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and reaching for his breeches, which were slung across a chair next to the bed. He had barely gotten them on when the door opened again and Kannice came in, wearing a mild frown.
    “Is everything all right?” Ethan asked.
    “I’m not really sure,” she said. “There’s a man downstairs—no one I’ve ever seen before. He says he’s looking for you.”
    “Lots of people saw me here last night. And it’s no secret that you and I spend a great deal of time together.”
    “I know,” she said, still troubled.
    “What did he look like?” Ethan asked. “What’s he wearing?”
    “He looks harmless enough. Older than I am.” She paused. “Probably older than you are, too. Fine clothes. A silk shirt, linen waistcoat and matching coat and breeches. But he looks too rough to be a merchant or a shop owner.”
    “A servant?”
    “Maybe.”
    He reached for his shirt. “All right. I’ll be down shortly.”
    She nodded and left the room once more. Ethan finished dressing, making certain to strap on his blade. Then he left the room and descended the stairs to the tavern.
    The man stood beside the doorway, his hands in front of him clasping the brim of a black tricorn hat. As Kannice had said, his clothes—the white silk shirt and pale blue ditto suit with its matching coat, waistcoat, and breeches—were of fine quality and fit him well. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined—Ethan wouldn’t have wanted to hazard a guess as to his age. His eyes were pale, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Even before he spoke, Ethan guessed that he was a Scotsman by birth.
    “Yah’re Kaille?” the man asked, as Ethan approached. “Th’ thieftaker?” His brogue was heavy—definitely Scottish.
    “I’m Ethan Kaille. Who are you?”
    “I represen’ a man who wishes t’ hire ya.” He indicated the closest table with an open hand.
    Ethan hesitated, then took a seat. The stranger seated himself across from him.
    “Who is it you represent?”
    “Have ya heard of Abner Berson?”
    Who hasn’t? Ethan wanted to ask. Berson had made a fortune importing and selling hardware and firearms from England. He owned a wharf and warehouses in the North End off Ship Street, and was one of the richest men in Massachusetts. “Everyone’s heard of Mister Berson.”
    “I suppose. Ya wouldna heard that his daughter was killed last night, in th’ middle of all that unpleasantness.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it,” Ethan said, his eyes flicking in Kannice’s direction. She was wiping the bar with a cloth, but he could tell she was listening. “I hope you’ll convey my condolences to Mister Berson and his wife.”
    The man accepted his words with a nod.
    “They had two daughters, didn’t they?”
    “Aye. This was th’ older one. Jennifer.”
    Ethan knew why the man had come, and though he sympathized with the merchant and his family, he needed to make it clear that he couldn’t help them.
    “You understand, sir, that I’m a thieftaker. I recover stolen items for a fee and I deal with those who are guilty of thievery. But I don’t track down murderers.”
    A wry smile touched the stranger’s face. “O’ course ya don’t, Mister Kaille. There’s no profit in it.”
    Ethan bristled. “That’s not—”
    “I mean no offense. Ya have a trade. Ya have t’ make a livin’. I understand. As i’ happens, Mister Berson has need o’ yar talents as a thieftaker. His daughter had on a brooch when she was killed. It was taken. Th’ family wants it back.” He pulled a small pouch from the pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. Ethan heard the muffled clink of coins. “Tha’s ten pounds. More will come t’ ya when ya find that brooch.”
    Ethan’s eyes strayed to the pouch. “And if I happen to find Jennifer’s killer while I’m recovering the brooch…”
    “Obviously, Mister Berson would be most pleased.”
    Ten pounds. And more when he found the brooch. Ethan had to admit that he was