“Indeed I do, sir. But I try not to fall asleep whilst performing my duties. I consider it a matter of professional pride.”

Devon grinned and began to answer when his gaze fell on something small and shiny on the floor. He retrieved the object. “My sapphire cravat pin. I wonder how it got on the floor?”

Tilton frowned, all levity gone. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve kept all of your pins in—” He picked up the jewelry box from the dressing table and flipped it open. He began sorting through the pins and fobs inside, his brow lowered.

“What is it?” Devon said.

Tilton paused, looked one more time, then closed the box. “The talisman ring, sir, it’s gone.”

“Gone?” Devon stared at the box. Surely the ring wasn’t—hadn’t been—“Are you certain? Perhaps it’s on the floor like the cravat pin.”

Tilton shook his head. “There is nothing else on the floor.”

“Then perhaps it is behind the dresser.” Devon began to search, his heart sick. Bloody hell, his brothers would kill him. And he’d let them, too. If he had lost the talisman ring, he deserved a beating and worse.

“Where in the hell is it?” he asked no one in particular when a thorough search turned up nothing.

“I don’t know, sir. Someone had to have come in and stolen it.”

Yes, but—who? Who would bother with such a theft, leaving the assortment of other, more valuable jewels? Devon raked a hand through his hair, wondering what in the hell he was supposed to do now.

As much as he disliked having the ring in his possession, it had been Mother’s favorite. The entire family cherished the thing because of that, in spite of the horrid curse it supposedly carried.

He sat on the edge of the bed and yanked on his riding boots, consumed with the need to do something. He’d speak to Malcolm, have him question the household staff. It had to be one of the servants. Who else could benefit from the thing? “I’ll speak to Lord Strathmore. Perhaps he has an idea of where we might look.”

“Hmph. Well, the first place they should look is inside the pockets of that lazy upstairs maid. I’ve seen her sleeping under the steps on a number of occasions, reeking of gin.”

“I’ll mention that to Malcolm,” Devon said. He grabbed his riding gloves and let himself from the room. He had just reached the bottom step when he caught sight of Fiona coming out of the front room. She was walking quickly, her head down, her hands clasped before her. While he watched, she then spun on her heels and turned back the other way. She was pacing, he realized, marching back and forth, her agitation clear.

“Lady Strathmore?” Devon said, pushing aside his own anxiety.