At least Agnes hadn’t noticed the white handkerchief under the ring, with Cecil’s cursive initials—C. F. W. for Cecil Frederic Whitstone—and the distinctive family crest embroidered onto a corner. Evangeline tucked the handkerchief in the waistband of her undergarments and went about cleaning up the mess.
Mrs. Whitstone materialized in the library while the children were taking turns reading aloud from a primer. They looked up in surprise. It wasn’t like their mother to show up unannounced during their lessons.
“Miss Stokes,” she said in an unusually high-handed tone, “please conclude the lesson as expediently as you can and meet me in the drawing room. Ned, Beatrice—Mrs. Grimsby has prepared a special pudding. As soon as you are done you may make your way to the kitchen.”
The children exchanged curious glances.
“But Miss Stokes always takes us downstairs for tea,” Ned said.
His mother gave him a thin smile. “I am quite sure you can find the way on your own.”
“Are we being punished?” Ned asked.
“Certainly not.”
“Is Miss Stokes?” Beatrice asked.
“What a ridiculous question.”
Evangeline felt a tingle of dread.
“Did Mrs. Grimsby make a sponge cake?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Mrs. Whitstone left the library. Evangeline took a deep breath. “Let’s finish this section, shall we?” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it, and anyway the children were distracted, thinking about the cake. When Ned reached the end of his singsongy recitation of a paragraph about boating, she smiled and said, “All right, children, that’s enough. You may run along to your tea.”
There it was: the ruby ring, sparkling in the glow of the whale-oil lamps in the gloomy drawing room. Mrs. Whitstone held it out in front of her like a treasure-hunt find. “Where did you get this?”
Evangeline twisted the corner of her apron, an old habit from childhood. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s your implication.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking a question.”
Evangeline heard a noise behind her and turned, startled at the sight of a constable standing in the shadows behind a chair. His moustache drooped. He wore a black fitted waistcoat and a truncheon in a holster; in his hands were a notebook and pencil.
“Sir,” she said, curtsying slightly. Her heart was beating so loudly she feared he could hear it.
He inclined his head, marking something in the notebook.
“This ring was found in your possession,” Mrs. Whitstone said.
“You—you went into my room.”
“You are in the employ of this household. It is not your room.”
Evangeline had no answer to that.
“Agnes spied it on the dresser when she went to check on you. As you know. And then you hid it.” Holding up the ring again, Mrs. Whitstone looked past Evangeline toward the constable. “This ring is my husband’s property.”
“It isn’t. It belongs to Cecil,” Evangeline blurted.
The constable looked back and forth between the two women. “Cecil?”
Mrs. Whitstone gave Evangeline a sharp look. “The younger Mr. Whitstone. My stepson.”
“Would you agree that this is your stepson’s ring?” His moustache twitched under his bulbous nose when he spoke.
With a pinched smile, Mrs. Whitstone said, “It belonged to my husband’s mother. There is a question, perhaps, about whether the ring now belongs to my husband or to his son. It most certainly does not belong to Miss Stokes.”
“He gave it to me,” Evangeline said.
Only a few days earlier, Cecil had pulled a small blue velvet box from his pocket and rested it on her knee. “Open it.”
She’d looked at him in surprise. A ring box. Could it be? Impossible, of course, and yet . . . She allowed herself a small surge of hope. Wasn’t he always telling her that she was more beautiful, more charming, cleverer than any woman in his circle? Wasn’t he always saying that he didn’t give a fig about his family’s expectations for him or society’s silly moral judgments?
When she’d opened the lid, her breath caught in her throat: a band of gold, ornately filigreed, rose in four curved prongs to support a deep red stone.
“My grandmother’s ruby,” he told her. “She bequeathed it to me when she died.”
“Oh, Cecil. It’s stunning. But are you—”
“Oh, no, no! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he’d said with a small laugh. “For now, just seeing it on your finger is enough.”
When he extracted the ring from its slot in the cushion and slipped it onto her finger, the gesture had felt both thrillingly intimate and strangely constricting. She’d never worn one before; her father, a vicar, did not believe in adornments. Gently Cecil bent his head to her hand and kissed it. Then he snapped shut the velvet box, slipped it back into the pocket of his waistcoat, and withdrew a white handkerchief. “Tuck the ring into this and hide it away until I return from holiday. It will be our secret.”
Now, in the drawing room with the constable, Mrs. Whitstone snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Why in the world would Cecil ever give you . . .” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Evangeline.
Evangeline realized that she had said too much. It will be our secret. But Cecil wasn’t here. She felt desperate, trapped.
And now, in defending herself, she had given away the real secret.
“Where is the younger Mr. Whitstone now?” the constable asked.
“Abroad,” said Mrs. Whitstone, at the same time that Evangeline said, “Venice.”
“An attempt could be made to contact him,” the constable said. “Do you have an address?”
Mrs. Whitstone shook her head. “That will not be necessary.” Crossing her arms, she said, “It’s obvious the girl is lying.”
The constable raised an eyebrow. “Is there a history of lying?”
“I have no idea. Miss Stokes has only been with us a few months.”
“Five,” Evangeline said. Summoning her strength, she turned to face the constable. “I’ve done my best to educate Mrs. Whitstone’s children and help shape their moral character. I’ve never been accused of anything.”
Mrs. Whitstone gave a dry little laugh. “So she says.”
“Easy enough to find out,” the constable said.
“I did not steal the ring,” Evangeline said. “I swear it.”
The constable tapped the notebook with his pencil. “Noted.”
Mrs. Whitstone gave Evangeline a cold, appraising look. “The truth is, I’ve had my suspicions about this girl for some time. She comes and goes at odd hours of the day and night. She’s secretive. The housemaids find her aloof. And now we know why. She stole a family heirloom and thought she would get away with it.”
“Would you be willing to testify to that effect?”
“Certainly.”
Evangeline’s stomach dropped. “Please,” she begged the constable, “could we wait for Cecil’s return?”
Mrs. Whitstone turned on her with a scowl. “I will not tolerate this inappropriate familiarity. He is Mr. Whitstone to you.”