"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.

Idly, Vane strolled to the desk and looked down.

The light streaming low through the window glanced off the surface of the table. Vane saw that the pencil shavings had recently been disturbed, then regathered. There were scraps of shavings between the edges of the loose sketches, and between the pages of the sketchbooks.

As if someone had leafed through the lot, then noticed the disturbed shavings and tidied them again.

Vane frowned, then he shook aside the idea. Probably just a curious-or smitten-maid.

He looked out of the windows. The west wing was on the opposite side of the house from the ruins. But the sun was steadily descending; Gerrard's rare morning light was long gone.

A tingle, an unnerving touch of premonition, slithered down Vane's spine. Vividly recalling the sight of Gerrard's easel and stool, but no Gerrard, Vane swore.

He descended the stairs much more rapidly than he'd climbed them.

His expression bleak, he strode through the hall, down the corridor, and out through the side door. And halted.

He was an instant too late in wiping the grim expression from his face. Patience, strolling in company with her harem, had instantly focused on him; alarm had already flared in her eyes. Inwardly, Vane cursed. Belatedly assuming his customary facade, he strolled to meet her.

And her harem.

Penwick was there. Vane gritted his teeth and returned Penwick's nod with distant arrogance.

"Minnie's resting," Patience informed him. Her eyes searched his. "I thought I'd get some air."

"A sound notion," Penwick pronounced. "Nothing like a turn about the gardens to blow away the megrims."

Everyone ignored him and looked at Vane.

"Thought you were going riding with young Gerrard," Henry said.

Vane resisted the urge to kick him. "I was," he replied. "I'm just going to haul him in."

Edmond frowned. "That's odd." He looked back at the ruins. "I can imagine he might miss lunch, but it's not that easy to put off the pangs this long. And the light's almost gone. He can't still be sketching."

"Perhaps we'd better mount a search," Henry suggested. "He must have moved on from where he was this morning."

"He could be anywhere," Edmond put in.

Vane gritted his teeth. "I know where he was-I'll fetch him."

"I'll go with you." Patience's words were a statement. One look at her face told Vane arguing would be wasted effort. He nodded curtly.

"Allow me, my dear Miss Debbington." Unctuously, Penwick offered his arm. "Naturally, we'll all come, to make sure your mind is set at rest. I'll have a word or two to say to Debbington, never fear. We can't allow him to so heedlessly overset you."

The look Patience sent him was scathing. "You'll do no such thing. I have had quite enough of your attempted interference, sir!"

"Indeed." Seizing opportunity, Vane seized Patience's hand. Stepping forward, brushing Penwick aside, he drew her around. And set off for the ruins at a clipping pace.