my intention when I assumed this guise. I have dressed as a lady of quality, because only a lady of quality would be accepted as a guest in this hotel, Mr Dunbar. One should not judge by appearances, though fortunately, for the success of our mission, many people do.’
‘Do you think we’ll be successful?’
Though he asked her coolly enough, there was just a hint of desperation in his tone. With difficulty, Kirstin resisted the urge to cover his hand, one of the few gestures of sympathy she ever allowed herself to bestow. It was even more difficult to resist the urge to reassure him, but that was one rule she never broke.
‘I will do everything in my power to help you, but it has been over a week now. You must face the fact that the damage may already have been done.’
The pain in his eyes told her he had already been down that path, far further than even she had. ‘We must succeed,’ he said. ‘Mrs Ferguson is relying on me to find her daughter.’
‘She cannot possibly blame you if you fail.’
‘Believe me, she will, and she won’t give me another chance.’
Kirstin frowned, wondering if she had missed something significant he had said in the confessional two days ago, but her memory was prodigious, she missed nothing. ‘Another chance to do what?’
‘Pay my dues.’ Cameron dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘The woman believes that I owe her, and in all conscience I think she has a point. If I can restore her daughter to her then we can both get on with our lives unencumbered.’
Only now did his mode of address strike her as odd. She should have noticed it before. She tried to recall what Cameron had told The Procurer in the confessional, and realised he’d said nothing at all of his relationship with Mrs Ferguson and her daughter, save to inform her of the blood tie.
‘You don’t know your sister well enough to call her by her first name, yet she turned to you when her daughter disappeared?’
Cameron got to his feet, making for the window, where he leaned his shoulder against the shutter. ‘Mrs Ferguson is only my half-sister, making Philippa my half-niece, if there is such a thing.’
‘You do realise that a failure to disclose salient facts renders your contract with The Procurer null and void?’
He rolled his eyes, but resumed his seat opposite her. ‘It’s a long story, and I can’t see how it’s relevant, but until Philippa disappeared I had met her mother only once. I’ve never set eyes on Philippa myself. This is her.’ He produced a miniature, which depicted an insipid girl with hair the colour of night. ‘There’s no portrait of the maid, but according to Mrs Ferguson she is a pert chit with ginger hair, from which we can infer a pretty redhead.’
‘You think that if you can restore Philippa to her mother, your sister will be grateful enough to—to nullify some previous debt?’
‘It’s not about money.’
No, nothing so simple, Kirstin deduced from the slash of colour in his cheeks. She would have liked to question him further but, like Cameron, she was bound by her own rules. There was a very big difference between history which had a bearing on this case, and bald curiosity.
‘And if you fail?’ she asked carefully.
‘I cannot fail. I’ve never met the girl, but having seen the mother—she’s in a terrible state—I can’t let her down. Can you imagine what she must be feeling, to have her only child disappear like that, from right under her nose?’
A shiver ran down Kirstin’s spine. ‘No,’ she said, catching herself, ‘I do not want to imagine, and nor does it serve any purpose. What we must do is try to put an end to her suffering. That is why I’m here.’
‘I was, as you’ll have noticed, somewhat taken aback when you turned up, but I’m very glad you did, Kirstin—Miss Blair—Mrs Collins. Curse it, I’ve no idea what to call you.’
He smiled at her then. It was a rueful smile. A smile that acknowledged their brief shared history, and acknowledged, too, that it was exactly that. History. Yet that smile, the warmth of it, the way it wrapped itself round her, brought it all back as if it were yesterday…
December 1812, Carlisle
He had boarded, as she had, at the White Hart Inn in the Grassmarket at Edinburgh, jumping into the coach at the last minute, squashing himself into the far corner, apologising to the stout man next to him, though it was he who was overflowing both sides of his allotted seat. The new arrival was swathed in a many-caped greatcoat, which he was forced to gather tightly around him. His legs were encased in a pair of black boots with brown tops, still highly polished, no mean feat having navigated Edinburgh’s filthy streets. When he took off his hat, clasping it on his lap, the woman sitting next to Kirstin gasped. The man looked up—not at the woman whom Kirstin had decided must be a housekeeper en route to a new appointment, but directly at Kirstin. In that brief glimpse, before she dropped her gaze deliberately to her lap, she saw enough to understand the housekeeper’s reaction, but she was irked and no little embarrassed, mortified that he might think the involuntary reaction had emanated from her. He was handsome, far too handsome to be unaware of the fact, and no doubt accustomed to having women of all ages gasping at him. Kirstin wasn’t about to add to their number.
But as the coach lumbered across the cobblestones of the Grassmarket towards the city gate and the road south, she found herself sneaking glances at the Adonis in the far corner. He sat with his head back on the squabs, his eyes closed, but the grim line of his mouth told her, as did the rigid way he held his body, that he was not asleep. His hair was black, close-cropped, the colour like her own, showing his Celtic origins. He had a high brow, faintly lined, his skin tanned, not the weather-beaten hue of a Scot who worked outdoors in the assorted forms of rain which dominated the four seasons, but a glow borne of sunshine and far warmer climes. His accent had been Scots, west coast rather than east, she thought, it was difficult to judge from his few terse words, but he obviously spent a deal of his time abroad. To his advantage too, judging by his attire, which was expensive yet understated. A businessman of some sort, she conjectured, discounting the possibility that he was a man of leisure, for such a man would certainly not travel on a public coach. This gentleman was obviously accustomed to it, managing to stay quite still in his seat despite the rattles and jolts of the cumbersome vehicle that had everyone else falling over each other.
She wondered what it was that he was thinking to make such a grim line of his mouth. Was he in pain? Angry? No, his grasp on his hat was light enough. Upset? There was a cleft in his chin, which was rather pointed than square. It was the contrasts, Kirstin decided, which made him so handsome—the delicate shape of his face, the strong nose, the sharp cheekbones. His brows were fierce. She was speculating on the exact colour of his eyes when they flew open and met her gaze. Dark brown, like melting chocolate, Kirstin thought fancifully before she caught herself, and was about to look away when he smiled directly at her, and she had the most absurd sensation that they were quite alone. She smiled back before she could stop herself. It was the housekeeper’s disapproving cluck which recalled her to her surroundings.
For the next few miles, Kirstin doggedly occupied herself with weaving histories for the other passengers, a game she’d played to pass the time ever since she was a lass sitting at the back of her father’s mathematical lectures, too young to understand the subject matter which would later enthral her, for she had inherited his logical brain, so instead occupying herself by studying his students. The tiniest details were her raw materials: the
