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, lo
ng 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?”