But there was one superstition the fishermen held to that always came true—you could count on a change in the weather come Friday.

This morning the wind had turned. Blowing more lightly and steadily out of the west, it had scattered the clouds out to sea, leaving space for the sun in a clear sky. The Landmarket filled with its normal flow of people, and when I stood at the window of the drawing room I could just make out the long edge of a grey coat showing at the limit of the shadows deep within the entrance to Hamilton’s Close.

I found ways to curb my impatience while waiting for Gilroy. Turnbull’s bookshelves in the writing chamber held a copy of Addison’s Remarks on Several Parts of Italy, which allowed my mind freedom to travel if the rest of me could not. And after dinner I taught Helen how to play at cards the game of Quinze—a diverting, fair, and simple game that wanted no more of its players than that they could count as far as fifteen.

Scandalized, MacDougall told her, “’Tis not seemly, for a lady to be gambling.”

Helen reassured him that her soul was in no peril. “We are wagering for buttons, not for coins. Besides, even the queen does gamble.”

“The queen,” he said, “is not a Presbyterian.”

I privately imagined she was glad of that, but I said nothing, only dealt a card to Helen who, in triumph, claimed, “Fifteen!”

MacDougall left us with a look of disapproval.

We were well into our third game when a knock interrupted us. MacDougall being elsewhere, I rose from my chair and crossed the few steps to the door.

I expected it was Gilroy.

It wasn’t.

The man who stood facing me wore a blue naval officer’s coat trimmed in gold braid with bright buttons, his long wig set in the tight curls of the fashion, but he had the firm, upright stance of a man who did not run from action, and his gaze, level with mine, was unaffected and good-natured.

“Captain Thomas Gordon,” he said, looking past my shoulder to Helen, to include her in the introduction. “At your service.”

In the time it took me to collect my thoughts, he’d stepped into the room, and seeing our cards on the table flashed a charming smile at Helen. “Madam, I apologize. I see I’ve interrupted you at play. What is the game?”

Whether from the force of Captain Gordon’s smile or from his handsome face, she seemed to have forgotten.

I supplied the answer. “Quinze.”

“A good game.” Although Helen had not spoken, he still aimed his words at her. “I’ll wait until you’re done. Then, with your leave, I’ll borrow Sergeant Williamson.” He turned to me. “You spoke to Henry Browne. He said you needed information from me. I’m expected shortly at Pat Steell’s. Come with me and we’ll sup and talk. Assuming,” he said, once again to Helen, “you don’t mind.”

She found her voice this time. “Of course not. Adam, go. Our game was nearly finished, and it is not as important as the captain’s time.”