Which meant Minnie's utterance had some deeper meaning; Vane inwardly sighed, and made a mental note to ferret it out. Before he escaped from Bellamy Hall.
The first course was served the instant they all sat. Minnie's cook was excellent; Vane applied himself to the meal with unfeigned appreciation.
Edgar started the conversational ball rolling. "Heard that the Whippet's odds on for the Guineas."
Vane shrugged. "There's been a lot of blunt laid on Blackamoor's Boy and Huntsman's well fancied, too."
"Is it true," Henry Chadwick asked, "that the Jockey Club's thinking of changing their rules?"
The ensuing discussion even drew a tittering comment from Edith Swithins: "Such fanciful names you gentlemen give the horses. Never anything like Goldie, or Muffins, or Blacky."
Neither Vane, Edgar, or Henry felt qualified to take that point further.
"I had heard," Vane drawled, "that the Prince Regent's battling debtors again."
"Again?" Henry shook his head. "A spendthrift through and through."
Under Vane's subtle direction, the talk turned to Prinny's latest eccentricities, on which Henry, Edgar, and Edith all entertained firm opinions.
On Vane's left, however, perfect silence reigned.
A fact which only increased his determination to do something about it, about Patience Debbington's adamant disapproval. The itch to tweak her nose, to prick her into response, waxed strong. Vane kept the lid on his temper; they were not alone-yet.
The few minutes he'd spent changing, slipping into a familiar routine, had settled his mind, cleared his vision. Just because fate had succeeded in trapping him here, under the same roof as Patience Debbington, was no reason to consider the battle lost. He would stay the night, catch up with Minnie and Timms, deal with whatever was making Minnie uneasy, and then be on his way. The storm would probably blow itself out overnight; at the worst, he'd be held up only a day or so.
Just because fate had shown him the water, didn't mean he had to drink.
Of course, before he shook the gravel of the Bellamy Hall drive from his boots, he'd deal with Patience Debbington, too. A salutary jolt or three should do it-just enough to let her know that he knew that her icy disapproval was, to him, a transparent facade.
He was, of course, too wise to take things further.
Glancing at his prey, Vane noted her clear complexion, soft, delicate, tinged with gentle color. As he watched, she swallowed a mouthful of trifle, then sent her tongue gliding over her lower lip, leaving the soft pink sheening.
Abruptly, Vane looked down-into the big blue eyes of the small grey cat-the cat known as Myst. She came and went as she pleased, generally hugging Patience's skirts; she was presently seated beside Patience's chair, staring unblinkingly up at him.
Arrogantly, Vane lifted a brow.
With a silent mew, Myst stood, stretched, then padded forward to twine about his leg. Vane reached down and rubbed his fingers over the sleek head, then ran his nails down her spine. Myst arched, tail stiffening; the rumble of her purr reached Vane.
It also reached Patience; she glanced down. "Myst!" she hissed. "Stop bothering Mr. Cynster."
"She's not bothering me." Capturing Patience's gaze, Vane added: "I enjoy making females purr."
Patience stared at him, then blinked. Then, frowning slightly, she turned back to her plate. "Well, as long as she doesn't bother you."
It took a moment before Vane could get his lips back to straight, then he turned to Edith Swithins.
Not long after, they all rose; Minnie, with Timms beside her, led the ladies to the drawing room. Her gaze on Gerrard, Patience hesitated, her expression alternating between consternation and uncertainty. Gerrard didn't notice. Vane watched Patience's lips set; she almost glanced his way, then realized he was watching-waiting. She stiffened and kept her lids lowered. Reaching out, Vane drew her chair farther back. With a brief, excessively haughty inclination of her head, Patience turned and followed in Minnie's wake.
Her pace wouldn't have won the Guineas.
Dropping back into his chair at the head of the table, Vane smiled at Gerrard. With a lazy wave, he indicated the vacant chair to his right. "Why don't you move up?"
Gerrard's grin was radiant; eagerly, he left his place for the one between Edgar and Vane.
"Good idea. Then we can talk without shouting." Edmond moved closer, taking Patience's chair. With a genial grunt, the General moved up the table. Vane suspected Whitticombe would have kept his distance, but the insult would have been too obvious. His expression coldly severe, he moved to Edgar's other side.
Reaching for the decanter Masters had placed before him, Vane looked up-directly at Patience, still lingering, half-in and half-out of the door. Obviously torn. Vane's eyes touched