Kirstin opened her portmanteau and began to unpack.
* * *
‘I have decided to stay and abide by your terms until we find Philippa and Jeannie,’ Kirstin said brusquely as she took a seat once again in Cameron’s sitting room an hour later.
He sat opposite her, making no effort to disguise his relief. ‘Thank you. Any delay while The Procurer finds someone to replace you could prove fatal to my chances of success.’
‘But what if they are never found?’ she asked gently.
‘I prefer to operate on the assumption that they will be. For what it’s worth, I am convinced Philippa is alive. I feel it. Here.’
Cameron put his hand over his chest. Kirstin knew where his heart was. She’d laid her cheek on his chest and listened to it as she’d watched dawn come up through the post house bedroom window, the solid, regular beat counting out the seconds and minutes until they must part. She’d thought him asleep until he’d slid his hand up her flank to cup her breast, until he’d whispered, his voice husky with passion, that there was still time for...
She dragged her mind back to the present. ‘Your instincts in this case are correct.’
‘What do you mean?’
She permitted herself a small smile. ‘As soon as I accepted your offer I took the liberty of getting in touch with a man who, quite literally, knows where the bodies are buried in London and its environs. I have received word from Mar—my assistant that he has been in touch. There have been no suspicious deaths fitting the description of your niece and her maid. Trust me, if there had been, this gentleman would know. So we can safely assume that they are alive, for the time being.’
Cameron stared at her in astonishment. He laughed, an odd, nervous sound. He shook his head. And then a smile of blessed relief spread across his face. ‘Thank you,’ he said fervently.
‘That does not mean—’
‘I know, I know. But still.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair, staring at her in something of a daze. ‘It’s a very positive development.’
‘Yes.’ She permitted herself another small smile. ‘Yes, it is.’
He had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. There were fresh ink stains on his fingers, though the stack of papers on the desk seemed to her undisturbed. Either he was very neat, or he had been working on something else. The fact that he was no longer tense, and seemed more relaxed to her presence, patently in charge of the situation, led her to the conclusion that the ‘something else’ was his notes. She was quietly pleased when he proved her correct by opening the leather-bound notebook on the table in front of him.
‘I’ve been thinking...’
‘As indeed have I,’ Kirstin intervened. ‘Before we proceed, I have some questions for you.’
Cameron closed his notebook on his lap, rested his arm on the back of his chair and angled himself towards her. ‘Ask away.’
Kirstin took out her own notebook. ‘Your half-sister, Louise Ferguson,’ she began in clipped tones. ‘Firstly, how did she know where to contact you, given that you’d had only one previous encounter?’
‘I’m not difficult to find, Kirstin, my name is well-enough known in trade circles. She wrote to my main place of business in Glasgow, as I said, and fortunately for all concerned I was there.’
‘But why you, Cameron? You are, by your own admission, a virtual stranger to her.’
‘Because her husband is dead and she has no other close male relatives. Because she doesn’t want anyone she knows involved. Because she knows enough of my reputation, it seems, to be sure that I have the means that she does not, to pull whatever strings are necessary. And because,’ he concluded with a bitter smile, ‘she was pretty certain that I’d leap at the chance to help her. As I said, and as she pointed out, I owe her.’
‘You do not resent the fact that she turned to you in her time of need when she’d previously estranged herself from you?’
He had not flinched at her bald statement, but she was watching him very closely. There was the tiniest movement, an involuntary tic at the corner of his mouth. It did hurt him that the woman was using him. Of course she couldn’t exactly be blamed for doing so, she was a mother in desperate fear for her child’s life, but all the same it didn’t cast her in a particularly favourable light. While Cameron—There could be no denying that Cameron was a very honourable man.
‘I was angry, of course I was, but I can’t blame her,’ he said, unwittingly echoing Kirstin’s own thoughts. ‘She’s desperate. Not only to find Philippa, but to keep her daughter’s disappearance quiet. When I suggested getting the Bow Street Runners involved she almost had a fit.’
‘Why? Surely publicising her daughter’s disappearance would make finding her easier.’
‘Aye, but it would also mean that everyone would know, and Mrs Ferguson isn’t sure that either of them would recover from the scandal of it—whatever it turns out to be.’
‘So she turned to you, knowing you would help, knowing that you had the means, as you call it, to do whatever was necessary, and knowing that you’d have no option but to be discreet, being unknown to any of her family and friends?’
‘My desire for discretion in this matter has nothing to do with my social circle or the lack of it,’ Cameron replied tersely, ‘and everything to do with my desire to protect the reputation of an innocent young girl, her maid and her mother.’
‘My own desire is to understand the circumstances of this case. It was not my intention to upset you.’
‘You did not,’ Cameron retorted. Though it was clear that she had.
‘It is in the nature of these contracts that the client—in this case yourself—is forced to reveal a good deal of his life and his personal circumstances,’ Kirstin continued carefully. ‘Sometimes things which he would prefer to keep to himself.’
‘I am aware of that, and I am doing my best to be candid with you. I am also very much aware that the obligation is not reciprocal.’
‘For very sound reasons. You can have no idea of the circumstances under which my—’ Kirstin broke off, astounded to detect a quiver in her voice. ‘It is a very necessary term of all The Procurer’s contracts,’ she repeated coolly. ‘My—our—The Procurer’s aim is to protect the women whom she employs from judgement, from assumptions, from any sort of knowledge which could be used against them.’
‘Are they always women?’
When Kirstin remained silent, Cameron rolled his eyes.
‘Fine, forget I asked.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, surprising herself, ‘The Procurer chooses always to employ women. Those in need of a blank slate, deserving of a fresh start, who have been judged and found wanting through no fault of their own. I dare say there are many men in such a situation, but it is her experience that woman have fewer opportunities to re-establish themselves.’
‘I had no idea that The Procurer was a philanthropist.’
‘She is not,’ Kirstin snapped, confused by having confided even this much. ‘In her view, women don’t want charity, they simply want the opportunity to earn a second chance.’
‘And you clearly agree with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s an admirable ethos. You are fortunate to work for such a like-minded woman, though I must admit I’m surprised that you work for anyone. When we first met—’
‘As I recall, I was not specific at all about my plans.’ She waited, allowing the silence to serve as her rebuke, before continuing. ‘What was the purpose of Mrs Ferguson’s trip to London?’
‘To purchase her daughter’s trousseau. Philippa has, I understand, made a very good match, one heartily approved of by her family.’
‘And one which would be endangered if it were discovered she had run off—if she has run off. Has it occurred to you that the two might be connected?’
Cameron wrinkled his nose. �
�That the match is to her mother’s rather than to Philippa’s taste? Certainly Mrs Ferguson is mighty keen on it.’
‘Do you know how Philippa feels about the match?’
‘Mrs Ferguson says she is perfectly content with the arrangement.’
‘Though you don’t know Mrs Ferguson well enough to be sure she’s not either lying or in denial?’
Cameron sighed. ‘You’re in the right of it there. I don’t. And the lass is just seventeen, hardly old enough to know her own mind, let alone be married.’
‘Perhaps she does know her own mind but has not the strength of character to defy her mother. What type of person is Mrs Ferguson?’
‘You’ll be meeting her in due course, would you not prefer to form your own opinion?’
‘I will, but I am interested in yours.’
‘Even though I hardly know her?’
‘You are a good judge of character and, as a businessman, accustomed to making rapid assessments. Your powers of observation,’ Kirstin said with a wry smile, ‘are almost as acute as my own.’
‘A high compliment indeed! Mrs Ferguson struck me as a forthright woman, not one given to outright lies, though very sure of her own opinion. If her daughter is unhappy, either with her choice of husband or with the idea of such an early marriage, then she has either said nothing to her mother or her mother has discounted her daughter’s views as having less value than her own. But I’m only surmising, Kirstin.’
‘It is all you can do for the present. Do you have any notion of what the girl’s relationship with her mother may be?’
‘Better than the relationship Mrs Ferguson had with her own mother, I hope,’ Cameron retorted. Seeing Kirstin’s surprise at this, he shrugged. ‘Mrs Ferguson certainly cares for her daughter. Her distress, I am sure, is genuine. I’d guess the relationship is dutiful rather than loving. It could be the daughter is keeping secrets from her mother. Aye, it could easily be the case.’
‘It is likely to be the case. May I ask what you meant when you said—?’
‘No!’
The single word was spoken like the crack of a whip, making Kirstin flinch.
‘It has no relevance to this matter.’ Cameron tempered his answer. ‘Now, if you have finished with your questions, I’d like to discuss my ideas on how we should proceed.’
She’d guessed from the start that he could be intimidating, but she’d had no idea until now that she would be susceptible to it. She had no clue as to how he did it, for he was not scowling, was not looming over her, it was rather that he seemed to have turned into a version of himself carved from granite.
Kirstin resisted the impulse to shiver and forced a small smile. ‘Please do,’ she said. ‘You have my full attention.’
* * *
Cameron picked up his notebook with relief. As he recalled it had been exciting, that night they’d met, playing a guessing game of who they were and what their stories were. But now Kirstin’s powers of observation and deduction, as she called them, were making him uncomfortable, and the feeling was obviously mutual. It was not surprising, given the time that had passed, that they both had secrets they didn’t want to reveal. It was odd, he’d felt he’d known her that night, but the reality was, despite what had occurred between them, they were all but strangers.
‘Philippa and Jeannie disappeared from the posting house overnight,’ he said. ‘Naturally Mrs Ferguson was distraught when she woke to find the pair of them gone. The landlord made enquiries, but no one saw them leave. He offered to contact the authorities, but Mrs Ferguson demurred. By this time she’d calmed down and had begun to think through the consequences. Believing the disappearance would turn out to be the result of girlish foolishness, she told the landlord some tale of forgetting that alternative arrangements had been made and continued her journey, thinking that the girls would turn up themselves at the house in Mayfair, suitably repentant. Unfortunately she was wrong, and the girls did not turn up.’
‘So Mrs Ferguson turned to you?’
Cameron nodded, tapping his pencil on the cover of his notebook. ‘Obviously we must go to the Spaniard’s Inn and make discreet enquiries ourselves, one or both of us. I’ve not done so yet simply because I didn’t want to prejudice things—frighten someone off, or even alert them to the fact that a search is being made, making our task more difficult.’
‘Yes, that was wise of you.’
‘Philippa could have run off. She could have eloped. She could have been lured away by one of those dubious persons who haunt the inns on the outskirts of the city in search of innocent flesh.’ Cameron winced. ‘Or she could have been abducted for some other reason. I think that covers all the options.’
‘I think we must also assume that, wherever they are, Philippa and her maid are together.’
Cameron shuddered. ‘I sincerely hope so. It’s bad enough trying to follow one trail, let alone two.’
A faint frown straightened the line of Kirstin’s brows. Her eyes were intent, focused completely on him. He had a flashing memory of that same intent gaze fixed on him as she lay naked beneath him, but he pushed it ruthlessly away.
‘Then a visit to the posting house is top of our list, I reckon,’ Cameron said. ‘I think that must take priority over anything, even your meeting with Mrs Ferguson.’
‘I agree. Two young girls with no knowledge of London cannot have disappeared into thin air without assistance. Whether they planned to run off, or whether they were forced into it, someone at the posting house must have seen something.’
‘So we travel there tomorrow. In what guise?’
‘We’ll need to think carefully about that.’ Kirstin tapped the end of her pencil against her bottom lip. ‘It seems to me that we have a number of questions to ask Mrs Ferguson before we can begin to eliminate any of the possibilities. Whether Philippa had another beau, for example. Or what possible reason there could be for abduction—are Mrs Ferguson’s family wealthy? Is Philippa herself an heiress?’
‘I don’t think so, but I don’t actually know.’ Cameron winced. ‘We can add that to the list of questions to ask Mrs Ferguson, but aside from that I’m afraid I don’t know what else we can do until we’ve visited the Spaniard’s Inn.’
‘After which I hope that some of my contacts will be able to help us.’
‘More of your dubious sources? You’ll write to them?’
Kirstin gave a snort of laughter. ‘They are not the type to commit what they know to paper. I doubt some of them even know how to write. I will contact whichever of them I think can help, and I will let you know if there is anything to report.’
‘If you’re going to meet them...’
‘Then I must do so alone. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but they will not. My contacts tend to be cagey, suspicious of strangers, and with good reason.’
‘I don’t want you risking your neck.’
‘It’s my neck, and you are paying me very well to risk it.’
‘No,’ Cameron said flatly. ‘I’m paying you to help me, but not at any cost.’
She sighed, rolling her eyes theatrically. ‘Allow me to know my business. I have been running it successfully for more than six years.’
‘Running it?’
‘Running my part of it.’
‘For more than six years? Since you first came to London, then. You have worked for The Procurer all this time?’
‘Yes. Now, if we are done here, I would like some time to order my thoughts, so if you’ll excuse me.’ She got to her feet.
‘You’ll join me for dinner?’
Kirstin looked as startled by the invitation as Cameron was in issuing it. ‘I don’t see that we have any more to discuss until—’
‘There is the matter of how we are to set about our enquiries in Hampstead.’ He hesitated. ‘Though we could resolve that matter in the morning, if need be.
It’s not that. We’re going to have to work very closely together. I thought it would be a good idea to have a companionable dinner together, that’s all, but if you prefer to dine alone then please don’t feel obliged to join me.’
He had the sense that she was weighing up a list of pros and cons, though her expression remained bland enough, making it impossible for him to guess which way the decision would fall until she shrugged.
‘Very well, I will join you for dinner. At least I can be certain that the sherry provided by this establishment will be drinkable.’
* * *
Kirstin was not surprised to discover a note from Marianne in response to her own earlier missive, assuring her that all would be taken care of for however long she must be away, and that regular updates would be sent. Though she knew it was illogical to require reassurance, since she had been gone less than a day, she was reassured.
Feeling foolish, but unable to stop herself, she kissed the footnote before hiding the papers in the lining of her portmanteau.
Business done, Kirstin turned her mind to dressing for dinner. She had a weakness for beautiful clothes, one of the few guilty pleasures she indulged, and consequently owned a great many more gowns than she had the opportunity to wear. As The Procurer, her various toilettes were designed to be unmemorable, and though she could afford to have them beautifully made in the most expensive of fabrics they were, nevertheless, her work clothes, worn by her alter ego not her true self.
Her true self stared back at her in the mirror as she prepared to dine with Cameron, wearing a crimson evening gown that was far too elaborate for the occasion but which, now she had put it on, she could not bring herself to change.
The plain silk slip was narrow, falling straight from the high waistline, making the most of her tall, slim figure. The overdress of sarcenet had a fuller skirt, weighted down with a border of silk, adorned with a bunch of blowsy crimson silk appliqué poppies. A narrow sash was tied at the back, where the tassels were designed to swish provocatively when she walked. The scalloped edges of the décolleté were both demure and inviting against the swell of her bosom, and there were just a few inches of her upper arm showing bare between the puffed sleeves and her long white kid evening gloves. Her hair was piled high on her head in a severe arrangement which drew attention to her neck and her shoulders. She had darkened her lips with carmine, thickened her lashes with kohl.
A Scandalous Winter Wedding Page 6
