Propping his shoulders against the mantelpiece, Vane smiled. Wrapped in expensive shawls, her rotund figure encased in silk and lace, a frilled widow's cap atop sprightly white curls, Minnie watched him through eyes bright with intelligence, set in a soft, lined face. She sat enthroned in her chair before the fire in her bedchamber; in its mate sat Timms, a gentlewoman of indeterminate years, Minnie's devoted companion. "Everyone," Vane knew, meant the Cynsters. "The youngsters are thriving-Simon's starring at Eton. Amelia and Amanda are cutting a swath through the ton, scattering hearts right and left. The elders are all well and busy in town, but Devil and Honoria are still at the Place."

"Too taken with admiring his heir, I'll wager. Daresay that wife of his will keep him in line." Minnie grinned, then sobered. "Still no word of Charles?"

Vane's face hardened. "No. His disappearance remains a mystery."

Minnie shook her head. "Poor Arthur."

"Indeed."

Minnie sighed, then slanted an assessing glance at Vane. "And what about you and those cousins of yours? Still keeping the ton's ladies on their toes?"

Her tone was all innocence; head bowed over her knitting, Timms snorted. "More like on their backs."

Vane smiled, suavely charming. "We do our poor best." Minnie's eyes twinkled. Still smiling, Vane looked down and smoothed his sleeve. "I'd better go and change, but tell me-who do you have staying at present?"

"A whole parcel of odds and ends," Timms offered.

Minnie chuckled and drew her hands free of her shawl. "Let's see." She counted on her fingers. "There's Edith Swithins-she's a distant Bellamy connection. Utterly vague, but quite harmless. Just don't express any interest in her tatting unless you've an hour to spare. Then there's Agatha Chadwick-she was married to that unfortunate character who insisted he could cross the Irish Sea in a coracle. He couldn't, of course. So Agatha and her son and daughter are with us."