Circulating through the guests, they eventually came up with Honoria and Devil, doing the same.
Patience hugged Honoria. "You've done us proud."
A pleased and proud matriarch, Honoria glowed. "I think the cake was the highlight-Mrs. Hull surpassed herself." The many-tiered marzipan-covered fruit cake had been topped by a weather vane, delicately executed in spun sugar.
"Very inventive," Vane commented dryly.
Honoria humphed. "You men never appreciate such things as you ought." She glanced at Patience. "At least there'll be no wagers for you to contend with."
"Wagers?" A great many cheers, and ribald and raucous suggestions, had flown when they'd cut the cake. But wagers? Then she remembered. Oh.
Honoria smiled tightly, and flicked Vane a darkling glance. "Hardly surprising your husband has a fondness for the church in Somersham. He, after all, helped pay for its roof."
Patience glanced at Vane-his expression all innocence, he looked at Devil.
"Where's Richard?"
"Gone north." Deftly snagging Honoria in one arm, Devil anchored her to his side, preventing her from embroiling them in further social conversations. "He got a letter from some Scottish clerk regarding an inheritance from his mother. For some reason, he had to be present in the flesh to collect."
Vane frowned. "But she's been dead for-how long? Nearly thirty years?"
"Almost." Devil looked down as Honoria tugged. "It was a ghostly whisper from the past-a past he'd thought long buried. He went, of course-out of curiosity if nothing else." Looking up, Devil shot Vane a pointed glance. "Town life, I fear, has begun to pall for our Scandal."
Vane met Devil's gaze. "Did you warn him?"
Devil grinned. "Of what? To beware storms and unattached ladies?"
Vane grinned. "Put like that, it does sound a mite farfetched."
"No doubt Scandal will return, hale and whole, safe and sound, with nothing more than a few battle scars and several new notches on his-"
"That's the duchess of Leicester to your right!" Honoria hissed. She glared at Devil. "Behave!"
The soul of injured innocence, he put his hand to his heart. "I thought I was."
Honoria made a distinctly rude sound. Winning free of his hold, she whirled and pushed him toward the duchess. She nodded over her shoulder at Patience. "Take him"-her nod indicated Vane-"the other way, or you'll never meet everyone."
Patience grinned, and obeyed. Vane went quietly. His gaze dwelling on Patience's face, on her figure, he found it no chore to play the proud and besotted groom.
From the other side of the ballroom, Vane's mother, Lady Horatia Cynster, watched him, and Patience, and sighed. "If only they hadn't married in such a rush. There was obviously no need for it."
Her second son, Harry, better known as Demon, to whom this was addressed, shot her a glance. "I suspect your notion of 'need' and Vane's differ in certain pertinent respects."
Horatia humphed. "Whatever." Deserting the sight of her firstborn, so well and appropriately settled, she turned her sights on Harry. "Just as long as you never try the same thing."
"Who? Me?" Harry was honestly shocked.
"Yes-you." Horatia jabbed his chest. "I hereby give you fair warning, Harry Cynster, that if you dare marry by special license, I'll never, ever, forgive you."
Harry promptly held up his hand. "I swear by all that's holy that I will never marry by special license."
"Humph!" Horatia nodded. "Good."
Harry smiled-and completed his vow in silence. Or any other way.
He was determined to be the first Cynster in history to escape fate's decree. The notion of tying himself up to some chit-of restricting himself to one woman-was ludicrous. He wasn't getting married-ever.
"Think I'll go see how Gabriel's doing." With a sweeping, ineffably elegant bow, he escaped his mother's orbit, and went in search of less scarifying company. People who weren't fixated on weddings.