Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

Hamish could not respond. In the sunlight, standing so close, he could smell the violet scent she wore; she was mesmerising. Who was she?

“My late husband was a subscriber to Manners & Morals, and it was clear that retribution, not reform, was believed by the editor at the time to be the key to keeping the lower classes in check and thus revolution from our shores.” She spoke with the modulated voice of someone who really did hail from the upper classes and not the gutter, yet Hamish could not be taken in. She was an actress; he had to believe it. A guttersnipe who’d learned to ape her betters, to speak like them. She was parroting someone else’s words. Why else would she be friendless? What else could he believe?

“Goodness,” murmured Lucy. “My father founded the magazine, you know, and oversaw every editorial decision until he became unwell and my brother came back from France to take over.”

“Is that so, Miss McTavish?” Mrs Eustace smiled at Lucy and said in a tone that was clearly meant to convey more to Hamish than to his sister, “Your brother is doing a fine job of keeping his father’s loyal subscribers happy, yet there are occasions when he shows flashes of surprising tolerance towards those who transgress. For several years, I had no occasion to read the monthly edition of Manners & Morals to which my late husband was addicted, but very recently I resumed a very great interest in it. Such an improving magazine with so many tips on how I might better myself which I take quite to heart.” Her eyes flashed a smile that did not reach her lips as she transferred her look to Hamish.

“I am delighted that you find it such a useful resource, Mrs Eustace,” Hamish said drily.

“And you, Miss McTavish? It must be challenging, at times, to have to live up to the ideals of two such upstanding men. Your father and your brother.”

She said this with feigned cheer, but the blush that suffused Lucy’s face was instant as the girl stammered, “I…couldn’t. It’s why I live with my brother now.”

“Oh, my poor child, I had no intention of distressing you. I am so sorry.” She put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder and leaned into her, her expression genuinely remorseful.

And so utterly bewitching Hamish had to turn his head away.

“But I am sure it is the perfect arrangement,” declared Mrs Eustace. “And you are surely the perfect sister who has no fear of failing to live up to anyone’s ideals, least of all your brother’s. For who has not sinned, whether in deed or thought, Miss McTavish?”

Lucy made a quick recovery as she put her hand over Mrs Eustace’s, looking at the woman as if she were staring at a goddess. “Goodness, I don’t think I’ve pondered the matter as deeply as y

ou have, when I suppose I really should have. I just know that what is wrong is wrong…and what is right is right.”

Mrs Eustace considered this. “I once thought like you, Miss McTavish.” She smiled at Hamish, adding, “That is until I realised how open to opinion was the concept of right and wrong. Who is to judge, besides?”

Hamish wanted to end the conversation, but on the other hand, he wanted Lucy gone so he could have Mrs Eustace all to himself. He wanted to take her to task for speaking like that to his innocent young sister.

Though, really, he knew that was just an excuse as he felt his own fascination twine through his body, as thick and intense as the vines that grew up to surround the Sleeping Beauty. Only, in the space of seconds rather than a hundred years.

“The photograph I saw showed you with Mrs Bennet, the famous spiritualist,” Lucy went on in tones of breathless excitement. “She’s held in such high regard. Everyone talks about her. What is she like?”

“Really Lucy, this spiritualist business is humbug,” Hamish interrupted, sounding more irritated than he’d have liked, for now he sounded like the taciturn humbug, he realised.

“Calling forth the afterlife?” Mrs Eustace asked with a serene smile, “I don’t believe in it myself, it is true.”

“Yet you dabble in it,” Hamish challenged, and Lucy sent him a concerned look which caused him to flush hotly for he knew his accusatory tone was uncalled-for.

“I’m interested in it, that is true.”

“I’m told you took part last night. How can you say you don’t believe in it if you participated?”

“Many people act parts they don’t believe in,” she countered reasonably. “I’m sure there are plenty of vicars who have lost their faith but still need to feed their families. Or peddlers of beauty products who know nothing can hold back the hands of time.”

“So, you do attend these spiritualist meetings?” Lucy was wide-eyed, still staring at Mrs Eustace as if she thought her the most beautiful creature she’d set eyes upon. Which was exactly how Hamish was feeling this very minute; a feeling he intended to fight, all the way. “How thrilling. Do pray tell me more? Who was called forth? Did they oblige?”

“A bereaved father recalled his beloved daughter from the grave.” Mrs Eustace looked genuinely sorrowful. “He was overjoyed when she appeared.”

Hamish cleared his throat. “Lord Lambton, no less, I heard. I hadn’t pegged him for believing in such nonsense.”

“Poor Lord Lambton. Of course he would believe anything in the hope of seeing Cassandra again!” Lucy cried, excited. “Was it really him? I went to school with Cassandra. She was a lovely girl.”

Hamish studied Mrs Eustace for some sign of discomfort. Or embarrassment. “So, you called up her spirit?” he said, not hiding his disparagement. “Made her father believe you were his dead daughter?”

“He was overjoyed when his supposed daughter spoke to him.” Mrs Eustace looked a trifle defensive. “You mightn’t be a believer, Mr McTavish, but it brought him joy. And you can’t argue that’s not a good thing.”

“But it won’t bring his daughter back.”

“You weren’t there, Mr McTavish.”