Patience's expression blanked. She stiffened, then slipped out of the door. A footman closed it behind her.

Vane smiled to himself; lifting the decanter, he poured himself a large glass.

By the time the decanter had circulated once, they'd settled on the best tip for the Guineas. Edgar sighed. "We really don't see much excitement here at the Hall." He smiled self-consciously. "I spend most of my days in the library. Reading biographies, y'know."

Whitticombe sniffed contemptuously. "Dilettante."

His gaze on Vane, Edgar colored but gave no other sign of having heard the jibe. "The library's quite extensive-it includes a number of journals and diaries of the family. Quite fascinating, in their way." The gentle emphasis he placed on the last three words left him looking much more the gentleman than Whitticombe.

As if sensing it, Whitticombe set his glass down and, in superior accents, addressed Vane. "As I daresay Lady Bellamy informed you, I am engaged on an extensive study of Coldchurch Abbey. Once my investigations are complete, I flatter myself the abbey will once again be appreciated as the important ecclesiastical center it once was."

"Oh, yes." Edmond grinned ingenuously at Whitticombe. "But all that's the dead past. The ruins are perfectly fascinating in their own right. They stir my muse to remarkable effect."

Glancing from Edmond to Whitticombe, Vane got the impression this was an oft-trod argument. That impression deepened when Edmond turned to him, and Vane saw the twinkle in his expressive eyes.

"I'm scripting a play, inspired by the ruins and set amongst them."

"Sacrilege!" Whitticombe stiffened. "The abbey is God's house, not a playhouse."

"Ah, but it's not an abbey any longer, just a heap of old stones." Edmond grinned, unrepentant. "And it's such an atmospheric spot."