Mrs Eustace’s admiration was replaced by disappointment as she said with a sigh, “Alas, such skill must command a higher remuneration than I am able to pay, but perhaps you may advise me on a related matter. You see,” she went on quickly, “I am looking for a photographer to capture a very important—you might even say, critical—event that,” she lowered her voice, “involves possibly drawing out a murderer. It’s what I came here to talk to Mr McTavish about.”
“Mrs Eustace, I really don’t believe that is what brought you here since you surely must know that I recently declined Mrs Moore, herself, when she put to me this same request,” Hamish interrupted, directing a quelling look at Archie, who appeared dangerously on the verge of crumpling to his knees and offering his services for free as he kissed the hem of the lady’s skirts. “And in fact, Mr Benedict was just on his way out.”
She smiled brightly. “You’re right; it was not what brought me here. I was, in fact, going to put an advertisement in the Wanted column.”
“You can do that with the clerk downstairs.”
“Yes, for a lady’s maid and for a photographer,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken, smiling instead, at Archie. “I have a lady photographer who has offered me her services—”
“Lor’ ma’am, but I don’t reckon no lady photographer is up ter the skill level o’ wot I can offer,” said Archie, staring at her as if he were still mesmerised. Then, more eagerly, “An’ fer jobs that are in the public interest, I can offer yer me rock-bottom rate.”
“Could you? How kind, sir.” She turned to Hamish. “And if the event does prove to be of such great interest to the public, perhaps you could reconsider and publish the article in your newspaper, Mr McTavish.”
Archie sent Hamish a scathing look. “Reckon ‘e might be talked round, ma’am. Our esteemed publisher don’t fink that murder is related ter morals so therefore not wivvin the scope o’—”
“That is not what I said, Archie—”
“Anyways, ’e needs ter make money like the rest o’ us. An’ if ’e don’t publish the biggest news o’ wot’s happenin’ in the supernatural world, then some’un else will.”
“I publish periodicals to educate, not to titillate,” Hamish said. He felt like saying a lot more and in a tone far less measured than the one he’d used; however, it was important that Mrs Eustace understand he was a man who did not easily let go of his passions or his principles.
“Fact an’ fiction are summat one an’ the same when the world sees it their way,” Archie said cheerfully. “Yer may see it as yer job ter educate, but the public won’t choose ter be educated by yer if yer don’t serve ’em up anyfink ter titillate. A fine balance is what ’tis, eh?” He jabbed an elbow in Mrs Eustace’s direction. “Put a beauty like ’er on the front page an’ the world will take notice an’ then suddenly yer’ll be makin’ all the money yer need ter throw yer focus where yer wants it ter be—educatin’. But yer got ter get the money ter do that, first.”
Mrs Eustace blinked and pressed her pretty lips together. “I think I’d be just as happy not to have my photograph on the front of any newspaper, or anywhere else, thank you. No lady wants to be recognised in such a public way, Mr Benedict.” She nodded at Hamish. “But I thought, perhaps, a photograph of the medium, Mrs Moore, and her crystal ball, and perhaps some words to explain the desire of the bereaved widow to bring her husband’s murderer to justice, or even to find her husband’s body.” She hesitated. “And, even more importantly, a photograph of the audience for it may be that the murderer was unable to resist attending?”
“Yer an intelligent woman wiv a mind afta me own,” said Archie. “That poor man, a rich industrialist...vanished inter thin air.” He clicked his fingers and looked at Hamish. “Bringin’ a murderer ter justice must be the greatest duty o’ a God-fearin’ society. Don’t yer reckon, guvnor? A moral duty it’d be to do everyfink possible ter apprehend a heinous perpetrator o’ bloodcurdling crimes.”
Hamish had a hard time refraining from rolling his eyes. “When nothing was found beyond a few bloodstains, which may not even have been those of Mr Renquist, the police concluded that it was just as likely that he disappeared because he wanted to.”
“Or not,” Archie said darkly. “Did I ever tell yer that me lady friend wot works at a certain ’igh class ’stablishment that yer know, ter, Mr McTavish…” He sent Hamish a meaningful look before raking Mrs Eustace with knowing eyes, “whose name is Gracie, reckons this person o’ interest, Mr Renquist, were well known ter ’er mistress.”
“You did not, Archie. No doubt there was nothing to it, either.” Hamish wanted to shut down this avenue of discussion very quickly. Of course, Archie knew very well by now that Mrs Eustace was the blonde beauty who had captivated him, and whom he’d photographed at Madame Plumb’s, and whom Hamish may have visited on business at Madame Chambon’s. Who knew what conclusions he’d drawn as to why she was visiting his office now? Not that it wasn’t all rather a shock to Hamish too.
And he could not be dispassionate about the fact she was standing so close to him, either. The truth was, her very nearness was having a very real and uncomfortable effect on him, which he sincerely hoped was not noticeable to anyone else.
Fortunately, there was none of the tawdry in Mrs Eustace’s neat, fashionable appearance that suggested she was a woman of dubious moral character, which could have had serious ramifications for himself and his publication. Not to mention what his father might have done had word come to his ears that his son had been brazenly visited by a barque of frailty in his office in the middle of the day.
Or, any time. Hamish was well aware that Mr Miniver, one of his clerks, regularly gave a thorough accounting to Hamish’s father whenever his suspicions were aroused that Hamish might be considering decisions that ran counter to the old man’s.
“I think that’s all, Mr Benedict,” Hamish said firmly, taking a few steps forward as he tried, physically, to edge Archie from his office. Archie was trying to milk this for all it was worth.
As to what Hamish would do with Mrs Eustace, his first thought was that he’d like to offer to walk her home. But he immediately recognised both the danger and the folly of such a desire, and wondered how such a notion could have entered his head.
Archie stood his ground, moving slightly round the table to be closer to Mrs Eustace, to whom he now showed off his shutter box proudly. “Reckon a few photographs wiv this instrument o’ magic could go a long way, an’ me Gracie said the same fing, though at the time the constabulary weren’t askin’ ’er or Miss Celeste anyfink an’, yer know, Madame Chambon don’t like the police, so she said there’d be a ruckus if they blabbled like canaries ’bout wot might a’ gone on.”
Hamish felt a wave of something quite near to panic as he glanced at Mrs Eustace. What would she make of this? Archie’s reference to Madame Chambon’s was too close to the bone. Would she imagine Hamish had spoken slightingly of the women at Madame Chambon’s? Of her? That he’d revealed a past she clearly would want kept secret?
He wanted to refute any suggestion but instead said softly, “I think you’ve said enough, Archie. Please leave so that I may see what else I can do to assist Mrs Eustace. I’m happy to take instruction on what you would like printed in the Wanted column, rather than sending you to Mr Miniver. Please, Mrs Eustace, take a seat.”
He sat opposite her, the wide desk taking up too much space.
And not enough. For one moment of madness, he felt like locking the door and reaching for her hand.
A faint furrow creased her forehead, and he said reassuringly, “Archie knows only what he deduced from taking a photograph of you at Madam Plumb’s. You should know that…in case it puts you in a difficult position.”
She put her hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened in real fear. “There is a photograph of me? In the public domain? Oh, please, no! Celeste simply took me to some dancing rooms. I had no idea it was frequented by,” she dropped her eyes, and he was astonished to
see deep colour flood her face as she added, “prostitutes.”
He might have made some dry rejoinder, but he didn’t. The truth was, he simply didn’t know what to make of her.
She went on, “I know the photographer took some photographs at Mrs Bennet’s séance and that Mr Elkington posed, but I do not recall having been included in anything that might fall into the hands of the public.”
Leaning forwards, he asked gently, “Why are you here, Mrs Eustace?”
Her gloved hands, he noticed, trembled as she fixed her beautiful, frightened eyes upon his and said, “I was instructed to do what I could to get some public attention for the séance.” She swallowed. “After Mrs Moore failed, that is.”
He nodded. Good lord, each time he saw this woman the effect on him was more severe.
“There’s a reward, you see.” She leaned slightly forwards so that he felt his heart hitch as she said faintly, “It would please me so much if you considered an article for your newspaper, Mr McTavish.”
Hamish regarded her steadily. He wished he could say yes, but his father would be vehemently opposed; he was certain of it. The old man’s religion took a dim view of those who dabbled in the supernatural.
In the tense silence, he tried to formulate the right response. She was an enigma, a woman of loose morals he had to infer from her tenure at Madame Chambon’s. A thief from the gutter, he had to assume after she’d stolen Lucy’s hat.
But she was also a fascinating enigma. Clearly, she was so much more than all the things he knew her to be.
Of course, he shouldn’t care when there could be absolutely nothing between them. But he hated the fact she thought him a buttoned-up prig beholden to his father. Still, it was a defence against the attraction he felt. Resisting the temptation to reach out and clasp her hand, and touch his lips to the soft, smooth skin on the underside of her impossibly dainty wrist was hurting his head.
“Sir Lionel to see you, Mr McTavish.”
Startled, Hamish glanced up, quickly drawing back his hand as he pushed back his chair. “Thank you, Miniver.”
The spell was broken. She stood up, and he rose with her, putting out his hand, nodding as she asked, “You’ll think about it, Mr McAlister?”
“I will, but I doubt the editorial board will sanction it?”
“Aren’t you the editorial board?”
He smiled, dropping her hand which he realised he’d retained too long, using brusqueness to cover his embarrassment as he said, simply, “Good day, Mrs Eustace. Mr Miniver, will you please escort my visitor downstairs.”
Chapter 13
Lily glanced up at the sun and considered her next movements. There was one important visit she had to make before dusk, occasioned by her informative, disconcerting visit to the offices of McTavish & Son.
Informative, of course, because of how much about her the photographer actually knew, as well as his revelation that Celeste had known the murder victim. Mr Renquist’s death had occurred just before Lily had been taken in by Madame Chambon, yet Celeste had not mentioned the man’s name, nor had any of the other girls.
Had they been warned against doing so on account of Madame’s aversion to the police? Hardly surprising in view of the illegal business she ran.
What had been particularly disconcerting was that Mr McTavish’s inability to hide his attraction to Lily had resulted in a quite inconvenient response on her part.
Just thinking about it made her stop in the middle of the pavement as she walked the city streets to take a sustaining draught of air to clear her head. Mr McTavish was really quite lovely. When he’d stopped playing the part of the insufferable prig, he’d looked with such kindness and compassion into her eyes as he’d explained why he couldn’t accede to her request, that it was as if the gauze curtain between them had been lifted, and she realised how matters stood—Mr McTavish had to answer to his father.
Only, he didn’t want to be diminished in the eyes of the photographer by admitting it.
He’d nearly reached out his hand to take hers across the desk. And she’d nearly extended hers when he’d lacked courage.
Her heart hitched. Mr McTavish was an interesting young man with more layers and depth than she’d given him credit, but, understandably, he didn’t know what to make of her, and he was afraid of showing his feelings when he feared she was the very worst type of woman.
She tucked her reticule more firmly under her arm and continued to walk, this time with greater resolve. The sooner she could earn herself a handsome payment for doing what she was currently doing for no more than board and keep, the sooner she could escape from her domestic nightmare and return as the type of woman an upstanding young man like Mr McTavish would honour and revere.
There was no fact around it. She liked him very much indeed. And when Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had no more use for her, what would she do then? How would she survive? It was a practical consideration.
She needed a protector and Mr McTavish might just answer. After all, Teddy had clearly not received her letter. Perhaps he’d left the country.
“Divorce scandal rocks the aristocracy!” The cheerful shout of a street urchin selling newspapers on the next corner was like being doused with iced water. Of course, it was not the first time Lily had heard about the trials and tribulations of Lord and Lady Dewberry, whose unhappy marriage had been gossip fodder for at least the past two months.
But it was a brutal reminder of the uncertainty of Lily’s future.
Bigamist and the beauty! Divorce and Destitution. These were some of the headlines bandied about lately, reminding her that the lower orders had a ghoulish fascination with the domestic affairs of the aristocracy when privileged lives tipped into public disorder.
Not that Lily had been born into the nobility. Her father had been a mere baronet. Landed gentry, not aristocracy. But he’d been rich, and her dowry had been the enticement for Sir Robert, who, while not a gambler or a spendthrift, needed funds.
For his lover, she reflected bitterly.
Not that she’d known he’d had a lover when she’d married him. Her father had told her nothing other than that she’d been admired, and that an advantageous offer would be made if she conducted herself appropriately during Sir Robert’s visit.
How Lily had striven to impress both her father—whom she hadn’t seen for three years—and Sir Robert, who had appeared charmed by her.
She’d felt so proud when her papa had announced over breakfast the day before she was to return home to her aunt that Sir Robert had indeed requested his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Lily had done everything she could to please her father. Of course, she’d accepted him.
“Can ’e forgive ’er?”
There was another one. Another newspaper seller shouting to the world the private pain of a poor misunderstood wife.
Lily had no doubt that it was the husband’s side of the story that garnered public sympathy. He had the money and the power.
Like Robert had after he’d married her.
As a young newlywed with no experience of men, Lily had recognised that being the good wife Robert expected meant being agreeable, both at the breakfast table and in bed. Her aunt had told her nothing about what to expect after marriage, though Lily had had it drummed into her that obedience was a woman’s greatest virtue. So, it stood to reason that if Lily did nothing else, she must be obedient, even if she hated the painful prodding and pushing that Robert inflicted on her each night while his moist breath panted hotly in her ear.
But it was hard to be accepting and obedient and bite her tongue when Lily knew that Robert kept a mistress: Lady Majors, the squire’s wife who came to dinner once a week with her husband, and who had shown Lily such kindness and helped Lily prepare herself for her wedding after her aunt had fallen ill.
It had taken years before the truth was irrefutable—no matter how hard Lily tried, she could never make Robert love her.
Robert partook of his Welsh rarebi
t at breakfast with as much emotion as he showed when exercising his conjugal rights. Lily was simply another commodity laid on for him. Not for his pleasure, but for his needs, his convenience, and the assumption she’d bear him a son. Or a child, at least.
When, with four years of marriage under her still youthful belt, she’d tearfully declared that Robert could find her kissing the boot boy, and he’d not be jealous, he’d just shrugged his shoulders and agreed, not even looking at her as he’d stolidly crunched through a piece of bacon.
Lily could hear the sound of dead pig all these years later whenever she thought back to that moment. The crunch of doomed hopes that became the squeal of despair for a potential eternity.
Perhaps that was when the madness had come upon her.
Dr Swithins had been called for that afternoon, and, despite the fact he’d been Robert’s personal physician for some years, Lily had, for the first time, become aware of him as a man. Several years under forty, he was unmarried, handsome, and athletic.
And the remedy he’d used to treat Lily for her hysteria had transported her into a world of hitherto unknown sensual delights.
Right under Robert’s nose, Lily and Teddy had become lovers.
Robert had known, but he’d said nothing. No, Robert would not have cared one jot if Lily had had ten lovers.
She stopped as she reached her destination, careful that her veil was down, and that she went by the side entrance.
“Ma’am, it’s right good ter see yer again,” declared Gracie as she let Lily into the large red-brick house and led her through to the parlour. Gracie had become a faithful ally to Lily during her tenure at Madame Chambon’s. “I’ll wake Celeste, if she ain’t already up,” she assured her when Lily had stated her request. “It’s past time she were up, anyways.”
A few minutes later, the invitation came for Lily to make her way to the young woman’s bedchamber, which it appeared she had to herself these days. Celeste had thoroughly disliked sharing with Lily; she’d made that clear enough.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 9