A Scandalous Winter Wedding. Marguerite Kaye

       Chapter Three

      London, February 1819

      I will find her. I have to find her, 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.

      Kirstin replayed Cameron’s words over and over in her mind. As he had pointed out, these were The Procurer’s rules of engagement—her own rules. She’d assumed they would protect her from Cameron asking awkward questions, but she hadn’t counted on them working against her.

      Were they too onerous? She thought back to the women who had played by those very rules over the years, women who had, by doing so, saved themselves, bought themselves independence, a new life, a fresh start. Their success had been richly rewarded, but at what cost? She had never considered this aspect of her vocation. She took account only of the facts: that the woman had the appropriate skills, a determination to succeed and too much to lose to fail.

      Those had been the foundations of her own success. She had assumed those other women would be similarly driven and willing to do whatever it took, no matter the collateral damage.

      Except she was now the one in the firing line. Had she demanded too much of them? Cameron had the right to keep her here until his search was successfully completed. Kirstin, staring at her unpacked portmanteau, wasn’t at all convinced she could commit to that, no matter how urgent and worthy the cause.

      Though there were actually two causes, she reminded herself, his and hers. If she left now, there could be no turning back, no other opportunity to know him and to use that knowledge to ratify the life she had chosen.

      He had disconcerted her so far. It wasn’t only that she still found him fiercely attractive, it was the man himself, so honourable, so assured, and so—so likeable. Dammit, he even had a sense of humour!

      If only he’d been different. Arrogance, a common trait in many men as successful as Cameron, would have provoked an instant dislike. Even if he’d been less inclined to listen to her, more determined to have his own way, it would have helped. Instead, to add to all his other disconcerting qualities, he was happy to accept her advice and solicit her opinion. Though he was paying through the nose for it, she knew from past experience it did not necessarily mean he would take it. There was steel at the core of him that made it clear he would not hesitate to take control should he deem it necessary.

      Which thought made her shudder, for if he knew the truth, and had the inclination to act, a man as powerful as Cameron Dunbar could easily realise her biggest fear. So he must never, ever guess the truth.

      Did this mean she should leave, disappear for ever from his view, to protect her secret? And by doing so learn to live with the questions his reappearance had raised? Impossible. Kirstin sat down on the bed and undid the buttons of her spencer. She had no choice but to stay here and do what she had commanded all those other women to do.

      All or nothing. It would be challenging, but when had she ever shirked a challenge? It required her to commit herself wholeheartedly, to lay aside her other responsibilities for the first time in six years. Marianne would relish the challenge of taking charge. It might even prove oddly liberating.

      A knock at the door heralded the delivery of a note from Marianne. Scanning it, she smiled to herself. In the grand scheme of things this was welcome good news.

      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