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Rutherford shifted his feet uneasily. “It is not my place to give tours, miss.”

“I realize that, but we do not need a tour in the normal sense of the word. We simply need to have a quick look inside every room.”

“Is there a reason why you believe Mr. Buckland to be here?” he asked.

“He left Lady Millward’s house last evening, intent on returning to the museum,” Emily said. “He has not been seen since.”

Rutherford’s furrowed brow showed his concern. “Could he have been involved in an accident?”

“We believe it likely,” Aunt Millward said. “But if it occurred on a public road, word would have reached Benning House by now. As it is, no one there has seen or heard from Mr. Buckland since yesterday.”

“So you believe he met with a serious injury here?”

It sounded far-fetched even to Emily’s ears, but Rutherford did not know of Mr. Fernsby’s duplicity. “It is a possibility we wish to confirm or rule out by checking every room,” she said.

Rutherford glanced at the manuscript saloon. A faint hum of voices came from beyond the closed door. Emily did not know how much longer the museum’s visitors would be there, but they had to act before the tour group started upstairs.

“Time is of the essence, Rutherford.” Aunt Millward’s patience was wearing thin; Emily’s was in shreds.

“Please, Rutherford,” Emily begged. “If we go now, we would not interfere with Mr. Townsend’s tour.”

The porter hesitated for a few seconds more, and then he gave a slight nod. “Very well. I’ll take you around. But only because it’s Mr. Buckland who’s missing.”

“Thank you, Rutherford.” Emily’s voice caught. It was only the first step, but it was a significant one.

He opened a drawer in the desk beside the front door and withdrew a large ring of keys.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked.

“Mr. Fernsby’s office,” Aunt Millward said firmly.

Rutherford straightened, apprehension in his eyes. “Going into the locked storage and collection rooms is one thing; going into the curators’ private offices seems like something else entirely.”

“We’ve already been in Mr. Buckland’s office, and I’m more than happy to speak to Mr. Townsend before entering his. Mr. Fernsby’s is the only remaining one, and it cannot be missed.” Aunt Millward began marching toward the stairs. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

Emily hurried after Aunt Millward, and with another quick look at the manuscript saloon door, Rutherford followed after them.

Aunt Millward maintained her rapid momentum all the way up the stairs. By the time she reached the landing, she was breathing heavily, but she pointed down the hall. “Mr. Fernsby’s office, if you please.”

Squaring his shoulders, Rutherford led the way. They passed Henry’s office and three display rooms before the porter stopped and sorted through the keys on the ring in his hand. Singling out one, he slid it into the lock and turned it. Emily’s heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest. Rutherford opened the door and then stepped back so that Aunt Millward and Emily could enter.

The small room was surprisingly spartan. A large table and two chairs took up the bulk of the space. The only objects on the table were an inkwell, quill, and small pile of clean paper. Three large easels stood holding canvases, and a pile of empty frames lay on the floor beside them. A box containing paint and brushes sat on the end of a shelf, and the remainder of the space was taken by books.

It was obvious that the usual occupant of the room enjoyed painting, but that appeared to be the only clue to his identity. The personal touches common in most gentlemen’s studies were missing. There was no hat or scarf. No handwritten notes. No plants on the shelf and no art on the wall. It appeared that Mr. Fernsby hung paintings everywhere in the museum except within his own office.

Aunt Millward circled the table before returning to join Emily and Rutherford at the door. Nothing needed to be said. There was no sign of Henry or any hint of a physical struggle.

“What is the next locked door, Rutherford?” she asked.

“That would be the art storage room, my lady.”

“Very well. We shall go there now.”

Rutherford waited for them to exit Mr. Fernsby’s room before closing the door and locking it behind him. He then moved to the next door and unlocked it. Once again, he stood aside to allow the ladies to enter. This room was long and narrow. The walls were covered in deep shelves that housed stacks of framed art. Emily walked the length of the room, glancing at the artwork as she searched for anything that might be out of place. It did not take long.

“Next,” Aunt Millward said.

Rutherford locked the door behind them and continued across the landing, leading them past four display rooms before stopping at another door. Emily stared at it, tears pricking the back of her eyes. She’d been here before on a happier day. This was the room that had housed the butterfly collection when it had first arrived. And it was where Henry had first kissed her. The light brush of his lips against her cheek hadn’t been anything like the earth-shattering kiss they’d shared in the garden so recently, but the tenderness behind it had opened Emily’s eyes to what her heart had already known.