perpetrated the earlier thefts. Someone might have seen the opportunity to use the "magpie" thief as scapegoat for a more serious crime.

Nearing the side door, Vane grimaced-and hoped that scenario, while not beyond him, was at least beyond the majority of the occupants of Bellamy Hall. Minnie's household affairs were tangled enough as it was.

He'd intended to stroll to the ruins, to see if he could locate Edmond, Gerrard, Henry, and the General-according to Masters, they were all still outside. The voices emanating from the back parlor halted him.

"I can't see why we can't drive into Northampton again." Angela's whine was pronounced. "There's nothing to do here."

"My dear, you really should cultivate some thankfulness." Mrs. Chadwick sounded weary. "Minnie's been more than kind in taking us in."

"Oh, of course, I'm grateful." Angela's tone made it sound like a disease. "But it's just so boring, being stuck out here with nothing to look at but old stones."

Holding silent in the corridor, Vane could easily envisage Angela's pout.

"Mind you," she went on, "I did think that when Mr. Cynster came it would be different. You said he was a rake, after all."

"Angela! You're sixteen. Mr. Cynster is entirely out of your league!"

"Well, I know that-he's so old, for a start! And he's far too serious. I did think Edmond might be my friend, but these days he's forever mumbling verses. Most times, they don't even make sense! And as for Gerrard-"

Comforted by the fact he wouldn't have to fend off any more of Angela's juvenile advances, Vane backtracked a few steps, and took a secondary stair upward.

From all he'd gleaned, Mrs. Chadwick kept Angela close, undoubtedly a wise decision. As Angela no longer attended the breakfast table, he suspected that meant she and Mrs. Chadwick had spent the whole morning together. Neither, to his mind, were good candidates for the role of thief, either of Minnie's pearls, or more generally.

Which left only one female member of the household as yet unaccounted for. Strolling down one of the Hall's endless corridors, Vane reflected that he had no idea how Alice Colby spent her days.

On the night he'd arrived, Alice had told him her room was on the floor below Agatha Chadwick's. Vane started at one end of the wing, and knocked on every door. If no answer came, he opened the door and looked in. Most rooms were empty, the furniture swathed in covers.

Halfway down the wing, however, just as he was about to push yet another door wide, the handle was hauled from his light grip-and he discovered himself the focus of Alice's black-eyed stare.

Malevolent black-eyed stare.

"Just what do you think you're doing, sir? Disturbing God-fearing people at their prayers! It's outrageous! Bad enough this mausoleum of a house doesn't have a chapel-not even a decent sanctuary-but I have to put up with interruptions from such as you."

Letting the tirade drift past him, Vane scanned the room, conscious of a curiosity to rival Patience's. The curtains were drawn tight. There was no fire in the hearth, not even embers. There was a palpable coldness, as if the room was never warmed, never aired. What furniture he could see was plain and utilitarian, with none of the items of beauty generally found scattered throughout the Hall. As if Alice Colby had taken possession of the room and stamped her character on it.

The last items he noted were a prie-dieu with a well-worn cushion, a tattered Bible open on the shelf, and the elephant of Mrs. Henderson's tale. This last stood beside the fireplace, its gaudy metal flanks glinting in the light lancing through the open door.

"What do you have to say for yourself, that's what I'd like to know. What excuse do you have for interrupting my prayers?" Alice folded her arms across her scrawny chest and stared black daggers at him.

Vane brought his gaze back to her face. His expression hardened. "I apologize for disrupting your devotions, but it was necessary. Minnie's pearls have been stolen. I wanted to know if you'd heard anything or seen anyone strange about."

Alice blinked. Her expression changed not at all. "No, you stupid man. How could I see anyone? I was praying!"

With that, she stepped back and shut the door.

Vane stared at the panels-and fought down the urge to break them in. His temper-a true Cynster temper-was never a wise thing to prod. Right now, it was already prowling, a hungry beast seeking blood. Someone had harmed Minnie; to some, not exactly small, part of his mind, that equated to an act of aggression against him. He-the warrior concealed beneath the veneer of an elegant gentleman-reacted. Responded. Appropriately.

Drawing a deep breath, Vane forced himself to turn from Alice's door. There was no evidence to suggest she was involved, any more than anyone else.

He headed back to the side door. He might not stumble instantly over the culprit by checking people's whereabouts, but, at present, it was all he could do. Having located all the women, he went in search of the other males.

Warring with his instinctive conviction that the "magpie" thief was a woman had been a half-fledged hope the whole affair might prove a simple misdemeanor-like Edgar, Henry, or Edmond being strapped for cash and being foolish enough, and weak enough, to be tempted to the unthinkable. As he strode over the lawn, Vane let that idea die. Minnie's pearls were worth a small fortune.

Their simple thief, assuming it was one and the same, had just made the step up to grand larceny.

The rains appeared deserted. From the wall of the cloisters, Vane saw Gerrard's easel, set up on the other side of the rains, facing the abbot's lodge, a section of woods at Gerrard's back. The paper pinned to the easel riffled in the breeze. Gerrard's pencil box sat beneath the easel; his painter's stool sat behind it.

All that, Vane could see. Gerrard he couldn't see at all. Assuming he'd taken a moment to stretch his legs and wander, Vane turned away. No point asking Gerrard if he'd seen anything-he'd left the breakfast table with one goal in mind and had doubtless been blind to all else.

Turning back into the cloisters, Vane heard, faint on the breeze, an intense mumbling. He discovered Edmond in the nave, sitting by the ruined font, creating out aloud.

When the situation had been explained to him, Edmond blinked. "Didn't see anyone. But then, I wasn't looking. Whole troop of cavalry might have charged past, and I wouldn't have noticed." He frowned and looked down; Vane waited, hoping for some help, however slight.

Edmond looked up, his brows still knit. "I really can't decide whether this scene should be acted in the nave or the cloisters. What do you think?"

With remarkable restraint, Vane didn't teH him. After a pregnant pause, he shook his head, and headed back to the house.

He was skirting the tumbled stones when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Henry and the General striding up from the woods. As they neared, he asked: "You went for a stroll together, I take it?"

"No, no," Henry assured him. "I stumbled across the General in the woods. I went for a ramble to the main road-there's a track that leads back through the woods."

Vane knew it. He nodded and looked at the General, huffing slightly as he leaned on his cane.

"Always go out by way of the rains-a good, rousing walk over uneven terrain. Good for the heart, y'know." The General's eyes fastened on Vane's face. "But why'd you want to know, heh? Not into rambles yourself, I know."

"Minnie's pearls have disappeared. I was going to ask if you'd seen anyone acting strangely on your walks?"

"Good God-Minnie's pearls!" Henry looked shocked. "She must be terribly upset."

Vane nodded; the General snorted. "Didn't see anyone until I ran into Henry here."

Which, Vane noted, did not actually answer his question. He fell into step beside the General. Henry, on his other side, reverted to his garrulous best, filling the distance to the house with futile exclamations.

Shutting his ears to Henry's chatter, Vane mentally reviewed the household. He'd located everyone, excepting only Whitticombe, who was doubtless back in the library poring over his precious volumes. Vane supposed he'd better check, just to be sure.

He was saved the need by the gong for luncheon-Masters struck it as they reached the front hall. The General and Henry headed for the dining room. Vane hung back. In less than a minute, the library door opened. Whitticombe led the way, nose in the air, his aura of ineffable superiority billowing like a cloak about him. In his wake, Edgar helped Edith Swithins and her tatting bag from the library.

His expression impassive, Vane waited for Edgar and Edith to pass him, then followed in their wake.