the Author
Hampstead, near London—summer 1815
The village of Hampstead enjoyed an enviable location on the fringes of the capital. Though its popularity as a spa retreat had declined somewhat, the fresh, clean air and its proximity to London had encouraged a number of well-heeled new residents to settle there. Passing through fruit farms and dairies on her journey from the city, the woman known only by her enigmatic epithet The Procurer had enjoyed the rustic charm and tranquil atmosphere of her surroundings, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of London where she plied her clandestine trade. Reining in her greys, she brought her phaeton to a halt before summoning a small boy standing idly nearby. She handed him the reins and proffered a sixpence. ‘I am looking for a Miss Galbraith.’
The child’s eyes widened, though he accepted both the reins and the coin. ‘Me mam says she’s one as don’t want to be found,’ he answered in a hushed voice. ‘She don’t answer the door to no one.’
The Procurer’s face tightened at this tangible evidence of the woman’s fall from grace. If it was at all possible, she was determined to provide this most deserving of cases with the means to redeem herself. No one deserved to be vilified by the gutter press in the manner she had been. Provided, of course, Miss Galbraith was a satisfactory match for her client’s requirements. The Procurer approved of altruism but drew the line at charity. ‘Then it is as well that I am someone,’ she said crisply to the boy. ‘Rest assured, she will answer the door to me. Now, point me in the direction of her abode, and no more of your lip.’
The cottage was located at the end of a row on the far edge of the village. It had a sunny, south-facing garden, but it was sadly neglected and overgrown with weeds. Though the street appeared deserted, The Procurer had the distinct impression that behind the curtained windows of the other cottages, the occupants were watching intently. As she picked her way up the little path to the front door, the contented buzzing of bees collecting pollen from the thicket of wild roses filled the air.
The cottage looked for all the world as if it was uninhabited. The windows were tightly shuttered. The shape of the door knocker was outlined by the bleached paint, but the mechanism itself had been removed. The Procurer rapped sharply with her knuckles.
‘Please go away, I do not receive or welcome visitors,’ a voice from behind the door urged.
‘That is disappointing to hear, since I have travelled from London to discuss a matter of great import with you.’
‘Then I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey. Whoever you are, and whatever it is you want, I cannot help you.’
‘You mistake my purpose. It is I who have come to help you. But I cannot do that if I am to be left standing on your doorstep. Will you not invite me in and at least hear me out? I am acquainted with your recent history and understand your natural suspiciousness, Miss Galbraith, but I bear you no ill will, I assure you.’
There was no immediate response but The Procurer’s patience was rewarded about thirty seconds later when the door opened just enough for her to slip inside before it slammed shut again.
The woman who stared back at her in confusion bore a clear resemblance to her many newspaper caricatures, though her expression was wary, rather than evil. Her distinctive bright copper hair was tied in a simple chignon, not tumbling wantonly over her shoulders as it was customarily depicted in the press. Her chin was determined, but her mouth was soft and full. Of petite stature, she looked to The Procurer to be twenty-five or six, though she had, according to the gutter press, turned thirty. There were shadows under her big hazel eyes flecked with gold, her skin had the dull, lacklustre look of someone who had been hiding from plain view, skulking in the shadows. ‘Do not look so afraid, Miss Galbraith,’ she said, ‘I truly have come here to help you.’
‘I am sure you mean well, but you are mistaken. No one can help me.’
‘Not if you are determined to let Dr Anthony Merchmont and his medical cronies destroy not only your reputation as London’s pre-eminent herbalist, but your entire life.’
Allison Galbraith’s eyes flashed with anger at this barb. An encouraging sign, The Procurer decided.
‘As you have pointed out,
