"Indeed." Patience's tone turned ascorbic. "So witless nothing would do but she must cap the afternoon with a visit to Gunter's. Nothing would dissuade her. It was full to bursting with young sprigs, too many of whom spent the time ogling her. She wanted to go again yesterday afternoon-Mrs. Chadwick and I took her to Hatchards instead."

Vane's lips twitched. "She must have enjoyed that."

"She moaned the whole time." Patience shot him a glance. "That's all I have to report. What have the gentlemen been up to?"

"Sight-seeing." Vane uttered the word with loathing. "Henry and Edmond have been possessed by some demon which compells them to set eyes on every monument within the metropolis. Luckily, Gerrard is happy enough to go along and keep a watchful eye on them. So far, he's had nothing to report. The General and Edgar have settled on Tattersalls as the focus of their daily interest. Sligo or one of his minions follows and keeps watch, so far to no avail. I've been arranging their afternoons and evenings. The only ones who've not yet stirred from the house are the Colbys." Vane glanced at Patience. "Has Alice emerged from her room?"

"Not for long." Patience frowned. "She may actually have been the same at Bellamy Hall. I'd imagined her in the gardens, or in one of the parlors, but she might have stayed in her room the whole time. It's really rather unhealthy."

Vane shrugged.

Patience glanced sideways, studying his face. He'd headed his horses down a less-frequented drive, away from the fashionable avenue. While there were carriages about, they didn't need to exchange greetings. "I haven't had a chance to speak to Sligo, but I presume he found nothing?"

Vane's expression turned grim. "Not a thing. There was no clue in the luggage. Sligo's surreptitiously searching all the rooms in case the stolen items were somehow smuggled in."

"Smuggled? How?"

"Edith Swithins's tatting bag springs to mind."

Patience stared. "You don't think she ...?"

"No. But it's possible someone else has noticed how deep that bag is, and is using it for the pearls, if nothing else. How often do you think Edith empties the bag out?"

Patience grimaced. "Probably never."

Vane came to an intersection and turned smartly to the right. "Where is Edith now?"

"In the drawing room-tatting, of course."

"Does her chair face the door?"

"Yes." Patience frowned. "Why?"

Vane shot her a glance. "Because she's deaf."

Patience continued to frown, then understanding dawned. "Ah."

"Precisely. So..."

"Hmm." Patience's expression turned considering. "I suppose..."

Half an hour later, the drawing-room door at Number 22 opened; Patience looked in. Edith Swithins sat on the chaise facing the door, tatting furiously. Her large knitted bag sat on the rug beside the chaise. There was no one else present.

Smiling brightly, Patience entered, and set the door to, ensuring the latch did not fall home. Just how deaf Edith was they didn't know. With determined cheerfulness, she swept down on Edith.

Who looked up-and returned her smile.

"I'm so glad I caught you," Patience began. "I've always wanted to learn how to tat. I wonder if you could show me the basics?"

Edith positively beamed. "Why of course, dear. It's really quite simple." She held up her work.

Patience squinted. "Actually"-she looked around-"perhaps we should move over by the window. The light's much better there."

Edith chuckled. "I must confess I really don't need to see the stitches, I've been doing it for so long." She eased off the chaise. "I'll just get my bag..."

"I'll get it." Patience reached for the bag-and inwardly conceded Vane was right. It was deep, full, and surprisingly heavy. It definitely needed to be searched. Hefting the bag, she whirled. "I'll pull that chair into place for you."

By the time Edith, cradling her work in progress, had crossed the room, Patience had a deep armchair positioned facing the window, its back to the door. Placing the tatting bag beside it, hidden from the occupant by the overhang of the arm, she helped Edith into the chair. "Now if I sit here, on the window seat, there'll be plenty of light for us both to see."

Obligingly, Edith settled back. "Now." She held up her work. "The first thing to note..."

Patience gazed at the fine threads. At the edge of her vision, the door slowly opened. Vane entered, and carefully shut the door. On silent feet, he drew closer. A board creaked under his weight. He froze. Patience tensed. Edith blithely chatted on.

Patience breathed again. Vane glided forward, then sank out of sight behind Edith's chair. From the corner of her eye, Patience saw Edith's tatting bag slide away.

She forced herself to listen to Edith's lecture, forced herself to follow enough to ask sensible questions. Beaming with pride, Edith imparted her knowledge; Patience encouraged and admired, and hoped the Almighty would forgive her her perjury, given it was committed in the pursuit of justice.

Hunkered down behind the chair, Vane poked about in the bag, then, realizing the futility of that, gingerly upended it on the rug. The contents, a welter of odds and ends, many unidentifiable, at least, to him, rolled out on the soft pile. He spread them, frowning, trying to recall the list of items pilfered over the past months. Whatever, Minnie's pearls were not in the tatting bag.

"And now," Edith said, "we just need a crochet hook..." She looked to where her tatting bag had been placed.

"I'll get it." Patience crouched, eyes down, hands reaching as if the bag was actually there. "A crochet hook," she repeated.

"A fine one," Edith added.

Crochet hook. A fine one. Behind the chair, Vane stared at the array of unnameable implements. What the hell was a crochet hook? What did it look like-fine or otherwise? Frantically examining and discarding various items in tor-toiseshell, his fingers finally closed about a thin wand sprouting a fine steel prong, hooked at the end-a miniature fisherman's net hook.

"I know it's there somewhere." Edith's voice, slightly querulous, jolted Vane to action. Reaching around the chair back, he slid the implement into Patience's outstretched palm.

She clutched it. "Here it is!"

"Oh, good. Now, we just put it in here, like this..."

While Edith continued her lesson, and Patience dutifully learned, Vane stuffed the contents of the tatting bag back into the gaping maw. Giving the bag a shake to settle it, he eased it back into position beside the chair. Moving with intense care, he stood and crept to the door.

Hand on the knob, he glanced back; Patience did not look up. Only when he'd regained the front hall, with the drawing room door securely closed, did he breathe freely again.

Patience joined him in the billiard room half an hour later.

Blowing aside the fine errant curls tangling with her lashes, she met his gaze. "I now know more about tatting than I could possibly need to know, even should I live to be a hundred."

Vane grinned. And leaned over the table.

Patience grimaced. "I take it there was nothing there?"

"Nothing." Vane lined up his next shot. "No one's using Edith's tatting bag as a store, presumably because, once something goes in, it might never be found again."

Patience stifled a giggle. She watched as Vane shifted, lining up the ball. As at Bellamy Hall, when she'd watched from the conservatory, he'd taken off his coat. Under his tight waistcoat, muscles rippled, then tensed. He clipped the ball neatly, sending it rolling into the pocket opposite.