From one snowy Christmas…

…to a sizzling-hot reunion!

A Matches Made in Scandal story.

Kirstin Blair has spent seven years trying to forget brooding Cameron Dunbar. Now self-made man Cameron needs her help to recover his missing niece, and Kirstin must face the truth—seeing him again sparks the same irresistible attraction that first brought them together!

She must decide: resist, or give in to temptation and risk Cameron discovering everything she’s fought so hard to protect…

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

Book 1—From Governess to Countess Book 2—From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Book 3—His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Book 4—A Scandalous Winter Wedding

“From Governess to Countess is an engaging story, it dazzles you with the chemistry between Allison and Aleskei and teases you into wanting more.”

—Goodreads on From Governess to Countess

“Kaye’s eye for detail is as sharp as her ability to translate history into engaging fiction… From Courtesan to Convenient Wife is an emotionally urgent and tender romance.”

—All About Romance on From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more at her website: margueritekaye.com.

Also by Marguerite Kaye

Hot Arabian Nights miniseries

The Widow and the Sheikh

Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride

The Harlot and the Sheikh

Claiming His Desert Princess

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

From Governess to Countess

From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07428-5

A SCANDALOUS WINTER WEDDING

© 2018 Marguerite Kaye

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

London, February 1819

Kirstin Blair curled up in her favourite armchair in front of the fire and poured herself a cup of fragrant tea. It was a new blend, a gift from one of her oldest friends, the Marquis of Glenkin, but while the smoky brew was undoubtedly as refreshing as any Ewan had previously supplied, tonight she might as well have been drinking dishwater. As she settled in her seat, the rustle of the letter secreted in her dressing gown pocket proved too difficult to resist.

She opened the missive once again, staring down at the bold, decisive masculine handwriting. The maelstrom of emotions she had been keeping at bay all day overtook her, making the delicate Sèvres teacup shake in its saucer. She set it down, closing her eyes, lying her head back on the wings of her chair.

She’d never seen his script before. She’d had no inkling, when she broke the seal this morning in her office, of the explosive contents of that single sheet of expensive pressed paper. Scanning the signature first, as she always did, she’d thought her eyes deceived her, but a second appraisal of it left no room for doubt.

Cameron Dunbar. There could not be another with that particular name.

The shock hit her afresh as she stared at the letter. It was not that she’d thought him dead, more that she had so effectively written him out of her life it was as if he had never existed. She rarely permitted herself to recall any detail of that fateful night.

As she struggled to repress the confusing and almost unprecedented smart of tears, years of practice allowed her to draw a thick black curtain over the memory. She would not cry. She had barely shed a tear in the darkest of times. She had taught herself to concentrate wholly on the positive, to look forward not back.

‘Onwards and upwards,’ she whispered to herself now, but the words which had so often inspired her, and many of the women she had aided, failed to work their magic on this occasion.

Cameron Dunbar. He was unquestionably an outrageously handsome man, but it was not his classical good looks which had drawn her, it was his smile. He had one of those intimate smiles, a smile seemingly intended only for her. Despite the fact that they had been surrounded by strangers, that the carriage had been pungent from the succession of boiled eggs one passenger had consumed at regular intervals, and ripe with the sweat from another, and regardless of the fact that they had been sitting diametrically opposite each other, that smile had enveloped them in a bubble of their own. She’d found herself smiling back, something quite alien to her reserved nature. It should have been a warning that most certainly should have been heeded.

Kirstin’s eyes snapped open. Cameron Dunbar’s easy charm was of no interest to her. On the other hand, the letter which lay in her lap, whatever its mysterious request turned out to entail, might prove to be a very lucrative business opportunity. If she chose to accept it. Not that she would. She would be a fool to have anything to do with the man who had, albeit unwittingly, come so close to destroying her. She had saved herself, living by her considerable wits, reinventing herself, working hard to create the myth behind which she now flourished, to establish the flawless reputation she now enjoyed. There was no need to conjure up this ghost from her past.

On the other hand, business was business. Despite the fact that her alter ego was besieged every day with enquiries, such was the complex nature of her extremely discreet and niche service that only a very small percentage of these commissions could be accepted. Making the impossible possible required her to ensure that she never failed, but the need to make a handsome living that would safeguard her future meant she was not in a position to reject any approach out of hand.

But this particular prospect she most decidedly could not investigate, far less take on, for she could not possibly meet Cameron Dunbar face-to-face.

Yet it was impossible to deny that she wanted to, given the incontrovertible evidence that he was alive. She found herself intensely curious as to how his life had turned out, more than six years on, and what his circumstances were. And she wanted to know what desperate bind he had found himself in that he was compelled to seek her expensive and exclusive assistance. Not that he could have any idea at all who it was he’d actually written to.

Which thought gave her pause. A small smile played on her lips as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea. Taking a sip, she nodded with satisfaction, relishing the smoky blend of this second cup. Cameron Dunbar had written to her alter ego. Even if he remembered Kirstin from that one night over six years ago, he had no reason to connect the two of them. And, actually, there was a reasonable chance that he wouldn’t even remember that night, for a man as handsome and as charming and as charismatic as Cameron Dunbar must surely have had many such nights since. That illusion of intimacy between them, that feeling she’d had, the reason she’d allowed herself to be carried away, that she was special, that his behaviour was every bit as out of character as hers was exactly that, an illusion.

Seeing him again would change nothing, Kirstin told herself, but the logical approach which ruled her life, a legacy of her mathematician father, failed to hold sway. Her world was quite perfect, as far as she was concerned, and most importantly of all it was hers. She had no desire whatsoever to change it, and plenty of reasons to protect it from the eyes of the world. So it made no sense to her that from the minute she’d opened that letter a persistent niggling voice had been urging her to meet the owner of its signature.

Relentlessly analytical, Kirstin probed deeper into her own motives. It was not only blind curiosity which drove her, though that did play a small part. She wanted to prove to herself that the path she had chosen was the correct one. That her defiance of convention had been vindicated. That the smooth, impenetrable face she presented to society was the best form of protection from the judgement of the world for those she held most dear, allowing the life of splendid isolation which existed behind the façade to blossom.

There was no place there for Cameron Dunbar, but nor was there any room for doubts. Thanks to this letter, he’d temporarily escaped from the mental prison she’d locked him in. She needed to see him one more time, to assure herself that he was completed business, then put him back in his cell and this time throw away the key.

Besides, from a business perspective she had an obligation to meet him, at the very least to discover what it was he sought and whether she could provide it. If she could, well and good. She would match a deserving subject to his requirements and there would be no need for them ever to meet again. If not, there would be no harm done.

Kirstin set down her empty teacup. She folded up the letter. All she had to do was to find a way for them to meet once, a meeting that would allow her to see him, to question him, but which would grant him no such reciprocal privileges.

* * *

The Procurer always dressed in black. Understated but expensive, her working clothes could be those of a rich widow or a discreet and exclusive Covent Garden madam—there had been a deliberate irony in Kirstin’s choice of her assumed title. She was also aware that black outfits, severely tailored, suited her particular form of beauty. Though the notion of using seduction to achieve her goals repelled her, she would not be such a fool as to deny the power of a pretty face. It was unfair, but there were times, especially before her reputation was fully established, when her good looks had worked to her advantage, opening doors which might have otherwise remained firmly closed.

Today, despite the fact that her appearance was irrelevant, for Cameron Dunbar would not see her, she dressed with great care, scrutinising herself in the mirror. The black velvet military-style full-length pelisse with its double row of braid, tight sleeves and high collar showed off her tall, slim figure to perfection. Black buttoned half-boots, black gloves, a poke bonnet trimmed with black silk and a large black velvet muff completed her outfit. What little showed of her face was pale, save for the pink blush of her full lips, and the grey-blue of her heavy-lidded eyes which even today betrayed nothing of the turmoil raging in her head.

Kirstin smiled the enigmatic smile of The Procurer, relieved to see her alter ego smiling back at her. Cameron would not see her, but if he did, he’d see what everyone did: The Procurer, a beautiful, aloof and powerful woman, with an air of mystery about her, a woman with a reputation for making the impossible possible.

Satisfied, she made her customary farewells and left her house by the discreet side door. It was a short walk to Soho Square, to a very different world from genteel Bloomsbury, though The Procurer, whose business relied upon her being extremely well connected, had several dubious contacts who lived nearby. St Patrick’s Church was located on the corner.

Kirstin checked her enamelled pocket watch. Five minutes to eleven, the appointed hour and the first test she had set Cameron Dunbar, insisting he be prompt. This first hurdle she had, with an unaccustomed nod towards letting fate decide, set herself. If he was too early, or was already inside the church, their meeting was not meant to be.

She waited, ignoring her racing heart, standing in the shade of one of the churchyard’s leafless trees, a location she had earlier selected for its excellent view of the entrance porch. She would give him just five minutes’ leeway. Her pocket watch gave off the tiny vibration which alerted her to the hour, but before she could begin to manage her disappointment at his failure to materialise he appeared.

From this distance, Cameron Dunbar looked unchanged. Tall and ramrod-straight, he still walked with that quick, purposeful stride which made the capes of his dark brown greatcoat fly out behind him. He wore fawn pantaloons, polished Hessians, and a tall beaver hat which covered his close-cropped hair so that she couldn’t see if it was still as black as night.

He stopped at the steps of the church to check his watch, thus unknowingly passing her first test, and the breath caught in her throat at seeing his face in profile, the strong nose, the decided chin, the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He was still the most ridiculously handsome man she had ever seen. She was relieved, for the sake of her ability to breathe, that he was frowning rather than smiling as he snapped shut the cover of his watch, returned it to his pocket and entered the church.

Kirstin stood rooted to the spot, staring at the large wooden door of St Patrick’s. Her heart was beating so fast she felt light-headed, her stomach churning, making her thankful she had decided against attempting breakfast. He was here. He was, even as she stood watching, making his way down the aisle, following her precise instructions, oblivious of the fact that she and The Procurer were one and the same.

Part of her wanted to flee. She had not expected this meeting to feel so momentous. She was afraid that she might betray herself with all the questions she dared not ask.

Did he remember that night at the posting house? Did he ever think of her? Did he ever wonder what had become of her? What direction had his own life taken?

This last question she, with her many contacts, could have easily found answers to, but until that letter had arrived she had preferred to know nothing, to persist with the illusion she had created that he did not exist.

But now! Oh, now she was afraid that this myriad of feelings she couldn’t even begin to unravel, which she’d had no idea had been so long pent-up, would rise to the surface, would be betrayed in her voice. She was afraid that she would not be able to maintain her façade. She was afraid that he would recognise her. She was even more afraid that she would, in her emotional turmoil, spill out enough of the truth for him to guess the rest.

No! A thousand times no! The consequences could not be contemplated, never mind borne. She would never, ever be so foolish. The knowledge calmed her, allowing her rational self to take charge once more. She would satisfy her curiosity. She would learn enough of the man and his situation to ensure that there could never in the future be any seeds of doubt. She would decide whether his case could be taken on and, if so, she would find him a suitable helpmeet. Then she would never see him again.

The Procurer now firmly in charge, Kirstin squared her shoulders and made her way inside the church.

* * *

Cameron Dunbar stood in front of the baptismal font set in an alcove off a side aisle. The church appeared to be deserted, though the sweet scent of incense and candle wax from the morning mass hung in the air, along with the faint tang of the less than genteel congregation. Feeling slightly absurd, he made his way to the confessional boxes ranged on the left-hand side of the aisle, entering the last one as instructed.

The curtain on the other side of the grille was closed. He sat down in the gloomy confined space and prepared himself for disappointment. The Procurer’s reputation for discretion was legendary, her reputation for being elusive equally so, but he had, nonetheless, expected to meet the woman face-to-face. Part of him questioned her very existence, wondering if she wasn’t some elaborate hoax. Even if she was more than a myth, he wasn’t at all convinced that he could bring himself to explain his business, especially such sensitive business, in such circumstances.

Sighing impatiently, Cameron tried to stretch his legs out in front of him, only to knock his knees against the door of the wooden box. If he had been able to think of another way to proceed, any other way at all, he would not be here. He hadn’t even heard of the woman until two days ago. Max had assured him that everything said of her was true, that her reputation was well-deserved, but Max had also refused to divulge a single detail of his own involvement with her, save to say, primly, that the matter had been resolved satisfactorily.

Cameron trusted Max, and his problem was urgent, becoming more urgent with every day that passed.

How long had he been sitting here? The blasted woman had been so precise about his own arrival she could at least have had the decency to be punctual herself. On the brink of breaking another of her list of instructions by peering out of the confessional into the church, he heard the tapping of heels on the aisle. Was it her? He listened, ears straining, as the footsteps approached. Stopped. And the door on the other side of the confessional was opened. There was a faint settling, the rustle of fabric as The Procurer sat down—assuming it was she and not a priest come to hear his confession.

The curtain on the other side was drawn back. It made little difference. Cameron could see nothing through the tiny holes in the pierced metal grille save a vague outline. But he could hear her breathing. And he could smell the damp on her clothes and the faint trace of perfume, not sickly attar of roses or lavender water, but a more exotic scent. Jasmine? Vanilla? What kind of woman was The Procurer? Max hadn’t even told him whether she was young or old.

‘Mr Dunbar?’

Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Cameron leaned into the grille and the shadow on the other side immediately pulled back. ‘I am Cameron Dunbar,’ he said. ‘May I assume I’m addressing The Procurer?’

‘You may.’

Again, she spoke softly. He could hear the swishing of her gown, as if she too was having difficulty in getting comfortable in the box. The situation was preposterous. Confessional or no, he wasn’t about to spill his guts to a complete stranger whose face he wasn’t even permitted to see.

‘Listen to me, Madam Procurer,’ Cameron said. ‘I don’t know what your usual format for these meetings is, but it does not suit me at all. Can we not talk face-to-face, like adults? This absurd situation hardly encourages trust, especially if I am to be your client.’

‘No!’ The single word came through the grille as a hiss, making him jerk his head away. ‘I made the terms of this meeting very clear in my note, Mr Dunbar. If you break them—’

‘Then you will not consider my case,’ he snapped. Cameron was not used to being in a negotiation where he did not have the upper hand. But this situation was in every way unique. ‘Very well,’ he conceded stiffly, ‘we will continue on your terms, madam.’

Silence. Then her face moved closer to the grille. ‘You must first tell me a little about yourself, Mr Dunbar.’

Though he must know nothing of her, it seemed. It stuck in his craw, but he could not risk alienating her. She would not, he sensed, give him a second chance, and if there was any possibility that she really was as good as Max averred, then he had no option but to play the game her way.

‘If you’re concerned that I can’t afford your fee,’ Cameron said dryly, ‘then let me put your mind at rest. Whatever it is—and I’ve heard that it is anything from a small fortune to a king’s ransom—then I have ample means.’

‘A king’s ransom?’ the woman on the other side of the grille whispered. ‘Now, that is an interesting proposition. What would you pay, Mr Cameron, to release the current King from his incarceration?’

‘A deal more than I’d pay for his son were it he who were locked away. I’d much prefer a madman on the throne to a profligate popinjay. Though the truth is I doubt I’d put up a penny for either.’

‘You are a republican, then, Mr Dunbar, like our friends in America?’

‘I’m a pragmatist and a businessman, and I’m wondering what relevance my politics can possibly have to the matter under discussion?’

His question caused her to pause. When she spoke again, her tone was conciliatory. ‘I take many factors into consideration before agreeing to take on a new client. I was merely trying to establish what sort of man I would be dealing with.’

‘An honest one. A desperate one, as you must know,’ Cameron replied tersely. ‘Else I would not have sought you out.’

‘You have told no one about this meeting? Not even your wife…’

‘I have no wife. I have spoken to no one,’ Cameron replied, becoming impatient. ‘You are not the only one who desires the utmost discretion.’

‘You may trust in mine, Mr Dunbar.’

‘So I’ve heard. You must not take it amiss if I tell you that I prefer to make my own mind up about that.’

‘You are perfectly at liberty to do so. Though I would remind you that you came to me for help, not the other way around.’

‘As a last resort. I am not a man who trusts anyone but himself with his affairs, but I cannot see a way to resolve this matter on my own. I desperately need your help.’

Her silence spoke for her. He must abandon his reservations, must throw caution to the wind and confide in this woman, no matter how much it went against the grain, else he would fail. The consequences of failure could not be contemplated.

‘You must believe me when I tell you I do not exaggerate,’ Cameron said. ‘This could well be a matter of life and death.’

* * *

Many of the people who sought The Procurer’s help thought the same, but there was a raw emotion in Cameron Dunbar’s voice that gave Kirstin pause. Hearing his voice, knowing that the man who had quite literally changed the course of her life was just inches away, had been more overwhelming than she could ever have imagined.

The urge to throw back the door of the confessional, to confront him face-to-face, was almost irresistible. She had not expected the visceral reaction of her body to his voice, as if her skin and her muscles remembered him, and the memory triggered a longing to know him again.

She was frustrated by the grille which kept her identity concealed, for it kept him safe too, from her scrutiny. Images flashed into her mind when he spoke, vivid, shocking images of that night that brought colour flooding to her cheeks, for the woman in those images was a wanton who bore no relation to the woman she was now. This had been a mistake. She could not help Cameron Dunbar, yet she could not force herself to walk away.

‘I will listen,’ she found herself saying. ‘Though I make no promises, I will hear you out.’

And so she did, with a growing sense of horror, as Cameron Dunbar told his story.

When he came to the end of it, Kirstin spoke without hesitation. ‘I will find someone suitable who will assist you. Tell me where you may be reached.’

Chapter One

Handing her portmanteau to the hackney cab driver, Kirstin gave the address of the hotel where Cameron Dunbar had taken up residence. It was by no means the grandest establishment in London but it was, she knew, formidably expensive, not least because it had a reputation for offering the utmost discretion, which suited certain well-heeled guests. She wondered how Cameron had come to know of it. The friend he had mentioned, Max, who had recommended The Procurer’s services, no doubt. She remembered Max. A difficult, but ultimately satisfying case, and the first one in which Marianne had been involved.

The cab rattled through the crowded streets and Kirstin’s heart raced along with it. It was not too late to turn back, but she knew she would not. Her farewells had been said.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Marianne had told her with a reassuring smile, and Kirstin hadn’t doubted it, having come to trust her completely over the years in both business and personal terms. But it had been a painful parting all the same, astonishingly difficult to pin a smile to her face, to keep the tears from her eyes. ‘Go,’ Marianne had said, shooing her out through the door, ‘and don’t fret. Concentrate on completing this case, which sounds as if it will require all of even your considerable powers. It will be good for me to have the opportunity to be in charge, stand on my own two feet.’

Marianne, discreet as ever, had refrained from asking why Kirstin was taking on this case personally, something she had never done before, though it was Marianne who had, albeit inadvertently, put the idea into Kirstin’s head, when she had pointed out that Kirstin possessed exactly the attributes the client had specified.

As The Procurer, Kirstin could have found another suitable female, she always did, but it would have taken time, and Cameron had none to spare. It therefore made perfect, logical sense for her to make the momentous decision to step into the breach, she told herself as the cab neared her destination. It was clear to her, from the sketchy information Cameron had provided, that the situation, though not necessarily a matter of life and death at present, could, if unresolved, easily become one.

Though had it been any man other than Cameron Dunbar who had come seeking her help would she have acted in a similar fashion? No. Kirstin’s habit of being brutally honest with everyone, including herself, was ingrained. She would have moved heaven and earth to find a suitable female candidate, but she would not have dreamed of offering her own services. She was here to help Cameron Dunbar resolve his terrible predicament, but she was also here for her own reasons.

It meant depriving another woman of the opportunity to make a fresh start for herself, but after their wholly unsatisfactory meeting the day before yesterday, Kirstin had been forced to acknowledge that she too needed a fresh start. Far from letting her close the door on the man, it had merely served to let him stride through. She had to know more about him, and she had a very legitimate reason for needing to do so. The time would come when she could no longer field questions with feigned ignorance, and it was not in her nature to lie.

More than six years ago she had taken the decision to be true to herself, to live her life in her chosen way, independent of everyone, answerable to no one. In order to continue to do so she must reassure herself that her decision was the correct one, which meant excising Cameron Dunbar from the equation.

And keeping him completely in the dark while she did so.

Kirstin smiled grimly to herself. It was hardly a difficult task for one who made a living from extracting information while offering none in exchange. She must assume that Cameron would remember Kirstin Blair, but he would have no idea that she and The Procurer were one and the same. The Procurer’s own unbreakable rules that no questions could be asked, no personal history need be revealed, would protect her, and the notion that she would ever confide in him of her own free will—it was ludicrous. Kirstin, as Marianne had once said, could give lessons in discretion to clams.

Reassured, confident in her decision, as the cab came to a halt and the hotel porter rushed to open the door, she turned her mind to the coming reunion, telling herself that her nerves were everything to do with her determination to prevent the matter becoming one of life and death, and nothing at all to do with the man she was going to be working with in close proximity.

* * *

In accordance with the letter from The Procurer, which had arrived yesterday, Cameron had reserved a suite of rooms in the name of Mrs Collins. He had instructed the Head Porter to inform him when this lady, whom he was to claim as an old acquaintance, arrived, and to issue her with an invitation to take tea with him.

His own suite overlooked the front of the hotel. Unable to concentrate on the stack of business letters which had been forwarded from his Glasgow office, Cameron had spent the last two hours gazing out of the window, monitoring every arrival.

He had no idea what to expect of Mrs Collins, though he had formed a picture in his head of a smart, middle-aged woman with faded hair, a high brow, intelligent eyes. The relic of a man of the church, perhaps, who had worked in London’s slums, or with London’s fallen women, and was therefore no stranger to the city’s seamy underbelly, but who had also solicited London’s society for alms. At ease with the full gamut of society, Mrs Collins would be tough but compassionate, not easily shocked. The type of woman who could be trusted with confidences and who would not judge. Since her husband had died, she would have been continuing with his good works, saving lost souls, but she’d be finding her widowed state confining, he reckoned, and since she’d always had a penchant for charades, which they’d played in the vicarage every Christmas, the need to assume various disguises would appeal to her.

Cameron nodded with satisfaction. An unusual combination of skills, no doubt about it, which made it all the more surprising that The Procurer had found someone to suit his requirements so quickly.

He leant his head against the glass of the tall window, impatient for her to arrive. The ancient female dressed in a sickly shade of green matching the parrot she carried in a cage, whom he had watched half an hour ago emerge from a post-chaise, could not be her. Nor could this fashionable young lady arriving with her maid, one of those ridiculous little dogs that looked like a powder puff clutched in her arms. A hackney cab pulled up next, and a slim female figure emerged, dressed in a white gown with a red spencer. She had her back to him as she waited for her luggage to be removed, yet he had the impression of elegance, could see from the respect she commanded from the driver and from the porter rushing to meet her, the assurance with which she walked, that she was a woman of consequence.

Intriguing, but clearly not his Mrs Collins.

Cameron turned his back on the window, inspecting his pocket watch, debating with himself on whether to order a pot of coffee. A rap on the door made him throw it open impatiently, thinking it was the arrival of yet more business papers.

‘I’ve been sent to tell you that your acquaintance has arrived,’ the messenger boy said. ‘She’s happy to hear that you are staying in the hotel, she says, and she would be delighted to join you for tea.’

‘Are you sure? When did she get here?’

But the boy shook his head. ‘Nobody tells me nuffin’, save me message. Head Porter says to expect her with the tea directly,’ he said. ‘If there’s nuffin’ else…?’ He waited expectantly.

Cameron sighed and handed over a shilling. He must have missed Mrs Collins’s arrival. Or perhaps there was a side entrance.

A few minutes later there was another soft tap on the door. He opened the door to be confronted with the elegant woman who had emerged from the hackney cab.

His jaw dropped, his stomach flipped, for he recognised her immediately.

‘Kirstin.’

He blinked, but she was still there, not a ghost from his past but a real woman, flesh and blood and even more beautiful than he remembered.

‘Kirstin,’ Cameron repeated, his shock apparent in his voice. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I wondered if you’d recognise me after all this time. May I come in?’

Her tone was cool. She was not at all surprised to see him. As she stepped past him into the room, and a servant appeared behind her with a tea tray, he realised that she must be the woman sent to him by The Procurer. Stunned, Cameron watched in silence as the tea tray was set down, reaching automatically into his pocket to tip the servant as Kirstin busied herself, warming the pot and setting out the cups. He tried to reconcile the dazzling vision before him with Mrs Collins, but the vicar’s wife of his imagination had already vanished, never to be seen again.

Still quite dazed, he sat down opposite her. She had opened the tea caddy, was taking a delicate sniff of the leaves, her finely arched brows rising in what seemed to be surprised approval. Her face, framed by her bonnet, was breathtaking in its flawlessness. Alabaster skin. Blue-black hair. Heavy-lidded eyes that were a smoky, blue-grey. A generous mouth with a full bottom lip, the colour of almost ripe raspberries.

Yet, he remembered, it had not been the perfection of her face which had drawn him to her all those years ago, it had been the intelligence slumbering beneath those heavy lids, the ironic twist to her smile when their eyes met in that crowded carriage, and that air she still exuded, of aloofness, almost haughtiness, that was both intimidating and alluring. He had suspected fire lay beneath that cool exterior, and he hadn’t been disappointed.

A vision of that extraordinary night over six years ago flooded his mind. There had been other women since, though none of late, and never another night like that one. He had come to think of it as a half-remembered dream, a fantasy, the product of extreme circumstances that he would never experience again.

He wasn’t at all sure what he thought of Kirstin walking so calmly back into his life, especially when he was in the midst of a crisis. Were they to pretend that they had no history? It had been such a fleeting moment in time, with no bearing on the years after, save for the unsettling, incomparable memory. Cameron supposed that it ought to be possible to pretend it had not happened, but as he looked at her, appalled to discover the stirrings of desire that the memories evoked, he knew he was deluding himself.

‘Cream or lemon?’ Kirstin asked.

‘Lemon,’ he answered, though he habitually drank his tea black and well stewed, a legacy of his early days on-board ship.

He held out his hand for the saucer, but instead she placed it on the table in front of him, drawing an invisible line between them and bringing him to his senses. Whether they acknowledged their history or not, it had no bearing on the reason she was here now.

‘Are you really the woman chosen for me by this infamous Procurer? Do you know what it is I need from you? What has she told you of me? The matter—’

‘Is one of life and death, you believe,’ Kirstin answered gravely. ‘To answer your questions in order. Yes, I am here at the behest of The Procurer. She has outlined your situation, though I will need to hear the details from you. I know nothing of your circumstances, save what you have told her.’

‘She has told me nothing at all of you. Is Collins your married name?’

‘My name is what it has always been. Kirstin Blair.’

‘You’re not married?’ Cameron asked. It was hardly relevant, yet when she shook her head he was unaccountably pleased as well as surprised. Because it would be impossible for them to proceed if there was a husband in the background, or worse in the foreground, he told himself. ‘I’m not married either,’ he said.

She nodded casually at that. Because she already knew from The Procurer? Or because she had deduced as much from his appearance? Or because she was indifferent? This last option, Cameron discovered, was the least palatable.

He began to be irked by her impassive exterior. ‘You do remember me, I take it?’ he demanded. ‘That night…’

The faintest tinge of colour stole over her cheeks. She did not flinch, but he saw the movement at her throat as she swallowed. ‘This is hardly the time to reminisce.’

Their gazes snagged. He could have sworn, in that moment, that she felt it, the almost physical pull of attraction, that strange empathy that they had both succumbed to that night. Then Kirstin broke the spell.

‘It was more than six years ago,’ she said pointedly.

‘I am perfectly aware of how many years have elapsed,’ Cameron snapped.

He had never disclosed his reasons for having made that journey to anyone. He had been interested only in trying to forget all that he had left behind during the trip south, and he had succeeded too, temporarily losing himself and his pain in Kirstin. He’d thought the mental scar healed.

It had been, until Louise Ferguson had written to him as a last resort, begging for his help in the name of the very ties she’d so vehemently denied before. Compassion for her plight diluted his mixture of anger and disappointment that she should turn to him only in extremis. He was long past imagining they could be anything to each other, but it forced him to acknowledge that he had, albeit unwittingly, been the root cause of her past unhappiness. There was a debt to be paid.

Doing what she asked would salve his conscience and allow him to put the matter to bed once and for all. He wouldn’t get another opportunity, and he needed Kirstin to help him, so he couldn’t afford to allow their brief encounter to get in the way. It was the future which mattered.

Cameron swallowed his tea. It was cold, and far too floral for his taste. He made a mental note to stick to coffee, and set the cup down with a clatter.

‘I recall, now, that your Procurer’s terms specify that there should be no questions asked, either you of me, or me of you. It’s a sensible rule and allows us to concentrate on the matter that brought us both here,’ he said, deliberately brusque as he leaned back in his seat, crossing his ankles. ‘However, I am paying a small fortune for your assistance. I think that gives me the right to ask what it is about yourself that makes The Procurer so certain you will suit my extremely demanding, if not unique, set of requirements.’

* * *

Kirstin poured herself a second cup of tea, deliberately avoiding Cameron’s gaze. It was more taxing than it ought to be to maintain her poise, but she was determined he would not see how much this face-to-face encounter was affecting her. Those eyes of his, such a deep, dark brown. She could feel them on her now, sense his rising impatience. An understandable emotion, in the circumstances. Extremely understandable, she thought guiltily.

Determined to keep her mind focused on the matter at hand, she peeled off her gloves and untied her bonnet. Cameron had every reason to question her suitability. Her first task was to reassure him—which fortunately she could easily do, by telling him the truth.

‘I have worked closely with The Procurer for many years. I know her and her business intimately,’ she said. ‘She requires the utmost discretion from her employees, and has never had the slightest cause to question mine. As her trusted assistant, I have access to her extensive network of contacts. I am required to mix with a most—eclectic, I think would be the best description—range of characters, in a number of guises. I have the facility to win over the most unlikely people, from all walks of life, and extract confidences from them. You could call it the quality of a chameleon.’

She permitted herself a thin smile.

‘Whatever you wish to call it, the net result is that I am expert at finding people who do not wish to be found. I am also, as you requested, a woman of good standing, and so able to enquire after the whereabouts of a young and innocent girl without it being assumed my purpose is nefarious—something you could not do. Though I must ask you, Mr Dunbar, if you have considered the possibility that she has already encountered another with just such nefarious intent?’

Across from her, Cameron was frowning deeply. ‘I have not said as much to the young lady’s mother, but it seems to me, unfortunately, a possibility which must be investigated.’

‘I am relieved to hear that you have not discounted this.’

‘I’m more or less a stranger to London, but I’m a man of the world.’

‘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

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.’

‘Thank you kindly for the compliment.’

‘You know what I mean, Kirstin.’

She could tell him it was the same for her, but it was hardly what The Procurer would call a salient fact. Instead, she finally allowed herself, for just a fleeting second, to touch his hand. ‘You realise the odds suggest that, even if we find the girls, they may not be unscathed.’

Cameron flinched. ‘You take a very grim view of the situation.’

‘I find that it is better to err on the side of pessimism.’

‘Sparing yourself the possibility of disappointment? So you prefer to stack the odds? Isn’t it against your mathematical principles to do so?’

This time it was she who flinched. That Cameron had recognised her was not really surprising. That he recalled anything at all of their conversation though—now, that was unsettling. She didn’t want him to remember her, unguarded, confiding, such an aberration of her character before and since. As to her mathematical principles, she had discovered for herself that life was no respecter of those. ‘It is not a question of disappointment, rather one of preparing to deal with the worst,’ Kirstin said.

Cameron slumped back on the sofa, looking quite exhausted. His eyelids fluttered closed. His lashes were coal black, shorter than hers, but thicker. Though he had shaved this morning, there was already a bluish shadow on his chin. A lick of hair stood up from his brow, marring the smooth perfection of his crop and in doing so managing to make the perfection of his countenance even more breathtaking. In repose, his lips looked sculpted. They had been soft, the first time he’d kissed her. Gentle. Persuasive. She had tried other kisses since, but none compared with the memory of his, so she’d stopped trying. At her age and in her circumstances she ought to be past wanting any kisses. Looking at Cameron’s mouth, those perfectly moulded lips, Kirstin found to her horror that she was wrong.

She looked away hastily as he opened his eyes. ‘You are understandably weary. We will continue this conversation later, when I am settled in my own suite.’ She made to get to her feet, but he was too quick for her, grabbing her wrist.

‘I am tired, and the many dire possibilities regarding what fate befell Philippa and Jeannie, her maid, are grim indeed. I’ve contemplated them, Kirstin, trust me. But life has a way of defying the odds. I will find them. I have to find them, 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. Go away, unpack, think about it. And if you aren’t willing to make that commitment, then you can pack up again and go.’

* * *

Cameron closed the door on Kirstin, and immediately rang the bell. He needed strong coffee, and a good deal of it. If ever there was a time for ordered thoughts, calm thinking, it was now, and his head was all over the place. Retreating to his bedchamber, he splashed cold water over his face, automatically smoothing back the cow’s lick in his hair. His face gazed back at him in the mirror as he rubbed himself dry with a towel. He looked a good five years older than his thirty-five years, thanks to the tribulations of the last week, while Kirstin seemed hardly to have aged at all since he’d first met her.

A knock on the door heralded his much needed coffee. He sat down to inhale the first cup in one scalding gulp and immediately poured another, the perfect antidote to the flowery water that passed for tea in this hotel. Though Kirstin had seemed to enjoy it, and by the way she’d oh-so-delicately sniffed the leaves, it would seem she considered herself a bit of a connoisseur. What age would she be now? Thirty-one, -two? It didn’t seem possible, but he clearly remembered her telling him the night they met that she was twenty-five.

She had changed. She had not aged, precisely, there were no lines marring the perfection of her skin, but there was something about her, an edge to her that hadn’t been there before. Experience, he supposed—though what kind? She was not married. It could not possibly be for want of being asked. More likely her very obvious desire to do no one’s bidding but her own had kept her single. Bloody hell, but she was as prickly as a hedgehog. It would take a brave man to get anywhere near her. She’d been very different that night. Excited, anxious, elated, frightened in turn. In extremis.

As had he been, for very different reasons—emotionally battered, the hopes which had been so recently raised, quite devastated. He’d barely had a chance to come to terms with what he’d read in that letter, only to be told that there could be no coming to terms, no answers to his questions. Not ever. The future had taken on a bleakness he’d not known since childhood. Kirstin had been like a beacon of light, smiling at him across the coach. He couldn’t exactly credit her for turning his thinking around, but she’d been a respite that night, and her enthusiasm, her desire to embrace her future—yes, some of that had rubbed off on him. He’d used the memory of their moment out of time as a talisman in the months that followed. It had sustained him through some dark times.

What would she say if he told her so? She’d be too dumbfounded to say anything, most likely. They had quite literally been ships that passed in the night. She had made it very clear this afternoon that she didn’t want to remember anything about it. Yet still she had come here, at The Procurer’s behest, knowing she’d be meeting him. Was she simply indifferent, intent upon doing a job for which she would be handsomely rewarded? She was expensively garbed. She had done well for herself, which wasn’t surprising. He’d never met any woman, before or since, quite like her. She was exactly what he needed. What’s more, he was confident that she’d do exactly what she promised, everything in her power to help him. If she chose to stay.

Cameron cursed. He shouldn’t have issued her with an ultimatum, it was guaranteed to rile a woman like her, so reluctant to take orders from anyone! Yet he’d been right to say what he did, and he had the right, it was written into his contract with The Procurer. If he must have an accomplice, and he was long past the stage where he refused to acknowledge he did, then his accomplice must be wholeheartedly committed to finding Philippa and her maid. Whatever state they found them in, they would find them.

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.

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