“I am sorrier than I can say,” he said, “about the last set.”

“But we are not children,” she said, smiling, “to have a tantrum whenever we are deprived of an expected treat.”

“Perhaps you are a saint, Judith,” he said, his eyes narrowing with the old mockery. “I am not. I could throw a tantrum in the middle of the ballroom right now, lying on my back, drumming my heels on the wooden floor, punching my fists in the air, and cursing most foully.”

She burst into delighted laughter, and he tipped his head to one side and pursed his lips.

“You were created for laughter and happiness,” he said. “May I call on you tomorrow morning?”

Whatever for?

“I am sure everyone would be delighted,” she said.

He regarded her with steady eyes, mockery still lurking in their depths.

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” he said. “I asked if I might call upon you , Judith.”

He could mean only one thing, surely. But he had asked before—in a manner she had found offensive—and she had answered quite firmly in the negative. But that had been two weeks ago. Much had happened since. Much had changed, though perhaps nothing more than her own opinion of him. His of her could not have changed much, could it? She was still the impoverished daughter of a never wealthy but now impoverished country clergyman, while he was still the son of a duke and second in line to the title.

“If you wish.” She found that she was whispering, but he heard her.

He made her a deep bow, and they returned together to the ballroom, where he helped his grandmother to her feet, tucked her arm protectively through his, led her toward Aunt Effingham, whose tall hair plumes nodded with stiff graciousness, and then out of the ballroom.

Judith sat down in the chair Lady Beamish had just vacated and wondered if the rest of the night would be long enough in which to digest all that had happened this evening.

“Do not worry, Judith, my love,” her grandmother said, setting one plump hand over both hers in her lap and patting them. “I have no intention of leaving the ballroom before the last bar of music has died away.

But I did not want Sarah to feel that she was abandoning me. I fear she is quite ill and has been for some time past, though she will never talk of her health.”

And so after all Judith danced the final set—with Lord Braithwaite again—though she would have far preferred to retire to her own room. Upsetting thoughts of Branwell churned about in her head with anxious, euphoric ones about tomorrow morning’s visit, while at the same time she had to smile and respond to Lord Braithwaite’s mildly flirtatious conversation.

A full-blown ball that did not finish until after one o’clock in the morning was rare in the country. Many of the outside guests left even before the final set ended. None of them lingered long afterward. Neither did the orchestra. Only the family, the houseguests, and a few servants were left in the ballroom when a small commotion was heard outside the doors.

Tillie’s voice could be heard raised above the softer, haughtier tones of the butler.

“But I have to talk to her now ,” Tillie was saying, obviously agitated over something. “I have waited long enough. Perhaps too long.”

The butler argued, but Judith’s grandmother, who had just got to her feet and was leaning on Judith’s arm, looked toward the doors in some surprise.

“Tillie?” she called. “Whatever is the matter? Come in here, do.”

Everyone stopped to watch and listen as Tillie hurried into the ballroom, wringing her hands, her face distraught.

“It is your jewels, ma’am,” she cried.

“What about them?” Uncle George asked, exerting himself.

“Gone!” Tillie announced in tones a tragic heroine might have envied. “All gone. The box was open and upside down on the floor in your dressing room, ma’am, when I got there, and there is not a sign of a single piece except what you are wearing on your person.”

“Nonsense, Tillie,” Horace said, stepping up beside his father. “I daresay they were spilled earlier in Step-grandmama’s hurry to be ready in time for the ball and you piled them into a drawer to be put away properly later. You have simply forgotten.”

Tillie gathered together her dignity. “I would not have done any such thing, sir,” she said. “I would not have spilled the box, and if I had , I would have stayed until every piece was picked up and put back where it belonged.”

Her mistress meanwhile was gripping Judith’s hand so tightly that all her rings were digging painfully into her granddaughter’s hand.

“They are gone, Tillie?” she asked. “Stolen?”

It was as if everyone else had been waiting only for that word to be spoken. There was a buzzing of sound and a crescendo of excitement.

“There are no thieves in this house,” Aunt Effingham said sharply. “The very idea! You must look harder, Tillie. They must be somewhere .”

“I hunted everywhere, ma’am,” Tillie said. “Three times.”

“There have been a number of outsiders here tonight,” Mrs. Hardinge pointed out, “and some of their servants.”

“We are all outsiders too,” Mr. Webster reminded her.

“We cannot possibly suspect any of our guests,” Uncle George said.

“Someone has stolen Mother’s jewels,” Aunt Louisa told him. “They obviously did not disappear on their own.”

“But whoever would have had a motive?” her mother asked.

Branwell, Judith thought and felt instantly ashamed. Bran would never steal. Would he? From his own grandmother? But would he for that very reason have justified his act as one of borrowing rather than stealing? Who else could have done it? Bran had been backed farther into a corner this evening. He had left Harewood in the middle of the ball, in the middle of the night. He had been very agitated. He had not wanted her to go upstairs with him or see him on his way. Branwell. It was Bran. And soon everyone else would realize it too. She felt dizzy and had to concentrate hard upon not fainting.

“Who is short of money?” Horace asked.

His words hung in the air rather like an obscenity. No one answered.

“And who had the opportunity?” he asked. “Who knew where Step-grandmama keeps her jewels and would be bold enough to go into her room to get them?”

Branwell. It seemed to Judith that the name fairly screamed itself into the silence.

“It could not have been an outsider,” Horace continued. “Not unless he was a very bold man indeed or had an accomplice in the house. How would anyone know the right room? How would he accomplish the task without being detected? Or missed from the ballroom? Was anyone missing from the ballroom for any length of time?”

Branwell.

Everyone seemed to speak at once after that. Everyone had an opinion, a suggestion, or a shocked comment on the theft. Judith bent her head to her grandmother’s.

“Will you sit down, Grandmama?” she asked. “You are trembling.”

They both sat, and Judith chafed the old lady’s hands.

“They will be found,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

But how far had Bran well ridden by now? And where was he going? What would he do with the jewels? Pawn them? Sell them? Surely he would not do that. Surely there were some remnants of honor left in his conscience. He must see that the jewels would have to be retrievable. But how would they ever be redeemed?

“It is not so much the value of the jewels,” her grandmother said, “as the fact that your grandpapa gave them to me. Who could hate me this much, Judith? There was a thief in my own room . How can I ever go into it again?”

Her voice was shaking and breathless. She sounded old and defeated.

Uncle George and Horace finally took charge again. They sent the butler to fetch all the servants so that all could be questioned. Judith wanted to take her grandmother upstairs, even if only to her own room, where she could be quiet and Tillie could perhaps bring her a cup of tea and her night things to change into. But her grandmother would not move.

It was a long, tedious process, which was clearly going to lead nowhere, Judith thought over the next half an hour. What amazed her more than anything else was that no one had missed Branwell yet. Uncle George asked if any servant had been upstairs to the bedchamber floor since the ball began. Three of them had, including the chambermaid Judith had bumped into on the way out of her room. All of them had had a good reason to be up there and all of them had worked at Hare wood long enough to be judged trustworthy.

“And no one else went up there?” Uncle George added with a sigh.

“If you please, sir,” the maid said. “Miss Law did.”

All eyes turned Judith’s way, and she felt herself flushing.

“I went up to exchange Grandmama’s earrings,” she said. “The others were pinching her. But the jewel box was in its accustomed place at that time and all the jewelry was in it. I made the exchange and came back down. The theft must have happened since that time. It was ... let me see. It was between the first and second sets.”

“But you was coming out of your room, miss,” the chambermaid said. “You was flying and we ran right into each other. Remember?”

“That is right,” Judith said. “The earrings Grandmama wanted were in my reticule, where they had been since the evening we were all at Grandmaison.”

“It must have been when you were returning to the ballroom that you almost ran into me, Cousin,”

Horace said. “You were quite breathless. You looked to be almost in a panic. But yes, I can confirm that that was between the first and second sets.”

“Judith, my love.” Her grandmother was very close to tears. “I sent you up there and might have been sending you to your death. What if you had walked in on the thief? You might have been struck over the head.”

“It did not happen, Grandmama,” she said soothingly. She wished she had walked in on Bran. She could have prevented this whole nightmare.

“Well,” Horace said briskly, “we are going to have to start searching, that is all.”

“Distasteful,” Uncle George said. “We cannot search people’s rooms, and the thief would hardly have hidden the jewels in any of the public rooms.”

“Well, I for one do not object to having my room searched,” Horace said. “In fact, Father, I insist that it be the first to be searched.”

“If I may make so bold, Sir George,” the butler said, stepping forward, “I will volunteer my own room to be searched and those of the other servants too unless anyone has an objection. If anyone does, speak up now.”

The servants all held their peace. Which of them, after all, would voice an objection when doing so must throw instant suspicion on them?

Lord Braithwaite cleared his throat. “You may search my room too, sir,” he said.

There was a murmuring of assent from all the other guests, though Judith guessed it was grudging in many cases. It would feel like violation to have one’s room searched, to feel even if only for a few minutes that one was being suspected of theft. But she kept her mouth shut.

“Would you like to go to your room, Grandmama?” she asked again after Uncle George, Horace, the butler, and Tillie had left the ballroom. “Or to mine if you would prefer?”

“No.” Her grandmother was looking more dejected than Judith had ever seen her. “I will stay here. I hope they do not find the jewels. Is that not foolish? I would rather never see them again than know that someone in this house has stolen them. Why did whoever it is not ask me? I have plenty. I would give to any relative or friend or servant in need. But I suppose people are too proud to ask, are they not?”

Julianne was sobbing in her mother’s arms, and looking remarkably pretty in the process.

“This has turned out to be a perfectly horrid evening,” she wailed. “I have hated every moment of it, and I am sure everyone else will pronounce it a disaster and never accept another invitation from us all their lives.”

The servants stood in silence. The guests huddled in small, self-conscious groups, talking in lowered voices.

Another half hour passed before the search party returned, looking grave.

“This has been found,” Uncle George said into the hush that had fallen over the ballroom. “Tillie recognized it. It is from Mother-in-law’s jewelry box.” He held aloft the wine-colored velvet bag that usually contained her most valuable jewels. It was very obviously empty. “And this, also from the box.”