Rakes Vow

takers?'

There were no volunteers. The General subsided into vague mutterings.

Gerrard turned to Vane. 'How about a round of billiards?'

One of Vane's brows rose; his gaze remained on Gerrard's face, yet, watching him from beneath her lashes, Patience knew Ms attention was on her. Then he looked directly at her. 'A capital idea,' he purred, then both voice and face hardened. 'But perhaps your sister has other plans for you.',

His words were soft, distinct, and clearly loaded with some greater significance. Patience ground her teeth. She was avoiding his eye; he was focusing every eye on her. Not content with that, he was making no attempt to mask the coolness between them. It colored his words, his expression; it positively shrieked in the absence of his suavely charming smile. He sat very still, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on her. His grey eyes were coldly challenging.

It was Gerrard, the only one of the company apparently insensitive to the powerful undercurrent, who broke the increasingly awkward silence. 'Oh, Patience won't want me about, under her feet.' He flicked a confident grin her way, then turned back to Vane.

Vane's gaze didn't shift. 'I rather think that's for your sister to say.'

Setting down her teacup, Patience lifted one shoulder. 'I can't see any reason you shouldn't play billiards.' She made the comment to Gerrard, steadfastly ignoring Vane. Then she pushed back her chair. 'And now, if you'll excuse me, I must look in on Minnie.'

They all rose as she stood; Patience walked to the door, conscious of one particular gaze on her back, focused right between her shoulder blades.

There was nothing wrong with playing billiards.

Patience kept telling herself that, but didn't believe it. It wasn't the billiards that worried her. It was the chatting, the easy camaraderie that the exercise promoted-the very sort of interaction she did not wish Gerrard to engage in with any elegant gentleman.

Just the knowledge that he and Vane were busily potting balls and exchanging God knew what observations on life reduced her to nervous distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vane had disappeared, only God knew where.

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

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

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

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

Patience frowned at her stitches. 'Reliable?'

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

'Indeed.' Minnie chuckled. 'They can be quite terri-fyingly protective. Naturally, as soon as I mentioned the Spectre and the thief, Vane wasn't going anywhere.'

'He'll clear up this nonsense.' Timms's confidence was transparent.

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

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

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

'Mrs. Chadwick mentioned six cousins,' Patience prompted.

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

'The Bar Cynster?' Patience looked up.

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

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

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

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

Frowning, Patience looked at Minnie. 'Is that his real name-Devil?'

Minnie grinned. 'Sylvester Sebastian-but better, and, to my mind, more accurately known as Devil.'

Patience's frown grew. 'Is 'Vane' Vane's real name?'

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

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

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