Rakes Vow

Chapter 7

Late that night, Patience paced before the fire in her bedchamber. About her, the house was silent, all the occupants retired to their rest. She couldn't rest; she hadn't even bothered to undress. There wasn't any point-she wouldn't fall asleep. She was getting very tired of missing out on her sleep, but…

She couldn't get her mind off Vane Cynster. He commanded her attention; he filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. She'd forgotten to eat her soup. Later, she'd tried to drink tea from an empty cup.

"It's all his fault," she informed Myst, sitting, sphinx-like, on the armchair. "How am I supposed to behave sensibly when he makes declarations like that?"

Declared they would be lovers-that he wanted her in that way. Patience slowed. "Lovers, he said-not protector and mistress." She frowned at Myst. "Is there any pertinent distinction?"

Myst looked steadily back.

Patience grimaced. "Probably not." She shrugged and resumed her pacing.

After all Vane had said and done, every precept she'd ever learned stated categorically that she avoid him. Cut him dead if need be. However… She halted, and stared at the flames.

The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn't focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice-all were constant reminders. No-she was safe. He wouldn't succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.

Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She'd never felt the like before.

She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.

Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited-she herself had ensured that was so. She'd never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she'd shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she'd expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?

Why shouldn't she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more-all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.

She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.

With Vane Cynster.

The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.

Patience frowned and continued to pace.

She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route-her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut-in the gloom below, a light gleamed.

Patience froze and stared down. The light was quite clear, a ball glowing through the fog shrouding the ruins. It bobbed, then moved. Patience didn't wait to see more. Whirling, she hauled open her wardrobe, grabbed her cloak, and ran for the door.

Her soft-soled slippers made no sound on the runners or stair carpet. A single candle left burning in the front hall threw her shadow back up to the gallery. Patience didn't pause. She flew down the dark corridor to the side door.

It was bolted. She wrestled with the heavy bolts, dragging them back, then pulled open the door. Myst shot out. Patience stepped quickly outside, and shut the door. Then she whirled and started out-into thick fog.

Five impulsive steps from the door, she stopped. Shivering, she swung her cloak over her shoulders, quickly tying the cords at the collar. She glanced back. Only by straining her eyes could she make out the wall of the house, the blank eyes of the downstairs windows, and the darker patch that was the side door.

She looked toward the ruins. There was no sign of the light, but the Spectre, whoever he was, could not have reached the house, even using the light to guide him, not before she'd reached the side door.

In all likelihood, the Spectre was still out there.

Setting her back to the house, Patience took a few cautious steps. The fog grew denser, colder.

Tugging her cloak more tightly about her, she set her teeth and forged on. She tried to imagine she was walking in bright sunshine, tried to see in her mind's eye where she was. Then the first of the tumbled stones dotting the lawn loomed out of the fog, a reassuringly familiar sight.

Dragging in a more confident breath, she continued on, carefully picking her way between the toppled stones.

The fog was densest over the lawn; as she neared the ruins, it thinned, enough for her to make out the major structures, from which she could judge her position.

Cold, damp streamers of thick fog wound their way in and out of the shattered arches. A drifting mist obscured, then revealed, then obscured again. There was no real wind, yet a fine thread of sound seemed to whisper through the ruins, like a distant keening from ages past.

As she stepped onto the lichen-covered flags of the outer ward, Patience felt the eerieness close about her. A denser drift of fog wafted about her; one hand outstretched, she felt her way along a short wall, part of the monks' dorter. It ended abruptly; beyond was a large gap giving onto the flagged corridor leading to the remains of the refectory.

She stepped toward the gap; one slipper slid on crumbling masonry. Stifling a gasp, Patience leapt forward onto the corridor flags.

And collided with a man.

She opened her mouth to scream-a hard hand clamped over her lips. An arm like steel locked about her waist, trapping her against a long, hard frame. Patience relaxed; her panic flowed out of her. There was only one body within ten miles like the one she was pressed against.

Reaching up, she pulled Vane's hand from her lips. She drew breath to speak, opened her lips-

He kissed her.

When he eventually consented to stop, he only lifted his lips a bare fraction from hers. And breathed: "Quiet-sound travels very well in fog."

Patience gathered her wits. And breathed back: "I saw the Spectre-there was a light bobbing about."

"I think it's a lantern, but it's gone or shielded now."

His lips touched hers again, then settled, not cool but warm against hers. The rest of him was warm, too, an oasis of heat in the chilly night. Her hands trapped against his chest, Patience fought an urge to snuggle closer.

When he next lifted his head, she forced herself to ask, her words still no more than a whispered breath: "Do you think he'll come back?"

"Who knows? I thought I'd wait for a while."

He followed up the tantalizing brush of his breath against her lips with a much more satisfying caress.

Patience's head spun. "Maybe I'll wait, too."

"Hmmm."

Some unknown minutes later, while taking a necessary pause for breath, Vane commented: "Did you know your cat's here?"

She hadn't known if Myst had followed her or not. "Where?" Patience looked about.

"On the stone to your left. She can probably see better than us, even in the fog. Keep an eye on her-she'll probably disappear if the Spectre returns."

Keep an eye on her. That was difficult while he was kissing her.

Patience snuggled closer to the warm wall of his chest. He adjusted his hold; his hands slid about her waist, beneath her cloak. He drew her more firmly against him, shifting so she was trapped-very comfortably-between him and the old wall. One arm and shoulder protected her from the stones; the rest of him protected her from the night. His arms tightened; Patience felt the strength of him down her length, felt the press of his chest against her breasts, the weight of his hips against her stomach, the solid columns of his thighs hard against her softer limbs.

His lips found hers again; his hands spread over her back, molding her to him. Patience felt heat rise-from her, from him, between them. They were in no danger of taking a chill.

Myst hissed.

Vane raised his head, instantly alert.

A light flashed through the ruins. The fog had grown denser, making it difficult to tell where the lantern was. Reflections bounced off the cut faces of broken stones, setting up distracting glows. It took a moment to locate the strongest source of light.

It shone from beyond the cloisters.

"Stay here." With that whispered command, Vane set her from him, leaving her in the lee of the wall. In the next instant, he disappeared, merging into the fog like a wraith.

Patience swallowed her protest. She looked around-just in time to see Myst slip away in Vane's wake.

Leaving her totally alone.

Stunned, Patience stared after them. Somewhere ahead, the Spectre's lantern still glowed.

"You have to be joking!" With that muttered statement, she hurried after Vane.

She saw him once, as he crossed the courtyard within the cloisters. The light bobbed some way before him-not near the church but on the other side of the cloister, heading toward the remnants of other abbey buildings. Patience hurried on, glimpsing Myst as she leapt over the stones of the ruined wall of the cloister. As she followed, Patience tried to remember what lay beyond that wall.

A hole, as it happened-she tumbled headlong into it.

Patience valiantly smothered her instinctive shriek, nearly choking in the process. Luckily, it wasn't stone she fell on, but a grassed incline; the impact knocked the air from her lungs and left her gasping.

Twenty yards ahead, Vane heard her muffled shriek. He stopped and looked back, scanning the fog-shrouded stones. A yard behind him, Myst came to a quivering halt atop a stone, ears pricked as she looked back. Then the sleek cat leapt down and streaked back through the fog.

Silently, Vane cursed. He looked ahead.

The light had vanished.

Drawing a deep breath, he let it out, then turned and stalked back.

He found Patience lying where she'd fallen; she was struggling to push herself upright.

"Wait." Vane jumped down by her feet. Leaning over her, he slid his hands under her arms and lifted her. He set her on her feet beside him.

With a smothered cry, Patience crumpled. Vane caught her, lifting her, supporting her against him. "What is it?"

Patience leaned into him. "My knee." She bit her lip, then weakly added, "And my ankle."

Vane cursed. "Left or right?"

"Left."

He shifted to her left, then swung her into his arms, her left leg cradled between them. "Hang on."

Patience did. Holding her against his chest, Vane climbed the short slope. Lifting her high, he set her down on the edge of the hole, then clambered out. Then he bent and lifted her into his arms again.

He carried her into the cloisters, to where a large stone offered a convenient seat. Carefully, he set her down, letting her legs down gently.

Dead grass and damp leaves clung to her bodice. Vane brushed at them. Patience immediately brushed, too, not at all certain what she was brushing away-the detritus, or his hands. Despite the sharp pain in her knee and the duller ache in her ankle, the swift sweep of his fingers across her bodice had made the tips of her breasts crinkle tight.

The sensation left her breathless.

Vane shifted, half behind her. The next instant, she felt his hands slide about her from behind, fingers finning and feeling her ribs. Before she could gather her wits, his fingers slid upward.

"What are you doing?" She was so short of breath she sounded hoarse.

"Checking for broken or bruised ribs."

"Nothing hurts there." This time, her voice sounded strangled-the best she could do with his fingers pressed hard beneath her breasts.

A grunt was his answer, but at least he let her go. Patience dragged in a much-needed breath, then blinked as he knelt before her.

He flicked up her skirts.

"What-!" Patience desperately tried to push the soft folds back down.

"Stop fussing!"

His tone-clipped and angry-made her do just that. Then she felt his hands close about her sore ankle. His fingers searched, probed gently, then, very carefully, he moved her foot about. "No sharp pain?"

Patience shook her head. His fingers firmed, gently massaging; swallowing a sigh, she closed her eyes. His touch felt so good. The heat of his hands reduced the ache; when he finally released her ankle, it felt much better.

His hands slid upward, following the swell of her calf to her knee.

Patience kept her eyes shut, and tried not to think about how sheer her evening stockings were. Luckily, she wore her garters high, so when his hands closed about her knee, he wasn't touching bare skin.

He might as well have been.

Every nerve in her legs came alive, focused on his touch. He probed, and pain flashed; Patience jerked-but welcomed the distraction. He was very careful after that. Twice more, she hissed in pain as he tested the joint. Eventually, his hands left her.

Patience opened her eyes and quickly flicked down her skirts. She could feel her blush heating her cheeks. Luckily, in the poor light, she doubted he could see it.

Vane stood and looked down at her. "Wrenched knee, slightly sprained ankle."

Patience shot him a glance. "You're an expert?"

"Of a sort." With that, he picked her up.

Patience clung to his shoulders. "If you would give me your arm, I'm sure I could manage."

"Really?" came the less than encouraging reply. He looked down at her. In the gloom, she couldn't make out his expression. "Luckily, you won't be called upon to put that to the test." His tones remained clipped, excessively precise. The undercurrent of irritation gained in intensity as he continued, "Why the devil didn't you stay where I left you? And didn't Minnie make you promise not to chase the Spectre in the dark?"

Patience ignored his first question, for which she had no good answer. Not that her answer to his second question was particularly good either. "I forgot about my promise-I just saw the Spectre and came rushing out. But what are you doing here if it's too dangerous to chase the Spectre?"

"I have special dispensation."

Patience felt perfectly justified in humphing. "Where's Myst?"

"Ahead of us."

Patience looked but couldn't see anything. Obviously, Vane could see better than she could. His stride didn't falter as he wound his way through the rumbled blocks; her arms locked about his neck, she was inwardly very glad she didn't have to hobble up that particular stretch of lawn.

Then the side door loomed out of the murk. Myst stood waiting on the stoop. Patience waited to be put down. Instead, Vane juggled her in his arms and managed to open the door. Once across the threshold, he kicked the door shut, then leaned his shoulders back against it.

"Set the bolts."

She did as he said, reaching about him. When the last bolt slid home, he straightened and headed on.

"You can put me down now," Patience hissed as he strode into the front hall.

"I'll put you down in your room"

In the light from the hall candle, Patience saw what she hadn't been able to see before-his face. It was set. In uncompromisingly grim lines.

To her surprise, he headed for the back of the hall, and shouldered open the green baize door. "Masters!"

Masters popped out from the butler's pantry. "Yes, sir?-oh my!"

"Indeed," Vane replied. "Summon Mrs. Henderson and one of the maids. Miss Debbington went wandering in the ruins and has turned her ankle and wrenched her knee."

That, of course, did for her. Very thoroughly. Patience had to put up with Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Minnie's old dresser, Ada, fussing nonstop about her. Vane led the bleating procession up the stairs-as he'd said, he set her down in her room, not before.

He set her, very gently, on the end of her bed. Frowning, he stood back. Hands on hips, he watched as Mrs. Henderson and Ada fussed with a mustard bath for her ankle and the makings of a poultice for her knee.

Apparently satisfied, Vane turned and trapped Patience's gaze. His eyes were hard. "For God's sake, do as you're told." With that, he strode for the door.

Utterly dumbfounded, Patience stared after him. She couldn't think of anything halfway suitable to hurl at him before he disappeared. The door clicked shut. She snapped her mouth shut, let herself fall back on the bed, and relieved her feelings with a teeth-gritted groan.

Ada fluttered over. "It'll be all right, dear." She patted Patience's hand. "We'll make it all better in a moment."

Patience set her teeth-and glared at the ceiling.

Mrs. Henderson came to wake her the next morning. Patience, lying on her back in the middle of her bed, was surprised to see the motherly housekeeper; she'd expected one of the maids.

Mrs. Henderson smiled as she drew the curtains wide. "I'll need to remove that poultice and bind up your knee."

Patience grimaced. She'd hoped to escape a bandage. She glanced idly at her clock, then stared. "It's only seven o'clock."

"Aye. We doubted you'd sleep all that well, what with the awkwardness."

"I couldn't turn over." Patience struggled to sit up.

"It won't be so bad tonight. Just a bandage should be enough from now on."

With the housekeeper's help, Patience got up. She sat patiently while Mrs. Henderson removed the poultice, clucked over her knee, then bound it up in a fresh bandage.

"I can't walk," Patience protested, the instant Mrs. Henderson helped her to her feet.

"Of course not. You must stay off your feet for a few days if that knee's to heal."

Patience closed her eyes and stifled a groan.

Mrs. Henderson helped her to wash and dress, then let her prop against the bed. "Now, would you like a tray up here, or would you rather go downstairs?"

To think of spending the entire day closeted in her room was bad enough; to be forced to do so would be torture. And if she was to go down the stairs, it had best be now, before anyone else was about. "Downstairs," Patience replied decisively.

"Right then."

To her amazement, Mrs. Henderson left her and headed for the door. Opening it, she put her head out, said something, then stood back, holding the door wide.

Vane walked in.

Patience stared.

"Good morning." His expression impassive, he crossed the room. Before she could formulate her thoughts, let alone the words to express them, he stooped and scooped her into his arms.

Patience swallowed her gasp. Just like last night-with one highly pertinent alteration.

Last night, she'd been wearing her cloak; its thick folds had muted his touch sufficiently to render it undisturbing. Now, clad in a morning gown of fine twill, even through her petticoats she could feel every one of his fingers, one set gripping her lower thigh, the others firm beneath her arm, close by the swell of her breast.

As he angled her through the door, then straightened and headed for the gallery, Patience tried to steady her breathing, and prayed her blush wasn't as vivid as it felt. Vane's gaze touched her face, then he looked ahead and started down the stairs.

Patience risked a glance at his face-the hard planes were still set, locked and stony, as they had been last night. His fascinating lips were a straight line.

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not actually incapacitated, you know."

The glance he sent her was unreadable. He studied her eyes for an instant, then looked ahead once more. "Mrs. Henderson says you must keep off your feet. If I find you on them, I'll tie you to a daybed."

Patience's jaw dropped. She stared at him, but, reaching the bottom of the stairs, he didn't look her way. His boots rang on the hall tiles. Patience drew a deep breath, intending to make her views on his high-handedness plain, only to have to swallow her words; Vane swept into the breakfast parlor-Masters was there. He hurried to pull out the chair next to Vane's, angling it so it faced the head of the table. Gently, Vane deposited her in it. Masters rolled an ottoman into position; Vane set her injured ankle upon it.

"Would you like a cushion, miss?" Masters inquired.

What could she do? Patience conjured a grateful smile. "No, thank you, Masters." Her gaze shifted to Vane, standing in front of her. "You've been more than kind."

"Not at all, miss. Now, what would you like for breakfast?"

Between them, Vane and Masters saw her supplied with suitable nourishment-then watched over her as she ate. Patience bore with their male version of fussing as stocially as she could. And waited.

Vane's shoulders were coated with fine droplets of mist.

His hair was darker than usual, an occasional droplet glittering amid the thick locks. He also broke his fast, working steadily through a plate piled with various meats. Patience inwardly sniffed-he was obviously a carnivore.

Eventually, Masters returned to the kitchen, to fetch chafing dishes to keep the fare warm.

As his footsteps faded, Patience pounced. "You've been out investigating."

Vane looked up, then nodded and reached for his coffee cup.

"Well?" Patience prompted, when he simply sipped.

Lips compressing, he studied her face, then grudgingly informed her: "I thought there might be a footprint or two-a track I could follow." He grimaced. "The ground was wet enough, but the ruins are all either flags, rocks, or matted grass. Nothing to hold any impression."

"Hmm." Patience frowned.

Masters returned. He set down his tray, then crossed to Vane's side. "Grisham and Duggan are waiting in the kitchen, sir."

Vane nodded and drained his coffee cup. He set it down and pushed back his chair.

Patience caught his eye and held it. She clung to the contact; her unspoken question hung in the air.

Vane's face hardened. His lips thinned.

Patience narrowed her eyes. "If you don't tell me, I'll go to the ruins myself."

Vane narrowed his eyes back. He flicked a glance at Masters, then, somewhat grimly, looked back at Patience. "We're going to check for any sign that the Spectre came from outside. Hoofprints, anything to suggest he didn't come from the Hall itself."

Her expression relaxing, Patience nodded. "It's been so wet, you should find something."

"Precisely." Vane stood. "If there's anything to find."

Masters left the parlor, on a return trip to the kitchens. From the direction of the stairs came an airy voice, "Good morning, Masters. Is anyone about yet?"

Angela. They heard Masters's low-voiced answer; Vane looked down and met Patience's wide eyes.

"That's obviously my cue to depart."

Patience grinned. "Coward," she whispered, as he passed her chair.

A heartbeat later, he'd swung about and bent over her, his breath feathering the side of her neck. His strength flowed around her, surrounded her.

"Incidentally," he murmured, in his deepest purr, "I meant what I said about the daybed." He paused. "So, if you have the slightest inkling of self-preservation, you won't move from this chair." Cool, hard lips brushed her ear, then slid lower, to lightly caress, with just the barest touch, the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. Patience lost the fight and shivered; her lids lowered.

Vane tipped her chin up; his lips touched hers in a fleeting, achingly incomplete kiss. "I'll be back before breakfast is over."

Angela's footsteps sounded in the hall.

Patience opened her eyes to see Vane striding out of the parlor. She heard Angela's delighted greeting, then Vane's answering rumble, dying away as he continued striding. A second later, Angela appeared. She was pouting.

Feeling infinitely older, infinitiely wiser, Patience smiled. "Come and have some breakfast. The eggs are particularly good."

The rest of the breakfast crowd gradually wandered in. To Patience's dismay, they, one and all, had already heard of her injury, courtesy of the household grapevine. Luckily, neither she nor Vane had seen fit to inform anyone of the reason for her nighttime excursion, so no one knew how she'd come by her hurts.

Everyone was suitably shocked by her "accident"; all were quick to proffer their sympathy.

"Distressing business," Edgar offered with one of his meek smiles.

"Twisted m'knee once, when I was in India." The General directed a curious glance up the table. "Horse threw me. Native wallahs wrapped it up in evil-smelling leaves. Knee, not the horse. Came good in no time."

Patience nodded and sipped her tea.

Gerrard, beside her, occupying the chair she usually used, asked softly, "Are you sure you're all right?"

Ignoring the ache in her knee, Patience smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. "I'm hardly a weak creature. I promise you I'm not about to swoon from the pain."

Gerrard grinned, but his expression remained watchful, concerned.

With her pleasant smile firmly in place, Patience allowed her gaze to roam. Until, across the table, she met Henry's frown.

"You know," he said, "I don't quite understand how you came to wrench your knee." His inflection made the statement a question.

Patience kept smiling. "I couldn't sleep, so I went for a stroll."

"Outside?" Edmond's surprise faded to consideration. "Well, yes, I suppose you'd have to stroll outside-strolling inside this mausoleum at night would give anyone nightmares." His swift grin dawned. "And presumably you wouldn't have wanted them."

Smiling over clenched teeth was not easy; Patience managed it, just. "I did go outside, as it happened." Silence would have been wiser, but they were all hanging on her words, as avidly curious as only those leading humdrum lives could be.

"But…" Edgar's brow folded itself into pin tucks. "The fog…" He looked at Patience. "It was a pea-souper last night. I looked out before I blew out my candle."

"It was rather dense." Patience looked at Edmond. "You would have appreciated the eerieness."

"I had heard," Whitticombe diffidently commented, "that Mr. Cynster carried you in."

His words, quietly spoken, hung over the breakfast table, raising questions in every mind. A sudden stillness ensued, fraught with surprise and shocked calculation. Calmly, her smile no longer in evidence, Patience turned and, her expression distant, regarded Whitticombe.

Her mind raced, considering alternatives, but there was only one answer she could give. "Yes, Mr. Cynster did help me back to the house-it was lucky he found me. We'd both seen a light in the ruins and gone to investigate."

"The Spectre!" The exclamation came from both Angela and Edmond. Their eyes glowed, their faces lit with excitement.

Patience tried to dampen their imminent transports. "I was following the light when I fell down a hole."

"I had thought," Henry said sternly, and all heads swung his way, "that we all promised Minnie we wouldn't go chasing the Spectre in the dark." The tenor of his voice and the expression on his face were quite surprising in their intensity. Patience felt a blush touch her cheeks.

"I'm afraid I forgot my promise," she admitted.

"In the chill of the moment, so to speak." Edmond leaned across the table. "Did your spine tingle?"

Patience opened her mouth, eager to grasp Edmond's distraction, but Henry spoke first.

"I think, young man, that this nonsense of yours has gone quite far enough!"

The words were wrath-filled. Startled, everyone looked at Henry-his face was set, skin slightly mottled. His eyes were fixed on Gerrard.

Who stiffened. He met Henry's gaze, then slowly put down his fork. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Henry replied, biting off the words, "that given the pain and suffering you've caused your sister, I'm shocked to discover you such an unfeeling whelp that you can sit there, beside her, and pretend to innocence."

"Oh, come on," Edmond said. Patience nearly sighed with relief. A second later she stiffened and stared as Edmond continued, his tone the very essence of reasonableness, "How could he know Patience would break her word to Minnie and come out after him?" Edmond shrugged and turned a winning smile on both Patience and Gerrard. "Hardly his fault she did."

With supporters like that… Patience swallowed a groan and charged into the breach. "It wasn't Gerrard."

"Oh?" Edgar looked at her hopefully. "You saw the Spectre then?"

Patience bit her lip. "No, I didn't. But-"

"Even if you had, you would still defend your brother, wouldn't you, my dear?" Whitticombe's smooth tones floated up the table. He directed a smile of paternalistic superiority at Patience. "Quite commendable devotion, my dear, but in this case, I fear"-his gaze switched to Gerrard; his features hardened, and he shook his head-"sadly misplaced."

"It wasn't I." Pale, Gerrard made the statement evenly. Beside him, Patience sensed the battle he waged to hold his temper in check. Silently, she sent him support. Under the table, she gripped his thigh briefly.

Abruptly, he turned to her. "I'm not the Spectre."

Patience held his furious gaze levelly. "I know." She filled those two words with complete and utter conviction, and felt some of his heat leave him.

Turning, he flung a challenging stare around the table.

The General snorted. "Touching, but there's no ducking the truth. Boy's tricks, that's what this Spectre is. And you, boy-you're the only boy about."

Patience felt the blow strike, a direct hit to the core of Gerrard's emerging adulthood. He stilled, his face deathly pale, his expression bleak. Her heart wept for him; she longed to throw her arms about him, to shield and comfort him-but knew she could not.

Slowly, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood. He cast a burning glance around the table, excusing only Patience from its scorn. "If none of you has any more insults to hurl my way…" He paused, then continued, his voice threatening to break, "I'll bid you a good morning."

Brusquely, he nodded. With a swift, blank glance for Patience, he swung on his heel and left the room.

Patience would have given her entire fortune to be able to rise and, with haughty scorn, sweep out in his wake. Instead, she was trapped-condemned by her injury to have to keep her own soaring temper within bounds and deal with her aunt's witless household. Despite her threat to Vane, she could not stand, let alone hobble.

Lips compressed, she swept a glance around the table. "Gerrard is not the Spectre."

Henry smiled wearily. "My dear Miss Debbington, I'm afraid you really must face facts."

"Facts?" Patience snapped. "What facts?"

With weighty condescension, Henry proceeded to tell her.

Vane was strolling up from the stables when he saw Gerrard, jaw grimly set, striding toward him.

"What's happened?" he demanded.

Stony-faced, eyes burning, Gerrard halted before him, drew a deep breath, met his gaze briefly, then abruptly shook his head. "Don't ask." With that, he flung past, and continued to the stables.

Vane watched him go. Gerrard's clenched fists and rigid back spoke volumes. Vane hesitated, then his face hardened. Abruptly, he turned and strode for the house.

He reached the breakfast parlor in record time. One glance, and all expression left his face. Patience still sat where he'd left her, but instead of the bright sparkle he'd left in her large eyes, the light flush that had tinted her cheeks, her hazel eyes were now narrowed, flashing with temper, while flags of color flew high on her cheekbones.

Beyond that, she was pale, almost vibrating with suppressed fury. She didn't see him immediately; Henry Chadwick was the current focus of her ire.

"There you are, Cynster! Come and add your voice to ours." The General, swiveling in his chair, appealed to him. "We've been trying to tell Miss Debbington here that she has to see sense. No point bucking the truth, don't you see? That ramshackle brother of hers needs a firmer hand on his reins. A good whipping will bring him into line and stop all this Spectre tommyrot."

Vane looked at Patience. Her eyes, positively blazing, had fixed on the General. Her breasts swelled as she drew breath. If looks could kill, the General was dead. From her expression, she was ready to throttle Henry, too, with Edmond thrown in for good measure.

Smoothly, Vane strolled forward. His movement caught Patience's attention; she looked up, and blinked. Vane trapped her gaze in his. He didn't halt until he stood beside her chair. Then he held out his hand. Commandingly. Without hesitation, Patience laid her fingers in his palm.

Vane closed his hand strongly about hers; with a shudder, Patience felt warmth and strength flow into her. Her temper, almost at the breaking point, fell back from the brink. She drew in another breath and looked again at those about the table.

Vane did the same, his cool grey gaze scanning their faces. "I do hope," he mumured, his languid drawl low but clearly audible, "that, after your ordeal of last night, no one has been insensitive enough to discompose you in any way?"

The quiet words, and the cold steel behind his eyes, were enough to make everyone else at the table still.

"Naturally," he continued, in the same smooth tones, "events such as those of last night lend themselves to speculation. But, of course"-he smiled at them all-"it is just speculation."

"Ah-" Edgar broke in to ask, "You found no evidence-no clue-to the Spectre's identity?"

Vane's smile deepened fractionally. "None. So any thoughts on the identity of the Spectre are, as I said, pure fancy." He caught Edgar's eye. "Based on rather less substance than a tip for the Guineas."

Edgar smiled briefly.

"But," interrupted the General, "stands to reason it's got to be someone."

"Oh, indeed," Vane replied, at his languid best. "But ascribing the blame to any particular individual without reasonable proof seems to me to smack of…" He paused and met the General's eye. "Quite unnecessary slander."

"Humph!" The General sank lower in his chair.

"And, of course"-Vane's gaze swung to Henry-"there's always the thought of how foolish one will look if one's overly enthusiastic assertions prove wrong."

Henry frowned. His gaze dropped to the tablecloth.

Vane looked down at Patience. "Are you ready to go upstairs?"

Patience looked up at him and nodded. Vane bent and scooped her into his arms. Having got used to the sensation of being lifted so easily, Patience made herself comfortable, draping her arms about Vane's neck. The men at the table all came to their feet; Patience glanced across the table-and almost smiled. The look on Henry's and Edmond's faces was priceless.

Vane turned and headed for the door. Edmond and Henry came rushing around the table, almost tripping in their haste.

"Oh, I say-here, let me help." Henry rushed to hold back the already open door.

"Perhaps if we form a chair with our arms?" Edmond suggested.

Vane paused as Edmond moved to intercept them. Patience froze Edmond with an icy glare. "Mr. Cynster is more than capable of managing on his own." She allowed the chill in her voice to strike home, before adding, in precisely the same tone, "I am going to retire-I do not wish to be disturbed. Not by any further speculation, nor unwarranted slander. And least of all"-she shifted her sights to Henry-"by any overly enthusiastic assertions."

She paused, then smiled, and looked at Vane. Utterly unmoved, he raised a brow at her. "Upstairs?"

Patience nodded. "Indeed."

Without further ado, and no further hindrance, Vane carried her from the room.