Esme was listening to her idol pontificate about a fragrance he called Aqua d’Or—that she privately thought shouted of dandelion extract and which was an unfortunate piss-yellow color—when she realized the scratching sound she had been trying to ignore included her name. Turning her head to the rear of the room, she saw Rory’s face in the window, and behind him, three of his cohorts.

He opened his mouth. She shook her head quickly. Darting glances about the lecture hall, she rose from her seat and hurried out.

Rory and the boys met her at the building’s front entrance.

“Why are you here?”

“Scholar’d told us where to find you, o’ course,” Rory said with a crinkle in his brow that suggested she was a dimwit. “He said as we were s’posed to check in to be certain you be all right, an’ that Pate weren’t threatening you any.” He was speaking so swiftly she could hardly decipher the words. “I’d a’ come later anyway, but, miss, he’s gone an’ done a thing he shouldna, an’ now Pate’ll take him an’ we’ve got to get that dug back an’ save him an’ the books, miss!”

“But—What books? I don’t understand. Please explain it clearly.”

“That ol’ varmint Pate gave Scholar two choices: get the dug for him or pay him three hundred guineas. But Pate’s found out Scholar stole the dug back again, an’ now he’s out for Scholar’s blood.”

“For—for his—” She could hardly draw breath. “For what reason did he insist on one or the other choice?”

“For Scholar’s freedom from the yoke, miss! You see, Scholar’d been savin’ up his gold from all the takes to buy a pile o’ moldy books at an auction up at some old dead toff’s mansion yesterday. O’ course I asked Scholar what he’d want with old books.” His eyes widened. “An’ listen to what he says: he says, Rory, my boy, those books are worth far more than three hundred guineas; a man’s just got to find the right buyer for each o’ them an’ he’ll make a fortune.”

Books. Antique books, by the sound of it. She had no doubt Charlie wanted the books simply because he loved working with them, and not only for the money he could make from them.

“Did he purchase them at the auction, then?”

“There be the tragedy, miss! Pate came around the Thistle yesterday sayin’ he’d have Scholar back in the bilge if he dinna hand over the money or the dug. The daftie gave him the money!”

“Oh, no.”

“I’ve a suspicion he did it to put Pate off your scent.”

“My scent? But how does Mr. Pate know anything about me?”

“Ronnie,” Rory spat out. “Squealed like a stuck pig, he did.”

“Oh, that is awful,” she said to all four boys. “When you trusted each other like brothers. I am so sorry he betrayed you.”

Rory’s face split into a grin. “You’re a right good ‘un, miss! ’Tis the reason we’ve come here. You’ve got to help us find that dug an’ save Scholar’s hide.”

“But I don’t know how we went to the place where he left the dog. I have no idea where it is. Perhaps the hackney coach driver might remember. But there must be dozens of hackney coach drivers in this city.”

“Ils sont vingt-deux” came just behind her.

She swung around to see Monsieur Cadence’s thoughtful face.

“There are twenty-two hackney coaches in Edinburgh?” she said.

“Oui, mademoiselle. As I make at least one journey to this city each year, I have an investment in one of the coaches, so that I needn’t ride in a filthy equipage,” he said, the crinkles about his eyes deepening.

“Monsieur, these boys and I must save a dear friend.” The man she still loved, despite her head telling her she mustn’t. “Would you help us?”

“Mais bien sûr,” he said with a smile. “Now tell me all.”

Monsieur Cadence’s coach was summoned, and the coachman consulted. The coachman who had driven her and Charlie several nights earlier was swiftly found enjoying lunch at the hackney drivers’ favorite pub.

Esme missed the final afternoon of the Society’s meeting. But during the drive into the countryside the Frenchman regaled the boys with stories of his travels throughout the world in search of the finest fragrances.

When they arrived at the little cottage she discovered it to be shabbier than she had noticed in the dark. The boys remained with the coach while Monsieur Cadence and she went to the door.

An ancient woman answered. The tiny dog at her ankles took one sniff of Esme and began racing in circles while emitting ecstatic yips and yelps.

The woman peered at them. “How may I help you?”

“Madam,” the Frenchman said with a deep bow, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Claude Cadence, master perfumer de Languedoc, and this is Mademoiselle Astell de Londres.” He lifted the woman’s bony hand to his lips. “Enchanté.”

The woman’s face crinkled into a delighted smile.

After that, their task was simple. She invited them inside and offered them tea and biscuits. Esme watched her slow movements, and leaped up to take the teakettle from her hands. As she finished preparing the repast an odd sensation of rightness settled in her—no doubt caused by the scent of the tea, which happened to be her sister Colleen’s favorite.

Married to a Scot for fifty years, Mrs. Wallis had been widowed for nearly a decade and, as the city overtook her tiny village, had been alone amidst the bustle of modern life. Her only callers, she said, were her husband’s younger sister and her nephew, Eustace, although not frequently, as well as a young itinerant laborer who had recently been making repairs to the house.

“Poor Eustace was in such distress when he last visited,” she said. “Stomping about the house and grumbling. My nephew has an unsteady temperament.”

“Tut-tut,” Monsieur Cadence said with a sympathetic shake of his head. “The young are too full of the passions, are they not, madam? They do not understand the beauty of a long, peaceful nap in the sunshine, do they?” With a slight turn of his head, he winked privately at Esme.

“My poor Douglass was so upset, he ran into the closet and hid,” Mrs. Wallis said, cuddling the dog in her lap. “I have never seen him do such a thing before.”

“What a brute, to frighten the poor little thing,” Monsieur Cadence said.

Esme’s heart was racing. The dog, Douglass, had taken fondly to Charlie, who had stolen it right out of this house. But it disliked her nephew?

“Mrs. Wallis,” she said. “What is your nephew’s name, if I may?”

“Eustace Smythe-Eggers.”

Esme shared a look with the master perfumer.

“Madam,” he said to Mrs. Wallis, “I fear that we have a terrible story to tell.”

When they had finished, the elderly woman’s eyes were filled with dismay. But swiftly her surprise turned to understanding.

“I should have anticipated it,” she said sadly. “Eustace has been pressing me to give him my husband’s collection for years. It is worth a fortune, of course. But I haven’t been able to bear parting with it. I expect he hoped that without my darling Douglass I would be so despondent that I would simply fade away of loneliness.”

“Or perhaps,” the Frenchman said, “he intended to hold the poor creature for the ransom?”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wallis said. “What a dreadful boy my nephew has turned out to be.” She stroked her fingertips along the tiny dog’s curly back and it wiggled in happiness.

“What is your husband’s collection, Mrs. Wallis?”

“You must come see it.”

With tottering steps she started toward the rear of the house. Monsieur Cadence took her arm and they entered a sizable library. From floor to ceiling and all around, the shelves were stacked with books.

“My husband was a scholar. An amateur only. But he spent nearly every shilling of his inheritance on these books. He built this room for his treasures, for many of them you see were quite valuable.” She chuckled. “He always said it was grander than Sir Walter Scott’s library at Abbotsford. See here, a set of engravers’ plates my husband received as a gift for writing a biography of Lord Nelson for His Majesty himself! The images are so delicate, one can almost see the ships’ sails billowing in the wind.”

“Mrs. Wallis,” Esme said, “have you ever considered selling any of these?”

“Years ago I asked my nephew to find a suitable buyer,” she said with a weak wave of her hand. “He tried to rush me into selling them to an unworthy man. I was persuaded the man was a professional thief. I told Eustace I would rather the whole collection burn to the ground than to hand it over to a common huckster.”

“What if a man who knows books very well, who appreciates them, indeed adores books, were to help you catalogue and curate this collection?” She ran her fingers over the plates that reminded her of the many plates Charlie had commissioned from artists for the books and pamphlets Brittle and Sons produced. “Would you consider employing him for the task?”

“Know you such a scholar willing to take on such a laborious task?”

Esme smiled. “It so happens that I do.”

Monsieur Cadence was expected at the final members’ session before the party that evening that was to be the finale to the meeting. Instructing the coachman to drive her and the boys wherever they wished, he offered a jaunty tip of his hat, and bid them adieu until anon.

Esme went to the Hart and Rose.

Charlie was not there. Pushing away the ache in her heart telling her that their night together had obviously meant little to him, she gave instructions to the boys.

“Find him, Rory. Then bid him meet me on the bridge to New Town at ten o’clock tonight.” The bridge was less than a block from the party venue.

Returning to the hotel, she dressed in her finest frock and walked to the party, her stomach a ball of anxiety.

Standing at the head of the room, Monsieur Poe cleared his throat and everyone fell silent.

“It is my pleasure now,” he said to the three dozen men and Esme, “to announce my latest discovery: Mademoiselle Astell.”

All eyes fixed on her.

“Who would have imagined such a nose could come from the peasantry, n’est-ce pas?” her idol said with a little smirk. “I will be extending to her an invitation to join my school of apprentices in Paris immédiatement.”

Applause filled the room and she could feel the heat in her cheeks and she told herself to smile. But abruptly she understood: going to Paris had never been about apprenticing herself to the master perfumer. It had been about living her life fully.

For three years she had endured poor wages and no respect from her employer while nursing a miserable infatuation for a man who never gave her more than a cursory glance. Then for two more years, as she had established Skinner’s Perfumery as one of the premier fragrance boutiques in London, barely getting a word of thanks for it, she had mooned over the loss of Charlie. In traveling to Scotland for this meeting, she had been seeking more: laughter, learning, passion.

She fully intended to have it all.

“Mademoiselle?” Monsieur Poe said, frowning.

Everybody in the room was waiting for her to speak.

“Thank you, monsieur,” she said with confident calm. “I am honored, and delighted to accept your invitation.”

Many sincere congratulations later, she was walking through the crisp, clear night toward the bridge. Streetlights lit all in a magical glow. The glow inside her was even brighter.

She did not expect him to come. As the bells of a church far beyond Arthur’s Seat tolled ten times, she wrapped her cloak tightly about her and leaned against the railing and breathed in the scents of early spring, and wondered if he were already gone, if a ship had departed from Leith today bound for Boston.

When at the end of the bridge a man appeared in silhouette before a street lamp, she knew it was he by the shape of his shoulders and his solid stance. How different he was now, yet how much the same man. Her stomach was all tumbling pleasure and pain.

“You have not departed yet,” she said as he halted a yard away.

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Of course he was still leaving. “I see that Rory found you.”

“I had not planned to come here tonight, Esme.”

“Then why did you?”

“I convinced myself that I had enough discipline to prevent myself from touching you if we met.”

“And do you?”

“No. You’d better make this quick.”

She proffered a letter from Mrs. Wallis. He stepped forward and took it without touching her.

He read, and the pensive tension of his features transformed into pure masculine beauty.

“She is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow morning,” Esme said. “You have become something of a hero to her, you know. I think it is mostly because little Douglass adores you. But she is thoroughly impressed with your bravery and good conscience.”

“How have you done this?” he said.

“Oh, I put together the clues. But I did not do it alone. Rory and the boys assisted, and Monsieur Cadence. Are you happy with it?”

“Happy? I am ecstatic.” Grabbing her up in his arms, he spun her around in a circle. She laughed as he set her down.

His mouth on hers abruptly silenced her laughter.

It was a perfect kiss, full of joy and passion and wild desire. His hands tangled in her hair and hers spread over his waistcoat, and the moonlight and starlight and light in her heart made her feel thoroughly enchanted.

She pulled away first.

“Esme, thank you. I don’t think—” His chest rose hard but he did not continue.

“What?”

“No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”

“Then it was high time,” she said, tasting the flavor of him on her lips and taking a step away from his strong arms and taut jaw and beautiful eyes that were showing her the very last thing she wanted to see now.

“Will you stay?” he said.

Beneath her ribs, happiness and misery together tinkled like hollow little crystal glasses shattering.

“Stay?” She forced the word over her tongue.

“Here in Edinburgh. While I do this project.”

“Tomorrow I am leaving for London.”

He moved close again.

“Delay your journey. Please.”

She shook her head and her eyes were prickling. She swallowed back the threatening tears.

“I cannot,” she said.

“You have done this, Esme. You have made this happen. I want to share it with you.”

“I have been offered an apprenticeship, the post I sought in coming here. My dream is waiting for me in Paris.”

His smile was so genuine.

“Congratulations, madam master perfumer,” he said, smiling, but his voice was not entirely even.

“It is everything I have ever wanted.” Except him. “Hopefully within a year I will be able to support my sisters and mother. I am so happy, Charlie.”

“Then I must be happy as well.” He lifted both of her hands to his lips, and kissed one, then the other. “This is finally goodbye.”

Her throat had closed entirely; she nodded.

“Esme, you are an extraordinary person. Strong, courageous, intelligent.” His eyes were shining peculiarly. “Adventuresome.”

She tried to smile. “I suppose I would be an excellent pirate, then.”

“No. You are far too generous. You have the heart of a hero.”

That heart was beating painfully fast and hard now. She hardly knew what to say.

Bending his head, he kissed her. It was tender, a kiss of friendship and admiration, and of parting. She closed her eyes and imprinted on her memory his flavor, texture, and heat to hold and keep for the solitary days to come.

“May your dreams continue to come true, Esme Astell,” he said close to her cheek.

Then he was gone, across the bridge and into the darkness. And she was alone again with her aching heart and singing head and the scent of nighttime all around.