Before they reached even the first of Minnie's "guests," Vane's social antennae, exquisitely honed, detected the undercurrents surging between the groups.

What broth was Minnie concocting here? And what, Vane wondered, was brewing?

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cynster." Agatha Chadwick gave him her hand. A firm-faced matron with greying blond hair half-hidden by a widow's cap, she gestured to the pretty, fair-haired girl beside her. "My daughter, Angela."

Round-eyed, Angela curtsied; Vane returned a noncommittal murmur.

"And this is my son, Henry."

"Cynster." Heavily built and plainly dressed, Henry Chadwick shook Vane's hand. "You must be glad to be able to break your journey." He nodded at the long windows through which the rain could be heard, drumming on the terrace flags.

"Indeed." Vane smiled. "A fortuitous chance." He glanced at Patience Debbington, still engrossed with the poet.

The General and Edgar were both pleased that he remembered them. Edith Swithins was vague and flustered; in her case, Vane surmised that wasn't due to him. The Colbys were as frigidly disapproving as only those of their ilk could be; Vane suspected Alice Colby's face would crack if she smiled. Indeed, it occurred to him that she might never have learned how.

Which left, last but very definitely not least, the poet, Patience Debbington, and her brother Gerrard. As Vane approached, Minnie on his arm, both men looked up, their expressions eager and open. Patience did not even register his existence.

"Gerrard Debbington." Brown eyes glowing beneath a shock of brown hair, Gerrard thrust out his hand, then colored; Vane grasped it before he could tie himself in knots.

"Vane Cynster," he murmured. "Minnie tells me you're for town next Season."

"Oh, yes. But I wanted to ask-" Gerrard's eyes were alight, fixed on Vane's face. His age showed in the length of his lanky frame, his youth in his eager exuberance. "I came past the stables just before the storm broke-there's a bang-up pair of greys stabled there. Are they yours?"