A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘It would be better if we talked in the morning.’

  Her eyes flew open with a start.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ Cameron said, ‘we should...’

  ‘No, this is too important. I’m perfectly fine.’ She sat up, wide awake now. ‘So, once you were convinced that Jeannie wasn’t among the other girls, what else did you learn from Moira?’

  ‘That two other girls had arrived a few days after she did, one a redhead like her. But they were kept apart from the rest of them, and were there only for one night. I asked her where she thought they’d gone, but she clammed up. I reckon she knows something, but she was too feart—so that’s it, that’s all I have. I hope to heaven you’re going to tell me you have been more successful?’

  ‘A little. More importantly, it ties in with what you were told.’

  ‘Kirstin!’ Cameron leaned forward eagerly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Go on.’

  Moved by his faith in her, she allowed herself to lean over and touch his hand. ‘We will find them, I promise.’

  Too late she realised she had broken her own rules, but she was well past maintaining The Procurer’s carefully neutral front, incapable of pretending that this contract was like any other. She desperately wanted to find Philippa and Jeannie, not only for their own sakes but for Cameron’s. She couldn’t bear to see him so tormented. ‘We will find them,’ she said again. ‘I promise.’

  He gripped her hand. ‘But how?’

  ‘There is a club. A club so secret that not even I, with all my contacts, have heard tell of it. One whose members are so powerful and influential that, even though I threatened her with closure, and being sent to gaol for several counts of abduction, Mrs Jardine was still too frightened to talk about it.’

  ‘Could you have her place closed down?’

  ‘The Procurer could.’

  ‘Tell me more about this mysterious elite club,’ Cameron prompted.

  ‘They convene six times a year at a secret location for the ritual deflowering of certified virgins,’ she said, her horror when Mrs Jardine had confessed this still raw.

  She saw her own disgust writ large on Cameron’s face.

  ‘There are precedents. Hellfire clubs such as the one founded by the Earl of Sandwich in the last century, where gentlemen of distinction met to indulge in what seems to me common debauchery dressed up as solemn ritual.’ Kirstin made no attempt to keep the scorn from her voice. ‘From the little I could winkle out of Mrs Jardine, these men will pay a king’s ransom for an unsullied maiden, and are ruthless in protecting their anonymity.’

  Cameron was staring at her in open disbelief.

  ‘I know,’ she continued, ‘I found it difficult to credit too, but Mrs Jardine’s terror was genuine, believe me.’

  ‘Why, then, would she choose to hand Philippa into their clutches?’

  ‘She had a choice.’ Kirstin’s voice hardened. ‘When she discovered that her henchmen had captured not only a servant but a young girl of breeding, she was horrified. She could, of course, have done the decent thing and let Philippa go, but that would have put her nefarious trade at risk, so she chose to profit from her unexpected windfall instead.’

  ‘We have enough on her to close her down.’

  ‘Which is why she confessed to me what she had done. But we have bigger fish to fry at the moment.’

  ‘Aye.’ Cameron thumped his leg with his clenched fist. ‘Though it sticks in my craw, we’ve far more important things to worry about. What the hell do we do now?’

  ‘You’re going to have to leave it with me again,’ Kirstin said. ‘It won’t be easy. The fact that I have never heard of this exclusive club means that its members must be from the very top echelons of society. Members of the Government, the aristocracy, perhaps even minor royalty. But I have a few grateful clients who move in such circles. They may be able to shed some light.’

  ‘If you’re right about this club’s attitude towards anyone who crosses them, they’ll have to be very grateful clients indeed.’

  ‘Trust me, they are,’ Kirstin said, with more confidence than she felt. ‘In the meantime, I did find out one piece of relatively good news. This club meets every second month, on the first Saturday. The sacrificial lambs are kept in a safe house somewhere, and they are exactly that—safe—until the allotted date. Philippa was not taken until after the last meeting. It is thirteen days until the next one, so we have almost two weeks to find her.’

  ‘Do you think Jeannie is still with her?’

  ‘All I know is that the pair of them were taken together, but clearly Philippa would be by far the most valuable. Whether Jeannie will feature in whatever despicable ritual they plan to enact, I have no idea. She could have been sold on, or more likely sent abroad, I’m afraid, to guarantee her silence.’

  He swore under his breath. ‘It disnae bear thinking of, does it? So we’ll not—for tonight.’ Getting to his feet, he held out his hand. ‘We’re both gubbed.’

  ‘Gubbed?’ Kirstin laughed softly. ‘I’ve not heard that expression before, but it describes exactly how I feel.’

  He pulled her into his arms and she did not resist, surrendering to the comfort of his reassuring bulk, wrapping her own arms tightly around his waist.

  ‘We’ll find them,’ she said grimly.

  He kissed the top of her head. She tilted her face up, and he kissed her lips. A soft, gentle kiss. Then he let her go.

  ‘We will. Together, we’re a match for anyone. Goodnight, Kirstin.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Thank you for putting me in touch with the Marquis of Glenkin, it was an inspired idea,’ Cameron said over dinner the next night. ‘I met with his man of business today and, having pored over the books, I’m more than happy to take his various trading interests off his hands.’

  ‘Ewan inherited his father’s estate in Argyll about seven years ago, and it takes up a lot of his time, which is an issue now he has a growing family of three boys. He will be delighted to be relieved of the burden and to know it is going to be in safe hands.’

  ‘So you get to help your old friend, while I get to expand my little empire, and everybody wins. Genius! I take it that he’s the one who keeps you supplied with your precious tea? How do you come to know a marquis?’

  ‘He was once a mere student of philosophy and mathematics. My father taught him. I’ve known him for ever.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate the introduction. I’ll continue to keep you in tea by way of thanks.’

  ‘There is no need. I was happy to—’

  ‘I’d like to, Kirstin.’

  She bit her lip, lowering her eyes to her dinner, shifting slivers of roasted pork from one side of the plate to the other. Cameron waited, knowing that she was debating with herself on whether or not to explain her apparent ingratitude. When she did, he rather wished that she had decided not to.

  ‘When we’ve found Philippa,’ she said, ‘there will be no reason for us to remain in contact.’

  ‘Unless we wish to.’

  Emotions flitted across her face, but too quickly for him to read them.

  She shook her head. ‘That is not possible, whether we wish it or not.’

  Not possible. An odd choice of words. Why wasn’t it possible? He had already worked out that the blame could not be laid at The Procurer’s door, for it was obvious that Kirstin and The Procurer were one and the same. He had been waiting for her to trust him enough to tell him her secret, but he was growing impatient.

  ‘Tell me how you got on today.’

  Kirstin pushed aside her plate. ‘I have been trying to track down someone who can tell us about this secret society and, I’m sorry to say, so far with little success. Either the men I have spoken to really know nothing, or they are like Mrs Jardine, too afraid to speak out. There is what I can only describe as a wall of si
lence regarding the existence of this club, which confirms what we already surmised—that the membership consists of very influential men.’

  Cameron pushed back his chair. ‘It’s driving me up the wall to have to sit about twiddling my thumbs while Philippa is locked in some room or attic somewhere, wondering what the devil is to become of her—or, worse, imagining the ordeal she’s to face, if they’ve told her why she’s there. And as for Jeannie, she could be anywhere.’

  ‘It might not feel like it, Cameron, but we are making progress. I promised we would find them, and we will.’

  He leaned his forehead against the cool of the windowpane. Lights winked from the houses across the street. A carriage pulled up at the hotel, and a doorman hurried out to help the old gentleman who descended from it unsteadily.

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘Come on, no defeatist talk, remember?’

  He turned to face her, unwilling to keep up his charade of ignorance any longer. ‘You’ve clearly exhausted your own contacts. Don’t you think it’s time you admitted defeat, Kirstin, and asked for help from the very top?’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t know anyone who has better—’ She broke off, her eyes suddenly wary as she realised the import of what he had asked her. ‘You mean The Procurer?’

  Cameron said nothing. He had deliberately left her with two choices. She could lie, or she could confess. He dearly wanted her not to lie, but if he had been a betting man he’d have put the odds no higher than evens. Her expression remained quite impassive, but he knew her well enough. She had lowered her lids to hide her eyes. Her hand had strayed to her empty wine glass, twisting it around on the tabletop. When she gave that tiny little nod that told him she’d reached a conclusion he felt slightly sick.

  ‘You have guessed, then,’ she said.

  Her tacit admission took the wind out of his sails. Taken aback by how much it meant to him, but feigning indifference, Cameron shrugged, returning to the table, pouring the dregs of the wine into their glasses. ‘What have I guessed?’ he asked, determined not to make it easy for her.

  ‘That there is no—That I...’ Her hand shook just the tiniest fraction as she took a sip of wine. ‘You know that I am The Procurer.’

  When he nodded, she laughed, an odd, strangled sound, and then drank the last of her wine. ‘How did I betray myself?’

  ‘By being you,’ Cameron said, unable to resist smiling at her. ‘You are so very much your own woman, you don’t behave like someone who is answerable to another. I was never convinced that you could be anyone’s assistant. And then there is your own assistant. Mar...? Margaret? Marjory? Marion?’

  ‘Marianne. You thought it strange that an assistant should have an assistant, I suppose?’

  ‘It wasn’t only that. You spoke of her with such assurance, with the air of one accustomed to command.’

  ‘What else gave me away? How long have you known?’

  ‘My suspicions have been growing with every passing day. The way you talk about The Procurer from such a position of intimate knowledge of her methods and philosophy, almost as if you can read her thoughts, which of course you can. You are probably not aware, but latterly you have almost lapsed into speaking in the first person when referring to her. There’s one thing that puzzles me, though.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why are you here, Kirstin? I mean, why you in person and not another woman? My understanding of The Procurer is that she is a—a puppet master—or should that be mistress? You told me yourself, her business is to match women—other women—with her clients. So why didn’t you do that with me?’

  ‘Do you wish that I had done?’

  ‘No.’ Impulsively, he leaned across the table to touch her hand. Her own gesture. ‘Don’t fob me off.’

  She smiled crookedly, twining her fingers around his for a moment, before pulling her hand away.

  ‘That first meeting in the confessional was meant to be our last.’ She pushed her chair back with a sigh, wandering restlessly to the window, where she stood gazing out, her back to him. ‘I was curious about you, but I had no intentions of taking on your case. But when you explained why you had come to me, I knew I had to help. I fully intended assigning someone else, as I always do, but when I discussed the matter with Marianne she pointed out in passing that I had the perfect set of skills to assist you.’ She turned back to face him. ‘It was the right decision, Cameron. There really is no one with better contacts to help deal with such a delicate and sensitive issue.’

  She had not answered his question. He knew it. She knew it. She would not lie, but it had already cost her very dear to trust him this far, and there was a risk that if he pressed her, she would simply clam up.

  A discreet tap at the door brought the servant with their tea and coffee, buying Cameron some thinking time. When they sat down by the fire, he decided to quit while he was ahead.

  ‘I’m fascinated,’ he said, ‘will you tell me how you came up with the idea of The Procurer in the first place?’

  She smiled at him gratefully, and he knew he’d done the right thing.

  ‘It’s not a tale that I’ve ever told anyone.’

  ‘Then honour me by making me the first.’

  * * *

  Kirstin sipped her tea, trying to compose herself. The initial shock of realising that Cameron had found her out had given way to a strange kind of elation. He had not been incredulous, he had not been sceptical, in fact he’d hardly even been surprised that she and her alter ego were one and the same. She was, despite herself, flattered, but she was also wary.

  He had apparently let her off the hook by asking her for The Procurer’s history, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come back to his question as to why she was here. For a fraction of a second she considered telling him the truth, but it was the kind of inexplicable impulse people felt when standing on a ledge, the urge to leap into the abyss. If he asked again, she would have to fob him off. She hoped he wouldn’t ask again.

  ‘It was Ewan, the Marquis of Glenkin, who gave me the idea,’ she said, ‘albeit inadvertently. He was my first unofficial case, so to speak. He was desperately trying to avoid a marriage parade, and he needed a woman to pretend to be his affianced bride to get him off the hook.’

  Remembering the day Ewan had come to her, distraught, and recalling her own excitement as the idea had formed in her mind of a radical solution, Kirstin settled down to tell Cameron the tale.

  ‘I had no idea that Ewan and Jennifer would actually make a match, thinking only that my friend could sore use the fee she earned to set herself up independently, but that’s what they did. And as far as I know they are blissfully happy to this day,’ she concluded some time later. ‘Ewan jokingly said I should consider becoming a matchmaker, and that’s what I do—match problems with solutions, though marriage is never the intended outcome.’

  Cameron smiled. ‘Making the impossible possible. It’s an excellent selling point.’

  ‘It’s more about matching extraordinary skills to extraordinary requirements. The Venetian case I mentioned, for example. The young woman from St Giles, the card sharp. My client required her to help bring about the downfall of a certain man in order to avenge his father’s death.’

  Cameron’s jaw dropped. ‘If you are trying to shock me, you’ve succeeded. How did it turn out?’

  ‘The young woman went to Venice about three months ago, and as far as I know is still there, so I don’t yet know.’

  ‘You don’t worry sometimes that you are sending some of these females you rescue—?’

  ‘Who rescue themselves.’

  Cameron looked troubled. ‘Who, in order to rescue themselves, have to place themselves in real danger, by the sounds of it.’

  Kirstin stiffened. ‘You think I ask too much of them? That I take advantage of their desperation, their lack of alternative
options?’

  ‘No!’ Cameron swore under his breath. ‘I don’t think you either cruel or heartless, but I do wonder if you expect others to live up to your own very high standards. You would admit that the service you provide is unique. I’m merely trying to understand it better.’

  It was obvious that he was speaking in earnest, but Kirstin was torn, because not explaining herself, her thoughts, her actions, to anyone, ever, and most particularly since coming to London, was one of the founding tenets that had sustained her. She would not be judged, yet here she was, contemplating exposing herself to Cameron’s scrutiny, hoping he would see things her way.

  ‘I’m sorry. I ask too much of you,’ he said contritely, interrupting her thoughts. ‘You have already entrusted me with a secret which no one else in London possesses—save presumably this Marianne of yours—I have no right to ask for more.’

  ‘No. I want to speak. Now that you know, I may as well tell you the whole story.’

  And so she did, from the beginning, the words tumbling out. She told him of her early successes, her near failures, and the outpouring was such an immense relief that she wondered why she had never, until now, felt the urge to speak. Cameron listened, saying very little, though his eyes never wavered from her.

  ‘So, you see, the service I provide truly is unique, and my reputation for never failing has been extremely hard-earned.’

  ‘Which is why you can charge such a premium,’ he said, ‘and, more importantly, why you have to be so certain that you have identified the right woman for the task.’

  ‘Exactly. I do ask a great deal of them, but I go to a lot of trouble to ensure that they are suited in the first place. Finding the ideal candidate can sometimes be the most time-consuming aspect of any case.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Cameron said wryly. ‘Not only must she be deserving of a second chance, but possess the rare skills necessary for the task. Have you ever failed?’