“Good man.”
Benedict was from the gutter, and proud of it. With a loose tongue and ready to swim wherever the tide would take him, Benedict was like a water rat, a survivor; the kind of man who might one day prove valuable, for he knew how to infiltrate the palaces of the rich via their underground servant’s corridors, and learn the business of those upstairs, just as well as he knew the rookeries of the poor.
“In fact, I could take yer ter meet this young lady ternight, if yer desire.”
“The brunette or the blonde?”
“Both. But women like this don’t come cheap. Like me photographs.” He laughed in response to the twitch of Hamish’s nostrils. “I weren’t sure if yer took me meanin’, guv. Reckon maybe yer not so interested, now. But I’ll take yer ter Madame Chambon’s. There’s a girl there I quite fancy, meself.” When he saw the expression Hamish failed to hide in time, he let out a guffaw! “Lor’, the pleasure o’ one o’ ‘em girls would cost me a year’s wages. An’ I don’t really fink yer in the market, either,” he added shrewdly, glancing between Hamish and the women in the photograph. “No, the girl I’s interested in works as a servant there. Course, yer interest is ’bout warnin’ yer readers o’ the moral dangers o’ bein’ taken in by one o’ Madame’s girls. Easy ter get taken fer a ride if yer don’t know the dangers.” Benedict tapped the side of his nose. “That’s the story, ain’t it, guvnor?”
* * *
Hamish was careful to arrive by the discreet side entrance. Some bolder personages, or those entering or leaving in the dark, were not so concerned about being observed, but as editor of a magazine that upheld morality, Hamish was taking an enormous risk.
He also knew that his sense of integrity and honesty required him to investigate whether this woman, Celeste, might be compromising the safety of the country through her intimacy with two men with opposing agendas.
It was midafternoon as he stood in the dim entrance, blinking to accustom his eyes to the gloom. There was little sign of activity. A faint perfume permeated the air. Pleasant and sophisticated; not the rank, cloying odour he would have expected, though he remembered, of course, that he’d been surprised by the sophistication of his surroundings during his last brief visit.
When he asked to see Celeste, he was embarrassed that his request was misconstrued, though the fault lay with him, he knew.
“I wish to speak to her on a matter of business only,” he tried to clarify. But the young woman he addressed merely said patiently, “Celeste doesn’t do business at this time on a Thursday. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow, sir. However, Karolina is available. I’ll go and see if—”
“No!” he responded sharply, realising that his voice sounded too loud. “I wish to see Celeste on a matter quite different.”
He was heartily wishing he’d not come at all when another voice intruded, and he glanced up to see a golden-haired beauty. She’d paused halfway down the stairs, and as she looked into his eyes, he felt the shock of recognition like a branding. She smiled. “Perhaps I could pass on a message, sir.”
Hamish was tongue-tied. It was rare that he truly could not find the right response. She was even more beautiful and poised than she’d appeared in the photograph that had crossed his desk earlier that day.
The sunlight behind her burnished her golden ringlets and made her milky skin glow like sun-kissed rose petals. Her teeth were white and pretty, and she carried herself like a duchess, not a woman from the gutter, or a fallen angel, or anything else that was rotten on the inside and eaten up with vice and sin, which he knew she would have to be if she worked here.
She put her head on one side to regard him with faint amusement. “What is it, sir? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Or have we met in another life? There are plenty of gentlemen who like to say that.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he floundered. “I…I thought I recognised you.”
For, although Hamish recognised her from the photograph in his satchel, as she took another step into the light, the faint tug of memory had him floundering even more.
In the flesh, the sense of having seen her before was even stronger than what he’d felt just looking at the photograph.
She tilted her head, her eyes meeting his in challenge, forcing him to study and acknowledge her as she apparently felt she deserved.
Was she mistaking his identity? Did she believe him to be one of her myriad admirers? After all, she must have had many. Certainly, with a face and figure like that.
She gave a short laugh. “I hope your sister was relieved to get her bonnet back. Mind you, that shade of pink does little for my complexion, so like as not, I’d have returned it.”
Her words froze him to the spot. He blinked rapidly as his brain struggled to assimilate the bag of bones and lustreless hair and eyes of the guttersnipe who’d snatched Lucy’s bonnet, with the woman before him. But Hamish was a man of imagination who spent a good deal of time poring over photographs and studying the features of their subjects for a popular segment his father had introduced on page 7 of the magazine called Saint or Sinner?
Hamish deplored the segment, but the readers delighted in writing in to suggest why the physiognomy of a convicted felon should have proclaimed him—without need of magistrate or jury—instantly guilty.
This woman would have had his readers in raptures over her saintlike features—had she been proclaimed for her good works. Her skin was unblemished, her hair was thick and glossy and arranged in the intricate twists that were fashionable. There was an air of saintlike innocence about her that was so at odds with what he knew her to be. A thief at the very least.
By the same token, Hamish knew that if her photograph had been printed proclaiming her to be a husband-murderer, those same readers would have written in decrying the deceptiveness of the devil in fashioning their creature as a heavenly manifestation of what was, in truth, a fiend who should burn in Hell.
“Good lord!” he exclaimed! This time he really struggled to get out the words. “You!”
“Yes.” She leaned a little over the bannister, smiling artlessly at him as she said, “Though I am not in the habit of being greeted in such a cavalier fashion.”
He shook his head. It didn’t make sense. How could the beautiful, cultured woman before him be the thieving urchin he’d pursued little over a month ago? He blinked again. The girl was…astonishing.
“I see you are lost for words, Mr McTavish. Now, you are here on a matter of business, I couldn’t help overhearing. Pray, what business is that? If you’d like to follow me into the drawing room where we will be undisturbed, perhaps I can help you.”
Chapter 6
Lily led him into the reception room, which she was relieved to note, was empty of the occasional mooncalves who sometimes waited for hours to see the ladylove to whom they’d decided they’d lost their hearts.
And to whom they’d soon lose a small fortune, for the women at Madame Chambon could be afforded only by those with long purse strings.
These women lived good lives, often much better than the lives they’d lived before they’d ‘fallen’. But Lily didn’t intend to emulate them. She lived for the moment she could leave Madame Chambon’s.
In four weeks, she’d learned much about a world from which she’d been protected, both as a lady of gentility and then as an asylum inmate.
The disgust and horror of living in a den of immorality had abated, but she had made no real friends. Karolina was sweet and naïve, but the others had only an eye to the main chance. Celeste included.
The only benefit to being here was that Lily could grow strong and beautiful again. A woman’s power depended upon being strong and beautiful.
But any power Lily might have gained through regaining her health and looks would come to nothing if her circumstances were revealed.
While she would never return to the privileged position of baronet’s wife, her dreams of quiet, modest respectability would be destroyed if it became
known she’d spent any time beneath Madame Chambon’s roof.
Her affair with Teddy fell into a different category, of course. Many long-married women of her social station had discreet liaisons to which the rest of society turned a blind eye. Nor had her affair with Teddy been the primary reason for Robert banishing her to the maison in Brussels. Lily had only succumbed to Teddy’s charms in response to Robert’s liaison with Mrs Scott and years of complete indifference—or rather, contempt—from her husband.
No, Lily had been banished to the maison for quite another reason, and the fear of a return of her malady terrified her, though not once in two years had she been afflicted by the mental disorder that had provided Robert with the excuse he needed to be rid of her.
Right now, time was not on Lily’s side, she knew, having learned from an overheard conversation passed on to her by Karolina that Mr Montpelier would return in four days.
In order to plan her escape, Lily had to utilise whatever opportunity she could. And whomever she could.
“Please, take a seat, sir. Grace will bring us refreshment in a moment.” She had to do all she could to charm this man, for who else could she petition for help? Not one of the regulars who came to Madame Chambon for something entirely different. Something that Lily was not prepared to barter.
Silently he obeyed her, the confusion on his face almost amusing, except that Lily didn’t have time to waste, pandering to amusement.
The previous night, Madame had offered her a position as one of her girls. This, Madame had insisted, promised her comfort, security, and was her best opportunity for making a profitable alliance and shoring up her future. Some of Madame’s former girls had snared princes and nabobs. One had married into the aristocracy.
Madame had intimated that with Lily’s face and figure, nothing was too great a flight of fancy.
However, working as a prostitute for Madame Chambon was something Lily would never do, nor would she become Mr Montpelier’s prisoner once again.
So, pretending a composure that was far from the desperation that clawed at her insides, Lily smiled as the gentleman settled himself in a plush velvet settee while she asked pleasantly, “What brings you here, sir?” as she seated herself demurely in an armchair opposite him before a crackling fire.
Alert for signs that one of the other girls—or Madame—might overhear their conversation, she leaned in a little closer. At least Celeste was asleep. Celeste had been entertaining Lord Carruthers and was resting before she would make her appearance in another hour or so.
But if Mr McTavish had an interest that Lily could satisfy—other than through physical means, of course—he might be in a position to help her.
Unless she heard from Teddy in the next four days.
Her other avenues of hope had turned into dead-ends. There would be no succour from her aunt. No forgiveness from her husband, only more incarceration.
But Teddy had loved her. He’d rescued her from Robert once.
Surely he’d rescue her again? Once her letter reached him?
“I’m sorry we met under such inauspicious circumstances, Mr McTavish,” she added, smiling. She’d not missed the flare of admiration in his eye. The fact he was an attractive man made it easy to adopt the slight flirtatiousness she felt would best make its mark.
He shook his head, clearly bewildered. “Can it really be you? I don’t understand.” Then, after a pause, “Who are you?”
She wanted to ask him the same question. Who was he? What was his position in society? Could he help her? Would he help her? Instead, she simply shrugged and said lightly. “You wouldn’t believe me. Let’s just say I’m a widow who fell on hard times, and was at my lowest ebb when you inadvertently became the means by which I managed to…survive. I might have been fleeing from you four weeks ago, but in fact you proved my salvation. I owe you a debt of thanks, Mr McTavish.”
“Good god! Working at Madame Chambon’s is not surviving, madam. Surely I am not the only reason you are here?”
There was an intensity to his manner that was intriguing. This man was respectably middle class; she knew that. He did not mix in her circles—well, the privileged circles she’d formerly inhabited—so he did not pose so great a threat as some of the gentlemen who frequented Madame Chambon’s.
Then how might he have recognised her? A tremor of doubt ran through her. She’d seen a man taking photographs that night at Madame Plumb’s. Madame Chambon had insisted Celeste take Lily along to the popular lightskirts’ haunt; however, neither had posed for any photographs. And surely one of those cameras had to be trained upon a subject for some minutes. She’d have noticed—wouldn’t she?
Still, Lily reassured herself, she had not inhabited a social arena beyond her small provincial sphere in Norfolk, and had only been to London once as a newly-married baronet’s wife six years before. She did not fear recognition.
“Make no mistake, I have not worked here in any capacity, Mr McTavish,” she was quick to point out. “After you chased me into the first house I came upon, Madame kindly agreed to look after me for four weeks during which time I have made every effort to be reunited with my family. Alas, to no avail.” She dropped her eyes, saying, “But enough of me. What business do you have with Celeste that I may be able to help you with?”
He clasped his hands together between his knees, studying her a moment, and Lily recognised a keenness of intellect and a suppressed energy, like a coiled spring, that was faintly, disturbingly exciting.
“Celeste has certain connections that are of interest to me. I wanted to ask her about them.”
Lily laughed. “Celeste does not divulge that kind of information to anyone but…” She dropped her voice. “We share a bedchamber, you know. I am familiar with Celeste’s habits and connections. I am happy to answer your questions if they do no harm.”
Yes, Lily was happy to do anything to win Mr McTavish’s trust. If he could only help her leave this place before the next four days, and offer her some form of future employment that didn’t require her to sacrifice her scruples, it would be a start.
And the interested way he was looking at her gave her hope.
“What do you know of Lord Carruthers? Is he a regular consort of Celeste’s?”
Lily met his level look. “I know a great deal about Lord Carruthers, though I’ve never entertained him as Celeste has, as I made clear earlier.” She hesitated a long while before adding, “My late husband knew him, you know.”
He leaned back. “Really, madam?”
Lily shrugged. She could tell him every detail about her life—all true—and he’d not believe her. “Lord Carruthers is Celeste’s regular Wednesday night guest.” She smiled. “Carrots, the girls call him. Not Celeste.” She smiled. “Celeste lacks humour at times.” Lily made to rise. He was interested in what she had to tell him, but it had to be worth her while. “Madame will soon be in to remind me of the value of a lady’s time. As I said, she wants me to work for her, though I’d rather starve in the gutter.”
“Please, just one more moment of your time.” Mr McTavish dug in his jacket pocket and peeled off a note from the wad he retrieved, before he resumed his questioning once she’d sat down again with a calculated show of reluctance. “How long has she been seeing Lord Carruthers, how long does she entertain him, and who else does she entertain?” he asked, reaching forward with the money.
“You don’t look the jealous kind, Mr McTavish. But then, you did go to great lengths to please your sister so you are a man of uncommon passions, it would appear.” Lily cast a surreptitious look at the doorway as she closed her hand over the notes.
When he said nothing, she answered, “Every Wednesday for as long as I’ve been here.”
“And the Russian?”
“The snowman? I believe that’s the man you are referring to, though I am unsure of his real name. You are well informed. Mr Novichov has been coming for the past three months, I believe.” She reflected a moment, adding, “Celeste never spea
ks of politics.”
“Perhaps because she’s been cautioned not to. Why the Snowman?”
Lily looked down at the pound notes in her hand. Once, it would have been a trifle she’d have used to tip a servant following a visit to a stately home. Now it was a valuable addition to what she must set aside to fund her escape.
Though to where, she had no idea, for who would help her when she had nothing? Not even a past she could lay claim to, without revealing the truth which would put her in mortal danger.
“His bulk and his head of snowy-white hair, for all he’s handsome enough, I suppose, in his way.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t like to deal with him, but then, I wouldn’t like to deal with anyone in this house.” Surreptitiously she bent down to slip the notes into her right boot. “But let me make plain, sir; I am not a common spy,” she said. “I don’t particularly care for Celeste, but I have no reason to cause her harm.” She pondered the situation before saying frankly, “I have no affinity with any of these women, yet we must be able to trust each other if we’re to…survive.”
Mr McTavish sent her another curious look. “I asked you this before, but you told me a story I didn’t quite believe. A beautiful widow with supposed connections doesn’t inhabit a house like this, even if her husband—or late husband—you were not quite consistent there—threw her into the gutter. And you were in a…let me say it quite frankly, terrible state when you first came to this house. Now, you could be…anyone.” He scratched his jaw. “I’ll ask it again. Who, exactly, are you, Mrs…?”
Lily sighed. “I haven’t properly decided.” On the side table lay a volume by Anthony Trollope. She squinted at the title: The Eustace Diamonds. “Perhaps I shall be Mrs Eustace,” she told him. “Yes, that will do for want of anything better.”
“When you stole my sister’s bonnet, you’d fled right out of the rookeries. I saw it myself.”
“The rookeries? Why, I wouldn’t even know where they were. I’m from the country and have barely been to London. But I will tell you that the day I snatched your sister’s bonnet, I was fleeing from a man who would have me be someone I had no wish to be.” She weighed up how much to confide in him. But no, she couldn’t tell him the real truth of her past in one great rush that he’d take with no more than a grain of salt. If that.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 4