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She wanted to ask him the same question. Who was he? What was his position in society? Could he help her? Would he help her? Instead, she simply shrugged and said lightly. “You wouldn’t believe me. Let’s just say I’m a widow who fell on hard times, and was at my lowest ebb when you inadvertently became the means by which I managed to…survive. I might have been fleeing from you four weeks ago, but in fact you proved my salvation. I owe you a debt of thanks, Mr McTavish.”
“Good god! Working at Madame Chambon’s is not surviving, madam. Surely I am not the only reason you are here?”
There was an intensity to his manner that was intriguing. This man was respectably middle class; she knew that. He did not mix in her circles—well, the privileged circles she’d formerly inhabited—so he did not pose so great a threat as some of the gentlemen who frequented Madame Chambon’s.
Then how might he have recognised her? A tremor of doubt ran through her. She’d seen a man taking photographs that night at Madame Plumb’s. Madame Chambon had insisted Celeste take Lily along to the popular lightskirts’ haunt; however, neither had posed for any photographs. And surely one of those cameras had to be trained upon a subject for some minutes. She’d have noticed—wouldn’t she?
Still, Lily reassured herself, she had not inhabited a social arena beyond her small provincial sphere in Norfolk, and had only been to London once as a newly-married baronet’s wife six years before. She did not fear recognition.
“Make no mistake, I have not worked here in any capacity, Mr McTavish,” she was quick to point out. “After you chased me into the first house I came upon, Madame kindly agreed to look after me for four weeks during which time I have made every effort to be reunited with my family. Alas, to no avail.” She dropped her eyes, saying, “But enough of me. What business do you have with Celeste that I may be able to help you with?”
He clasped his hands together between his knees, studying her a moment, and Lily recognised a keenness of intellect and a suppressed energy, like a coiled spring, that was faintly, disturbingly exciting.
“Celeste has certain connections that are of interest to me. I wanted to ask her about them.”
Lily laughed. “Celeste does not divulge that kind of information to anyone but…” She dropped her voice. “We share a bedchamber, you know. I am familiar with Celeste’s habits and connections. I am happy to answer your questions if they do no harm.”
Yes, Lily was happy to do anything to win Mr McTavish’s trust. If he could only help her leave this place before the next four days, and offer her some form of future employment that didn’t require her to sacrifice her scruples, it would be a start.
And the interested way he was looking at her gave her hope.
“What do you know of Lord Carruthers? Is he a regular consort of Celeste’s?”
Lily met his level look. “I know a great deal about Lord Carruthers, though I’ve never entertained him as Celeste has, as I made clear earlier.” She hesitated a long while before adding, “My late husband knew him, you know.”
He leaned back. “Really, madam?”
Lily shrugged. She could tell him every detail about her life—all true—and he’d not believe her. “Lord Carruthers is Celeste’s regular Wednesday night guest.” She smiled. “Carrots, the girls call him. Not Celeste.” She smiled. “Celeste lacks humour at times.” Lily made to rise. He was interested in what she had to tell him, but it had to be worth her while. “Madame will soon be in to remind me of the value of a lady’s time. As I said, she wants me to work for her, though I’d rather starve in the gutter.”
“Please, just one more moment of your time.” Mr McTavish dug in his jacket pocket and peeled off a note from the wad he retrieved, before he resumed his questioning once she’d sat down again with a calculated show of reluctance. “How long has she been seeing Lord Carruthers, how long does she entertain him, and who else does she entertain?” he asked, reaching forward with the money.
“You don’t look the jealous kind, Mr McTavish. But then, you did go to great lengths to please your sister so you are a man of uncommon passions, it would appear.” Lily cast a surreptitious look at the doorway as she closed her hand over the notes.
When he said nothing, she answered, “Every Wednesday for as long as I’ve been here.”
“And the Russian?”
“The snowman? I believe that’s the man you are referring to, though I am unsure of his real name. You are well informed. Mr Novichov has been coming for the past three months, I believe.” She reflected a moment, adding, “Celeste never spea
ks of politics.”
“Perhaps because she’s been cautioned not to. Why the Snowman?”
Lily looked down at the pound notes in her hand. Once, it would have been a trifle she’d have used to tip a servant following a visit to a stately home. Now it was a valuable addition to what she must set aside to fund her escape.
Though to where, she had no idea, for who would help her when she had nothing? Not even a past she could lay claim to, without revealing the truth which would put her in mortal danger.
“His bulk and his head of snowy-white hair, for all he’s handsome enough, I suppose, in his way.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t like to deal with him, but then, I wouldn’t like to deal with anyone in this house.” Surreptitiously she bent down to slip the notes into her right boot. “But let me make plain, sir; I am not a common spy,” she said. “I don’t particularly care for Celeste, but I have no reason to cause her harm.” She pondered the situation before saying frankly, “I have no affinity with any of these women, yet we must be able to trust each other if we’re to…survive.”
Mr McTavish sent her another curious look. “I asked you this before, but you told me a story I didn’t quite believe. A beautiful widow with supposed connections doesn’t inhabit a house like this, even if her husband—or late husband—you were not quite consistent there—threw her into the gutter. And you were in a…let me say it quite frankly, terrible state when you first came to this house. Now, you could be…anyone.” He scratched his jaw. “I’ll ask it again. Who, exactly, are you, Mrs…?”
Lily sighed. “I haven’t properly decided.” On the side table lay a volume by Anthony Trollope. She squinted at the title: The Eustace Diamonds. “Perhaps I shall be Mrs Eustace,” she told him. “Yes, that will do for want of anything better.”
“When you stole my sister’s bonnet, you’d fled right out of the rookeries. I saw it myself.”
“The rookeries? Why, I wouldn’t even know where they were. I’m from the country and have barely been to London. But I will tell you that the day I snatched your sister’s bonnet, I was fleeing from a man who would have me be someone I had no wish to be.” She weighed up how much to confide in him. But no, she couldn’t tell him the real truth of her past in one great rush that he’d take with no more than a grain of salt. If that.
This needed to be a relationship she could nurture. He was a gentleman with money and connections, clearly. Could she persuade him to return tomorrow?
