"There you are, Cynster! Come and add your voice to ours." The General, swiveling in his chair, appealed to him. "We've been trying to tell Miss Debbington here that she has to see sense. No point bucking the truth, don't you see? That ramshackle brother of hers needs a firmer hand on his reins. A good whipping will bring him into line and stop all this Spectre tommyrot."

Vane looked at Patience. Her eyes, positively blazing, had fixed on the General. Her breasts swelled as she drew breath. If looks could kill, the General was dead. From her expression, she was ready to throttle Henry, too, with Edmond thrown in for good measure.

Smoothly, Vane strolled forward. His movement caught Patience's attention; she looked up, and blinked. Vane trapped her gaze in his. He didn't halt until he stood beside her chair. Then he held out his hand. Commandingly. Without hesitation, Patience laid her fingers in his palm.

Vane closed his hand strongly about hers; with a shudder, Patience felt warmth and strength flow into her. Her temper, almost at the breaking point, fell back from the brink. She drew in another breath and looked again at those about the table.

Vane did the same, his cool grey gaze scanning their faces. "I do hope," he mumured, his languid drawl low but clearly audible, "that, after your ordeal of last night, no one has been insensitive enough to discompose you in any way?"

The quiet words, and the cold steel behind his eyes, were enough to make everyone else at the table still.

"Naturally," he continued, in the same smooth tones, "events such as those of last night lend themselves to speculation. But, of course"-he smiled at them all-"it is just speculation."

"Ah-" Edgar broke in to ask, "You found no evidence-no clue-to the Spectre's identity?"

Vane's smile deepened fractionally. "None. So any thoughts on the identity of the Spectre are, as I said, pure fancy." He caught Edgar's eye. "Based on rather less substance than a tip for the Guineas."

Edgar smiled briefly.

"But," interrupted the General, "stands to reason it's got to be someone."

"Oh, indeed," Vane replied, at his languid best. "But ascribing the blame to any particular individual without reasonable proof seems to me to smack of…" He paused and met the General's eye. "Quite unnecessary slander."

"Humph!" The General sank lower in his chair.

"And, of course"-Vane's gaze swung to Henry-"there's always the thought of how foolish one will look if one's overly enthusiastic assertions prove wrong."

Henry frowned. His gaze dropped to the tablecloth.

Vane looked down at Patience. "Are you ready to go upstairs?"

Patience looked up at him and nodded. Vane bent and scooped her into his arms. Having got used to the sensation of being lifted so easily, Patience made herself comfortable, draping her arms about Vane's neck. The men at the table all came to their feet; Patience glanced across the table-and almost smiled. The look on Henry's and Edmond's faces was priceless.

Vane turned and headed for the door. Edmond and Henry came rushing around the table, almost tripping in their haste.

"Oh, I say-here, let me help." Henry rushed to hold back the already open door.

"Perhaps if we form a chair with our arms?" Edmond suggested.

Vane paused as Edmond moved to intercept them. Patience froze Edmond with an icy glare. "Mr. Cynster is more than capable of managing on his own." She allowed the chill in her voice to strike home, before adding, in precisely the same tone, "I am going to retire-I do not wish to be disturbed. Not by any further speculation, nor unwarranted slander. And least of all"-she shifted her sights to Henry-"by any overly enthusiastic assertions."

She paused, then smiled, and looked at Vane. Utterly unmoved, he raised a brow at her. "Upstairs?"

Patience nodded. "Indeed."

Without further ado, and no further hindrance, Vane carried her from the room.

"Why," Vane asked, as he steadily climbed the main stairs, "are they so convinced it's Gerrard?"

"Because," Patience waspishly stated, "they can't imagine anything else. It's a boy's trick; ergo it must be Gerrard." As Vane gained the top of the stairs, she continued, her tone vitriolic. "Henry has no imagination; neither has the General. They're blockheads. Edmond has imagination to spare, but doesn't care enough to engage it. He's so irresponsible, he considers it all a lark. Edgar is cautious over jumping to conclusions, but his very timidity leaves him permanently astride the fence. And as for Whitticombe"-she paused, breasts swelling, eyes narrowing-"he's a self-righteous killjoy who positively delights in calling attention to others' supposed misdemeanors, all with a sickeningly superior air."

Vane shot her a sidelong glance. "Clearly breakfast didn't agree with you."

Patience humphed. Looking ahead, she focused on their surroundings. She didn't recognize them. "Where are you taking me?"

"Mrs. Henderson has set up one of the old parlors for you-so you won't be bothered with the others unless you choose to summon them."

"Which will be after hell freezes." After a moment, Patience glanced up at Vane. In a very different tone, she asked: "You don't think it's Gerrard, do you?"

Vane looked down at her. "I know it isn't Gerrard."

Patience's eyes widened. "You saw who it was?"

"Yes and no. I only caught a glimpse as he went through a thinner patch of fog. He clambered over a rock, holding his light high, and I saw him outlined by the light. A grown man from his build. Height's difficult to judge at a distance, but build is harder to mistake. He was wearing a heavy coat, something like frieze, although my impression was it wasn't that cheap."

"But you're sure it wasn't Gerrard?"

Vane glanced down at Patience riding comfortably in his arms. "Gerrard's still too lightweight to be mistaken for a fully grown man. I'm quite certain it wasn't he."

"Hmm." Patience frowned. "What about Edmond-he's rather thin. Is he eliminated, too?"

"I don't think so. His shoulders are broad enough to carry a coat well, and with his height, if he was hunched, either against the cold or because he was playing the role of'the Spectre,' then he could have been the man I saw."

"Well, whatever else," Patience said, brightening, "you can put an end to this scurrilous talk of Gerrard being the Spectre." Her brightness lasted all of ten yards, then she frowned. "Why didn't you clear Gerrard's name just now, in the breakfast parlor?"

"Because," Vane said, ignoring the sudden chill in her voice, "it's patently obvious that someone-someone about the breakfast table-is quite content to cast Gerrard as the Spectre. Someone wants Gerrard as scapegoat, to distract attention from himself. Given the mental aptitudes you so accurately described, the gentlemen are, by and large, easily led. Present the matter right, and they'll happily believe it. Unfortunately, as none of them is unintelligent, it's difficult to tell just who's doing the leading."

He stopped before a door; frowning, Patience absent-mindedly leaned forward and opened it. Vane shouldered the door wide and carried her in.

As he had said, it was a parlor, but not one usually in use. It lay at the end of the wing housing Patience's bedchamber, one floor down. The windows were long, reaching almost to the floor. Maids had obviously been in, throwing back dust covers, dusting ferociously, and refurbishing the huge cast-iron Empire day bed that faced the long windows. Their curtains tied back, the windows looked over the shrubbery and a section of wilderness-most of the Hall's gardens were wilderness-to the golden brown canopies of the woods beyond. It was as pleasant a prospect as could be found in the present season. Farther to the right lay the ruins; in the distance, the grey ribbon of the Nene wound its way through lush meadows. Patience could recline on the daybed and contemplate the scenery. As the room was on the first floor, her privacy was assured.