A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I’m a Glaswegian. I won’t wear a skirt. And I’m wondering why we have to go to such a palaver in the first place? Can’t we simply find out where your man is putting up while he’s in town and call on him?’

  ‘The ball is tomorrow night, and he is guaranteed to be there. We won’t get a better opportunity. He may turn out be our only hope,’ Kirstin said, becoming agitated. ‘You have no idea how many strings I’ve pulled, how many favours I’ve called in, only to be met with a wall of silence. And all the time the clock is ticking.’

  ‘You’re right, you’re right. So a Highlander I will be, though where I’m to find a plaid in London...’

  ‘As a matter of fact...’

  Cameron burst out laughing. ‘I might have known you’d be one step ahead of me.’ He lifted his glass to toast her. ‘Here is to Laird Garrioch and his good lady.’

  Kirstin, in the act of helping herself to a slice of the veal pie, looked up, eyebrows raised. ‘Garrioch?’

  ‘Of Garrioch House. The best lies are the ones containing an element of truth. Now, shall we discuss tactics?’

  * * *

  The next night Kirstin wore a simple white evening gown of satin with a gauze overdress, its front panel and the deep border of the hemline embroidered with white wild flowers. The plaid sash, fashioned by an accommodating Madame LeClerc from the offcuts of Cameron’s outfit, was formed of tight pleats, worn over her shoulder and across her body, fixed at the waist with a large silver brooch. Her hair was simply dressed, a ribbon formed of the same plaid threaded through it. On her feet were white slippers. Long white evening gloves covered her arms.

  Eyeing herself dubiously in the mirror, Kirstin fancied that she looked like a ghost. A Scottish ghost, mind you. She smiled. Rolled her eyes. And made for the door. She was very much looking forward to seeing Cameron in full Highland regalia.

  He whistled silently as he opened the door to her. ‘Laird Garrioch is a lucky man.’

  Kirstin dropped a quick curtsey. ‘Thank you kindly. I rather think Lady Luck favours his wife.’

  Cameron bowed, but his smile was mocking. ‘I’ve never worn a kilt before, and I hope to heaven never to have cause to wear one again.’

  ‘At least this outfit doesn’t smell of wet dog.’

  ‘I should hope not, after what I shelled out for it. I had the devil of a job putting it on, though I was shown the correct way to fold and fasten it several times. You wouldn’t believe how complicated it is. I’m wrapped up like a parcel.’

  ‘Then let me examine the goods,’ Kirstin said, making a show of inspecting him.

  His evening coat was black and beautifully fitted across the breadth of his shoulders, conventional enough, though it had no tails. The high points of his shirt collar and necktie were pristine white, showing off his tanned face, his freshly shaved jaw. A plain black waistcoat was adorned with a single gold fob on which he wore his pocket watch. There were two plaids. The first was, like hers, draped over his shoulder and across his body, though it was much wider, and held in place by a large silver pin. The second plaid formed the kilt, falling to just above his knee, held in place with a large silver-buckled leather belt. He had not gone to the lengths of acquiring a claymore or a dirk, but there was a sporran fixed to the belt, and another silver pin affixed to the front of the plaid to weight it down. Knitted stockings and buckled shoes completed his outfit.

  ‘Turn around,’ Kirstin said, ‘let me check the pleats at the back.’

  He did as she asked, though his expression told her he knew perfectly well she wasn’t interested in the pleats. Just as she’d hoped, the plaid swung out to give her a tantalising glimpse of thigh which she knew from last night was well-muscled.

  ‘Well? Do I pass muster?’

  She smiled, letting her appreciation show. ‘I would not recommend that you take part in the country dancing, however, unless you wish the young ladies to faint.’

  Cameron gave a bark of laughter. ‘There’s no chance of me dancing. I’ve two left feet.’

  ‘I doubt very much that anyone will be interested in your feet.’

  ‘We’re going to stand out like a pair of sore thumbs, the two of us.’

  ‘Which is exactly the point. It will be easier for us to bluff our way in to the ball if we make no attempt to blend in. That’s precisely what you’d expect someone without an invitation to do.’

  Cameron sighed theatrically. ‘Fair enough. I bow to your expertise in the art of subterfuge. What am I to call you, Lady Garrioch?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought. Fiona? Mhairi? Annis?’

  But he shook his head to each of these. ‘Isla. I think that would suit,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Remote and forbidding, just like its island namesake, you mean?’

  ‘No, unique and breathtakingly beautiful. What about me?’

  ‘Let’s think,’ she said. ‘What about Conlan? I was once told that in the Gaelic that means hero, or a man admired by all. Most apt.’

  Cameron grinned. ‘Isla and Conlan. A bit different from Euphemia and Caleb. Though I think we’re every bit as loving a couple, don’t you?’ He slid his arm around her waist. ‘In fact I’ll wager we’ve not been married very long at all. Still in the early stages of—’ He broke off, his face becoming serious. ‘Look at the time. The carriage will be waiting.’

  Kirstin’s stomach immediately began to flutter with nerves as she picked up her evening cloak.

  ‘Griffiths is to lead the Crieff girl out in the first dance. It’s likely his own dance card will be full at least until the first supper. That will be around midnight. We’ve timed our arrival to be in the worst of the crush, so Lord and Lady Crieff will be less inclined to make a fuss in front of the rest of their guests. Once we’re inside...’

  ‘Kirstin.’ Cameron put a finger to her lips. ‘We’ve been over this a dozen times. There’s no need to go over it again.’

  ‘No. No. You’re right. Only...’

  ‘It is vital we get it right. You think I don’t know that?’

  ‘Of course you do.’ She managed a shaky smile. ‘And we will. If we can just get Griffiths alone, I know that I’ll be able to persuade him to talk.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  Her nerves began to fade. A steely determination took over. ‘Oh, absolutely certain. Now,’ she said, softening her accent to a lilt, ‘are you ready to play the charming Highlander, Conlan, my hero?’

  ‘I certainly am, mo ghràdh, mo chridhe,’ Cameron replied in a perfect soft burr. ‘It means my darling, my heart, in case you’re wondering. It’s useful, isn’t it, that I’ve a boatswain from the Isle of Lewis?’

  ‘Why would a boatswain teach you such endearments?’

  He took her hand, tucking it into his arm. ‘Och, you never know when they’ll come in handy.’

  * * *

  The ball to launch the Earl and Countess of Crieff’s eldest daughter into society was being held at their town house in Mayfair. It was easy to spot. A long queue of carriages and sedan chairs was parked outside and blazing braziers illuminated the entrance. As they had hoped, Cameron and Kirstin were subsumed into the long line of guests making their way up the staircase from the reception hall to the first floor, where the Earl, his Countess and their daughter waited to greet them.

  Cameron’s attire was attracting a great deal of attention, most of it consisting of sidelong glances, though there were a few more brazen stares and several quizzing glasses raised. Deciding that Conlan, Laird of Garrioch was the kind of man who enjoyed the limelight, Cameron returned stare for stare, supplementing them with a smile, a haughty frown, or a wink, depending on which took his fancy.

  ‘There will certainly be no fading into the background now,’ he told Kirstin as they reached the top step. ‘Are you ready, my wee Isla, to face the music?’

  ‘Divide and conquer,’ she said,
stepping forward with not a trace of the nerves she’d shown earlier, and dropping into a deep curtsey before their host. ‘Lord Crieff, my husband has told me so much about you that I feel we already know each other. How do you do?’

  The startled Earl extended his hand automatically. ‘I’m sorry...’

  ‘My lovely wife, Isla, Lady Garrioch,’ Cameron said, stepping forward. ‘We’re not long wed, which is why news of our nuptials has not reached you from the Highlands yet. And this must be your good lady.’ Cameron turned to the Countess, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. ‘I have heard so much about you, my lady, and none of it did you justice. It is an honour to meet you at last.’

  ‘At last?’ Lady Crieff flashed an enquiring look at her husband, but Kirstin had placed herself at such an angle that Lord Crieff could no longer see his wife. ‘You are...?’

  ‘Conlan, of course,’ Cameron said, ‘Laird of Garrioch.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We are on the last leg of our wedding trip, Isla and I. We’ve been away from the castle these last three months, where I know your invitation to the Scottish branch of the family will be waiting, and I said to Isla it would be right rude for us not to come along to pay our respects. I can see from the way your husband has taken to Isla that I’m right.’

  Since Lady Crieff could still not see her husband, she had no option but to smile and nod. ‘You have been on the Continent for your trip?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ Cameron said, ‘but I’ll not bore you with the details while you’ve so many other guests to welcome. I’ll just introduce myself to wee Beatrice—my how she’s grown—and then I’ll get out from under your feet. Lovely to meet you after all this time. Isla?’

  He waited until Kirstin had dropped a second curtsey, then took her arm and, with the scantiest of greetings to Lady Beatrice, they were past the first hurdle.

  ‘Well?’ Cameron whispered as he led Kirstin into the crowd of the ballroom, nodding and smiling and making his way determinedly into the middle of the room.

  ‘Fortunately, the Earl is not the brightest,’ she said. ‘He assumes I am some sort of distant cousin of his wife’s.’

  ‘And she thinks I’m his cousin—or she pretended to think so,’ Cameron said, with a slight frown. ‘I wouldn’t count on her not following it up with him if she gets a chance. We’d do well to keep out of her way.’

  ‘Fortunately, her time will be taken up with playing hostess at least for the next couple of hours,’ Kirstin said. ‘Where will we—?’

  ‘Here, for the moment.’ Cameron edged them closer to the floor, where couples were beginning to amass for the first dance. ‘I want to get a look at our prey.’

  * * *

  ‘At last.’

  It was after midnight and Cameron was getting impatient. Despite informing Lady Crieff, the first time she’d managed to track them down in the crowd, that neither of them wished to dance, she had quite determinedly foisted a partner on Kirstin, forcing him to take refuge in the retiring room set aside for gentlemen. Now, having observed their target escorting Lady Beatrice down to supper over half an hour ago—definitely a match in the making there—they were finally putting their pincer plan into action.

  As Griffith Griffiths got to his feet to fetch more champagne, Cameron moved in, grabbing the man firmly by the arm and thrusting it behind his back.

  ‘What the devil? Let go of me this minute or I’ll...’

  ‘Haud yer wheesht.’ Cameron spoke in a low growl, in the broad accent of the Glasgow docks. ‘A moment of your time is all I ask.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘That wouldnae be wise.’ Cameron tightened his grip. ‘Do we understand one another?’

  The other man gave no answer, but he made no further protest as Cameron marched him out of the dining room, keeping him close enough so that no one could see he was being forced, smiling genially.

  Griffith Griffiths was about his own age. Fair-haired, with pale blue eyes, he had the look of a well-bred horse that passed for handsome amongst his class, and the sense of entitlement that always made Cameron grind his teeth.

  ‘I don’t know who the devil you are...’

  ‘The Laird of Garrioch.’

  Griffiths snorted. ‘Lord Crieff’s cousin from the Highlands? Or is it your wife who is Lady Crieff’s cousin? Beatrice wasn’t very clear—and for a very good reason, I suspect.’

  They were in the small corridor outside the parlour he and Kirstin had found earlier. Cameron came to a halt in front of the door, gazing coolly down at his captive. ‘Whatever it is you suspect, you’re about to find that you’re well off the mark.’ He rarely had need to use this tone to any of his crew, but when he did, it never failed him.

  It did not fail him now. Griffiths turned chalk white and began to shake. ‘What...?’

  ‘If you co-operate, there will be no harm done.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Best to co-operate,’ Cameron said, throwing open the door.

  It was a small room, chilly, the grate empty, the only light coming from a candelabra set on a marquetry table. Kirstin stood in the shadow. Cameron closed the door behind the pair of them and let go his hold on Griffiths, but the man had no sooner realised he could run than Kirstin stepped forward and his jaw dropped.

  ‘You!’

  Kirstin indicated one of two chairs set out at the little table. ‘Sit down, Mr Griffiths.’

  As Griffiths did as he was bade, and Kirstin took the chair opposite, Cameron retired to lean the weight of his shoulders against the door, partly to ensure they were not disturbed, and partly to give Griffiths the illusion of intimacy. Until they’d had him captive here Cameron had not permitted himself to reckon their chances of success, but now, his heart thudding, seeing the profound effect Kirstin’s mere presence elicited, he began to hope.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Griffiths was staring at Kirstin as if he had seen a ghost.

  Her smile was the sort which could make the blood seem to freeze in the veins. ‘I came to see you. You do not need me to remind you that you are very much in my debt, I take it?’

  There was not a trace of bravado left in the man. Casting a frightened look over his shoulder at Cameron, he simply shook his head.

  ‘Nor do you need me to tell you that one word from me in Lady Crieff’s ear will put an end to any pretensions you have to her daughter’s hand.’

  ‘No. Please, madam—’

  ‘There is a club,’ Kirstin interrupted. ‘A gentlemen’s club which specialises in deflowering virgins. You know of it.’

  A statement, not a question. Kirstin waited. Her face was completely impassive but there was a hardness in her eyes that Cameron had not seen before. She had glossed over the details of The Procurer’s methods when telling her stories, and he had been too caught up in her revelations to consider the lengths she must have gone to in order to succeed. Now he saw very clearly how ruthless she could be.

  There was a sheen of sweat on Griffiths’s brow by the time he had decided to answer. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. ‘The Erotes Club. Men from the highest echelons.’ Griffiths swallowed audibly. ‘Some of the most powerful men in the land.’

  ‘And why do these powerful men require virgins?’

  ‘They represent Diana. The most powerful virgin. The ritual celebrates a demonstration of power.’

  ‘By men over women. You mean they are violated? It strikes me as a flimsy pretence to allow jaded degenerates to indulge in depravity.’

  Griffiths, his head sunk onto his chest, nodded. ‘I’m not a member.’

  ‘You hardly qualify,’ Kirstin said disdainfully. ‘Where do they keep the girls?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where do they keep their victims, Mr Griffiths?’

  ‘I don’t know. I...’

  ‘For a diplomat, you
are a singularly unconvincing liar. Listen carefully to me,’ Kirstin hissed. ‘There is a young lady, about the same age as Lady Beatrice, being held by these men. Like Lady Beatrice, this young lady is an innocent in every way, and I venture, like Lady Beatrice, she has only a very vague notion of what to expect on her marriage night. As you sit here prevaricating, she is hidden away in some attic or cellar, terrified. Imagine, if you can, your intended bride in the same situation. I do not ask you to save her from her fate. I ask only that you give me the information to allow me to do so.’

  Seeing Griffiths glance over his shoulder at Cameron, Kirstin gave a brittle little laugh. ‘And let me assure you,’ she said, ‘that whatever fate the Laird over there has threatened you with will only be the first painful step in your fall from grace.’

  ‘If I tell you, do you promise never to come near me again? Never to ask, never to mention...’

  ‘Yes, to all those things.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust your word?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that, Mr Griffiths. I am The Procurer, and there is no one more trustworthy in the whole of London. Unless I am crossed.’

  Chapter Ten

  In order to avoid any further encounter with their inquisitive hostess, they slipped out via a side door which opened onto the mews, completing the short distance back to their hotel on foot. It was almost two in the morning, but Kirstin was wide awake and so too was Cameron, judging by the alacrity with which he accepted her suggestion that they have a nightcap.

  Shivering, for she had left her cloak behind, she crouched by the fire, coaxing the embers into life, sinking onto the rug with her back against a chair, watching as he discarded various bits of his Highland outfit with some relief until he wore only his shirt, cravat, kilt and stockings. She unfastened her own sash and put it on the chair behind her.

  Cameron seated himself on the hearthrug beside her, handing her a glass of sherry. ‘I have no idea what you have on Griffiths, but you scared the living daylights out of him. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you.’