Maybe Diana was telling the truth about what she’d found. But if it was a sketchbook, who did the sketches belong to, and why was she so anxious to hide them from me?

I slipped the ribbon into my dress’s smallest pocket for safekeeping. While I was writing a text to George, I heard someone in the hallway, struggling with the door.

I ran over to the door and pressed my cheek against the carved wooden flowers. “It’s locked! Let me out!”

On the other side, I heard grumbling. The lock clunked open and someone pulled back the door. I’d hoped it would be George or Bess on the hunt or me, but I found myself face-to-face with Rufus Le Crous. The imposing man gave a high-pitched yelp of surprise at the sight of me.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he stuttered. His formerly puffed-up chest had deflated, and he was sweating profusely around the rim of his red cap. So Le Crous had a third mood: suspicious.

“It’s in the main gallery. There were signs.”

“Let’s agree not to tell anyone we were here, yes?” said Le Crous.

“Why would we agree to that?”

“Because, Miss Drew, if we don’t, I’ll tell the Duchess you destroyed her property.” He pointed first at the toppled and smashed pedestal, then at the plaster dust on the front of my dress.

“I didn’t do that,” I said.

“Of course not,” said Le Crous. “I didn’t do anything either. That’s why no one has to know about it. Anyway, we’re almost late to the Duchess’s speech. Better come along.” He grabbed me by the elbow and tried to escort me down the long hallway, but I wrenched my arm loose.

“I can walk myself, thank you.” He shrugged and walked on ahead of me.

What was Mr. Le Crous doing poking around an off-limits part of the mansion? “Wait a minute. You were hoping to find those Shammas paintings you’re so eager to see, weren’t you?”

Le Crous turned around. “So what if I was? You were obviously doing your own snooping. Find anything interesting?” He motioned toward the smashed pedestal.

“No, somebody else did. But you’re right. We’d better get back to the ballroom.”

Le Crous and I walked separately down the hallway back toward the gallery. I inspected the wallpaper’s green pattern again and realized that the print wasn’t abstract scrolls or chevrons like you’d expect in a grand home. Instead it was an interlocking design of tiny green chameleons, pulling one another along the wall by the tail. Chameleons just like the charm on the bookmark.

I nodded to each portrait as I passed by. First to the two toddlers, smiling in their cute outfits, then to the teenager, who looked straight ahead. I nodded at the kind older man, and finally, at the woman artist, whose face was turned just enough that our gazes met. She was smiling gently, as if she’d just had a wonderful idea. I tried to compose my face to match hers. It was strange—once I met her gaze, I found it impossible to look away. I couldn’t quite capture her expression. My lips wouldn’t curl right, or my eyes were too crinkled. She stayed in the frame, perfectly composed, watching me.