She tugged the dark wig more firmly into place and placed a curly-brimmed hat upon her head, wincing as a hairpin dug into her scalp. “Thank God I’ll only have to wear this for a short while,” she told herself, deepening her voice and adding a French accent.

She posed before the mirror, one hand lightly resting on an ornate sword that wouldn’t have been amiss on a stage. From the way she stood to the haughty expression on her lightly powdered face, she was no longer Moira MacAllister, but a highborn French émigré with more money than manners. The disguise served several purposes. For one, it would allow her to escape the notice of anyone at the inn, including Stewart and Leeds. For another, she could travel to Aniston’s abode without interference. And lastly, she might be able to surprise Aniston and give herself more of an edge in their coming meeting.

“You, monsieur,” she told her reflection, “have much to accomplish today.” But before she could face Aniston, she had to procure a horse from the landlord. She tugged on a pair of gloves to hide her feminine hands. It was time for the game to begin.

Moira turned from the mirror, the overcoat swinging out as she moved, the pockets both weighted. Inside one pocket rested the long velvet bag holding the onyx box and a small but very full coin purse, while in the other was her pistol.

She paused to replace the false bottom in her trunk and locked it tight before pushing it under the bed. Then, straightening her shoulders, she opened the door and stepped into the empty hallway. She was glad Robert had chosen an inn on the outskirts of Edinburgh; there were far fewer people to contend with.

Better yet, French émigrés weren’t frequent visitors at such inns, so anyone she met would likely have only a vague, theater-induced concept of a Frenchman, which was perfect for her cause. The secret of a good disguise was to be exactly what people expected. That way, no one gave you a second glance.

As she went down the hall, her gaze lingered on the door to Robert’s bedchamber. When she’d slipped out of the room earlier he’d been asleep, his hair falling over his brow, his stern mouth softened.

Last night had been their final hours together. She’d spent it the way she’d hoped—passionately. With each kiss, each caress, each sigh, and—after he’d fallen asleep in her arms—with each tear, she’d been telling him good-bye.

The memory tightened her throat as she walked down the stairs. A faint light gleamed from the back hall, indicating that the innkeeper and servants were beginning to stir.

Moira peeked out the front window and, seeing no servants in the inn yard, she opened the front door and then slammed it shut, turning around so that it appeared that she’d just entered.

She instantly heard footsteps from the back hall, followed by the glow of an approaching lantern. Moira quickly arranged her face into a haughty expression.