“That may work,” he says with some relief. “She is very lonely out here, without other young ladies of her station, so you may be able to win her confidence more easily than you expect. You are very easy to speak to, and while I am not certain what you can learn from her, it would be a start.”

“All right. Then let us come up with a suitable story.”

We need more than a story. I also need proper clothing. The dress I left at Thorne Manor is far too elaborate—and unfashionable in the current time. We are able to cobble together a suitable walking outfit, along with a lovely cape, from Nicolas’s goods, which will both cover part of my borrowed dress and look suitably fine for a young lady of means, especially when paired with a gorgeous pin and fancy bonnet, also from his store of goods.

For my story, I will not be related to Lord Thorne, as Norrington has no love for that family. Instead, I have an elderly widowed aunt on holiday in Whitby, and I have wandered into the moors to explore. Without a local relative, I must be able to prove I come from good stock, and so I will do that by my connection to Courtenay Hall and the earl of Tynesford, who would at this time be August’s grandfather. I am familiar enough with the house and grounds to prove I am a friend of the family. I will not claim to be fast friends with the Courtenays, but friendly enough to have been there on many occasions, which proves I come from an excellent family.

I also receive an expected advantage from the late Lord Norrington. While we are checking on the mare from yesterday—who seems to be gone—the ghost finds us. We tell him our plan, and he knows exactly how I might approach Miss Jenkins. The young lady likes to walk each afternoon, on a set path through the moors. I need only to meet her there and pray for the best.

23

I am sitting on a moor path, perched on the heather, with one boot in my hand. Sitting and waiting until finally, a bonnet appears, bouncing up the path.

“Oh!” I call. “Oh, hello there!” I push up, hopping to balance on one foot. “Hello!”

There is no need to make a spectacle of myself. I am on the path, and Miss Jenkins is heading straight toward me. I still hop, as if trying to catch her eye.

When she is in sight, I let out a tremendous sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the heavens. I heard someone coming, and I was not certain whether I should appeal for rescue or hide myself. You hear such stories of wicked people out here, but my aunt insisted it was safe to walk, and I did so want to be brave, but then I broke my heel and . . .” I throw up my hands.