Judging that, by that time, the damage within the family had already been done, he'd swallowed his pride and gone to call on Honoria-to ask, innocently, if she might consider giving one of her impromptu balls. Just for family and friends. Such a ball would be a useful tool in his avowed endeavor-to convince Patience that, to him as for all the Cynsters, the word "family" meant a great deal.

Honoria's wide eyes, and thoughtful consideration, had set his teeth on edge. But her agreement that an impromptu ball might, perhaps, be a good idea had gone some way to easing his temper. Leaving Devil's duchess to her plans, he'd retired to formulate his own. And to brood, darkly.

By the time yesterday morning had dawned, and he'd again set his horses' heads for Aldford Street, he'd come to the conclusion that there had to be more-more than just a simple misconception holding Patience back from marriage. He was absolutely certain what style of woman he'd chosen; he knew, soul-deep, that his reading of her was not wrong. Only a powerful reason would force a woman such as she, with so much affection and devotion to give, to view marriage as an unacceptable risk.

There was something more-something he had not yet learned about her parents' marriage.

He'd climbed the steps of Number 22 determined to learn what that something was-only to be informed Miss Debbington was not available to go driving with him. She had, it seemed, been seduced by the Bruton Street modistes. His temper had taken a downhill turn.

Luckily for Patience, Minnie had been watching for him. Unexpectedly spry, she'd claimed his escort for her promised stroll along the graveled walks of Green Park. On the way, she'd gaily informed him that, by some stroke of benign fate, Honoria had happened on Patience in Bruton Street the afternoon before, and had insisted on introducing her to her favored modiste, Celestine, the result being the fitting Patience was then attending for a series of gowns including, Minnie had taken great delight in assuring him, a positively dashing golden evening gown.

Arguing with benign fate was impossible. Even if, by virtue of Edith Swithins who had joined them for the stroll, said fate had ensured he had no chance to question Minnie about Patience's father, and the depths of his ignominy.

An hour later, reassured that Minnie's constitution was fully restored, he'd returned her to Number 22, only to discover Patience still absent. Leaving a tersely worded message with Minnie, he'd departed to find distraction elsewhere.

Today, he wanted Patience. If he had his way, he'd have Patience, but that was unlikely. Privacy of that sort, in the present circumstances, was unlikely to be on offer-and he had a wary premonition he'd be unwise to embark on any further seductive manuevers until he had their relationship on a steady, even keel.

With his hand firmly on the tiller.

Sligo opened the door to his peremptory knock. With a curt nod, Vane strode in. And stopped dead.

Patience was in the hall, waiting-the sight literally stole his breath. As his gaze, helplessly, slid over her, over the soft green merino pelisse, severely cut and snugly fitted, its upstanding collar framing her face, over the tan gloves and half boots, over the pale green skirts peeking beneath the pelisse's hem, Vane felt something inside him tighten, click, and lock.

Breathing was suddenly more difficult than if someone had buried a fist in his gut.

Her hair, glinting in the light streaming in through the door, was coiffed differently, to more artfully draw attention to her wide golden eyes, to the creaminess of her forehead and cheeks, and the delicate yet determined line of her jaw. And the soft vulnerability of her lips.

In some far corner of his thoroughly distracted brain, Vane uttered a thank-you to Honoria, then followed it with a curse. Before had been bad enough. How the hell was he supposed to cope with this?

Chest swelling, he forced his mind to draw back. He focused on Patience's face-and read her expression. It was calm, untinged by any emotion. She was dutifully waiting-as required by their plans-there was nothing more, so her expression declared, behind her drive with him.

It was her "dutiful" stance that did it-pricked his temper anew. Fighting to keep a scowl from his face, he nodded curtly and held out his arm. "Ready?"

Something flickered in her large eyes, but the hall was too dim for him to identify the emotion. Lightly, she inclined her head and glided forward to take his arm.

Patience sat, stiffly erect, on the box seat of Vane's curricle, and struggled to breathe through the iron cage locked about her chest. At least he couldn't disapprove of her appearance; she'd been assured, both by Celestine and Honoria, that her new pelisse and bonnet were all the crack. And her new gown, beneath it, was a definite improvement over her old one. Yet from his reaction, it seemed her appearance was of little consequence. She hadn't, she reminded herself sternly, really expected it would be. She'd bought the gowns because she hadn't refurbished her wardrobe for years and now seemed the perfect opportunity. After they caught the thief-and the Spectre-and Gerrard had acquired sufficient town bronze, she and he would retire once more to Derbyshire. She would probably never come to London again.

She'd bought a new wardrobe because it was the sensible thing to do, and because it wasn't reasonable to force Vane Cynster, elegant gentleman, to appear in public with a dowd.

Not that he seemed to care either way. Patience suppressed a sniff and tilted her chin. "As I told you, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela visited Bruton Street on our first afternoon. Angela dragged us into every modiste's establishment, even those designing for the dowagers. And asked the price of everything in sight. It was really most embarrassing. Luckily, the answers she received eventually took their toll. She seems to have accepted that it might be more practical to have a seamstress in to make up some gowns for her."

Eyes on his horses, Vane humphed. "Where were Angela and Mrs. Chadwick while you were in Celestine's?"

Patience colored. "Honoria came upon us in Bruton Street. She insisted on introducing me to Celestine-and things"-she gestured-"went on from there."

"Things have a habit of going that way once Honoria's involved."

"She was very kind," Patience retorted. "She even engaged Mrs. Chadwick and Angela in conversation all the while I was with Celestine."

Vane wondered how much Honoria was going to make him pay for that. And in what coin.

"Luckily, being able to haunt Celestine's salon and talk to a duchess quite buoyed Angela's spirits. We went on to Bond Street without further dramas. Neither Mrs. Chadwick nor Angela showed any hint of wanting to speak to any of the jewelers whose establishments we passed, nor in meeting anyone else along the way."

Vane grimaced. "I really don't think it's either of them. Mrs. Chadwick's bone-honest, and Angela's too witless."

"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…"