Page 14 of The Tartan Trap

Callum had divided his notes into two sections—facts and characteristics.

The most important thing to him was what he knew about her character. She was the type of woman who brought food to the hungry children of an orphanage, even when she didn’t have enough to eat herself. She was loyal, and not vain—she’d sold her own hair and taken in other people’s washing to support her family.

Sprinkled on every page were examples of why the writer was exactly the kind of lady Callum wanted to marry. She was kind, gentle, faithful. Plus, she was hilariously funny. He often found himself snorting to himself at the great desk in his study.

However, the closer he got to the end, the more anxiety tightened his spine. Despite his careful reading and note-taking, he’d come up with very few facts to help him identify the author. From her words, Callum knew that her family had gone through two reversals of fortune because of her brothers, and he knew that she had at least six sisters.

Beyond that, there was nothing. The journal could have come from anywhere in England—any town where there was washing to be had and an orphanage to support. Callum didn’t have an inkling of what she truly looked like—only that her sisters were far prettier than she was.

Callum leaned back before he turned one of the final pages, his heart pounding in his chest.

Dear Ruth,

We are home from Paris to London, and the Season fast approaches. It is a lovely thing to be able to be a patroness instead of a beggar once more. I still bring a big pot down to St. Alban’s Home for Children every week—just as I always have. Except now it isn’t plain porridge. Now I can afford a thick stew with my pin money, and fresh bread, besides. I love watching the children eat—it reminds me of that first meal when W returned. Though I doubt I’ll ever have a dinner that delicious again, it’s enough to watch the children have it every Tuesday at luncheon.

Callum jerked. His mystery lady lived in London! And of more pressing concern—today was Tuesday. He glanced at the clock; it was nearly noon. Perhaps he might catch her bringing the soup today and not have to wait another week to solve this mystery.

Callum shut the book, thrust it into his inner coat pocket, and took the stairs two at a time, running for the front door.

CHAPTER 5- CALLUM

Though St. Alban’s Home for Children was old and worn, it was tidy compared to the dismal neighborhood that surrounded it. Workmen were in the midst of attacking the faded yellow facade with wire brushes. Chips of the peeling paint littered the ground; it appeared the orphanage was molting. The building leaned toward the next-door church as if trying to claim some relation, attempting to avoid being lumped in with the rollicking pub on its other side.

Callum stood against the single intrepid tree that had managed to survive in this environment. Though ostensibly his attention was on the orphanage across the street, he kept an eye on the band of boys who were eyeing him right back. The quality of Callum’s clothing was several degrees from the norm. It singled him out as a man of fortune, as a potential mark for mischief—or worse.

Callum had taken a hackney across town, gritting his teeth as he checked his pocket watch. Traffic had been abysmal—a cart had broken its axle and dumped a load of cabbages into a main thoroughfare. The cart driver had been screaming at another fellow while his cart horse blinked patiently in the sunshine. Probably the beast was used to such displays.

By the time the hackney driver found another route, it was nearly an hour past the time for luncheon. Callum had gotten out anyway, though his hope in doing so was now proving to be in vain. Not a single child had exited the building; they were all out on the street already. Half an hour later, Callum regretted sending his cab away. His time would have been better used reading the last few pages of the diary.

“Whatchoo want here?” one of the boys asked.

His face was smudged with dirt; his red hair hung in overlong tufts beneath his ragged cap.

Callum frowned; he hadn’t realized the little urchin had gotten so close. He pressed a protective hand to his chest, reassuring himself that the diary was still in place. The boy’s eyes latched on to the movement with avarice.

The rest of the boys hung back in a group; the boy with the red hair was obviously their elected representative.

Callum nodded at the orphanage. “Do you know the place?”

A bony shoulder jerked in response. “What’s it worth to you?”

He couldn’t help but smiling. Things were the same everywhere. Give this boy a different accent, and he would fit in nicely in the slums of Edinburgh.

“Not much, to be honest,” Callum said. He arched an eyebrow. “Not for an answer to that question, at least.”

A flicker of interest lit the red-headed boy’s eyes. The other boys slunk closer. They’d all heard the unspoken promise of coin, should right question be answered.

“I know the place.” The boy slicked a hand beneath his damp nose; Callum did his best not to grimace. “I eat there twice a day, stay there at night.”

“You fellows, too?” Callum asked, addressing the other three boys who stalked ever closer.

“Sure,” one said. “What’s it to you?”

The four boys were cut from the same cloth. Or rather, they were cut from the same hodge-podge of cloth. None of their clothes fit well, and they all had that half-starved look about them. Not that it was the orphanage’s fault. They were all at the age of endless hunger and growth spurts. Callum had looked much the same at that age, and his parents’ table had been plentiful.

“You boys are old enough for work, so why are you hanging about here?” he asked.

One of them scowled; two of them shrugged. The other jabbed his worn boot into the street and avoided Callum’s eyes.