Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

Lily may well not be mad, and an analysis of the powder in the bag Grace had given would prove, he feared, that Lucy also was a victim.

But if Dr Swithins had committed evil acts in the past, he may well be on his way to committing the most evil of all unless Hamish discovered Lily in time.

Though where would he even begin looking?

Inspector Ryan would under no circumstances allow Hamish access to Celeste’s diary, he was told when he was shown into his office. That had been his first idea. Not that Hamish thought Igor Novichov had any link with the doctor.

No, Dr Swithins was a man from Lily’s more distant past, and the only person Hamish could think of who might be able to wield some influence and who possibly might suggest other avenues lived in a handsome residence in Hampstead.

Hamish leapt out of the hackney when it came to a stop. Although the hour was late and Lord Lambton may already be in bed, the urgency for action was too great.

At first, there was no response to his loud knocking, but finally he was admitted

by the butler and, after a lengthy negotiation, Lord Lambton himself appeared in the drawing room where Hamish had been led to wait.

The old man looked distinctly out of sorts when he entered, and his first words after Hamish had done his best to explain his visit indicated his scepticism. Nevertheless, his curiosity was piqued.

“What is this information you have for me that it can’t wait until the morning? You might not be as bad as the grubby newspaper reporter after a story, but that’s your trade, isn’t it?”

“Morals & Manners is hardly hack journalism,” Hanish protested, trying not to show his awe, for he’d never been in such a splendid home.

Hamish saw him wince. “Cassandra died eight months ago. There’s nothing more to be said on the matter.”

“I’m not talking about that daughter,” Hamish said, trying to contain his agitation and to keep his voice calm. “I’m talking about your daughter by—” He sought for a name. “I’m talking about your daughter by Sir John Taverner’s wife.”

Indignation left Lord Lambton’s body like a deflating balloon. The strength also seemed to have left his legs, for he collapsed very suddenly upon the nearest chair. “Susan?”

Carefully Hamish clarified, “Sir John Taverner’s wife was called Susan? Yes, Susan. She bore her husband a child eight months after the duel you fought with Sir John.”

Lord Lambton blinked rapidly. “Susan said nothing to me…” He trailed off, looking bewildered. “She went to the Continent where I learned she’d died.” Jerking his head round to face Hamish, he added sharply, “If this is a ploy to extract money from me—”

“No, my Lord, please hear me out.” Hamish knew he had to tread carefully, but time was of the essence. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the photograph of Lily and Celeste.” “Look carefully at the blonde woman.”

“But that’s Mrs Eustace. Yes, the likeness is extraordinary.” His expression softened. “It gives me pleasure to look upon her face and imagine it is my own Cassandra communicating with me from beyond the grave.”

“It’s more than a likeness, my Lord.” Hamish leaned in, tapping the photograph in his excitement. “This woman may go by the name Mrs Eustace, but in truth, she is the daughter of Susan, Lady Taverner.” He sought to curb his impatience. “Sir Lionel told me of the duel in which he was your second. It was he who voiced his suspicions about Mrs Eustace’s parentage when he came to my office with a photograph of Cassandra.” He waited, watching the confusion flit across the old man’s face. Slowly and clearly, he repeated, “Mrs Eustace is the daughter who was born eight months after that duel, and I’ve only just learned the truth of it.”

Of course, it was difficult for Lord Lambton to grasp the entirety of it all.

He shook his head then fell back into his chair by the fire, his hand to his heart. “And if she is my daughter, why knock so urgently upon my door at such a late hour?” He sent Hamish a narrow look as he added perspicaciously, “Unless you had a very good reason for doing so.”

So, Hamish explained the police inspector’s visit, investigating the murder of a young woman whose diary had outlined the threat one of her male friends had made against Lily.

“But why now? Why tonight?” he asked peevishly. “This does sound rather far-fetched, Mr McTavish. Normally I would send you away. But knowing your father and the periodical of which you are highly esteemed as its editor, a god-fearing man of moderated impulses, I will indulge you. Why do you suppose this young woman, who may or may not be my daughter, is in danger?”

It was only through repeating to Lord Lambton all that he’d learnt this afternoon, that Hamish had been able to piece together the possibilities that might outline crime and motive.

“Because your daughter married Lord Bradden, who, believing her dead, has now married his long-time mistress.” He was growing excited. “And I suspect that the doctor who cared for Lady Bradden during her marriage, and who himself delivered her to a lunatic asylum in Brussels, has a vested interest in ensuring that the fiction of her death becomes fact.”

Chapter 33

Lily did not want to go walking by the cliff with Teddy. She felt frail and emotionally exhausted. And his insistence was grating on her.

Yes, he’d rescued her and declared he was going to look after her into the future, but he’d said that before.

So many men in her life had reneged on their obligations or their promises to look after her.

“Please, let me sleep a little, Teddy.” She sank down upon the window seat by the open casement of the tavern where they had arrived that afternoon. After so many hours on the road, she didn’t think she could keep her eyes open. “I’ll walk with you when I’ve regained my strength a little.” She tried for an ameliorating smile, but he seemed anxious.