Ducking beneath his outstretched arm, she darted for the door, squealing when he clutched at her hair and yanked her into his clutches. Fortunately, the pounding of feet heralded the arrival of one of the brothel heavies who jerked Lily away.
She did not wait to be asked to give an account of herself.
Picking up her skirts, she dived out of the heavyweight’s claws and all but tumbled down the stairs and into the street.
Would he come after her?
He knew where she lived, and if he didn’t, Celeste may well tell him.
Her breath came in convulsive bursts as she dodged down an alleyway and into a courtyard. It was unfamiliar territory, amidst the rookeries of those who would slit her throat—or worse—for what they could find upon her person.
The clattering of harness and an indignant whinny heralded a hackney carriage which nearly drove over her, but she was nimble enough to escape harm, instead pulling open the door and leaping inside after shouting instructions to the driver.
It was unconventional but surely he’d take a woman, alone at night, and not consider that her unchaperoned status proclaimed her a whore—someone unlikely to pay the fare. With trembling fingers, she counted the coins in her purse, exhaling in despair to find she had only a couple of pennies.
Where else could she go for help but to Mr McTavish? He would help her.
“Stop!” She rapped on the roof. “The gentleman in this house will pay your fare. Please wait.”
His response was as expected. He was not happy as he grumbled that he’d wait two minutes for his money before coming in himself.
The offices of McTavish & Son were dark and shuttered. There was only a small chance Hamish would still be here, but it was the best chance Lily had.
When he opened the door, she all but threw herself at him, beyond caring that she was begging, when she’d never begged in her life. “Please will you pay the jarvey? Please can I stay here? Just for a few hours. There is a man who is after me, and I think he wants to kill me. The Russian I told you about. He was there. At Celeste’s. Madame Chambon’s. He grabbed me—”
“Lily?” Hamish put both his hands on her shoulders. His voice was soft and calming. She sagged against him.
“Come in, my dear. I’ll make up the fire. I fell asleep at my desk in fact.”
“He might be following me. I couldn’t go home because he knows where I live—” She was gabbling but she didn’t care. At last, she was with someone she trusted. Someone who believed her. Who wanted to help her.
“And you’re quite sure he’s trying to kill you?” His tone was deeply caring, almost as if he were comforting a child, as he drew her into the house.
“I think he murdered Mr Renquist. In fact, I’m almost certain he did!” She clutched at his arm, his attitude suddenly unnerving. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
With a smile, he gently pushed her into the small sitting room behind his office then settled her into a chair.
“Of course I do, my dear.” He knelt at her feet as he rested them on an ottoman and wrapped them in his muffler. “Now let me make up the fire so you can get warm, and then you can tell me all about it.” There was no urgency in his tone.
“We have to tell the police that we know who killed Mr Renquist!” she cried. “Before he kills someone else to protect himself. Like Celeste! Or me! Tell me you believe me?”
Hamish put one hand on her knee and cupped her chin with the other. “You’ve had a big fright, I don’t discount that,” he murmured. “And I want to help you all I can.” He looked more sorrowful than filled with the determined action Lily felt he needed to show. “But first, my dear Lady Bradden, I need you to tell me a few things about you.”
Chapter 21
It was nearly midnight. He made up the fire and found blankets and cushions and settled her, for she was clearly very frightened if she had to beg his protection in such a bold and unexpected manner.
He was tender and attentive, and Lily was quiet as he offered her all the bodily comfort she could need. He wrapped them both up warmly and held her close upon the sofa.
Not so long ago, she could never have imagined physical closeness like this.
But now she knew he would never offer what she truly craved.
Not now he knew she was Lady Bradden.
Lady Bradden had been locked up for a reason. Somehow, he’d learned her true identity, and it clearly hadn’t been hard to find people who’d given an embellished account of all that had led to Lily’s incarceration.
With a patience to match his, she held his hand as she protested softly, “It’s true, Hamish. What happened to me this evening was real. I visited Celeste. And then her…her Russian paramour burst into the room and tried to grab me.”
“And you escaped. And therefore, you believe he is Renquist’s murderer? With no evidence other than that he was menacing towards you?”
Lily sent him a beseeching look. “I lived with Celeste long enough to know when she’s afraid. Nothing and no one seemed to do that except this man. I think she sold Mr Novichov’s secrets to Mr Renquist, and that’s why Mr Novichov murdered him. And Celeste is afraid she’ll be next.” Lily shuddered. “And I’m afraid because I’ve found out.”
He looked at the ceiling. “Have you reported it to the police?”
“No. It was only tonight that he threatened me.”
“Will you report it?”
She covered her face with her hands. “I must.”
“But not as Lady Bradden. You know they won’t believe you.”
“Do you believe me?” It was painful to ask the question. Even more painful to see the truth in his regretful look.
“Lily, I know how much you want to believe you’ve found Renquist’s murderer. It’s worth a great deal to you. You’re beholden to the people who make you perform. You need to satisfy them, and the crowds.” Gently, he stroked her cheek. “I also understand that Celeste has put herself in a compromising position by consorting with gentlemen who have, well, opposing agendas. But this sounds like fantasy. You’ve taken a wild leap with no evidence.”
“You think I’m making it all up!”
“I think it’s not true; that’s all I’m saying.”
Outside the window, the streets were silent. Lily felt ready to admit defeat. She rested her head on his shoulder and did not try to stop the tears. “What shall I do?”
He was silent a long time. “I don’t know. But I will help you.”
She stiffened. “You feel you are beholden to me because of…the other night? A night you deeply regret?”
“Lily, I never set out to take what you didn’t give freely, and I would never have taken anything had I realised how...vulnerable you were. My feelings for you got the better of me. I was weak.”
“We both wanted it, Hamish.” Her throat felt thick with emotion to realise that the love she’d thought was about to blossom between them had withered on the vine. Now, his innate decency was making him behave towards her as he would towards a troubled friend to whom he owed some kind of reluctant duty. “I thought perhaps you…” She tapped her heart. “Felt something for me, here.”
Impulsively, he gripped her tightly before setting her away. “I did. And I do. But now I know the truth, and…” He looked away, but not before she’d seen his pain and disappointment. “Too much stands in the way of…a future.”
“Like my husband? Despite all he did?” Bitterly she went on, “At first I was the thief. The runaway you chased into a…brothel.” Her voice faltered. “You had little reason to trust me after that, I suppose.”
He looked at their interlaced hands. At least he was still being tender and understanding. She must make the most of this moment.
He sighed. “Never once did you tell me the truth, Lily.”
“The truth?” She gave a short laugh. “That I was the wife of a baronet who despatched me to an asylum? No, strange I didn’t mention that in such terms. Do you think you’d have believed tha
t? Do you think you would have believed the truth when I was, to all who only looked at me, a creature from the gutter? The rookeries?”
He shook his head.
“I was abducted from a maison in Brussels where my husband effectively discarded me and then threw away the key. Then I became Mr Montpelier’s prisoner as effectively as I was my husband’s. I had no one to turn to. And no one to turn to, now.”
It was time to go. She struggled out of his arms, but he held her, soothing her panic. “Except me,” he said softly. “I will help you. Somewhere there will be a place where you can get better—”
“But I am not ill!” This time she resisted his efforts to calm her, the blanket falling to her feet as she rose. “How do you propose to help me? Tell my husband my whereabouts? So he can lock me up again?”
“Wait, Lily!”
She turned at the door.
“There are places that will take you. Places where you can be looked after until you are well again.”
“Like the maison in Brussels looked after me?” Her mouth twisted. “Another man I once loved promised to take me to a place where I would be looked after.”
He let her speak.
“My lover!” she flung at him. “Like you, he soothed me with soft words, made me believe he had my best interests at heart. He was supposed to restore me. My husband paid him well enough to do it, and Teddy promised to take me to a place where I would be cured. I spent the next two years being starved and ill-treated. I would rather die in the gutter than return to a place like that. Teddy was my doctor, and then he was my lover. There! What does that make me in your eyes? The whore you didn’t want to believe?” She thrust out her chin. “I believed in Teddy. Loved him. Trusted him. Now you, Hamish, promise to take care of me.” She put her hands to her face and wept. “Every time a man has promised to take care of me, it ends in tragedy.”
***
They’d parted awkwardly; Hamish clearly worried, but giving her his word that he’d not precipitate any action or reveal her identity.
After a short sleep, after she returned to her lodgings, the landlady roused her. Mr Montpelier arrived to convey her to her new lodgings, and informed her that she would be performing again that night at the request of the Widow Renquist.
While Lily was making money for her captors, they would look after her. But what would happen when Robert arrived in London?
Now, as the clock in the drawing room chined nine o’clock, Lily again stood waiting, the inexorable ticking reminding her of the passage of time that meant her choices were running out.
The intensity of the soft chatter filtering from the upstairs chamber suggested that Mrs Moore’s parlour was, again, filled to capacity.
She’d heard the continual progression of knockings and entrances made, and the tread of feet. But, as she waited below, the intensity of those murmurs was far greater than on any previous occasion.
Interest in the disappearance of Mr Renquist had exploded, partly due to his supposed widow’s promotion of her cause, partly due to the growing celebrity of Lily herself.
It was an onerous responsibility. The information Lily had was next to nothing, yet her suspicion that answers could be found if tracked from Madame Chambon’s could not be broadcast.
Celeste knew something but she was afraid, keeping her counsel. Had Bernard Renquist been a spy? Did his identity as a man of means in the world of industry conceal a double life? This was the avenue Lily wanted to navigate, but if the police and authorities were not interested—as they would not be if they knew her real identity—her entreaties during her seances would continue to be meaningless.
Hamish didn’t believe her, but what if she could reveal Mr Novichov’s involvement? Though how did she reveal such a thing, and in such a short time? No, she must forget any ideas regarding a reward from Mrs Renquist, and whereas she’d held out a sliver of hope a week earlier, that she might discover something sufficient to satisfy the woman’s demands, she now realised her future would not be shored up by any financial compensation from Renquist’s widow.
The arrangement between Madame Chambon and Mr Montpelier meant she now had decent lodgings for the next two weeks.
But after Sir Robert Bradden’s arrival in the city, what, then, would happen to Lily?
* * *
Waiting for the audience to quieten, Lily rubbed her gloved hands together and then her chilled arms. It was cold and dark in the cellar, and she was looking forward to the rush of warmth that would envelop her once she stepped out of the depths through the trapdoor and into the centre of the parlour above, to confront the crowds amidst the haze.
A gong sounded, silence echoing in the aftermath of the chatter.
Lily could have heard a pin drop had the floor not been carpeted in Turkish rugs, and the occasional cry from the street vendors not filtered into Mrs Moore’s very middle-class parlour.
But that woman had an eye to milking an audience to the fullest extent of its credulity, and the lace curtains and doilies that had adorned the room when Lily first arrived in London had given way to heavy drapes of purple, gold, and black, with Oriental urns and paintings adorning the spaces once taken up by stuffed foxes in glass boxes.
“Does his earthly being still walk the earth, or can you tell the world that Bernard Renquist has quit this mortal coil and now communicates through you, his conduit, to inform us of the terrible crime committed against his person?” Mrs Moore’s quavering voice was heavy with drama and portent. There was only one way Lily could answer, but she did it with misgiving.
Lily let out her breath in a slow, drawn-out sigh, gathering her energy for the intonation that the widow and her audience had been waiting for. “Bernard Renquist wishes to make it known from the other side that through foul play, he met his maker, and his body lies in eternal rest.”
She stopped short, then let out a theatrical gasp, clutched her stomach and bent double as she cried out, “Find me! Please, find me so that my soul may be released, and my wife given her freedom. Find the perpetrator of this foul deed who followed me down a dark alley and plunged a dagger into my heart.”
Lily closed her eyes as she continued to hold her stomach while listening to the response of the audience. Would something be prompted to recall a memory? Perhaps the sight of a heavyset, white-haired man with an accent?
It was, however, a faint hope, and she didn’t really think her theatricals were going to tip the balance and unmask a murderer. Mr McTavish was perfectly correct in dampening her earlier enthusiasm.
Hamish didn’t even believe her suspicions regarding Mr Renquist. Yet, he was very ready to believe the story that Robert had broadcast about his wife.
Wasn’t that at the heart of it? The injured party was, too often, the one who had no power.
And Lily, as Robert’s despised wife, certainly had no power.
She blinked, as if coming out of a trance, opening her eyes just long enough for her to scan the audience.
She recognised a few familiar faces, locking gazes with Mr Novichov in the front row.
But the terror was short-lived because Mrs Moore was rapping on the floor, and the smoky mist was once again being released with a hiss. It was Lily’s cue to drag open the trapdoor and disappear down the steps and into her dungeon.
Her dungeon and her respite, she thought with beating heart once she was safely out of the public’s eye, and she could let out her breath in one thankful sigh.
For a long while, she stood with her cheek against the cool stone wall, eyes closed, listening as the burst of chatter above faded to nothing.
Then Mr Montpelier was before her, telling her she was free to go as their audience had dispersed.
It was a strange moment, that moment of quiet when her job was done, yet Mr Montpelier had released her with no claim upon her time. Nothing other than the faintest suggestion that he was satisfied with her performance.
Exhausted and frightened, she longed for warmth and companionship. Someone
who would believe her as well as comfort her.
But she had nowhere to go except the villa to which she’d been given the keys by Madame Chambon for two weeks.
She was, she realised, quite alone.
Chapter 22
Lily had taken a hackney home, despite the cost. She wasn’t going to risk walking alone after dark these days.
Her heart was heavy, and her future felt like a leaden weight upon her shoulders.
Grace must have heard her tread upon the path for she opened the door, her eyes large with worry. “Ma’am, I weren’t sure wot ter do,” the young maid whispered. “There’s a gennulman ’ere ter see yer but I weren’t sure if I should let ’im in.”
Feeling the burn of hope and excitement as she handed her outerwear to the maid, Lily murmured, “I’m sure you were quite right to do so, Grace. You can go to bed, now. I shan’t need you anymore.”
At the entrance to the parlour, Lily had to put her hand on the wall to support herself. Hamish had come back. His desire to be with her exceeded his reservations. He was prepared to give her the chance she needed to prove her claims.
That Mr Novichov was a villain?
Maybe not that, but that Lily could be what he needed.
Nervously she put her hand to her heart and tried to calm herself.
“Ma’am, I should tell yer—”
But Lily had already thrown open the door, Grace’s words only half attended to before she realised her error in assuming what she should not have.
For it was not Hamish who sat comfortably in the armchair by the far side of the fire, his long legs stretched in front of him, his manner as insouciant as she remembered.
“Teddy!” she gasped, as he rose, coming towards her, arms outstretched to draw her into his embrace as he touched his lips to the top of her head.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 15