“Would you agree that this is your stepson’s ring?” His moustache twitched under his bulbous nose when he spoke.

With a pinched smile, Mrs. Whitstone said, “It belonged to my husband’s mother. There is a question, perhaps, about whether the ring now belongs to my husband or to his son. It most certainly does not belong to Miss Stokes.”

“He gave it to me,” Evangeline said.

Only a few days earlier, Cecil had pulled a small blue velvet box from his pocket and rested it on her knee. “Open it.”

She’d looked at him in surprise. A ring box. Could it be? Impossible, of course, and yet . . . She allowed herself a small surge of hope. Wasn’t he always telling her that she was more beautiful, more charming, cleverer than any woman in his circle? Wasn’t he always saying that he didn’t give a fig about his family’s expectations for him or society’s silly moral judgments?

When she’d opened the lid, her breath caught in her throat: a band of gold, ornately filigreed, rose in four curved prongs to support a deep red stone.

“My grandmother’s ruby,” he told her. “She bequeathed it to me when she died.”

“Oh, Cecil. It’s stunning. But are you—”

“Oh, no, no! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he’d said with a small laugh. “For now, just seeing it on your finger is enough.”

When he extracted the ring from its slot in the cushion and slipped it onto her finger, the gesture had felt both thrillingly intimate and strangely constricting. She’d never worn one before; her father, a vicar, did not believe in adornments. Gently Cecil bent his head to her hand and kissed it. Then he snapped shut the velvet box, slipped it back into the pocket of his waistcoat, and withdrew a white handkerchief. “Tuck the ring into this and hide it away until I return from holiday. It will be our secret.”

Now, in the drawing room with the constable, Mrs. Whitstone snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Why in the world would Cecil ever give you . . .” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Evangeline.

Evangeline realized that she had said too much. It will be our secret. But Cecil wasn’t here. She felt desperate, trapped.

And now, in defending herself, she had given away the real secret.

“Where is the younger Mr. Whitstone now?” the constable asked.

“Abroad,” said Mrs. Whitstone, at the same time that Evangeline said, “Venice.”

“An attempt could be made to contact him,” the constable said. “Do you have an address?”

Mrs. Whitstone shook her head. “That will not be necessary.” Crossing her arms, she said, “It’s obvious the girl is lying.”

The constable raised an eyebrow. “Is there a history of lying?”

“I have no idea. Miss Stokes has only been with us a few months.”

“Five,” Evangeline said. Summoning her strength, she turned to face the constable. “I’ve done my best to educate Mrs. Whitstone’s children and help shape their moral character. I’ve never been accused of anything.”

Mrs. Whitstone gave a dry little laugh. “So she says.”

“Easy enough to find out,” the constable said.

“I did not steal the ring,” Evangeline said. “I swear it.”

The constable tapped the notebook with his pencil. “Noted.”

Mrs. Whitstone gave Evangeline a cold, appraising look. “The truth is, I’ve had my suspicions about this girl for some time. She comes and goes at odd hours of the day and night. She’s secretive. The housemaids find her aloof. And now we know why. She stole a family heirloom and thought she would get away with it.”

“Would you be willing to testify to that effect?”

“Certainly.”

Evangeline’s stomach dropped. “Please,” she begged the constable, “could we wait for Cecil’s return?”

Mrs. Whitstone turned on her with a scowl. “I will not tolerate this inappropriate familiarity. He is Mr. Whitstone to you.”

The constable twitched his moustache. “I believe I have what I need, Miss Stokes. You may go. I’ve a few more questions for the lady of the house.”

Evangeline looked from one to the other. Mrs. Whitstone raised her chin. “Wait in your room. I’ll send someone for you presently.”

If there was any question in Evangeline’s mind about the gravity of her predicament, the answer made itself clear soon enough.

On her way down the stairs to the servants’ quarters, she encountered various members of the household staff, all of whom nodded soberly or looked away. The assistant butler gave her a wincing smile. As she was passing the room Agnes shared with another housemaid on the landing between two staircases, the door opened and Agnes stepped out. She blanched when she saw Evangeline and tried to duck past, but Evangeline grabbed her arm.

“What are ye doing?” Agnes hissed. “Let go of me.”

Evangeline glanced around the hallway and, seeing no one, pushed Agnes back into the room and closed the door. “You took that ring from my room. You had no right.”

“No right to retrieve stolen property? To the contrary, it was me duty.”

“It wasn’t stolen.” She twisted Agnes’s arm, making the maid wince. “You know that, Agnes.”

“I don’t know anything except what I saw.”

“It was a gift.”

“An heirloom, ye said. A lie.”

“It was a gift.”

Agnes shook her off. “‘It was a gift,’” she mimicked. “Ye dimwit. That’s only half the trouble. Yer pregnant.” She laughed at Evangeline’s befuddled expression. “Surprised, are ye? Too innocent to know it, but not too innocent to do the act.”

Pregnant. The moment the word was out of Agnes’s mouth, Evangeline knew she was right. The nausea, her recent inexplicable fatigue . . .

“I had a moral responsibility to inform the lady of the house,” Agnes said, smugly self-righteous.

Cecil’s velvet words. His insistent fingers and dazzling smile. Her own weakness, her gullibility. How pathetic, how foolish, she had been. How could she have allowed herself to be so compromised? Her good name was all she had. Now she had nothing.

“Ye think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t ye? Well, you’re not. And now you’ve had your comeuppance,” Agnes said, reaching for the doorknob and wrenching the door open. “Everyone knows. You’re the laughingstock of the household.” She pushed past Evangeline toward the stairs, knocking her back against the wall.

Desperation rose within Evangeline like a wave, filling her with such force and velocity that she was helpless against it. Without thinking, she followed Agnes out onto the landing and shoved her, hard. With a strange, high-pitched yelp, Agnes fell headlong down the stairs, crumpling in a heap at the bottom.

Peering down at Agnes as she staggered to her feet, Evangeline felt her fury crest and subside. In its wake was a faint tremor of regret.

The butler and head footman were on the scene within seconds.

“She—she tried to kill me!” Agnes cried, holding her head.

Standing at the top of the landing, Evangeline was eerily, strangely, calm. She smoothed her apron, tucked a wispy strand of hair behind an ear. As if watching a play, she noted the butler’s contemptuous grimace and Agnes’s theatrical sobs. Observed Mrs. Grimsby flutter over, squeaking and exclaiming.

This was the end of Blenheim Road, she knew, of primers and white chalk and slate tablets, of Ned and Beatrice babbling about sponge cake, of her small bedroom with its tiny window. Of Cecil’s hot breath on her neck. There would be no explaining, no redeeming. Maybe it was better this way—to be an active participant in her demise rather than a passive victim. At least now she deserved her fate.

In the servants’ hallway, lighted with oil lamps, two constables fastened Evangeline into handcuffs and leg chains while the constable with the droopy moustache made the rounds of the household staff with his notebook. “She were awful quiet,” the chambermaid was saying, as if Evangeline were already gone. Each of them, it seemed to her, overplayed the roles expected of them: the staff a little too indignant, the constables self-important, Agnes understandably giddy at the attention and apparent sympathy of her superiors.

Evangeline was still wearing her blue worsted wool uniform and white apron. She was allowed to bring nothing else with her. Her hands shackled in front of her, her legs shuffling in irons, she required two constables to guide her up the narrow back stairs to the ground-floor servants’ entrance. They had to practically lift her into the prison carriage.

It was a cold, rainy evening in March. The carriage was dank, and smelled, oddly, of wet sheep. The open windows had vertical iron bars but no glass. Evangeline sat on a rough wooden plank next to the constable with the droopy moustache and across from the other two, both of whom were staring at her. She wasn’t sure if they were leering or simply curious.