Amelia's words, "call the police," landed like a thunderclap in the already charged air of the ballroom.
Margaret's heart seized. *Police? Absolutely not.* Once they were involved, with their procedures and formal investigations, control could slip from her grasp. Helen was indispensable, privy to too many secrets—she could not be exposed. And the mere act of police crossing the Winters threshold to investigate a domestic scandal would be a catastrophic blow to the family's reputation, no matter the outcome. The elder Winters valued that above all else; he would never permit it.
Thoughts raced. The veneer of maternal distress hadn't fully left Margaret's face before an expression of solemn, judicious authority settled over it. She gave a faint, reassuring pat to Catherine, who still trembled in her arms, then drew a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders as she addressed the room and her grim-faced husband.
"Amelia," she began, her tone shifting to one of conciliatory reason. "I understand your anger. Anyone would want answers after something like this." She pivoted, her voice gaining volume and a note of dignified mercy. "But involving the police… isn't that rather drastic? Today is Catherine's birthday. We have so many guests. And in over a century, the Winters family has never required police intervention for a private matter. Think of the talk… your father's dignity, the family's standing…"
She had invoked the sacred tenets of family honor and social discretion. Several guests with ties to the Winters interests gave subtle nods of agreement; a public scandal served no one.
Feeling the ground firm beneath her, Margaret pressed on. Her gaze moved from Carlson to the cowering Thomas before resting on Helen with deliberate, unwavering confidence. "Helen has served this family faithfully for fifteen years. William and I know her character. Checking the gift list was part of her duties; the idea that she would be involved is unthinkable." With that, she neatly removed her confidante from suspicion, establishing that the culprit must be elsewhere.
Then, an expression of pained bewilderment softened her features, a lady unwilling to believe the worst of those in her employ. "We've always treated our staff well. I can scarcely believe anyone here could be so malicious as to plant something dangerous in a birthday gift. It's… deeply disheartening." She shook her head slightly, the picture of benevolent disappointment.
She turned then to the elder Winters, her manner becoming decisively gracious. "William, what if we handle this internally, for now? We must find who did this, of course, and give Amelia satisfaction. But perhaps… it was a servant, desperately in need, who saw the value of the gift and gave in to temptation? A switch made in panic, with no understanding of what that padding contained?" She let the theory hang, plausible and pitiable.
Her voice firmed, taking on the tone of a final, merciful ultimatum directed at the staff. "I will say this now: if the person responsible comes forward, admits their mistake, returns the genuine article, and explains themselves, I will show leniency in light of their service. You will not be handed to the police. Your family will not be disgraced. This is your only chance."
She played the part of the compassionate mistress flawlessly. A murmur of approval rippled through some guests; others admired her restraint. The elder Winters' tense expression eased marginally. A quiet resolution was infinitely preferable to a public spectacle.
Amelia watched, silent and unmoving, a spectator to the performance.
When no one stepped forward, Margaret sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant resolve. "Then we have no choice. To find the truth and clear Amelia's name, a search is necessary." She turned to Carlson. "Take men and search the rooms of all servants on duty today who had access to the side parlor. Look for the genuine Vanstar box as Miss Amelia described, and any evidence related to the counterfeit or that padding. Be thorough, but discreet."
"Yes, madam." Carlson gave a sharp bow and departed with two senior footmen.
In that instant of departure, Helen, who had stood motionless as a statue, lifted her gaze a fraction. Her eyes, sharp and cold, found a young, plainly dressed maid at the very edge of the servant line. The look was a silent command, heavy with unspoken threat.
The maid flinched almost imperceptibly. Then, as attention followed Carlson's exit, she slipped from the room along the wall, her movements quick and furtive.
The exchange lasted a heartbeat. Only Amelia, whose attention had never fully left the principal players, and Ryan Donovan, observing from the shadows of the upper gallery, caught it.
Ryan's fingers stilled on the railing. Understanding, and something colder, flickered in his dark eyes. He watched the scene below, drink forgotten.
The search was efficient. Within twenty minutes, Carlson returned. One footman carried a tray covered with a white cloth.
A hush fell once more.
Carlson approached the elder Winters and Margaret. "Madam. Master. We found these items in the wardrobe of Susan Miller, the maid assigned to laundry and wardrobe duties on the third-floor west wing."
He lifted the cloth.
On the tray lay a deep blue Vanstar box, its silver ribbon tied in an intricate rose knot. Beside it was a ruby and diamond hair set, its stones catching the light with a richer, more authentic fire than the previous set. A small cloth pouch held what appeared to be cheap baubles and scraps of packaging material.
"And the girl?" Margaret's voice was stern, laced with the disappointment of confirmed suspicion.
Susan was brought in. She was young, slight, her face pallid with terror. She trembled violently, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Susan!" Margaret's tone was whip-sharp. "These were found in your possession. Explain yourself."
The girl collapsed to her knees, sobs wrenching from her. "Madam… please… I didn't mean… it was the debt… my father… they said they'd hurt him, hurt my mother… I just needed money…"
A story tumbled out in ragged fragments: a dissolute father, crippling loanshark debts, threats of violence. Overhearing talk of Amelia's expensive gift. A desperate, stupid plan to switch it for a cheap imitation bought in a dubious market, then sell the real piece. She claimed no knowledge of the dangerous padding, only a frantic need for cash. When Catherine screamed, she knew her world had ended.
"I never meant to hurt anyone! I just wanted to steal it! Please, don't send me away, don't tell my mother…" She beat her forehead lightly against the polished floor.
The narrative was pitifully complete. A desperate, foolish servant, a bungled theft with horrific unintended consequences. Most importantly, it bore all the hallmarks of a lone, greedy act, not a calculated frame-up.
Margaret listened, her face a mask of anger, sorrow, and weary disillusion. "Susan. We trusted you. The Winters were good to you. Greed is one thing, but to bring such danger into this house…" She shook her head, then turned to her husband, her expression softening into one of pleading mercy. "William, the poor girl had no intent to harm. Her circumstances… they're wretched. Must we ruin her completely? Handing her to the police would destroy her, and her sick mother… Perhaps we dismiss her immediately, bar her from future service, reclaim her wages. Send her home to her family's care. Would that not be justice enough, and mercy?"
She offered a punishment that sounded severe but was, in essence, a slap on the wrist—a swift, private conclusion that protected the family's facade.
The elder Winters, exhausted by the drama, nodded brusquely. "Do it. Have it done with. Let's not spoil the evening further."
"Carlson, see to it. Terminate her employment at once. Notify her family." Margaret's orders were crisp, final.
Susan was led away, her weeping fading into the hallways.
The storm, it seemed, had passed, neatly contained by the sacrifice of a convenient pawn.
Only then did Margaret turn fully to Amelia. That gracious, regretful smile returned. She stepped close, reaching to take Amelia's hands, her touch cool.
"Amelia, my dear," she murmured, voice thick with contrition. "This was my failing. My household, my oversight. To put you through such an ordeal… and in my distress, I doubted you. Can you ever forgive me?" She played the remorseful stepmother to perfection, eyes shining with unshed tears, posture humbled.
Only Amelia felt the icy tension in the fingers that held hers, the slight, suppressed tremor—not of fear, but of furious, thwarted calculation.
Amelia let her hands be held for a moment, her own expression unreadable. She met Margaret's pleading gaze directly.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then, Amelia's lips curved in the faintest of smiles. It held no warmth.
"You are too severe on yourself, Margaret." She withdrew her hands smoothly, her voice calm and even. "The matter is settled. Let us leave it there."
She accepted the apology in form, yet the use of the name "Margaret" and the cool detachment in her tone drew a line as clear as glass.
Margaret's smile never wavered, though something hardened behind her eyes. This dismissive calm was more infuriating than any accusation. "Of course. Thank you for your understanding." She turned back to the guests, her hostess's grace restored. "A most unfortunate misunderstanding, now resolved! Please, let the music continue! Enjoy the evening!"
The quartet struck up a lively tune. Servants circulated with renewed vigor. Guests resumed their conversations, the awkwardness slowly dissipating under a forced veneer of normalcy.
But the air had changed.
Amelia remained where she stood, a still figure in deep blue. Her gaze drifted: to Catherine, receiving sympathy but shooting venomous glances her way; to the elder Winters, his eyes closed in weary resignation; to Theodore, watching her with a new, speculative intensity; and finally to the now-empty spot on the gallery where Ryan had stood.
Her face showed nothing. No triumph, no relief, no anger.
Like deep water, undisturbed by the stones thrown into it.
She adjusted a perfectly placed strand of hair at her temple.
The game was not over.
A pawn had been sacrificed, but the player's hand remained hidden.
She was patient.
She could wait for that hand to make its next move.