Rakes Vow

Chapter 15

Minnie did not appear at the luncheon table; Patience and Timms were also absent. Gerrard did not show either, but, remembering Patience's comments on his ability to forget all while in pursuit of a particular view, Vane didn't fret about Gerrard.

Minnie was a different story.

Grim-faced, Vane ate the bare minimum, then climbed the stairs. He hated coping with feminine tears. They always left him feeling helpless-not an emotion his warrior self appreciated.

He reached Minnie's room; Timms let him in, her expression absentminded. They'd pulled Minnie's chair to the window. A lunch tray was balanced across the broad arms. Seated on the window seat before Minnie, Patience was coaxing her to eat.

Patience glanced up as Vane neared; their eyes touched briefly. Vane stopped beside Minnie's chair.

Minnie looked up, a heart-breakingly hopeful expression in her eyes.

Exuding impassivity, Vane hunkered down. His face level with Minnie's, he outlined what he'd done, what he'd learned-and a little of what he thought.

Timms nodded. Minnie tried to smile confidently. Vane put his arm around her and hugged her. "We'll find them, never fear."

Patience's gaze locked on his face. "Gerrard?"

Vane heard her full question in her tone. "He's been out sketching since breakfast-apparently there's a difficult view rarely amenable to drawing." He held her gaze. "Everyone saw him go-he hasn't returned yet."

Relief flashed through her eyes; her swift smile was just for him. She immediately returned to her task of feeding Minnie. "Come-you must keep up your strength." Deftly, she got Minnie to accept a morsel of chicken.

"Indeed," Timms put in from along1 the window seat. "You heard your godson. We'll find your pearls. No sense fading to a cypher in the meantime."

"I suppose not." Picking at the fringe of her outermost shawl, Minnie glanced, woe-stricken and frighteningly fragile, at Vane. "I'd willed my pearls to Patience-I'd always intended them for her."

"And I'll have them someday, to remind me of all this, and of how stubborn you can be about eating." Determinedly, Patience presented a piece of parsnip. "You're worse than Gerrard ever was, and heaven knows, he was quite bad enough."

Manufacturing a chuckle, Vane bent and kissed Minnie's paper-thin cheek. "Stop worrying and do as you're told. We'll find the pearls-surely you don't doubt me? If so, I must be slipping."

That last gained him a weak smile. Relieved to see even that, Vane bestowed a rakishly confident smile on them all and left.

He went in search of Duggan.

His henchman was out exercising the greys; Vane passed the time in the stables, chatting to Grisham and the grooms. Once Duggan returned and the greys had been stabled, Vane strolled out to take a look at a young colt in a nearby field-and took Duggan with him.

Duggan had been a young groom in his father's employ before being promoted to the position of personal groom to the eldest son of the house. He was an experienced and reliable servant. Vane trusted his abilities, and his opinions of other servants, implicitly. Duggan had visited Bellamy Hall many times over the years, both in his parents' entourage as well as with him.

And he knew Duggan well.

"Who is it this time?" Vane asked once they were clear of the stables.

Duggan tried an innocent expression. When Vane showed no sign of believing it, he grinned roguishly. "Pretty little parlormaid. Ellen."

"Parlormaid? That might be useful." Vane stopped by the fence of the colt's field and leaned on the top rail. "You've heard of the latest theft?"

Duggan nodded. "Masters told us all before lunch-even called in the gamekeeper and his lads."

"What's your reading of the servants. Any likely prospects there?"

Duggan considered, then slowly, definitely, shook his head. "A good bunch they are-none light-fingered, none hard-pressed. Her ladyship's generous and kind-none would want to hurt her."

Vane nodded, unsurprised to have Masters's confidence echoed. "Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada will watch doings in the house; Grisham will handle the stables. I want you to spend as much time as you can keeping an eye on the grounds-from the perimeter of the house to as far as a man might walk."

Duggan's eyes narrowed. "You think someone might try to pass the pearls on?"

"That, or bury them. If you see any disturbance of the ground, investigate. The gardener's old-he won't be planting anywhere at this time of year."

"True enough."

"And I want you to listen to your parlormaid-encourage her to talk as much as she likes."

"Gawd." Duggan grimaced. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Nevertheless," Vane insisted. "While Masters and Mrs. Henderson will report anything odd, young maids, not wanting to appear silly, or to draw attention to something they've come across while doing something they shouldn't, might not mention an odd incident in the first place."

"Aye, well." Duggan tugged at his earlobe. "I suppose-seeing as it's the old lady and she's always been a good'un-I can make the sacrifice."

"Indeed," Vane replied dryly. "And if you hear anything, come straight to me."

Leaving Duggan musing on how to organize his searches, Vane strode back to the house. The sun was long past its zenith. Entering the front hall, he encountered Masters on his way to the dining room with the silverware. "Is Mr. Debbington about?"

"I haven't seen him since breakfast, sir. But he might have come in and be somewhere about."

Vane frowned. "He hasn't been into the kitchen after food?"

"No, sir."

Vane's frown deepened. "Where's his room?"

"Third floor, west wing-one but the last."

Vane took the stairs two at a time, then swung through the gallery and into the west wing. As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he heard footsteps descending. He looked up, half-expecting to see Gerrard. Instead, he saw Whitticombe.

Whitticombe didn't see him until he swung onto the same flight; he hesitated fractionally, then continued his purposeful descent. He inclined his head. "Cynster."

Vane returned his nod. "Have you seen Gerrard?"

Whitticombe's brows rose superciliously. "Debbington's room is at the end of the wing, mine is by the stairhead. I didn't see him up there."

With another curt nod, Whitticombe passed on down the stairs. Frowning, Vane continued his climb.

He knew he had the right room the instant he opened the door; the combined smell of paper, ink, charcoal, and paint was confirmation enough. The room was surprisingly neat; Vane cynically suspected Patience's influence. A large wooden table had been pushed up to the wide windows; its surface, the only cluttered area in the room, was covered with piles of loose sketches, sketchbooks, and an array of pens, nibs, and pencils, nestling amidst a straw of pencil shavings.

Idly, Vane strolled to the desk and looked down.

The light streaming low through the window glanced off the surface of the table. Vane saw that the pencil shavings had recently been disturbed, then regathered. There were scraps of shavings between the edges of the loose sketches, and between the pages of the sketchbooks.

As if someone had leafed through the lot, then noticed the disturbed shavings and tidied them again.

Vane frowned, then he shook aside the idea. Probably just a curious-or smitten-maid.

He looked out of the windows. The west wing was on the opposite side of the house from the ruins. But the sun was steadily descending; Gerrard's rare morning light was long gone.

A tingle, an unnerving touch of premonition, slithered down Vane's spine. Vividly recalling the sight of Gerrard's easel and stool, but no Gerrard, Vane swore.

He descended the stairs much more rapidly than he'd climbed them.

His expression bleak, he strode through the hall, down the corridor, and out through the side door. And halted.

He was an instant too late in wiping the grim expression from his face. Patience, strolling in company with her harem, had instantly focused on him; alarm had already flared in her eyes. Inwardly, Vane cursed. Belatedly assuming his customary facade, he strolled to meet her.

And her harem.

Penwick was there. Vane gritted his teeth and returned Penwick's nod with distant arrogance.

"Minnie's resting," Patience informed him. Her eyes searched his. "I thought I'd get some air."

"A sound notion," Penwick pronounced. "Nothing like a turn about the gardens to blow away the megrims."

Everyone ignored him and looked at Vane.

"Thought you were going riding with young Gerrard," Henry said.

Vane resisted the urge to kick him. "I was," he replied. "I'm just going to haul him in."

Edmond frowned. "That's odd." He looked back at the ruins. "I can imagine he might miss lunch, but it's not that easy to put off the pangs this long. And the light's almost gone. He can't still be sketching."

"Perhaps we'd better mount a search," Henry suggested. "He must have moved on from where he was this morning."

"He could be anywhere," Edmond put in.

Vane gritted his teeth. "I know where he was-I'll fetch him."

"I'll go with you." Patience's words were a statement. One look at her face told Vane arguing would be wasted effort. He nodded curtly.

"Allow me, my dear Miss Debbington." Unctuously, Penwick offered his arm. "Naturally, we'll all come, to make sure your mind is set at rest. I'll have a word or two to say to Debbington, never fear. We can't allow him to so heedlessly overset you."

The look Patience sent him was scathing. "You'll do no such thing. I have had quite enough of your attempted interference, sir!"

"Indeed." Seizing opportunity, Vane seized Patience's hand. Stepping forward, brushing Penwick aside, he drew her around. And set off for the ruins at a clipping pace.

Patience hurried beside him. Eyes scanning the ruins, she made no protest at having to half run to keep up.

Vane glanced down at her. "He was set up on the far-side, beyond the cloister, facing the abbot's lodge."

Patience nodded. "He might have forgotten lunch, but he wouldn't have forgotten an engagement to ride with you."

Glancing back, Vane saw Edmond and Henry, throwing themselves into the excitement of a search, turn aside, Edmond heading for the old church, Henry for the opposite side of the cloisters. They, at least, were being helpful; Penwick, on the other hand, followed doggedly in their wake.

"Regardless," Vane said, as they reached the first crumbling wall, "he should have been back by now-the light's gone, and the angles would have changed by lunchtime."

He helped Patience over a patch of uneven stones, then they hurried along the west side of the cloister. Henry had just gained the east side. In the nave, they could hear Edmond, his poet's voice ringing, calling for Gerrard. No answer came.

Reaching the far wall, Vane helped Patience up onto the line of toppled stones from which she'd fallen so many nights before. Then he turned and looked toward the abbot's lodge.

The scene he beheld was as he'd seen it earlier. Precisely as he'd seen it earlier.

Vane swore. He didn't bother apologizing. Jumping down, he lifted Patience down to the old flags. Her hand tight in his, he headed for Gerrard's easel.

It took them ten minutes of scrambling-essentially crossing the entire abbey compound-to reach the grassed expanse on which Gerrard had stationed himself. The lawn rose gently as it led away from the abbot's lodge, then dipped into the scrubby edges of the wood. Gerrard had set up below the highest point of the rise, well in front of the dip, a few feet before a crumbling arched gateway, all that was left of the wall that had enclosed the abbot's garden.

Clasping Patience's hand, feeling her fingers clutch his, Vane strode straight to the easel. The page fluttering on it was blank.

Patience blanched. "He never started."

Vane's jaw set. "He started all right." He flicked the tattered remnants of paper caught under the pins. "It's been ripped away." Tightening his hold on Patience's hand, he looked toward the trees.

"Gerrard!"

His roar faded into silence.

A scuffling of boots heralded Henry's appearance. He clambered over a ruined wall, then, straightening, stared at the untended easel. Then he looked at Patience and Vane. "No sign of him the way I came."

Edmond appeared around the far edge of the ruins. Like Henry, he stared at the easel, then gestured behind him. "He's not anywhere around the church."

Stony-faced, Vane waved them to the trees. "You start from that end." They nodded and went. Vane looked down at Patience. "Would you rather wait here?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll come with you."

He'd expected nothing less. Her hand locked in his, they backtracked off the lawn and circled into the wood.

Penwick, huffing and puffing, caught up with them deep in the trees. Calling Gerrard's name, they were quartering the area; after pausing to catch his breath, Penwick rut-tutted censoriously. "If you'd allowed me to talk to Debbington earlier-bring him to a proper sense of his responsibilities-none of this nonsense, I flatter myself, would have occurred."

Pushing back a lock of hair from her forehead, Patience stared at him. "What nonsense?"

"It's obvious." Penwick had regained his breath and his customary attitude. "The boy's got an assignation with some flighty maid. Says he's busy drawing and slips away into the wood."

Patience's jaw dropped.

"Is that what you did at his age?" Vane inquired, forging ahead without pause.

"Well…" Penwick tugged his waistcoat into place, then he caught Patience's eye. "No! Of course not. Anyway, it's not me but young Debbington we're talking about here. Loose screw in the making, I've not the slightest doubt. Brought up by women. Pampered. Allowed to run wild without proper male guidance. What else can you expect?"

Patience stiffened.

"Penwick." Vane caught Penwick's eye. "Either go home or shut up. Or I'll take great delight in knocking your teeth down your throat."

The inflexible steel in his voice made it clear he was speaking the truth.

Penwick paled, then flushed and drew himself up. "If my assistance isn't welcome, naturally, I'll take myself off."

Vane nodded. "Do."

Penwick looked at Patience; she stared stonily back. With the air of a rejected martyr, Penwick sniffed and turned on his heel.

When the crump of his retreating footsteps died, Patience sighed. "Thank you."

"It was entirely my pleasure," Vane growled. He flexed his shoulders. "Actually, I was hoping he'd stay and keep talking."

Patience's giggle tangled in her throat.

After a further ten minutes of fruitless searching, they saw Edmond and Henry through the trees. Patience halted and heaved a troubled sigh. "You don't think," she said, turning to Vane as he stopped beside her, "that Gerrard actually might be off with some maid?"

Vane shook his head. "Trust me." He looked around-the belt of woodland was narrow; they hadn't missed any area. He looked down at Patience. "Gerrard's not that interested in females yet."

Henry and Edmond came up. Hands on hips, Vane glanced around one last time. "Let's get back to the ruins."

They stood on the lawn before Gerrard's easel and surveyed the gigantic pile of toppled stones and crumbling rock. The sun was painting the sky red; they would have only an hour before fading light made searching dangerous.

Henry put their thoughts into words. "It's really relatively open. It's not as if there's all that many places someone might lie concealed."

"There are holes, though," Patience said. "I fell into one, remember?"

Vane looked at her, then he looked back at the easel-at the rise of the lawn behind it. Swinging about, he strode to the lip, and looked down.

His jaw locked. "He's here."

Patience rushed to Vane's side; clutching his arm, teetering on the lip's edge, she looked down.

Gerrard lay sprawled on his back, arms flung out, his eyes closed. The dip, which appeared gentle enough from any other vantage point, was quite steep, dropping six feet vertically into a narrow cleft, concealed by the sloping banks on either side.

The blood drained from Patience's face. "Oh, no!"

Vane jumped down, landing by Gerrard's feet. Patience immediately sank onto the edge, gathering her skirts about her legs. Vane heard the rustling. He looked around. His eyes lit with warning; Patience tilted her chin stubbornly and wriggled closer to the edge.

Cursing softly, Vane swung back, gripped her waist, and lifted her down, setting her on her feet beside Gerrard.

Immediately Vane released her, Patience flung herself on her knees beside her brother. "Gerrard?" A cold fist clutched her heart. He was dreadfully pale, his lashes dark crescents against chalk white cheeks. With a shaking hand, she brushed back a lock of hair, then framed his face in her hands.»

"Gently," Vane warned. "Don't try to shift him yet." He checked Gerrard's pulse. "His heartbeat's strong. He's probably not badly injured, but we should check for broken bones before we shift him."

Relieved on one score, she sat back and watched Vane check Gerrard's torso, arms, and legs. Reaching Gerrard's feet, he frowned. "Nothing seems broken."

Patience frowned back, then reached for Gerrard's head, spreading her hands, sliding her fingers through the thick hair to check his skull. Her searching fingers found a roughness, a deep abrasion, then her palm turned sticky. Patience froze-and looked up at Vane. She drew a shaky breath, then, gently laying Gerrard's head back down, she retrieved her hand and peered at the palm. At the red streaks upon it. Her expression blanking, she held up her hand for the others to see. "He's been…"

Her voice died.

Vane's expression turned granite-hard. "Hit."

Gerrard came to his senses with a painful groan.

Patience immediately flew to his side. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she squeezed out a cloth in a basin perched on the bedside table. Shoulders propped against the wall beyond the bed, Vane watched as she bathed Gerrard's forehead and face.

Gerrard groaned again, but surrendered to her ministrations. Grimly impassive, Vane waited. Once they'd established Gerrard had been knocked unconscious, he'd carried him back to the house. Edmond and Henry had packed up Gerrard's gear and followed. Patience, distraught and struggling to master it, had kept by his side.

She'd come into her own once they'd got Gerrard upstairs. She'd known just what to do, and had gone about doing it in her usual competent way. While she'd remained pale and drawn, she hadn't panicked. With silent approval, he'd left her issuing orders left and right, and gone to break the news to Minnie.

Crossing the gallery, he'd seen, in the hall below, Edmond and Henry holding court, informing the other household members of Gerrard's "accident". Before leaving the ruins, they'd found the rock that had hit him-part of the old gateway arch. To Edmond and Henry, that meant Gerrard had been standing beneath the arch at the wrong moment, been struck by the falling masonry, then stumbled back and fallen into the cleft. Vane's view was not so sanguine. Concealed in the shadows of the gallery, he'd studied each face, listened to each exclamation of horror. All had rung true-true to form, true to character; none gave any indication of prior knowledge, or of guilt. Grimacing, he'd continued to Minnie's rooms.

After informing Minnie and Timms, he'd returned to assist Patience in evicting all those who'd gathered-all of Minnie's odd household-from Gerrard's room. While he'd succeeded in that, he hadn't been able to evict Minnie and Timms.

Vane glanced to where Minnie sat huddled in the old chair by the fireplace, wherein a fire now roared. Timms stood beside her, one hand gripping Minnie's shoulder, imparting wordless comfort. Their attention was focused on the bed. Vane studied Minnie's face, and chalked up another entry in the Spectre's-or was it the thief's?-account. They'd pay-for every deepening line in Minnie's face, for the worry and fretful concern in her old eyes.

"Oh! My head!" Gerrard tried to sit up. Patience pushed him back down.

"You have a gash at the back, just lie quietly on your side."

Still dazed, Gerrard obeyed, blinking owlishly across the now dim room. His gaze fixed on the window. The sun had set; last banners of vermilion streaked the sky. "It's evening?"

" 'Fraid so." Pushing away from the wall, Vane strolled forward to where Gerrard could see him. He smiled reassuringly. "You've missed the day."

Gerrard frowned. Patience rose to remove her basin; Gerrard raised a hand and gingerly felt the back of his head. His features contorted as he touched his wound. Lowering his hand, he looked at Vane. "What happened?"

Relieved, both by the clarity and directness of Gerrard's gaze, and his eminently sensible question* Vane grimaced. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell us that. You went out to sketch this morning, remember?"

Gerrard's frown returned. "The abbot's lodge from the west. I remember setting up."

He paused; Patience returned to sit beside him. She took one of his hands in hers. "Did you start sketching?"

"Yes." Gerrard went to nod, and winced. "I did sketch. I got the general lines down, then I got up and went to study the detail." He frowned in his effort to recall. "I went back to my stool, and kept sketching. Then…" He grimaced, and glanced at Vane. "Nothing."

"You were hit on-the back of the head with a rock," Vane informed him. "One that originally came from the gateway arch behind you. Try to think back-had you stood up, and stepped back? Or did you never leave your seat?"

Gerrard's frown deepened. "I didn't stand up," he eventually said. "I was sitting, sketching." He looked at Patience, then at Vane. "That's the last I remember."

"Did you see anything, sense anything? What's the very last thing you recall?"

Gerrard screwed up his face, then he shook his head-very slightly. "I didn't see or sense anything. I had my pencil in my hand and I was sketching-I'd started filling in the details around what's left of the abbot's front door." He looked at Patience. "You know what I'm like-I don't see anything, hear anything." He shifted his gaze to Vane. "I was well away."

Vane nodded. "How long were you sketching?"

Gerrard raised his brows in a facial shrug. "One hour? Two?" He lifted a shoulder. "Who knows. It could have been three, but I doubt it was that long. Give me a look at my sketch, and I'll have a better idea."

He looked up expectantly; Vane exchanged a glance with Patience, then looked back at Gerrard. "The sketch you were working on was torn from your easel."

"What?"

Gerrard's incredulous exclamation was echoed by Timms. Gerrard carefully shook his head. "That's ridiculous. My sketches aren't worth anything-why would the thief steal one? It wasn't even finished."

Vane exchanged a long glance with Patience, then transferred his gaze back to Gerrard's face. "It's possible that's why you were rendered unconscious-so you never did finish your latest view."

"But why?" The bewildered question came from Minnie.

Vane turned to face her. "If we knew that, we'd know a great deal more."

Later that night, by unanimous accord, they held a conference in Minnie's room. Minnie and Timms, Patience and Vane, gathered before Minnie's fire. Sinking onto the footstool beside Minnie's chair, one of Minnie's frail hands clasped in hers, Patience scanned the others' faces, lit by the flickering firelight.

Minnie was worried, but beneath her fragility ran a streak of pure stubborness, and a determination to learn the truth. Timms seemed to consider the malefactors in their midst as a personal affront, if not to her dignity, then certainly to Minnie's. She was doggedly fixated on unmasking the villains.

As for Vane… Patience let her gaze roam his features, more austere than ever in the shifting golden light. All hard angles and planes, his face was set. He looked like… a warrior sworn. The fanciful notion popped into her head, but she didn't smile. The epithet fitted all too well-he looked set on eradicating, annihilating, whoever had dared disturb Minnie's peace.

And hers.

She knew that last was true-the knowledge had come to her borne by the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he'd helped her with Gerrard, in the way his eyes had searched her face, watching for worry, for signs of distress.

The sensation of being within his protective circle was sweetly comforting. Even though she told herself it was only for now-for the present and not for the future-she couldn't stop herself drinking it in.

"How's Gerrard?" Timms asked, settling her skirts in the second chair.

"Safely sleeping," Patience replied. He'd turned fretful as the evening wore on, until she'd insisted on dosing him with laudanum. "He's snug in his bed, and Ada's watching over him."

Minnie looked down at her. "Is he truly all right?"

Vane, leaning against the mantelpiece, shifted. "There was no sign of concussion that I could see. I suspect that, other than a sore head, he'll be his usual self in the morning."

Timms snorted. "But who hit him? And why?"

"Are we sure he was hit?" Minnie looked at Vane.

Grimly, he nodded. "His recollections are clear and lucid, not hazy. If he was seated as he said, there's no way a falling stone could have struck him at that angle, with that sort of force."

"Which brings us back to my questions," Timms said. "Who? And why?"

"As to the who, it must be the Spectre or the thief." Patience glanced at Vane. "Presuming they're not one and the same."

Vane frowned. "There seems little reason to imagine they're the same person. The Spectre has lain low since I chased him, while the thief has continued his activities without pause. There's also been no hint that the thief has any interest in the ruins, while they've always been the Spectre's special haunt." He didn't mention his conviction that the thief was a female, and thus unlikely to have had the strength, or intestinal fortitude, to cosh Gerrard. "We can't rule out the thief as today's culprit, but the Spectre seems the more likely villain." Vane shifted his gaze to Timms's face. "As for the why, I suspect Gerrard saw something-something he may not even realize he's seen."

"Or the villain thought he saw something," Timms replied.

"He's really very good with noting detail," Patience said.

"A fact the whole household knew. Anyone who's ever seen any of his sketches would be aware of the detail he includes." Vane stirred. "I think, given the disappearance of his last sketch, that we can safely conclude that he did indeed see something someone didn't want him to see."

Patience grimaced. "He doesn't remember anything special about what he'd sketched."

Vane met her gaze. "There's no reason whatever it is would appear out of the ordinary to him."

They fell silent, then Minnie asked, "Do you think he's in any danger?"

Patience's gaze flew to Vane's face. He shook his head decisively. "Whoever it is knows Gerrard knows nothing to the point, and poses no real threat to Gerrard now." Reading a lack of conviction in all their eyes, he reluctantly elaborated, "He was lying out there for hours, unconscious. If he was a real threat to the villain, said villain had ample time to remove him permanently."

Patience shuddered, but nodded. Both Minnie's and Timm's faces grew bleak. "I want this villain caught," Minnie declared. "We can't go on like this."

"Indeed." Vane straightened. "Which is why I suggest we remove to London."

"London?"

"Why London?"

Resettling his shoulders against the mantelpiece, Vane looked at the three faces turned up to him. "We have two problems-the thief and the Spectre. If we consider the thief, then, while the thefts don't follow any rhyme or reason, the chances of the perpetrator being one of the household is high. Given the number of items stolen, there must be a cache somewhere-we've virtually eliminated any possiblity that the stolen goods have been sold. If we remove the entire household to London, then, as soon as we leave here, the staff, all of whom are above suspicion, can start a thorough search. Simultaneously, when we arrive in London, I'll arrange for all the luggage to be searched as well. In a house in London, further thefts and the hiding of items taken will be much more difficult."

Minnie nodded. "I can see that. But what about the Spectre?"

"The Spectre," Vane said, his expression growing grimmer, "is the most likely candidate for our" villain of today. There's no evidence that the Spectre comes from outside-he's most likely one of the household. All that went before-the sounds and lights-could have been someone searching the ruins by night, when no one else was about. Today's events presumably arose because Gerrard unknowingly got too close to something the Spectre doesn't want seen. All that's happened suggests that the Spectre wants to hunt in the ruins without anyone else about. By removing to London, we give the Spectre precisely the situation he wants-the ruins, deserted."

Timms frowned. "But if he's one of the household, and the household's in London…" Her words faded as understanding lit her face. "He'll want to come back."

Vane grinned humorlessly. "Precisely. We'll just need to wait and see who makes the first move to return."

"But will he, do you think?" Minnie grimaced. "Will he persist, even after today? He must realize he needs to be more careful now-he must fear being caught."

"As for fearing being caught, I can't say. But"-Vane's jaw firmed-"I'm quite sure, if it's the empty ruins he wants, he won't be able to resist the opportunity of having them all to himself." He caught Minnie's eye. "Whoever the Spectre is, he's obsessed-whatever it is he's after, he's not going to give up."

And so it was decided: The whole household would remove to London as soon as Gerrard was fit enough to travel. As he did a final round of the silent, sleeping house, Vane made a mental list of preparations to be put in train tomorrow. The last leg of his watchman's round took him along the third floor of the west wing.

The door of Gerrard's room stood open; soft light spilled across the corridor floor.

Silently, Vane approached. He paused in the shadows of the doorway and studied Patience as, seated on a straight-backed chair set back from the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, she watched Gerrard sleep. Old Ada dozed, sunk in the armchair by the fireplace.

For long, uncounted moments, Vane simply looked-let his eyes drink their fill-of Patience's soft curves, of the sheening gloss of her hair, of her intrinsically feminine expression. The simple devotion in her pose, in her face, stirred him-thus would he want his children watched, cared for, protected. Not the sort of protection he provided, but protection, and support, of a different, equally important, sort. He would provide one, she would provide the other-two sides of the same, caring coin.

He felt the surge of emotion that gripped him; he was long past breaking free. The words he'd used to describe the Spectre rang in his head. The description applied equally well to him. He was obsessed, and was not going to give up.

Patience sensed his presence as he neared. She looked up and smiled fleetingly, then looked back at Gerrard. Vane curved his hands about her shoulders, then grasped and, gently but firmly, drew her to her feet. She frowned, but let him draw her into the circle of his arms.

Head bent, he spoke softly. "Come away. He's in no danger now."

She grimaced. "But-"

"He won't be happy if he wakes and finds you slumped asleep in that chair, watching over him as if he were six years old."

The look Patience bent on him stated very clearly that she knew precisely which string he was pulling. Vane met it with an arrogantly lifted brow. He tightened his arm about her. "No one's going to harm him, and Ada's here if he calls." He steered her to the door. "You'll be of more use to him tomorrow if you've had some sleep tonight."

Patience glanced over her shoulder. Gerrard remained sound asleep. "I suppose…"

"Precisely. I'm not about to leave you here, sitting through the night for no reason." Drawing her over the threshold, Vane pulled the door shut behind them.

Patience blinked her eyes wide; all she could see was darkness.

"Here."

Vane's arm slid around her waist, and tightened, locking her to his side. He turned her toward the main stairs, strolling slowly. Despite the lowering gloom, Patience found it easy to relax into his warmth, to sink into the comfort of his strength.

They walked in silence through the darkened house, and on into the opposite wing.

"You're sure Gerrard will be all right?" She asked the question as they reached the corridor leading to her room.

"Trust me." Vane's lips brushed her temple. "He'll be fine."

There was a note in his deep voice, rumbling softly through her, that reassured far more than mere words. The last of her edgy, perhaps irrational, sisterly trepidation slid away. Trust him?

Safely screened by the dark, Patience let her lips curve in a knowing, very womanly, smile.

Her door loomed before them. Vane set it wide and handed her through. A gentleman would have left at that point-he'd always known he wasn't a gentleman. He followed her in and shut the door behind him.

She needed to sleep; he wouldn't be able to rest until she was dreaming. Preferably curled in his arms.

Patience heard the latch fall home and knew he was in the room with her. She didn't look back but walked slowly to stand before the fire. It was blazing, stoked by some thoughtful servant. She stared into the flames.

And tried to clarify what she wanted. Now. This minute.

From him.

He'd spoken truly-Gerrard was no longer six years old. Her time for watching over him was past. To cling would only be to hold him back. But he'd been the focus of her life for so long, she needed something to replace him. Someone to replace him.

At least for tonight.

She needed someone to take from her all she had to give. Giving was her outlet, her release-she needed to give in much the same way as she needed to breathe. She needed to be wanted-needed someone to take her as she was, for what she was. For what she could give them.

Her senses reached for Vane as he drew nearer. Drawing a deep breath, she turned.

And found him beside her.

She looked into his face, the angular planes burnished by the fire's glow. His eyes, cloudy grey, searched hers. Setting aside all thoughts of right and wrong, she raised her hands to his chest.

He stilled.

Sliding her arms upward, she stepped closer; locking her hands at his nape, she pressed herself to him and lifted her lips to his.

Their lips met. And fused. Hungrily. She felt his hands lock about her waist, then he shifted, and his arms closed, viselike, about her.

Her invitation, her acceptance, shook Vane to his soul; he only just managed not to crush her to him. His demons howled in triumph; he swiftly shackled them, leashed them, then turned his attention to her. Of her own volition, she pressed closer. Letting his hands glide down the delicate planes of her back, he molded her to him, urging her hips nearer, then, sliding his hands further, he cupped the firm curves of her derriere and drew her forcefully into the V of his braced thighs.

She gasped and offered him her mouth anew; rapaciously he claimed her. In the back of his mind rang a litany of warning, reminding him of his reined demons, of the concepts of civilized behavior, of sophisticated expertise-all the hallmarks of his rakish experience. Said experience, without conscious instruction, came up with a plan of action. It was warm before the fire-they could disrobe before it, then repair to the civilized comfort of her bed.

Having formulated a plan, he focused on its implementation. He kissed her deeply, searchingly, evocatively-and felt her flaring response. Her tongue boldly tangled with his; distracted, keen to experience the sweet response again, he tempted her, taunted her, to repeat the caress. She did, but slowly, so slowly his senses followed every flick, every sliding contact, with giddy intensity.

Not until he finally summoned his wits and eased back from their kiss did he feel her hands on his chest. Through his shirt, her palms branded him, her fingers kneading. She swept her hands up to his shoulders; his coat impeded the movement. She tried to push the coat off. Breaking their kiss, Vane released her and shrugged. Coat and waistcoat hit the floor.

She fell on his cravat, as eager as his demons. Brushing her hands aside, Vane rapidly flicked the knotted folds undone, then dragged the long strip free. Patience had already transferred her attentions to his shirt buttons; within seconds she had them undone. Hauling the tails free of his waistband, she flung the sides wide and greedily set her hands searching, fingers tangling in the crisp hair.

Looking into her face, Vane savored the look of sensual wonder in her features, the glow of anticipation in her eyes.

He reached for her laces.

Patience was enthralled. He'd explored her, but she hadn't, yet, had a chance to explore him. She spread her fingers, and her senses, drinking in the warm resilience of taut muscle stretched over hard bone. She investigated the hollows and broad planes of his chest, the wide ridges of his ribs. Crisp brown hair curled and caught at her slim digits; the flat discs of his nipples hardened at her touch.

It was all perfectly fascinating. Eager to extend her horizons, she seized the sides of his shirt.

Just as he seized the sleeves of her gown.

What followed had her giggling-foolishly, heatedly. Hands locked on each other, they rocked and swayed. Simultaneously, they both adjusted their grips. While she fought to wrestle his shirt from him, he-far more expertly-divested her of her gown.

He hauled her into his arms and ravished her mouth, plundering deeply, one arm locking her to him while his other hand dealt with the drawstring of her petticoat.

Patience answered the challenge and returned the kiss avidly-while her busy fingers fought with the buttons of his breeches. Their lips met and melded, parting only to fuse heatedly again.

Her petticoats fell to the floor in the same instant she pushed his breeches over his hips. He broke from their kiss. Their eyes met, heated gazes colliding. With a soft curse, he stepped back and stripped off both boots and breeches.

Eyes wide, Patience drank in the sight of him, the brutally hard, sculpted planes of his body bathed in the fire's golden light.

He looked up and caught her watching. He straightened, but before he could reach for her, she grasped the lower edge of her chemise and, in one smooth movement, drew it up and over her head.

Her eyes locked on his, she let the soft silk fall, forgotten, from her fingers. Hands, arms, reaching for him, she deliberately stepped into his embrace.

The golden instant of meeting, the first touch of bare skin to bare skin, sent exquisite delight lancing through her. She sucked in a quick breath. Lids lowered, she draped her arms over his broad shoulders and pressed closer, settling her breasts against his chest, her thighs meeting his much harder ones, her soft belly a cradle for the rampant hardness of his staff.

Their bodies slid and shifted, then locked tight. His arms closed, a steel vise, about her.

And she felt the coiled tension that held him. The leashed tension he held back.

The power, the force, she sensed in his locked muscles, in the taut sinews that surrounded her, compelled her. Fascinated her. Emboldened and encouraged her. She wanted to know it-feel it, touch it, revel in it. Tightening her arms about his neck, she pressed even closer. Lifting her head, she brushed her lips across his. And whispered, "Let go."

Vane ignored her-she didn't know, couldn't know, what she was asking. Lowering his head, he captured her lips in a long, lengthy kiss designed to intensify the glorious sensation of her naked body sinking against his. She felt like cool silk, vibrant, delicate, and sensual; the slide of her against him was a potent caress, leaving him achingly aroused, achingly urgent.

He needed to get her to the bed. Soon.

She broke from their kiss to place hot, openmouthed kisses across his collarbone, across the sensitive skin just below his throat.

And to reach for him.

She touched him. Vane stilled. Delicately tentative, she curled her fingers about his rigid length. He stiffened-and hauled in a desperate breath.

Her bed. His demons roared.

Guided by unerring instinct, her fingers closing more confidently about him, she licked one flat nipple, her tongue scalding hot, and murmured, "Let the reins go."

Vane's head reeled.

Releasing him, she raised her head. Twining her arms about his neck, she stretched upward against him, and, bending one knee, lifted one firm, ivory thigh to his hip. "Take me."

She was out of her mind-but he was already out of his.

All thoughts of beds, and civilized sophistry, vanished from his head. Without conscious direction, his hands closed about the firm globes of her bottom and he lifted her. Instantly, she wrapped her long legs about his hips and drew herself tight against him.

It was she who made the necessary adjustment to capture the throbbing head of his staff in the slick flesh between her thighs, leaving him poised, aching and desperate, at her entrance.

And it was she who made the first move to sink down, to take him into her body, to impale herself on his rigid hardness.

Every muscle locked, Vane struggled to breathe, struggled to deny the impulse to ravish her. Sinking lower, she found his lips with hers, brushing them tantalizingly. "Let go."

He didn't, couldn't-to relinquish control completely was beyond him. But he loosened the reins, slackened them as much as he dared. Muscles bunching, flexing, he lifted her-and thrust upward as she sank down.

She learned quickly. The next time he lifted her, she relaxed, then tightened as he filled her, slowing her downward slide, extending it to take even more of him than before.

Vane set his teeth. His head whirled as, again and again, she closed, scalding hot, about him. When it was that the truth dawned and he realized she was loving him, knowingly pleasuring him, lavishing the most intimate of caresses upon him, he never knew. But it was suddenly crystal-clear.

He'd never been loved like this-had a woman set herself to lavish pleasure so determinedly upon him-to ravish him.

The slick caresses continued; he was sure he'd lose his mind. Fire rose, flame upon flame within him. He was burning, ana she was the source of the heat.

He buried himself in the wet furnace she offered him, and felt her boldly embrace him. With a half-smothered groan, he sank to his knees on the rug before the hearth.

She adjusted instantly, eagerly using her new purchase on the floor to ride him more hungrily.

He couldn't take much more. Vane locked his hands about her hips and held her to him, trying to catch his breath, desperate to prolong the glorious congress. Patience squirmed, fighting to regain control. Vane set his teeth on an agonized hiss. Sliding both hands up, along her back, he tipped her back and away, arching her so her breasts, swollen and ripe, were his to feast on.

He feasted.

Patience heard her own gasp as his mouth fastened hungrily over one engorged nipple. A sobbing moan followed moments later. Hot and ravenous, he laved her breasts, then suckled the hypersensitized peaks until she was sure she would die. Within her, his heavy hardness filled her, completed her; pressed deeply into her, he rocked deeper still, claiming her-body, mind, and senses.

Trapped in his hold, she gasped and writhed; unable to rise on him, but refusing to be gainsaid, she changed direction, and rolled her hips against him.

It was Vane's turn to gasp. He felt the coiled tension inside him tighten, then tighten again, invested with a force he had no hope of controlling. Of holding back.

Reaching between them, he slid his fingers through her damp curls, and found her. Just a touch was all it took, and she shattered, fragmented, her senses exploding in a fractured cry as she tumbled over that invisible precipice and into sated oblivion.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The fire had burned to embers before they stirred. Their bodies, locked together, felt too deeply enmeshed to part. Both roused, but neither shifted, both too content with their closeness, their intimacy.

Time stretched, and still they clung, their heartbeats slowing, their bodies cooling, their souls still locked in flight.

Eventually, Vane bent his head and brushed his lips across Patience's temple. She glanced up. He studied her eyes, then kissed her gently, lingeringly. As their lips parted, he asked, "Have you changed your mind yet?"

He sensed her confusion, then she understood. She didn't pull away, but shook her head. "No."

Vane didn't argue. He held her, and felt her warmth surround him, felt her heart beating in time with his. Uncounted minutes later, he lifted her from him and carried her to her bed.