A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Cameron Dunbar stood in front of the baptismal font set in an alcove off a side aisle. The church appeared to be deserted, though the sweet scent of incense and candle wax from the morning mass hung in the air, along with the faint tang of the less than genteel congregation. Feeling slightly absurd, he made his way to the confessional boxes ranged on the left-hand side of the aisle, entering the last one as instructed.

The curtain on the other side of the grille was closed. He sat down in the gloomy confined space and prepared himself for disappointment. The Procurer’s reputation for discretion was legendary, her reputation for being elusive equally so, but he had, nonetheless, expected to meet the woman face-to-face. Part of him questioned her very existence, wondering if she wasn’t some elaborate hoax. Even if she was more than a myth, he wasn’t at all convinced that he could bring himself to explain his business, especially such sensitive business, in such circumstances.

Sighing impatiently, Cameron tried to stretch his legs out in front of him, only to knock his knees against the door of the wooden box. If he had been able to think of another way to proceed, any other way at all, he would not be here. He hadn’t even heard of the woman until two days ago. Max had assured him that everything said of her was true, that her reputation was well-deserved, but Max had also refused to divulge a single detail of his own involvement with her, save to say, primly, that the matter had been resolved satisfactorily.

Cameron trusted Max, and his problem was urgent, becoming more urgent with every day that passed.

How long had he been sitting here? The blasted woman had been so precise about his own arrival she could at least have had the decency to be punctual herself. On the brink of breaking another of her list of instructions by peering out of the confessional into the church, he heard the tapping of heels on the aisle. Was it her? He listened, ears straining, as the footsteps approached. Stopped. And the door on the other side of the confessional was opened. There was a faint settling, the rustle of fabric as The Procurer sat down—assuming it was she and not a priest come to hear his confession.

The curtain on the other side was drawn back. It made little difference. Cameron could see nothing through the tiny holes in the pierced metal grille save a vague outline. But he could hear her breathing. And he could smell the damp on her clothes and the faint trace of perfume, not sickly attar of roses or lavender water, but a more exotic scent. Jasmine? Vanilla? What kind of woman was The Procurer? Max hadn’t even told him whether she was young or old.

‘Mr Dunbar?’

Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Cameron leaned into the grille and the shadow on the other side immediately pulled back. ‘I am Cameron Dunbar,’ he said. ‘May I assume I’m addressing The Procurer?’

‘You may.’

Again, she spoke softly. He could hear the swishing of her gown, as if she too was having difficulty in getting comfortable in the box. The situation was preposterous. Confessional or no, he wasn’t about to spill his guts to a complete stranger whose face he wasn’t even permitted to see.

‘Listen to me, Madam Procurer,’ Cameron said. ‘I don’t know what your usual format for these meetings is, but it does not suit me at all. Can we not talk face-to-face, like adults? This absurd situation hardly encourages trust, especially if I am to be your client.’

‘No!’ The single word came through the grille as a hiss, making him jerk his head away. ‘I made the terms of this meeting very clear in my note, Mr Dunbar. If you break them—’

‘Then you will not consider my case,’ he snapped. Cameron was not used to being in a negotiation where he did not have the upper hand. But this situation was in every way unique. ‘Very well,’ he conceded stiffly, ‘we will continue on your terms, madam.’

Silence. Then her face moved closer to the grille. ‘You must first tell me a little about yourself, Mr Dunbar.’

Though he must know nothing of her, it seemed. It stuck in his craw, but he could not risk alienating her. She would not, he sensed, give him a second chance, and if there was any possibility that she really was as good as Max averred, then he had no option but to play the game her way.

‘If you’re concerned that I can’t afford your fee,’ Cameron said dryly, ‘then let me put your mind at rest. Whatever it is—and I’ve heard that it is anything from a small fortune to a king’s ransom—then I have ample means.’

‘A king’s ransom?’ the woman on the other side of the grille whispered. ‘Now, that is an interesting proposition. What would you pay, Mr Cameron, to release the current King from his incarceration?’

‘A deal more than I’d pay for his son were it he who were locked away. I’d much prefer a madman on the throne to a profligate popinjay. Though the truth is I doubt I’d put up a penny for either.’

‘You are a republican, then, Mr Dunbar, like our friends in America?’

‘I’m a pragmatist and a businessman, and I’m wondering what relevance my politics can possibly have to the matter under discussion?’

His question caused her to pause. When she spoke again, her tone was conciliatory. ‘I take many factors into consideration before agreeing to take on a new client. I was merely trying to establish what sort of man I would be dealing with.’

‘An honest one. A desperate one, as you must know,’ Cameron replied tersely. ‘Else I would not have sought you out.’

‘You have told no one about this meeting? Not even your wife…’

‘I have no wife. I have spoken to no one,’ Cameron replied, becoming impatient. ‘You are not the only one who desires the utmost discretion.’

‘You may trust in mine, Mr Dunbar.’

‘So I’ve heard. You must not take it amiss if I tell you that I prefer to make my own mind up about that.’

‘You are perfectly at liberty to do so. Though I would remind you that you came to me for help, not the other way around.’

‘As a last resort. I am not a man who trusts anyone but himself with his affairs, but I cannot see a way to resolve this matter on my own. I desperately need your help.’

Her silence spoke for her. He must abandon his reservations, must throw caution to the wind and confide in this woman, no matter how much it went against the grain, else he would fail. The consequences of failure could not be contemplated.

‘You must believe me when I tell you I do not exaggerate,’ Cameron said. ‘This could well be a matter of life and death.’

* * *

Many of the people who sought The Procurer’s help thought the same, but there was a raw emotion in Cameron Dunbar’s voice that gave Kirstin pause. Hearing his voice, knowing that the man who had quite literally changed the course of her life was just inches away, had been more overwhelming than she could ever have imagined.

The urge to throw back the door of the confessional, to confront him face-to-face, was almost irresistible. She had not expected the visceral reaction of her body to his voice, as if her skin and her muscles remembered him, and the memory triggered a longing to know him again.

She was frustrated by the grille which kept her identity concealed, for it kept him safe too, from her scrutiny. Images flashed into her mind when he spoke, vivid, shocking images of that night that brought colour flooding to her cheeks, for the woman in those images was a wanton who bore no relation to the woman she was now. This had been a mistake. She could not help Cameron Dunbar, yet she could not force herself to walk away.

‘I will listen,’ she found herself saying. ‘Though I make no promises, I will hear you out.’

And so she did, with a growing sense of horror, as Cameron Dunbar told his story.

When he came to the end of it, Kirstin spoke without hesitation. ‘I will find someone suitable who will assist you. Tell me where you may be reached.’

Chapter One (#udadc08d2-226b-558a-ad9f-ad4267c5c1c3)

Handing her portmanteau to the hackney cab driver, Kirstin gave the address of the hotel where Cameron Dunbar had taken up residence. It was by no means the grandest establishment in London but it was, she knew, formidably expensive, not least because it had a reputation for offering the utmost discretion, which suited certain well-heeled guests. She wondered how Cameron had come to know of it. The friend he had mentioned, Max, who had recommended The Procurer’s services, no doubt. She remembered Max. A difficult, but ultimately satisfying case, and the first one in which Marianne had been involved.

The cab rattled through the crowded streets and Kirstin’s heart raced along with it. It was not too late to turn back, but she knew she would not. Her farewells had been said.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Marianne had told her with a reassuring smile, and Kirstin hadn’t doubted it, having come to trust her completely over the years in both business and personal terms. But it had been a painful parting all the same, astonishingly difficult to pin a smile to her face, to keep the tears from her eyes. ‘Go,’ Marianne had said, shooing her out through the door, ‘and don’t fret. Concentrate on completing this case, which sounds as if it will require all of even your considerable powers. It will be good for me to have the opportunity to be in charge, stand on my own two feet.’

Marianne, discreet as ever, had refrained from asking why Kirstin was taking on this case personally, something she had never done before, though it was Marianne who had, albeit inadvertently, put the idea into Kirstin’s head, when she had pointed out that Kirstin possessed exactly the attributes the client had specified.

As The Procurer, Kirstin could have found another suitable female, she always did, but it would have taken time, and Cameron had none to spare. It therefore made perfect, logical sense for her to make the momentous decision to step into the breach, she told herself as the cab neared her destination. It was clear to her, from the sketchy information Cameron had provided, that the situation, though not necessarily a matter of life and death at present, could, if unresolved, easily become one.

Though had it been any man other than Cameron Dunbar who had come seeking her help would she have acted in a similar fashion? No. Kirstin’s habit of being brutally honest with everyone, including herself, was ingrained. She would have moved heaven and earth to find a suitable female candidate, but she would not have dreamed of offering her own services. She was here to help Cameron Dunbar resolve his terrible predicament, but she was also here for her own reasons.

It meant depriving another woman of the opportunity to make a fresh start for herself, but after their wholly unsatisfactory meeting the day before yesterday, Kirstin had been forced to acknowledge that she too needed a fresh start. Far from letting her close the door on the man, it had merely served to let him stride through. She had to know more about him, and she had a very legitimate reason for needing to do so. The time would come when she could no longer field questions with feigned ignorance, and it was not in her nature to lie.

More than six years ago she had taken the decision to be true to herself, to live her life in her chosen way, independent of everyone, answerable to no one. In order to continue to do so she must reassure herself that her decision was the correct one, which meant excising Cameron Dunbar from the equation.

And keeping him completely in the dark while she did so.

Kirstin smiled grimly to herself. It was hardly a difficult task for one who made a living from extracting information while offering none in exchange. She must assume that Cameron would remember Kirstin Blair, but he would have no idea that she and The Procurer were one and the same. The Procurer’s own unbreakable rules that no questions could be asked, no personal history need be revealed, would protect her, and the notion that she would ever confide in him of her own free will—it was ludicrous. Kirstin, as Marianne had once said, could give lessons in discretion to clams.

Reassured, confident in her decision, as the cab came to a halt and the hotel porter rushed to open the door, she turned her mind to the coming reunion, telling herself that her nerves were everything to do with her determination to prevent the matter becoming one of life and death, and nothing at all to do with the man she was going to be working with in close proximity.

* * *