She paused, then smiled, and looked at Vane. Utterly unmoved, he raised a brow at her. "Upstairs?"

Patience nodded. "Indeed."

Without further ado, and no further hindrance, Vane carried her from the room.

Chapter 8

"Why," Vane asked, as he steadily climbed the main stairs, "are they so convinced it's Gerrard?"

"Because," Patience waspishly stated, "they can't imagine anything else. It's a boy's trick; ergo it must be Gerrard." As Vane gained the top of the stairs, she continued, her tone vitriolic. "Henry has no imagination; neither has the General. They're blockheads. Edmond has imagination to spare, but doesn't care enough to engage it. He's so irresponsible, he considers it all a lark. Edgar is cautious over jumping to conclusions, but his very timidity leaves him permanently astride the fence. And as for Whitticombe"-she paused, breasts swelling, eyes narrowing-"he's a self-righteous killjoy who positively delights in calling attention to others' supposed misdemeanors, all with a sickeningly superior air."

Vane shot her a sidelong glance. "Clearly breakfast didn't agree with you."

Patience humphed. Looking ahead, she focused on their surroundings. She didn't recognize them. "Where are you taking me?"

"Mrs. Henderson has set up one of the old parlors for you-so you won't be bothered with the others unless you choose to summon them."

"Which will be after hell freezes." After a moment, Patience glanced up at Vane. In a very different tone, she asked: "You don't think it's Gerrard, do you?"

Vane looked down at her. "I know it isn't Gerrard."

Patience's eyes widened. "You saw who it was?"

"Yes and no. I only caught a glimpse as he went through a thinner patch of fog. He clambered over a rock, holding his light high, and I saw him outlined by the light. A grown man from his build. Height's difficult to judge at a distance, but build is harder to mistake. He was wearing a heavy coat, something like frieze, although my impression was it wasn't that cheap."

"But you're sure it wasn't Gerrard?"

Vane glanced down at Patience riding comfortably in his arms. "Gerrard's still too lightweight to be mistaken for a fully grown man. I'm quite certain it wasn't he."

"Hmm." Patience frowned. "What about Edmond-he's rather thin. Is he eliminated, too?"

"I don't think so. His shoulders are broad enough to carry a coat well, and with his height, if he was hunched, either against the cold or because he was playing the role of'the Spectre,' then he could have been the man I saw."

"Well, whatever else," Patience said, brightening, "you can put an end to this scurrilous talk of Gerrard being the Spectre." Her brightness lasted all of ten yards, then she frowned. "Why didn't you clear Gerrard's name just now, in the breakfast parlor?"

"Because," Vane said, ignoring the sudden chill in her voice, "it's patently obvious that someone-someone about the breakfast table-is quite content to cast Gerrard as the Spectre. Someone wants Gerrard as scapegoat, to distract attention from himself. Given the mental aptitudes you so accurately described, the gentlemen are, by and large, easily led. Present the matter right, and they'll happily believe it. Unfortunately, as none of them is unintelligent, it's difficult to tell just who's doing the leading."

He stopped before a door; frowning, Patience absent-mindedly leaned forward and opened it. Vane shouldered the door wide and carried her in.

As he had said, it was a parlor, but not one usually in use. It lay at the end of the wing housing Patience's bedchamber, one floor down. The windows were long, reaching almost to the floor. Maids had obviously been in, throwing back dust covers, dusting ferociously, and refurbishing the huge cast-iron Empire day bed that faced the long windows. Their curtains tied back, the windows looked over the shrubbery and a section of wilderness-most of the Hall's gardens were wilderness-to the golden brown canopies of the woods beyond. It was as pleasant a prospect as could be found in the present season. Farther to the right lay the ruins; in the distance, the grey ribbon of the Nene wound its way through lush meadows. Patience could recline on the daybed and contemplate the scenery. As the room was on the first floor, her privacy was assured.

Vane carried her to the daybed and carefully lowered her onto it. He plumped the pillows, arranging them supportively about her.

Patience lay back, watching as he settled a tapestry-covered cushion under her sore ankle. "Just what are your intentions over the Spectre?"

Vane met her gaze, then, raising one brow, strolled back to the door-and turned the key in the lock. Returning with the same long-strided prowl, he sat on the bed, beside her hip, bracing one hand on the daybed's iron back. "The Spectre now knows that he was followed last night-that, but for your untimely accident, he might well have been caught."

Patience had the grace to blush.

"All the household," Vane continued, his eyes locking on hers, "the Spectre included, are coming to the realization that I know the Hall well, possibly better than they do. I'm a real threat to the Spectre-I think he'll lie low and wait for me to depart before making another appearance."

Patience made an effort to live up to her name; she pressed her lips tightly together.

Vane smiled understandingly. "Consequently, if we're to lure the Spectre to reveal himself, I suspect it would be wise to let it appear that I'm still willing to entertain the notion that Gerrard-the obvious candidate-is to blame."

Patience frowned. She studied the cool grey of his eyes, then opened her lips.

"I would suggest," Vane said, before she could speak, "that it's not going to hurt Gerrard to let the household think what they like, at least for the immediate future."

Patience's frown deepened. "You didn't hear what they said." She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "The General called him a boy."

Vane's brows rose. "Highly insensitive, I agree-but I think you're underestimating Gerrard. Once he knows all the people he cares about know he's innocent, he won't worry over what the others think. I suspect he'll view it as an exciting game-a conspiracy to catch the Spectre."

Patience narrowed her eyes. "You mean that's how you'll present it to him."

Vane grinned. "I'll suggest he responds to any aspersions cast his way with scornful boredom." He raised his brows. "Perhaps he can cultivate a superior sneer?"

Patience tried to eye him with disapproval. She was sure that, as Gerrard's guardian, she shouldn't approve of such plans. Yet she did; she could see Vane's plan was the fastest way to resuscitate Gerrard's confidence, and that, above all, was her primary concern. "You're rather good at this, aren't you?" And she didn't just mean his reading of Gerrard.

Vane's grin converted to a rakish smile. "I'm rather good at lots of things."

His voice had lowered to a rumbling purr. He leaned closer.

Patience tried, very hard, to ignore the vise slowly closing about her chest. She kept her eyes on his, drawing ever nearer, determined that she wouldn't-absolutely would not-allow her gaze to drop to his lips. As her heartbeat deepened, she raised one brow challengingly. "Such as?"

Kissing-he was very, very good at kissing.

By the time Patience reached that conclusion, she was utterly breathless-and utterly enthralled by the heady feelings slowly spiraling through her. Vane's confident possession of her lips, her mouth, left her giddy-pleasurably so. His hard lips moved on hers, and she softened, not just her lips, but every muscle, every limb. Slow heat washed through her, a tide of simple delight that seemed to have no greater meaning, no deeper import. It was all pleasure, simple pleasure.

With a mental sigh, she lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders. He shifted closer. Patience thrilled to the slow surge of his tongue against hers. Boldly, she returned the caress; the muscles beneath her hands tensed. Emboldened, she let her lips firm against his, and reveled in his immediate response. Hard transmuted to harder; lips, muscles, all became more definite, more sharply defined.

It was fascinating-she became softer-he became harder.

And behind his hardness came heat-a heat they both shared. It rose like a fever, turning the swirling pleasure hot. Beyond the caress of his lips, he hadn't touched her, yet every nerve in her body was heating, simmering with sensation. The warm tide spread, swelled; the temperature increased.

And she was flushed, restless-wanting.

The slide of hard fingers over her breasts made her gasp-not in panic but pure shock. Shock at the shaft of sheer delight that speared through her, the sharp tingling that spread over her skin. The fingers firmed, possessively cupping her soft, oddly swollen flesh-which immediately swelled more. His hand closed, fingers kneading; her heated flesh firmed, tingling and tight.

The hot tangling of their tongues and the heat of his hand proved utterly distracting. When he stroked the peak of her breast, Patience gasped again. With something akin to amazement, her senses acutely focused on his fingertips, she marveled at her response to his touch, at the flaring heat that seared her, at the tight niching of her nipples.

She'd never imagined such sensations existed; she could barely believe they were real. Yet the caresses continued, thrilling her, heating her-she had to wonder what else she didn't know.

What else she had yet to experience.