“I have been searching since dawn,” he said. “The groundskeeper and I covered the entire terrace, the paths, and the areas where we walked. I had hoped—” He stopped, shook his head. “I have not found it yet.”
She swallowed. “Then it is gone.”
“No.” His reply was quiet, but firm. “I will not stop looking.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The pale morning light lay across the flagstones; somewhere in the garden, a bird called, thin and wistful.
When he spoke again, his tone was different—gentler, almost reverent.
“She wore them often, did she not?”
Cecilia looked at him, startled—then nodded, tears spilling over despite herself.
“Yes,” she whispered. “She wore them when she played the pianoforte… in the evenings, when my father read. She used to sing—she had the softest voice. And she believed in me—always. She said women were not incapable, merely… less permitted.”
“She sounds like a very wise woman.”
“She was.” Cecilia drew a breath that trembled. “She died when I was twelve. Those pearls were… part of her. And now—”
His hand rose and brushed a tear from her cheek—not dramatic, simply tender.
“They are part of you,” he said quietly. “All that she taught you—all she was—none of that is lost because a single pearl has slipped free.”
Her eyes closed. “I know. But it… matters.”
“Yes.” His voice softened further. “It does.”
He hesitated—then added, almost as if admitting a confidence:
“I keep my father’s pocket-watch in my desk. It has not worked in years, yet I cannot bring myself to have it mended. The last time it ticked… he was alive.” A faint breath. “We are not rational creatures where love is concerned.”
She looked at him—truly looked—and something inside her eased.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For not making me feel foolish.”
“You are not foolish,” he said. He squeezed her hands. “Now. Let us be practical. Where else might the pearl have fallen? When did you last notice the necklace was whole?”
Cecilia closed her eyes, trying to retrace the evening. “In my room, before I went down. I touched the pearls—they were complete then. I would have noticed otherwise.”
“Then it fell sometime afterwards—in the corridor, on the stairs, in the entrance hall…”
“The entrance hall.” A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. “When my aunt confronted me—when the Dowager intervened. I was nervous. I remember touching my throat—feeling for the pearls. It is a habit when I am uneasy.”
“Could you have dislodged one, without realising?”
“It is possible. The clasp was already weakened. If I tugged at the strand without thinking…”
“Then we search the entrance hall.”
Sebastian rose and helped her to her feet. “Come—we have new ground to cover.”
***
The entrance hall was empty when they arrived, the morning’s bustle of departing guests having concluded hours before. Sebastian summoned a footman and explained what they were looking for; within minutes, a small army of servants was examining every inch of the marble floor.
Cecilia joined the search without hesitation, moving with calm purpose as she checked beneath console tables and behind potted plants. Sebastian searched beside her—a duke on his knees upon the marble—and together they worked in quiet concentration.
“Your Grace?”
