A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I have no difficulty in attracting men, but most men I meet are not interested in me, only in my looks.’

  ‘Have you considered that some might be, but you refuse to let them see past that lovely exterior?’

  Startled, Kirstin set down her knife. ‘None of them has tried particularly hard.’

  ‘Because you didn’t want them to.’

  He was right. It irked her that he was right. ‘I am perfectly content on my own, Cameron.’

  He poured them another glass of wine, though Kirstin didn’t remember finishing her first one.

  ‘Speaking for myself, I’ve been celibate for almost two years,’ he announced.

  Kirstin’s jaw dropped, and Cameron laughed.

  ‘So you kissed me out of desperation?’

  ‘I was desperate to kiss you, but that’s an entirely different thing. Why did you kiss me, Kirstin?’

  She shrugged, pushing her almost untouched plate to one side. ‘You kissed me, so I kissed you back.’

  He reached for her plate, then stopped himself with a rueful smile. ‘Force of habit. So you were just being polite?’

  Force of habit. Because every scrap of food had mattered in Garrioch House. Which meant he must have gone hungry most nights. It hit her then, the true extent of his trust in her. He had confided details of his past which many would consider shameful, confident she would not judge him.

  Deeply moved, she saw how insulting her own response was now, saw that she had been batting away his questions, thinking to protect herself, when all he was trying to do was to know her a little better.

  ‘Good manners didn’t enter into it. I wanted to kiss you, plain and simple,’ Kirstin admitted.

  Cameron had been about to take another sip of wine. He set his glass down carefully, but she held up her hand to prevent him from speaking.

  ‘I wanted to know if it would be the same as before.’ She twirled her empty glass on the tablecloth. ‘That doesn’t mean that I have been pining for you all this time. I thought of you. For a while. But then I—I had other matters to occupy me.’

  ‘Your business?’

  She shrugged. It was not a lie to fail to contradict something.

  Cameron got to his feet. ‘Come and see the view, now that the light is fading.’

  She joined him at the window. The Thames was turning from brown to silver and pewter. Lights twinkled on the wharves over on the south bank. The river looked perfectly still, the few craft which remained at sail seemingly becalmed.

  ‘The tide is turning.’ Cameron took her hand. ‘So you kissed me to see if it was as you remembered?’

  She curled her fingers around his. She wasn’t obliged to explain, but she found she wanted to—to offer a quid pro quo for taking her into his confidence.

  ‘Not to discover if it would be as delightful as I remembered, but to discover if it would be as delightful as I imagined it would be.’

  His hand tightened on hers. She saw the flare of heat in his eyes and felt the answering heat in her own blood.

  ‘And was it?’ he asked.

  ‘The jury is still out,’ Kirstin said, twining her arms around him. ‘I think more evidence is required.’ And with that she pressed her lips to his.

  * * *

  Lying alone in her bed much later that night, Kirstin touched her hand to her mouth, closing her eyes, shivering at the memory of those kisses. There had been none of their earlier urgency, none of that frantic clutching, the quest for more intimate contact.

  Those kisses had been slow, lingering, passionately restrained. It wasn’t that they hadn’t wanted to make love, but neither of them wished history to repeat itself. And so they had kissed. And talked. And kissed. And then they had taken a hackney back along the river and across the bridge, and now she lay here alone, still tingling and aroused, but in a strange way sated.

  It meant nothing, of course, Kirstin’s irrepressibly logical mind reminded her. She sat up in bed, suddenly anxious. Of course it meant nothing. She didn’t want it to mean anything, couldn’t allow it to. Most likely that was why Cameron had resisted attempting to make love to her properly too. The whole point of her coming here, taking this commission on, had been to eradicate any trace of him from her life because...

  Kirstin inhaled sharply. There it was. The root of her anxiety. She reached for Marianne’s latest missive, still lying on the nightstand, and lit a candle. The footnote was short, but beautifully printed in pencil. Eilidh had bestowed three kisses this time. One more than yesterday. Did this mean her daughter was missing her more?

  It had only been four days. Coming up for five. But they had never been apart for more than a few hours before. Guilt washed over her. For long stretches of these past few days she had not thought of Eilidh at all.

  Eilidh. The light of her life, the raison d’être for everything that she had achieved, her biggest, best achievement of all. From the first moment she had held her in her arms Kirstin had been overwhelmed with a love so profound that it scared her. For more than five years she had thought of her daughter as unique, special, loved all the more for having only a mother, with no need for a father. But today, listening to Cameron’s description of his own illegitimate childhood, had given her pause for thought.

  But no! A thousand times no. She would never, ever think of Eilidh in that way.

  Though society would. Which was why an insidious, persistent voice had urged her to keep Eilidh hidden from society, wasn’t it? And why she had, whenever the child had asked her, avoided every question about her parentage. Kirstin screwed her eyes shut but the tears flowed anyway. It didn’t matter that she would not countenance that her child, conceived out of wedlock, was tainted. Others would condemn her for that, if they ever found out.

  So they must not find out. If necessary she would lie to Eilidh. And she would continue to lie to Cameron, because heaven knew what his sense of honour, and the memory of his own childhood, would compel him to do if he ever found out. He’d want to give his daughter a name. A home. A life of his choosing. And Kirstin knew him well enough now to be afraid that he’d find a way of making it happen, no matter what she wanted. Or he.

  Marianne’s note was crumpled in her hand. A tear had blotted one of Eilidh’s precious kisses. Kirstin sniffed, scrubbed at her eyes, and carefully folded the note away. She was The Procurer, a woman who made a living out of keeping secrets.

  With a heavy sigh of relief she blew out the candle. This secret, her most vital secret, was safe.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘It turns out that Heather Aitken’s move to the metropolis was not an unqualified success. As a consequence, Mar—my assistant struggled to track her down,’ Kirstin informed Cameron the next day. ‘Though she did indeed find employment as a chambermaid in a reputable household, she was dismissed for what the employment agency describes as “overfamiliarity with the eldest son of the house”.’

  ‘I suspect it will have been the other way around,’ Cameron said dryly. ‘Regardless, it will have cost her not only her livelihood, but her good character. A fatal blow to her employment chances.’

  Kirstin eyed him with surprise. ‘What do you know of such things?’

  ‘I do have house and staff of my own.’

  ‘Is it a very large house, then?’

  ‘It’s not a cottage.’ Cameron shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you consider large. It’s a manor, I suppose you’d call it, with a home farm, gardens—a lot more gardens and land than I’ve been able to do much with so far. Set in the outskirts of Glasgow, to the east.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you as lord of the manor.’

  ‘I don’t spend much time there, in all honesty. The farm and gardens provide employment for graduates of Garrioch House and other similar establishments. The options for foundlings are limited unless they have a particular facility, like I did for num
bers, which is why they sent me to learn accounts.’

  ‘A skill which has stood you in very good stead, I presume?’

  ‘Very, though I hated sitting in an office totting up numbers in a ledger.’

  ‘Did you run off to sea, then, and become a cabin boy?’

  ‘I used to help the purser, and things just developed from there.’

  ‘To the extent that you now have your own fleet? Tell me, do you take on orphans to crew your ships as well as to farm your land?’

  ‘Aye, but don’t go thinking I’m some sort of noble philanthropist. I give them a fair chance. It’s up to them what they make of it.’

  ‘A philosophy I can certainly empathise with.’

  ‘Aye.’ Cameron was frowning. ‘Talking of wasted opportunities, where has this Heather Aitken ended up?’

  ‘Deep in debt to an infamous moneylender.’

  He cursed softly under his breath. ‘Stupid wee lassie. She should have stayed in Edinburgh. God knows what will become of her.’

  ‘I think we both know what’s most likely,’ Kirstin said brusquely. She could never be hardened to such cases but she had become reconciled, a long time ago, to the fact that she could only help a select few of them. ‘She is living in St Giles, one of the most notorious rookeries in London. I think we will arouse less hostility there if we enter in the garb of the Rev and Mrs Collins. I’m afraid that you will have to put up with smelling of wet dog for a few hours.’

  ‘Goliath,’ Cameron said, with the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s a small sacrifice if it leads us closer to Philippa. Am I to assume that you know your way around this place?’

  ‘I’ve been there before, quite recently, actually. I had a guide then, but I think I remember enough not to have to pay for another. If you will excuse me, I will go and get into costume. I suggest you do the same. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’

  * * *

  The odour of Goliath, Reverend Collins’s mythical hound, wafting from Cameron’s coat, was as nothing compared to the stench rising from the gutters of St Giles’s rookery. The worst of Glasgow’s slums bore no comparison to this place, where the tall, ramshackle buildings lowering over them looked too rotten and decrepit to support any sort of life, other than the verminous kind.

  Beside him, Kirstin was looking steadfastly ahead, ignoring the interest their presence was arousing, but Cameron’s hackles were rising. The sharp stares from the gaunt men drinking from pewter tankards outside the rookery’s many gin shops were blatantly challenging.

  Instinctively, he stared back, with the hard, stony look he had used over the years to face down the bigger, more brutish boys in Garrioch House, the rougher sailors on board the clippers where he had first served, and the brigands who haunted the docks where he did business. If it came to using his fists, he would. Clenching them in readiness, he moved closer to Kirstin, keeping very slightly behind her, the optimum position from which to defend her from attack.

  The alleyway they were following narrowed. Fetid air escaped from the cellars, where the hatches had been flung open in search of air, having discharged clutches of small, pale and undernourished bairns who sat, wide-eyed and impassive. Cameron’s heart wrenched. He had a purse with him, full of coins, but it would be folly to dispense them now. On the way back, he promised himself.

  ‘I know,’ Kirstin said, slanting him a sympathetic smile. ‘Only one in a hundred, perhaps less, has any prospect of escaping from here. I came in search of one such. Becky, her name was. A card sharp on the run from the law.’

  ‘And did you save her—? I beg your pardon, did she save herself?’

  He waited for the usual rebuff, but it did not come.

  ‘I believe she will, and in rather spectacular style, though I have not yet heard. I sent her to Venice.’

  ‘Venice! I am impressed,’ Cameron said.

  She permitted herself a tiny smile. ‘You are meant to be.’

  ‘I know.’

  Another smile greeted this remark, but as they reached a crossroads between two alleyways, her expression became serious. ‘It is here, I think. First door, second floor, by the sign of the Laughing Dog tavern.’

  ‘I’ll be right behind you, but it might be best if you speak to her first. She’ll trust a woman before a man.’

  ‘You read my mind. Are you ready?’

  Kirstin mounted the rotting steps, leaving Cameron to check over his shoulder. As he’d thought, a small shadow had parked himself across the way. He waved at the lad, spinning a sixpence high in the air. It was expertly caught, the message acknowledged with a wink. Another sixpence when they left would ensure that they were not set upon.

  Hurrying to catch Kirstin, he found her already at the door on the second floor.

  ‘I mean you no harm, Miss Aitken,’ she was saying. ‘My name is Mrs Collins. I come as a friend, to talk to you of a mutual friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  The door opened a crack. Quick as a flash, Kirstin inserted her foot into it, allowing Cameron to push it open and let the pair of them through. Heather Aitken had retreated, cowering against the furthest corner of the tiny room. A wraith of a girl, with the milk-white skin of one who rarely saw the sun, and a straggle of straw-coloured hair emerging from a dirty cap, she was clutching her hands against her breast, wide-eyed with terror.

  ‘He promised I’d done enough to clear what I owed,’ she said. ‘Please, I don’t...’

  ‘Miss Aitken, we are not here at the behest of Mr Watkins.’ Kirstin spoke firmly, approaching the girl as one would a frightened and cornered animal.

  ‘How do you know about him if he didn’t send you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, but you may trust me. I am here for quite another reason.’ Kirstin cast her eye about the dingy room. ‘Is it too much to hope that you have the makings of some tea?’

  ‘Tea!’ Heather Aitken exclaimed. ‘Who in the name of the devil do you think you are, to push your way in where you’re not welcome and demand a cup of tea?’

  ‘No tea, then. Let us at least sit down and speak civilly.’

  Cameron bit back the wholly inappropriate desire to laugh, for there was just a hint of relief in Kirstin’s voice. He wondered how many cups of tea she’d forced down her delicate palate in the course of business. A good many, he reckoned, and what was more it was an effective tactic, for Heather Aitken, no longer looking terrified, but slightly baffled and a little bit intrigued, was doing as she was bid and taking a seat at the table. Obviously moneylenders, thieves and murderers did not demand anything so mundane as a cup of tea.

  Kirstin took the chair opposite her. There was none for Cameron, but he wouldn’t have taken it anyway. Best to keep out of it and let her deal with the lass. He rested his shoulders against the door and watched, fascinated, as she did so.

  She took her time, coaxing Heather into recounting what they already knew of her dismissal. The girl’s honest outrage at the accusations thrown at her confirmed what Cameron and Kirstin had already surmised, that Heather was an innocent victim.

  ‘They had my name struck off the register at the agency,’ she said, ‘and the agency made good and sure every other agency knew it. I had to go calling round at doorsteps, but all I could get was daywork, and that doesn’t even cover the rent on this place. I know what you’re thinking, it’s not much of a place, but the door locks and I don’t have to share with—Well, Mrs Collins, most of the lassies here, they use these rooms for—for entertaining, if you know what I mean?’

  Heather’s pale skin flushed scarlet. Kirstin leaned over to pat her hand. ‘And you are a good girl, aren’t you?’

  Heather bit her lip, her colour heightening. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘Because you borrowed money from Mr Watkins to help with the rent?’

  ‘One of the footmen at the last place I was working int
roduced me to him.’

  ‘Did he, now? No doubt for a fee.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know,’ Kirstin said grimly. ‘And Mr Watkins’s terms sounded fair to you at first, I expect.’

  ‘I didn’t really understand them. I’ve no head for figures. By the end of the week I owed more than I’d borrowed, but he said it didn’t matter, he’d let me carry the payment over, and then...’ A tear splashed onto the wooden table.

  ‘Then there came a time when he insisted that you give him all that you owed him,’ Kirstin prompted gently. ‘And it was a very large amount, quite beyond you?’

  Heather nodded. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. The colour had fled, leaving her skin ashen. ‘Who sent you here, Mrs Collins? You said you’d come about a friend.’

  ‘I think you know who, Heather, don’t you?’

  ‘Is it—is it Jeannie?’

  Cameron, who had been quite unable to imagine what this scrap of a lass could possibly have to do with Philippa’s disappearance, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at this whispered connection. He forced himself to keep very still, for Heather seemed to have forgotten all about his presence, though he wanted to leap across the room and shake the truth out of her. It did not need Kirstin’s slanted warning glance to keep him quiet, however.

  ‘Jeannie and you were good friends, I know,’ she said, with an encouraging smile at the poor wretch. ‘I’m sure that she must have written to you, let you know that she was coming to London. She’d have wanted to catch up on all your adventures in the big city.’

  ‘She thought that I’d done well for myself. She was thinking she might try London for herself, she and her young man, after Miss Philippa got married, for she’d be out of a job then. Mrs Ferguson doesn’t like Jeannie.’

  ‘Rather, Mrs Ferguson doesn’t like Philippa being so fond of her maid, isn’t that it?’

  ‘It is. Jeannie said—How do you know Jeannie, Mrs Collins? I don’t think she’s ever mentioned you.’