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‘Then we shall deal well together, for I am a woman who prefers that a spade should be called a spade.’
He laughed shortly. ‘Though you look like a woman whose sensibilities are very easily offended.’
‘Precisely my intention when I assumed this guise. I have dressed as a lady of quality, because only a lady of quality would be accepted as a guest in this hotel, Mr Dunbar. One should not judge by appearances, though fortunately, for the success of our mission, many people do.’
‘Do you think we’ll be successful?’
Though he asked her coolly enough, there was just a hint of desperation in his tone. With difficulty, Kirstin resisted the urge to cover his hand, one of the few gestures of sympathy she ever allowed herself to bestow. It was even more difficult to resist the urge to reassure him, but that was one rule she never broke.
‘I will do everything in my power to help you, but it has been over a week now. You must face the fact that the damage may already have been done.’
The pain in his eyes told her he had already been down that path, far further than even she had. ‘We must succeed,’ he said. ‘Mrs Ferguson is relying on me to find her daughter.’
‘She cannot possibly blame you if you fail.’
‘Believe me, she will, and she won’t give me another chance.’
Kirstin frowned, wondering if she had missed something significant he had said in the confessional two days ago, but her memory was prodigious, she missed nothing. ‘Another chance to do what?’
‘Pay my dues.’ Cameron dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘The woman believes that I owe her, and in all conscience I think she has a point. If I can restore her daughter to her then we can both get on with our lives unencumbered.’
Only now did his mode of address strike her as odd. She should have noticed it before. She tried to recall what Cameron had told The Procurer in the confessional, and realised he’d said nothing at all of his relationship with Mrs Ferguson and her daughter, save to inform her of the blood tie.
‘You don’t know your sister well enough to call her by her first name, yet she turned to you when her daughter disappeared?’
Cameron got to his feet, making for the window, where he leaned his shoulder against the shutter. ‘Mrs Ferguson is only my half-sister, making Philippa my half-niece, if there is such a thing.’
‘You do realise that a failure to disclose salient facts renders your contract with The Procurer null and void?’
He rolled his eyes, but resumed his seat opposite her. ‘It’s a long story, and I can’t see how it’s relevant, but until Philippa disappeared I had met her mother only once. I’ve never set eyes on Philippa myself. This is her.’ He produced a miniature, which depicted an insipid girl with hair the colour of night. ‘There’s no portrait of the maid, but according to Mrs Ferguson she is a pert chit with ginger hair, from which we can infer a pretty redhead.’
‘You think that if you can restore Philippa to her mother, your sister will be grateful enough to—to nullify some previous debt?’
‘It’s not about money.’
No, nothing so simple, Kirstin deduced from the slash of colour in his cheeks. She would have liked to question him further but, like Cameron, she was bound by her own rules. There was a very big difference between history which had a bearing on this case, and bald curiosity.
‘And if you fail?’ she asked carefully.
‘I cannot fail. I’ve never met the girl, but having seen the mother—she’s in a terrible state—I can’t let her down. Can you imagine what she must be feeling, to have her only child disappear like that, from right under her nose?’
A shiver ran down Kirstin’s spine. ‘No,’ she said, catching herself, ‘I do not want to imagine, and nor does it serve any purpose. What we must do is try to put an end to her suffering. That is why I’m here.’
‘I was, as you’ll have noticed, somewhat taken aback when you turned up, but I’m very glad you did, Kirstin—Miss Blair—Mrs Collins. Curse it, I’ve no idea what to call you.’
He smiled at her then. It was a rueful smile. A smile that acknowledged their brief shared history, and acknowledged, too, that it was exactly that. History. Yet that smile, the warmth of it, the way it wrapped itself round her, brought it all back as if it were yesterday…
December 1812, Carlisle
He had boarded, as she had, at the White Hart Inn in the Grassmarket at Edinburgh, jumping into the coach at the last minute, squashing himself into the far corner, apologising to the stout man next to him, though it was he who was overflowing both sides of his allotted seat. The new arrival was swathed in a many-caped greatcoat, which he was forced to gather tightly around him. His legs were encased in a pair of black boots with brown tops, still highly polished, no mean feat having navigated Edinburgh’s filthy streets. When he took off his hat, clasping it on his lap, the woman sitting next to Kirstin gasped. The man looked up—not at the woman whom Kirstin had decided must be a housekeeper en route to a new appointment, but directly at Kirstin. In that brief glimpse, before she dropped her gaze deliberately to her lap, she saw enough to understand the housekeeper’s reaction, but she was irked and no little embarrassed, mortified that he might think the involuntary reaction had emanated from her. He was handsome, far too handsome to be unaware of the fact, and no doubt accustomed to having women of all ages gasping at him. Kirstin wasn’t about to add to their number.
But as the coach lumbered across the cobblestones of the Grassmarket towards the city gate and the road south, she found herself sneaking glances at the Adonis in the far corner. He sat with his head back on the squabs, his eyes closed, but the grim line of his mouth told her, as did the rigid way he held his body, that he was not asleep. His hair was black, close-cropped, the colour like her own, showing his Celtic origins. He had a high brow, faintly lined, his skin tanned, not the weather-beaten hue of a Scot who worked outdoors in the assorted forms of rain which dominated the four seasons, but a glow borne of sunshine and far warmer climes. His accent had been Scots, west coast rather than east, she thought, it was difficult to judge from his few terse words, but he obviously spent a deal of his time abroad. To his advantage too, judging by his attire, which was expensive yet understated. A businessman of some sort, she conjectured, discounting the possibility that he was a man of leisure, for such a man would certainly not travel on a public coach. This gentleman was obviously accustomed to it, managing to stay quite still in his seat despite the rattles and jolts of the cumbersome vehicle that had everyone else falling over each other.
She wondered what it was that he was thinking to make such a grim line of his mouth. Was he in pain? Angry? No, his grasp on his hat was light enough. Upset? There was a cleft in his chin, which was rather pointed than square. It was the contrasts, Kirstin decided, which made him so handsome—the delicate shape of his face, the strong nose, the sharp cheekbones. His brows were fierce. She was speculating on the exact colour of his eyes when they flew open and met her gaze. Dark brown, like melting chocolate, Kirstin thought fancifully before she caught herself, and was about to look away when he smiled directly at her, and she had the most absurd sensation that they were quite alone. She smiled back before she could stop herself. It was the housekeeper’s disapproving cluck which recalled her to her surroundings.
For the next few miles, Kirstin doggedly occupied herself with weaving histories for the other passengers, a game she’d played to pass the time ever since she was a lass sitting at the back of her father’s mathematical lectures, too young to understand the subject matter which would later enthral her, for she had inherited his logical brain, so instead occupying herself by studying his students. The tiniest details were her raw materials: the type of pencil they used to take notes or the paper on which they wrote; whether a muffler was hand-knitted or silk; which young men wore starched collars and cuffs, and which wore paper; those who fell asleep because they’d spent the night revelling, and those who struggled to keep their eyes open because they worked all hours to pay for their studies.
As the coach proceeded on its journey south, this pastime kept Kirstin’s eyes directed anywhere but at the far too handsome and interesting man for the most part, though several times, when she strayed, she met his studied gaze. She was used to men looking at her, admiring and lascivious in equal measure, but this man seemed interested in a different way. Was he speculating about her reasons for making this long journey unaccompanied? Was he wondering who she’d left behind, who was waiting at the other end to meet her? No one, and no one, she could have told him. He wasn’t really interested, why should he be, it was wishful thinking on her part, but she decided to indulge in it all the same, because what was the harm, when her entire life now lay before her, waiting on her choosing her path?
She had taken the bold step of quitting Edinburgh, with no ties to keep her there now that Papa had given up his long struggle with illness. She had nothing save his small legacy and her wits to live on, and only the kernel of an idea, a chance remark made by her friend Ewan, who was now so happily married to Jennifer. She’d laughed, dismissing their praise for her matchmaking skills, for she had never intended them to make a match, and had seen them merely as the ideal solution to each other’s practical problems. Was she a fool to think that she could assist others in a similar fashion?
Her excitement gave way, as it had regularly done since she’d started planning this new life of hers, to trepidation. How was she to go about setting up such a bespoke service? With neither reputation nor references, save the unintended one she’d extracted from Ewan, how was she to persuade anyone to employ her? She closed her eyes, reminding herself of the qualities which would make her successful, reciting them like an incantation. Trepidation gave away to anticipation once more. She opened her eyes to find the handsome man staring at her brazenly and this time she responded, smiling back, because there was no harm in it, and because they’d never see each other again after today, and because it gave her the illusion that she was not completely and utterly alone.
They had crossed the border from Scotland into England well over an hour ago. It was a mere ten miles from Gretna Green to Carlisle, but the snow was falling thick and fast now, making progress excruciatingly slow. Through the draughty carriage window she could see the huge flakes melting as soon as they touched the ground, for it was not cold enough for snow to lie, though it was making a quagmire of the road, a white curtain obscuring the driver’s view.
The coach hit a rut, rocked precariously, jolted forward, rocked the other way, then came to a sudden halt, catching everyone by surprise, throwing them all from their seats. Save, Kirstin noticed dazedly, the Adonis, who was wrenching the door open and leaping lithely down. Seconds later her own door was flung open and she was pulled from the chaos in the coach into a pair of strong arms.
He did not set her down immediately. He held her high against his chest, carrying her bodily away from the coach, from the plunging horses and the frightened cries of the passengers, to the side of the road. And still he held her, the snow falling thickly around them. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, frowning anxiously down at her.
Kirstin shook her head. ‘No, and I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet, thank you very much.’
He let her go reluctantly, it seemed to her, though her irrepressibly logical brain told her she was being foolish. His hands rested on her arms, as if she required his support, and though she was quite unshaken and perfectly capable of supporting herself, she made no move to free herself as she ought. It was possible, she discovered with some surprise, to think one thing and to do quite another. ‘How soon, do you think,’ she asked, ‘will we be able to resume our journey?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Depends on the damage, but probably not till morning. Luckily we’re only a short walk from the next posting house. They have rooms there—not smart, but clean enough.’
‘You’ve stayed there before?’
‘A number of times, travelling on business. Likely they’ll be able to repair any damage to the coach there too, and you’ll be on your way in the morning.’
‘Won’t you be travelling with us?’
‘I’m Liverpool bound. I have a ship waiting—though it won’t wait, that’s the trouble. I’ll have to hire a private chaise if I’m to get there in time now.’
‘So you are a businessman with foreign interests,’ Kirstin said, nodding with satisfaction. ‘I had guessed as much.’
‘Am I so transparent?’
‘Only when you choose to be, I suspect. And I am, if I may be so bold, a very good reader of small clues. Your clothing, your tan, your familiarity with public transport, though I’m not sure, now I think about it, why you should be taking a coach from Edinburgh to Liverpool. Assuming you had just concluded business in the port of Leith, would it not have been quicker to go by boat?’
‘Now there, your logical assumptions have let you down, I’m afraid. I had no business in Leith.’
‘Oh.’ Kirstin felt quite deflated. ‘I was so sure—what then brought you to Edinburgh? Your accent is faint, but I am pretty certain it is Glaswegian, Mr—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Dunbar. It is Cameron Dunbar,’ he answered, but his attention was no longer on her. He was frowning, the tension she had noticed when first he boarded the coach thinning his mouth.
‘I beg your pardon if my question was unwelcome,’ Kirstin said. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so inquisitive.’
He blinked, shook his head, returned his gaze to hers. ‘It was a—a personal matter, which brought me to Edinburgh.’ He forced a smile, a painful one. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Of course not. I’m very sorry.’ Embarrassed and at the same time disappointed, Kirstin stepped away, turning her back on Cameron Dunbar and her attention to the coach, where the remaining passengers were being helped out by the driver and the groom. ‘We should go and help them, let them know that there’s an inn nearby.’
‘Leave them to it.’ He spoke brusquely, caught her arm, then dropped it with a muttered apology. ‘Excuse me. I only meant that there’s no need for you to become embroiled. The coachman is more than capable. Come, I’ll walk with you to the inn, then you can have your pick of the rooms before the rush.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dunbar, that is very thoughtful.’
‘It’s not really. I’m being selfish, for it means I can have your company to myself for a little longer. I don’t mean—I beg pardon, I didn’t mean to presume—I only meant…’
He broke off, shaking his head, looking confused. Whatever this personal business of his had been, it had unsettled him. ‘I suspect you’re not quite at your normal self-assured best,’ Kirstin said, tucking her hand into his arm.
‘No.’ She was granted a crooked smile. ‘I’m not.’
‘No more am I, to tell the truth. This journey to London I’m making, it’s going to be the start of a whole new life for me, and there’s a part of me absolutely terrified that I’ll make a mess of it. Though of course,’ Kirstin added hastily, ‘my feelings are perfectly logical since the odds are stacked against me.’
Cameron Dunbar laughed shortly. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very unusual woman?’
‘I think you told me so just a moment ago. Though actually what you said was that I was surprising.’
‘You are both. And a very welcome distraction too, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Compliments are most welcome, just at the moment.’
They walked on in the growing gloom, through the sleet and the mud. She could not read his expression, though she sensed he was frowning. Twice, he gave the oddest little shake of his head, as if trying to cast off unwelcome thoughts. Relating to this painful personal business of his, she assumed. It seemed that beauty in a man was no more a guarantee of happiness than it was in a woman. There was, of course, no reason to assume it would be. She had not thought she could be so facile.
As they approached the welcome lights of the inn, and a dog started barking, Cameron Dunbar stopped, turning towards her. She assumed it was to bid her goodnight. He once again proved her wrong. ‘Since you are in the market for compliments, I find your conversation both endearing and distracting, and I’m very much in need of distraction right now. Would it be too much of a liberty to ask you to take dinner with me?’
It would be wrong of her to dine alone with a complete stranger, she knew that. But she too was a complete stranger to him. And he was not the only one in need of distraction. ‘I’d like that very much,’ she said simply.
‘Thank you, Mrs—Miss—I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked your name.’
‘It is Blair. Miss Kirstin Blair.’
Chapter Two (#udadc08d2-226b-558a-ad9f-ad4267c5c1c3)
London, February 1819
Kirstin shook herself from her reverie. Now was categorically neither the time nor place to recollect the past. Cameron was staring at her, his brow lifted quizzically. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘what did you ask me?’
‘How should I address you?’
‘Kirstin will be fine, at least while we are alone. In company—well, it very much depends on the company, and that is likely to be rather varied.’
The wintery sun streaming through the windows of Cameron’s hotel suite illuminated the dark shadows under his eyes, the furrow of lines between his brows, the grooves at the sides of his mouth. His skin was drawn tight around his eyes. Pity stirred in her breast. She knew little of him, but such a successful businessman as he must be finding his helplessness difficult to endure. Another man would have blundered on, useless if determined, too proud to ask for help, but Cameron Dunbar had quickly put his own ego aside. She admired him very much for that.
Once again, the urge to touch his hand was overpowering but it was not sympathy he needed. ‘We must devise a plan,’ Kirstin said briskly. ‘Though I do not recommend you share the details with Mrs Ferguson, you will want to reassure her that you are taking decisive action. But first, let us review what you know.’
‘I know nothing more than what I’ve already told The Procurer, and I presume she has already passed that on to you?’
‘Of course, but it is my experience, Mr Dunbar, that details often emerge in the retelling that have been overlooked.’
‘Can’t you bring yourself to call me Cameron?’
No, she wanted to say, because it implied an intimacy she didn’t want to acknowledge. But if she refused, he’d wonder why and she didn’t want him speculating. So Kirstin shrugged, as if it mattered not a whit. ‘Very well, Cameron, let us start with your initial involvement in this matter. Mrs Ferguson wrote to you, I believe?’
‘An express delivery to my main office in Glasgow. The one piece of good fortune in this whole sorry affair is that her letter found me there. I spend a great deal of my time abroad, looking after my various business concerns, though Glasgow is my home, in as much as any place is. I set off for London immediately, catching the mail coach which had delivered my letter on its return journey, but even so, it has now been over a week since Miss Ferguson disappeared with her maid from the Spaniard’s Inn at Hampstead, the last stop on their journey south. Unlike me, Mrs Ferguson’s preference is to travel in easy stages, and she certainly wasn’t going to take the risk of crossing the heath at night. Little did she know it would have been safer to risk a highwayman than…’ He cursed under his breath. ‘…than whatever befell the pair of them. Two young lassies with not a clue of the ways of the world. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘Then don’t, for it serves no purpose save to upset you. Let’s concentrate on the cold hard facts.’
Cameron grinned. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
Caught unawares, Kirstin only just bit back her answering smile. ‘A woman after saving your niece’s life, and that of her maid,’ she said tersely. ‘Recount for me now, as accurately as you can, what Mrs Ferguson told you of the events of that night.’
‘She dined with Philippa in a private salon. She had a headache from the day’s journey. Philippa saw her to her room and brought her a sleeping draught.’
‘Did Mrs Ferguson request that she do so?’
‘She did. She was in the habit of taking one every night. Apparently she is a very poor traveller. If Philippa planned to run off,’ Cameron said, grimacing, ‘she could easily have done so, knowing she could rely on her mother being comatose. A possibility Mrs Ferguson is all too alive to.’
‘And which must be consuming her with guilt,’ Kirstin said. ‘If she’d been awake, she might have heard that something was afoot, yes?’
‘Her exact words.’
‘I will need to hear them from her own lips,’ Kirstin said. ‘If you are more or less a stranger to her, it’s possible there are salient facts she’s unwilling to reveal to you.’
‘Even though it might jeopardise my chances of finding her daughter?’ Cameron shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, but it is vital that we are blunt with each other—you don’t know her, Mr—Cameron. She could be concealing something.’
He got to his feet to shovel a heap of fresh coals onto the fire. ‘You’re right, I don’t know her, but I’m a fair judge of character. Her desperation to find Philippa is genuine. If she’s concealing anything then she’s completely unaware of the fact. Which was your point, I know,’ he added ruefully. ‘Very well. Item one on our list, a meeting with Mrs Ferguson. She’s lodging at a friend’s house—the friend is in Paris—as she regularly does, apparently, on her shopping trips to London.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But let me make something clear, Kirstin.’ He sat down again on the sofa beside her, his knees brushing her skirts. She inched away from him, an action he noted with a sardonic lift of his brow. She’d forgotten that he was as observant as she. ‘I need your help. In your areas of expertise, I will bow to your experience. That is what I’m paying for. But ultimately, I am in charge.’
She stiffened. ‘I am aware that you are the client.’
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘A client who trusts your professional judgement implicitly.’
‘In certain areas.’
He tilted his head to one side, studying her as if he was seeing her for the first time. She stared back at him, her brow faintly raised, subjecting him to her well-practised piercing look which never failed to intimidate. Until now. ‘Being given orders does not sit well with you,’ he said.
‘Nor you, I suspect.’
‘Your suspicion would be well founded. We will work most effectively if we collaborate, but the final decision will be mine. Those are the rules of engagement I agreed with The Procurer.’
‘Then those are the rules we will abide by.’
‘I am relieved to hear you say so. Have you always worked for her? Since coming to London, I mean? You never did tell me what your plans were, though you told me you had some.’ Cameron held up his hands. ‘I know, I know, no questions.’ He sighed. ‘Look, this situation might be familiar territory for you, charging to someone’s aid, taking control, doing whatever it is you do, but I feel as if I’ve walked into someone else’s dream. Or nightmare, more like.’
