"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.

Just because fate had shown him the water, didn't mean he had to drink.

Of course, before he shook the gravel of the Bellamy Hall drive from his boots, he'd deal with Patience Debbington, too. A salutary jolt or three should do it-just enough to let her know that he knew that her icy disapproval was, to him, a transparent facade.

He was, of course, too wise to take things further.

Glancing at his prey, Vane noted her clear complexion, soft, delicate, tinged with gentle color. As he watched, she swallowed a mouthful of trifle, then sent her tongue gliding over her lower lip, leaving the soft pink sheening.

Abruptly, Vane looked down-into the big blue eyes of the small grey cat-the cat known as Myst. She came and went as she pleased, generally hugging Patience's skirts; she was presently seated beside Patience's chair, staring unblinkingly up at him.

Arrogantly, Vane lifted a brow.

With a silent mew, Myst stood, stretched, then padded forward to twine about his leg. Vane reached down and rubbed his fingers over the sleek head, then ran his nails down her spine. Myst arched, tail stiffening; the rumble of her purr reached Vane.

It also reached Patience; she glanced down. "Myst!" she hissed. "Stop bothering Mr. Cynster."

"She's not bothering me." Capturing Patience's gaze, Vane added: "I enjoy making females purr."

Patience stared at him, then blinked. Then, frowning slightly, she turned back to her plate. "Well, as long as she doesn't bother you."

It took a moment before Vane could get his lips back to straight, then he turned to Edith Swithins.

Not long after, they all rose; Minnie, with Timms beside her, led the ladies to the drawing room. Her gaze on Gerrard, Patience hesitated, her expression alternating between consternation and uncertainty. Gerrard didn't notice. Vane watched Patience's lips set; she almost glanced his way, then realized he was watching-waiting. She stiffened and kept her lids lowered. Reaching out, Vane drew her chair farther back. With a brief, excessively haughty inclination of her head, Patience turned and followed in Minnie's wake.

Her pace wouldn't have won the Guineas.

Dropping back into his chair at the head of the table, Vane smiled at Gerrard. With a lazy wave, he indicated the vacant chair to his right. "Why don't you move up?"

Gerrard's grin was radiant; eagerly, he left his place for the one between Edgar and Vane.

"Good idea. Then we can talk without shouting." Edmond moved closer, taking Patience's chair. With a genial grunt, the General moved up the table. Vane suspected Whitticombe would have kept his distance, but the insult would have been too obvious. His expression coldly severe, he moved to Edgar's other side.

Reaching for the decanter Masters had placed before him, Vane looked up-directly at Patience, still lingering, half-in and half-out of the door. Obviously torn. Vane's eyes touched hers; coolly arrogant, he raised his brows.

Patience's expression blanked. She stiffened, then slipped out of the door. A footman closed it behind her.

Vane smiled to himself; lifting the decanter, he poured himself a large glass.

By the time the decanter had circulated once, they'd settled on the best tip for the Guineas. Edgar sighed. "We really don't see much excitement here at the Hall." He smiled self-consciously. "I spend most of my days in the library. Reading biographies, y'know."

Whitticombe sniffed contemptuously. "Dilettante."

His gaze on Vane, Edgar colored but gave no other sign of having heard the jibe. "The library's quite extensive-it includes a number of journals and diaries of the family. Quite fascinating, in their way." The gentle emphasis he placed on the last three words left him looking much more the gentleman than Whitticombe.

As if sensing it, Whitticombe set his glass down and, in superior accents, addressed Vane. "As I daresay Lady Bellamy informed you, I am engaged on an extensive study of Coldchurch Abbey. Once my investigations are complete, I flatter myself the abbey will once again be appreciated as the important ecclesiastical center it once was."

"Oh, yes." Edmond grinned ingenuously at Whitticombe. "But all that's the dead past. The ruins are perfectly fascinating in their own right. They stir my muse to remarkable effect."

Glancing from Edmond to Whitticombe, Vane got the impression this was an oft-trod argument. That impression deepened when Edmond turned to him, and Vane saw the twinkle in his expressive eyes.

"I'm scripting a play, inspired by the ruins and set amongst them."

"Sacrilege!" Whitticombe stiffened. "The abbey is God's house, not a playhouse."

"Ah, but it's not an abbey any longer, just a heap of old stones." Edmond grinned, unrepentant. "And it's such an atmospheric spot."

Whitticombe's disgusted snort was echoed by the General. "Atmospheric, indeed! It's damp and cold and unhealthful-and if you plan to drag us out to be your audience, perched on cold stone, then you can think again. My old bones won't stand for it."

"But it is a very beautiful place," Gerrard put in. "Some of the vistas are excellent, either framed by the ruins or with the ruins as a focal point."

Vane saw the glow in Gerrard's eyes, heard the youthful fervor in his voice.

Gerrard glanced his way, then colored. "I sketch, you see."

Vane's brows rose. He was about to express interest, polite but unfeigned, when Whitticombe snorted again.

"Sketches? Mere childish likenesses-you make too much of yourself, m'boy." Whitticombe's eyes were hard; headmaster-like, he frowned at Gerrard. "You should be out and about, exercising that weak chest of yours, rather than sitting in the damp ruins for hours on end. Yes, and you should be studying, too, not frittering away your time."

The glow vanished from Gerrard's face; beneath the youthful softness, the planes of his face set hard. "I am studying, but I've already been accepted into Trinity for the autumn term next year. Patience and Minnie want me to go to London, so I will-and I don't need to study for that."

"No indeed," Vane smoothly cut in. "This port is excellent." He helped himself to another glass, then passed the decanter to Edmond. "I suspect we should offer due thanks for the late Sir Humphrey's well-qualified palate." He settled his shoulders more comfortably; over the rim of his glass, he met Henry's eye. "But tell me, how has the gamekeeper managed with Sir Humphrey's coverts?"

Henry accepted the decanter. "The wood over Walgrave way is worth a visit."

The General grunted. "Always plenty of rabbits about by the river. Took a piece out yesterday-bagged three."

Everyone else had some contribution to make-all except Whitticombe. He held himself aloof, cloaked in chilly disapproval.

When the talk of shooting threatened to flag, Vane set down his glass. "I think it's time we rejoined the ladies."

In the drawing room, Patience waited impatiently, and tried not to stare at the door. They'd been passing the port for more than half an hour; God only knew what undesirable views Gerrard was absorbing. She'd already uttered innumerable prayers that the rain would blow over and the following morning dawn fine. Then Mr. Vane Cynster would be on his way, taking his "gentlemanly elegance" with him.

Beside her, Mrs. Chadwick was instructing Angela: "There are six of them-or were. St. Ives married last year. But there's no question on the matter-Cynsters are so well bred, so very much the epitome of what one wishes to see in a gentleman."

Angela's eyes, already round as saucers, widened even more. "Are they all as well set-up as this Mr. Cynster?"

Mrs. Chadwick shot Angela a reproving glance. "They are all very elegant, of course, but I've heard it said Vane Cynster is the most elegant of them all."

Patience swallowed a disgusted humph. Just her luck-if she and Gerrard had to meet a Cynster, why did it have to be the most elegant one? Fate was playing games with her. She'd accepted Minnie's invitation to join her household for the autumn and winter and then to go to London for the Season, sure that fate was smiling benevolently, intervening to smooth her path. There was no doubt she'd needed help.