Something odd was afoot. Vane knew it within minutes of entering the drawing room. The household was gathered in groups about the large room; the instant he appeared, all heads swung his way.

The expressions displayed ranged from Minnie's and Timms's benevolent welcomes, through Edgar's approving appraisal and a similar response from a young sprig, who Vane assumed was Gerrard, to wary calculation to outright chilly disapproval-this last from three-a gentleman Vane tagged as Whitticombe Colby, a pinch-faced, poker-rigid spinster, presumably Alice Colby, and, of course, Patience Debbington.

Vane understood the Colbys' reaction. He did, however, wonder what he'd done to deserve Patience Debbington's censure. Hers wasn't the response he was accustomed to eliciting from gently bred ladies. Smiling urbanely, he strolled across the wide room, simultaneously letting his gaze touch hers. She returned his look frostily, then turned and addressed some remark to her companion, a lean, dramatically dark gentleman, undoubtedly the budding poet. Vane's smile deepened; he turned it on Minnie.

"You may give me your arm," Minnie declared the instant he'd made his bow. "I'll introduce you, then we really must go in, or Cook will be in the boughs."

Before they reached even the first of Minnie's "guests," Vane's social antennae, exquisitely honed, detected the undercurrents surging between the groups.

What broth was Minnie concocting here? And what, Vane wondered, was brewing?

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cynster." Agatha Chadwick gave him her hand. A firm-faced matron with greying blond hair half-hidden by a widow's cap, she gestured to the pretty, fair-haired girl beside her. "My daughter, Angela."

Round-eyed, Angela curtsied; Vane returned a noncommittal murmur.

"And this is my son, Henry."

"Cynster." Heavily built and plainly dressed, Henry Chadwick shook Vane's hand. "You must be glad to be able to break your journey." He nodded at the long windows through which the rain could be heard, drumming on the terrace flags.

"Indeed." Vane smiled. "A fortuitous chance." He glanced at Patience Debbington, still engrossed with the poet.

The General and Edgar were both pleased that he remembered them. Edith Swithins was vague and flustered; in her case, Vane surmised that wasn't due to him. The Colbys were as frigidly disapproving as only those of their ilk could be; Vane suspected Alice Colby's face would crack if she smiled. Indeed, it occurred to him that she might never have learned how.

Which left, last but very definitely not least, the poet, Patience Debbington, and her brother Gerrard. As Vane approached, Minnie on his arm, both men looked up, their expressions eager and open. Patience did not even register his existence.

"Gerrard Debbington." Brown eyes glowing beneath a shock of brown hair, Gerrard thrust out his hand, then colored; Vane grasped it before he could tie himself in knots.

"Vane Cynster," he murmured. "Minnie tells me you're for town next Season."

"Oh, yes. But I wanted to ask-" Gerrard's eyes were alight, fixed on Vane's face. His age showed in the length of his lanky frame, his youth in his eager exuberance. "I came past the stables just before the storm broke-there's a bang-up pair of greys stabled there. Are they yours?"

Vane grinned. "Half-Welsh. High-steppers with excellent endurance. My brother, Harry, owns a stud; he supplies all my cattle."

Gerrard glowed. "I thought they looked prime-uns."

"Edmond Montrose." The poet leaned across and shook Vane's hand. "Have you come up from town?"

"Via Cambridgeshire. I had to attend a special church service near the ducal seat." Vane glanced at Patience Debbington, mute and tight-lipped on the other side of Minnie. The information that he was permitted to enter a church did not melt her ice one jot.

"And this is Patience Debbington, my niece," Minnie put in, before Gerrard and Edmond could monopolize him further.

Vane bowed elegantly in response to Patience's abbreviated bob. "I know," he drawled, his gaze on her stubbornly averted eyes. "We've met."

"You have?" Minnie blinked at him, then looked at Patience, now staring, dagger-eyed, at Vane.

Patience glanced, somewhat evasively, at Minnie. "I was in the garden when Mr. Cynster arrived." The glance she flicked Vane was exceedingly careful. "With Myst."

"Ah." Minnie nodded and scanned the room. "Right then-now everyone's been introduced, Vane, you may lead me in."

He dutifully did so, the others filing in in their wake. As he conducted Minnie to the foot of the long table, Vane wondered why Patience did not want it known she'd been searching for something in the flower bed. As he settled Minnie in her chair, he noticed a place had been set directly opposite, at the table's head.

"Daresay you'd like to chat with your godson." Whitticombe Colby stopped beside Minnie's chair. He smiled unctuously. "I would be happy to surrender my place-"

"No need for that, Whitticombe," Minnie cut in. "What would I do without your erudite company?" She looked up at Vane, on her other side. "You take the chair at the head, dear boy." She held his gaze; Vane raised a brow, then bowed-Minnie tugged and he leaned closer. "I need a man I can trust sitting there."

Minnie's whisper reached only him; Vane inclined his head slightly and straightened. As he strolled down the room, he studied the seating arrangements-Patience had already claimed the chair to the left of his alloted place, with Henry Chadwick beside her. Edith was settling in opposite Patience while Edgar was making for the next seat along. Nothing in the arrangement suggested a reason for Minnie's comment; Vane couldn't imagine that Minnie, with wits like quicksilver, thought her niece, presently armored in cold steel, could possibly need protection from the likes of Colby.

Which meant Minnie's utterance had some deeper meaning; Vane inwardly sighed, and made a mental note to ferret it out. Before he escaped from Bellamy Hall.

The first course was served the instant they all sat. Minnie's cook was excellent; Vane applied himself to the meal with unfeigned appreciation.

Edgar started the conversational ball rolling. "Heard that the Whippet's odds on for the Guineas."

Vane shrugged. "There's been a lot of blunt laid on Blackamoor's Boy and Huntsman's well fancied, too."

"Is it true," Henry Chadwick asked, "that the Jockey Club's thinking of changing their rules?"

The ensuing discussion even drew a tittering comment from Edith Swithins: "Such fanciful names you gentlemen give the horses. Never anything like Goldie, or Muffins, or Blacky."

Neither Vane, Edgar, or Henry felt qualified to take that point further.

"I had heard," Vane drawled, "that the Prince Regent's battling debtors again."

"Again?" Henry shook his head. "A spendthrift through and through."

Under Vane's subtle direction, the talk turned to Prinny's latest eccentricities, on which Henry, Edgar, and Edith all entertained firm opinions.

On Vane's left, however, perfect silence reigned.

A fact which only increased his determination to do something about it, about Patience Debbington's adamant disapproval. The itch to tweak her nose, to prick her into response, waxed strong. Vane kept the lid on his temper; they were not alone-yet.

The few minutes he'd spent changing, slipping into a familiar routine, had settled his mind, cleared his vision. Just because fate had succeeded in trapping him here, under the same roof as Patience Debbington, was no reason to consider the battle lost. He would stay the night, catch up with Minnie and Timms, deal with whatever was making Minnie uneasy, and then be on his way. The storm would probably blow itself out overnight; at the worst, he'd be held up only a day or so.