Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“No. Thank you.” Tight-lipped, he stared at Lily a long second before inclining his head at the two women. “I merely came to pay my respects. Nothing more.”

Nothing more, Lily thought wryly. There’d been plenty more, and Lily could have helped him—and have been rewarded for it.

But now Mr McTavish was gone, thinking even less of her—and certainly not in the mood for playing the heroic saviour Lily had hoped he might be.

A reflection that cast Lily into even greater despair when Madame announced that Mr Montpelier would in fact be arriving within the hour to take Lily to her new accommodation, so she’d best prepare herself.

Chapter 7

“So yer met the blonde beauty, eh, guvnor? ’Ope yer ’ad a nice evenin’. Me Gracie says she’s a real picky one.” Archie, who had arrived at Madame Chambon’s the previous night with Hamish, had not been seen since, though he obviously knew where to waylay Hamish.

Hamish stopped and turned as he was about to mount the stairs to his club. Somewhere refreshment could be had in peace and quiet, which was what Hamish needed following his unexpectedly charged and turbulent exchange with the ‘beauty’ to whom Archie referred.

&nbs

p; “No.” Hamish hoped his clipped tones were sufficiently quelling. He wanted a drink. Just the one, of course, while he read The Times. And then he’d return home so he could be in bed by eleven, ready for a long day in the office the following day as The Family’s Guide to Manners & Morals would be going to press late in the evening.

“Are yer printin’ ’er photograph? No shame in changin’ yer mind. ’Sides, yer jest printin’ wot’s in the public interest, an’ a picture o’ Lor’ Carruthers is ‘allus in the public interest.”

Hamish tapped his fingers upon the top of his cane, impatient as he stepped back from the gate that led to the four-square building to let another gentleman pass. “I cannot print such a photograph in my magazine. No editor would.”

“I ’fought yer wanted ter expose the rottin’ moral undabelly o’ a sanctimonious —”

“Come, Archie, I do not have a death wish. My magazine would be closed down five minutes after such a photograph was published. The public would be baying for my blood; rocks would be thrown through the windows. What a government minister does behind closed doors is his affair, and there is not the appetite to turn that on its head. Surely even you understand that?”

Archie stuck his chin out. “I ’fought yer was changin’ direction. I ’eard yer ain’t on such good terms wiv yer ol’ man an’ that yer relished the opportunity fer usin’ the magazine fer the public good. Not jest prosin’ good works, but exposin’ double standards an’ the like.”

Hamish stilled. There was no point in trying to argue Archie down from his moral high ground, but it was concerning that the private matters of the McTavish family appeared to be in the public domain. “Where did you hear that?”

Archie looked evasive. “I jest ’appened ter be standin’ near a door that weren’t quite as closed as mayhap yer ’fought it was when yer went ter it, ’eart ter ’eart, wiv a trusted friend o’ yers.”

“You were eavesdropping? Is that why you sold me that photograph? Because you really thought I would publish it?” Hamish was angry. He’d been angry when he’d left Madame Chambon’s, but he was mostly angry at himself, and ashamed, for being careless. And for caring. Yes, caring too much about what others thought of him.

Archie, to some extent, for believing he had the stomach to follow through on his beliefs. But namely Mrs Eustace, if that’s what she now chose to call herself. She thought him a buttoned-up moral prig, and so did Archie, yet neither knew how deeply he wished he could forge his own path. He was feeling his way, and he would not be rushed. Could not be. Too much was at stake, not least the daily possibility that his father would snatch the editorship from his hands.

But that did not mean he was impervious to opinion.

Or doing what he believed was right.

“Sure, an’ don’t print me photograph. Yer paid me well ’nuff fer it, an’ that’s all as counts in me book.” Archie looked mulish. “But wot say yer ter more o’ that? Not ter publish, necessarily—though it may come ter that if ’tis deemed in the public interest…at some stage. Wot say I keep me eyes an’ ears open ter any whispers that,” he dropped his voice, “our country’s safety is bein’ put at risk ’frough the peccadilloes o’ ’em wot’s bein’ paid ter keep us safe an’ wot pretends ter be so full o’ virtue.”

Hamish realised Archie had deduced what he had. He’d not for a moment thought the photographer knew anything about either Lord Carruthers or the Russian.

When Archie looked about to give up the conversation and move off at Hamish’s silence, Hamish said suddenly, “Your friend who works as a servant at Madame Chambon’s…” he hesitated, “she’s a girl who keeps her ear to the ground and likes to tell you things?”

“More like ‘ter the wall’,” Archie said with a snigger. “Yeah, Gracie likes me well enough so I can pry ’er fer wot yer’d like ter know…if yer make it worth me while.”

“Furthermore, you like to frequent places of interest in the hopes of a photograph that’ll earn you more than a pot of porter, aren’t I right, Archie?”

“Dead right, guvnor.”

“Well, the truth is, I am interested in this woman, Celeste.”

Archie looked eager. “A bit o’ a retainer wouldn’t go astray.”

“No, I’ll stop short of offering that. But…” Hamish hesitated, “the other woman. The blonde—”

“An’ yer partial ter blondes, ain’t that right, guvnor?”