From the front hall, Patience turned into a narrow corridor, and thus reached the garden hall. Setting the pannier on a side table, she selected a heavy vase. As she arranged her branches, she considered Minnie and Timms. Timms was happier, more relaxed now that Vane was here. The same and more could be said of Minnie. She was clearly sleeping better-her eyes were back to their sparkling best and her cheeks no longer sagged with worry.

Patience frowned, and concentrated on her twigs.

Gerrard was also more relaxed. The accusations and insinuations surrounding him had died, sunk without trace, dispersed like so much river mist. Just like the Spectre.

That was also Vane's doing-another benefit his presence had brought them. The Spectre hadn't been sighted again.

The thief, however, continued to strike: His latest trophy was nothing short of bizarre. Edith Swithin's pincushion-a beaded, pink-satin cushion four inches square, embroidered with a likeness of His Majesty George III, could hardly be considered valuable. That last disappearance had perplexed them all. Vane had shaken his head and given it as his opinion that they had a resident magpie roosting within the Hall.

"Resident raven more like." Patience looked at Myst. "Have you seen one?"

Settled on her brisket, Myst met her gaze, then yawned. Not delicately. Her fangs were quite impressive. "No raven either," Patience concluded.

Despite checking all inns and "dives" within reach, Vane, happily assisted by Gerrard, had not found any clue to suggest the thief was selling the stolen goods. It all remained an ongoing mystery.

Patience put away the pannier, then picked up the vase. Myst jumped from the table and, tail high, led the way. As she headed for the music room, Patience reflected that, with the exception of Vane's presence and the thief's eccentricities, the household had indeed sunk back into its previously untrammeled existence.

Before Vane's arrival, the music room had been her retreat-none of the others was musically inclined. She'd always played, every day for most of her life. Spending an hour with a pianoforte, or, as here, a harpsichord, always soothed her, eased the load that had always been hers.

Carrying the vase into the music room, she placed it on the central table. Returning to close the door, she surveyed her domain. And nodded. "Back to normal."

Myst was making herself comfortable on a chair. Patience headed for the harpsichord.

These days, she never decided what to play, but simply let her fingers roam. She knew so many pieces, she just let her mind choose without conscious direction.

Five minutes of restless, disjointed playing-of drifting from one piece to another in search of her mood-was enough to bring home the truth. Not everything was back to normal.

Putting her hands in her lap, Patience frowned direfully at the keys. Things were back the way they were, the same as before Vane's arrival. The only changes were for the good; no need for her to fret. Less need to fret than before. Everything was proceeding smoothly. She had her usual round of small chores, lending order to her days-she'd found it satisfying before.

But far from sinking back into reassuring routine, she was... fretful. Dissatisfied.

Patience put her hands back on the keys. But no music came. Instead, her mind, entirely against her will, conjured up the source of her dissatisfaction. One elegant gentleman. Patience looked down at her fingers resting on the ivory keys. She was trying to fool herself and not doing a particularly good job of it.

Her mood was unsettled, her temper more so. As for her emotions, they'd taken up residence on a carousel. She didn't know what she wanted, she didn't know what she felt. For someone used to being in charge of her life, of directing that life, the situation was beyond irritating.

Patience narrowed her eyes. Her situation, in fact, was insupportable. Which meant it was past time she did something about it. The source of her condition was obvious-Vane. Just him-no one else was even peripherally involved. It was her interaction with him that was causing all her problems.

She could avoid him.

Patience considered that long and hard-and rejected it on the grounds that she couldn't do that without embarrassing herself and insulting Minnie. And Vane might not deign to be avoided.

And she might not be strong enough to avoid him.

Frowning, she shook her head. "Not a good idea." Her thoughts returned to their last moment alone, in the walled garden three days before. Her frown deepened. What was he about? His "not here" she'd later understood-the walled garden was overlooked by the house. But what had he meant by "not yet"?

"That," she informed Myst, "suggests a 'later.' A 'sometime'. " Patience set her teeth. "What I want to know is when?"

A scandalous, inadmissable want perhaps, but... "I'm twenty-six." Patience eyed Myst as if she'd argued. "I'm entitled to the knowledge." When Myst responded with an unblinking stare, Patience continued: "It's not as if I intend throwing my cap over the windmill. I'm not likely to forget who I am, let alone who and what he is. And neither is he. It should all be perfectly safe."

Myst tucked her nose into her paws.

Patience went back to frowning at the keyboard. "He won't seduce me under Minnie's roof." Of mat, she was certain. Which raised a most pertinent question. What did he want-what did he expect to gain? What was his purpose in all this-did he even have one?

All questions for which she lacked answers. While, over the last days, Vane had not engineered any moment alone with her, she was always conscious of his gaze, always conscious of him, of his watchful presence.

"Perhaps this is dalliance? Or some part thereof?"

Yet more questions without answers.

Patience gritted her teeth, then forced herself to relax. She drew in a deep breath, exhaled and drew in another, then determinedly laid her fingers on the keys. She didn't understand Vane-the elegant gentleman with unpredictable reservations-indeed, he confused her at every turn. Worse, if this was dalliance, then it apparently proceeded at his whim, under his control, entirely outside hers-and, of that, she thoroughly disapproved.

She wasn't going to think about him anymore.

Patience closed her eyes, and let her fingers flow over the keys.

Delicate, hauntingly uncertain music floated out of the house. Vane heard it as he walked up from the stables. The lilting strains reached him, then wrapped about him, about his mind, sinking into his senses. They were a siren's song-and he knew precisely who was singing.

Halting on the graveled drive before the stable arch, he listened to the moody air. It drew him-he could feel the tug as if it was physical. The music spoke-of need, of restless frustration, of underlying rebellion.

The scrunch of gravel under his boots, brought him to his senses. Frowning, he stopped again. The music room was on the ground floor, facing away from the ruins; its windows gave onto the terrace. At least one window had to be open, or he wouldn't hear the music so clearly.

For a long moment, he stared, unseeing, at the house. The music grew more eloquent, seeking to ensorcel him, insistently drawing him on. For one more minute, he resisted, then shook aside his hesitation. His face set, he strode for the terrace.

When the final notes died, Patience sighed and lifted her fingers from the keys. A measure of calm had returned to her, the music had released some of her restlessness, had soothed her soul. A catharsis.

She stood, more serene, more confident than when she'd sat. Pushing back the stool, she stepped about it and turned.

Toward the windows. Toward the man who stood beside the open French door. His expression was set, unreadable.

"I had thought," she said, her words deliberate, her eyes steady on his, "that you might be thinking of leaving."

Her challenge could not have been clearer.

"No." Vane answered without thinking; no thought was required. "Aside from unmasking the Spectre and discovering the thief, I haven't yet got that something I want."

Contained, commanding, Patience's chin rose another notch. Vane studied her, his words echoing in his head. When he'd first coined the phrase, he hadn't appreciated exactly what it was that he wanted. Now he knew. His goal, this time, was different from the prizes he habitually lusted after. This time, he wanted a great deal more.

He wanted her-all of her. Not just the physical her, but her devotion, her love, her heart-all the essential her, the tangible intangible of her being, her self. He wanted it all-and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything less.

He knew why he wanted her, too. Why she was different. But he wasn't going to think about that.

She was his. He'd known it the instant he'd held her in his arms, that first evening with the storm lowering about them. She'd fitted-and he'd known, instinctively, immediately, at some level deeper than his bones. He hadn't come by his name by accident: he had a gift for recognizing what scent was on the breeze. An instinctive hunter, he responded to shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, taking advantage of whatever current was flowing without conscious thought.

He'd known from the first just what was in the wind-known from the instant he'd held Patience Debbington in his arms.

Now she stood before him, challenge lighting gold sparks in her eyes. That she was tired of their present hiatus was clear; what she envisioned replacing it was not so obvious. The only virtuous, willful women he'd interacted with were related to him; he'd never dallied with such ladies. He had no clue what Patience was thinking, how much she'd accepted. Taking a death grip on the reins of his own clamorous needs, he deliberately took the first steps to find out.

With slow, prowling strides, he approached her.