“My mind knows it. My heart is still catching up.” She took a grateful sip of tea. “Is the Duke awake? Sebastian?”
“He has been up for hours, I believe. The Dowager told me he came to speak with her late last night—I informed her about the missing pearl, and she passed the news to him.” Helena’s expression gentled. “He was walking the grounds at dawn. Searching, I suspect—for the pearl. He asked the groundskeeper to have the terrace examined at first light. He seemed quite determined.”
Something loosened in Cecilia’s chest—a knot she had not known was there. Sebastian was searching for her pearl. He understood its meaning. He was trying to help.
“He is a good man,” she said quietly.
“He is. Better than most realise.” Helena set down her teacup. “Now, finish your breakfast, and we will go speak with the housekeeper about the ballroom. If the pearl is anywhere in this house, we will find it.”
***
The housekeeper was a formidable woman named Mrs Crawford, with iron-grey hair and an expression that suggested she had seen everything and was impressed by none of it.
“A pearl,” she repeated, when Cecilia had explained the situation. “From a necklace. Lost sometime during the ball.”
“Yes. It is… it was my mother’s. One of the few things I have left of her.” Cecilia loathed the pleading note that crept into her voice, but she could not help it. “If there is any chance it was found during the cleaning—”
“I shall ask the maids. Had any of them discovered a loose pearl, they would have brought it to me.” Mrs Crawford’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You are welcome to search the ballroom yourself, Miss Ashwood. The cleaning is nearly finished, but I can have the staff delay the final polishing until you have looked.”
“Thank you. I am very grateful.”
The ballroom, in daylight, was a different creature entirely.
Without candlelight or music or the swirl of dancers, it was merely a vast room with very high ceilings and a faint, weary air of aftermath. The flowers drooped in their vases; a few crushed petals and abandoned dance cards lingered in the corners, the last traces of the night’s festivities. The enchantment had faded, leaving only the prosaic remains of celebration.
Cecilia moved through the room methodically, examining every inch of floor with desperate care. She searched the places where she had stood, where she had danced, where she had received congratulations. She went down on her hands and knees to peer beneath furniture, ignoring the curious glances of the maids who were waiting to resume their work.
Nothing. The pearl was not here.
“Perhaps the terrace,” Helena suggested at last, when Cecilia straightened, her knees aching and her heart sinking. “I believe you were outside for some time.”
“Yes. The terrace.”
They made their way through the French doors onto the stone terrace where Cecilia had stood with Sebastian just hours before. In daylight, it was less romantic—just a stretch of weathered stone overlooking a garden settling toward winter—yet Cecilia remembered the stars, the cold air, the warmth of Sebastian’s hands.
She had been wearing the pearls then. She had felt them at her throat as she stood beside him beneath the night sky. Thepearl might have fallen here—might be lodged between stones, hidden in some narrow crevice, waiting to be found.
She dropped to her knees again, ignoring the damp seeping through her She dropped to her knees once more, heedless of the damp seeping through her borrowed gown. Her fingers traced the edges of the flagstones, probed the gaps between them, searched every shadow and fissure.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“It is not here,” she said at last, sinking back on her heels. Her voice emerged thick and strained with tears she was fighting not to shed. “It is gone. I have lost it.”
“We do not yet know that—”
“I have searched everywhere. The ballroom, the terrace—every place I remember standing. If it were here, I should have found it.” She pressed her hands to her face, struggling for composure. “It was my mother’s… the last piece of her I possessed. And I lost it because I was too busy being happy to notice—”
“Cecilia.”
The voice was not Helena’s.
She looked up to find Sebastian standing in the doorway, his expression taut with concern. He was dressed for the outdoors—boots, a heavy coat—and there was mud on his trousers, as though he had been walking the grounds.
“Helena,” he said, without looking away from Cecilia, “would you give us a moment?”
Helena withdrew silently, pulling the French doors closed behind her.
Sebastian crossed the terrace to where Cecilia was.
