A Rake's Vow (Cynster 2)

They picked their way along the verge bordering the carriage drive, then gingerly climbed to the terrace flags. Myst, a swift shadow, ran ahead; Vane silently cursed-and prayed the fiendish animal would behave.

Grisham was waiting, a wraith at the long parlor windows. He eased back the catch-Vane stepped in, then helped Patience over the raised sill.

"They're arguing in the hall," Grisham whispered, "over who owns some elephant or other."

Vane nodded. He looked back and saw Timms and Edmond help Minnie in. Turning, he strode to the wall-and opened a door concealed in the paneling-revealing the back of another door, set into the paneling of the next room, the library. His hand on the latch of the second door, Vane glanced, frowning, over his shoulder.

The assembled company obediently held their breaths.

Vane eased opened the door.

The library was empty, lit only by the flames dancing in the hearth.

Scanning the room, Vane saw two large, four-paneled screens, used during summer to protect the old tomes from sunlight. The screens hadn't been folded away; they stood open, parallel to the fireplace, effectively screening the area before the hearth from the terrace windows.

Stepping back, Vane drew Patience to him. Nodding to the screens, he gently pushed her through the door. Quickly, her gaze on the library door, she scooted across the floor, blessedly covered in a long Turkish rug, and took refuge behind the farthest screen.

Before Vane could blink, Gerrard followed his sister.

Vane glanced back, nodded the others toward the room, then followed his brother-in-law-to-be.

When footsteps fell outside the library door, the entire company, barring only Grisham, who'd elected to remain in the parlor, were all crammed behind the two screens, eyes glued to the fine slits between the panels.

Vane prayed no one would sneeze.

The door handle turned; Whitticombe led the way in, his expression disdainful. "It matters not who owned the elephant. The fact is, the goods inside it weren't yours!"

"But I wanted them!" Face mottled, Alice clenched her fists. "The others lost them, and they became mine-but you took them away! You always take my things away!"

"That's because they're not yours to begin with!" Grinding his teeth, Whitticombe pushed Alice into the chair by the fire. "Just sit there and keep quiet!"

"I will not keep quiet!" Alice's eyes blazed. "You always tell me I can't have things I want-that it's wrong to take them-but you're going to take the abbey treasure. And that doesn't belong to you!"

"It's not the same!" Whitticombe thundered. He fixed Alice with a baleful eye. "I know the distinction is hard for you to grasp, but retrieving-resurrecting-lost church plate-restoring the magnificence of Coldchurch Abbey-is not the same as stealing!"

"But you want it all for yourself."

"No!" Whitticombe forced himself to draw a calming breath, and lowered his voice. "I want to be the one to find it. I fully intend to hand it over to the proper authorities, but…" He lifted his head and straightened. "The fame of finding it, the glory of being the one who, through his tireless scholarship, traced and restored the lost plate of Coldchurch Abbey-that," he declared, "will be mine."

Behind the screen, Patience caught Vane's eye. He smiled grimly.

"All very well," Alice grumped. "But you needn't make out you're such a saint. Nothing saintly about hitting that fool boy with a rock."

Whitticombe stilled. He stared down at Alice.

Who smirked. "Didn't think I knew, did you. But I was in dear Patience's room at the time and chanced to look out over the ruins." She smiled maliciously. "I saw you do it-saw you pick up the rock, then creep up close. Saw you strike him down."

She sat back, her gaze fixed on Whitticombe's face. "Oh, no, dear brother, you're no saint."

Whitticombe sniffed, and waved dismissively. "Just a concussion-I didn't hit him that hard. Just enough to make sure he never finished that sketch." He started to pace. "When I think of the shock I got when I saw him poking about the abbot's cellar door! It's a wonder I didn't hit him too hard. If he'd been more curious, and mentioned it to one of those other dunderheads-Chadwick, Edmond, or, heaven forbid, Edgar-Lord knows what might have happened. The fools might have stolen my discovery!"

"Your discovery?"

"Mine! The glory will be mine!" Whitticombe paced on. "As it is, everything's worked out perfectly. That tap on the head was enough to scare the old woman into taking her precious nephew off to London-mercifully, she took all the others as well. So now-tomorrow-I can hire some itinerants to help me lift that stone, and then-!"

Triumphant, Whitticombe whirled-and froze.

All those peeking through the screens saw him, hand upraised as if to exhort adulation, staring, goggle-eyed, into the shadows at the side of the room. Everyone tensed. No one could see, or imagine, what he was staring at.