“He doesn’t approve?”
“He knows how violently Papa would disapprove. That’s the problem, really. Oh, but Mrs Eustace, you don’t know what it is to be violently in love and to be denied even seeing your sweetheart. Sometimes we meet in the park. We have to pretend it’s a coincidence in case someone passes on word to Papa, and then he’d take me back to live with him. And I’d rather be dead than have that happen,” she added dramatically.
They were sitting on the edge of the bed now, the picture of Hamish lying between them. Lucy picked it up. “My brother likes you very much, Mrs Eustace,” she said, smiling shyly as she traced her finger over the edge of the frame.
“And I like him very much.” In a burst of bravery, Lily opened her reticule and closed her fingers round the paper and key Celeste had given her. “I don’t suppose you have an envelope and writing implements so I could compose a quick note?” she asked abruptly.
Lucy was only too happy to oblige, laying everything out on her writing desk. “I’ll happily pass that on to Hamish when he gets in tonight,” she said, taking the sealed pale-pink envelope Lily handed to her when she’d finished scratching out a quick, artful invitation to Mr Hamish McTavish. “And perhaps, Mrs Eustace, you could persuade my brother to let me attend one of Mrs Moore’s seances. I think it might be something my Arthur would be very interested in attending too.” She smiled shyly, adding, “I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.”
“I do,” Lily reassured her. She rose. “And now I must return home and prepare myself for tonight’s séance. Tomorrow will be a very different one.” Nervousness clawed up her throat as she answered the young woman’s questioning look. “I’m the conduit that will communicate between a dead man and his bereaved widow. You might have read it in the newspapers. Mr Renquist—”
“Of course, I know every detail of the Renquist murder! A man that rich doesn’t just vanish into thin air never to be seen again. Hamish was upset because his photographer wanted to attend tonight’s seance, only Hamish said he’d not buy into that mumbo jumbo, as he termed it. Not that you’re pretending to be someone you’re not, of course, Mrs Eustace! I know you’re doing this to get at the truth for the benefit of society at large.”
Lily sent her a wry smile. “So your brother calls it mumbo jumbo, does he? I thank you for your honesty, Lucy.”
Lucy blushed. “Hamish calls me a terrible liar and quite tactless, and I know it to be true. But the truth is always best. That’s one thing I remember my dear mama always telling us. Don’t you think the truth is always best?”
Lily weighed up her answer. “As long as the truth is in the interests of the listener,” she said, finally, hoping she’d struck the right note and that young Miss McTavish wouldn’t think to unravel the finer points of her answer.
To her relief, this seemed to satisfy the young woman, for she hooked her elbow through Lily’s as she led her to the door saying, “I think we are very much of the same mind, Mrs Eustace. I couldn’t agree more. Harmful lies are the devil’s work. That’s one of Papa’s favourite sayings. And there I would agree with him. Now, please borrow my umbrella for your walk home. I know the rain has stopped for the moment, but you don’t want to be wet and discomposed for the event tonight. There’s an old man to comfort tonight and a murderer to catch tomorrow. Goodness, we don’t want you to be sick for what could be one of the most important performances of your life.”
* * *
Despite suffering no ill effects from the cold weather, Lily felt very sick as she waited in the cellar beneath Mrs Moore’s parlour and listened to muted sounds of the chattering throng following another heartrending session, during which Lily had relayed the love that Cassandra, Lord Lambton’s daughter, had felt for her father. And her guilt for causing him such pain.
But it was cold and damp, and when the crowds seemed disinclined to disperse, Lily decided to clamber out of the coal chute and seek warmth inside the house. Heavily veiled and wearing a dark cloak over her clothes, she made her way into the parlour.
The lamps were still dimmed, and the audience was shoulder to shoulder, many in working-class garments, some in the finery of the upper classes. Sherry was being dispensed freely, and the mood was merry.
“You are miraculous!” Lord Lambton declared to Mrs Moore. “I was a disbeliever, but when I faced my daughter tonight, I knew it could be none other than Cassandra come back to pour out her heart to me.” Overcome by sentiment, he dabbed damp eyes with a snowy-white handkerchief while Mrs Moore patted his shoulder.
“That I can speak with my Cassandra is…a miracle.” Lord Lambton blew his nose, loudly. “But there are others with whom you hope to communicate. I hear you are appealing to a different audience tomorrow night. Regarding the mystery of Renquist’s disappearance, I gather?”
Lily watched as Mrs Moore fingered her purple velvet scarf. “I have discovered someone whom we believe may be able to communicate with the deceased Mr Renquist.”
“Good lord! How did you manage that?”
Mrs Moore lowered her eyes. “I cannot divulge that, my Lord; however, we are confident we can bring some peace and comfort to the grieving widow, even if the mystery cannot be solved tomorrow.”
Mrs Moore slid an enigmatic look towards her credulous client, who was stroking his bushy white beard and moustache and who looked even more intrigued as the woman added, “Communication with the spirit world has been made. We are at least in the initial stages of solving a crime that has proved beyond the capabilities of the police though it may take some weeks.” She looked smug. “Indeed, performances are nearly sold out.”
“Extraordinary!” Lord Lambton muttered. “In that case, if the mystery has not been solved before the end of the month, I shall reserve a place for my old friend who comes so rarely to London. Sir Robert Bradden asked me to recommend something different in terms of entertainment to please his new wife. A séance sounds ideal.”
Lily put her hand to her veil in a convulsive act to mask her horror. However, Mrs Moore revealed her showmanship by revealing her duplicity by neither a blink nor facial twitch as she said smoothly, “And what date did you say Sir Robert may honour us with a visit? The end of the month? Well, if we have not solved the mystery, it will be a pleasure. However, if your friend is interested in the spirit world, let me recommend Madame Barooshka’s Fantastical Seances. Like me, she is a true artiste…”
Lily left at the first opportunity, slipping through the stragglers, glad that Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had been detained by a voluble woman in a purple turban and multiple ropes of pearls. She ignored the speaking glance Mr Montpelier threw her. Of course he’d have been rattled by Lord Lambton’s information, but Lily had not the stomach to discuss it with him.
Her low-heeled lace-up boots clicked over the pavements as she walked towards home, her shadow leaping and dancing in front of her as she passed beneath the gas lamps. Once, she’d have been terrified to walk alone. She rarely did so now, in fact, but she felt safe enough. What, really, did she have to lose? She wasn’t stupid, pushing out of the grasps of the occasional men who assumed her to be a lightskirt. They did not persist.
Tonight, there was a light mist, rather than the enveloping fog that she preferred. Often, as she walked, she found she rather liked the feeling of being wrapped up in the mists or fogs of anonymity. It was like a temporary blanket of comfort that put a little distance between the here and now and the worry over what was around the next corner.
Tonight, though, she felt more than just the discomfort of what the future held.
Robert was coming to London. It was bad enough to digest this horrifying piece of information.
But he had a wife?
Could Lord Lambton have been mistaken? How could Robert have a wife when Lily was his wife, though the Lord alone knew she’d do anything not to be his wife?
And she knew to her cost that the feeling was mutual.
But had Robert been sufficiently coldhearted to
have believed Lily would cause him no further problems if he despatched her to an asylum in Brussels, meaning he could therefore do what he wanted?
Yes, he was coldhearted; that was true enough. But would he seriously commit bigamy?
And if so, who was his wife? Sir John’s widow? Lady Banks? Lily had to find out. Perhaps there’d been some mistake.
“Madam, I beg your pardon.”
The thick accent more than the bulk of a man blocking Lily’s path made her jerk up her head.
He could have moved to the side without saying anything. Instead, the man remained as immovable as a column of stone on the wet pavement in front of Lily, doffing his hat and revealing a head of snowy-white hair above a face that was not genial like Lord Lambton’s.
But cold and cynical as he eyed her with very real calculation.
Mr Novichov.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Lily took a step back, glancing over her shoulder in the hope that someone bringing up the rear should come to her aid.
A family group, chattering as they took up most of the pavement, heading towards the river, boosted her courage.
When she turned back, Mr Novichov had gone.
Chapter 15
It was not as if the pink notepaper could burn his fingers though the truth was it felt exactly that as Hamish carefully placed the invitation onto his writing desk and leaned back in his chair.
The brazenness.
The boldness.
It shocked him.
Fascinated and called to him.
She’d asked him to meet her at her lodgings at 3 p.m.
An invitation for tea, she said. There were matters to discuss.
Hamish picked up the paper once more and studied the elegant, looped handwriting.
Had she written it herself? Could she really write with such finesse, or had she farmed this out to someone who could?
Closing his eyes, the blood roared in his mind as he pictured her limpid blue eyes assessing him. Travelling over his body, considering him.
For what?
A means to an end? Or was he too inclined to judge harshly? The last visit had battered his defences like no other. She’d seemed so real. A lady with a very natural hope that he’d regretfully said he was unable to fulfil.
But a palpable sexual tension had swirled between them. Hamish felt his throat swell just to recall the way she had stood across from him, the graceful incline of her head as her beautiful eyes had said so much more than her soft, pouting lips had.
Archie thought him a fool for turning her down when she’d come to the newspaper office requesting his assistance in the matter of publicity.
But now Hamish wondered if he’d be a fool if he declined her invitation to tea.
It was undecorous and unladylike to request a gentleman call on her. She must know her behaviour invited the danger of being misinterpreted, and that he might prove himself a man who took advantage where he saw it.
Uncomfortably he shifted in his chair, glancing through the window at the busy street below and worrying the paper between his fingertips.
She’d not asked for an answer, and he’d not given an RSVP. She’d merely said she hoped he might find himself free at 3 p.m., and if he were so inclined, she would like the opportunity to discuss any differences between them that may have occurred earlier.
In the privacy of her sitting room at ….
St John’s Wood was not so very far out of his way. A quick cup of tea and a polite discussion would reset matters between them, for he feared he had come across as overbearing and priggish, as he was wont to do when confronted by beautiful, desirable women.
He stood up, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket, making for the stairs, determined now.
“Miniver, I’m going out,” he said to the clerk working at a desk by the door as he put on his hat and coat.
“And where shall I say, sir, if Mr McTavish senior wishes to know?”
Although this was less likely these days with the old man increasingly incapacitated, a surprise visit was not impossible. And always his father wanted a thorough accounting of Hamish’s movements if he was not at his office.
“I’m seeing Sir Lionel at his club.”
“Ah yes, his redemption story.”
“That’s right, Miniver. Now that he’s retired from the Ministry, he is keen to…reminisce.”
“Very good of you to indulge him, sir. The public likes a tale of bad come good and just rewards. Send my regards, if you will.”
“Of course.”
Of course, it was a blatant lie that Hamish was headed to his club, but he didn’t care.
Just rewards? Truth to tell, he didn’t much care to think that far.
Mrs Eustace’s invitation was burning a hole in his pocket, and now he couldn’t wait to see what she had to say to him.
What she wanted of him.
* * *
It was not difficult to find the house, a charming little residence tucked quietly amidst a row of similar structures where both the respectable, and the occasional nicely set-up mistress resided, he knew. She’d chosen well, and his presence here would not be remarked upon should someone of his acquaintance recognise him.
“Afternoon, sir.”
Hamish barely glanced at the young maid who relieved him of his outerwear, though he thought vaguely she seemed familiar.
And then the door was opened for him, and he was admitted to the drawing room, a charming, light-filled chamber tastefully furnished with an admirable collection of art upon the walls. She was more of the connoisseur than he’d thought, and the urge to know her better ratcheted up a notch. The deepest, starkest, darkest truth of her.
Regardless of the consequences.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” She rose as he entered, the light in her eyes beaming their way across the decreasing distance between them, her mouth a curve of pleasure, her tea gown falling in suggestive folds from a low neckline…he swallowed…contouring a body that sported no corsetry, he was certain of it, in the brief glance he allowed before swinging his gaze back to her lush mouth.
“Please take a seat, Mr McTavish,” she murmured, angling him towards the sofa and lowering herself beside him, her fragrant bosom crossing his line of vision as she bent to adjust what he realised, shockingly, was the garter holding up a white stocking that encased the shapely leg pressed against his.
“Thank you for the invitation.” He hoped he didn’t croak the words as much as he felt he did.
“And thank you for coming.”
The words sounded simple enough, but as she placed her hand over his, which was in his lap, it was as if an electric eel had just wound itself from neck to groin and discharged a volt that made him jerk into combustible awareness.
He should have known how it would be. There’d been enough warning that his defences were crumbling with every acerbic exchange; that the time would come when his every attempt to ward off the attraction he felt would come to nought.
And that time had come.
Instinctively, his hand closed over hers, and he brought it up to his lips to kiss, his eyes trained on hers, not breaking contact as with seemingly infinite slowness their lips drew nearer.
The silent, subtle connection between them had been apparent from the start so why should he be surprised when the mere brush of her lips provoked a response like nothing he’d experienced?
“Mrs Eustace,” he murmured, grazing the impossibly soft barrier between hope and hell as he responded to her kiss. Incinerating the last vestige of restraint that now plunged Hamish into the lust-driven demon she knew him to be at his core.
That she was clearly requiring at this moment.
“Lily,” she corrected him, softly, in that brief moment before their mouths fused and, with bodies hot with need, she gripped his hand and rose.
As if unable to draw apart, they stumbled into the passage, through the gloom, and into a dim bedroom, collapsing with soft sighs and heated breaths upon
a cool pink eiderdown, Lily’s soft, womanly curves and contours pinioned beneath him, her long, creamy limbs twining about his waist as she laced her hands behind his neck.
His initial suspicions had been correct. She wore no underthings, and when her tea gown fell open, her beautiful body was his to feast upon.
His, in open invitation to please him as he willed, judging by her silent encouragement, her patent enthusiasm as she arched into him while she fumbled to release him from his trousers; and when he lay naked the length of her, making it clear she desired that he pleasure her as he took his own pleasure.
She was a widow, with experience of men.
With experience he could only begin to imagine, and any scruples he might still cling to were to protect himself, not her.
So, with the last of his reluctance and reservations now firmly tossed upon the turbulent winds of his growing and unstoppable desire, Hamish proceeded to make love to the one woman in all the world he considered the most dangerous.
And the most desirable.
He should have accepted it from the start.
* * *
There was an urgency and an elegance to his lovemaking Lily had not expected.
A passion and an enthusiasm that had taken her by surprise when, having obviously committed himself, he clearly decided on no half measures. Her breasts were easily laid bare as she wore no chemise or corset beneath her afternoon gown, and now he was kissing them with rapture, stroking and kneading them so that her nipples stood taut, and Lily shivered from head to foot with a rare and barely restrained excitement.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 11