And her antipathy towards her former roommate had clearly not abated as she lolled on the bed, combing out her long dark hair, saying when Lily entered the room, “Goodness, what a surprise to see you here. Do you want me to put in a good word for you to Madame Chambon?”
“Lord, no.” Lily shivered, sinking down upon the stool at the dressing table. “I’d rather be dead than work here.”
Celeste regarded her with dislike as she put a pillow behind her head and leaned back, examining her fingernails, her knees drawn up, the skirts of her pale-blue dressing gown spilling down the side of the bed. Celeste couldn’t fail to be beautiful and exotic if she tried. She flicked a disdainful look at Lily and murmured, “All of us here would be dead if we had to live by your morals. Why did you come? To lord it over me? Tell me about some grand society marriage you’ve contracted?”
It was not a good start. Lily picked up the rabbit’s foot brush on the tabletop and leaned into the mirror, idly sweeping a touch of colour onto her cheeks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the girl’s hands were shaking as she began to drag the boar bristle brush through her long dark locks once again. There was a pallor to her skin and a dullness to her eye, both of which had seemed full of vitality the last time she’d seen her.
Celeste was never one to volunteer information and nor was she a conversationalist. After an awkward silence, Lily said, “I want to ask you about Mr Renquist.”
“Lord, that man? I haven’t the faintest idea why you’d think I know anything at all about him.” Lily did not miss the wariness in her tone.
“He was one of your gentlemen, wasn’t he?”
“Before your time. Anyway, he’s dead now.” Celeste sighed. “There was a murder investigation which came to nothing, so he probably just disappeared to escape his wife.”
“I heard that blood was found where he was last seen, which was why murder was thought possible.” Lily put down the rabbit’s paw and frowned. “Do you think his disappearance could have anything to do with any of the other gentlemen callers you entertain?”
“Good lord! Are you accusing me of something, Lily Eustace, or whatever your name is these days? Because if you are, you can just leave right now!” Angrily, Celeste lurched forward, pointing at the door.
Lily drew back, startled. “No, no! I don’t think anything. I just want to warn you that Mrs Renquist has organised a séance to commune with Mr Renquist’s spirit if he is dead, or to possibly lure someone along who might be involved in his disappearance. I thought I’d tell you in case you hadn’t heard.”
“And you’re the queen of the spirits, are you?” Celeste laughed, sounding slightly more relaxed. “I’ve heard you are drawing the crowds at Mrs Moore’s pretending to be Lord Lambton’s dead daughter. You think you’re better than I am because you’re not enticing him into your bed. At least I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
“I’m making Lord Lambton happy. And I’d like to make Mr Renquist’s widow happy.” Lily fiddled with the pots of colour on Celeste’s dressing table.” When someone told me that Mr Renquist was a frequent visitor of yours before he died, of course I wanted to ask you about it.”
“Who told you that?”
“That photographer who took our picture at Madame Plumb’s.”
Celeste dropped her brush. “What are you saying? There’s a photograph of me?” She jerked forward, her interest more aroused by the knowledge that she’d been secretly photographed rather than by the fact that her long list of male consorts was clearly public.
“Yes, a very flattering picture of you, Celeste. Mr Benedict the photographer was trying to sell it to the editor of Manners & Morals.” Lily tried not to show how much hope she was pinning on this conversation as she toyed with the pots of beauty creams on Celeste’s dressing table.
She glanced up to see Celeste’s lip curl before she grew excited once more. “Manners & Morals? Not quite their fare but, there’d be other publications interested if the photograph is, as you say, a good one.” She hugged the pillow as she leaned forward. “What did the photographer say? Did he think I looked beautiful? What is the word? Photogenic?”
“You looked beautiful, Celeste. That’s why the photographer was determined to shop it around until he got a buyer.” Lily thought quickly. She knew the extent of Celeste’s vanity. “And you see, Celeste, I think I could be persuasive enough to get a photograph printed. It would publicise the case and—”
“Who cares about publicising the case?” declared Celeste. “It would publicise me, more to the point. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to get my photograph into the newspapers.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling; her mind apparently engaged in a tremendous flight of fancy before she swivelled an intense look back at Lily. “How did you propose to persuade whoever it is you need to persuade? I presume you mean some newspaper editor?”
Lily met her look with a shrug. “I’d thought to invite him to where I lived. I think he could be susceptible to a bit of persuasion, and I wouldn’t mind doing it, you know, for he is very handsome.” A sentiment like this would surely reduce the gaping chasm between them. Celeste saw nothing wrong in selling her body for favours, whereas Lily wouldn’t do that to save her life.
But she could let Celeste think it, and hopefully Celeste would not regard her with quite so much disdain and distrust and so would volunteer more information about Mr Renquist.
“Where do you live? A life of ease in some grand mansion?”
Lily laughed. “A noisy bedsit that smells of boiled cabbage where I’m not allowed gentleman callers.”
“You really think you can get that photograph published?” Celeste had never been so animated. “I remember I was in fine form that night at Madame Plumb’s. There was a gentleman—But no matter. You say this photographer is going to photograph the séance? Can I see the picture? Of me, I mean?”
“The editor of Manners & Morals has it—”
“How do you know?”
“I visited him this afternoon. I spoke with both the photographer and the editor.”
“You did?” Celeste looked admiring. “Lily, you must persuade him to publish, or have the photographer find a smart magazine or newspaper to buy it.”
Lily nodded. “Yes, I think I can do that. I’ll ask again.” Celeste was coming round. She’d be more amenable to Lily’s next questions, Lily was sure.
“Invite him to St John’s Wood,” Celeste went on. “That’s where we girls meet gentlemen on certain occasions. Especially if we need a favour.”
“What is at St John’s Wood?” Lily frowned. A coincidence that it was the location where Mr Renquist had last been seen. Where the bloodstains had been found.
“There’s a very cosy bower there with a fine double bed and all the furnishings. A sweet little house where we girls entertain when we don’t entertain here. I’ll send Gracie over to prepare it. I’ll lend you the key. Just for an afternoon, mind. And then you can persuade whoever needs persuading to photograph me again and to publish.”
She collapsed back on her bed with a satisfied sigh, as if she’d said all that needed to be said and was now dismissing Lily.
Lily turned on the footstool. “Do you think Mr Renquist—?”
“Enough about Mr Renquist.” Celeste waved her hand languidly. “At the time, I thought him the kindest and most thoughtful of all my lovers. I truly was distraught when he stopped coming and then heard he was dead.” She gave a soft laugh and said in the most collaborative tone Lily had heard her use towards her. “You remember how the girls poked fun at me for existing on carrots and oranges? They were referring to Lord Carruthers and Mr Renquist. Fiery red-headed men, both of them. Well, if I had any choice about it, I’d dispose of Lord Carruthers tomorrow, but,” she sighed eloquently, “a girl has got to pay the bills. Now, you just see that photograph of me makes it into print in the right places, since you have so much sway with all these important men of business.” She’d begun filing her nails now, he
r attention focused on her beauty regime though there was an air of suppressed excitement about her.
Uncertainly, Lily rose. She’d spent enough time with Celeste to know the vagaries of the young woman’s mood, and that she’d do herself no favours if she persisted with her questioning.
Celeste stopped her when she’d reached the door. She pointed to a heart-shaped jewellery box on her dressing table. “You’ll find the key and the address in there,” she said. “If you can persuade your editor friend to give me some publicity in his newspaper, I might tell you a little more about Mr Renquist. Something no one else knew about him.” There was a wicked gleam in her eye, and her full pink lips were pursed with promise. Or amusement. “I think you might be interested.”
Lily opened the door to find Gracie raising her arm about to knock. Her eyes were dark, and her lips pressed together. She didn’t look nearly as cheerful as she had when she’d greeted Lily.
“The scary Russian is back,” she whispered, before raising her voice to say, obviously for the benefit of the visitor downstairs, “Miss Celeste, your esteemed visitor Mr Novichov awaits your pleasure.”
For when Lily passed by the parlour, the barrel-chested, white-haired gentleman who’d visited Celeste every Thursday while Lily had been resident at Madame Chambon’s, was looming in the doorway to the parlour as he waited for her to pass.
“You’re back, Mees Eustace,” he said, smiling his gap-toothed leer. “How charming to see you again. I so do look forward to your leetle entertainment at Mrs Moore’s.”
Disconcerted, Lily asked, “Lord Lambton’s seance?”
“Oh no, not Lord Lambton’s seance.” He raised his monocle and bent to whisper in her ear before moving on, “The other one.”
Chapter 14
Lily’s optimism was fast subsiding from the heights to which she’d allowed it to soar. Yes, she had a key and an address. These were necessary practical considerations that would help her achieve her ends.
But how could she begin to entice a gentleman she barely knew to visit her, alone, at a strange house?
Was it even wise, for who knew where it would lead?
How far was she willing to go in order to make a bargain that would depend on a priggish man’s desire for her, and his honour when it came to any agreement?
Disconsolately, she tossed a crumb of bread from a stale fruit bun to a family of ducks swimming in the pond. The park was nearly deserted, and dark clouds scudded across the ashen sky. The landscape looked as bleak as she felt.
The Wednesday seances were becoming monotonous, though that Lord Lambton’s emotional distress at the loss of his daughter didn’t seem to be abating. He happily paid Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier a handsome sum each week so he could commune with his dead daughter.
And every week he wept more bitterly than the last.
It made Lily feel guilty, though she could rest easier in the knowledge that she wasn’t about to be thrown into the street while she was still so valuable.
Lily looked about her, the hunk of stale bread heavy in her hand. Most people were probably at home, and that’s where she would be if she had a home. Right now, she had as much wish to return to her tiny room in her noisy, unpleasant boarding house as she did of returning to Robert. Or even the maison.
There was no future for her, anywhere that she could see.
She tried to dislodge the pinprick of despair that was slowly growing in her breast. The truth was, she was frightened. Everything required of her demanded that she play a role. Survival demanded that she prop up a flimsy defence of who she really was.
Because the truth would see her catapulted right back into enslavement. True enslavement where she had not even the freedom to feed the ducks if she chose.
“Mrs Eustace, what a surprise to see you here!”
Lily turned at the pleasure in the refined young woman’s voice, astonished to see Miss McTavish coming towards her.
The girl dropped her eyes and added in accents of embarrassment, “Actually, Mrs Eustace, my being here is quite deliberate, for you said you fed the ducks here most fine afternoons, and I did want to speak to you.”
Lily had indicated a location where she might be found in the hope that Mr McTavish would seek her out. As the siblings were clearly fond of one another, she’d thought it not a hopeless wish that the younger McTavish might pass on something positive about her meeting with Lily. Miss McTavish did seem to regard Lily with some admiration judging by her smile and eager manner.
“Yes, happily the ducks are always pleased to see me,” Lily said. “London can be lonely when one doesn’t know anyone.”
“What did bring you to the metropolis?” asked Miss McTavish, coming to stand beside her. Lily was conscious that the young woman’s blue and white princess-line dress, while plain and demure, had all the trimmings that brought it right up to the minute. Unlike Lily’s gown. Mr Montpelier hadn’t the funds to supply her with a modest wardrobe less than two years old, and in her lodgings, and such a modest income, it was difficult to keep her clothing properly laundered. “I imagine you’d have had dozens of suitors where you hailed from.”
“You did? That’s a nice compliment.” Lily smiled. “But I was not interested in suitors after my mourning was finished.” The lies again. But what could she do? “Not for some years, in fact. But,” she shrugged, “I think that might be changing. I will admit to being lonelier in London than I had expected.”
“My brother is lonely too,” Lucy said artlessly, accepting a hunk of bread from Lily with which to feed the ducks.
“Is that so?” Lily tried not to sound too interested. But when Lucy didn’t reply, just continued to stare thoughtfully into the pond as she tossed breadcrumbs to her noisy, squawking audience, she asked, “Has your brother ever married? Or lost someone?”
“He’s never married. But there was someone, I gather, in France.” Miss McTavish sent Lily a pained look. “Hamish and Papa didn’t see eye to eye, so Hamish went to live in France when he was twenty-one. To be an artist.”
“An artist!”
“Yes, he’s a very good one, you know. You should see some of his paintings in the house. Goodness, it’s starting to rain! Come back with me and take shelter. I live not far from here, and then you can see some of Hamish’s landscapes.”
Lily didn’t need to be asked twice. And not because the heavens really did open at that moment.
They were laughing as they rushed through the front door of a dwelling only three minutes from the park, and indeed, Lily was impressed to see the walls covered in paintings. “He hasn’t done all of them, of course, but he does love the Impressionists,” his sister said proudly. “See, that’s one of his. Isn’t it good?”
Impressed, Lily nodded as she gazed up at a brooding landscape painted at dusk. “Is that where he stayed in France?”
“I imagine so. He doesn’t talk about it much. I just know that as soon as he received my letter telling him that…something bad had happened to me…he left everything and caught the next boat back to England.” Her voice dropped, and a deep colour suffused her cheeks. “That’s when he took me to live with him. Nearly three years ago, now. But I sometimes wonder if I took him away from someone he loved, for there’s a sadness in him. He never used to be serious like he is now.”
Lily’s interest grew like a small bud slowly unfurling in her heart. “What was he like when he was young?” Her desire to know more had nothing to do with how she might persuade him to publish a photograph or give Mrs Moore the publicity she craved.
Really, solving Mr Renquist’s murder seemed a hopeless and, in fact, completely unimportant distraction right now.
“Would you really like to know?” Lucy looked delighted. “I’ll show you some photographs if you like.”
Happily, she led the way up the passage, saying over her shoulder, “Come into my room. I have them framed on my mantelpiece. There! Isn’t he sweet? Of course, I was just a baby when Hamish went to boarding school.
I’m nine years younger. And there’s Mama and Papa and Hamish and me.”
Lily studied the family group. Mr McTavish senior looked a serious gentleman with a head of snowy-white hair, even though he was the father of two young children at the time. Beside the grim father figure was seated a demure, sweet-faced young woman nursing the infant, Lucy, on her lap.
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was eight. I don’t remember very much about her except that she was kind. Hamish was at boarding school, so it was just Papa and me.”
“But then you went to the Ladies’ Seminary, and that’s where you met Cassandra, Lord Lambton’s daughter.” Lily moved the subject forward. Lucy looked like it was unpleasant dwelling on childhood memories, and she was anxious to discover what she could that might promote her Wednesday seances with Lord Lambton. Lord Lambton seemed a lost soul, his grief so very genuine as far as Lily was able to tell. “Were you friends from the beginning?”
“I suppose so, although Cassandra was always a bit…different. But we became friends because we both despised our fathers,” Lucy added boldly.
“Goodness. Did you?” Lily picked up a photograph of Hamish as a young man and thought what a kind, open smile he had. “Why did Cassandra despise her father?” She thought of the Lord Lambton she knew, a kindly, harmless old man. “I believe he really is distraught at her death. Was he unkind to her?”
“No!”
Lucy must have realised that the vehemence of her refutation was extreme, for she coloured and bowed her head. “Her father never struck her. Never! She had nothing to complain about.”
Unsure whether to press this, Lily instead said mildly, “I think Lord Lambton loved his daughter more than she might ever have realised. It’s the impression I get from seeing him these last few Wednesdays, as you know.”
“Yes, and I wish I could attend.”
“I’m sorry your brother is so disapproving.”
“He’s just afraid word will make it to Father’s ears. Poor Hamish tries so hard to find the balance between keeping in Papa’s good books and doing what I might want. Or what he wants.” She looked furtively at the door. “I have an admirer, you see. He’s very poor, but I’ve known him since I was at the seminary. He’s the older brother of one of my friends there, and he’s the sweetest young man, but it’ll be several years before he’ll be in a position to take a wife. I don’t mind. I’ll wait forever. But I do wish Hamish would let me see him.”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 10