His words, quietly spoken, hung over the breakfast table, raising questions in every mind. A sudden stillness ensued, fraught with surprise and shocked calculation. Calmly, her smile no longer in evidence, Patience turned and, her expression distant, regarded Whitticombe.

Her mind raced, considering alternatives, but there was only one answer she could give. "Yes, Mr. Cynster did help me back to the house-it was lucky he found me. We'd both seen a light in the ruins and gone to investigate."

"The Spectre!" The exclamation came from both Angela and Edmond. Their eyes glowed, their faces lit with excitement.

Patience tried to dampen their imminent transports. "I was following the light when I fell down a hole."

"I had thought," Henry said sternly, and all heads swung his way, "that we all promised Minnie we wouldn't go chasing the Spectre in the dark." The tenor of his voice and the expression on his face were quite surprising in their intensity. Patience felt a blush touch her cheeks.

"I'm afraid I forgot my promise," she admitted.

"In the chill of the moment, so to speak." Edmond leaned across the table. "Did your spine tingle?"

Patience opened her mouth, eager to grasp Edmond's distraction, but Henry spoke first.

"I think, young man, that this nonsense of yours has gone quite far enough!"

The words were wrath-filled. Startled, everyone looked at Henry-his face was set, skin slightly mottled. His eyes were fixed on Gerrard.

Who stiffened. He met Henry's gaze, then slowly put down his fork. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Henry replied, biting off the words, "that given the pain and suffering you've caused your sister, I'm shocked to discover you such an unfeeling whelp that you can sit there, beside her, and pretend to innocence."

"Oh, come on," Edmond said. Patience nearly sighed with relief. A second later she stiffened and stared as Edmond continued, his tone the very essence of reasonableness, "How could he know Patience would break her word to Minnie and come out after him?" Edmond shrugged and turned a winning smile on both Patience and Gerrard. "Hardly his fault she did."

With supporters like that... Patience swallowed a groan and charged into the breach. "It wasn't Gerrard."

"Oh?" Edgar looked at her hopefully. "You saw the Spectre then?"

Patience bit her lip. "No, I didn't. But-"

"Even if you had, you would still defend your brother, wouldn't you, my dear?" Whitticombe's smooth tones floated up the table. He directed a smile of paternalistic superiority at Patience. "Quite commendable devotion, my dear, but in this case, I fear"-his gaze switched to Gerrard; his features hardened, and he shook his head-"sadly misplaced."

"It wasn't I." Pale, Gerrard made the statement evenly. Beside him, Patience sensed the battle he waged to hold his temper in check. Silently, she sent him support. Under the table, she gripped his thigh briefly.

Abruptly, he turned to her. "I'm not the Spectre."

Patience held his furious gaze levelly. "I know." She filled those two words with complete and utter conviction, and felt some of his heat leave him.

Turning, he flung a challenging stare around the table.

The General snorted. "Touching, but there's no ducking the truth. Boy's tricks, that's what this Spectre is. And you, boy-you're the only boy about."

Patience felt the blow strike, a direct hit to the core of Gerrard's emerging adulthood. He stilled, his face deathly pale, his expression bleak. Her heart wept for him; she longed to throw her arms about him, to shield and comfort him-but knew she could not.

Slowly, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood. He cast a burning glance around the table, excusing only Patience from its scorn. "If none of you has any more insults to hurl my way..." He paused, then continued, his voice threatening to break, "I'll bid you a good morning."

Brusquely, he nodded. With a swift, blank glance for Patience, he swung on his heel and left the room.

Patience would have given her entire fortune to be able to rise and, with haughty scorn, sweep out in his wake. Instead, she was trapped-condemned by her injury to have to keep her own soaring temper within bounds and deal with her aunt's witless household. Despite her threat to Vane, she could not stand, let alone hobble.

Lips compressed, she swept a glance around the table. "Gerrard is not the Spectre."

Henry smiled wearily. "My dear Miss Debbington, I'm afraid you really must face facts."

"Facts?" Patience snapped. "What facts?"

With weighty condescension, Henry proceeded to tell her.

Vane was strolling up from the stables when he saw Gerrard, jaw grimly set, striding toward him.

"What's happened?" he demanded.

Stony-faced, eyes burning, Gerrard halted before him, drew a deep breath, met his gaze briefly, then abruptly shook his head. "Don't ask." With that, he flung past, and continued to the stables.

Vane watched him go. Gerrard's clenched fists and rigid back spoke volumes. Vane hesitated, then his face hardened. Abruptly, he turned and strode for the house.

He reached the breakfast parlor in record time. One glance, and all expression left his face. Patience still sat where he'd left her, but instead of the bright sparkle he'd left in her large eyes, the light flush that had tinted her cheeks, her hazel eyes were now narrowed, flashing with temper, while flags of color flew high on her cheekbones.

Beyond that, she was pale, almost vibrating with suppressed fury. She didn't see him immediately; Henry Chadwick was the current focus of her ire.

"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."