A Rake's Vow Read online

  Which was why, half an hour after she’d seen Gerrard and Vane head for the billiard room, she slipped into the adjacent conservatory. One section of the irregularly shaped garden room overlooked one end of the billiard room. Screened by an assortment of palms, Patience peered between the fringed leaves.

  She could see half the table. Gerrard stood leaning on his cue beyond it. He was talking; he paused, then laughed. Patience gritted her teeth.

  Then Vane came into view. His back to her, he moved around the table, studying the disposition of the balls. He’d taken off his coat; in form-fitting waistcoat and soft white shirt, he looked, if anything, even larger, more physically powerful, than before.

  He halted at the corner of the table. Leaning over, he lined up his shot. Muscles shifted beneath his tight waistcoat; Patience stared, then blinked.

  Her mouth was dry. Licking her lips, she refocused. Vane took his shot, then, watching the ball, slowly straightened. Patience frowned, and licked her lips again.

  With a satisfied smile, Vane circled the table and stopped by Gerrard’s side. He made some comment; Gerrard grinned.

  Patience squirmed. She wasn’t even eavesdropping, yet she felt guilty—guilty of not having faith in Gerrard. She should leave. Her gaze went again to Vane, taking in his lean, undeniably elegant form; her feet remained glued to the conservatory tiles.

  Then someone else came into view, pacing about the table. Edmond. He looked back up the table and spoke to someone out of her sight.

  Patience waited. Eventually, Henry came into view. Patience sighed. Then she turned and left the conservatory.

  The afternoon continued damp and dreary. Grey clouds lowered, shutting them in the house. After luncheon, Patience, with Minnie and Timms, retired to the back parlor to set stitches by candlelight. Gerrard had decided to sketch settings for Edmond’s drama; together with Edmond, he climbed to the old nurseries for an unrestricted view of the ruins.

  Vane had disappeared, only God knew where.

  Satisfied Gerrard was safe, Patience embroidered meadow grasses on a new set of cloths for the drawing room. Minnie sat dozing in an armchair by the fire; Timms, ensconced in its mate, busily plied her needle. The mantelpiece clock ticked on, marking the slow passage of the afternoon.

  “Ah, me,” Minnie eventually sighed. She stretched her legs, then fluffed up her shawls and glanced at the darkening sky. “I must say, it’s a huge relief that Vane agreed to stay.”

  Patience’s hand stopped in midair. After a moment, she lowered the needle to the linen. “Agreed?” Head down, she carefully set her stitch.

  “Hmm—he was on his way to Wrexford’s, that’s why he was passing so close when the storm struck.” Minnie snorted. “I can just imagine what devilry that crew had planned, but, of course, once I asked, Vane immediately agreed to stay.” She sighed fondly. “No matter what else one might say of the Cynsters, they’re always reliable.”

  Patience frowned at her stitches. “Reliable?”

  Timms exchanged a grin with Minnie. “In some ways, they’re remarkably predictable—you can always rely on help if needed. Sometimes, even if you don’t ask for it.”

  “Indeed.” Minnie chuckled. “They can be quite terrifyingly protective. Naturally, as soon as I mentioned the Spectre and the thief, Vane wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “He’ll clear up this nonsense.” Timms’s confidence was transparent.

  Patience stared at her creation—and saw a hard-edged face with grey, accusing eyes. The lump of cold iron that had settled in her stomach the previous night grew colder. Weightier.

  Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes, then snapped them open as a truly sickening thought occurred. It couldn’t be, wouldn’t be, true—but the dreadful premonition wouldn’t go away. “Ah . . .” She tugged her last stitch tight. “Who are the Cynsters, exactly?”

  “The family holds the dukedom of St. Ives.” Minnie settled herself comfortably. “The principal seat is Somersham Place, in Cambridgeshire. That’s where Vane was coming from. Devil’s the sixth duke; Vane’s his first cousin. They’ve been close from the cradle, born a mere four months apart. But the family’s quite large.”

  “Mrs. Chadwick mentioned six cousins,” Patience prompted.

  “Oh, there’s more than that, but she would have been referring to the Bar Cynster.”

  “The Bar Cynster?” Patience looked up.

  Timms grinned. “That’s the nickname the ton’s gentlemen use to refer to the six eldest cousins. They’re all male.” Her grin widened. “In every way.”

  “Indeed.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled. “The six of them all together are a veritable sight to behold. Known to make weak females swoon.”

  Looking down at her stitching, Patience swallowed an acid retort. Elegant gentlemen, all, it seemed. The lead weight in her stomach lightened; she felt better. “Mrs. Chadwick said that . . . Devil had recently married.”

  “Last year,” Minnie corroborated. “His heir was christened about three weeks ago.”

  Frowning, Patience looked at Minnie. “Is that his real name—Devil?”

  Minnie grinned. “Sylvester Sebastian—but better, and, to my mind, more accurately known as Devil.”

  Patience’s frown grew. “Is ‘Vane’ Vane’s real name?”

  Minnie chuckled evilly. “Spencer Archibald—and if you dare call him that to his face, you’ll be braver than any other in the ton. Only his mother can still do so with impunity. He’s been known as Vane since before he went to Eton. Devil named him—said he always knew which way the wind was blowing and what was in the breeze.” Minnie raised her brows. “Oddly far-sighted of Devil, actually, for there’s no doubt that’s true. Instinctively intuitive, Vane, when all’s said and done.”

  Minnie fell pensive; after two minutes, Patience shook out her cloth. “I suppose the Cynsters—at least, the Bar Cynster—are . . .” Vaguely, she gestured. “Well, the usual gentlemen about town.”

  Timms snorted. “It would be more accurate to say that they’re the pattern card for ‘gentlemen about town.’ ”

  “All within the accepted limits, of course.” Minnie folded her hands across her ample stomach. “The Cynsters are one of the oldest families in the ton. I doubt any of them could be bad ton, not even if they tried—quite out of character for them. They might be outrageous, they might be the ton’s most reckless hedonists, they might sail within a whisker of that invisible line—but you can guarantee they’ll never cross it.” Again, she chuckled. “And if any of them sailed too close to the wind, they’d hear about it—from their mothers, their aunts—and the new duchess. Honoria’s certainly no insipid cypher.”

  Timms grinned. “It’s said the only one capable of taming a Cynster male is a Cynster woman—by which they mean a Cynster wife. Strange to tell, that’s proved true, generation after generation. And if Honoria’s any guide, then the Bar Cynster are not going to escape that fate.”

  Patience frowned. Her previously neat, coherent mental image of Vane as a typical, if not the archetype, “elegant gentleman” had started to blur. A reliable protector, amenable if not positively subject to the opinions of the women in his family—none of that sounded the least like her father. Or the others—the officers from the regiments based about Chesterfield who had so tried to impress her, the London friends of neighbors who, hearing of her fortune, had called, thinking to beguile her with their practiced smiles. In many respects, Vane fitted the bill to perfection, yet the Cynster attitudes Minnie had expounded were quite contrary to her expectations.

  Grimacing, Patience started on a new sheaf of grasses. “Vane said something about being in Cambridgeshire to attend a church service.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Detecting amusement in Minnie’s tone, Patience looked up, and saw Minnie exchange a laughing glance with Timms. Then Minnie looked at her. “Vane’s mother wrote to me about it. Seems the five unmarried members of the Bar Cynster got ideas above their station. They ran a wagers book on the d
ate of conception of Devil’s heir. Honoria heard of it at the christening—she promptly confiscated all their winnings for the new church roof and decreed they all attend the dedication service.” A smile wreathing her face, Minnie nodded. “They did, too.”

  Patience blinked and lowered her work to her lap. “You mean,” she said, “that just because the duchess said they had to, they did?”

  Minnie grinned. “If you’d met Honoria, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

  “But . . .” Brow furrowing, Patience tried to imagine it—tried to imagine a woman ordering Vane to do something he didn’t wish to do. “The duke can’t be very assertive.”

  Timms snorted, choked, then succumbed to gales of laughter; Minnie was similarly stricken. Patience watched them double up with mirth—adopting a long-suffering expression, she waited with feigned patience.

  Eventually, Minnie choked her way to a stop and mopped her streaming eyes. “Oh, dear—that’s the most ridiculously funny—ridiculously wrong—statement I’ve ever heard.”

  “Devil,” Timms said, in between hiccups, “is the most outrageously arrogant dictator you’re ever likely to meet.”

  “If you think Vane is bad, just remember it was Devil who was born to be a duke.” Minnie shook her head. “Oh, my—just the thought of a nonassertive Devil . . .” Mirth threatened to overwhelm her again.

  “Well,” Patience said, frowning still, “he doesn’t sound particularly strong, allowing his duchess to dictate to his cousins over what is held to be a male prerogative.”

  “Ah, but Devil’s no fool—he could hardly gainsay Honoria on such a matter. And, of course, the reason Cynster men always indulge their wives was very much to the fore.”

  “The reason?” Patience asked.

  “Family,” Timms replied. “They were all gathered for the christening.”

  “Very family-focused, the Cynsters.” Minnie nodded. “Even the Bar Cynster—they’re always so good with children. Entirely trustworthy and utterly reliable. Probably comes from being such a large brood—they always were a prolific lot. The older ones are used to having younger brothers and sisters to watch out for.”

  Cold, heavy, the weight of dismay started to coalesce in Patience’s stomach.

  “Actually,” Minnie said, chins wobbling as she resettled her shawls, “I’m very glad Vane will be staying for a while. He’ll give Gerrard a few hints on how to go on—just the thing to prepare him for London.”

  Minnie looked up; Patience looked down. The lump of cold iron swelled enormously; it sank straight through her stomach and settled in her gut.

  In her head, she replayed her words to Vane, the thinly veiled insults she’d leveled at him in the drawing room the previous night.

  Her gut clenched hard about the lump of cold iron. She felt positively ill.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Patience descended the stairs, a brittlely bright smile on her face. She swept into the breakfast parlor and nodded with determined cheerfulness to the gentlemen sitting at the table. Her smile froze, just for an instant, when she saw, wonder of wonders, Angela Chadwick, chatting loquaciously, greatly animated, in the chair to Vane’s left.

  He sat at the table’s head as usual; Patience allowed her smile to flow over him, but didn’t meet his eyes. Despite Angela’s outpourings, from the moment she’d appeared, Vane’s attention had fixed on her. She helped herself to kedgeree and kippers, then, with a smile for Masters as he held her chair, took her place beside Gerrard.

  Angela immediately appealed to her. “I was just saying to Mr. Cynster that it would be such a welcome diversion if we could get up a party to go to Northampton. Just think of all the shops!” Eyes bright, she looked earnestly at Patience. “Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea?”

  For one instant, Patience was sorely tempted to agree. Anything—even a day shopping with Angela—was preferable to facing what had to be faced. Then the idea of sending Vane shopping with Angela occurred. The vision that rose in her mind, of him in some milliner’s establishment, teeth gritted as he coped with Angela’s witlessness, was priceless. She couldn’t stop herself glancing up the table . . . her priceless image evaporated. Vane wasn’t interested in Angela’s wardrobe. His grey gaze was fixed on her face; his expression was impassive, but there was a frown in his eyes. He narrowed them slightly, as if he could see through her facade.

  Patience immediately looked at Angela and increased the intensity of her smile. “I think it’s a little far to do much shopping in a day. Perhaps you should ask Henry to escort you and your mother down for a few days?”

  Angela looked much struck; she leaned forward to consult Henry, farther down the table.

  “It looks like it’ll stay fine.” Gerrard glanced at Patience. “I think I’ll take my easel out and make a start on the scenes Edmond and I decided on yesterday.”

  Patience nodded.

  “Actually”—Vane lowered his voice so its rumble ran beneath Angela’s excited chatter—“I wondered if you’d show me the areas you’ve been sketching.”

  Patience looked up; Vane trapped her gaze.

  “If”—his voice turned steely—“your sister approves?”

  Patience inclined her head graciously. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  A frown flashed through Vane’s eyes; Patience looked down at her plate.

  “But what can we do today?” Angela looked about, clearly expecting an answer.

  Patience held her breath, but Vane remained silent.

  “I’m going sketching,” Gerrard declared, “and I won’t want to be disturbed. Why don’t you go for a walk?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Angela returned scornfully. “It’s far too wet to go strolling.”

  Patience inwardly grimaced and forked up her last mouthful of kedgeree.

  “Well then,” Gerrard retorted, “you’ll just have to amuse yourself doing whatever it is that young ladies do.”

  “I will,” Angela declared. “I’ll read to Mama in the front parlor.” So saying, she stood. As the gentlemen rose, Patience blotted her lips with her napkin and grasped the moment to make her exit, too.

  She needed to hunt out her most waterproof walking shoes.

  An hour later, she stood at the side door and surveyed the expanse of sodden grass between her and the ruins. Between her and the apology she had to make. A brisk breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of rain; there seemed little likelihood the grass would dry soon. Patience grimaced and glanced down at Myst, sitting neatly beside her. “I suppose it’s part of my penance.”

  Myst looked up, enigmatic as ever, and twitched her tail.

  Patience determinedly stepped out. In one hand, she twirled her furled parasol; there was just enough weak sunshine to excuse it, but she’d really picked it up simply to have something in her hands. Something to fiddle with, something defensive—something to glance at if things got truly bothersome.

  Ten yards from the door, and the hem of her lilac walking dress was wet. Patience gritted her teeth and glanced around for Myst—and realized the cat wasn’t there. Looking back, she saw Myst, sitting primly on the stone stoop of the side door. Patience pulled a face at her. “Fine-weather friend,” she muttered, and resumed her stroll.

  Her hem got wetter and wetter; gradually, water found its way through the seams of her kid boots. Patience doggedly slogged on. Wet feet might be part of her penance, but she was sure it would be the lesser part. Vane, she was certain, would provide the greater.

  Abruptly, she pushed that thought aside—it was not a thought she need dwell on. What was to come would not be easy, but if she allowed herself to think too much, her courage would desert her.

  Quite how she had come to be so wrong she really couldn’t fathom. To have been wrong on one point would have been bad enough, but to find herself so comprehensively off target was incomprehensible.

  As she detoured around the first of the fallen stones, her jaw set. It wasn’t fair. He looked like an elega
nt gentleman. He moved like an elegant gentleman. In many ways, he behaved like an elegant gentleman! How could she have known that in nonphysical ways he was so different?

  She clung to the thought, trying it on for comfort, seeing if it would bolster her courage—then relucantly shrugged it aside. She couldn’t duck the fact that she was very much at fault. She’d judged Vane entirely by his wolf’s clothing. Although he was, indeed, a wolf, he was, apparently, a caring wolf.

  There was no way out but to apologize. Her self-respect wouldn’t accept anything less; she didn’t think he would either.

  Reaching the ruins proper, she looked about. Her eyes ached; she’d got even less sleep last night than she had the night before. “Where are they?” she muttered. If she could get this over with, and free her mind of its most vexing problem, perhaps she could nap this afternoon.

  But first, she had to give the wolf his due. She was here to apologize. She wanted to do it quickly—before she lost her nerve.

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  Gerrard’s voice led her to the old cloisters. His easel before him, he was sketching the arches along one side. Stepping into the open courtyard, Patience searched—and spotted Vane lounging in the shadows of a half-shattered cloister arch some paces behind Gerrard.

  Vane had already spotted her.

  Gerrard glanced up as her boots scraped on the flags. “Hello. Vane’s just been telling me that sketching’s considered quite the thing among the ton at present. Apparently, the Royal Academy holds an exhibition every year.” Charcoal in hand, he turned back to his sketch.

  “Oh?” Her gaze on Vane, Patience wished she could see his eyes. His expression was unreadable. Shoulders propped against the stone arch, arms folded across his chest, he watched her like a hawk. A brooding, potentially menacing hawk. Or a wolf anticipating a meal.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she stepped up to Gerrard’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can visit the Academy when we go up to town.”