What the devil had Wickson said to Lady Victoria that made her face go pale and forced her to collapse onto a chair? John studied the small trio of Wickson, the colonel, and Lady Victoria. The men appeared bored by the conversation, so it couldn’t have been too important. Whatever it was, she recovered admirably. In less than a minute, she was back on her feet, smiling.

Returning to his own task, John examined the nearly identical faces of the Misses Owsley and decided that Grace was the pleasant one and Maud was the serious one. In his experience of twins, there was always one who was happy while the other was, well, if not precisely sad, then sober and serious. It was as if they’d split one character into two, with one infant retaining the carefree portion and the other left with the worries.

Wrinkles were already forming across Maud’s forehead and around her mouth, while her sister’s face was devoid of any such fretful marks.

As Miss Grace turned to speak to Miss Jacobs, he asked, “Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance on the pianoforte, Miss Maud?” He drew her away from the two other ladies to speak to her privately.

The furrows in her brow grew deeper before her face cleared. She nodded. “Yes, she is very talented, is she not? I enjoy Haydn very much.”

Her sister laughed and gave Miss Jacobs a tap on her shoulder with her fan.

He watched the two thoughtfully for a second before turning his attention back to Miss Maud. “Most talented. She never missed a note,” he remarked, giving her the opportunity to mention the discordant jumble of notes Miss Urick had executed in the middle of the piece.

“No—I wish I could play as well,” Miss Maud stated wistfully. “I was sorry when her concert ended.”

“Then you were fortunate enough to remain in the drawing room throughout the piece?”

A blush rose up her slender neck to her cheeks, but before she could answer, Miss Jacobs stepped closer to them and said, “Your sister and I have decided we absolutely must visit Grafton House on Bond Street tomorrow morning. There is a very superior linen draper there—Wilding and Kent, I believe—and I simply must see if they have bugle bead trimming that will suit my new gown.”

“A new gown?” Miss Grace asked, her blue eyes brilliant with excited curiosity. She moved closer and gripped Miss Jacobs’s arm. “You must tell us all about it—what color is it? Is it silk or muslin or some other lovely fabric?”

“There are certainly some items I would like to purchase, as well,” Miss Maud interjected in a thoughtful voice. “And a morning walk would be an excellent change. I do not approve of so much time spent indoors. It is unhealthy.”

“Do you enjoy fresh air, then, Miss Maud?” John asked.

“Yes, I do,” she replied firmly. “My sister may be content to while away the hours indoors, gossiping over her sewing, but I must have some exercise.” Her words held the flavor of a well-worn argument between the twins.

The impression was strengthened when Miss Grace heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes at her sister. “We do not all feel the need to wander about London at all hours, dearest.”

“Surely, not all hours,” John murmured. “Have you been outside this evening, Miss Maud? The night air is remarkably refreshing.”

“Though I noticed you elected to sit by the fire, Mr. Archer,” Miss Jacobs said with a grin.

“No.” Miss Maud frowned and folded her hands together at her slender waist. “Despite my sister’s disagreeable humor, I do not take the air at all hours. Night air is not beneficial to anyone, as she well knows. The less time spent breathing in the damp vapors of the night, the better.”

“So, you remained snug in this delightful drawing room this evening?” John asked in an effort to pin at least one sister down.

“Where would she go?” Miss Grace answered for her sibling. “It would have been quite rude to leave, would it not?” She gazed up at John, her blue eyes wide with artful innocence. Her cheeks dimpled with a smile. “Though, I must say, I regretted it when Miss Urick made such a muddle of Mr. Haydn’s piece, halfway through. I cannot understand how she came to do such a thing, though perhaps Mr. Fitton distracted her.” Flashing a glance in Fitton’s direction, a contemplative and yet predatory look settled over her heart-shaped face. “He is dreadfully distracting, do you not agree?” Her smile grew again, and she stared at John obliquely through her thick lashes. “All of you gentlemen can be quite distracting, in fact.”

“Indeed, I hadn’t noticed,” John replied in a dry voice. At least he knew that Miss Grace had been in the room during the period in question, if she heard Miss Urick massacre Haydn. “Do you agree with Miss Grace, Miss Jacobs?”

Miss Jacobs laughed lightly, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Men are often more disagreeable than distracting.”

“Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance at the pianoforte?” he clarified, curbing his impatience.

He could sense the desire of the ladies surrounding him to be done with his questions and move on to the obviously more interesting—at least to them—topic of what tempting items they might find at the linen draper’s in Grafton House.

“Yes, from what I heard. Although, I must confess that I failed to notice this egregious error Miss Owsley described,” Miss Jacobs waved an airy hand, dismissing the topic. “I am not an accomplished musician, myself, you see.”

“You are too modest.” John bowed politely.

“Or honest.” Miss Jacobs laughed.

Although the girl was plain, the amusement brightening her gray eyes made her more attractive than her wispy, mousy-brown hair, bulb of a nose, and thin lips might otherwise have granted. It was clear why Wickson had been interested. He always fell for good-natured girls, which was fortunate, since they were the only ones who seemed able to tolerate his kind, but oft-vague intellect.

Too bad that he seemed torn between Miss Urick and Miss Jacobs, for it seemed Miss Urick, at least, was setting her cap at the handsome—and apparently tone deaf—Mr. Fitton.

“It is too bad about Lady Victoria, is it not?” Miss Jacobs asked, her gaze fixed on John’s face.

“Not at all,” John replied, glancing around.

Mrs. Stedman and Lady Longmoor were sitting nearby on a sofa in front of the fire. The wing chair next to them remained empty, drawing his gaze. The deep cushions had been remarkably comfortable.

His side ached dully, and he pressed his elbow against the bandage in an effort to concentrate. The sense of time passing bothered him like a pesky fly. He would not be allowed to question the guests forever. Sooner or later, Mrs. Stedman would demand that the authorities be sent for, with the inevitable result that Lady Victoria would be humiliated with an accusation—false or not.

It was unconscionable. His shoulders tightened with anger, and he rotated them, staring at the empty chair.

“It is difficult to believe that Lady Victoria would do such a thing,” Miss Maud said in a breathless voice. Her blue eyes glittered as her lips twitched in a half smile. “Perhaps she didn’t realize—or only meant to try on the tiara. I’m sure no one would have even thought to associate her with theft, but her own mother…” Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, she smothered a nervous giggle. “Well, if her own mother believes she is guilty, one can hardly argue. After all, one must agree that her own family knows her best.”

“Lady Victoria is not a thief. The case was empty when she found it,” John restated crushingly.

When he fixed his gaze on Miss Maud, she flushed and lowered her eyes to stare at the floor. “Of course,” she agreed quietly.

“Will you ladies excuse me?” John asked, not waiting for a reply before he walked over to the fire.

Stopping behind the wing chair, he rested his forearms on the high curved back and studied the two women on the sofa. Chances were good that neither one of them could add anything to his small sum of knowledge, but he wanted to hear Mrs. Stedman’s opinion. She seemed like a reasonable woman, not given to leaping to odd conclusions, and she might have seen or heard something. For her part, Lady Longmoor had clearly decided that her daughter was to blame, so her thoughts on the matter could be safely discounted.

“Good evening, Lady Longmoor. Mrs. Stedman.” He executed a shallow bow before going around the chair.

Both ladies rose to their feet, exchanging glances.

“Mr. Archer,” Lady Longmoor replied coolly. “Won’t you join us?” She waved at the chair. “It is very comfortable here by the fire.”

“So it appears,” he agreed, waiting until the ladies reseated themselves before he sat down. “This matter of Mrs. Stedman’s missing headdress is disturbing, is it not?”

“I cannot understand it,” Mrs. Stedman replied. A frown pinched her mouth.

John rubbed his temple absently. “I can’t help but wonder if anyone expressed an interest in the jewels? Perhaps someone wanted to take a closer look at the workmanship?”

“Lady Victoria was the only one who said anything about it, and she was most insistent that I remove it,” Mrs. Stedman admitted. “Though at the time, I thought she was only concerned that the piece was giving me a terrible headache. She seemed so kind.” She addressed the last statement to Lady Longmoor, and patted her ladyship’s gloved wrist.

Lady Longmoor sighed. “I don’t think she realizes what she is doing. It is so distressing—you cannot imagine.”

“Oh, I am convinced it was not deliberate,” Mrs. Stedman hastened to add. “I simply wish she would return it—I assure you I would not make a fuss or rebuke her.”

“I don’t suppose either of you noticed if anyone was missing from the drawing room during your card game?” John lounged back in the chair, gazing into the crackling flames.

Two logs and numerous smaller branches had been arranged on the fire irons, and a great deal of the wood had turned to white ash, interspersed with crimson embers. The two logs, however, supplied enough fuel to create low flames that sparked when a damp pocket beneath the bark burst. The fire was so mesmerizing and his concentration on the few facts he had so complete, that he didn’t immediately catch Mrs. Stedman’s reply.

“I beg your pardon?” He looked at her.

“A great many guests were moving around,” Mrs. Stedman repeated. “Why, we even had to pause our game when the colonel went to refresh himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if others did not disappear for brief periods, as well.”

“Refresh himself?” John leaned back and crossed his legs.

Mrs. Stedman nodded, an earnest expression on her face. “It was about the time Miss Urick stumbled—oh, but I assure you it was the slightest mistake only, and even the most accomplished musicians may make the occasional error.”

“So, the colonel was not in the drawing room the entire time?” His interest quickened.

“No—but he was not gone that long. We resumed our game quite soon, did we not, Lady Longmoor?”

Lady Longmoor nodded, her gaze moving from Mrs. Stedman to John. “I do not see how it can matter in the least. He was not missing for a lengthy period, and I cannot imagine a man stealing Mrs. Stedman’s tiara. Can you?”

“I can imagine all sorts of things, Lady Longmoor,” John replied absently as his mind raced. “Do either of you remember how long he was absent?”

Once again, Lady Longmoor and Mrs. Stedman exchanged glances. Shrugging, Lady Longmoor’s gaze fell on the fireplace, a dismissive look smoothing her features.

“Fifteen minutes, perhaps?” Mrs. Stedman replied at last. “I did not notice the time, you see. It is only a guess. And the colonel—I am quite sure the colonel could have had nothing to do with this.”

“The idea is absurd,” Lady Longmoor stated. “A man like that?”

And yet you are perfectly willing to believe it of your own daughter. John’s jaw tightened.

Families had such odd notions of loyalty. If her son had been accused, John was sure that Lady Longmoor would not have been so willing to believe her child was involved, even if he were caught with the tiara in his pocket. Some excuse would have been made, and the entire matter swept away.

He was quite familiar with the twin concepts of scapegoats and the unimpeachable reputations of heirs.

Despite the sour thought, a brief assessment of Mrs. Stedman’s information only left him with more questions. The list of those who might have stolen the headdress only grew longer and more puzzling.

Thus far, he knew for certain that the colonel, Mrs. Grisdale, Wickson, Sir Arnold, and Lady Victoria had all been absent at one point or another, during the critical time between Mrs. Stedman’s removal of her tiara and Lady Victoria’s discovery of the empty box. Furthermore, it appeared that Lady Victoria’s maid might have been waltzing around the street in front of the townhouse during the same period.

Had the maid been there to receive stolen goods, as suspected by Lady Longmoor? Why the girl had been there was anyone’s guess until she arrived, and even then, she might decide to hide the truth if she really were involved in theft.

And he remained uneasy about the truthfulness of the other young ladies, as well. Although from Miss Grace Owsley’s criticism of Miss Urick’s performance, it seemed that at least Miss Grace was in the drawing room during the time in question.

To sum up what he knew without a doubt, Miss Urick was torturing the pianoforte, with Mr. Fitton at her shoulder. Miss Grace was present—or close enough—to hear the entire discordant concert, Lord and Lady Longmoor were at the card table, along with Mrs. Stedman, and Wickson was loitering on the balcony with Sir Arnold, where he saw someone in a puce pelisse stroll by.

What of Miss Grisdale? He examined her from across the room, his crossed leg swinging gently.

The dark-haired girl sat in a shadowy corner, clasping her mother’s hands and leaning forward to speak to her. She flicked a glance in his direction, shifted even closer to her mother, and whispered more urgently, her hand held next to her mouth.

Frowning, he stood wearily and strode over to the Grisdale ladies. “Good evening, Mrs. Grisdale. Miss Grisdale. Sir Arnold’s supper has not gone as well as could be hoped.”

“I should think not!” Mrs. Grisdale exclaimed, fixing her steely gaze on Lady Victoria. “I cannot understand why the authorities have not been sent for. I, for one, grow weary and wish to return home, as does my daughter. It is most inappropriate to expose innocent young ladies to such corrupting influences. Why, Lady Victoria must be at least two-and-twenty if she is a day—it is ridiculous for her parents to continue parading her every Season as if she were a debutante! At her age! It is nothing short of scandalous, and even they are aware of it, for her own mother agreed that her daughter’s morals were not what they ought to be—her own mother!”

“Oh, Mama, please.” Miss Grisdale flashed him an anguished look of mortification before hanging her head to stare steadfastly at her clasped hands. Although she wore evening gloves, it was clear that her twisting grip was white-knuckled.

At barely eighteen, she was young enough to still suffer from embarrassment at the behavior of her parents. Or at least her sanctimonious mother.

John could certainly sympathize with her. “Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance at the pianoforte?” he asked in an apparent change of subject.

Miss Grisdale glanced up, a grateful smile curving her lips. “Oh, yes. I adore music, and Mr. Haydn is so lovely.”

“Yes, although I am not much of a critic.” John studied a button on the cuff of his jacket. “I am told one of the notes was wrong, though I didn’t hear it, myself.”

“Oh, well…” Blushing, Miss Grisdale’s voice trailed off. She cast an uneasy glance at her mother. “I, well, I do not wish to criticize, of course. I’m sure Miss Urick was simply distracted. Or perhaps Mr. Fitton failed to turn the page at the proper point.”

Her mother smiled with approval at her daughter, and patted her clasped hands. “Very true, my dear. Although I doubt you would have made the same error, even if Mr. Fitton did fail to turn the page. If you had been given the opportunity at the pianoforte instead of that Miss Urick—not that she isn’t the most delightful girl—I’m sure the results would have been much more satisfactory.”

“Oh, Mama.” Her sallow cheeks growing even brighter crimson, Miss Grisdale’s shoulders curved inward as she fixed her stare on her clasped hands again. Clearly, her mother’s efforts to push her daughter forward were not appreciated by the shy young lady. “I’m sure I would probably have made precisely the same error. It is not easy to play in front of a room full of strangers, you know.”

“Hardly strangers,” her mother corrected her sharply. “And there are only fifteen of us. You must not be so modest, my dear.” Mrs. Grisdale smiled complacently at John before the hard, censorious look returned to her hazel eyes, making them appear a muddy brown in the candlelight.

He could almost hear her asking herself why she was wasting valuable time talking to someone like John, who had no social standing to speak of, and must therefore be entirely inappropriate for her daughter.

Mrs. Grisdale shifted to block her daughter from John’s view with her thin shoulder. When he remained standing where he was, Mrs. Grisdale inhaled sharply and rose to her feet.

“I believe I will speak to Sir Arnold and insist that the proper authorities be called so that we may all go home.” Mrs. Grisdale shook out her heavy gray silk skirt and looked around in search of their host.

“If one of the guests picked up the tiara—” John said.

“You mean stole,” Mrs. Grisdale corrected him.

“Then it must still be here,” he concluded, clasping his hands behind his back as he eyed her.

“Unless that creature gave it to her maid,” Mrs. Grisdale pointed out.

“She has been sent for. It should not be long before we discover if the maid was indeed here.”

“As if a maid would tell the truth,” Mrs. Grisdale scoffed. “That is precisely why the authorities must be called. They will get the truth out of the girl—both of them.”

“Beat it out of them?” John asked languidly, his brows rising.

Mrs. Grisdale’s hazel eyes flashed and her thin mouth tightened. Grasping the beaded reticule hanging by a black ribbon from her left wrist, her right hand tightened, grinding the beads together. “If they must, then certainly.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “What other solution is there? You cannot propose to have us all searched—why, the Marquess of Longmoor is here, as well as the colonel—who is the Earl of Parmar. It simply cannot be done.”

“If you will recall, Lady Victoria is the daughter of the marquess.” John’s tone grew even blander. “You can hardly propose to allow the authorities to beat a confession out of her.”

“Her own mother condemned her—we all heard her,” Mrs. Grisdale replied triumphantly. “And I daresay that maid of hers will confess readily enough.” She turned to look at her daughter with a swish of her skirts. “It is no concern of mine.”

Before John could reply, the butler stepped through the doorway and cleared his throat. The slight form of a girl, her face pale and eyes wide with terror, stood behind him, wearing a puce pelisse.

He searched out and found Lady Victoria. As he watched, she turned to face the door, her hands clasped at her waist, her shoulders straight. Her beautiful face was composed and calm, and once again, his admiration for her soared. Despite her obvious strength, he wished he stood closer to her to lend her a bit more strength for what lay ahead.

No matter what the maid said, it was bound to be upsetting.