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She bit her lip and opened the door. Her friends turned around in unison.

“Ina,” Lana cried. “We didn’t know when to expect you back!”

She opened her mouth to reply, but instead crumpled to the floor, her dark skirts billowing around her, and wept.

“Have you seen this?” Moira’s dearest friend, Flora, held up a copy of the New Town Tattler.

Moira tilted her chin down so that she could look over the spectacles she’d put on to read a letter from one of her friends in London.

“I haven’t had a chance to look this morning. And I thought you despised the Tattler,” she said.

Flora pulled a face. “How can I avoid it when it’s always lying around your morning room?”

Moira smiled, knowing her friend protested too much. Flora enjoyed the Tattler just as much as any other lady in Edinburgh. And quite a few gentlemen too.

“That paper is excellent research,” she said. “I’ve found some of my very best clients from the Tattler’s listings.”

It was true too. The semi-anonymous items like “The flaxen-haired Miss C—was spotted on the arm of the esteemed Mr. P—, Esquire, at an exhibition held in the Assembly Rooms last Tuesday. Will wedding bells soon ring?” were almost always accurate, given that Mr. Moray had a network of sources nearly as good as her own.

“Well, this is about one of your recent clients,” said Flora, handing over the paper.

“ ‘Lord T—was seen dancing twice with the recently widowed Mrs. J—at a ball held by Mrs. M—last Monday. Will the Merry Widow dance her way into the gentleman’s heart?’ ” she read out before putting the paper down. “I’ve been watching the courtship of Lord Tartent and Mrs. Jesup with rapt attention for weeks now, but neither of them has engaged my services.”

Perhaps it was time for her to send the harmlessly hapless but well-moneyed Lord Tartent her card. A gentle nudge couldn’t hurt the bachelor in his pursuit of the pretty widow and her two thousand pounds a year.

Flora scowled. “Not them. Look at the fourth item down.”

Her eyes skimmed the page, landing on a name she knew instantly, even with the dashes in place.

“The newly elevated Lady B—was seen disembarking from a northbound train at Waverley Station on Tuesday. The lady was unaccompanied by her husband, the new Sir G—, whom she married a mere two months ago. Could there already be trouble in the elegant house on R—Place?”

“Weren’t they yours?” asked Flora.

“Hmmm,” was Moira’s only reply.

“Trouble already?” Flora asked with raised brows. “That doesn’t bode well.”

Moira shot her friend a look as she took off the long chain she always wore around her neck. On the end of it dangled the little silver key to her desk drawer. She unlocked the drawer and peered inside at some of her most valuable possessions: twenty-four red leather notebooks with one letter of the alphabet each stamped on the side. She drew out the book for “D” and shut the drawer again.

“You’re having to refer to your notes?” Flora asked with a frown. “They were only married in March.”

“Are you casting aspersions on my memory?” Moira asked.

A grin spread over her friend’s face. “If I do, will you finally admit that you’re too old to toy with the affections of men and women more than half your age?”

“I don’t toy,” Moira said. “I facilitate.”

That earned her a snort.

Flipping to one of the last pages of her book, Moira read the notes she’d made on Lady Ina Barrett, née Duncan, even though she’d never forget the circumstances of their first meeting. There weren’t many people who could claim their marriage had come after near ruination in her library. Neither were there many who could boast of a proposal that had moved so swiftly from idea to execution.

What troubled her was that the new Sir Barrett had been so clearly enamored of his bride, yet trepidatious at the same time. All had seemed well when the Barrett cook, Mrs. Hart, reported to Moira that the man of the house had made arrangements for a moonlight picnic just a few weeks ago, but that he wasn’t returning with Lady Barrett from his home at Oak Park gave her pause. She’d pay a call on the woman that afternoon as soon as she was done with her correspondence and luncheon with Flora.

“What do you have written down there?” her friend asked, trying her best to peer at the notebook from her seat.

Moira snapped it shut, unlocked the drawer again, and refiled the book back in its place between “C” and “E.” “Nothing for your eyes to see. As always.”

Flora settled back into her chair and picked up the Tattler once again. “You can hardly blame me for trying.”