A Rake's Vow by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page B

cradle—and the others almost as well.” She poked Timms’s arm affectionately. With her help, she struggled to her feet. “They’re very much mortal men, as hot-blooded and bold as they come.” Her words gave her pause, then she chuckled. “They may not be invincible, but be damned if they’re not the next best thing.”
    “Precisely.” Timms smiled. “So we can leave our problems on Vane’s shoulders—Lord knows, they’re broad enough.”
    Minnie grinned. “Very true. Well, then—let’s get me to bed.”
    Vane made sure he was early down to breakfast. When he entered the breakfast parlor, only Henry was present, working his way through a plate of sausages. Exchanging an amiable nod, Vane headed for the sideboard.
    He was heaping a plate with slices of ham when Masters appeared, bearing another platter. He set it down on the sideboard. Raising a brow, Vane caught his eye. “No sign of any break-in?”
    “No, sir.” Masters had been Minnie’s butler for twenty and more years. He knew Vane well. “I did my rounds early. The ground floor had already been secured before the . . . incident. I checked again afterward—there was no door or window left open.”
    Which was no more nor less than Vane had expected. He nodded noncommittally and Masters left.
    Strolling to the table, Vane drew out the chair at its end.
    Henry, in the next chair along, looked up as he sat. “Dashed odd business, last night. The mater’s still shaken. Hate to say it, but I really do feel young Gerrard’s gone far enough with this ‘Spectre’ nonsense.”
    Vane raised his brows. “Actually—”
    A snort from the door cut him off; Whitticombe entered. “The young bounder should be thrashed—scaring gently bred females like that. Needs a firm hand applied to his reins—he’s been left in the care of women too long.”
    Inwardly, Vane stiffened; outwardly, not a ripple marred his habitually urbane expression. He swallowed an impulse to defend Patience, and Minnie, too. Instead, he manufactured an expression of boredom only mildly piqued. “Why are you so sure it was Gerrard last night?”
    At the sideboard, Whitticombe turned, but was beaten to speech by the General. “Stands to reason,” he wheezed, stumping in. “Who else could it have been, heh?”
    Again, Vane’s brows rose. “Almost anyone, as far as I could see.”
    “Nonsense!” the General huffed, leaning his stick against the sideboard.
    “Other than myself, Minnie, Timms, Miss Debbington, Angela, and Mrs. Chadwick,” Vane reiterated, “any one of you could have been the culprit.”
    Turning, the General glared at him from under overhanging brows. “You’ve shaken a screw loose with too much racketing about. Why the devil would any of us want to put the wind up Agatha Chadwick?”
    Gerrard, bright-eyed, swung through the door—and came to a dead halt. His face, initially filled with boyish anticipation, drained of expression.
    Vane trapped Gerrard’s gaze, then, with his eyes, indicated the sideboard. “Indeed,” he drawled as Gerrard, now stiff and tense, moved to serve himself, “but, using precisely the same reasoning, why would Gerrard?”
    The General scowled and shot a glance at Gerrard’s back. Carrying a plate piled high with kedgeree, the General pulled out a chair farther along the table. Whitticombe, tight-lipped, censoriously silent, took a place opposite.
    Frowning, Henry shifted in his seat. He, too, looked at Gerrard, busy at the sideboard, then studied his now-empty plate. “I don’t know—but I suppose boys will be boys.”
    “As one who used that excuse to extremes, I feel compelled to point out that Gerrard is several years past the stage where that explanation applies.” Vane met Gerrard’s eyes as he turned from the sideboard, a full plate in his hands. Gerrard’s face was lightly flushed, his gaze watchful. Vane smiled easily and waved to the chair beside his. “But perhaps he can suggest something? What say you,