'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
'Oh, indeed,' Vane replied, at his languid best. 'But ascribing the blame to any particular individual without reasonable
'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.
Chapter 8
