“Precisely.” Timms smiled. “So we can leave our problems on Vane’s shoulders—Lord knows, they’re broad enough.”
Minnie grinned. “Very true. Well, then—let’s get me to bed.”
Vane made sure he was early down to breakfast. When he entered the breakfast parlor, only Henry was present, working his way through a plate of sausages. Exchanging an amiable nod, Vane headed for the sideboard.
He was heaping a plate with slices of ham when Masters appeared, bearing another platter. He set it down on the sideboard. Raising a brow, Vane caught his eye. “No sign of any break-in?”
“No, sir.” Masters had been Minnie’s butler for twenty and more years. He knew Vane well. “I did my rounds early. The ground floor had already been secured before the . . . incident. I checked again afterward—there was no door or window left open.”
Which was no more nor less than Vane had expected. He nodded noncommittally and Masters left.
Strolling to the table, Vane drew out the chair at its end.
Henry, in the next chair along, looked up as he sat. “Dashed odd business, last night. The mater’s still shaken. Hate to say it, but I really do feel young Gerrard’s gone far enough with this ‘Spectre’ nonsense.”
Vane raised his brows. “Actually—”
A snort from the door cut him off; Whitticombe entered. “The young bounder should be thrashed—scaring gently bred females like that. Needs a firm hand applied to his reins—he’s been left in the care of women too long.”
Inwardly, Vane stiffened; outwardly, not a ripple marred his habitually urbane expression. He swallowed an impulse to defend Patience, and Minnie, too. Instead, he manufactured an expression of boredom only mildly piqued. “Why are you so sure it was Gerrard last night?”
At the sideboard, Whitticombe turned, but was beaten to speech by the General. “Stands to reason,” he wheezed, stumping in. “Who else could it have been, heh?”
Again, Vane’s brows rose. “Almost anyone, as far as I could see.”
“Nonsense!” the General huffed, leaning his stick against the sideboard.
“Other than myself, Minnie, Timms, Miss Debbington, Angela, and Mrs. Chadwick,” Vane reiterated, “any one of you could have been the culprit.”
Turning, the General glared at him from under overhanging brows. “You’ve shaken a screw loose with too much racketing about. Why the devil would any of us want to put the wind up Agatha Chadwick?”
Gerrard, bright-eyed, swung through the door—and came to a dead halt. His face, initially filled with boyish anticipation, drained of expression.
Vane trapped Gerrard’s gaze, then, with his eyes, indicated the sideboard. “Indeed,” he drawled as Gerrard, now stiff and tense, moved to serve himself, “but, using precisely the same reasoning, why would Gerrard?”
The General scowled and shot a glance at Gerrard’s back. Carrying a plate piled high with kedgeree, the General pulled out a chair farther along the table. Whitticombe, tight-lipped, censoriously silent, took a place opposite.
Frowning, Henry shifted in his seat. He, too, looked at Gerrard, busy at the sideboard, then studied his now-empty plate. “I don’t know—but I suppose boys will be boys.”
“As one who used that excuse to extremes, I feel compelled to point out that Gerrard is several years past the stage where that explanation applies.” Vane met Gerrard’s eyes as he turned from the sideboard, a full plate in his hands. Gerrard’s face was lightly flushed, his gaze watchful. Vane smiled easily and waved to the chair beside his. “But perhaps he can suggest something? What say you, Gerrard—can you give us a reason why someone might want to scare Mrs. Chadwick?”
To his credit, Gerrard didn’t rush into speech; he frowned as he set his plate down, then shook his head slowly as he sat. “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would want to make Mrs. Chadwick screech.” He grimaced at the memory. “But”—he flicked a grateful glance at Vane—“I did wonder if the fright was incidental and the person at the door was really the thief.”
The suggestion made all at the table think—after a moment, Henry nodded. “Could be—indeed, why not?”
“Regardless,” Whitticombe put in, “I can’t conceive who this thief could be either.” His tone made it clear he still suspected Gerrard.
Vane directed a mildly questioning glance at Gerrard.
Encouraged, Gerrard shrugged. “I can’t see what any of us would want with all the knickknacks and fripperies that have disappeared.”
The General gave one of his distinguishing snorts. “Perhaps because they’re fripperies? Just the sort of things to woo a flighty maid with, heh?” His penetrating stare again fixed on Gerrard.
Ready color rose to Gerrard’s cheeks.
“Not guilty! On my honor, I swear it!”
The words came in ringing tones from the doorway. They all looked around—on the threshold, Edmond stood poised in the attitude of a supplicant pleading for justice from the bench. He broke from his pose; grinning, he bowed, then straightened and loped to the sideboard. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I feel obliged to puncture that fantasy. None of the maids here would accept such tokens of esteem—the staff have all been alerted to the thefts. And as for the surrounding villages”—he paused dramatically and rolled an anguished eye at Vane—“believe me, there’s not a likely miss within a day’s ride!”
Vane hid his grin behind his coffee cup; over the rim, he met Gerrard’s laughing eyes.
The sound of briskly swishing skirts drew all eyes to the door. Patience appeared in the doorway. Chairs scraped as they all made to rise. She waved them back. Pausing on the threshold, she swiftly scanned the room, her gaze fixing at the last on Gerrard. And his affectionate smile.
Vane noticed the way Patience’s breasts rose and fell, noticed the light blush in her cheeks. She’d been scurrying.
She blinked, then, with a general nod, headed for the sideboard.
Vane redirected the conversation to matters less fraught.
“The Northants Hunt is the nearest,” Henry replied to his question.
At the sideboard, Patience forced herself to breathe deeply while absentmindedly filling her plate. She’d intended to wake early and be here in time to protect Gerrard. Instead, she’d slept in, drained by escalating worry, followed by unsettling dreams. The other ladies generally took breakfast on trays in their chambers, a habit to which she’d never subscribed. Ears tuned to the rumble of conversation behind her, she heard Vane’s lazy drawl and felt her skin prickle. She frowned.
She knew the male members of the household too well—there was no possiblity they’d omitted to mention last night’s contretemps, nor that they hadn’t, in one way or another, accused Gerrard of it. But he was clearly unperturbed, which could mean only one thing. For whatever reason, Vane Cynster had taken up the cudgels in her stead and deflected the household’s unreasoning suspicions of Gerrard. Her frown deepened as she heard Gerrard’s voice, youthful enthusiasm ringing as he described a nearby ride.
Eyes widening, Patience picked up her plate and whirled. She advanced on the table, to the chair beside Gerrard. Masters drew it out and held it while she sat.
Gerrard turned to her. “I was just telling Vane that Minnie kept the best of Sir Humphrey’s hunters. And the rides hereabouts are quite reasonable.”
His eyes glowed with a light Patience hadn’t seen in them before. Smiling, he turned back to Vane. Her heart sinking, Patience looked to the head of the table, too. Vane sat relaxed, wide shoulders encased in a grey hacking jacket settled comfortably against the chair back, one hand resting on the chair’s arm, the other stretched on the table, long fingers crooked about the handle of a coffee cup.
In daylight, his features were as hard-edged as she’d thought them, his face every bit as strong. His heavy lids hid his eyes as, with lazy interest, he listened to Gerrard extol the equestrian virtues of the locality.
To her right, the General snorted, then pushed back his chair. Whitticombe
rose, too. One after the other, they left the room. Frowning, Patience applied herself to her breakfast and tried to think of another subject with which to capture the conversation.
Vane saw her frown. The devil in him stirred and stretched, then settled to contemplate this latest challenge. She would, he felt sure, avoid him. Shifting his hooded gaze, he studied Gerrard. Vane smiled. Lazily. He waited until Patience took a bite of her toast.
“Actually,” he drawled, “I was thinking of filling in the morning with a ride. Anyone interested?”
Gerrard’s eager response was instantaneous; Patience’s response, though far less eager, was no less rapid. Vane stifled a grin at the sight of her stunned expression as, with her mouth inhibitingly full, she heard Gerrard accept his invitation with undisguised delight.
Patience looked out through the long parlor windows. The day was fine, a brisk breeze drying the puddles. She swallowed, and looked at Vane. “I thought you would be leaving.”
He smiled, a slow, devilish, fascinating smile. “I’ve decided to stay for a few days.”
Damn! Patience bit back the word and looked across the table at Edmond.
Who shook his head. “Not for me. The muse calls—I must do her bidding.”
Patience inwardly cursed, and switched her gaze to Henry. He considered, then grimaced. “A good idea, but I should check on Mama first. I’ll catch up if I can.”
Vane inclined his head, and slanted a smiling glance at Gerrard. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, then.”
“No!” Patience coughed to disguise the abruptness of her answer; then took a sip of tea and looked up. “If you’ll wait while I change, I’ll come, too.”
She met Vane’s eyes, and saw the grey glint wickedly. But he smoothly, graciously, inclined his head, accepting her company, which was all she cared about. Setting down her teacup, she rose. “I’ll meet you at the stables.”
Rising with his customary grace, Vane watched as she left, then sank back, elegantly asprawl. He lifted his coffee cup, thus hiding his victorious smile. Gerrard, after all, wasn’t blind. “Ten minutes, do you think?” He lifted a brow at Gerrard.
“Oh, at least.” Gerrard grinned and reached for the coffeepot.
Chapter 4
By the time she gained the stable yard, Patience had the bit firmly between her teeth. Vane Cynster was not a suitable mentor for Gerrard, but, given the evidence of her eyes, Gerrard was already well on the way to an unhealthy respect, which could all too easily lead to adulation. Hero worship. Dangerous emulation.
It was all very clear in her mind.
The train of her lavender-velvet riding habit over her arm, she strode into the yard, heels ringing on the cobbles. Her reading of the situation was instantly confirmed.
Vane sat a massive grey hunter with elegant ease, effortlessly controlling the restive beast. Beside him, on a chestnut gelding, Gerrard blithely chatted. He looked happier, more relaxed, than he had since they’d arrived. Patience noted it, but, halting in the shadows of the stable arch, her attention remained riveted on Vane Cynster.
Her mother had often remarked that “true gentlemen” looked uncommonly dashing on horseback. Quelling an inward sniff—her normal reaction to that observation, which had invariably alluded to her father—Patience reluctantly conceded she could now see her mother’s point: There was something about the harnessed power of the man, dominating and harnessing the power of the beast, that made her stomach tighten. The clop of hooves had drowned out her approach; she stared for a minute longer, then gave herself a mental shake, and walked forward.
Grisham had the brown mare she favored saddled and waiting; Patience ascended the mounting block, then climbed into the saddle. She settled her skirts and picked up the reins.
“Ready?”
The question came from Vane. Patience nodded.
Naturally, he led the way out.
The morning greeted them, crisp and clear. Pale grey clouds dotted the washed-out sky; the smell of damp greenery was all-pervasive. Their first stop was a knoll, three miles from the Hall. Vane had ridden the fidgets from his mount in a series of short gallops that Patience had tried hard not to watch. After that, the grey had cantered beside her mare. Gerrard had ridden on her other side. None of them had spoken, content to look about and let the cool air refresh them.
Reining in beside Vane on the top of the knoll, Patience looked around. Beside her, Gerrard scanned the horizon, gauging the view. Twisting in his saddle, he eyed the steep mound beyond Vane, covering one end of the knoll.
“Here.” Thrusting his reins into her hands, Gerrard dismounted. “I’m going to check the view.”
Patience glanced at Vane, sitting his grey with deceptive ease, hands crossed on the saddlebow. He smiled lazily at Gerrard but made no move to follow. They watched as Gerrard scrambled up the steep sloping side of the mound. Gaining the top, he waved, then looked about. After a moment, he sank down, his gaze fixed in the distance.
Patience grinned and transferred her gaze to Vane’s face. “I’m afraid he might be hours. He’s very much taken with landscapes at present.”
To her surprise, the grey eyes watching her showed no sign of alarm at that news. Instead, Vane’s long lips curved. “I know,” he said. “He mentioned his current obsession, so I told him about the old burial mound.”
He paused, then added, his eyes still on hers, his smile deepening, “The views are quite spectacular.” His eyes glinted. “Guaranteed to hold a budding artist’s attention for a considerable space of time.”
Patience, her gaze locked in the grey of his, felt a tingling sensation run over her skin. She blinked, then frowned. “How kind of you.” She turned to study the views herself. And again felt that odd sensation, a ripple of awareness sliding over her nerves, leaving them sensitized. It was most peculiar. She would have put it down to the touch of the breeze, but the wind wasn’t that cold.
Beside her, Vane raised his brows, his predator’s smile still in evidence. Her lavender habit was not new, hardly fashionable, yet it hugged her contours, emphasizing their softness, leaving him with an urgent longing to fill his arms with their warmth. The grey shifted; Vane steadied him. “Minnie mentioned you and your brother hail from Derbyshire. Do you ride much while there?”
“As much as I can.” Patience glanced his way. “I enjoy the exercise, but the rides in the vicinity of the Grange are rather restricted. Are you familiar with the area around Chesterfield?”
“Not specifically.” Vane grinned. “That’s a bit farther north than my usual hunting grounds.”
For foxes—or females? Patience stifled a humph. “From your knowledge of the locality”—she glanced at the mound beside them—“I take it you’ve visited here before?”
“Often as a child. My cousin and I spent a few weeks here most summers.”
Patience humphed. “I’m surprised Minnie survived.”
“On the contrary—she thrived on our visits. She always delighted in our exploits and adventures.”
When she returned no further comment, Vane softly said, “Incidentally, Minnie mentioned the odd thefts that have occurred at the Hall.” Patience looked up; he trapped her gaze. “Is that what you were looking for in the flower bed? Something that disappeared?”
Patience hesitated, searching his eyes, then nodded. “I told myself Myst must have knocked it out of the window, but I hunted high and low, in the room and in the flower bed. I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“What was ‘it’?”
“A small silver vase.” She sketched the shape of a bud vase. “About four inches high. I’ve had it for years—I don’t suppose it’s particularly valuable, but . . .”
“You’d rather have it than not. Why were you so keen not to mention it last night?”
Her face setting, Patience met Vane’s eyes. “You aren’t going to tell me the gentlemen of the household didn’t happen to mention over the breakfast table this morning that they think Gerrard is behind all these odd
occurrences—the Spectre, as they call it, and the thefts as well?”
“They did, as it happens, but we—Gerrard, myself, and, surprisingly enough, Edmond—pointed out that that notion has no real foundation.”
The unladylike sound Patience made was eloquent—of irritation, frustration, and overstretched tolerance.
“Indeed,” Vane concurred, “so you have yet another reason to feel grateful to me.” As Patience swung his way, he frowned. “And Edmond, unfortunately.”
Despite herself, Patience’s lips quirked. “Edmond would gainsay the elders simply for a joke—he doesn’t take anything seriously, other than his muse.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Instead of being distracted, Patience continued to study his face. Vane raised one brow. “I did tell you,” he murmured, holding her gaze, “that I’m determined to put you in my debt. You needn’t concern yourself over the gentlemen’s attitude to Gerrard while I’m about.” He didn’t think her pride would allow her to accept an outright offer of a broad shoulder to deflect the slings and arrows of the present Hall society; presenting his aid in the guise of a rake’s machinations, would, he hoped, permit her to let the matter go with a shrug and a tart comment.
What he got was a frown. “Well, I do thank you if you tried to set them straight.” Patience glanced up to where Gerrard was still communing with the horizon. “But you can see why I didn’t want to make a fuss over my vase—they’d only blame Gerrard.”
Vane raised his brows noncommittally. “Whatever. If anything more disappears, tell me, or Minnie, or Timms.”
Patience looked at him and frowned. “What—”
“Who’s this?” Vane nodded at a horseman cantering toward them.
Patience looked, then sighed. “Hartley Penwick.” Although her expression remained bland, her tone grimaced. “He’s the son of one of Minnie’s neighbors.”
“Well met, my dear Miss Debbington!” Penwick, a well-set gentleman attired in tweed jacket and corduroy breeches, and astride a heavy roan, swept Patience a bow more wide than it was elegant. “I trust I find you well?”