A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I’m very worried about Jeannie, Heather.’

  A fresh fall of tears dripped onto the table. ‘Jeannie is a—She can take care of herself much better than I can.’

  ‘Is that what it came down to, Heather? A choice, Jeannie or you, when you couldn’t pay Mr Watkins?’

  ‘He sent a woman to see me. Mrs Jardine, she called herself. She said that I must—that I must—that I must pay my debt back to Mr Watkins by...’ Heather covered her face with her hands and sobbed. ‘I can’t say it. Don’t make me say it.’

  ‘Then I’ll say it for you. She told you that you must work off your debt in her brothel,’ Kirstin said, in a clipped tone very different from the gentle one in which she had hitherto spoken. ‘And you, Miss Aitken, were so desperate to escape her clutches that you handed your friend on a plate to her instead, am I right?’

  ‘I thought that—I wasn’t sure that they’d find her. I thought that maybe she’d get away—that Mrs Ferguson would...’

  ‘If Jeannie had somehow managed to escape from whatever trap you set for her, don’t you think you’d have heard from her by now?’

  ‘She doesn’t know where I am. Nobody does.’ Heather was pale, shaking, her voice tremulous. ‘She thinks I’m still working at the big house where I was first employed. One of the girls there, she brings me my letters.’

  ‘And has there been one from Jeannie to let you know she’s in London? No, of course there hasn’t.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am here at the behest of Mrs Ferguson. This gentleman here is Philippa’s uncle.’

  ‘Philippa? What has Miss Philippa to do with this?’

  ‘Miss Philippa, being so fond of Jeannie, tried to save her, and in the process was abducted with her.’

  ‘Merciful heavens. Dear God, what have I done?’

  Heather began to sway in her chair and would have toppled to the floor had not Cameron caught her. He set her down on the bed, which was tucked under the eaves of the room. Though her eyelids fluttered, she remained in a deep swoon. He stared down at her slight frame, torn between pity and fury.

  ‘There’s no point in being angry with her,’ Kirstin said, getting to her feet. ‘She was faced with a terrible choice. Self-preservation almost always wins out, in my experience.’

  ‘What should we do with her?’

  ‘Were you thinking of handing her over to the authorities?’

  ‘No! I meant how might we help her? If we leave her like this, she’s like to fall further down the road to ruin.’

  Cameron turned to the wan figure, now trying to sit up on the bed. ‘Listen to me, Heather Aitken, I’ve no time to deal with you right now, but if, God willing, we find Philippa and Jeannie safe and well, I might consider offering you gainful employment in Glasgow. I’m promising nothing, but you had better make sure you don’t do anything stupid in the meantime. Do you understand?’

  Brushing aside Heather Aitken’s startled promises and belated thanks, he took Kirstin’s arm, hastening back out into the close, down the stairs and out into the alleyway, where he tossed a sixpence at the boy waiting across the road.

  ‘I’m assuming you will be able to track down this Mrs Jardine for us?’

  ‘It should be easy enough, if she is a madam. That was an extremely generous offer you made, Cameron. Especially in the circumstances.’

  He turned to Kirstin, halting momentarily. ‘I understand why you tend to see things in black and white, but in my experience there’s many shades of grey in between. The instinct to survive at any cost—if you’d been raised as I was, you’d understand.’

  ‘You’re right, I can’t imagine, though I am absolutely certain that you would never choose to protect yourself by betraying someone else.’

  ‘No more than you would,’ he said.

  She stumbled. Catching her, he caught a glimpse of her face, which had been concealed by Mrs Collins’s bonnet, and was startled to see a tear tracking down her cheek, But before he could say anything a shadow across the way caught his eye. Cameron snarled at the man, who immediately ducked into the nearest doorway.

  ‘We need to get out of here. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.’ Grabbing Kirstin’s hand, he began to run, hurling the pennies from his purse at the clutch of waiting urchins until they reached the relative safety of Holborn.

  * * *

  You would never choose to protect yourself by betraying someone else.

  Kirstin’s own words played over and over in her mind as she prepared for her expedition to Mrs Jardine’s brothel that night. A few days ago she would have had no hesitation in agreeing with Cameron, but now, sickeningly, she was forced to admit that it was not true. Though she truly believed that she was doing the right thing for Eilidh, and for herself and for Cameron too, every day that she kept his daughter a secret from him was still a betrayal. She was denying him his right to choose for himself whether to acknowledge her or not.

  Which a growl of frustration, Kirstin turned to the mirror and began to hook the row of tiny buttons which fastened her full-length black pelisse. Since leaving St Giles that morning, she had been over and over this in her head a hundred times. Cameron didn’t want children, but if he discovered he had fathered Eilidh he would feel obliged to take on a paternal role, and the life Kirstin had worked so hard to build for herself and her beloved daughter would come crashing down.

  Cameron might want Eilidh to live in Scotland. As her father, he would have the law on his side, and the right to do so. Eilidh was not—she would never, ever think of her daughter as a—a—she would never allow her to be stigmatised for her unconventional birth, but Cameron would not tolerate what he saw as a huge disadvantage. He’d want to give Eilidh his name, which would mean he’d be forced to marry Kirstin, and even if it was to be a wife in name only, for the sake of their child, Kirstin could never tolerate such an arrangement. She would be Cameron’s property. He would own her and her daughter, even her business. It simply didn’t bear thinking of.

  Though Eilidh would have a father.

  But Eilidh didn’t need a father any more than Kirstin had needed a mother. One loving parent was more than enough. So to think of her keeping his daughter a secret from him as a betrayal was quite illogical.

  ‘Extremely illogical,’ Kirstin said aloud to her reflection. The words lacked conviction. She, who prided herself on her honesty, was finding this abstention from the truth deeply uncomfortable.

  With a sigh, she did up the last of her buttons, put on her hat and her gloves. The transformation was complete. The Procurer, not Kirstin, stared back at her from the mirror. It was odd, seeing her alter ego like this after what felt like a long gap, though it had still been only a few days. She felt confined, somehow, constrained, as if her true self had been bottled up, buttoned down, hidden under The Procurer’s mourning black disguise.

  Checking her watch, she saw that the hour was approaching eleven. Butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. Putting her own concerns firmly to the back of her mind, she headed for Cameron’s suite.

  * * *

  ‘Do I pass muster?’ Cameron asked, throwing his arms wide. ‘Am I the proper rakish dandy?’

  He was dressed for a night on the town, in a tight-fitting tailcoat of olive-green, with a high collar and a double row of silver buttons. His shirt points were high and starched, his neckcloth much more intricately tied than was his wont, and set with a diamond pin. Buff-coloured pantaloons showed every contour of his muscular legs, and a pair of highly polished Hessians completed his toilette.

  ‘Your shoulders and your calves are all your own, and I don’t think you’re wearing a corset to nip your waist in,’ Kirstin said, trying not to stare at the way his pantaloons clung to thighs which were clearly shaped by muscle and not padding. ‘So, no, you’re not a typical dandy, but you do look very much the man about town.’

 
‘And you look as if you are about to attend a funeral. All you need is a black lace veil.’ Cameron eyed her with one brow raised. ‘A very stylish funeral, if there ever is such a thing. Or—I don’t know—there is something about the fit of that coat thing you are wearing. You could be a widow or a—don’t take this the wrong way—but a very, very expensive...’

  ‘Courtesan?’

  He laughed uncertainly. ‘Is it deliberate? It is extremely alluring. You don’t look at all like yourself.’

  ‘How am I to take that!’

  ‘Alluring, yet untouchable,’ Cameron said. ‘As if you are made of jet and alabaster. Usually, you leave me in no doubt that you are flesh and blood. Then you are alluring, and almost irresistible.’ His smile faded as he studied her. ‘You are nervous?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted, taken aback. ‘If we find them, Cameron...’

  ‘Then we will get them out of there.’

  ‘But how? Such places as Mrs Jardine runs will have men on the door. You will be one against two, perhaps more.’

  ‘Kirstin, when this madam realises that Philippa is gently born with influential connections she’ll be desperate to be rid of her.’

  ‘If she has Philippa, don’t you think that she’ll already know these things?’

  ‘Are you thinking that she might already have rid herself of her?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but the same thing must have occurred to you, surely?’

  ‘Aye, of course it has.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, wreaking havoc with his carefully smoothed crop. ‘I could see her pressing Jeannie into service, but Philippa—it’s far too risky for her. I doubt she’ll be there. God’s honest truth, I don’t want to think about where she’ll be if she’s not. But we’re going to find out, Kirstin. Are you up for it? Because if you’re not, I can do this on my own.’

  ‘No.’ She gave herself a shake, put her hand on his arm. ‘We’re in this together, remember? We will find her. Failure isn’t an option.’

  His own words quoted back at him conjured up the ghost of a smile. ‘Right, then,’ Cameron said, ‘let’s get on with it.’

  * * *

  Mrs Jardine kept a discreet house in Margaret Street near Cavendish Square, a well-established business aimed at the exclusive end of the market. Her boast, in the circles where such things were boasted of, was that she could cater for any taste, however outlandish, if the price was right, and provided it was not downright illegal. Though the boundaries of the law, as interpreted by Mrs Jardine, could sometimes be stretched, for a premium.

  Admission to her house was strictly by means of introduction by a previous client, but the matter was too urgent for them to consider the delay of even a day while Kirstin found one such, so she watched from the shadows as Cameron attempted to bluff his way in.

  As expected, there were two men guarding the door, dwarfing even Cameron’s large frame. Though they closed ranks, blocking his way, they made no attempt to manhandle him. He spoke to them. She couldn’t hear what he said, but she could see the impact of it on the watchdogs who did not, contrary to her expectations, simply hustle him out into the street. They stood impassive. Then they separated slightly. Then they conferred. Then one of them departed, returning a few minutes later with a well-dressed woman, presumably Mrs Jardine herself. Cameron spoke again. Kirstin caught the flash of his smile. And then he was ushered in and the door was closed behind him.

  Kirstin’s heart was pounding, her mouth dry. She had been in dangerous situations before, but not like this, and she had always been alone. Tonight she was part of a team. One, possibly two innocent young girls might be somewhere in that house, desperate to be rescued.

  She counted out the minutes carefully, until the agreed fifteen had passed. Then she crossed the road and rapped on the door demanding, in the imperious voice of The Procurer, to be taken immediately to Mrs Jardine on a matter of extreme urgency.

  * * *

  Cameron slipped a banknote to each of the doormen as he followed Mrs Jardine into the house. In the brightly lit hallway, he saw that she was younger than he’d thought at first, not more than forty, and had been a beauty in her day. She was not, as he had in his naivety expected, either painted or raddled, but there was a gauntness to her—the hollow cheeks, the deep-set eyes and the twig-like arms were indicative of poor health.

  ‘Mr MacDonald,’ she said, ‘I must tell you that this is most unusual.’

  ‘Aye, I know that, and I’m right grateful to you for making an exception for me.’ He responded to her rasping tones in the soft lilt of the Highlands. ‘I’ve only the one night to spend in London before heading off to India, and I heard that Mrs Jardine’s was the premier facility in all of London.’

  ‘And faced with a long sea voyage to India,’ Mrs Jardine said wryly, ‘your need is urgent.’

  ‘Very urgent.’ Cameron attempted what he hoped was a shy smile. ‘I’ve never been in such a place as this,’ he said, in all honesty, ‘but I’m hoping it will more than cover my requirements.’

  He’d had the banknotes ironed. They rustled enticingly as he handed them over. Mrs Jardine did not count them, nothing so vulgar, but he saw the very slight lift of her brow, and knew from the fact that she immediately slid them into a pocket in her gown that she wasn’t going to turn him down.

  ‘It depends what you are after, Mr MacDonald,’ she said, ‘but that will do nicely for a start.’

  ‘I’m fresh from the Highlands,’ he said, still smiling, ‘but I’m not wet behind the ears. I reckon that’s more than enough, whatever my proclivities.’

  A dry little laugh which turned into a hacking cough greeted this remark. ‘I refuse to believe a man with your looks and wealth could possibly be as inexperienced as you claim, but that is no concern of mine. I have a business to run. Tell me your pleasure, and we can both get on with our evening.’

  ‘Call me sentimental, but I’m after a lass from my own neck of the woods. A lass to remind me of the home I’m leaving behind, fresh as the Highland air, if you get my drift?’

  ‘I sincerely hope you are not asking me to provide you with a virgin, Mr MacDonald.’

  ‘Could you, for a price?’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Jardine said baldly. ‘Let me give you the benefit of my vast experience of the world,’ she continued sardonically, ‘to one who claims to know nothing of it. If someone tries to sell you a virgin, you can be certain that the flower has already been plucked. Such girls are rarities, and never available on the open market, not even from such exclusive houses as this.’

  ‘Where, then, might one look?’

  He knew the moment he spoke that he’d been too eager. Mrs Jardine narrowed her eyes. ‘I think it might be better if you looked elsewhere for your entertainment tonight.’

  She made to hand him his notes, but Cameron shook his head, pushing the money away. ‘Away, now, I was only curious. Like I said, all I’m after for tonight is a wee Highland lass to remind me of home.’

  The madam pursed her lips, studying him for long, anxious moments. Cameron remained smiling encouragingly, until she shrugged, sighed. ‘Very well. I do have such a girl, as it happens, arrived from the north quite recently. Are you averse to red hair, Mr MacDonald? I know that some men...’

  Though his belly lurched, he remained calm. Jeannie, he thought, dear heavens, it can only be Jeannie. ‘As it happens, I have a particular predilection for redheads, Mrs Jardine.’

  ‘First floor. Second room on the left. Luckily for you she is free. It’s a quiet night. You have half an hour.’

  He could feel her eyes on him as he made his way up the stairs, but his mind was already on the girl behind the door. She would be frightened, terrified, even. He’d have to reassure her, explain who he was. Half an hour to calm her, to find out where Philippa was, and to come up with a plan to get her out of there, and Philippa too if she was here. And all the
time, Kirstin would hopefully be keeping Mrs Jardine occupied. If things went to plan.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, the corridor stretched before him, six doors on either side. Was there a girl behind each? Were they willing, or had they no choice? He understood now, a little, why Kirstin was forced to see the world in black and white. Those few she could assist. The vast numbers she could not. He hadn’t realised until now how invidious it must be for her to make such momentous decisions.

  As he passed the first door on the left, his footsteps slowed. He stopped outside the second one. Should he knock? Aye. He did so. There was no answer. He turned the handle, easing the door open. She was sitting on the bed with her back to him, a slight figure wearing nothing but a shift, with bright red hair rippling down her back. He felt sick.

  ‘Jeannie?’ he said, closing the door and leaning his back against it.

  ‘You can call me whatever you fancy, sir, since you’re paying for the privilege,’ she said, turning round. Not a Highland accent but pure Glaswegian.

  ‘I’d like to call you by your real name, lass,’ Cameron said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Moira.’

  * * *

  ‘Moira! Oh, Cameron, your heart must have sunk to have your hopes dashed like that,’ Kirstin said.

  It was very late, late enough for dawn to be imminent, and they were once again in Cameron’s suite.

  ‘It was a blow, I’ll admit it.’

  He was sprawled in a wing-back chair, having discarded his jacket, the high starched collar of his shirt wilting, the carefully tied neckcloth askew. There was a bluish shadow on his cheeks, and darker shadows under his eyes. He looked utterly dejected.

  Sitting across from him, still in her tight-fitting pelisse, though she had taken off her hat and gloves, Kirstin was bone-weary. What would it be like for them to retire to bed together? To lie wrapped in one another’s arms, to feel the reassuring beat of a heart, to drift to sleep still entwined, to wake slowly to the comforting warmth of another body, and to know that all it would take would be the gentle caress of a sleepy kiss to...?