A Scandalous Winter Wedding

He poured himself the treacly residue of the coffee. There was a plate of biscuits on the tray. He bit into one, screwed up his face, coughing as he forced it down. Coconut. He couldn’t think of a flavour he detested more, though he must be in a minority, judging by the small fortune he’d made importing the dried version of it in the last year. If they were using it here for the biscuits, it must be getting even more popular. He made a mental note to ask his agent to organise another shipment, then he retrieved his leather-bound notebook from the stack of business papers and set his mind to reviewing his notes. Every little detail mattered, Kirstin had said. When she returned, when she accepted his terms, as she must do, for he could not fail at this first hurdle, then he would be as well-prepared as it was possible to be. Unlike all those years ago.

December 1812, Carlisle

The snow, Cameron saw with relief, was turning to rain outside the window of the private salon. On top of everything else, missing his ship from Liverpool would be the final straw. These last few weeks, since that life-changing letter had finally reached him, having followed him halfway round the world and back again, he felt as if he’d been through the mill. And in the end it hadn’t turned out to be a life-changing letter after all. Not a new chapter in his life, but a book closed for ever.

‘Ach!’

It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. Leaning his head against the thick window pane, he screwed his eyes shut in an effort to block out the memory, but the words echoed in his head all the same.

You cast a blight over my childhood. You were responsible for making my father’s life a misery. I don’t want to see you or hear from you ever again.

It hurt. Devil take it, but it hurt. All the more because he hadn’t had a clue, until he’d met her, of just how unrealistic his hopes had been. The desire to belong he’d buried so deep for so many years had resurfaced. He wasn’t sure he was up to the task of digging a new and final grave for it.

‘Mr Dunbar? Excuse me, but perhaps you’d rather take your dinner alone after all. You don’t look like a man fit for company.’

Cameron opened his eyes, turning away from the window. Miss Kirstin Blair was hovering in the doorway, a vision of loveliness in a grey wool travelling gown, looking not at all discomfited by his obvious distress, but instead eyeing him in what he could only describe as an assessing way, as if he were some conundrum she wished to resolve.

‘I’ve not changed my mind.’

‘There’s no need to be polite,’ she said. ‘An idiot could see that you are troubled.’

He couldn’t help but laugh at this. She had a very singular way of expressing herself. He held out his hand. ‘Come away in, please. I won’t pretend that I’ve not got a lot on my mind, but I can say in all honesty that now you’re here I’ll be able to forget about it for a while. I’ve ordered dinner. Will you take a glass of sherry while we wait for the food to arrive?’

‘Thank you, I will.’

She sat herself down on one of the chairs by the fireside, stretching her boot-clad feet towards the hearth with a contented sigh. He’d known her for an extraordinary beauty from the moment he’d set eyes on her. Without her bonnet to shade her face, her cloak to conceal her figure, by the bright glare of the candelabra on the mantel Cameron could not detect a single flaw. Yet she had none of the airs of a beautiful woman, that assumption they all shared that they would be looked at and admired. He couldn’t believe, however, that she was oblivious to her charms.

He handed her a glass of rather cloudy sherry, taking the seat opposite her. She inspected the drink, taking a suspicious sniff and immediately setting the glass aside.

‘I would advise against it, Mr Dunbar. It is either the dregs of a keg, or the leavings of a decanter left open too long. It will be revoltingly sweet, if I am not mistaken, for the sugar has crystallised.’

‘I’m sure you are right, Miss Blair,’ he answered, ‘but it is all they have, and I am in sore need of a drink.’

‘You’ll be in sore need of a restorative in the morning if you drink too much of that muck.’

‘I’ll take my chances. Believe me, I’ve drunk a great deal worse. I have not your delicate palate.’

‘Obviously not.’

There was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes that brought to mind what it was that had first drawn him to her when he’d first boarded the coach. ‘You prefer your sherry to match your wit, Miss Blair.’

‘If you mean dry, then you are quite correct, Mr Dunbar.’

He laughed, tipping back the glass and swallowing the contents whole. It was, as she had predicted, far too sweet, and quite disgusting, but it served its purpose and warmed his gullet.

He poured himself another. ‘I hope the wine I’ve ordered will be more to your taste.’

She raised a sceptical brow. ‘Do you know anything at all about wine?’

‘I ought to. I do a deal of trade in it.’

‘Then I must presume your customers are not particularly discerning.’

‘Aye, well, it’s true. I reckon most of them prefer quantity to quality.’ He settled back in his chair, making no bones about studying her. She did not flinch, she did not blush, she returned his gaze evenly. ‘What are you doing, travelling alone on the public coach, may I ask?’

‘You may, but I’d far rather you told me first what you think I’m doing?’

‘By using my powers of deduction, as you did? Is that a game you like to play, Miss Blair?’

‘I do, though it’s usually a game I play for my own amusement.’

‘Ah, now, there you’ve given me another clue, though a surprising one. A woman as beautiful as you cannot possibly lack company.’

‘True, if I was inclined to value company because the company valued only my face, and nature must take the credit for that.’

‘A great deal of credit, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘It is simply a matter of ratio and proportion. What Luca Pacioli called de divina proportione and Leonardo da Vinci used to great effect. Of chin to forehead. The spacing of the eyes. The alignment of the ears with the nose. The symmetry of a profile. If any of those factors vary from the optimum, then beauty is skewed. My face has no variation, thus it is, mathematically speaking, perfectly beautiful. I hope you are not going to make the obvious mistake of assuming, however, that what is on the outside reflects what is on the inside?’

‘Nor am I going to join the ranks of your admirers who, I assume, make the mistake of feigning interest in what goes on behind that perfect visage. Lovely as it is, and I will not deny that I do find you very lovely, would you believe me, Miss Blair, if I tell you that it was rather your air of—it is not aloofness exactly. I’m not sure how to put it, but you strike me as one who coolly observes, if that makes sense?’

To his astonishment, she blushed, and, judging from the way her hand flew to her cheek, she was just as astonished as he. ‘My father taught me that observation and deduction are the key cornerstones of any scientific field.’

A tap at the door announced that dinner was served. As the servants set the table with steaming dishes and decanted the wine, Cameron took the opportunity to study his dinner guest. She had spoken impassively, but he was not fooled. His inadvertent compliment had touched her, and her discomfort touched a chord in him.

His own dark looks had been the source of endless whippings in his early years, an unnecessary effort to forestall any vanity taking root. Taking their lead from those who had wielded the whip, his peers had turned on him, forcing him to become tougher, to use attack as the best form of defence. As an adult, when those same dark looks had attracted a very different kind of attention from women, he’d been first incredulous and then—yes, just as Miss Kirstin Blair was now—he had resented it. No one looked beyond his appearance. Save this most surprising woman, now helping herself from the dish of mutton stew with undisguised hunger.

‘Dare I ask if you wish to try the wine?’ Cameron poured her a half-glass and handed it to her.

She took a cautious sip and nodded her approval. ‘It is not that I am a connoisseur, as you suggested,’ she said, smiling at his obvious relief, ‘it is simply that I have a very sensitive palate.’

‘Another gift from nature. Is there no end to her bounty?’

Miss Kirstin Blair chuckled. ‘I have no talent for drawing, no ear for music and no patience for fools.’

‘You can’t blame nature for that.’

She considered this as she took another sip of wine. ‘It is an interesting question, isn’t it? How much we are formed by nature and how much we form our own nature. Would I be mathematically inclined were it not for my father? I would like to think so, but since I cannot wipe my mind clean and start afresh it is impossible to be certain. Do you take your business acumen from your own father, Mr Dunbar?’

‘I doubt it,’ Cameron replied shortly.

‘He was not business-minded?’

‘I have no idea.’ Nor ever would have now. The vast wasteland that was his heritage would remain empty for ever.

Kirstin Blair was studying him above the rim of her wine glass dispassionately. ‘I seem to have the knack of inadvertently touching on what you least wish to discuss,’ she said. ‘Though it seemed a natural enough question, given the direction of our conversation…’

He was obliged to laugh. ‘As I recall, our conversation began with you asking me to tell you what I have deduced about you.’

‘Yes, I did, so feel free while I help myself to some of this excellent capon.’

‘Firstly, you are not afraid to defy convention, since we’ve already committed several social faux pas, two complete strangers, dining alone together.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? You think me a rebel?’

‘Not exactly.’ Cameron pushed his half-finished plate to one side. ‘You do not, I think, set out to be different, but your combination of clear thinking and the expression of that thinking without any attempt to moderate it makes your personality even more singular than your looks.’

‘Singular? That is not, I think, a compliment. It might be construed as meaning odd.’

‘It’s the unvarnished truth, just as you prefer it. Am I right?’

‘You are.’ She propped her chin on her hand. ‘Tell me more.’

‘You cannot be too much in the habit of socialising, else this habit of yours, of speaking your mind, would have been curbed—unless you are in the habit only of socialising with similar-minded people.’ Cameron frowned at this. ‘Since you’ve told me that you take your mathematical inclinations from your father, then I wonder if he is perhaps a professor at the university in Edinburgh?’

Her half-smile faded. ‘Was.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

Kirstin shook her head, looking studiously down at the table to avoid his eyes. ‘He had been ill for some time and died peacefully in his bed, as he wished to do, a month ago.’

She met his eyes again, almost defiantly, making Cameron think the better of offering his condolences. ‘I presume,’ he said instead, ‘that this loss is the reason for you setting out on this new life of yours, then? You have no other ties to keep you in Edinburgh?’

Her expression softened, and he knew he’d said the right thing. ‘Very good. My mother died when I was a child. I’ve no other kith or kin. Go on.’

But Cameron shook his head. ‘I’ll quit while I’m ahead, if you don’t mind. Aside from guessing your age, which I’d say was three or four and twenty…’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘There, you see, I should have held my tongue. As to this new life of yours, that you’re excited about and afraid of in equal parts, all I can say is that it must be something like yourself—unconventional—and nothing so predictable as a post as a governess or a teacher. Unless you’ve found an institution which accepts female mathematicians?’

‘I did not even attempt to look. Aside from the fact that few men believe women capable of understanding even the most rudimentary forms of logic, I do not have any formal qualifications. Being a female. It is a vicious circle.’

‘Aye, I can see that it is.’

‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Kirstin said. ‘I’ve no complete idea myself of what this new life of mine will be, save that it will be, as you said, unconventional. You are an excellent observer.’

‘A high compliment, coming from one such as yourself.’

‘Are you teasing me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

She laughed at that. ‘Beneath that very handsome exterior—and don’t pretend you don’t know how very handsome you are—there lurks a personality which could, I suspect, be very intimidating if you chose. I think you would dare almost anything, Cameron Dunbar.’

‘Do you now?’ he said, taken aback by this. ‘You don’t seem particularly intimidated, if I may say so.’

‘No, but that is because you have not tried to intimidate me, being in need of my company to distract you.’

‘And because I’ve taken a liking to you, let us not forget that. I’ve never met anyone like you.’

‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’

‘Do you believe in fate?’

‘It is not a logical concept.’

‘No, but sometimes we humans defy logic.’

Kirstin smiled at that. ‘You think it was fate which brought us together today?’

‘If it was mere chance, then it was a very fortunate one. I would not have liked to miss this opportunity to get to know you, however briefly.’

‘And you have,’ Kirstin said, ‘or do—know me, I mean—better than most of my acquaintance, even though we’ve barely met and are no sooner getting acquainted than we must part. It must be getting late.’

Cameron consulted his watch, exclaiming in astonishment at the hour. ‘It’s after ten.’

‘Why haven’t they been to clear the table?’

‘Reluctant to interrupt us, I suppose, and plenty else to keep them occupied, looking after the rest of our coach party.’

‘They will probably all be abed by now. We make an early start in the morning.’ Kirstin pushed back her chair. ‘We should bid each other goodnight.’

Cameron too got to his feet. ‘We should, though I’m loath to do so.’

‘Lest your demons return?’

‘You’ve well and truly banished my demons. I’m much more likely to be kept awake thinking of you, if you want the honest truth.’

He hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but the words were out before he could stop them. Yet instead of looking affronted, Kirstin widened her eyes as they met his, and in that instant the mood between them changed, became a meeting of minds subsumed by a rush of unmistakably mutual desire.

Chapter Three

London, February 1819

I will find her. I have to find her, because failure is not an option. So we will keep searching until we do. Those are my terms. Under The Procurer’s rules, you are obliged to adhere to them.

Kirstin replayed Cameron’s words over and over in her mind. As he had pointed out, these were The Procurer’s rules of engagement—her own rules. She’d assumed they would protect her from Cameron asking awkward questions, but she hadn’t counted on them working against her.

Were they too onerous? She thought back to the women who had played by those very rules over the years, women who had, by doing so, saved themselves, bought themselves independence, a new life, a fresh start. Their success had been richly rewarded, but at what cost? She had never considered this aspect of her vocation. She took account only of the facts: that the woman had the appropriate skills, a determination to succeed and too much to lose to fail.

Those had been the foundations of her own success. She had assumed those other women would be similarly driven and willing to do whatever it took, no matter the collateral damage.

Except she was now the one in the firing line. Had she demanded too much of them? Cameron had the right to keep her here until his search was successfully completed. Kirstin, staring at her unpacked portmanteau, wasn’t at all convinced she could commit to that, no matter how urgent and worthy the cause.

Though there were actually two causes, she reminded herself, his and hers. If she left now, there could be no turning back, no other opportunity to know him and to use that knowledge to ratify the life she had chosen.

He had disconcerted her so far. It wasn’t only that she still found him fiercely attractive, it was the man himself, so honourable, so assured, and so—so likeable. Dammit, he even had a sense of humour!

If only he’d been different. Arrogance, a common trait in many men as successful as Cameron, would have provoked an instant dislike. Even if he’d been less inclined to listen to her, more determined to have his own way, it would have helped. Instead, to add to all his other disconcerting qualities, he was happy to accept her advice and solicit her opinion. Though he was paying through the nose for it, she knew from past experience it did not necessarily mean he would take it. There was steel at the core of him that made it clear he would not hesitate to take control should he deem it necessary.

Which thought made her shudder, for if he knew the truth, and had the inclination to act, a man as powerful as Cameron Dunbar could easily realise her biggest fear. So he must never, ever guess the truth.

Did this mean she should leave, disappear for ever from his view, to protect her secret? And by doing so learn to live with the questions his reappearance had raised? Impossible. Kirstin sat down on the bed and undid the buttons of her spencer. She had no choice but to stay here and do what she had commanded all those other women to do.

All or nothing. It would be challenging, but when had she ever shirked a challenge? It required her to commit herself wholeheartedly, to lay aside her other responsibilities for the first time in six years. Marianne would relish the challenge of taking charge. It might even prove oddly liberating.

A knock at the door heralded the delivery of a note from Marianne. Scanning it, she smiled to herself. In the grand scheme of things this was welcome good news.

Kirstin opened her portmanteau and began to unpack.

* * *

‘I have decided to stay and abide by your terms until we find Philippa and Jeannie,’ Kirstin said brusquely as she took a seat once again in Cameron’s sitting room an hour later.

He sat opposite her, making no effort to disguise his relief. ‘Thank you. Any delay while The Procurer finds someone to replace you could prove fatal to my chances of success.’

‘But what if they are never found?’ she asked gently.

‘I prefer to operate on the assumption that they will be. For what it’s worth, I am convinced Philippa is alive. I feel it. Here.’

Cameron put his hand over his chest. Kirstin knew where his heart was. She’d laid her cheek on his chest and listened to it as she’d watched dawn come up through the post house bedroom window, the solid, regular beat counting out the seconds and minutes until they must part. She’d thought him asleep until he’d slid his hand up her flank to cup her breast, until he’d whispered, his voice husky with passion, that there was still time for…

She dragged her mind back to the present. ‘Your instincts in this case are correct.’

‘What do you mean?’

She permitted herself a small smile. ‘As soon as I accepted your offer I took the liberty of getting in touch with a man who, quite literally, knows where the bodies are buried in London and its environs. I have received word from Mar—my assistant that he has been in touch. There have been no suspicious deaths fitting the description of your niece and her maid. Trust me, if there had been, this gentleman would know. So we can safely assume that they are alive, for the time being.’

Cameron stared at her in astonishment. He laughed, an odd, nervous sound. He shook his head. And then a smile of blessed relief spread across his face. ‘Thank you,’ he said fervently.

‘That does not mean—’

‘I know, I know. But still.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair, staring at her in something of a daze. ‘It’s a very positive development.’

‘Yes.’ She permitted herself another small smile. ‘Yes, it is.’

He had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. There were fresh ink stains on his fingers, though the stack of papers on the desk seemed to her undisturbed. Either he was very neat, or he had been working on something else. The fact that he was no longer tense, and seemed more relaxed to her presence, patently in charge of the situation, led her to the conclusion that the ‘something else’ was his notes. She was quietly pleased when he proved her correct by opening the leather-bound notebook on the table in front of him.

‘I’ve been thinking…’

‘As indeed have I,’ Kirstin intervened. ‘Before we proceed, I have some questions for you.’

Cameron closed his notebook on his lap, rested his arm on the back of his chair and angled himself towards her. ‘Ask away.’

Kirstin took out her own notebook. ‘Your half-sister, Louise Ferguson,’ she began in clipped tones. ‘Firstly, how did she know where to contact you, given that you’d had only one previous encounter?’

‘I’m not difficult to find, Kirstin, my name is well-enough known in trade circles. She wrote to my main place of business in Glasgow, as I said, and fortunately for all concerned I was there.’

‘But why you, Cameron? You are, by your own admission, a virtual stranger to her.’

‘Because her husband is dead and she has no other close male relatives. Because she doesn’t want anyone she knows involved. Because she knows enough of my reputation, it seems, to be sure that I have the means that she does not, to pull whatever strings are necessary. And because,’ he concluded with a bitter smile, ‘she was pretty certain that I’d leap at the chance to help her. As I said, and as she pointed out, I owe her.’

‘You do not resent the fact that she turned to you in her time of need when she’d previously estranged herself from you?’

He had not flinched at her bald statement, but she was watching him very closely. There was the tiniest movement, an involuntary tic at the corner of his mouth. It did hurt him that the woman was using him. Of course she couldn’t exactly be blamed for doing so, she was a mother in desperate fear for her child’s life, but all the same it didn’t cast her in a particularly favourable light. While Cameron—There could be no denying that Cameron was a very honourable man.

‘I was angry, of course I was, but I can’t blame her,’ he said, unwittingly echoing Kirstin’s own thoughts. ‘She’s desperate. Not only to find Philippa, but to keep her daughter’s disappearance quiet. When I suggested getting the Bow Street Runners involved she almost had a fit.’

‘Why? Surely publicising her daughter’s disappearance would make finding her easier.’

‘Aye, but it would also mean that everyone would know, and Mrs Ferguson isn’t sure that either of them would recover from the scandal of it—whatever it turns out to be.’

‘So she turned to you, knowing you would help, knowing that you had the means, as you call it, to do whatever was necessary, and knowing that you’d have no option but to be discreet, being unknown to any of her family and friends?’

‘My desire for discretion in this matter has nothing to do with my social circle or the lack of it,’ Cameron replied tersely, ‘and everything to do with my desire to protect the reputation of an innocent young girl, her maid and her mother.’

‘My own desire is to understand the circumstances of this case. It was not my intention to upset you.’

‘You did not,’ Cameron retorted. Though it was clear that she had.

‘It is in the nature of these contracts that the client—in this case yourself—is forced to reveal a good deal of his life and his personal circumstances,’ Kirstin continued carefully. ‘Sometimes things which he would prefer to keep to himself.’