Rakes Vow

Chapter 2

Something odd was afoot. Vane knew it within minutes of entering the drawing room. The household was gathered in groups about the large room; the instant he appeared, all heads swung his way.

The expressions displayed ranged from Minnie's and Timms's benevolent welcomes, through Edgar's approving appraisal and a similar response from a young sprig, who Vane assumed was Gerrard, to wary calculation to outright chilly disapproval-this last from three-a gentleman Vane tagged as Whitticombe Colby, a pinch-faced, poker-rigid spinster, presumably Alice Colby, and, of course, Patience Debbington.

Vane understood the Colbys' reaction. He did, however, wonder what he'd done to deserve Patience Debbington's censure. Hers wasn't the response he was accustomed to eliciting from gently bred ladies. Smiling urbanely, he strolled across the wide room, simultaneously letting his gaze touch hers. She returned his look frostily, then turned and addressed some remark to her companion, a lean, dramatically dark gentleman, undoubtedly the budding poet. Vane's smile deepened; he turned it on Minnie.

"You may give me your arm," Minnie declared the instant he'd made his bow. "I'll introduce you, then we really must go in, or Cook will be in the boughs."

Before they reached even the first of Minnie's "guests," Vane's social antennae, exquisitely honed, detected the undercurrents surging between the groups.

What broth was Minnie concocting here? And what, Vane wondered, was brewing?

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cynster." Agatha Chadwick gave him her hand. A firm-faced matron with greying blond hair half-hidden by a widow's cap, she gestured to the pretty, fair-haired girl beside her. "My daughter, Angela."

Round-eyed, Angela curtsied; Vane returned a noncommittal murmur.

"And this is my son, Henry."

"Cynster." Heavily built and plainly dressed, Henry Chadwick shook Vane's hand. "You must be glad to be able to break your journey." He nodded at the long windows through which the rain could be heard, drumming on the terrace flags.

"Indeed." Vane smiled. "A fortuitous chance." He glanced at Patience Debbington, still engrossed with the poet.

The General and Edgar were both pleased that he remembered them. Edith Swithins was vague and flustered; in her case, Vane surmised that wasn't due to him. The Colbys were as frigidly disapproving as only those of their ilk could be; Vane suspected Alice Colby's face would crack if she smiled. Indeed, it occurred to him that she might never have learned how.

Which left, last but very definitely not least, the poet, Patience Debbington, and her brother Gerrard. As Vane approached, Minnie on his arm, both men looked up, their expressions eager and open. Patience did not even register his existence.

"Gerrard Debbington." Brown eyes glowing beneath a shock of brown hair, Gerrard thrust out his hand, then colored; Vane grasped it before he could tie himself in knots.

"Vane Cynster," he murmured. "Minnie tells me you're for town next Season."

"Oh, yes. But I wanted to ask-" Gerrard's eyes were alight, fixed on Vane's face. His age showed in the length of his lanky frame, his youth in his eager exuberance. "I came past the stables just before the storm broke-there's a bang-up pair of greys stabled there. Are they yours?"

Vane grinned. "Half-Welsh. High-steppers with excellent endurance. My brother, Harry, owns a stud; he supplies all my cattle."

Gerrard glowed. "I thought they looked prime-uns."

"Edmond Montrose." The poet leaned across and shook Vane's hand. "Have you come up from town?"

"Via Cambridgeshire. I had to attend a special church service near the ducal seat." Vane glanced at Patience Debbington, mute and tight-lipped on the other side of Minnie. The information that he was permitted to enter a church did not melt her ice one jot.

"And this is Patience Debbington, my niece," Minnie put in, before Gerrard and Edmond could monopolize him further.

Vane bowed elegantly in response to Patience's abbreviated bob. "I know," he drawled, his gaze on her stubbornly averted eyes. "We've met."

"You have?" Minnie blinked at him, then looked at Patience, now staring, dagger-eyed, at Vane.

Patience glanced, somewhat evasively, at Minnie. "I was in the garden when Mr. Cynster arrived." The glance she flicked Vane was exceedingly careful. "With Myst."

"Ah." Minnie nodded and scanned the room. "Right then-now everyone's been introduced, Vane, you may lead me in."

He dutifully did so, the others filing in in their wake. As he conducted Minnie to the foot of the long table, Vane wondered why Patience did not want it known she'd been searching for something in the flower bed. As he settled Minnie in her chair, he noticed a place had been set directly opposite, at the table's head.

"Daresay you'd like to chat with your godson." Whitticombe Colby stopped beside Minnie's chair. He smiled unctuously. "I would be happy to surrender my place-"

"No need for that, Whitticombe," Minnie cut in. "What would I do without your erudite company?" She looked up at Vane, on her other side. "You take the chair at the head, dear boy." She held his gaze; Vane raised a brow, then bowed-Minnie tugged and he leaned closer. "I need a man I can trust sitting there."

Minnie's whisper reached only him; Vane inclined his head slightly and straightened. As he strolled down the room, he studied the seating arrangements-Patience had already claimed the chair to the left of his alloted place, with Henry Chadwick beside her. Edith was settling in opposite Patience while Edgar was making for the next seat along. Nothing in the arrangement suggested a reason for Minnie's comment; Vane couldn't imagine that Minnie, with wits like quicksilver, thought her niece, presently armored in cold steel, could possibly need protection from the likes of Colby.

Which meant Minnie's utterance had some deeper meaning; Vane inwardly sighed, and made a mental note to ferret it out. Before he escaped from Bellamy Hall.

The first course was served the instant they all sat. Minnie's cook was excellent; Vane applied himself to the meal with unfeigned appreciation.

Edgar started the conversational ball rolling. "Heard that the Whippet's odds on for the Guineas."

Vane shrugged. "There's been a lot of blunt laid on Blackamoor's Boy and Huntsman's well fancied, too."

"Is it true," Henry Chadwick asked, "that the Jockey Club's thinking of changing their rules?"

The ensuing discussion even drew a tittering comment from Edith Swithins: "Such fanciful names you gentlemen give the horses. Never anything like Goldie, or Muffins, or Blacky."

Neither Vane, Edgar, or Henry felt qualified to take that point further.

"I had heard," Vane drawled, "that the Prince Regent's battling debtors again."

"Again?" Henry shook his head. "A spendthrift through and through."

Under Vane's subtle direction, the talk turned to Prinny's latest eccentricities, on which Henry, Edgar, and Edith all entertained firm opinions.

On Vane's left, however, perfect silence reigned.

A fact which only increased his determination to do something about it, about Patience Debbington's adamant disapproval. The itch to tweak her nose, to prick her into response, waxed strong. Vane kept the lid on his temper; they were not alone-yet.

The few minutes he'd spent changing, slipping into a familiar routine, had settled his mind, cleared his vision. Just because fate had succeeded in trapping him here, under the same roof as Patience Debbington, was no reason to consider the battle lost. He would stay the night, catch up with Minnie and Timms, deal with whatever was making Minnie uneasy, and then be on his way. The storm would probably blow itself out overnight; at the worst, he'd be held up only a day or so.

Just because fate had shown him the water, didn't mean he had to drink.

Of course, before he shook the gravel of the Bellamy Hall drive from his boots, he'd deal with Patience Debbington, too. A salutary jolt or three should do it-just enough to let her know that he knew that her icy disapproval was, to him, a transparent facade.

He was, of course, too wise to take things further.

Glancing at his prey, Vane noted her clear complexion, soft, delicate, tinged with gentle color. As he watched, she swallowed a mouthful of trifle, then sent her tongue gliding over her lower lip, leaving the soft pink sheening.

Abruptly, Vane looked down-into the big blue eyes of the small grey cat-the cat known as Myst. She came and went as she pleased, generally hugging Patience's skirts; she was presently seated beside Patience's chair, staring unblinkingly up at him.

Arrogantly, Vane lifted a brow.

With a silent mew, Myst stood, stretched, then padded forward to twine about his leg. Vane reached down and rubbed his fingers over the sleek head, then ran his nails down her spine. Myst arched, tail stiffening; the rumble of her purr reached Vane.

It also reached Patience; she glanced down. "Myst!" she hissed. "Stop bothering Mr. Cynster."

"She's not bothering me." Capturing Patience's gaze, Vane added: "I enjoy making females purr."

Patience stared at him, then blinked. Then, frowning slightly, she turned back to her plate. "Well, as long as she doesn't bother you."

It took a moment before Vane could get his lips back to straight, then he turned to Edith Swithins.

Not long after, they all rose; Minnie, with Timms beside her, led the ladies to the drawing room. Her gaze on Gerrard, Patience hesitated, her expression alternating between consternation and uncertainty. Gerrard didn't notice. Vane watched Patience's lips set; she almost glanced his way, then realized he was watching-waiting. She stiffened and kept her lids lowered. Reaching out, Vane drew her chair farther back. With a brief, excessively haughty inclination of her head, Patience turned and followed in Minnie's wake.

Her pace wouldn't have won the Guineas.

Dropping back into his chair at the head of the table, Vane smiled at Gerrard. With a lazy wave, he indicated the vacant chair to his right. "Why don't you move up?"

Gerrard's grin was radiant; eagerly, he left his place for the one between Edgar and Vane.

"Good idea. Then we can talk without shouting." Edmond moved closer, taking Patience's chair. With a genial grunt, the General moved up the table. Vane suspected Whitticombe would have kept his distance, but the insult would have been too obvious. His expression coldly severe, he moved to Edgar's other side.

Reaching for the decanter Masters had placed before him, Vane looked up-directly at Patience, still lingering, half-in and half-out of the door. Obviously torn. Vane's eyes touched hers; coolly arrogant, he raised his brows.

Patience's expression blanked. She stiffened, then slipped out of the door. A footman closed it behind her.

Vane smiled to himself; lifting the decanter, he poured himself a large glass.

By the time the decanter had circulated once, they'd settled on the best tip for the Guineas. Edgar sighed. "We really don't see much excitement here at the Hall." He smiled self-consciously. "I spend most of my days in the library. Reading biographies, y'know."

Whitticombe sniffed contemptuously. "Dilettante."

His gaze on Vane, Edgar colored but gave no other sign of having heard the jibe. "The library's quite extensive-it includes a number of journals and diaries of the family. Quite fascinating, in their way." The gentle emphasis he placed on the last three words left him looking much more the gentleman than Whitticombe.

As if sensing it, Whitticombe set his glass down and, in superior accents, addressed Vane. "As I daresay Lady Bellamy informed you, I am engaged on an extensive study of Coldchurch Abbey. Once my investigations are complete, I flatter myself the abbey will once again be appreciated as the important ecclesiastical center it once was."

"Oh, yes." Edmond grinned ingenuously at Whitticombe. "But all that's the dead past. The ruins are perfectly fascinating in their own right. They stir my muse to remarkable effect."

Glancing from Edmond to Whitticombe, Vane got the impression this was an oft-trod argument. That impression deepened when Edmond turned to him, and Vane saw the twinkle in his expressive eyes.

"I'm scripting a play, inspired by the ruins and set amongst them."

"Sacrilege!" Whitticombe stiffened. "The abbey is God's house, not a playhouse."

"Ah, but it's not an abbey any longer, just a heap of old stones." Edmond grinned, unrepentant. "And it's such an atmospheric spot."

Whitticombe's disgusted snort was echoed by the General. "Atmospheric, indeed! It's damp and cold and unhealthful-and if you plan to drag us out to be your audience, perched on cold stone, then you can think again. My old bones won't stand for it."

"But it is a very beautiful place," Gerrard put in. "Some of the vistas are excellent, either framed by the ruins or with the ruins as a focal point."

Vane saw the glow in Gerrard's eyes, heard the youthful fervor in his voice.

Gerrard glanced his way, then colored. "I sketch, you see."

Vane's brows rose. He was about to express interest, polite but unfeigned, when Whitticombe snorted again.

"Sketches? Mere childish likenesses-you make too much of yourself, m'boy." Whitticombe's eyes were hard; headmaster-like, he frowned at Gerrard. "You should be out and about, exercising that weak chest of yours, rather than sitting in the damp ruins for hours on end. Yes, and you should be studying, too, not frittering away your time."

The glow vanished from Gerrard's face; beneath the youthful softness, the planes of his face set hard. "I am studying, but I've already been accepted into Trinity for the autumn term next year. Patience and Minnie want me to go to London, so I will-and I don't need to study for that."

"No indeed," Vane smoothly cut in. "This port is excellent." He helped himself to another glass, then passed the decanter to Edmond. "I suspect we should offer due thanks for the late Sir Humphrey's well-qualified palate." He settled his shoulders more comfortably; over the rim of his glass, he met Henry's eye. "But tell me, how has the gamekeeper managed with Sir Humphrey's coverts?"

Henry accepted the decanter. "The wood over Walgrave way is worth a visit."

The General grunted. "Always plenty of rabbits about by the river. Took a piece out yesterday-bagged three."

Everyone else had some contribution to make-all except Whitticombe. He held himself aloof, cloaked in chilly disapproval.

When the talk of shooting threatened to flag, Vane set down his glass. "I think it's time we rejoined the ladies."

In the drawing room, Patience waited impatiently, and tried not to stare at the door. They'd been passing the port for more than half an hour; God only knew what undesirable views Gerrard was absorbing. She'd already uttered innumerable prayers that the rain would blow over and the following morning dawn fine. Then Mr. Vane Cynster would be on his way, taking his "gentlemanly elegance" with him.

Beside her, Mrs. Chadwick was instructing Angela: "There are six of them-or were. St. Ives married last year. But there's no question on the matter-Cynsters are so well bred, so very much the epitome of what one wishes to see in a gentleman."

Angela's eyes, already round as saucers, widened even more. "Are they all as well set-up as this Mr. Cynster?"

Mrs. Chadwick shot Angela a reproving glance. "They are all very elegant, of course, but I've heard it said Vane Cynster is the most elegant of them all."

Patience swallowed a disgusted humph. Just her luck-if she and Gerrard had to meet a Cynster, why did it have to be the most elegant one? Fate was playing games with her. She'd accepted Minnie's invitation to join her household for the autumn and winter and then to go to London for the Season, sure that fate was smiling benevolently, intervening to smooth her path. There was no doubt she'd needed help.

She was no fool. She'd seen months ago that, although she'd been nursemaid, surrogate mother, and guardian to Gerrard all his life, she could not provide the final direction he needed to cross the last threshold into adulthood.

She couldn't be his mentor.

Nowhere in his life had there been a suitable gentleman on whose behaviour and standards Gerrard could base his own. The chances of discovering such a gentleman in deepest Derbyshire were slight. When Minnie's invitation had arrived, informing her that there were gentlemen staying at Bellamy Hall, it had seemed like fate's hand at work. She'd accepted the invitation with alacrity, organized for the Grange to run without her, and headed south with Gerrard.

She'd spent the journey formulating a description of the man she would accept as Gerrard's mentor-the one she would trust with her brother's tender youth. By the time they reached Bellamy Hall, she had her criteria firmly fixed.

By the end of their first evening, she'd concluded that none of the gentlemen present met her stringent requirements. While each possessed qualities of which she approved, none was free of traits of which she disapproved. Most especially, none commanded her respect, complete and absolute, which criterion she'd flagged as the most crucial.

Philosophically, she'd shrugged and accepted fate's decree, and set her sights on London. Potential aspirants to the position of Gerrard's mentor would clearly be more numerous there. Comfortable and secure, she and Gerrard had settled into Minnie's household.

Now comfort and security were things of the past-and would remain so until Vane Cynster left.

At that instant, the drawing-room door opened; together with Mrs. Chadwick and Angela, Patience turned to watch the gentlemen stroll in. They were led by Whitticombe Colby, looking insufferably superior as usual; he made for the chaise on which Minnie and Timms sat, with Alice in a chair beside them. Edgar and the General followed Whitticombe through the door; by mutual consent, they headed for the fireplace, beside which Edith Swithins, vaguely smiling, sat tatting industriously.

Her gaze glued to the door, Patience waited-and saw Edmond and Henry amble in. Beneath her breath, she swore, then coughed to disguise the indiscretion. Damn Vane Cynster.

On the thought, he strolled in, Gerrard by his side.

Patience's mental imprecations reached new heights. Mrs. Chadwick had not lied-Vane Cynster was the very epitome of an elegant gentleman. His hair, burnished chestnut several shades darker than her own, glowed softly in the candlelight, wave upon elegant wave sitting perfectly about his head. Even across the room, the strength of his features registered; clear-cut, hard-edged, forehead, nose, jaw, and cheeks appeared sculpted out of rock. Only his lips, long and thin with just a hint of humor to relieve their austerity, and the innate intelligence and, yes, wickedness, that lit his grey eyes, gave any hint of mere mortal personality-all else, including, Patience grudgingly acknowledged, his long, lean body, belonged to a god.

She didn't want to see how well his grey coat of Bath superfine hugged his broad shoulders, how its excellent cut emphasized his broad chest and much narrower hips. She didn't want to notice how precise, how wondrously elegant his white cravat, tied in a simple "Ballroom," appeared. And as for his legs, long muscles flexing as he moved, she definitely didn't need to notice them.

He paused just inside the door; Gerrard stopped beside him. As she watched, Vane made some smiling comment, illustrating with a gesture so graceful it set her teeth on edge. Gerrard, face alight, eyes glowing, laughed and responded eagerly.

Vane turned his head; across the room, his eyes met hers.

Patience could have sworn someone had punched her in the stomach; she simply couldn't breathe. Holding her gaze, Vane lifted one brow-challenge flashed between them, subtle yet deliberate, quite impossible to mistake.

Patience stiffened. She dragged in a desperate breath and turned. And plastered a brittle smile on her lips as Edmond and Henry reached them.

"Isn't Mr. Cynster going to join us?" Angela, oblivious of her mother's sharp frown, leaned around to stare past Henry to where Vane and Gerrard still stood talking by the door. "I'm sure he'd be much more entertained talking to us than to Gerrard."

Patience bit her lip; she did not agree with Angela, but she fervently hoped Angela would get her wish. For an instant, it seemed she might; Vane's lips curved as he made some comment to Gerrard, then he turned-and strolled to Minnie's side.

It was Gerrard who joined them.

Hiding her relief, Patience welcomed him with a serene smile-and kept her gaze well away from the chaise. Gerrard and Edmond immediately fell to plotting the next scene in Edmond's melodrama-a common diversion for them. Henry, one eye on Patience, made a too-obvious effort to indulgently encourage them; his attitude, and the too-warm look in his eye, irked Patience, as it always did.

Angela, of course, pouted, not an especially pretty sight. Mrs. Chadwick, inured to her daughter's witlessness, sighed and surrendered; she and Angela, now beaming with delight, crossed to join the group about the chaise.

Patience was content to remain where she was, even if that meant withstanding Henry's ardent gaze.

Fifteen minutes later, the tea trolley arrived. Minnie poured, chatting all the while. From the corner of her eye, Patience noted Vane Cynster discoursing amiably with Mrs. Chadwick; Angela, largely ignored, was threatening to pout again. Timms looked up and offered some comment which made everyone laugh; Patience saw her aunt's wise companion smile affectionately up at Vane. Of all the ladies about the chaise, only Alice Colby appeared unimpressed-not, however, unaffected. To Patience's eyes, Alice was even more tense than usual, as if holding back her disapproval by sheer force of will. The object of her ire, however, seemed to find her invisible.

Inwardly humphing, Patience tuned her ears to her brother's conversation, currently revolving about the "light" in the ruins. Undoubtedly a safer topic than whatever glib sally caused the next wave of laughter from the group about the chaise.

"Henry!"

Mrs. Chadwick's call had Henry turning, then he smiled and nodded to Patience. "If you'll excuse me, my dear, I'll return in a moment." He glanced at Gerrard. "Don't want to miss any of these scintillating plans."

Knowing full well Henry had no real interest in Gerrard or in Edmond's drama, Patience simply smiled back.

"I'd actually favor doing that scene with the arch in the background." Gerrard frowned, clearly picturing it. "The proportions are better."

"No, no," Edmond returned. "It has to be in the cloister." Looking up, he grinned-at a point past Patience. "Hello-are we summoned?"

"Indeed."

The single word, uttered in a voice so deep it literally rumbled, rang in Patience's ears like a knell. She swung around.

A teacup in each hand, Vane, his gaze on Edmond and Gerrard, nodded toward the tea trolley. "Your presence is requested."

"Right-ho!" With a cheery smile, Edmond took himself off; without hesitation, Gerrard followed.

Leaving Patience alone, stranded on an island of privacy in the corner of the drawing room with the one gentleman in the entire company she heartily wished at the devil.

"Thank you." With a stiff inclination of her head, she accepted the cup Vane offered her. With rigid calm, she sipped. And tried not to notice how easily he had isolated her-cut her out from her protective herd. She'd recognized him immediately as a wolf; apparently, he was an accomplished one. A fact she would henceforth bear in mind. Along with all the rest.

She could feel his gaze on her face; resolutely, she lifted her head and met his eyes. "Minnie mentioned you were on your way to Leamington, Mr. Cynster. I daresay you'll be eager to see the rain cease."

His fascinating lips lifted fractionally. "Eager enough, Miss Debbington."

Patience wished his voice was not so very deep; it made her nerves vibrate.

"However," he said, his gaze holding hers, his words a languid rumble, "you shouldn't sell the present company short. There are a number of distractions I've already noted which will, I'm convinced, make my unplanned stay worthwhile."

She was not going to be intimidated. Patience opened her eyes wide. "You intrigue me, sir. I wouldn't have imagined there was anything at Bellamy Hall of sufficient note to claim the attention of a gentleman of your… inclinations. Do, pray, enlighten me."

Vane met her challenging look, and considered doing just that. He raised his teacup and sipped, holding her gaze all the while. Then, looking down as he set his cup on its saucer, he stepped closer, to her side, so they stood shoulder to shoulder, he with his back to the room. He looked at her along his shoulder, and raised a brow. "I could be a rabid fan of amateur theatricals."

Despite her patently rigid resolve, her lips twitched. "And pigs might fly," she returned. Looking away, she sipped her tea.

Vane's brow quirked; he continued his languid prowl, slowly circling her, his gaze caressing the sweep of her throat and nape. "And then there's your brother." Instantly, she stiffened, as poker-rigid as Alice Colby; behind her, Vane raised both brows. "Tell me," he murmured, before she could bolt, "what's he done to get not only Whitticombe and the General, but Edgar and Henry, too, casting disapproving glances his way?"

The answer came, swift, decisive, and in distinctly bitter tones. "Nothing." After a second's pause, during which the defensive tension in her shoulders eased slightly, she added: "They've simply got totally inaccurate views of how youths of Gerrard's age might behave."

"Hmm." The explanation, Vane noted, shed very little light. Finishing his stroll, he halted by her side. "In that case, you owe me a vote of thanks." Surprised, she looked up; he met her eyes and smiled. "I stepped into the breach and stopped Gerrard responding to one of Whitticombe's set-downs with rather too much heat."

She searched his eyes, then looked away. "You only did so because you didn't want to listen to a deal of pointless wrangling."

Watching as she sipped, Vane haughtily raised his brows; she was, as it happened, half-right. "You also," he said, lowering his voice, "haven't yet thanked me for saving you from sitting in the flower bed."

She didn't even look up. "It was entirely your fault that I nearly did. If you hadn't sneaked up on me, I wouldn't have been in any danger of landing in the weeds." She glanced briefly at him, a touch of color in her cheeks. "A gentleman would have coughed or something."

Vane trapped her gaze, and smiled-a slow, Cynster smile. "Ah," he murmured, his voice very low. He shifted fractionally closer. "But, you see, I'm not a gentleman. I'm a Cynster." As if letting her into some secret, he gently informed her: "We're conquerors-not gentlemen."

Patience looked into his eyes, into his face, and felt a most peculiar shiver slither down her spine. She'd just finished her tea, but her mouth felt dry. She blinked, then blinked again, and decided to ignore his last comment. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not, by any chance, attempting to make me feel grateful-so that I'll imagine myself in your debt?"

His brows quirked; his mesmerizing lips curved. His eyes, grey, intent, and oddly challenging, held hers. "It seemed the natural place to start to undermine your defenses."

Patience felt her nerves vibrate to the deep tenor of his voice, felt her senses quake as she registered his words. Her eyes, locked on his, widened; her lungs seized. In a mental scramble, she struggled to marshal her wits, to lay her tongue on some sharp retort with which to break his spell.

His eyes searched hers; one brow lifted arrogantly, along with the ends of his long lips. "I didn't cough because I was entirely distracted, which was entirely your fault." He seemed very close, totally commanding her vision, her senses. Again his eyes scanned hers, again one brow quirked. "Incidentally," he murmured, his voice velvety dark, "what were you searching for in the flower bed?"

"There you are!"

Breathless, Patience turned-and beheld Minnie, descending like a galleon in full sail. The entire British fleet wouldn't have been more welcome.

"You'll have to excuse an old woman, Patience dear, but I really must speak with Vane privately." Minnie beamed impartially on them both, then laid her hand on Vane's sleeve.

He immediately covered it with his. "I'm yours to command."

Despite his words, Patience sensed his irritation, his annoyance that Minnie had spiked the gun he'd turned on her. There was an instant's hiatus, then he smiled charmingly down at Minnie. "Your rooms?"

"Please-so sorry to drag you away."

"Not at all-you're the reason I'm here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vane Cynster was definitely corrupting.