Ian wiped the soldier dry on his kilt while Jamie climbed up to sit next to Eleanor. Ian put his big hand on the boy’s back so he wouldn’t fall.

“Sally Tate, Lily Martin, Joanna Brown, Cassie Bingham, Helena Ferguson, Marion Phillips…”

“Stop.” Eleanor raised the notebook she’d brought and started scribbling with a pencil. “Let me take it down.”

Jamie pulling on the pencil slowed things, but Eleanor managed to start the list of names. “Go on.”

Ian continued, naming every one. Further probing let Eleanor know that some were courtesans, some maids who worked in the house, one the cook. All had lived at Angelina Palmer’s at one time or another, some staying only days.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where they all are now, do you?” she asked, making notes.

Ian, being Ian, did. Jamie tired of tugging on Eleanor’s pencil and climbed down from the bench. Ian steadied him, then kept a sharp eye on him as Jamie toddled about the terrace, picking up fallen soldiers.

Several of the ladies had died, he said. Most still lived in London, though one had married and emigrated to America. Quite a number had married, it seemed. Of the lot, three lived in Edinburgh. One was still a courtesan living with her protector, one was a maid in a big house, and one had married a former protector.

Eleanor wrote everything down, not asking Ian how he knew all this. She had no doubt that what he told her was accurate. The letters had most likely originated in Edinburgh, and to Edinburgh Eleanor would go. “Thank you,” she said.

Ian, seeing that Eleanor had finished her questions, became fully absorbed in his son. Eleanor watched, content in the April sunshine, as Ian and Jamie set up the soldiers again, Ian lying on his stomach while Jamie worked his way around his large father.

When Jamie tired, Ian sat up and let Jamie climb onto his plaid-clad lap. Ian closed his arms around his son, and Jamie dozed, Ian gazing down at him with such intense love that Eleanor quietly rose and left them alone.

Eleanor found it easy to get herself and Hart to Edinburgh not a few days later, into the very house in which one of the maids from High Holborn now worked. A woman called Mrs. McGuire had hired the maid, and Eleanor found that she and Hart—now the most sought-after couple in Scotland—had already been invited to Mrs. McGuire’s next grand soiree.

Eleanor had met Mrs. McGuire many times. She was the wife of The McGuire—the leader of clan McGuire—though Mrs. McGuire had started life as an English viscount’s daughter, raised to fine society in London. By all accounts, Mrs. McGuire adored her Highland husband, and her Edinburgh galas had become celebrated.

She was a kindhearted woman as well, a friend to Eleanor’s late mother. Eleanor quite liked her. Why Mrs. McGuire had hired a maid out of a brothel remained to be seen.

Hart and Eleanor descended before Mrs. McGuire’s Edinburgh home to the carpet a footman had spread from carriage step to doorstep. The entire street stopped to watch the fine carriage, the splendid horses, and the most famous man in Scotland and his new wife arrive at their first outing together.

Mrs. McGuire was buried with her guests upstairs, and a plump maid with very black hair took Eleanor’s wraps in the relative quiet of the downstairs hall. When the maid passed Hart, he stopped, smiled at her, and gave her an unashamed wink. The maid blushed, but she shot him a sunny smile in return and winked back.

Eleanor opened her mouth to demand what it was all about, but Hart had already turned to greet some of his cronies, and was swept up the stairs with them. Maigdlin was herding her into a withdrawing room so she could repair any damage the short journey from Isabella’s Edinburgh house might have done to Eleanor’s hair and gown.

Before Eleanor could decide how she felt about Hart’s blatant exchange with the maid, the maid herself entered the withdrawing room, came straight to Eleanor, and dropped a perfect maid’s curtsey.

“Your Grace.”

Maigdlin glared like a she-bear ready to defend her cub. “The cheek of you. You don’t speak to a duchess without her permission, you ignorant woman. What do you want?”

“It’s all right, Maigdlin,” Eleanor said quickly. “It’s Joanna Brown, isn’t it?” From the High Holborn house.

The maid curtseyed again. “Yes, Your Grace.” She had an English accent, from somewhere in London’s darker environs, Eleanor thought. “I know it is bloody cheek, but might I have a word with you? Private like?”

Maigdlin gave Joanna a look of high disdain, but Eleanor held up a reassuring hand. “Of course. Maigdlin, will you stand outside so that we are not disturbed?”

Maigdlin’s outrage was obvious, but she set down the brushes she’d taken from Eleanor’s case, curtseyed stiffly, and glided out the door, as though determined to show Joanna that at least one of them had manners. Indeed, if Eleanor had been a stickler for rules, she could have Joanna sacked for deigning to approach her, let alone speak to her. But Eleanor had never been one to bother with rules, especially when they got in the way of what she wished to do.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Joanna said as soon as they were alone. “But I know you saw that wink, and I wanted to explain to you, so as you’d not have the wrong idea.”

Eleanor looked her over. Joanna had black hair and blue eyes and was not long past her first youth, perhaps thirty at most. She had a winsome smile, and her eyes sparkled with animation.

“All right,” Eleanor said. “But first, I must ask you. What do you know about photographs?”