Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

Startled, Hamish glanced up, quickly drawing back his hand as he pushed back his chair. “Thank you, Miniver.”

The spell was broken. She stood up, and he rose with her, putting out his hand, nodding as she asked, “You’ll think about it, Mr McAlister?”

“I will, but I doubt the editorial board will sanction it?”

“Aren’t you the editorial board?”

He smiled, dropping her hand which he realised he’d retained too long, using brusqueness to cover his embarrassment as he said, simply, “Good day, Mrs Eustace. Mr Miniver, will you please escort my visitor downstairs.”

Chapter 13

Lily glanced up at the sun and considered her next movements. There was one important visit she had to make before dusk, occasioned by her informative, disconcerting visit to the offices of McTavish & Son.

Informative, of course, because of how much about her the photographer actually knew, as well as his revelation that Celeste had known the murder victim. Mr Renquist’s death had occurred just before Lily had been taken in by Madame Chambon, yet Celeste had not mentioned the man’s name, nor had any of the other girls.

Had they been warned against doing so on account of Madame’s aversion to the police? Hardly surprising in view of the illegal business she ran.

What had been particularly disconcerting was that Mr McTavish’s inability to hide his attraction to Lily had resulted in a quite inconvenient response on her part.

Just thinking about it made her stop in the middle of the pavement as she walked the city streets to take a sustaining draught of air to clear her head. Mr McTavish was really quite lovely. When he’d stopped playing the part of the insufferable prig, he’d looked with such kindness and compassion into her eyes as he’d explained why he couldn’t accede to her request, that it was as if the gauze curtain between them had been lifted, and she realised how matters stood—Mr McTavish had to answer to his father.

Only, he didn’t want to be diminished in the eyes of the photographer by admitting it.

He’d nearly reached out his hand to take hers across the desk. And she’d nearly extended hers when he’d lacked courage.

Her heart hitched. Mr McTavish was an interesting young man with more layers and depth than she’d given him credit, but, understandably, he didn’t know what to make of her, and he was afraid of showing his feelings when he feared she was the very worst type of woman.

She tucked her reticule more firmly under her arm and continued to walk, this time with greater resolve. The sooner she could earn herself a handsome payment for doing what she was currently doing for no more than board and keep, the sooner she could escape from her domestic nightmare and return as the type of woman an upstanding young man like Mr McTavish would honour and revere.

There was no fact around it. She liked him very much indeed. And when Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had no more use for her, what would she do then? How would she survive? It was a practical consideration.

She needed a protector and Mr McTavish might just answer. After all, Teddy had clearly not received her letter. Perhaps he’d left the country.

“Divorce scandal rocks the aristocracy!” The cheerful shout of a street urchin selling newspapers on the next corner was like being doused with iced water. Of course, it was not the first time Lily had heard about the trials and tribulations of Lord and Lady Dewberry, whose unhappy marriage had been gossip fodder for at least the past two months.

But it was a brutal reminder of the uncertainty of Lily’s future.

Bigamist and the beauty! Divorce and Destitution. These were some of the headlines bandied about lately, reminding her that the lower orders had a ghoulish fascination with the domestic affairs of the aristocracy when privileged lives tipped into public disorder.

Not that Lily had been born into the nobility. Her father had been a mere baronet. Landed gentry, not aristocracy. But he’d been rich, and her dowry had been the enticement for Sir Robert, who, while not a gambler or a spendthrift, needed funds.

For his lover, she reflected bitterly.

Not that she’d known he’d had a lover when she’d married him. Her father had told her nothing other than that she’d been admired, and that an advantageous offer would be made if she conducted herself appropriately during Sir Robert’s visit.

How Lily had striven to impress both her father—whom she hadn’t seen for three years—and Sir Robert, who had appeared charmed by her.

She’d felt so proud when her papa had announced over breakfast the day before she was to return home to her aunt that Sir Robert had indeed requested his daughter’s hand in marriage.

Lily had done everything she could to please her father. Of course, she’d accepted him.

“Can ’e forgive ’er?”

There was another one. Another newspaper seller shouting to the world the private pain of a poor misunderstood wife.

Lily had no doubt that it was the husband’s side of the story that garnered public sympathy. He had the money and the power.

Like Robert had after he’d married her.