It was Dorcas, the Duchess's own maid.
Beatrice's composure flickered. "What is this?"
"This," Arthur said, "is the woman who placed your brooch beneath that bed." He nodded to the elder of the two guards. "Tell them what you saw, Hargreaves. Plainly, before the company."
The guard cleared his throat. "This morning, before light, His Grace bid us watch the servants' passage from the gallery above. He had reason to think mischief was afoot. We saw this woman, Dorcas, enter the assistant's chamber when it stood empty. She carried something wrapped in a cloth. We saw her go to the bed, lift the mattress, and place it there. Then she left in haste. We made no move, by His Grace's orders, until the search was done—so that all might see the brooch found, and then learn how it came to be found."
The silence in the hall was complete.
Beatrice's face had gone the color of ash. "The girl lies!" she said quickly. "The guard lies! My Dorcas would never—"
"Your Dorcas will speak for herself," Arthur said.
The little maid was shaking now, caught between two truths and terrified of both. She looked at her mistress, then at the Duke, and the Duke's steady gaze was the more frightening of the two, for it asked only for honesty and offered nothing to a lie.
"I did it," Dorcas whispered, then louder, breaking: "I did it, but I was told to! My lady bid me take the brooch from her own case and hide it in the girl's room! She said it would be no crime, only a... a putting of things right! She said the maid had risen too high and must be brought down!" The words tumbled out of her now, past all stopping. "I begged her not to make me, but I am her servant! What was I to do?!"
Beatrice stood frozen, her mouth open, no sound coming from it.