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In the far north of Scotland, at the furthest edge of Sutherland, a wild coastline of granite cliffs and lonely windswept pebbled beaches turned away from the Atlantic and the Isle of Lewis towards Thurso, the Pentland Firth, and the Orkneys.

Here, at the head of a quiet, almost forgotten sea-loch, the great house of Drochcala sat against a heathered flank of hillside, watching out over the glittering expanse of the loch-head.

An island rose up in the middle of Loch Iffrin: black granite streaked with limpets, topped with a forest of beech trees and verdant heather uncurling in the warmth of summer.

Once inhabited by a hermit, Eilean nam Fiadh was now home only to the red deer who had given it a name.

A little to the east, the cottages of Droch Cala village hurried downhill in pursuit of the house, like so many chicks following a moorhen, all grey granite, whitewashed walls and slate tiles.

Behind the house and the village, fast white streams hurtled down the slopes where, as a little girl, Cressida had jumped from bank to bank, her Irish governess never far behind, pink with exertion but indefatigable.

‘The Butes keep a traditional house here, do they not?’ Ines drew back heavy velvet curtains, revealing the silvery spread of Loch Iffrin beyond the birch trees.

She could always be relied on to spy out the lie of the land.

‘They won’t be expecting you to go down to breakfast. If I had the chance to stay in bed until all hours drinking spiced chocolate and eating white bread, I would. ’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Cressida got out of bed, restless with the need to act.

It had been three days and there was still no sign or word from Byron.

She pushed away a memory of Crauford House, Greville taking her up against the wall with the sheer brute force of his strength, skirts and petticoats around her waist in disorder.

He’d sent her over the edge with ruthless expertise – all except for that one moment when he’d allowed his forehead to rest upon her shoulder like an exhausted child.

Disobey me if you please , he’d said. Just don’t imagine it will be without consequence.

What in hell’s name did he propose she did instead? The question was unanswerable, snatching away the prospect of sleep every night since.

And yet there was no sign of him, either.

Greville had directed every move of this game since the moment he’d saved her from a mob in Badajoz, her dizzying, angry relief at the sight of him immediately extinguished by his cold, high-handed behaviour, turning her over to Lascelles in the ruins of a shelled church with barely a word.

In truth, Cressida relished the prospect of flouting Lord Greville Nightingale’s clearly expressed instruction, but doing so would be a lot less enjoyable without forcing him to witness it.

Cressida allowed Ines to dress her in silence.

‘Be careful,’ Ines said, a muscle in her jaw twitching. ‘I don’t like this place; I don’t like the feel of it at all.’

Downstairs, Cressida paused outside the dining room door of carved oak, long enough to hear subdued female voices: Annis and Kitty. She froze. Ines was right: the Butes did keep a traditional house, and it was unusual if not unsettling to discover married women at the breakfast table.

‘Annis, let’s speak plainly for once,’ Kitty whispered with an edge of banked-down fury in her voice.

Cressida rolled her eyes: how many times had she warned Kitty in their misspent youth that a whisper carried far further than a low voice?

‘Twenty years or more you have called Sylvia a friend,’ Kitty went on.

‘This will break her, and you know it as well as I do.’

‘If Sylvia really cared, she’d be here herself,’ Annis replied. ‘But as usual, she’s using you as her obedient little messenger girl. In her eyes you’re next up from the better class of servant, tidying up the Nightingale family messes, including those made by herself.’

Trust Annis to sow discord between Kitty and Sylvia, whatever this was about.

Kitty had endured barb after malicious barb about her late mother’s people, despite the fact that her maternal grandmother had been far more ennobled in Mughal society than most of the whey-faced second-rate baronets’ wives who liked to whisper behind their hands about what a fortunate thing it was that Kitty’s skin tone was so light.

No one dared blow such poison darts in Sylvia’s presence.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Kitty hissed, too wise to take Annis’s bait. ‘Of course Sylvia cares. This will ruin the Nightingales if it gets out and most of all it will ruin her . Sylvia’s conceited at times but even she’s not arrogant enough to believe she’ll get away with this. Jamie—’

Kitty broke off at the sound of approaching footfalls, and Annis’s grim-faced housekeeper, Roberts, rounded the corner clad in her usual black bombazine gown, but now with the addition of a tartan sash.

Cressida saw at a glance that the tartan wasn’t related to Roberts’s own clan.

Annis had no understanding of such matters: she probably just liked the combination of colours.

Roberts was carrying a heavily laden tray of silver dishes with clattering lids, and she looked Cressida up and down as she opened the door.

Cressida surprised herself with a flicker of pity.

Not that long ago, Drochcala had its own butler and housekeeper.

Now, Roberts had been shipped up from London to bear the burdens of both.

As a lady’s maid, the work was beneath her – a humiliation that Annis wouldn’t have stopped to consider for a moment.

In the dining room, Kitty and Annis presented a united front of determined charm, spooning greengage jam onto fresh tattie scones as they discussed what might happen in the next canto of Childe Harold .

Cressida would have cheerfully laid a bet that Annis hadn’t actually read a single word of Byron’s poetry and couldn’t give a damn about when the third canto would be published, let alone what it contained.

She accepted hot coffee from Roberts, glancing at the muddle of unfolded letters by Annis’s plate.

‘Not bad news, I hope?’

‘Of course not – it’s going to be the most gorgeous summer,’ Kitty said, stumbling into non sequitur. ‘The thrift is out all over the hillside. Did you see? Like a cloak of palest pink.’

Annis smiled. ‘Well, it’s rather a shame about Mary Sidgwick.’

Roberts failed to hide a smile, obviously priding herself on still having the ear of her mistress, even if she was also reduced to waiting at table like a fourteen-year-old girl trusted with the crockery for the first time.

Kitty ploughed on: ‘I’m never sure if I prefer the thrift or the Michaelmas daisies.’

Cressida sipped her coffee, looking at Annis. ‘Oh?’

Annis spooned more jam onto her plate, cool and unruffled in a morning gown of pale ivory. ‘She’s written to say that she’s not coming, darling. Her eldest stepdaughter is out next year, and I’m afraid you were a bridge too far, even with Byron to make you irresistible.’

‘Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t even fear it would be this bad, not after so long – it was naive of me at best, stupid at worst,’ Cressida said, glancing down to stir honey into her coffee, glad that Greville wasn’t here to see straight through her.

‘It’s a shame about Mary, but I’ve heard from four different people that you’re Lord Byron’s muse, Cressida,’ Kitty said, quickly.

Annis let out a bright burst of laughter. ‘We’ve nothing to fear in that case – I know you find poetry a dead bore, Cressida, but you’ll be the envy of every woman in the ton.’

Neither Kitty nor Annis mentioned the fact that George Byron was now three days late.

Annis turned to Kitty with a smile. ‘Your cousin Jamie’s quite thick with Byron at the moment, I hear. Jamie’s such a revoltingly beautiful young man, isn’t he? Has anyone had a word in Crauford’s ear? I’m certain a hint would be enough.’

Kitty briefly shut her eyes. ‘Honestly, I hope not. Crauford has no knack or capacity for dealing with young people. Believe me, Greville is best placed to manage Jamie, so I can only thank goodness he’s on furlough.’

Annis smiled at Cressida. ‘Maybe Jamie is the reason why he’s not here yet? But you mustn’t be downcast: I’m sure you can still hold Greville if you only lift a finger. Once he’s dealt with any family scandals, of course. Every man has his priorities.’

Cressida yawned. You awful bitch , she thought, idly. ‘I’m longing for a walk. I hope you won’t find me rude if I set out after breakfast. I never was any good at doing the pretty indoors, and I’m no better after my travels.’

Kitty looked as if she were about to say something – did she want to come?

– but Annis spoke over her. ‘Do you know,’ Annis said, ‘as soon as Jamie Nightingale walked into my salon, my first thought was how gorgeous he is. And then I was struck by the oddest sensation of familiarity. Obviously, I knew him as a child. But since he and Chas went off to school and then Jamie went to Cambridge, they’re both strangers to me.

As a grown man, I feel sure I’ve seen Jamie somewhere before. How foolish of me.’

Kitty set down her spoon too quickly, with a discordant clatter of silver against china.

‘Oh, come on, Annis,’ said Cressida. ‘Everyone knows Jamie was Tristan Nightingale’s natural son. Why stir the pot? We can talk about this like adults, as long as we’re discreet. And it’s hardly news. People have been gossiping about Jamie’s parentage since the day Tristan adopted him.’

‘I’m sure. Only, the last time I saw Jamie,’ Annis went on, ‘it wasn’t just Tristan Nightingale I thought of. I suppose the real mother was some chambermaid? Perhaps I saw the poor girl once.’

Kitty pressed her lips together so hard they went white. ‘Must we do this?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ Cressida said. ‘It’s pretty crass. I’m sorry, Kitty.’ She turned the conversation towards domestic matters, drawing Annis out on a grievance about a lazy laundry-maid who hadn’t bothered to wash the tablecloths.

‘I daresay she felt contriving to dry them in last week’s rain was a task beneath her notice. It’s almost impossible to get good staff at the moment.’

Kitty excused herself and Cressida drank her coffee.

She let Annis run on, biting into a tattie scone sweet with golden greengage jam, stitching together what she knew.

First, the urgency in Kitty’s tone, breaking off as she had spoken her young cousin’s name, Jamie , when neither Kitty nor Annis knew she had overheard.

Second, Jamie himself, whom Cressida had found in the passageway outside his cousin’s room on the night Chas was shot, leaning on the wall with his eyes shut, disconsolate.

What on earth is wrong? she’d asked him. I know it looks bad and an injury like that is an awful thing to witness for the first time, but chances are he’ll recover.

Jamie had turned his head to look at her then, his eyes dark with pain. If he doesn’t, the fault’s mine.

The pause hadn’t lasted long. What do you mean? She still hated herself for that, just a little bit, coaxing Jamie of all people into a confidence, just because one never knew what might be useful and when.

It’s my fault Chas was shot. Jamie had spoken with youthful bravado, daring her to contradict. They thought Chas was me.

She didn’t have to do this, to stay here.

She didn’t have to involve herself in any such mess.

Cressida fought the need to leave the breakfast table and go up to her room to fetch Ines immediately.

Hang Lascelles and his dirty money, and hang his warning about the promise of a traitor’s death when one was too aristocratic for the gallows: a knife in her back or strong, supple hands around her throat on a dark night.

She and Ines would find a way because they must: old shawls for backpacks, the hobnailed boots.

A week or so’s march and they’d be in Lochinver, then on a boat to the Americas, or Russia, anywhere but here.