"Hmm."
When Vane said nothing more, Patience jogged his elbow. "Hmm what?"
He flicked her a glance, then looked back at his leader. "Just that Whitticombe seems obsessed with the abbey. One would have thought he'd know everything there was to know of it by now-at least enough to write his thesis." After a moment, he asked, "Nothing suspicious to report about any of the others?"
Patience shook her head. "Did Lucifer learn anything?"
"In a way, yes." Vane threw her a frustrated glance. "The pearls have not been cleared through London. In fact, Lucifer's sources, which are second to none, are very sure the pearls have not, in their idiom, 'become available.'"
"Available?"
"Meaning that whoever stole them still has them. No one's attempted to sell them."
Patience grimaced. "We seem to meet blank walls at every turn." After a moment, she added, "I calculated how big a space would be needed to store everything that's been stolen." She caught Vane's eye. "Edith Swithin's tatting bag, emptied of everything else, would barely hold it all."
Vane's frown turned grim. "It's all got to be somewhere. I had Sligo search everyone's room again, but he turned up empty-handed."
"But it is somewhere."
"Indeed. But where?"
Vane was back in Aldford Street at one o'clock the next morning, assisting a weak-kneed Edmond up the front steps. Gerrard was steering Henry, chortling at his own loquaciousness. Edgar, a wide, distinctly silly grin on his face, brought up the rear.
The General, thank heavens, had stayed home.
Sligo opened the door to them, and instantly took charge. Nevertheless, it took another half hour and the concerted efforts of the sober members of the group, to install Edmond, Henry, and Edgar in their respective beds.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Gerrard slumped against the corridor wall. "If we don't find the pearls soon, and get this lot back to the Hall, they'll run amok-and run us into the ground."
The comment accurately reflected Vane's thoughts. He grunted and resettled his coat.
Gerrard yawned, and nodded sleepily. "I'm off to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."
Vane nodded. "Good night."
Gerrard headed down the corridor. His expression sober, Vane crossed the gallery to the stairs. At their head, he paused, looking down into the darkened front hall. About him, the house lay slumberous, the cloak of night, temporarily disturbed, settling back, a muffling shroud.
Vane felt the night drag at him, draining his strength. He was tired.
&nbs
p; Tired of getting nowhere. Frustrated at every turn.
Tired of not winning, not succeeding.
Too tired to fight the compulsion that drove him. The compulsion to seek succor, support, surcease from his endeavors, in his love's arms.
He drew in a deep breath and felt his chest swell. He kept his gaze locked on the stairs, denying the impulse to look right, down the corridor that led to Patience's room.
It was time to go home, time to walk down the stairs, out through the front door, stroll the few blocks to his own house in Curzon Street, let himself into the silence of an empty house, walk up the elegant stairs and into the master bedroom. To sleep alone in his bed, between silken sheets, cold, unwarmed, unwelcoming.
A whisper of sound, and Sligo materialized beside him. Vane glanced sideways. "I'll let myself out."
If Sligo was surprised, he didn't show it. With a nod, he descended the stairs. Vane waited, watched as Sligo moved through the hall, checking the front door. He heard the bolt slide home, then the bobbing candle crossed the hall and disappeared through the green-baize door.
Leaving him in the silent darkness.
Still as a statue, Vane stood at the top of the stairs. In the present circumstances, inviting himself into Patience's bed was unacceptable, even reprehensible.