“Actually, we’ve met.” Jamie steps forward with a handshake. Ben quirks up his eyebrows in surprise and Jamie obligingly explains. “We ran into each other near the Manse the other day and figured out that we’re neighbors.” Jamie’s eyes are on mine as he pushes a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. There’s a wariness within them, and also a touch of mischief, as if he’s daring me to dispute his account.

Carrie glances at me. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” nods Ben sagely, saving me from having to reply. “Jamie is eminently inconsequential.” The two of them drop onto a well-trodden path of mutual insults, and the moment to contradict him is gone. He’s not as tall as I remembered, or maybe it’s the combination of my heels and the fact that most of the men here look small compared to Ben. Like the other guys in this group, Jamie’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, but the jeans are tighter, and the shirt is very slim fitting. Mr. McCue has an eye for fashion, I would think.

Carrie has been swept into a conversation with Ben and a few others, leaving Jamie and me to one side, half turned to each other and half watching the rest of the crowd. “So what are your plans for the Manse? A full London-style makeover?” he asks, the faintest touch of disdain in his voice when he says London.

I don’t answer his questions because Ben’s introductory words have just sunk in for me. “Which one is your sister?” I ask him abruptly.

This gets his full attention; his half-mocking grin drops abruptly. “Please,” he says, laying his fingers on my arm. It’s the arm that is holding my drink; I can’t jerk away. His eyes are pleadingly insistent. “Dinnae say anything. Please. I dinnae want her upset. And we dinnae really broadcast her obsession with the Manse, you ken—”

“Which one is your sister?” I look around the group, as if to divine the answer for myself. Fiona. Which one is Fiona? None of the women here look like the “Wuthering Heights”-type figure I’ve imagined haunting the second floor of the Manse.

Jamie yields. “The one talking to your sister,” he says dejectedly.

I glance across at Carrie and find her in conversation with an extraordinarily slight woman in her late twenties. She has a boyish build, almost entirely flat chested, without a scrap of fat on her, but there’s a sinewy strength to the arms that are revealed by her sleeveless top. She’s in profile and I can’t see her eyes, but her wavy, blunt bob-cut hair is certainly not as dark as her brother’s. Still, I can believe they are related. There’s something about the line of the nose, and a similarity in their compact, fine-boned frames . . .