A Rake's Vow (Cynster 2)

The telltale tension between them-there from the first-had intensified. Vane felt it as he held Patience's chair while she settled her skirts at the dinner table that evening. Consciousness slid under his guard,

like the brush of raw silk across his body, raising hairs, leaving every pore tingling.

Inwardly cursing, he took his seat-and forced his attention to Edith Swithins. Beside him, Patience chatted easily with Henry Chadwick, with no detectable sign of confusion. As the courses came and went, Vane struggled not to resent that fact. She appeared breezily unconscious of any change in the temperature between them, while he was fighting to keep the lid on a boiling pot.

Dessert was finally over, and the ladies withdrew. Vane kept the conversation over the port to a minimum, then led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. As usual, Patience was standing with Angela and Mrs. Chadwick halfway down the long room.

She saw him coming; the fleeting flare of awareness in her eyes as he drew near was a momentary sop to his male pride. Very momentary-the instant he stopped by her side, her perfume reached him, the warmth of her soft curves tugged at his senses. Decidedly stiff, Vane inclined his head fractionally to all three ladies.

"I was just telling Patience," Angela blurted out, pouting sulkily, "that it's beyond anything paltry. The thief has stolen my new comb!"

"Your comb?" Vane flicked a glance at Patience.

"The one I bought in Northampton," Anglea wailed. "I didn't even get to wear it!"

"It may still turn up." Mrs. Chadwick tried to sound encouraging, but with her own, much more serious loss clearly in mind, she failed to soothe her daughter.

"It's unfair!" Flags of color flew in Angela's cheeks. She stamped her foot. "I want the thief caught!"

"Indeed." The single word, uttered in Vane's coolest, most bored drawl, succeeded in dousing Angela's imminent hysterics. "We would all, I fancy, like to lay our hands on this elusive, light-fingered felon."

"Light-fingered felon?" Edmond strolled up. "Has the thief struck again?"

Instantly, Angela reverted to her histrionic best; she poured out her tale to the rather more appreciative audience of Edmond, Gerrard, and Henry, all of whom joined the circle. Under cover of their exclamations, Vane glanced at Patience; she felt his gaze and looked up, meeting his eyes, a question forming in hers. Vane opened his lips, the details of an assignation on his tongue-he swallowed them as, to everyone's surprise, Whitticombe joined the group.

The garrulous recitation of the thief's latest exploit was instantly muted, but Whitticombe paid little heed. After a general nod to all, he leaned closer and murmured to Mrs. Chadwick. She immediately raised her head, looking across the room. "Thank you." Reaching out, she took Angela's arm. "Come, my dear."

Angela's face fell. "Oh, but…"

For once entirely deaf to her daughter's remonstrances, Mrs. Chadwick towed Angela to the chaise where Minnie sat.

Both Vane and Patience followed Mrs. Chadwick's progress, as did the others. Whitticombe's quiet question had them turning back to him.

"Am I to understand that something else has gone miss-ing?"

Entirely by chance, he was now facing the others, all arrayed in a semicircle, as if joined in league against him. It was not a felicitous social grouping, yet none of them-Vane, Patience, Gerrard, Edmond, or Henry-made any move to shift position, to include Whitticombe more definitely in their circle.

"Angela's new comb." Henry briefly recited Angela's description.

"Diamonds?" Whitticombe's brows rose.

"Paste," Patience corrected. "It was a… showy piece."

"Hmm." Whitticombe frowned. "It really brings us back to our earlier question-what on earth would anyone want with a garish pincushion and a cheap, somewhat tawdry, comb?"

Henry's jaw locked; Edmond shifted. Gerrard stared pugnaciously-directly at Whitticombe, who'd fixed his cold, transparently assessing gaze on him.

Beside Vane, Patience stiffened.

"Actually," Whitticombe drawled, the instant before at least three others spoke, "I was wondering if it isn't time we instituted a search?" He lifted a brow at Vane. "What do you think, Cynster?"

"I think," Vane said, and paused, his chilly gaze fixed on Whitticombe's face, until there wasn't one of the company who did not know precisely what he truly thought, "that a search will prove fruitless. Aside from the fact that the thief will certainly hear of the search before it begins, and have time aplenty to secrete or remove his cache, there's the not inconsiderable problem of our present location. The house is nothing short of a magpie's paradise, let alone the grounds. Things hidden in the ruins might never be found."

Whitticombe's gaze momentarily blanked, then he blinked. "Ah… yes." He nodded. "I daresay you're right. Things might never be found. Quite true. Of course, a search would never do. If you'll excuse me?" With a fleeting smile, he bowed and headed back across the room.

Puzzled to varying degrees, they all watched him go. And saw the small crowd gathered about the chaise. Timms waved. "Patience!"

"Excuse me." With a fleeting touch on Vane's arm, Patience crossed to the chaise, to join Mrs. Chadwick and Timms, gathered about Minnie. Then Mrs. Chadwick stood back; Patience stepped closer and helped Timms assist Minnie to her feet.