Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“Are you inviting me?”

“No, I am not,” she said quickly. “Mrs Moore does not permit non-believers.”

“Despite her star performer being one?”

“I did it to bring him comfort.”

“Forgive me, I thought material gain might have been the motivation.”

He knew he deserved the scandalised look Lucy sent him before Mrs Eustace inclined her head, saying softly, “I’m sure I’d never question whether you believed everything you printed in your magazine, Mr McTavish. Good day to you both. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lucy.”

“Hamish, what got into you!” Lucy cried as they watched the woman’s shapely form disappear round a bend. “You were so rude to her! And you barely know her!”

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening in sudden insight as she gasped, “You do know her. That’s why you have her photograph on your desk, even though you aren’t going to publish it because of course Manners & Morals wouldn’t countenance an article on spiritualism.” Then, without waiting for him to respond, she went on in a rush, “It’s because you didn’t know what to say to her that you became all combative and taciturn. Because you’re afraid of goodness and beauty! You think the only woman worthy of being your wife should be some dowdy little do-gooder, yet Mrs Eustace makes your heart beat faster, and you’re angry with yourself for there being something you can’t control!”

“Enough, Lucy!” Hamish snapped, his lips pressed together, agitation coursing through his veins as he struggled to say more.

For innocent, winsome Lucy who had no experience of life, let alone lovers, had just summed up the matter with frightening clarity.

Chapter 11

After three Wednesday seances, Lord Lambton lived for further, more prolonged glimpses of the daughter he’d lost.

Of fever in her bed, said some. Drowned, by her own hand, according to others.

Lily only overheard snippets of conversation between Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier describing the success and growing interest in these spiritual evenings, for she saw little, being veiled for the most part. The week before, however, she’d stayed longer as the mist had cleared and pushed back her veil, as she’d been told.

The response had been disarming and disturbing.

Lord Lambton had abruptly stood. Then he’d crumpled back into his seat and wept.

“I say give ‘im anuvver couple o’ minutes ternight ter gaze upon ’is lost girl ’an ’e’s good fer a tenner more,” Lily overheard Mrs Moore tell Mr Montpelier in a loud whisper as they sat, heads close together, on a sofa in the rather cramped parlour where these so-called supernatural events took place.

Lily hesitated within the curtained embrasure that was just inside the door that led from the passage to the parlour. She’d been on her way to report for her duties for that evening’s performance, but as she was kept completely in the dark as to what the pair intended for the following weeks, she wanted to hear as much as she could.

“Top that wiv anuvver tenner, cousin,” said Mr Montpelier with a soft laugh. “Ol’ Lambton ’ad an iron constitution when it came ter politics, but ’e’s nuffink but a sentimental sop at ’eart, ain’t he?”

This was not a conversation Lily was supposed to hear. Concerned, she eased her way further back within the encompassing folds of the heavy velvet curtains. The room was a monument to the craze for the unexplained, with heavily framed pictures of ghostly scenes, photographs of so-called ghosts surprised on Earth as they floated just above the ground, domes containing skulls and books of spells and chants to summon the dead.

Amidst all this were a jumble of sofa and chairs, with the aspidistras and other fernery pushed aside to make way for the increasing amounts of standing room required as word spread of Mrs Moore’s mystical evenings, and more and more people jostled to get a ticket.

“’Ow long can all this last afore the ol’ cove gets an inklin’, Mrs Moore?”

Lily was taken aback to listen to the pair revert to what was, clearly, their usual manner of rough speaking.

And to the fact they were related.

Peeking past the curtain’s gold fringing, she saw Mrs Moore preening, running the forefinger of her mauve-gloved hand the length of the ostrich feather that waved from her sequinned velvet headwear. “I ain’t stupid, Mr Montpelier. Course there’s a limit ter ’ow long we can string ’im along. Reckon mayhap anuvver couple ’o Wednesdays, mayhap three afore we’ll ’ave ter retire poor little Miss Cassandra, eh?”

It was fortunate Lily had the support of the back wall or her knees might not have held up. Another couple of weeks was all they needed? Then where would she go?

Into the spirit world?

She held her breath. If they planned to be rid of her, she couldn’t let them know she’d overheard.

“Nevva gave yer the credit yer deserved, Mr Montpelier when yer went inter service instead o’ joinin’ the rest o’ the family on the stage, an’ nor were I more ashamed than ter ’ear yer’d bin given yer marchin’ orders fer stealin’ yer lor’ship’s cufflinks but ’ow nicely it did play out, eh?”

“I were not cut out fer the stage like yer side o’ the family, Mrs Moore; that was made verra clear ter me.” Mr Montpelier sounded a trifle aggrieved.