His brows quirked; his mesmerizing lips curved. His eyes, grey, intent, and oddly challenging, held hers. "It seemed the natural place to start to undermine your defenses."

Patience felt her nerves vibrate to the deep tenor of his voice, felt her senses quake as she registered his words. Her eyes, locked on his, widened; her lungs seized. In a mental scramble, she struggled to marshal her wits, to lay her tongue on some sharp retort with which to break his spell.

His eyes searched hers; one brow lifted arrogantly, along with the ends of his long lips. "I didn't cough because I was entirely distracted, which was entirely your fault." He seemed very close, totally commanding her vision, her senses. Again his eyes scanned hers, again one brow quirked. "Incidentally," he murmured, his voice velvety dark, "what were you searching for in the flower bed?"

"There you are!"

Breathless, Patience turned-and beheld Minnie, descending like a galleon in full sail. The entire British fleet wouldn't have been more welcome.

"You'll have to excuse an old woman, Patience dear, but I really must speak with Vane privately." Minnie beamed impartially on them both, then laid her hand on Vane's sleeve.

He immediately covered it with his. "I'm yours to command."

Despite his words, Patience sensed his irritation, his annoyance that Minnie had spiked the gun he'd turned on her. There was an instant's hiatus, then he smiled charmingly down at Minnie. "Your rooms?"

"Please-so sorry to drag you away."

"Not at all-you're the reason I'm here."

Minnie beamed at his flattery. Vane raised his head and met Patience's eyes. His smile still in place, he inclined his head. "Miss Debbington."

Patience returned his nod and quelled another shiver. He might have surrendered gracefully, but she had the distinct impression he hadn't given up.

She watched him cross the room, Minnie on his arm, chattering animatedly; he walked with head bent, his attention fixed on Minnie. Patience frowned. From the instant she'd recognized his style, she'd equated Vane Cynster with her father, another smooth-tongued, suavely elegant gentleman. All she knew about the species she'd learned from him, her restless, handsome sire. And what she'd learned she'd learned well-there was no chance she'd succumb to a well-set pair of shoulders and a devilish smile.

Her mother had loved her father-dearly, deeply, entirely too well. Unfortunately, men such as he were not the loving kind-not the kind wise women loved, for they did not value love, and would not accept it, nor return it. Worse, at least in Patience's eyes, such men had no sense of family life, no love in their soul to tie them to their hearth, their children. From all she had seen from her earliest years, elegant gentlemen avoided deep feelings. Avoided commitment, avoided love.

To them, marriage was a matter of estate, not a matter of the heart. Woe betide any woman who failed to understand that.

All that being so, Vane Cynster was high on her list of gentlemen she would definitely not wish Gerrard to have as his mentor. The very last thing she would allow was for Gerrard to turn out like his father. That he had that propensity none could deny, but she would fight to the last gasp to prevent him going that road.

Straightening her shoulders, Patience glanced around the room, noting the others, before the fireplace and about the chaise. With Vane and Minnie gone, the room seemed quieter, less colorful, less alive. As she watched, Gerrard threw a brief, watchful glance at the door.

Draining her teacup, Patience inwardly humphed. She would need to protect Gerrard from Vane Cynster's corrupting influence-nothing could be clearer.

A niggle of doubt slid into her mind, along with the image of Vane behaving so attentively-and, yes, affectionately-toward Minnie. Patience frowned. Possibly corrupting. She shouldn't, she supposed, judge him by his wolf's clothing, yet that characteristic, in all her twenty-six years, had never proved wrong.

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.

Chapter 3.

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?"