Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“Fact an’ fiction are summat one an’ the same when the world sees it their way,” Archie said cheerfully. “Yer may see it as yer job ter educate, but the public won’t choose ter be educated by yer if yer don’t serve ’em up anyfink ter titillate. A fine balance is what ’tis, eh?” He jabbed an elbow in Mrs Eustace’s direction. “Put a beauty like ’er on the front page an’ the world will take notice an’ then suddenly yer’ll be makin’ all the money yer need ter throw yer focus where yer wants it ter be—educatin’. But yer got ter get the money ter do that, first.”

Mrs Eustace blinked and pressed her pretty lips together. “I think I’d be just as happy not to have my photograph on the front of any newspaper, or anywhere else, thank you. No lady wants to be recognised in such a public way, Mr Benedict.” She nodded at Hamish. “But I thought, perhaps, a photograph of the medium, Mrs Moore, and her crystal ball, and perhaps some words to explain the desire of the bereaved widow to bring her husband’s murderer to justice, or even to find her husband’s body.” She hesitated. “And, even more importantly, a photograph of the audience for it may be that the murderer was unable to resist attending?”

“Yer an intelligent woman wiv a mind afta me own,” said Archie. “That poor man, a rich industrialist...vanished inter thin air.” He clicked his fingers and looked at Hamish. “Bringin’ a murderer ter justice must be the greatest duty o’ a God-fearin’ society. Don’t yer reckon, guvnor? A moral duty it’d be to do everyfink possible ter apprehend a heinous perpetrator o’ bloodcurdling crimes.”

Hamish had a hard time refraining from rolling his eyes. “When nothing was found beyond a few bloodstains, which may not even have been those of Mr Renquist, the police concluded that it was just as likely that he disappeared because he wanted to.”

“Or not,” Archie said darkly. “Did I ever tell yer that me lady friend wot works at a certain ’igh class ’stablishment that yer know, ter, Mr McTavish…” He sent Hamish a meaningful look before raking Mrs Eustace with knowing eyes, “whose name is Gracie, reckons this person o’ interest, Mr Renquist, were well known ter ’er mistress.”

“You did not, Archie. No doubt there was nothing to it, either.” Hamish wanted to shut down this avenue of discussion very quickly. Of course, Archie knew very well by now that Mrs Eustace was the blonde beauty who had captivated him, and whom he’d photographed at Madame Plumb’s, and whom Hamish may have visited on business at Madame Chambon’s. Who knew what conclusions he’d drawn as to why she was visiting his office now? Not that it wasn’t all rather a shock to Hamish too.

And he could not be dispassionate about the fact she was standing so close to him, either. The truth was, her very nearness was having a very real and uncomfortable effect on him, which he sincerely hoped was not noticeable to anyone else.

Fortunately, there was none of the tawdry in Mrs Eustace’s neat, fashionable appearance that suggested she was a woman of dubious moral character, which could have had serious ramifications for himself and his publication. Not to mention what his father might have done had word come to his ears that his son had been brazenly visited by a barque of frailty in his office in the middle of the day.

Or, any time. Hamish was well aware that Mr Miniver, one of his clerks, regularly gave a thorough accounting to Hamish’s father whenever his suspicions were aroused that Hamish might be considering decisions that ran counter to the old man’s.

“I think that’s all, Mr Benedict,” Hamish said firmly, taking a few steps forward as he tried, physically, to edge Archie from his office. Archie was trying to milk this for all it was worth.

As to what Hamish would do with Mrs Eustace, his first thought was that he’d like to offer to walk her home. But he immediately recognised both the danger and the folly of such a desire, and wondered how such a notion could have entered his head.

Archie stood his ground, moving slightly round the table to be closer to Mrs Eustace, to whom he now showed off his shutter box proudly. “Reckon a few photographs wiv this instrument o’ magic could go a long way, an’ me Gracie said the same fing, though at the time the constabulary weren’t askin’ ’er or Miss Celeste anyfink an’, yer know, Madame Chambon don’t like the police, so she said there’d be a ruckus if they blabbled like canaries ’bout wot might a’ gone on.”

Hamish felt a wave of something quite near to panic as he glanced at Mrs Eustace. What would she make of this? Archie’s reference to Madame Chambon’s was too close to the bone. Would she imagine Hamish had spoken slightingly of the women at Madame Chambon’s? Of her? That he’d revealed a past she clearly would want kept secret?

He wanted to refute any suggestion but instead said softly, “I think you’ve said enough, Archie. Please leave so that I may see what else I can do to assist Mrs Eustace. I’m happy to take instruction on what you would like printed in the Wanted column, rather than sending you to Mr Miniver. Please, Mrs Eustace, take a seat.”

He sat opposite her, the wide desk taking up too much space.

And not enough. For one moment of madness, he felt like locking the door and reaching for her hand.

A faint furrow creased her forehead, and he said reassuringly, “Archie knows only what he deduced from taking a photograph of you at Madam Plumb’s. You should know that…in case it puts you in a difficult position.”

She put her hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened in real fear. “There is a photograph of me? In the public domain? Oh, please, no! Celeste simply took me to some dancing rooms. I had no idea it was frequented by,” she dropped her eyes, and he was astonished to

see deep colour flood her face as she added, “prostitutes.”

He might have made some dry rejoinder, but he didn’t. The truth was, he simply didn’t know what to make of her.

She went on, “I know the photographer took some photographs at Mrs Bennet’s séance and that Mr Elkington posed, but I do not recall having been included in anything that might fall into the hands of the public.”

Leaning forwards, he asked gently, “Why are you here, Mrs Eustace?”

Her gloved hands, he noticed, trembled as she fixed her beautiful, frightened eyes upon his and said, “I was instructed to do what I could to get some public attention for the séance.” She swallowed. “After Mrs Moore failed, that is.”

He nodded. Good lord, each time he saw this woman the effect on him was more severe.

“There’s a reward, you see.” She leaned slightly forwards so that he felt his heart hitch as she said faintly, “It would please me so much if you considered an article for your newspaper, Mr McTavish.”

Hamish regarded her steadily. He wished he could say yes, but his father would be vehemently opposed; he was certain of it. The old man’s religion took a dim view of those who dabbled in the supernatural.

In the tense silence, he tried to formulate the right response. She was an enigma, a woman of loose morals he had to infer from her tenure at Madame Chambon’s. A thief from the gutter, he had to assume after she’d stolen Lucy’s hat.

But she was also a fascinating enigma. Clearly, she was so much more than all the things he knew her to be.

Of course, he shouldn’t care when there could be absolutely nothing between them. But he hated the fact she thought him a buttoned-up prig beholden to his father. Still, it was a defence against the attraction he felt. Resisting the temptation to reach out and clasp her hand, and touch his lips to the soft, smooth skin on the underside of her impossibly dainty wrist was hurting his head.

“Sir Lionel to see you, Mr McTavish.”