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 pe
ncil 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.