All that, Vane could see. Gerrard he couldn't see at all. Assuming he'd taken a moment to stretch his legs and wander, Vane turned away. No point asking Gerrard if he'd seen anything-he'd left the breakfast table with one goal in mind and had doubtless been blind to all else.

Turning back into the cloisters, Vane heard, faint on the breeze, an intense mumbling. He discovered Edmond in the nave, sitting by the ruined font, creating out aloud.

When the situation had been explained to him, Edmond blinked. "Didn't see anyone. But then, I wasn't looking. Whole troop of cavalry might have charged past, and I wouldn't have noticed." He frowned and looked down; Vane waited, hoping for some help, however slight.

Edmond looked up, his brows still knit. "I really can't decide whether this scene should be acted in the nave or the cloisters. What do you think?"

With remarkable restraint, Vane didn't teH him. After a pregnant pause, he shook his head, and headed back to the house.

He was skirting the tumbled stones when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Henry and the General striding up from the woods. As they neared, he asked: "You went for a stroll together, I take it?"

"No, no," Henry assured him. "I stumbled across the General in the woods. I went for a ramble to the main road-there's a track that leads back through the woods."

Vane knew it. He nodded and looked at the General, huffing slightly as he leaned on his cane.

"Always go out by way of the rains-a good, rousing walk over uneven terrain. Good for the heart, y'know." The General's eyes fastened on Vane's face. "But why'd you want to know, heh? Not into rambles yourself, I know."

"Minnie's pearls have disappeared. I was going to ask if you'd seen anyone acting strangely on your walks?"

"Good God-Minnie's pearls!" Henry looked shocked. "She must be terribly upset."

Vane nodded; the General snorted. "Didn't see anyone until I ran into Henry here."

Which, Vane noted, did not actually answer his question. He fell into step beside the General. Henry, on his other side, reverted to his garrulous best, filling the distance to the house with futile exclamations.

Shutting his ears to Henry's chatter, Vane mentally reviewed the household. He'd located everyone, excepting only Whitticombe, who was doubtless back in the library poring over his precious volumes. Vane supposed he'd better check, just to be sure.

He was saved the need by the gong for luncheon-Masters struck it as they reached the front hall. The General and Henry headed for the dining room. Vane hung back. In less than a minute, the library door opened. Whitticombe led the way, nose in the air, his aura of ineffable superiority billowing like a cloak about him. In his wake, Edgar helped Edith Swithins and her tatting bag from the library.

His expression impassive, Vane waited for Edgar and Edith to pass him, then followed in their wake.

Chapter 15

Minnie did not appear at the luncheon table; Patience and Timms were also absent. Gerrard did not show either, but, remembering Patience's comments on his ability to forget all while in pursuit of a particular view, Vane didn't fret about Gerrard.

Minnie was a different story.

Grim-faced, Vane ate the bare minimum, then climbed the stairs. He hated coping with feminine tears. They always left him feeling helpless-not an emotion his warrior self appreciated.

He reached Minnie's room; Timms let him in, her expression absentminded. They'd pulled Minnie's chair to the window. A lunch tray was balanced across the broad arms. Seated on the window seat before Minnie, Patience was coaxing her to eat.

Patience glanced up as Vane neared; their eyes touched briefly. Vane stopped beside Minnie's chair.

Minnie looked up, a heart-breakingly hopeful expression in her eyes.

Exuding impassivity, Vane hunkered down. His face level with Minnie's, he outlined what he'd done, what he'd learned-and a little of what he thought.

Timms nodded. Minnie tried to smile confidently. Vane put his arm around her and hugged her. "We'll find them, never fear."

Patience's gaze locked on his face. "Gerrard?"

Vane heard her full question in her tone. "He's been out sketching since breakfast-apparently there's a difficult view rarely amenable to drawing." He held her gaze. "Everyone saw him go-he hasn't returned yet."

Relief flashed through her eyes; her swift smile was just for him. She immediately returned to her task of feeding Minnie. "Come-you must keep up your strength." Deftly, she got Minnie to accept a morsel of chicken.

"Indeed," Timms put in from along1 the window seat. "You heard your godson. We'll find your pearls. No sense fading to a cypher in the meantime."

"I suppose not." Picking at the fringe of her outermost shawl, Minnie glanced, woe-stricken and frighteningly fragile, at Vane. "I'd willed my pearls to Patience-I'd always intended them for her."

"And I'll have them someday, to remind me of all this, and of how stubborn you can be about eating." Determinedly, Patience presented a piece of parsnip. "You're worse than Gerrard ever was, and heaven knows, he was quite bad enough."

Manufacturing a chuckle, Vane bent and kissed Minnie's paper-thin cheek. "Stop worrying and do as you're told. We'll find the pearls-surely you don't doubt me? If so, I must be slipping."

That last gained him a weak smile. Relieved to see even that, Vane bestowed a rakishly confident smile on them all and left.

He went in search of Duggan.

His henchman was out exercising the greys; Vane passed the time in the stables, chatting to Grisham and the grooms. Once Duggan returned and the greys had been stabled, Vane strolled out to take a look at a young colt in a nearby field-and took Duggan with him.

Duggan had been a young groom in his father's employ before being promoted to the position of personal groom to the eldest son of the house. He was an experienced and reliable servant. Vane trusted his abilities, and his opinions of other servants, implicitly. Duggan had visited Bellamy Hall many times over the years, both in his parents' entourage as well as with him.

And he knew Duggan well.

"Who is it this time?" Vane asked once they were clear of the stables.

Duggan tried an innocent expression. When Vane showed no sign of believing it, he grinned roguishly. "Pretty little parlormaid. Ellen."

"Parlormaid? That might be useful." Vane stopped by the fence of the colt's field and leaned on the top rail. "You've heard of the latest theft?"

Duggan nodded. "Masters told us all before lunch-even called in the gamekeeper and his lads."

"What's your reading of the servants. Any likely prospects there?"

Duggan considered, then slowly, definitely, shook his head. "A good bunch they are-none light-fingered, none hard-pressed. Her ladyship's generous and kind-none would want to hurt her."

Vane nodded, unsurprised to have Masters's confidence echoed. "Masters, Mrs. Henderson, and Ada will watch doings in the house; Grisham will handle the stables. I want you to spend as much time as you can keeping an eye on the grounds-from the perimeter of the house to as far as a man might walk."

Duggan's eyes narrowed. "You think someone might try to pass the pearls on?"

"That, or bury them. If you see any disturbance of the ground, investigate. The gardener's old-he won't be planting anywhere at this time of year."

"True enough."

"And I want you to listen to your parlormaid-encourage her to talk as much as she likes."

"Gawd." Duggan grimaced. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Nevertheless," Vane insisted. "While Masters and Mrs. Henderson will report anything odd, young maids, not wanting to appear silly, or to draw attention to something they've come across while doing something they shouldn't, might not mention an odd incident in the first place."

"Aye, well." Duggan tugged at his earlobe. "I suppose-seeing as it's the old lady and she's always been a good'un-I can make the sacrifice."

"Indeed," Vane replied dryly. "And if you hear anything, come straight to me."

Leaving Duggan musing on how to organize his searches, Vane strode back to the house. The sun was long past its zenith. Entering the front hall, he encountered Masters on his way to the dining room with the silverware. "Is Mr. Debbington about?"

"I haven't seen him since breakfast, sir. But he might have come in and be somewhere about."

Vane frowned. "He hasn't been into the kitchen after food?"

"No, sir."

Vane's frown deepened. "Where's his room?"

"Third floor, west wing-one but the last."

Vane took the stairs two at a time, then swung through the gallery and into the west wing. As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he heard footsteps descending. He looked up, half-expecting to see Gerrard. Instead, he saw Whitticombe.

Whitticombe didn't see him until he swung onto the same flight; he hesitated fractionally, then continued his purposeful descent. He inclined his head. "Cynster."

Vane returned his nod. "Have you seen Gerrard?"

Whitticombe's brows rose superciliously. "Debbington's room is at the end of the wing, mine is by the stairhead. I didn't see him up there."

With another curt nod, Whitticombe passed on down the stairs. Frowning, Vane continued his climb.

He knew he had the right room the instant he opened the door; the combined smell of paper, ink, charcoal, and paint was confirmation enough. The room was surprisingly neat; Vane cynically suspected Patience's influence. A large wooden table had been pushed up to the wide windows; its surface, the only cluttered area in the room, was covered with piles of loose sketches, sketchbooks, and an array of pens, nibs, and pencils, nestling amidst a straw of pencil shavings.