A Rake's Vow Read Online Free Page B

gentle emphasis he placed on the last three words left him looking much more the gentleman than Whitticombe.
    As if sensing it, Whitticombe set his glass down and, in superior accents, addressed Vane. “As I daresay Lady Bellamy informed you, I am engaged on an extensive study of Coldchurch Abbey. Once my investigations are complete, I flatter myself the abbey will once again be appreciated as the important ecclesiastical center it once was.”
    “Oh, yes.” Edmond grinned ingenuously at Whitticombe. “But all that’s the dead past. The ruins are perfectly fascinating in their own right. They stir my muse to remarkable effect.”
    Glancing from Edmond to Whitticombe, Vane got the impression this was an oft-trod argument. That impression deepened when Edmond turned to him, and Vane saw the twinkle in his expressive eyes.
    “I’m scripting a play, inspired by the ruins and set amongst them.”
    “Sacrilege!” Whitticombe stiffened. “The abbey is God’s house, not a playhouse.”
    “Ah, but it’s not an abbey any longer, just a heap of old stones.” Edmond grinned, unrepentant. “And it’s such an atmospheric spot.”
    Whitticombe’s disgusted snort was echoed by the General. “Atmospheric, indeed! It’s damp and cold and unhealthful—and if you plan to drag us out to be your audience, perched on cold stone, then you can think again. My old bones won’t stand for it.”
    “But it is a very beautiful place,” Gerrard put in. “Some of the vistas are excellent, either framed by the ruins or with the ruins as a focal point.”
    Vane saw the glow in Gerrard’s eyes, heard the youthful fervor in his voice.
    Gerrard glanced his way, then colored. “I sketch, you see.”
    Vane’s brows rose. He was about to express interest, polite but unfeigned, when Whitticombe snorted again.
    “Sketches? Mere childish likenesses—you make too much of yourself, m’boy.” Whitticombe’s eyes were hard; headmaster-like, he frowned at Gerrard. “You should be out and about, exercising that weak chest of yours, rather than sitting in the damp ruins for hours on end. Yes, and you should be studying, too, not frittering away your time.”
    The glow vanished from Gerrard’s face; beneath the youthful softness, the planes of his face set hard. “I am studying, but I’ve already been accepted into Trinity for the autumn term next year. Patience and Minnie want me to go to London, so I will—and I don’t need to study for that.”
    “No indeed,” Vane smoothly cut in. “This port is excellent.” He helped himself to another glass, then passed the decanter to Edmond. “I suspect we should offer due thanks for the late Sir Humphrey’s well-qualified palate.” He settled his shoulders more comfortably; over the rim of his glass, he met Henry’s eye. “But tell me, how has the gamekeeper managed with Sir Humphrey’s coverts?”
    Henry accepted the decanter. “The wood over Walgrave way is worth a visit.”
    The General grunted. “Always plenty of rabbits about by the river. Took a piece out yesterday—bagged three.”
    Everyone else had some contribution to make—all except Whitticombe. He held himself aloof, cloaked in chilly disapproval.
    When the talk of shooting threatened to flag, Vane set down his glass. “I think it’s time we rejoined the ladies.”
    In the drawing room, Patience waited impatiently, and tried not to stare at the door. They’d been passing the port for more than half an hour; God only knew what undesirable views Gerrard was absorbing. She’d already uttered innumerable prayers that the rain would blow over and the following morning dawn fine. Then Mr. Vane Cynster would be on his way, taking his “gentlemanly elegance” with him.
    Beside her, Mrs. Chadwick was instructing Angela: “There are six of them—or were. St. Ives married last year. But there’s no question on the matter—Cynsters are so well bred, so very much the epitome of what one wishes to see in a