He held up the photograph of Mrs Eustace in which she was partly angled towards the camera, her arms raised, her gaze vacant. “Interesting looking creature,” he remarked, and Hamish breathed a silent sigh of relief that the woman he did indeed hope might be reintroduced to the polite world under his aegis was not recognisable in her disguise.
“She’s beautiful!” Lucy declared before, to his horror, she dug in the desk drawer and withdrew one of the two photographs he looked at frequently, and had no idea Lucy even knew about.
“No, Lucy!” he snapped, seizing it from her fingers, though not before Sir Lionel had raised his lorgnette, holding the photograph a moment, before releasing it to the clearly discomposed Hamish. “And now you must go, Lucy, for Sir Lionel and I have business to discuss.”
Hamish busied himself with the brandy decanter to cover his embarrassment after Lucy had gone, for he’d spoken too hastily, drawing more attention to that which he’d wanted to remain hidden. “It was good of you to humour me, Sir Lionel, and subject yourself to public scrutiny at the same time,” he said. “Call it a bit of whimsy on the part of my sister to whom I must give credit for wanting to inject a more…human touch. She challenged the dryness of my journalism.” He sent his guest a wry smile. “She accused me of appealing primarily to a god-fearing, humourless readership, and said she’d only consider picking up an issue if I was adventurous enough to include a ripping yarn of redemption. Recalling my father’s stories, you were amongst the first who came to mind.”
“I’ve no doubt your father used me as a cautionary tale.” Sir Lionel raised an eyebrow as he ran a hand through his thick snowy locks. “Well, any excuse for an old man to rake over the past and indulge in daydreams of when he was young and brave—albeit young and foolhardy—is welcomed in my twilight years.” He took a sip of his brandy, relaxed back in his chair, then asked, “Where do I begin? With my first act of utter folly, when passions ran high, and I marched the requisite paces with pistols drawn before winging my opponent?” He put his monocle to his eye and regarded Hamish with a louche grin as he went on, “Just so long as I come across as the swashbuckling hero, misguided only in his youth.” He patted his moustache of which Hamish gathered he was very proud. Sir Lionel was a vain man, and his moustache was truly a magnificent specimen.
“That is the intention of my article, yes.” Hamish took a sip of his drink then reached across for his notebook. “One learns from the mistakes of the past, to be sure. I don’t need to put words into your mouth. And I appreciate the kindness you do me of responding to my request, when I’m trading on little more than your acquaintanceship with my father and the fact we go to the same club—where I, might add, I am not often to be seen.”
“The fact we go to the same club says a lot. And you have not sunk into sensationalism—rather the contrary—so I feel safe revealing my secrets to you.” Sir Lionel’s mouth twitched. “And to the world? I trust a dashing photograph will accompany this? Like the one of the two beauties you keep secret in your drawer?” He winked, then lowered his voice. “I’d have done the same. Not that I can really make out the blonde nymph but the brunette is a beauty, and one I recognise. Can’t deny having visited Madame’s m’self.” With a glance at the door as if he feared they might be overheard, he added, “Just a word of warning. Be careful that you’re not treading on Carruther’s turf if you wanted to make a play.” Then, before Hamish could respond, Sir Lionel leaned back, saying in a more normal tone, “Yes, a photograph of me and my moustache.” He stroked it reverently. “I’ve not yet lost interest in winning over the ladies.”
“A photograph.” Hamish tried not to stammer and to keep his mind on Sir Lionel, though the old man’s reference to Carruthers had thrown him for a six. “Yes, of course I’ll include a picture. I’ll have my photographer, Mr Benedict, set up the necessary.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, anxious to understand the old man’s meaning with regard to Carruthers and Madame and trying to formulate his question when Sir Lionel went on, “Yes, a good thing I only winged him, too. Now, what year are we talking? Ah yes, the year our queen ascended the throne. Thirty-seven, it was, and I was not yet twenty and fancied myself in love with the wife of my superior officer. Let me tell you, that foolhardy little episode didn’t go well. My saving grace was that my injuries were far greater than his, and I was not expected to live, so long did I exist between this world and the next. I think my commander had forgotten all about me by the time I was declared out of the woods. And by that time, my light-o’-love had eyes only for her husband, once again.”
Hamish let go of the question he’d really been wanting to ask as he began to take notes. It was his father who’d told him that Sir Lionel, who had recently retired from the House of Commons, had had quite a reputation in his youth.
“Youthful folly is where I wanted to start with this,” Hamish agreed, “before I focus on your great contributions to society which have, naturally, redeemed those youthful excesses.” He grinned.
“And youthful folly I did indeed have in excess. I was lucky to live long enough to redeem myself.” Sir Lionel laughed. “But you know what it’s like…when you lose your heart to a lady, one is not thinking with one’s head. The power they yield can be frightening, and only a better man than I could resist that, eh?”
Hamish put down his pen. He presumed Sir Lionel didn’t require a response to that. Yes, he knew the frightening power a woman could yield over a vulnerable man’s heart. “How many duels did you fight, Sir Lionel?”
“Four. Never killed a man though, else I’d not be sitting here with you, talking about redemption.” He looked reflective as he stroked his moustache. “Luck got in the way. Redemption is hard for those who’ve committed murder. And that’s at the heart of duelling, eh? Bloodlust. The desire to assert superiority. Honour. It’s the Young Lion testing his claws, thinking honour is about besting the other man when it’s nothing of the sort. Honour is here.” He tapped his heart. “It’s not what you do to one’s opponent in the heat of the moment. No, I was lucky. Very lucky, for it was a close shave when I was Sir John’s second and facing down Lord Lambton a quarter of a century ago.” He cleared his throat. “Too close, in fact, and the last time I let the heart rule the head.”
Lord Lambton? Hamish paused in his writing. But Sir Lionel was running ahead with his commentary. “You said Sir John had you do his dirty work? And you accepted?”
“Yes, and a big mistake it was, too. I never held Sir John in high regard. Can’t think what came over me. Feller was a bounder and I risked my life for him!”
Hamish sensed reluctance on the part of the other man to elaborate, so waited patiently. Silence was often rewarded with a confession that might be forthcoming if prompted.
It was.
But only after Hamish dug a little deeper into the reasons behind the duel.
Sir Lionel took a sip of his drink. “It’s true that Sir John was defending his honour. He did have just cause to challenge Lambton. Old Lord Lambton, you see, was having an affair with Sir John’s wife.” It looked as if he were about to continue. Then he sighed and put down his drink as if it were all too much to remember. “Ah well. Enough said on that. Lord Lambton has not spoken to me since, and why would he? I tried to put a bullet in him on behalf of a man I never liked and have even less respect for, now. The old codger spends his days counting his money in his counting house, I hear. As for old Lamgton, I don’t even know if he’s alive. Now, where was I? I think I’m ready to move onto my more noble achievements, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Hamish rose on the pretext of reaching for the brandy decanter. Sir Lionel had made short work of his first drink, and although it was early in the day, and Hamish would never, under normal circumstances, have dreamed of pressing brandy upon a subject for his own ends, he could not help but prod to get more on Lord Lambton.
Or rather, Lily Eustace, given the connection.
“Lord Lambton is very much alive. In fact, he�
��s gaining an audience through the offices of a spiritualist who has supposedly been communicating with his deceased daughter on a Wednesday night at Mrs Moore’s séances,” he said casually as he refilled Sir Lionel’s glass. “My man, Benedict, photographed one of the sessions not long ago. That’s if you’re interested in seeing your old foe after all these years.”
“Old Lambton? Who’d have believed it? A rascal in his day, so no surprise he’s been taken in by this mumbo jumbo, eh? Yes, let’s see what the years have done to my old adversary.”
Thoughtfully, Hamish pushed aside the photographs Archie had proposed could accompany the write-up on the séance to publicise Renquist’s disappearance. Mrs Eustace featured in many of them, and although she was veiled, Hamish was still concerned to ensure she not be recognised. However, if he showed Sir Lionel a photograph that featured her with Lord Lambton, would the old man make any connections?
“This was taken last week,” he said, handing his guest a photograph of Lord Lambton, seated and gazing at the spiritualist who was shrouded in a black lace mantilla.
Sir Lionel bent over it with a frown before he chuckled. “His black locks have gone white like mine. Thinner, of course.”
Hamish indicated Mrs Eustace. “And that is the spiritualist who communes with the dead, namely his dear departed daughter.”
“Yes, I heard his daughter had died some months ago. A troubled child, by all accounts.”
However, Sir Lionel made no comment on the woman in the photograph. Conflicted, Hamish slowly withdrew the second of the photographs he’d hurriedly snatched from Lucy’s innocent fingers earlier. In this picture of Lily and Celeste, the clarity was better, whereas in the other, Lily had appeared grainy and in shadow. Sir Lionel’s eyesight was obviously impaired but to Hamish, the young woman was entirely recognisable in this photograph.
Casually, he placed it on the desk; not as if he were directing it towards Sir Lionel for his notice, but as if Hamish were in fact looking for something else.
The old man picked up the photograph and stared at it a long moment. Then his eyes widened, and he muttered, “By gad, if that’s not…” Squinting, he raised his monocle and brought the photograph closer. “Surely not…” he said, under his breath, and Hamish asked quickly, “Do you recognise the woman, Sir Lionel? The blonde woman?”
“By Jove, but if my eyesight wasn’t likely to be letting me down, I’d say it was a poor mad creature I once knew. A beauty and quite sane when I met her, but from all other accounts, as mad as a March hare. Used to wander the hallways stark naked during a full moon before her husband had her locked up in a madhouse several years ago.” He glanced at Hamish. “When did you say this was taken?”
“I didn’t. However, my photographer took this a few weeks ago.”
Sir Lionel returned the photograph to within a few inches of his nose and shook his head. “Only weeks ago, you say? Then it can’t be the same woman, for right now she’s baying at the moon in some lunatic asylum in Brussels. And since this glorious creature is photographed with Carruthers’ fancy piece, I would be so bold as to suggest that she, too, is one of Madame Chambon’s nymphs.” He raked Hamish with a salacious look. “I don’t wonder you keep her likeness tucked away in your drawer. Mighty uncomfortable having to explain that to your sister, eh wot?”
“I have made no judgements, Sir Lionel, for, in truth, I do not know how either woman came to be in that photograph, and the fact the blonde damsel is in dubious company may be quite coincidental.” Hamish hoped he didn’t sound as hot under the collar as he feared he did. “They are, after all, simply sitting at opposite ends of a sofa in a public place. I believe young women of such a calling” He tapped Celeste’s face “are known for their brazenness.”
“Yes, yes, of course, young man,” Sir Lionel responded, picking up his stick and pounding it on the floor several times as if to test it preparatory to making his departure. “You can rest assured I’ll say nothing to your father. You know what’s what, and you keep a steady hand at the helm. His newspaper is in good hands, and that’s what I’ll tell him.”
Discomposed, Hamish helped Sir Lionel rise, calling to Mr Miniver to assist him down the stairs.
Then he resumed his seat at his desk, pulled out all the photographs he could find of beautiful Lily Eustace and decided there was not a moment to lose in seeing her to ascertain the full truth of who and what she was.
Chapter 18
It was early in the afternoon when Sir Lionel left, and while Hamish knew he should write up what he had, while it was fresh in his mind, the desire to pay a call upon Lily was too great. Several times he’d been on the verge of leaving the office before business had recalled him.
Making an excuse to Miniver, he snatched up his hat, shrugged on his coat, and stepped out into the street, flagging down the first passing hackney.
He should have sent her notice of his impending call, but the urge to see her this moment was all-consuming. She’d promised to tell him her story, and no doubt he was not going to like it.
It didn’t matter. If she had run away from her husband, then she’d done so to preserve her life. Full credit should go to a woman who could survive independently when the mainstay of her life had let her down as hers clearly had. Hamish would not condemn; he would not judge.
It didn’t matter. If she had run away from her husband, then she’d done so to preserve her life. Full credit should go to a woman who could survive independently when the mainstay of her life had let her down as hers clearly had. Hamish would not condemn; he would not judge.
He would listen.
The match had been struck and the tinder had combusted into a fiery flame of feeling between them. Hamish had no idea where it might lead, he only knew he had to keep seeing her.
And right now, every minute that kept him from her had seemed an eternity.
He got the driver to set him down a few houses along. A couple of minutes’ walk would give him a dose of fresh air that he felt he needed as a preliminary to any potentially uncomfortable discussions.
So, with head bent, he trod the damp pavement, hands thrust into his pockets, his collar up against the chill. Perhaps their talk would lead to somewhere warmer than the drawing room, he thought, feeling again the strong desire to hold her in his arms and press his face against her cool, creamy neck.
He was nearly there, stopping a few yards back as he heard a gate swing open and saw that it was Mrs Eustace’s house. And that a man was coming out of the garden. He had a head of bright-red hair, clearly revealed when he removed his bowler hat to scratch behind his ear, and Hamish had no difficulty in recognising Lord Carruthers from a distance.
Surprised, Hamish waited a few seconds until his lordship was out of sight before he quietly let himself into the garden, taking the steps two at a time before he rapped on the door.
“Really, darling, what have you forgotten this time?” came a feminine voice he didn’t recognise until the door was swung open, and he was confronted by the lush, willowy form of Miss Celeste.
She looked surprised, frowning a moment before she said, warily, “I don’t take gentlemen callers without prior arrangement, you should know.” Still, she looked anything but forbidding as she leaned against the doorframe, sizing him up, perhaps recognising his shock before saying with a giggle, “I beg your pardon! My mistake entirely, for aren’t you the fine gentleman who owns the newspaper? Do come in, sir, if you please. You’re here because of Lily, aren’t you?” She hiccupped gently and Hamish, who’d been on the verge of excusing himself, realised she was tipsy, and that, perhaps, he really did need to hear whatever she had to say about Lily, as his toes tingled with alarm.
“Here’s a nice brandy for you, sir. And another one for me,” she added, dropping into a chair, stretching out her legs in quite an abandoned fashion, and regarding him with a smile as she waved him to a chair opposite. “Lily said she’d persuade you and, truth to tell, I didn’t think she had it in her. Why, you’d n
ever seduce a gentleman to get what you want? I said to her.” She put her hand to her mouth to cover another soft hiccup, adding, “But she’s a dark horse, like I said. So, we’re in, are we?” She leaned forwards, her eyes bright. “Front page?”
Hamish looked about him, his eyes running over the pictures on the wall, everything so tasteful.
He felt slightly nauseated.
This was not, he realised, Mrs Eustace’s normal abode, but she had pretended it was. “What is this place?” he asked. “I thought you conducted all your business elsewhere.”
“Certain occasions call for a change of venue. Not every man is going to be satisfied with the four walls of Madame Chambon’s. You certainly wouldn’t have been, even with a discreet side entrance, as I told Lily when I gave her the key. Now, you were looking for her, were you? Well, you won’t find her here, and I can’t but say that it’s a good thing you didn’t come earlier, for Lord Carruthers mightn’t have taken kindly to have had you knocking on my door.”
Hamish felt trapped. He remembered how beautiful he’d thought this woman, yet in the space of several months, her skin had lost a little of its dewy freshness, her hair a little of its lustre.
Or was it he who was simply jaded? Right now, he felt disoriented.
“Mrs Eustace said nothing to me about putting any photographs in my newspaper,” he said, toying with his drink.
“Well, maybe she hadn’t got around to it yet for she said that was exactly what she was planning to do.” Celeste looked put out. “She showed me the photograph your photographer took of us. Why, she swore she’d be able to persuade you.”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 13