distraction too, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Compliments are most welcome, just at the moment.’
They walked on in the growing gloom, through the sleet and the mud. She could not read his expression, though she sensed he was frowning. Twice, he gave the oddest little shake of his head, as if trying to cast off unwelcome thoughts. Relating to this painful personal business of his, she assumed. It seemed that beauty in a man was no more a guarantee of happiness than it was in a woman. There was, of course, no reason to assume it would be. She had not thought she could be so facile.
As they approached the welcome lights of the inn, and a dog started barking, Cameron Dunbar stopped, turning towards her. She assumed it was to bid her goodnight. He once again proved her wrong. ‘Since you are in the market for compliments, I find your conversation both endearing and distracting, and I’m very much in need of distraction right now. Would it be too much of a liberty to ask you to take dinner with me?’
It would be wrong of her to dine alone with a complete stranger, she knew that. But she too was a complete stranger to him. And he was not the only one in need of distraction. ‘I’d like that very much,’ she said simply.
‘Thank you, Mrs—Miss—I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked your name.’
‘It is Blair. Miss Kirstin Blair.’
London, February 1819
Kirstin shook herself from her reverie. Now was categorically neither the time nor place to recollect the past. Cameron was staring at her, his brow lifted quizzically. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘what did you ask me?’
‘How should I address you?’
‘Kirstin will be fine, at least while we are alone. In company—well, it very much depends on the company, and that is likely to be rather varied.’
The wintery sun streaming through the windows of Cameron’s hotel suite illuminated the dark shadows under his eyes, the furrow of lines between his brows, the grooves at the sides of his mouth. His skin was drawn tight around his eyes. Pity stirred in her breast. She knew little of him, but such a successful businessman as he must be finding his helplessness difficult to endure. Another man would have blundered on, useless if determined, too proud to ask for help, but Cameron Dunbar had quickly put his own ego aside. She admired him very much for that.
Once again, the urge to touch his hand was overpowering but it was not sympathy he needed. ‘We must devise a plan,’ Kirstin said briskly. ‘Though I do not recommend you share the details with Mrs Ferguson, you will want to reassure her that you are taking decisive action. But first, let us review what you know.’
‘I know nothing more than what I’ve already told The Procurer, and I presume she has already passed that on to you?’
‘Of course, but it is my experience, Mr Dunbar, that details often emerge in the retelling that have been overlooked.’
‘Can’t you bring yourself to call me Cameron?’
No, she wanted to say, because it implied an intimacy she didn’t want to acknowledge. But if she refused, he’d wonder why and she didn’t want him speculating. So Kirstin shrugged, as if it mattered not a whit. ‘Very well, Cameron, let us start with your initial involvement in this matter. Mrs Ferguson wrote to you, I believe?’
‘An express delivery to my main office in Glasgow. The one piece of good fortune in this whole sorry affair is that her letter found me there. I spend a great deal of my time abroad, looking after my various business concerns, though Glasgow is my home, in as much as any place is. I set off for London immediately, catching the mail coach which had delivered my letter on its return journey, but even so, it has now been over a week since Miss Ferguson disappeared with her maid from 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
