"Daughter?"

Minnie's gaze lifted to Vane's face. "Angela. She's sixteen and already a confirmed wilter. She'll swoon away in your arms if you give her half a chance."

Vane grimaced. "Thank you for the warning."

"Henry Chadwick must be about your age," Minnie mused, "but not at all in the same mold." Her gaze ran appreciatively over Vane's elegant figure, long muscular legs displayed to advantage in tight buckskins and top boots, his superbly tailored coat of Bath superfine doing justice to his broad shoulders. "Just setting eyes on you should do him some good."

Vane merely raised his brows.

"Now, who else?" Minnie frowned at her fingers. "Edmond Montrose is our resident poet and dramatist. Needless to say, he fancies himself the next Byron. Then there's the General and Edgar, who you must remember."

Vane nodded. The General, a brusque, ex-military man, had lived at Bellamy Hall for years; his title was not a formal one, but a nickname earned by his emphatically regimental air. Edgar Polinbrooke, too, had been Minnie's pensioner for years-Vane placed Edgar in his fifties, a mild tippler who fancied himself a gamester, but who was, in reality, a simple and harmless soul.

"Don't forget Whitticombe," Timms put in.

"How could I forget Whitticombe?" Minnie sighed. "Or Alice."

Vane raised a questioning brow.

"Mr. Whitticombe Colby and his sister, Alice," Minnie supplied. "They're distant cousins of Humphrey's. Whitticombe trained as a deacon and has conceived the notion of compiling the History of Coldchurch Abbey." Cold-church was the abbey on whose ruins the Hall stood.

"As for Alice-well, she's just Alice." Minnie grimaced. "She must be over forty and, though I hate to say it of one of my own sex, a colder, more intolerant, judgmental being it has never been my misfortune to meet."