Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

mmitted to helping her appear in the best light as regarded a potential romantic interest for old Fergus McTavish’s son.

If Lily had fled a violent husband, a future was still salvageable. The law had changed and it was easier for women to bring redress.

Hamish knew he was getting wildly ahead of himself but the truth was, he was wildly in love. Lily Eustace had secrets and, no doubt, he would rather not know the worst of them. But, of all the women he’d met, she exerted the most fascination.

Who knew what the future held for both of them?

But Hamish was very determined to find out.

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking about this very excellent woman,” said Lucy, and would have said more except that Mr Miniver was at the door, announcing Sir Lionel, and the next moment the old man was making his rather shaky progress towards the chair offered to him while Lucy drew back and, at a nod from Hamish, Archie excused himself.

“Hope I haven’t intruded,” said Sir Lionel. “Fact is, I was passing your offices and thought I’d look in just in case your father was here.” Wheezily, he lowered himself with a thud, carefully hooking his walking stick over the arm of the chair; then adding, after he’d been told that Mr McTavish senior rarely visited the office these days, “No matter, the old haunts of elderly gentlemen like myself are mostly in here.” He tapped his skull. “Truth is,” he added, “our last conversation at my club, in which I laid out some of those achievements of which I’m most proud, cannot be put into perspective without a true accounting of my youth.” He glanced at Lucy. “Are you the young lady who proposed that your brother write a profile of a respected figure in public office?”

She nodded.

“A redemption story, I believe you suggested, and in a moment of weakness, I declared I had much material to contribute; however, as I was amongst company at my club, I balked at revealing some of the earlier exploits of my misspent youth.” He chuckled. “Not to be repeated in front of delicate ears here, either,” he said with a look at Lucy as he drew forwards several of the photographs Archie had taken the previous night. “Well, well, what’s this all about then? Didn’t peg you for a spiritualist, McTavish.”

He held up the photograph of Mrs Eustace in which she was partly angled towards the camera, her arms raised, her gaze vacant. “Interesting looking creature,” he remarked, and Hamish breathed a silent sigh of relief that the woman he did indeed hope might be reintroduced to the polite world under his aegis was not recognisable in her disguise.

“She’s beautiful!” Lucy declared before, to his horror, she dug in the desk drawer and withdrew one of the two photographs he looked at frequently, and had no idea Lucy even knew about.

“No, Lucy!” he snapped, seizing it from her fingers, though not before Sir Lionel had raised his lorgnette, holding the photograph a moment, before releasing it to the clearly discomposed Hamish. “And now you must go, Lucy, for Sir Lionel and I have business to discuss.”

Hamish busied himself with the brandy decanter to cover his embarrassment after Lucy had gone, for he’d spoken too hastily, drawing more attention to that which he’d wanted to remain hidden. “It was good of you to humour me, Sir Lionel, and subject yourself to public scrutiny at the same time,” he said. “Call it a bit of whimsy on the part of my sister to whom I must give credit for wanting to inject a more…human touch. She challenged the dryness of my journalism.” He sent his guest a wry smile. “She accused me of appealing primarily to a god-fearing, humourless readership, and said she’d only consider picking up an issue if I was adventurous enough to include a ripping yarn of redemption. Recalling my father’s stories, you were amongst the first who came to mind.”

“I’ve no doubt your father used me as a cautionary tale.” Sir Lionel raised an eyebrow as he ran a hand through his thick snowy locks. “Well, any excuse for an old man to rake over the past and indulge in daydreams of when he was young and brave—albeit young and foolhardy—is welcomed in my twilight years.” He took a sip of his brandy, relaxed back in his chair, then asked, “Where do I begin? With my first act of utter folly, when passions ran high, and I marched the requisite paces with pistols drawn before winging my opponent?” He put his monocle to his eye and regarded Hamish with a louche grin as he went on, “Just so long as I come across as the swashbuckling hero, misguided only in his youth.” He patted his moustache of which Hamish gathered he was very proud. Sir Lionel was a vain man, and his moustache was truly a magnificent specimen.

“That is the intention of my article, yes.” Hamish took a sip of his drink then reached across for his notebook. “One learns from the mistakes of the past, to be sure. I don’t need to put words into your mouth. And I appreciate the kindness you do me of responding to my request, when I’m trading on little more than your acquaintanceship with my father and the fact we go to the same club—where I, might add, I am not often to be seen.”

“The fact we go to the same club says a lot. And you have not sunk into sensationalism—rather the contrary—so I feel safe revealing my secrets to you.” Sir Lionel’s mouth twitched. “And to the world? I trust a dashing photograph will accompany this? Like the one of the two beauties you keep secret in your drawer?” He winked, then lowered his voice. “I’d have done the same. Not that I can really make out the blonde nymph but the brunette is a beauty, and one I recognise. Can’t deny having visited Madame’s m’self.” With a glance at the door as if he feared they might be overheard, he added, “Just a word of warning. Be careful that you’re not treading on Carruther’s turf if you wanted to make a play.” Then, before Hamish could respond, Sir Lionel leaned back, saying in a more normal tone, “Yes, a photograph of me and my moustache.” He stroked it reverently. “I’ve not yet lost interest in winning over the ladies.”

“A photograph.” Hamish tried not to stammer and to keep his mind on Sir Lionel, though the old man’s reference to Carruthers had thrown him for a six. “Yes, of course I’ll include a picture. I’ll have my photographer, Mr Benedict, set up the necessary.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, anxious to understand the old man’s meaning with regard to Carruthers and Madame and trying to formulate his question when Sir Lionel went on, “Yes, a good thing I only winged him, too. Now, what year are we talking? Ah yes, the year our queen ascended the throne. Thirty-seven, it was, and I was not yet twenty and fancied myself in love with the wife of my superior officer. Let me tell you, that foolhardy little episode didn’t go well. My saving grace was that my injuries were far greater than his, and I was not expected to live, so long did I exist between this world and the next. I think my commander had forgotten all about me by the time I was declared out of the woods. And by that time, my light-o’-love had eyes only for her husband, once again.”

Hamish let go of the question he’d really been wanting to ask as he began to take notes. It was his father who’d told him that Sir Lionel, who had recently retired from the House of Commons, had had quite a reputation in his youth.

“Youthful folly is where I wanted to start with this,” Hamish agreed, “before I focus on your great contributions to society which have, naturally, redeemed those youthful excesses.” He grinned.

“And youthful folly I did indeed have in excess. I was lucky to live long enough to redeem myself.” Sir Lionel laughed. “But you know what it’s like…when you lose your heart to a lady, one is not thinking with one’s head. The power they yield can be frightening, and only a better man than I could resist that, eh?”

Hamish put down his pen. He presumed Sir Lionel didn’t require a response to that. Yes, he knew the frightening power a woman could yield over a vulnerable man’s heart. “How many duels did you fight, Sir Lionel?”

“Four. Never killed a man though, else I’d not be sitting here with you, talking about redemption.” He looked reflective as he stroked his moustache. “Luck got in the way. Redemption is hard for those who’ve committed murder. And that’s at the heart of duelling, eh? Bloodlust. The desire to assert superiority. Honour. It’s the Young Lion testing his claws, thinking honour is about besting the other man when it’s nothing of the sort. Honour is here.” He tapped his heart. “It’s not what you do to one’s opponent in the heat of the moment. No, I was lucky. Very lucky, for it was a close shave when I was Sir John’s second and facing down Lord Lambton a quarter of a century ago.” He cleared his throat. “Too close, in fact, and the last time I let the heart rule the head.”

Lord Lambton? Hamish paused in his writing. But Sir Lionel was running ahead with his commentary. “You said Sir John had you do his dirty work? And you accepted?”

“Yes, and a big mistake it was, too. I never held Sir John in high regard. Can’t think what came over me. Feller was a bounder and I risked my life for him!”

Hamish sensed reluctance on the part of the other man to elaborate, so waited patiently. Silence was often rewarded with a confession that might be forthcoming if prompted.

It was.

But only after Hamish dug a little deeper into the reasons behind the duel.

Sir Lionel took a sip of his drink. “It’s true that Sir John was defending his honour. He did have just cause to challenge Lambton. Old Lord Lambton, you see, was having an affair with Sir John’s wife.” It looked as if he were about to continue. Then he sighed and put down his drink as if it were all too much to remember. “Ah well. Enough said on that. Lord Lambton has not spoken to me since, and why would he? I tried to put a bullet in him on behalf of a man I never liked and have even less respect for, now. The old codger spends his days counting his money in his counting house, I hear. As for old Lamgton, I don’t even know if he’s alive. Now, where was I? I think I’m ready to move onto my more noble achievements, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Hamish rose on the pretext of reaching for the brandy decanter. Sir Lionel had made short work of his first drink, and although it was early in the day, and Hamish would never, under normal circumstances, have dreamed of pressing brandy upon a subject for his own ends, he could not help but prod to get more on Lord Lambton.

Or rather, Lily Eustace, given the connection.