A Scandalous Winter Wedding. Marguerite Kaye
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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.