A Rake's Vow (Cynster 2)

He paused; Patience returned to sit beside him. She took one of his hands in hers. "Did you start sketching?"

"Yes." Gerrard went to nod, and winced. "I did sketch. I got the general lines down, then I got up and went to study the detail." He frowned in his effort to recall. "I went back to my stool, and kept sketching. Then…" He grimaced, and glanced at Vane. "Nothing."

"You were hit on-the back of the head with a rock," Vane informed him. "One that originally came from the gateway arch behind you. Try to think back-had you stood up, and stepped back? Or did you never leave your seat?"

Gerrard's frown deepened. "I didn't stand up," he eventually said. "I was sitting, sketching." He looked at Patience, then at Vane. "That's the last I remember."

"Did you see anything, sense anything? What's the very last thing you recall?"

Gerrard screwed up his face, then he shook his head-very slightly. "I didn't see or sense anything. I had my pencil in my hand and I was sketching-I'd started filling in the details around what's left of the abbot's front door." He looked at Patience. "You know what I'm like-I don't see anything, hear anything." He shifted his gaze to Vane. "I was well away."

Vane nodded. "How long were you sketching?"

Gerrard raised his brows in a facial shrug. "One hour? Two?" He lifted a shoulder. "Who knows. It could have been three, but I doubt it was that long. Give me a look at my sketch, and I'll have a better idea."

He looked up expectantly; Vane exchanged a glance with Patience, then looked back at Gerrard. "The sketch you were working on was torn from your easel."

"What?"

Gerrard's incredulous exclamation was echoed by Timms. Gerrard carefully shook his head. "That's ridiculous. My sketches aren't worth anything-why would the thief steal one? It wasn't even finished."

Vane exchanged a long glance with Patience, then transferred his gaze back to Gerrard's face. "It's possible that's why you were rendered unconscious-so you never did finish your latest view."

"But why?" The bewildered question came from Minnie.

Vane turned to face her. "If we knew that, we'd know a great deal more."

Later that night, by unanimous accord, they held a conference in Minnie's room. Minnie and Timms, Patience and Vane, gathered before Minnie's fire. Sinking onto the footstool beside Minnie's chair, one of Minnie's frail hands clasped in hers, Patience scanned the others' faces, lit by the flickering firelight.

Minnie was worried, but beneath her fragility ran a streak of pure stubborness, and a determination to learn the truth. Timms seemed to consider the malefactors in their midst as a personal affront, if not to her dignity, then certainly to Minnie's. She was doggedly fixated on unmasking the villains.

As for Vane… Patience let her gaze roam his features, more austere than ever in the shifting golden light. All hard angles and planes, his face was set. He looked like… a warrior sworn. The fanciful notion popped into her head, but she didn't smile. The epithet fitted all too well-he looked set on eradicating, annihilating, whoever had dared disturb Minnie's peace.

And hers.

She knew that last was true-the knowledge had come to her borne by the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he'd helped her with Gerrard, in the way his eyes had searched her face, watching for worry, for signs of distress.

The sensation of being within his protective circle was sweetly comforting. Even though she told herself it was only for now-for the present and not for the future-she couldn't stop herself drinking it in.

"How's Gerrard?" Timms asked, settling her skirts in the second chair.

"Safely sleeping," Patience replied. He'd turned fretful as the evening wore on, until she'd insisted on dosing him with laudanum. "He's snug in his bed, and Ada's watching over him."

Minnie looked down at her. "Is he truly all right?"

Vane, leaning against the mantelpiece, shifted. "There was no sign of concussion that I could see. I suspect that, other than a sore head, he'll be his usual self in the morning."

Timms snorted. "But who hit him? And why?"

"Are we sure he was hit?" Minnie looked at Vane.

Grimly, he nodded. "His recollections are clear and lucid, not hazy. If he was seated as he said, there's no way a falling stone could have struck him at that angle, with that sort of force."

"Which brings us back to my questions," Timms said. "Who? And why?"

"As to the who, it must be the Spectre or the thief." Patience glanced at Vane. "Presuming they're not one and the same."

Vane frowned. "There seems little reason to imagine they're the same person. The Spectre has lain low since I chased him, while the thief has continued his activities without pause. There's also been no hint that the thief has any interest in the ruins, while they've always been the Spectre's special haunt." He didn't mention his conviction that the thief was a female, and thus unlikely to have had the strength, or intestinal fortitude, to cosh Gerrard. "We can't rule out the thief as today's culprit, but the Spectre seems the more likely villain." Vane shifted his gaze to Timms's face. "As for the why, I suspect Gerrard saw something-something he may not even realize he's seen."