Taylor opened it like a blade, turned it over in her hands to ascertain its best defensive use, thrust into the air a couple of times to judge its weight, then folded it back up and stuck it into her pocket. It would be a formidable weapon if anyone got close.

Maisrie saw her do it, turned four shades paler.

“Ready?” Taylor asked.

The girl nodded, head bobbing quickly.

Taylor followed her to the door. Unlatched it, then gestured for the girl to proceed.

Maisrie had obviously seen her share of spy movies. She darted her head out for a quick look, then flattened herself against the doorjamb with a breathless “Eep.”

Obviously there was someone in the hall. Taylor bit back a laugh. This was serious, and she was glad the girl was taking it so, but cloak-and-dagger was obviously not her strong suit. Taylor counted to ten, put her finger to her lips, then motioned for the girl to keep moving.

This time the coast was clear. Following a path Taylor didn’t recognize, Maisrie led her the back way down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. Taylor could hear the familiar noises of pots banging and water being run—lunch was being prepared. Maisrie was getting better at being circumspect. She dodged around the entrance of the kitchen, took Taylor to a large pile of firewood, probably three cords’ worth, stacked floor to ceiling against the wall. There was a small bench that housed coats and Wellies, as humble and normal as any cold-weather house. Maisrie availed herself of a coat, gloves and boots, then looked to Taylor, her face serious.

“Ready?” Maisrie asked.

Taylor nodded.

“Hold on to me. I don’t want to lose ye in the storm.”

Taylor grabbed the girl’s collar, whispered, “Come on, then.”

Maisrie opened the door.

The world became a swirling mass of white. Bitter cold snapped at Taylor’s skin. God, it was still coming down.

Maisrie started off then, sure-footed, her steps guided by years of following this path, from kitchens to barn back to kitchens. It only took them seven minutes to make the trek. In good weather, it would probably only be three or four. Taylor hadn’t seen the building they were entering before; it was on the opposite side of the estate from the tennis courts and the run-down kirk, back toward the road. Toward civilization.

She was overcome with the urge to just grab the first vehicle she saw and take off, but chided herself. That would be the height of stupidity. She didn’t know where she was going, and her foray out with Memphis the other day had proved only one thing—the Scots weren’t terribly concerned with getting people from point A to point B by the quickest, easiest route. She could slide off the road in the storm, freeze to death in the car and no one would be the wiser until things thawed out.

That made her think of Evan, crashing over the edge of the bridge into the icy water below. No, setting off alone wasn’t an option.

She could just hide in the barn until the storm was over; that would work, too.

But Taylor wasn’t the hiding type. And truth be told, she was pissed off. She didn’t like being manipulated, liked not knowing who was behind it even less. No, she needed to see this through. A few tools, that’s all she required.

They burst through the barn doors, breathless, covered in snow, shaking themselves like chickens shedding feathers.

It was warm inside, full of bleats and moos and clucks and the occasional whinny, the estate’s stock crammed into a space that wasn’t quite large enough to hold them all at once. Taylor wondered about the deer. Where had they been put? Or were they still out there, breathless and white, partially frozen, huddled together for warmth under some prickly gorse?

Maisrie was holding on to Taylor’s hand like the frightened child she was. Taylor gently untangled herself from the girl.

“Stay here.”

Maisrie shook her head, eyes wide. She was scared to pieces, of what she’d done, perhaps, of the repercussions if she were found out. She allowed Taylor to drop her hand, but followed when Taylor started to step away.

“Fine. Come on then. Let’s find Jacques.”

The groundsman wasn’t hard to find. There was a small office off the main entry. He must have heard the barn doors open and close, because he wandered out, a toothpick stuck in his teeth. Taylor had a moment’s flash of the Pretender, standing in the corridor outside her room, the same toothpick jutting out of his rotted mouth, but she was able to force it away.

Jacques took one look at the two women and his eyes grew large.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in French.

“English?” Taylor asked. Her high school French, while adequate for getting herself to the bathroom, wasn’t going to work here.

Jacques sized her up, then answered in slow, accented English.

“Yes, some. What is the matter? Why are you out in the storm? Not fit for man nor beast.”

Some English my ass. If he had idioms, he spoke the language.

“Maisrie, wait right here. Jacques, in your office, if you don’t mind.”

He cast a glance at Maisrie, then shrugged and walked back the way he came. Taylor followed him. Maisrie stood looking forlorn, but didn’t seem inclined to bolt. Good. She’d need her to guide them back to the house.

Jacques stopped by his desk, turned to Taylor, a quizzical expression on his face. The desk looked like a bomb had gone off. Taylor got the sense that he was the estate manager, dealing with all the paperwork that went with running a farm. A factor. Handy to have, especially if he was good at his job.

“The first day we met, you said that if I needed anything, to come to you. I need your help. I need a weapon.”

“Why? You plan to shoot something?”

“Self-defense.”

“Against the sheep? Or the snow?” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms.

“I don’t have time to go into details.”

“Perhaps we should call Lord Dulsie and ask him first.”

She didn’t know if he was bluffing. And she couldn’t have Memphis finding out she was on to the game, not until she knew for sure he didn’t have anything to do with it.

She decided to gamble. The thought had crossed her mind several days ago. With any luck, she could appeal to him like this. Professional to professional.

“The weapon you were carrying when you picked me up from Waverly, in Edinburgh. A Sig Sauer P226 in a single harness shoulder holster. Standard issue for Security Service.”

The veil of vague indifference lifted. Jacques, if that’s what his name was, went on alert. His shoulders squared, lips tightened.

Yahtzee.

“I assume you’re in place to safeguard the earl? Someone to watch over him and the family when he’s away from the centers of power? Protecting the family seat?”

“I’m hardly the standard.” The French accent was gone, the English unmistakably British. “And you’re wrong. The family’s been getting death threats. After the viscount’s wife died under less than crystal clear circumstances, the earl wanted someone on the estate full-time to keep an eye on things.”

“Death threats? So you think Evan Highsmythe was murdered?”

“I can’t discuss that with you.”

“You just did.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. The dentures made more sense now. Jacques the Brit had the look of a brawler about him now that he wasn’t trying to be charming.

“No one from the family is here, yet here you are, snug as a bug in your office, playing the role of factor.”

“They call it undercover for a reason, sweetheart.”

“Well, you’re not that good, if I can pick you out at fifty paces. So why are you here and not in South Africa with the earl?”

He blushed. Ah. Someone was in trouble and had been left behind on the scut detail.

“Oh, like that, is it? Okay then. I get it.”

“You don’t get anything. These are serious threats. They found… That’s neither here nor there. From what I hear, you’re supposed to be a trained professional. I was doing you a courtesy, letting you see the harness. So you’d know you could come to me if anything went south. Which I assume it already has. When’s the bloody viscount coming back, any way?”