Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“I have fears on many scores, Mr Montpelier, but since you refuse to enlighten me, I have no choice but to kick my heels and await illumination…or rescue.”

He rose and, at the door, stopped and turned. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Mrs Eustace. You might be beautiful, but there is little else to recommend you to any would-be protector, it would seem. I have made enquiries.”

After all that had happened and all he had said, his parting words were what finally broke her.

But only after he’d bowed himself out of the room. For it was too much to be reminded of the fact that she’d grown from a child too unlovable for her sole remaining parent to wish to have anything to do with, into a creature who held absolutely no interest for her husband. A husband who would no doubt be delighted to hear that his barren wife might be replaced by one who would give him heirs.

Chapter 8

A parliamentary debate. A dry discussion that would be of interest to some readers.

An archery competition. One that featured both men and women drawing their crossbows and certainly was of greater interest, visually, than anything else Hamish had on his desk, and this being due to the fact that the photograph featured Lady Whittington, a famed society beauty who looked like a majestic Amazon in her gown of black-and-white stripes.

With a fingertip at the bottom of each image, Hamish moved the former to the left, and the latter to the pile of possibilities on his desk just beneath the inkpot.

The left would definitely be included in the next issue of Manners & Morals. It would inspire some robust debate in the Letters to the Editor section which would please the magazine’s founder.

And pleasing his father was, after all, Hamish’s chief responsibility if he wished to remain at the helm while old Mr McTavish was on his sickbed.

If he included Lady Whittington’s picture, he’d have to jettison his plans for a serialised adventure story that contained a suggestion of romance and replace it with a more prosaic homily for children.

“Thank you, Archie,” Hamish said in dismissal. The photographer was standing close by his left shoulder, having just delivered the selection of photographs Hamish had requested. “That will be all.”

“I ain’t done, guvnor,” said the photographer, his final offering already between thumb and fingertip, a secret little smile playing about his lips, Hamish saw when he glanced up. Silently, and with an air of triumph, Archie dropped the photograph onto the desk in front of Hamish.

Hamish drew it before him and frowned. The photograph was not up to the technical standard of the archery competition or the debate. Those subjects had obviously posed, unmoving, for the requisite time.

In this photograph, the subject was clearly not aware she was being photographed, though the fact she and her companions had kept still for a sufficient length of time made the younger woman easy to identify with just a slight blurriness at the edges.

“Ain’t she the one yer wanted me ter find?” Archie asked. “The blonde, not the brunette? Or were it both, cos the brunette weren’t there? Nevva mind, I knew yer was lookin’ fer the blonde ’cos yer couldn’t resist ’er enticements fer all yer’d not admit it even ter yerself.”

“Lord, Archie, that’s not true—”

“Reckon ’tis,” said the photographer, his sly grin stretching wider. “That is ’er, ain’t it?”

“Mrs Eustace? Yes.” Hamish held the photograph up to the light and tried to place her surroundings. She was in a room, seated on an elegant sofa, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman standing at her right shoulder, a stout, middle-aged woman in black seated beside her, both with their hands upon a card table in front of them.

“What are they doing?” Hamish’s frown deepened.

“It were Mrs Bennet’s Wednesday ‘At ’Ome’ an’ I were photographin’ ’er little crowd in diff’rent vignettes, as she called it. Yer can imagine me excitement when I recognised Mrs Eustace.”

“Why did Mrs Bennet request your services?”

“’Parently she’s a member o’ a spiritualist group wot talks ter the dead. People come ter ’er At ’Omes an’ listen ter spirits rappin’ on the table, an’ the like, tryin’ ter talk ter their loved ones. Least, that’s wot I were told.”

Hamish looked more closely at the gentleman who appeared, on closer examination, to be focusing his gaze down Mrs Eustace’s bodice rather than upon the baize-topped table.

He was surprised at the discomfort this occasioned and refused to recognise it as a twinge of envy. “And who is the man?”

“Lor’ Elkin’ton wot’s big in spiritualist circles.” Archie leaned over and took possession of his photograph. He held it up and gazed at it lovingly. “A real beauty, ain’t she?” he murmured. “Reckon Lor’ Elkin’ton ’fought so too.”

Hamish tapped his fingers on the table and stared through the window. “Is that the impression you got?” he asked with a contrived show of unconcern.

“Well, ’e didn’t want ter stop talkin’ ter ’er. An’ then ’e got mighty excited when he ’eard that she were a medium an’ all—”

“What?”

“A medium. I ’fought I tol’ yer. Someone wot talks ter the dead ’an conveys their messages ter the livin’—”