Hamish hesitated. Something about the man was disconcerting, yet it appeared that the thief had not confined her crimes to Lucy’s hat and that this gentleman had obviously been swindled too. So, he nodded and replied, “She is,” before continuing towards the main thoroughfare where he could see the open carriage in the distance parked by the side of the road, and Lucy anxiously scanning the street.
Her face broke into a smile when he held up the bonnet, and she called out gaily as he drew closer, “Since you were gone, I’ve decided it’s my favourite bonnet. Thank you for rescuing it for me, Hamish. I hope the little thief who took it rots in gaol.”
Hamish remembered the look on the face of the gentleman he’d passed near Madame Chambon’s and felt a frisson of foreboding. “I think she’s about to get her reckoning,” he said as he climbed in beside Lucy, casting her an admiring look as she tied the bow beneath her chin. “And you look the picture of spring beneath all those blooms. Don’t be too harsh on the poor creature who snatched it. No doubt she’d never seen anything half as grand, and it was poverty and desperation, rather than greed, that motivated her.”
“Now you sound just like those prosing old reformers you do love to feature in Papa’s improving periodical,” Lucy said with a sigh. “If some of them had their way, I’d find her serving me tea as some sort of dangerous social experiment instead of where she should be—breaking stones or whatever it is prisoners do to pay for their crimes.”
Hamish looked at her with amusement as he picked up the reins.
“Men break stones; women work in the laundry. My, Lucy, you don’t believe in leniency for wrongdoing, do you? You’re more like Papa than you’d care to admit.”
Lucy flashed him a warning look. “Unlike Papa, I am of a forgiving temperament when a wrongdoer has proper justification for their crimes. But that creature who stole my bonnet was from the gutter, and clearly meant to gain some ill-gotten coins for her crime by selling it afterwards. If she’d wanted my bonnet because she admired it and harboured romantic dreams of wearing it in public, I might have felt differently. But did you see her, Hamish? She was perfectly hideous. Filthy and skin and bone. Far too sunk in poverty and, no doubt, vice and dissipation, to have any hope of being redeemed. Housing her in a prison, I suspect, would be doing her a kindness.”
Chapter 4
When Lily finally found her tongue, after the gentleman had left bearing the stolen bonnet, she glanced up into the implacable, uncompromising face of the fiery-headed woman still gripping her arm and asked, sullenly, “Why didn’t you just let him hand me over to the police as he wanted?”
The woman hustled her along the corridor and pushed her into what appeared to be her office, closing the door behind them. “Did you really think he was going to hand you over, my girl? Maybe he really was the moral arbiter he claimed. Then again, maybe he wasn’t.” Dropping her hand, she contemplated Lily from top to toe. Her nostrils quivered. “What’s your story? You look like a guttersnipe and speak like a duchess.”
Her words were cut short by the reappearance of the young woman who’d admitted Lily.
“Yes, Celeste?”
“Madame, there’s another gentleman here.” She looked askance at Lily, who felt the great gulf between them like she never had before; not even when she had been the baronet’s wife, feted for her beauty, and a rival had stepped into her orbit. For this was a working girl. A woman who traded her body for money. Lily had never been so close to a prostitute, having only come to London once many years before.
“He says he’s looking for the girl who stole the bonnet.”
Lily froze. Mr Montpelier had found her?
“Stay!” Madame Chambon was too quick as Lily tried to evade her painful, grasping fingers. The older woman pressed her face close. “You’re very popular, aren’t you, young lady? What have you been up to now, then? Not just bonnet-snatching, it would appear. I won’t have a runaway risking the fine reputation for law abiding that I’ve built up. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Effectively imprisoned, Lily glanced down at her boots to avoid having to dwell on the satisfaction and contempt she saw in Mr Montpelier’s expression as he stood upon the threshold. But as she looked up and saw her abductor, top hat in his hands, regarding Lily like she supposed a tiger would regard a pheasant, or whatever it was tigers preyed upon, she knew she was vanquished.
“Apologies to trouble you, Madame Chambon, but this young personage and I have unfinished business.” He bowed. “Allow me to relieve you of her charge. To be sure, I’m very grateful to you for detaining her.”
But Madame was not about to relinquish Lily so readily. Lily’s refined accents had obviously whipped up her curiosity, and Lily knew Madame was the kind of woman who’d exploit any advantage. Clearly, she saw one in Lily and this gentleman’s desire to have her.
“What, did she steal from you too, sir?” Madame asked. “Shall I summon a constable?”
“She belongs to me, Madame. She is not a thief. No need to call in the law.”
Although Mr Montpelier said it with an air of casual disregard, Lily sensed what Madame too, must have sensed—that he was trying too hard to appear unconcerned at the mention of the law. And since he’d evinced a plan not half an hour since which implicated Lily in something so unthinkable, she didn’t wonder at it.
“I won’t go with him!” she said suddenly, readying herself for flight. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me stay here.”
Mr Montpelier looked down his bony nose at her with dislike. Madame looked out of her folds of smug complacence with interest.
“My, my, but the little baggage does know how to ape her betters to an impressive degree.” The woman who held her patted her head. “And just who might you be impersonating so prettily. Lady Astor? Lady Vanderbilt?” She pinched Lily’s arm, causing her to cry out in pain before she went on, “Pity you look so like a guttersnipe or a waif from Seven Dials, otherwise the gentlemen might indeed be flocking to try out the wares of such a fine society dame if she had but her voice to recommend you.” The woman tugged on Lily’s arm as she looked at Mr Montpelier. “You’ll have to feed her up if you’re to reap the rewards of her refinement.” She spoke the words with careless disdain, but Lily didn’t miss the thoughtful look that crossed Mr Montpelier’s face.
“She’s not worth much to me, skin and bone,” he agreed. He ran a hand through his oily locks. “Truth to tell, I hadn’t factored in just how unattractive a woman is who lacks nourishment. This young woman owes me a debt, you know, but I don’t wish for the trouble of her keeping her incarcerated for the time it takes to…groom her sufficiently for her to repay it.” His eyes darted about the room, resting a moment on the portrait of the queen, sliding over the various doors and curtains to secret rooms and closets. “Perhaps, Madame, you and I could discuss a little business that might be to our mutual benefit?”
Madame clapped her hands. “Celeste?”
The tall, beautiful brunette who was obviously awaiting orders on the other side of the curtain reappeared.
“Take this young person somewhere secure while I make a few arrangements.” Madame smiled at Mr Montpelier, who Lily observed, smiled back for the first time. The effect was not comforting. The relaxation of his facial features merely emphasised the hardness of his eyes.
“Come to my office, Mr Montpelier. Celeste, entertain our unexpected young guest while I’m gone. I’m sure we both want to know a little more about her.”
* * *
So, she was to be a prisoner after all.
Lily closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall of the small withdrawing room to which she’d been led.
The young woman who had led her there—Celeste—seemed to regard the duty as rather tiresome, for she sighed in irritation as she wandered to the window and looked out over the small garden.
“You’ve certainly caused a great deal of trouble today,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she suddenly burst ou
t in mimicry, adding in jaded tones, “Where did you perfect such a perfectly plaintive little speech. Well…” She sighed. “It won’t work on Madame. She sees through everyone who comes to work here and—”
“I am not coming to work here!”
Celeste cast a surprised look over her shoulder. “Goodness, you really have perfected the talk. I thought you had only a couple of lines. Go on, tell me where you’re from.”
Lily stared. What could she say? I’m Lady Bradden? A glance at her emaciated form and her shabby clothing was enough to remind her that the truth was both beyond belief and dangerous. And even if she were convincing enough as to her real identity, the moment someone from her husband’s circles got wind of the possibility she’d absconded from her maison of the insane in Brussels, then her freedom would be at an end.
“I’m not from the gutter even if I look it,” she muttered.
“Good lord, you’re very good,” Celeste said admiringly. “I, too, have had a spectacular fall in circumstance, but I grew up speaking like this. You must surely have learned from imitation? Your employer, perhaps? Or were you on the stage?”
Lily was saved from answering by the voices of Madame and Mr Montpelier, though he was not by her side when Madame opened the door.
“It has been arranged,” she said, beckoning to Lily. “Come, my new protégé. Mr Montpelier has provided me with a small stipend to go towards improving your appearance and prospects. He shall return in a month to collect you.” Madame put her head on one side and sent Lily another thoughtful look. “That is, unless you decide you’d prefer to stay here, after all.”
Chapter 5
Hamish removed his bowler and was shrugging out of his dark woollen coat when he glimpsed the photographs that littered his desk.
One in particular struck a note, and he froze, wondering if his mind was playing tricks.
Then, slowly, he finished removing his outerwear and settled himself in his chair.
The previous edition of the periodical of which he was editor, The Family’s Guide to Manners & Morals, had included three photographs taken by a talented street urchin turned photographer named Archie Benedict. Several society matrons had edged out the whiskered men of the church that had hitherto been the usual pictorial fare, of what had begun as a monthly newssheet established by Hamish’s father before it had become one of the country’s greatest treatises on exemplary behaviour. For all classes of society.
The response from the magazine’s readership at Hamish’s attempt to lighten the tone in the last issue had been mixed.
Now, Hamish drew the first photograph that lay on his desk towards himself. It featured a dark-haired beauty in a fashionable polonaise, draped over the arm of a high-profile minister in Disraeli’s government.
Hamish swallowed, blinked, and then brought the photograph up to the light.
It was the woman he’d met briefly at Madame Chambon’s.
Celeste.
He did not know her by any other name, but the curve of her swan-like neck, the swell of her bosom, the brightness of her eyes, and the glossy curls of her hair set her apart from other beauties.
Or was it the challenging twist to her lush mouth? Few society women looked at anyone like that. And no woman pictured in Manners & Morals had ever looked like that.
Hamish felt an uncomfortable stirring of his loins as he studied the pair.
Lord Carruthers was a married man; his wife was the daughter of the Earl of Clunes. There was not a chance in Hades that Hamish could publish the photograph, and he wondered if Benedict knew the potential for cashing in on a large blackmail payment if he showed this to Lord Carruthers, who, clearly, had not known he was being photographed.
He put it to one side. Hamish was not in the blackmail business, but as he was the photograph’s custodian for the moment, he had a moral imperative to ensure it never saw the light of day.
The next couple of photographs were posed social gatherings. The Derby, tea at the Dorchester. Fashionable men and women. Benedict would shop these around until he found a buyer. Probably some ladies’ journal.
The next photograph once again featured Celeste, but this time in company with a delicately featured golden-haired woman. One so dark, the other so fair. The composition set the pair off to perfection. Both sat on a love seat staring into the distance, as if they had no idea their likenesses were being so carefully committed to posterity. In fact, Hamish suspected they did not know, for there was no trace of self-consciousness or suggestion of careful posing. They were in a room where the background was a blur of movement, suggestive of couples dancing. He brought the photograph closer towards the light and stared at it for much longer than a busy man with no interest in these kinds of women ought to, he knew.
He’d thought Celeste beautiful, but her brazen, lush beauty seemed to pale in comparison with the fragile perfection of her companion. He felt his mouth go dry, the blood fizz near the surface of his skin, and was surprised at such a visceral reaction. He was often in the company of beautiful women who had no effect on him.
And he was not a man who forgot his scruples the moment temptation came knocking.
Finally, there was one photograph left. It was less well developed than the others, and not of sufficient quality to make it into a publication so that he might have discarded it if the woman had not again caught his eye.
This time the awareness that roared through him was magnified.
It wasn’t just that it was beautiful, immoral Celeste.
It was that she was draped across a man Hamish knew to be a Russian diplomat with suspected criminal connections. A man who certainly should not be seen in the company of a woman who consorted with government ministers. Namely, Lord Carruthers.
Warily, he withdrew the first hidden picture of Celeste, and lined it up next to the second. Frowning over both of them, his brain whirled with the ramifications.
A British Cabinet Minister and a suspected Russian spy. Each consorting with the same woman. A prostitute. Possibly both sleeping with her, given her line of work.
He wasn’t aware of the faint rap upon the door, or the protest of hinges and the fact he was no longer alone until the cheery, “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” made him jump.
Dumping a leather bag of photographic equipment at his feet, Benedict glanced from Hamish’s face to that of the dark-haired young woman in the photograph.
“Where did you take these?” Hamish asked.
“At Madame Plumb’s Dancin’ Rooms.” Then, deducing that Hamish had no idea who Madame Plumb was, Benedict went on in his thick cockney accent, “’Tis the salon where the Fair Cyprians go ter dance an’ cast their nets. The place ter find beautiful women.”
“Did you take them on the same night?”
Benedict shook his head. “Takes a fair bit o’ time an’ work ter get a good photograph when the subject don’t know ’bout it.”
“Only a true artist could achieve something like this.” Hamish picked up the photographic plate of the two beauties, dark and blonde, while Benedict puffed up his chest making an impressive show of his barely five feet tall stature as he responded proudly, “The past belonged ter the painter. The future belongs ter the man who can use a camera like an artist.” Grinning his sly, broken-toothed smile, he indicated the cumbersome equipment at his feet. “Gettin’ easier an’ quicker all the time ter set this gear up, though. An’ ain’t the brunette beyond description?”
“I’m rather partial to the blonde,” Hamish said without thinking as he perused the photograph once again. He glanced at Benedict, who muttered, “I reckon I oughtn’t tell that ter yer ol’ man. Glad yer are takin’ the magazine in anuvver direction so I can sell yer more o’ me wares.”
Hamish considered his response. He was tinkering with the pictorial content only. The readership was loyal, and his father would not sanction changes. But Benedict was valuable to him, and he couldn’t afford not to see what he had to sell in the future if the Cockney thought Ha
mish remained interested only in whiskered churchmen.
He especially wanted to keep an eye on Celeste in case future actions on her part should have political ramifications, considering a fair proportion of his magazine’s upstanding readership was indeed government ministers and their families.
“So, yer goin’ ter take all o’ ’em?” Benedict asked, making a sweeping motion over the photographs.
Hamish pulled out his fob watch and consulted the time, saying distractedly, “What do you think, Benedict? I have room for three, but I want to take these, also.” He drew across the three pictures that contained Celeste, in addition to the dreary-looking personages he meant to publish.
“Wot do yer want wiv ’em if yer don’t mean ter publish ’em?”
“I may include them in a later edition.”
“Reckon yer jest sayin’ that.”
Benedict wasn’t stupid. Of course Manners & Morals would not publish a photograph of women like these. “They don’t come cheap.”
“Doesn’t matter. I still want to buy them.”
Benedict sent him an uncertain look. “Yer said yer liked the blonde. ’Tis the brunette who’s in all three.”
“I like both.” Hamish wondered what he could say that would not arouse suspicion of his motives. He did not want the picture of Celeste to make it into any rival publication. Or to find its way to Lord Carruthers. Perhaps if Benedict thought the interest was personal, he would think no more of it. So, he asked, “Do you know where I might make her acquaintance?” in the hope of putting him off the scent.
Benedict stuck his thumbs in his suspenders and rocked on the balls of his broken boots and grinned. “Nevva ’fought I’d ’ear yer ask me a question like that, guv? But I reckon I’s jest the man ter show yer ter places the readers o’ Morals & Manners would curl up their little toes an’ die jest ter know they existed.”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 3