But the household was looking elsewhere. It began with a cry from the upper floor.
Beatrice came down the great staircase in a state of high distress, one hand pressed to her bosom, her maid Dorcas fluttering anxiously behind her. The guests at breakfast turned in their chairs; footmen froze with platters in their hands.
"My brooch!" the Duchess cried. "My mother's diamond brooch! It is gone! It is stolen!"
A murmur swept the hall.
"I laid it in my dressing case last night with my own hands," Beatrice went on, her voice climbing toward tears. "And this morning, the case is empty! Someone has taken it—someone in this very house!" She let her gaze sweep the gathered company, wild-eyed and trembling, the very picture of a wronged and frightened lady. "It is worth more than this estate! It is all I have of my dear mother! I must have it back!"
Arthur came from the corridor, drawn by the noise. "What has happened?"
"I am robbed!" Beatrice said, turning to him. "My diamond brooch is taken from my own dressing case! I demand that the house be searched—every room, every servant's quarters, until it is found!" Her eyes flicked just once toward the doorway where Genevieve stood.
"Every room?" Arthur's face was unreadable. "That is a grave charge to lay upon the household."
"It is a graver thing to be robbed in one's own home!" Beatrice shot back. "Will you do nothing? Will you let a thief go free under your roof before all our guests?"
The company was watching now, every eye upon the Duke. He could not refuse without seeming to shield a criminal.
He inclined his head. "Very well. The housekeeper will conduct a search. Let it be done openly, so that no innocent person is wronged by suspicion."