London, February 1819
Kirstin Blair curled up in her favourite armchair in front of the fire and poured herself a cup of fragrant tea. It was a new blend, a gift from one of her oldest friends, the Marquis of Glenkin, but while the smoky brew was undoubtedly as refreshing as any Ewan had previously supplied, tonight she might as well have been drinking dishwater. As she settled in her seat, the rustle of the letter secreted in her dressing gown pocket proved too difficult to resist.
She opened the missive once again, staring down at the bold, decisive masculine handwriting. The maelstrom of emotions she had been keeping at bay all day overtook her, making the delicate Sèvres teacup shake in its saucer. She set it down, closing her eyes, lying her head back on the wings of her chair.
She’d never seen his script before. She’d had no inkling, when she broke the seal this morning in her office, of the explosive contents of that single sheet of expensive pressed paper. Scanning the signature first, as she always did, she’d thought her eyes deceived her, but a second appraisal of it left no room for doubt.
Cameron Dunbar. There could not be another with that particular name.
The shock hit her afresh as she stared at the letter. It was not that she’d thought him dead, more that she had so effectively written him out of her life it was as if he had never existed. She rarely permitted herself to recall any detail of that fateful night.
As she struggled to repress the confusing and almost unprecedented smart of tears, years of practice allowed her to draw a thick black curtain over the memory. She would not cry. She had barely shed a tear in the darkest of times. She had taught herself to concentrate wholly on the positive, to look forward not back.
‘Onwards and upwards,’ she whispered to herself now, but the words which had so often inspired her, and many of the women she had aided, failed to work their magic on this occasion.
Cameron Dunbar. He was unquestionably an outrageously handsome man, but it was not his classical good looks which had drawn her, it was his smile. He had one of those intimate smiles, a smile seemingly intended only for her. Despite the fact that they had been surrounded by strangers, that the carriage had been pungent from the succession of boiled eggs one passenger had consumed at regular intervals, and ripe with the sweat from another, and regardless of the fact that they had been sitting diametrically opposite each other, that smile had enveloped them in a bubble of their own. She’d found herself smiling back, something quite alien to her reserved nature. It should have been a warning that most certainly should have been heeded.
Kirstin’s eyes snapped open. Cameron Dunbar’s easy charm was of no interest to her. On the other hand, the letter which lay in her lap, whatever its mysterious request turned out to entail, might prove to be a very lucrative business opportunity. If she chose to accept it. Not that she would. She would be a fool to have anything to do with the man who had, albeit unwittingly, come so close to destroying her. She had saved herself, living by her considerable wits, reinventing herself, working hard to create the myth behind which she now flourished, to establish the flawless reputation she now enjoyed. There was no need to conjure up this ghost from her past.
On the other hand, business was business. Despite the fact that her alter ego was besieged every day with enquiries, such was the complex nature of her extremely discreet and niche service that only a very small percentage of these commissions could be accepted. Making the impossible possible required her to ensure that she never failed, but the need to make a handsome living that would safeguard her future meant she was not in a position to reject any approach out of hand.
But this particular prospect she most decidedly could not investigate, far less take on, for she could not possibly meet Cameron Dunbar face-to-face.
Yet it was impossible to deny that she wanted to, given the incontrovertible evidence that he was alive. She found herself intensely curious as to how his life had turned out, more than six years on, and what his circumstances were. And she wanted to know what desperate bind he had found himself in that he was compelled to seek her expensive and exclusive assistance. Not that he could have any idea at all who it was he’d actually written to.
Which thought gave her pause. A small smile played on her lips as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea. Taking a sip, she nodded with satisfaction, relishing the smoky blend of this second cup. Cameron Dunbar had written to her alter ego. Even if he remembered Kirstin from that one night over six years ago, he had no reason to connect the two of them. And, actually, there was a reasonable chance that he wouldn’t even remember that night, for a man as handsome and as charming and as charismatic as Cameron Dunbar must surely have had many such nights since. That illusion of intimacy between them, that feeling she’d had, the reason she’d allowed herself to be carried away, that she was special, that his behaviour was every bit as out of character as hers was exactly that, an illusion.
Seeing
