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refused to countenance it—I insisted they all give me their word they won’t venture it. You know what the ruins are like, how dangerous it can be, even in broad daylight. Chasing a will-o’-the-wisp at night through the fog is insanity. Broken limbs, broken heads—no! I won’t hear of it.”
    “And have they all held to their promise?”
    “As far as I know.” Minnie grimaced. “But you know this house—there’s doors and windows aplenty they could get in or out. And I know one of them is the Spectre.”
    “Which means if he’s getting out and in without being detected, others could.” Vane folded his arms. “Go through the household—who has any interest in the ruins?”
    Minnie held up her fingers. “Whitticombe, of course. I told you of his studies?” Vane nodded. Minnie went on: “Then there’s Edgar—he’s read all the biographies of the abbots and those of the early Bellamys. He has quite an interest there. And I should include the General—the ruins have been his favorite walk for years.” She progressed to her last finger. “And Edmond with his play—and Gerrard, of course. Both spend time in the ruins—Edmond communing with his muse, Gerrard sketching.” She frowned at her hand, having run out of fingers. “And lastly, there’s Patience, but her interest is simply abiding curiosity. She likes to poke about on her walks.”
    Vane could imagine. “None of the other women or Henry Chadwick has any particular interest?”
    Minnie shook her head.
    “That’s quite a cast of characters—five men all told.”
    “Exactly.” Minnie stared at the fire. “I don’t know what worries me more, the Spectre or the thief.” She heaved a sigh, then looked up at Vane. “I wanted to ask, dear boy, if you would stay and sort it out.”
    Vane looked down, into Minnie’s face, at the soft cheeks he’d kissed innumerable times, at the bright eyes that had scolded and teased and loved him so well. For one instant, the image of another face interposed, that of Patience Debbington. Similar bone structure, similar eyes. Fate, once again, stared him in the face.
    But he couldn’t refuse, couldn’t walk away—every particle of his Cynster character refused to consider it. Cynsters never accepted defeat, although they often courted danger. Minnie was family—to be defended to the death.
    Vane refocused on Minnie’s face, her own once again; he opened his lips—
    A shrill scream split the stillness, rending the night.
    Vane hauled open Minnie’s door before the first echo faded. Less intense screeches guided him through the maze of the Hall, through the ill-lit corridors, up and down stairways joining the uneven levels. He tracked the screams to the corridor in the wing opposite Minnie’s, one floor up.
    The source of the screams was Mrs. Chadwick.
    When he reached her she was near swooning, propped against a side table, one hand pressed to her ample breast.
    “A man!” She clutched Vane’s sleeve and pointed down the corridor. “In a long cloak—I saw him standing there, just in front of my door.”
    The door in question was shrouded in gloom. Only one sconce holding a single candle lit the corridor, casting a weak glow by the intersection behind them. Footsteps came hurrying, pounding on the polished floors. Vane put Mrs. Chadwick from him. “Wait here.”
    Boldly, he strode down the corridor.
    There was no one lurking in the shadows. He strode to the end, to where stairs led up and down. There was no sound of retreating footsteps. Vane retraced his steps. The household was gathering about Mrs. Chadwick—Patience and Gerrard were there; so, too, was Edgar. Reaching Mrs. Chadwick’s door, Vane set it wide, then entered.
    There was no one in the room, either.
    By the time he returned to Mrs. Chadwick, she was bathed in light cast by a candelabrum Patience held high and sipping water from a glass. Her color had improved.
    “I’d just come from Angela’s room.” She glanced fleetingly at