Miss Jenkins approaches with a smile. “It is only me, and sadly, I am not at all wicked, though it does sound like fun. Are you injured?”

“No, it is only my boot that has suffered. I must admit that I would not entirely object to meeting with a wicked person on the moors, as long as they were only wicked in an interesting way. Perhaps a handsome highwayman who would demand my pin.”

Her smile grows. “And which would you give?”

“It would depend on how handsome he was.”

She laughs, and it’s a pretty, tinkling sound. “Then we are of accord on that, Miss . . . ?”

“Hastings,” I say. “Miranda Hastings.”

“You said you are with your aunt?”

“Not at the moment. Sadly, she is an invalid and not actually my aunt, but a dear family friend. We attended the Midsummer Ball at Courtenay Hall, and my parents suggested I continue on to Whitby with Aunt Bess for a fortnight.”

Her eyes round. “The Midsummer Ball at Courtenay Hall?”

“Were you there?” I ask. “There were so many people that I fear I was quite overwhelmed.”

“I was not, though I heard of it, of course. Did they truly serve iced cream?”

I seize the opportunity to solidify my story, granting her a glimpse into this fabled “Midsummer Ball” that the Millers had mentioned took place last week. I know enough of Courtenay Hall to take her there—to the ponds and the mazes and the follies. The rest I can safely make up, and by the time I finish, she is glowing as if she attended the even herself. She spends the next twenty minutes peppering me with questions.

Nicolas is right. Miss Jenkins is indeed a lonely young woman, and as someone raised with two sisters, I feel a pang of sympathy for her plight, alone here on the moors where none of the local girls would be considered proper companions.

I want to agree with the girl’s grandfather—that if she has betrayed Nicolas, it is unwittingly. Yet as sweet and naive as Miss Jenkins seems, I must remember that it could be a false front. Or she truly is that naive and still working with her uncle against Nicolas, believing it the right thing to do.

Whatever the answer, Miss Jenkins accepts my story without question, and she does not think it at all odd that I am walking the moors alone, since she is doing the same.

As we are talking, her grandfather’s ghost appears to check on my progress, and he helps by nudging my answers in the correct direction. Soon Miss Jenkins and I are chatting like dear friends. She has helped me “fix” my boot—which was not truly broken—and we have continued walking as we talk. She shows me her favorite spot, from which she can gaze out over the ocean, and I sit with her as she tells me all about life in Hood’s Bay. She is desperately lonely, and I am an enthusiastic audience for her chatter. Of course, I am hoping to gain something from that chatter, something that will help our cause. That is not so easily done.