"But..." Vane frowned. He glanced at Gerrard. "Surely your father managed the estate?"

Gerrard shook his head. "He was never interested. Well, he was never there. He died when I was six, and I couldn't remember him even then. I can't recall him ever staying for more than a few nights. Mama said he preferred London and his London friends-he didn't come home very often. It used to make her sad."

His gaze grew distant as memory took hold. "She was always trying to describe him to us, how handsome and gentlemanly he was, how he rode so well to hounds, how he carried the cloak of a gentleman so elegantly. Whenever he appeared, even if for only one day, she was always eager for us to see how impressive he was." He grimaced. "But I can't recall what he looked like at all."

A chill struck Vane's soul. For Gerrard, with his vivid visual memory, to have no recollection of his father spoke volumes. Yet for well-heeled gentlemen to behave toward their families as Reginald Debbington had was not unheard of and no crime. Vane knew it. But he'd never before been close to the children of such men, never before had cause to feel sorrow and anger on their behalf-sorrow and anger they themselves, the deprived, did not know they should feel-for what their father had not given them. All the things his own family, the Cynsters, held dear-all they stood for-family, home, and hearth. To have and to hold was the Cynster motto. The first necessitated the second-that was something all male Cynsters understood from their earliest years. You desired, you seized-then you accepted responsibility. Actively. When it came to family, Cynsters were nothing if not active.

As the curricle bowled along, Vane struggled to grasp the reality Gerrard had described-he could see Gerrard's home, but couldn't conceive of its atmosphere, how it had functioned. The entire concept-a family without its natural leader, its most stalwart defender-was alien to him.

He could, however, imagine how Patience-his determined, independent, practical wife-to-be-would have viewed her father's behavior. Vane frowned. "Your father-was Patience very attached to him?"

Gerrard's puzzled look was answer enough. "Attached to him?" His brows rose. "I don't think so. When he died, I remember her saying something about duty, and what was expected." After a moment, he added, "It's difficult to become attached to someone who's not there."

Someone who didn't value your attachment. Vane heard the words in his head-and wondered.

The shadows were lengthening when their cavalcade pulled up in Aldford Street, just west of South Audley Street. Vane threw the reins to Duggan and jumped down. Minnie's traveling carriage rocked to a stop behind his curricle, directly before the steps of Number 22. A discreet, gentleman's residence, Number 22 had been hired at short notice by a certain Mr. Montague, man of business to many of the Cynsters.

Opening the door of Minnie's carriage, Vane handed Patience to the pavement. Timms followed, then Minnie. Vane knew better than to attempt to carry her. Instead, with Patience lending support on her other side, he helped Minnie climb the steep steps. The rest of Minnie's household began debouching from their carriages, attracting the attention of late strollers. An army of footmen swarmed out of the house to assist with the luggage.

At the top of the steps, the front door stood open. Patience, carefully guiding Minnie, looked up as they gained the narrow porch-and discovered a strange personage standing in the front hall, holding the door wide. Stoop-shouldered, wiry, with an expression that would have done credit to a drenched cat, he was the oddest butler she'd ever encountered.

Vane, however, appeared to find nothing odd about the man; he nodded briefly as he helped Minnie over the threshold. "Sligo."

Sligo bowed. "Sir."

Minnie looked up and beamed. "Why, Sligo, what a pleasant surprise."

Following in Minnie's wake, Patience could have sworn Sligo blushed. Looking uncomfortable, he bowed again. "Ma'am."

In the melee that followed, as Minnie and Timms, then all the others, were received and shown to their rooms, Patience had ample time to observe Sligo, and the absolute rule he wielded over the junior servants. Both Masters and Mrs. Henderson, who had traveled up with their mistress, clearly recognized Sligo and treated him as a respected equal.

To Patience's relief, Vane distracted Henry, Edmond, and Gerrard, keeping them out from under everyone's feet while the other members of the household were settled. When those three at last took themselves off to explore their new accommodation in the hour left before dinner, Patience heaved a weary sigh and sank onto a chaise in the drawing room.

And looked up at Vane, standing in his usual pose, one shoulder propped against the mantelpiece. "Who," Patience asked, "is Sligo?"

Vane's lips curved slightly. "Devil's ex-batman."

Patience frowned. "Devil-the Duke of St. Ives?"

"One and the same. Sligo acts as Devil's caretaker when he's out of town. As it happens, Devil and his duchess, Honoria, returned to the fray yesterday, so I borrowed Sligo."

"Why?"

"Because we need someone trustworthy who knows a trick or two, here in the house. Sligo's presently coordinating the searches of all the arriving luggage. He's absolutely trustworthy and utterly reliable. If you want anything done-anything at all-ask him and he'll arrange it."

"But..." Patience's frown deepened. "You'll be here. Won't you?"

Vane met her gaze directly. "No." Dismay-or was it simply disappointment?-flitted through her golden eyes. Vane frowned. "I'm not deserting, but an instant's thought ought to show that Mr. Vane Cynster, known to have recently purchased a comfortable house just a stone's throw away in Curzon Street, cannot possibly have any acceptable need to reside under his godmother's roof."

Patience grimaced. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose, now we're in London, we'll have to bow to society's dictates."

To whit, he couldn't spend the night in her bed. "Precisely." Vane suppressed his reaction. There were other options, but she didn't need to know about them yet. Once he'd manuevered their interaction onto a more manageable footing, he'd let her into the secret. Until then...

Straightening, he pushed away from the mantelpiece. "I'd better be on my way. I'll call tomorrow, to see how you've settled in."

Patience held his gaze, then coolly held out her hand. He grasped it, then bent and brushed his lips over her knuckles. And felt the tiny jolt that went through her.

Satisfied for the moment, he left her.

"It's all soooo exciting!"

Hearing Angela's paean for the tenth time that morning, Patience ignored it. Ensconsed in a comer of one of the two drawing-room chaises, she continued stitching yet another tray-cloth. The activity had palled, but she had to do something with her mind-her hands-while she waited for Vane to appear.

Presuming he would. It was already after eleven.

Beside her, Timms sat darning; Minnie, having survived the rigors of the journey surprisingly well, was sunk in the comfort of a large armchair before the hearth. The other chaise played host to Mrs. Chadwick and Edith Swithins. Angela-she of the senseless pronouncements-was standing beside the window, peeking through the lace curtains at the passersby.

"I can't wait to see it all-the theaters, the modistes, the milliners." Hands clasped to her breast, Angela whirled and twirled. "It'll be so wondrously exciting!" Ceasing her twirling, she looked at her mother. "Are you sure we can't go before luncheon?"

Mrs. Chadwick sighed. "As agreed, we'll go for a short excursion this afternoon to decide which modistes might be suitable."

"It will have to be one in Bruton Street," Angela declared. "But the best shops, Edmond says, are on Bond Street."

"Bond Street is just beyond Bruton Street." Patience had spent the journey down reading a guidebook. "Once we stroll the length of one, we'll have reached the other."

"Oh. Good." Her afternoon's prospects assured, Angela subsided back into her daydreams.

Patience resisted an urge to glance at the mantelpiece clock. She could hear its steady tick, counting away the minutes; it seemed like she'd been listening for hours.

She already knew town life would never suit her. Used to country hours, the routine of breakfasting at ten, of taking luncheon at two and dining at eight or later, would never find favor with her. Bad enough that she'd woken at her usual hour, and, finding the breakfast parlor empty, had had to make do with tea and toast in the back parlor. Bad enough that there was no piano with which she could distract herself. Much worse was the fact that it was, apparently, unacceptable for her to walk out unescorted. Worst of all was the fact that Number 22 Aldfbrd Street was a great deal smaller than Bellamy Hall, which meant they were all thrown together, under each other's feet-each other's noses-all the time.

To have to bear with the others at such close quarters looked set to drive her demented.

And Vane had not yet arrived.

When he did, she would inform him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his idea of removing to London. They had better flush out the thief and the Spectre. Soon.

The clock ticked on. Patience gritted her teeth and persevered with her needle.

A knock on the street door had her looking up. Along with everyone else but Edith Swithins-she happily tatted on. The next instant, a deep rumbling voice reached all their straining ears. Patience inwardly sighed-with a relief she had no intention of examining too closely. Minnie's face lit up as familiar prowling footsteps neared. Timms grinned.

The door opened. Vane strolled in, to be greeted with a panoply of smiles. His gaze flicked to Patience. She met it coolly. She studied him as he nodded to them all, then greeted Minnie elegantly and affectionately, inquiring after her health and how she'd spent the night.

"I very likely got more sleep than you," Minnie replied, a roguish twinkle in her eye.

Vane smiled lazily down at her and made no move to deny it. "Are you ready to brave the park?"

Minnie grimaced. "Perhaps tomorrow I might let you persuade me to a stroll. For today, I'm content to sit quietly, gathering my failing strength."