Then again, neither her father, nor his elegant friends, nor the others of that ilk she had met, had possessed a sense of humor. At least, not the sort of sparring, fencing humor Vane Cynster deployed. It was very hard to resist the challenge of striking back-of joining in the game.

Patience's frown deepened. Then she blinked, stiffened, and swept across the room to return her empty teacup to the trolley.

Vane Cynster was definitely corrupting.

Vane helped Minnie up the stairs and down the gloomy corridors. After Sir Humphrey's death, she'd removed to a large suite at the end of one wing; Timms occupied the room next door.

Minnie paused outside her door. "A stroke of fate you should stop by just now."

I know. Vane suppressed the words. "How so?" He set the door wide.

"There's something strange going on." Leaning heavily on her cane now she was no longer "in public," Minnie crossed to the armchair by the hearth. Closing the door, Vane followed. "I'm not at all sure what it is"-Minnie settled in the chair, arranging her shawls-"but I do know I don't like it."

Vane propped his shoulder against the mantelpiece. "Tell me."

Minnie's brow furrowed. "I can't recall when it actually started, but it was sometime after Patience and Gerrard arrived." She looked up at Vane. "That's not to say I think they have anything to do with it-their arrival is merely a convenient gauge of time."

Vane inclined his head. "What did you notice?"

"The thefts started first. Little things-small items of jewelry, snuff boxes, trinkets, knickknacks. Anything small and portable-things that could fit in a pocket."

Vane's face hardened. "How many thefts have there been?"

"I don't know. None of us do. Often, things have been gone for days, even weeks, before they're noticed as missing. They're those sort of things."

Things that might fall into a flower bed. Vane frowned. "You said the thefts came first-what followed?"

"Odd happenings." Minnie's sigh overflowed with exasperation. "They're calling it'the Spectre.'"

"A ghost?" Vane blinked. "There are no ghosts here."

"Because you and Devil would have found them if there had been?" Minnie chuckled. "Quite right." Then she sobered. "Which is why I know it's the work of someone alive. Someone in my household."

"No new servants-new helpers in the gardens?"

Minnie shook her head. "Everyone's been with me for years. Masters is as mystified as I."

"Hmm." Vane straightened. The disapproval aimed at Gerrard Debbington started to make sense. "What does this Spectre do?"

"It makes noises, for a start." Minnie's eyes flashed. "Always starts up just after I've fallen asleep." She gestured to the windows. "I'm a light sleeper, and these rooms look out over the ruins."

"What sort of noises?"

"Moans and clunks-and a grating noise, as if stones are grinding against each other."

Vane nodded. He and Devil had shifted enough stones in the ruins for him to remember the sound vividly.

"And then there's lights darting about the ruins. You know what it's like here-even in summer, we get a ground fog at night, rolling up from the river."

"Has anyone attempted to catch this Spectre?"

Chins setting, Minnie shook her head. "I refused to countenance it-I insisted they all give me their word they won't venture it. You know what the ruins are like, how dangerous it can be, even in broad daylight. Chasing a will-o'-the-wisp at night through the fog is insanity. Broken limbs, broken heads-no! I won't hear of it."

"And have they all held to their promise?"

"As far as I know." Minnie grimaced. "But you know this house-there's doors and windows aplenty they could get in or out. And I know one of them is the Spectre."

"Which means if he's getting out and in without being detected, others could." Vane folded his arms. "Go through the household-who has any interest in the ruins?"

Minnie held up her fingers. "Whitticombe, of course. I told you of his studies?" Vane nodded. Minnie went on: "Then there's Edgar-he's read all the biographies of the abbots and those of the early Bellamys. He has quite an interest there. And I should include the General-the ruins have been his favorite walk for years." She progressed to her last finger. "And Edmond with his play-and Gerrard, of course. Both spend time in the ruins-Edmond communing with his muse, Gerrard sketching." She frowned at her hand, having run out of fingers. "And lastly, there's Patience, but her interest is simply abiding curiosity. She likes to poke about on her walks."

Vane could imagine. "None of the other women or Henry Chadwick has any particular interest?"

Minnie shook her head.

"That's quite a cast of characters-five men all told."

"Exactly." Minnie stared at the fire. "I don't know what worries me more, the Spectre or the thief." She heaved a sigh, then looked up at Vane. "I wanted to ask, dear boy, if you would stay and sort it out."

Vane looked down, into Minnie's face, at the soft cheeks he'd kissed innumerable times, at the bright eyes that had scolded and teased and loved him so well. For one instant, the image of another face interposed, that of Patience Debbington. Similar bone structure, similar eyes. Fate, once again, stared him in the face.

But he couldn't refuse, couldn't walk away-every particle of his Cynster character refused to consider it. Cynsters never accepted defeat, although they often courted danger. Minnie was family-to be defended to the death.

Vane refocused on Minnie's face, her own once again; he opened his lips-

A shrill scream split the stillness, rending the night.

Vane hauled open Minnie's door before the first echo faded. Less intense screeches guided him through the maze of the Hall, through the ill-lit corridors, up and down stairways joining the uneven levels. He tracked the screams to the corridor in the wing opposite Minnie's, one floor up.

The source of the screams was Mrs. Chadwick.

When he reached her she was near swooning, propped against a side table, one hand pressed to her ample breast.

"A man!" She clutched Vane's sleeve and pointed down the corridor. "In a long cloak-I saw him standing there, just in front of my door." *

The door in question was shrouded in gloom. Only one sconce holding a single candle lit the corridor, casting a weak glow by the intersection behind them. Footsteps came hurrying, pounding on the polished floors. Vane put Mrs. Chadwick from him. "Wait here."

Boldly, he strode down the corridor.

There was no one lurking in the shadows. He strode to the end, to where stairs led up and down. There was no sound of retreating footsteps. Vane retraced his steps. The household was gathering about Mrs. Chadwick-Patience and Gerrard were there; so, too, was Edgar. Reaching Mrs. Chadwick's door, Vane set it wide, then entered.

There was no one in the room, either.

By the time he returned to Mrs. Chadwick, she was bathed in light cast by a candelabrum Patience held high and sipping water from a glass. Her color had improved.

"I'd just come from Angela's room." She glanced fleetingly at Vane; he could have sworn her color deepened. "We were having a little chat." She took another sip, then continued, her voice strengthening, "I was going to my room when I saw him." She pointed down the corridor. "Right there."

"Standing before your door?"

Mrs. Chadwick nodded. "With his hand on the latch."

Just going in. Considering the time it had taken him to traverse half the house, the thief-if that's who it had been-would have had ample time to disappear. Vane frowned. "You said something about a cloak."

Mrs. Chadwick nodded. "A long cloak."

Or the skirts of a woman's dress. Vane looked back down the corridor. Even with the additional light thrown by the candelabrum, it would be hard to be sure if a figure was male or female. And a thief could be either.