"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, Gerrard-can you give us a reason why someone might want to scare Mrs. Chadwick?"

To his credit, Gerrard didn't rush into speech; he frowned as he set his plate down, then shook his head slowly as he sat. "I can't think of any reason why anyone would want to make Mrs. Chadwick screech." He grimaced at the memory. "But"-he flicked a grateful glance at Vane-"I did wonder if the fright was incidental and the person at the door was really the thief."

The suggestion made all at the table think-after a moment, Henry nodded. "Could be-indeed, why not?"

"Regardless," Whitticombe put in, "I can't conceive who this thief could be either." His tone made it clear he still suspected Gerrard.

Vane directed a mildly questioning glance at Gerrard.

Encouraged, Gerrard shrugged. "I can't see what any of us would want with all the knickknacks and fripperies that have disappeared."

The General gave one of his distinguishing snorts. "Perhaps because they're fripperies? Just the sort of things to woo a flighty maid with, heh?" His penetrating stare again fixed on Gerrard.

Ready color rose to Gerrard's cheeks.

"Not guilty! On my honor, I swear it!"

The words came in ringing tones from the doorway. They all looked around-on the threshold, Edmond stood poised in the attitude of a supplicant pleading for justice from the bench. He broke from his pose; grinning, he bowed, then straightened and loped to the sideboard. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I feel obliged to puncture that fantasy. None of the maids here would accept such tokens of esteem-the staff have all been alerted to the thefts. And as for the surrounding villages"-he paused dramatically and rolled an anguished eye at Vane-"believe me, there's not a likely miss within a day's ride!"

Vane hid his grin behind his coffee cup; over the rim, he met Gerrard's laughing eyes.

The sound of briskly swishing skirts drew all eyes to the door. Patience appeared in the doorway. Chairs scraped as they all made to rise. She waved them back. Pausing on the threshold, she swiftly scanned the room, her gaze fixing at the last on Gerrard. And his affectionate smile.

Vane noticed the way Patience's breasts rose and fell, noticed the light blush in her cheeks. She'd been scurrying.

She blinked, then, with a general nod, headed for the sideboard.

Vane redirected the conversation to matters less fraught.

"The Northants Hunt is the nearest," Henry replied to his question.

At the sideboard, Patience forced herself to breathe deeply while absentmindedly filling her plate. She'd intended to wake early and be here in time to protect Gerrard. Instead, she'd slept in, drained by escalating worry, followed by unsettling dreams. The other ladies generally took breakfast on trays in their chambers, a habit to which she'd never subscribed. Ears tuned to the rumble of conversation behind her, she heard Vane's lazy drawl and felt her skin prickle. She frowned.

She knew the male members of the household too well-there was no possiblity they'd omitted to mention last night's contretemps, nor that they hadn't, in one way or another, accused Gerrard of it. But he was clearly unperturbed, which could mean only one thing. For whatever reason, Vane Cynster had taken up the cudgels in her stead and deflected the household's unreasoning suspicions of Gerrard. Her frown deepened as she heard Gerrard's voice, youthful enthusiasm ringing as he described a nearby ride.

Eyes widening, Patience picked up her plate and whirled. She advanced on the table, to the chair beside Gerrard. Masters drew it out and held it while she sat.

Gerrard turned to her. "I was just telling Vane that Minnie kept the best of Sir Humphrey's hunters. And the rides hereabouts are quite reasonable."

His eyes glowed with a light Patience hadn't seen in them before. Smiling, he turned back to Vane. Her heart sinking, Patience looked to the head of the table, too. Vane sat relaxed, wide shoulders encased in a grey hacking jacket settled comfortably against the chair back, one hand resting on the chair's arm, the other stretched on the table, long fingers crooked about the handle of a coffee cup.

In daylight, his features were as hard-edged as she'd thought them, his face every bit as strong. His heavy lids hid his eyes as, with lazy interest, he listened to Gerrard extol the equestrian virtues of the locality.

To her right, the General snorted, then pushed back his chair. Whitticombe rose, too. One after the other, they left the room. Frowning, Patience applied herself to her breakfast and tried to think of another subject with which to capture the conversation.

Vane saw her frown. The devil in him stirred and stretched, then settled to contemplate this latest challenge. She would, he felt sure, avoid him. Shifting his hooded gaze, he studied Gerrard. Vane smiled. Lazily. He waited until Patience took a bite of her toast.