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“Do you know what you’ll say to him?” Eva asked.

She nodded. “I do.”

“What is that?” asked Moray.

Eva smacked him on the arm with a rolled-up newspaper. “Can’t you not think like a journalist for once and stop your incessant prying?”

“As though you don’t want to ask the very same question,” he said.

“I have the decency to wait until after she’s won Gavin back to demand the whole story,” said Eva primly.

The butterflies dancing the polka in Ina’s stomach began swirling around in double time. “If he’ll take me back.”

Eva shot her a smile. “You just tell him how you feel and he won’t be able to say no.”

Ina watched silently as Moray and Eva shuffled out of the office, just as the duo had agreed when she and Mrs. Sullivan had revealed their plan. When the front door shut, she knew she was the only one left in the building.

Her hands trembled as she untied the ribbons on the large leather portfolio she’d brought with her and began pulling out sheets of paper. It was time to win back the man she loved.

The train shuddered to a stop on track two, and Gavin jolted in his seat. He’d been lost deep in his thoughts, Moray’s letter half open in his hand.

He’d read his friend’s entreaty that he return to Edinburgh over and over again until the page was soft from being handled too often. By now he practically had the thing memorized, and each and every time he read it a new tide of worry washed over him.

G,

One of the reporters for the Tattler has heard of a rumor brewing around your wife. I’m doing my best to stem it any way I can, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep it contained. You’ll understand that the need for discretion is of the utmost importance. I don’t dare put anything in writing. We must speak as soon as we can.

—Moray

When he’d read it, his natural protectiveness of Ina had roared up with a power that had surprised even him. He’d cursed Moray for refusing to name the rumor, because it meant his mind went in a hundred different directions, each more frightening than the last.

His first instinct had been to suspect Gowan was at the center of whatever Moray’s reporter had discovered, and his blood pressure had soared. Without a second thought, he’d snatched up a pen and jotted down a note to Moray, telling him he’d be there. Then he’d rung for Harper to begin making the arrangements for his return to Edinburgh.

Through all of the packing, however, he hadn’t opened the letter Grace had given to him. He’d left it at Oak Park, hoping to leave behind all the misery that had been forged there.

Ina had been right, as she so often was. He was miserable in that house. His mother was now safely ensconced in the dower house, but he could still feel the weighty judgment of her influence in every bit of his childhood home, from the decoration to the way the staff was run. The house itself felt as though it was pressing down on him, trying to squeeze him into the mold of his father and all the other baronets who went before him. Men he was never going to be like. He’d be a writer first, always. Ina had seen that even when he couldn’t.

He knew now that his greatest mistake in life hadn’t been defying his father’s wishes, loving the wrong woman, or having the uncontrollable misfortune of being born second. It had been letting Ina go and stubbornly refusing to follow her.

He’d been foolish to delay their return to Edinburgh, and, even worse, he’d sacrificed her happiness for his own pride. She’d left her work, her friends, and her home without question to travel with him and offer comfort to two women she didn’t know when he’d needed her to, and he couldn’t keep a simple promise to return with her to their home. He’d failed her as a husband.

Their last fight still stung him. He’d been furious when she began to speak of Grace as though somehow his former love might be a replacement for Ina. In her eyes, it was Grace he should be married to, not her. It had shocked him, and his anger had boiled over. He’d demanded that Ina tell him she loved him, and when she couldn’t, he’d turned on her with the bitterness and scorn.

She’d wanted to share a life with him in Scotland. That was what mattered. All that mattered.

And yet he’d ruined everything, driving her away until all she could do was run. He’d pushed her away. It was his fault.

He didn’t know how he’d begin to repair the damage he’d wrought, but at least he could do his best to protect her as he’d always done.

He folded Moray’s letter and tucked it away amid the clatter of conductors and porters preparing the train for passengers to disembark. Gathering up his case and donning his beaver hat, he stepped down to the platform and wove his way through the teeming crowd of people in the station.

It was easy enough to find himself a hansom cab. He gave the address of Moray’s offices, and as soon as the driver clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, they were off.

When they arrived at the newspaper office, the street was quiet. The giant presses that made up the foundation of Moray’s empire weren’t running, but that was no great surprise. They were most active in the evening through to the early-morning hours. Now the workmen would be preoccupied with cutting paper, cleaning the machines, and beginning to sort type in preparation for the hard night’s work ahead.

He paid the driver and climbed down with his bag. He’d thought of driving to the house and dropping his things, but that would mean risking Ina finding out he was in Edinburgh. The ache to see her was powerful, but he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome, and that was too painful a prospect to even consider.

He was about to open the office door when something caught his eye: a piece of paper half jammed under the door. Stooping, he gently pulled it free. It was a drawing showing the back of a man with a hand outstretched as he reached for a doorknob. He squinted and then looked up at the brass plaque embedded in the wall next to the doorframe. 108 High Street. He looked down at the paper. 108 High Street, read the sketched plaque next to the man’s bent head in the drawing.