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since that family was blessed with any number of aunts and cousins who wrote copious amounts of letters and seemed to believe that they were all worth keeping. Many have found their way into public documents, since the records of that time—the histories, the emigres and their rescues—are still of interest today.”
    “I have to admit I’m enthralled with what you’ve learned. I do appreciate information—to me it’s the life blood of progress. And I would not have dreamed a simple necklace could have such an intriguing history.”
    “All that aside,” said Ian, “it also gives us a chance to narrow down the possible suspects in the current crime. Obviously any member of the Ware family might have been furious enough to instigate the theft. Motives there? Either to recover what they consider a family heirloom, to sell for as much as possible—I don’t think they’re in financial trouble, but I have that on my list of things to look into—or the other reason. Which is to cover up the disgraceful behavior of a Ware ancestor.”
    “Valid motives.” DeVere stroked his chin and looked absently out of the window. “What about the foreign aspect? The descendants of the Indian Princess?”
    “Another road I’ll be exploring.” Ian stood. “It’s a slow process, I’m afraid, but I’ll not lose track of it.”
    DeVere rose as well. “I believe you. Take your time and continue as you are going. I may not be well-disposed towards my sister, but make no mistake—she is my blood, for good or ill. I would not want this theft to escalate into anything more serious. For whatever reason.”
    Ian met the man’s gaze. He was sending a clear message and Ian understood without a need for any more conversation.
    Keep my sister out of danger if you can.
    “If anything new arises, I will make sure to keep you informed.” Ian bowed.
    “Good man.”
     

Chapter Four
     
     
    There was a drip, a horribly steady drip, plinking onto something hard outside her door.
    Amelia could have screamed her frustration, but was afraid that if she did so the sound would bring down the walls of what was supposed to be her new home.
    Natherbury Fell was less of a home and more of a rotting pig sty. Her first glimpse of it had been a stark shadow against the setting sun with just one light shining from an upstairs window.
    The DeVere travelling carriage had unloaded Amelia and her trunks and then turned right around for the trip back to London. She struggled with the urge to grab onto the rear straps and go back with it.
    But she had no choice. It was a source of constant frustration, but her brother had cornered her, legally and physically, leaving her no way of escaping what she now viewed as his sentence.
    After one night inside Natherbury Fell, she knew without a doubt that it was indeed the equivalent of a prison sentence.
    The two servants who resided there were dour and silent, speaking only in response to a question and even then in words of one syllable. They’d dragged in her trunks and boxes, left them in the front hall and showed her up the stairs to what was supposed to be the master’s bedchamber. Then the woman, Mrs. Treadway, appeared with a cup of tea, put it next to the ewer and bid her an abrupt “Goodnight.” Followed by a little bob of the head.
    Too miserable and exhausted to do anything but drink the tea—it was awful—and lie down, Amelia had fallen asleep in her traveling gown, waking now as dim light filled the room. And the plink-plink-plink continued.
    Her temper rose. She was mistress of this disaster, for God’s sake. It was time the Treadways understood that. Today would be the day she took control of her own domain.
    There was water in the ewer, thank God, but no mirror, so Amelia had to tend to her own needs as best she could, brushing and smoothing her hair and pulling it back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her gown was a different matter, but again she managed, surprising herself by coping