Patience stopped, and blinked-but couldn't stop the word that rose to her lips. "Grateful." Her lips quirked; she looked down.

The next instant, Vane was beside her. Fingers sliding beneath her chin, he tipped her face up. He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then he stooped and touched his lips to hers. "Don't worry-I'll find him."

Instinctively, she returned the kiss. Gripping his wrist, she held him back, searching his face, then squeezed and let him go.

When the door closed behind him, Patience drew a deep, very deep breath.

She'd just placed her trust in an elegant gentleman. More than that, she'd trusted him with the one thing on earth she held most dear. Had he addled her wits? Or had she simply lost them?

For a full minute, she gazed unseeing at the window, then frowned, shook her head, shook her shoulders, and picked up her embroidery. There was no point wrestling with facts. She knew Gerrard was safe with Vane-safer than with any other gentleman within Bellamy Hall, safer than with any other gentleman she'd ever met.

And, she thought, pulling her needle free, while she was on the subject of startling admissions, she might as well admit that she felt relieved as well-relieved that Vane was there, that she wasn't, any longer, Gerrard's sole protector.

As startling admissions went, that took the prize.

"Here, you must be hungry by now." Vane dropped the sack he'd brought onto the grass beside Gerrard, who jumped like a scalded cat.

Gerrard looked around, then stared as Vane lowered himself to the grassy top of the old burial mound. "How did you know I'd be here?"

His gaze on the horizon, Vane shrugged. "Just a guess." A lilting smile touched his lips. "You hid your horse well enough, but you left tracks aplenty."

Gerrard humphed. His gaze fell on the sack. He pulled it closer and opened it.

While Gerrard munched on cold chicken and bread, Vane idly studied the views. After a while, he felt Gerrard's gaze on his face.

"I'm not the Spectre, you know."

Vane raised his brows arrogantly. "I do, as it happens."

"You do?"

"Hmm. I saw him last night-not well enough to recognize but enough to know it definitely wasn't you."

"Oh." After a moment, Gerrard went on, "All that talk of me being the Spectre-well, it always was just so much rot. I mean, as if I'd be silly enough to do such a thing anywhere near Patience." He snorted derisively. "Of course she'd go to look. Why-she's worse than I am." A second later, he asked, "She is all right, isn't she? I mean, her knee?"

Vane's expression hardened. "Her knee's as well as can be expected-she has to stay off it for at least a few days, which, as you can imagine, is not improving her temper. At the moment, however, she's worrying-about you."

Gerrard colored. Looking down, he swallowed. "I lost my temper. I suppose I'd better go back." He started to pack up the sack.

Vane halted him. "Yes, we'd better get back and put a stop to her worrying, but you haven't asked about our plan."

Gerrard looked up. "Plan?"

Vane filled him in. "So, you see, we need you to continue to behave"-he gestured widely-"exactly as you have been-like a sapskull with his nose put out of joint."

Gerrard chuckled. "All right, but I am allowed to sneer dismissively, aren't I?"

"As much as you like, just don't forget your role."

"Minnie knows? And Timms?"

Vane nodded and got to his feet. "And Masters and Mrs. Henderson. I told Minnie and Timms this morning. As the staff are all reliable, there seemed little point keeping them in the dark, and we can use all the eyes we can get."

"So," Gerrard said, untangling his legs and rising, "we let it appear that I'm still chief suspect, all but convicted, and wait for the Spectre-"

"Or the thief-don't forget you're prime suspect there, too."

Gerrard nodded. "So we wait and we watch for their next move."

"Right." Vane started down the mound. "That, at the moment, is all we can do."

Two days later, Patience sat in her private parlor and applied herself to her embroidery. The cloths for the drawing room were almost finished; she'd be glad to see the last of them. She was still confined to the daybed, her knee still bound, her foot propped on a cushion. Her suggestion, made earlier that morning, that she could probably hobble perfectly well using a stick, had made Mrs. Hen-derson purse her lips, shake her head, and pronounce that four days' complete rest would be wiser. Four days! Before she could voice her utter antipathy to the idea, Vane, in whose arms she'd been at the time, had weighed in, backing Mrs. Henderson.

When, after breakfast, Vane had carried her here and laid her on the daybed, he'd reminded her of his earlier threat to tie her to it should he discover her on her feet. The reminder had been couched in sufficiently intimidating terms to keep her reclining, attending to the household linens with apparent equanimity.

Minnie and Timms had come to bear her company; Timms was busy knotting a fringe while Minnie watched, lending a finger whenever an extra was needed. They were all used to spending hours in quiet endeavors; none saw any reason to fill the peace with chatter.

Which was just as well; Patience's mind was fully occupied elsewhere-mulling over what had ensued the first time Vane had carried her to this room. What with hiding her reaction, and her worries over Gerrard and the accusations hurled his way, it had been that night before she'd had time to fully examine the event.

Ever since, she had, at one level or another, thought of little else.

She should, of course, feel scandalized, or at the very least, shocked. Yet whenever she allowed herself to recall all that had happened, sweet pleasure washed through her, leaving her skin tingling and her breasts deliciously warm. Her "shock" was exciting, thrilling, an enticing reaction, not one of revulsion. She should feel guilty, yet whatever guilt she possessed was swamped beneath a compulsion to know, to experience, and an intense recollection of how much she'd enjoyed that particular experience.

Lips firming, she set a stitch. Curiosity-it was her curse, her bane, the cross she had to bear. She knew it. Unfortunately, knowing didn't quell the impulse. This time, curiosity was prompting her to waltz with a wolf-a dangerous enterprise. For the last two days, she'd watched him, waiting for the pounce she'd convinced herself would come, but he'd behaved like a lamb-a ridiculously strong, impossibly arrogant, not to say masterful lamb, but with a guileless newborn innocence, as if a halo had settled over his burnished locks.

Squinting at her work, Patience swallowed a disbelieving humph. He was playing some deep game. Unfortunately, due to lack of experience, she had no idea what.

"Actually"-Minnie settled back in her chair as Timms shook out the shawl they'd been working on-"this thief is worrying me. Vane might have scared the Spectre off, but the thief seems made of sterner stuff."

Patience glanced at Timms. "Your bracelet's still missing?"

Timms grimaced. "Ada turned my room upside down, and Minnie's, too. Masters and the maids have hunted high and low." She sighed. "It's gone."

"You said it was silver?"

Timms nodded. "But I wouldn't have thought it of any great value. It was engraved with vine leaves-you know the sort of thing." She sighed again. "It was my mother's and I'm really quite…"-she looked down, fiddling with the fringe she'd just knotted-"bothered that I've lost it."

Patience frowned absentmindedly and set another stitch.

Minnie sighed gustily. "And now here's Agatha similarly afflicted."

Patience looked up; so did Timms. "Oh?"