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“Lord Lambton is very much alive. In fact, he?
??s gaining an audience through the offices of a spiritualist who has supposedly been communicating with his deceased daughter on a Wednesday night at Mrs Moore’s séances,” he said casually as he refilled Sir Lionel’s glass. “My man, Benedict, photographed one of the sessions not long ago. That’s if you’re interested in seeing your old foe after all these years.”
“Old Lambton? Who’d have believed it? A rascal in his day, so no surprise he’s been taken in by this mumbo jumbo, eh? Yes, let’s see what the years have done to my old adversary.”
Thoughtfully, Hamish pushed aside the photographs Archie had proposed could accompany the write-up on the séance to publicise Renquist’s disappearance. Mrs Eustace featured in many of them, and although she was veiled, Hamish was still concerned to ensure she not be recognised. However, if he showed Sir Lionel a photograph that featured her with Lord Lambton, would the old man make any connections?
“This was taken last week,” he said, handing his guest a photograph of Lord Lambton, seated and gazing at the spiritualist who was shrouded in a black lace mantilla.
Sir Lionel bent over it with a frown before he chuckled. “His black locks have gone white like mine. Thinner, of course.”
Hamish indicated Mrs Eustace. “And that is the spiritualist who communes with the dead, namely his dear departed daughter.”
“Yes, I heard his daughter had died some months ago. A troubled child, by all accounts.”
However, Sir Lionel made no comment on the woman in the photograph. Conflicted, Hamish slowly withdrew the second of the photographs he’d hurriedly snatched from Lucy’s innocent fingers earlier. In this picture of Lily and Celeste, the clarity was better, whereas in the other, Lily had appeared grainy and in shadow. Sir Lionel’s eyesight was obviously impaired but to Hamish, the young woman was entirely recognisable in this photograph.
Casually, he placed it on the desk; not as if he were directing it towards Sir Lionel for his notice, but as if Hamish were in fact looking for something else.
The old man picked up the photograph and stared at it a long moment. Then his eyes widened, and he muttered, “By gad, if that’s not…” Squinting, he raised his monocle and brought the photograph closer. “Surely not…” he said, under his breath, and Hamish asked quickly, “Do you recognise the woman, Sir Lionel? The blonde woman?”
“By Jove, but if my eyesight wasn’t likely to be letting me down, I’d say it was a poor mad creature I once knew. A beauty and quite sane when I met her, but from all other accounts, as mad as a March hare. Used to wander the hallways stark naked during a full moon before her husband had her locked up in a madhouse several years ago.” He glanced at Hamish. “When did you say this was taken?”
“I didn’t. However, my photographer took this a few weeks ago.”
Sir Lionel returned the photograph to within a few inches of his nose and shook his head. “Only weeks ago, you say? Then it can’t be the same woman, for right now she’s baying at the moon in some lunatic asylum in Brussels. And since this glorious creature is photographed with Carruthers’ fancy piece, I would be so bold as to suggest that she, too, is one of Madame Chambon’s nymphs.” He raked Hamish with a salacious look. “I don’t wonder you keep her likeness tucked away in your drawer. Mighty uncomfortable having to explain that to your sister, eh wot?”
“I have made no judgements, Sir Lionel, for, in truth, I do not know how either woman came to be in that photograph, and the fact the blonde damsel is in dubious company may be quite coincidental.” Hamish hoped he didn’t sound as hot under the collar as he feared he did. “They are, after all, simply sitting at opposite ends of a sofa in a public place. I believe young women of such a calling” He tapped Celeste’s face “are known for their brazenness.”
“Yes, yes, of course, young man,” Sir Lionel responded, picking up his stick and pounding it on the floor several times as if to test it preparatory to making his departure. “You can rest assured I’ll say nothing to your father. You know what’s what, and you keep a steady hand at the helm. His newspaper is in good hands, and that’s what I’ll tell him.”
Discomposed, Hamish helped Sir Lionel rise, calling to Mr Miniver to assist him down the stairs.
Then he resumed his seat at his desk, pulled out all the photographs he could find of beautiful Lily Eustace and decided there was not a moment to lose in seeing her to ascertain the full truth of who and what she was.
Chapter 18
It was early in the afternoon when Sir Lionel left, and while Hamish knew he should write up what he had, while it was fresh in his mind, the desire to pay a call upon Lily was too great. Several times he’d been on the verge of leaving the office before business had recalled him.
Making an excuse to Miniver, he snatched up his hat, shrugged on his coat, and stepped out into the street, flagging down the first passing hackney.
He should have sent her notice of his impending call, but the urge to see her this moment was all-consuming. She’d promised to tell him her story, and no doubt he was not going to like it.
It didn’t matter. If she had run away from her husband, then she’d done so to preserve her life. Full credit should go to a woman who could survive independently when the mainstay of her life had let her down as hers clearly had. Hamish would not condemn; he would not judge.
It didn’t matter. If she had run away from her husband, then she’d done so to preserve her life. Full credit should go to a woman who could survive independently when the mainstay of her life had let her down as hers clearly had. Hamish would not condemn; he would not judge.
He would listen.
The match had been struck and the tinder had combusted into a fiery flame of feeling between them. Hamish had no idea where it might lead, he only knew he had to keep seeing her.
And right now, every minute that kept him from her had seemed an eternity.
He got the driver to set him down a few houses along. A couple of minutes’ walk would give him a dose of fresh air that he felt he needed as a preliminary to any potentially uncomfortable discussions.
So, with head bent, he trod the damp pavement, hands thrust into his pockets, his collar up against the chill. Perhaps their talk would lead to somewhere warmer than the drawing room, he thought, feeling again the strong desire to hold her in his arms and press his face against her cool, creamy neck.
He was nearly there, stopping a few yards back as he heard a gate swing open and saw that it was Mrs Eustace’s house. And that a man was coming out of the garden. He had a head of bright-red hair, clearly revealed when he removed his bowler hat to scratch behind his ear, and Hamish had no difficulty in recognising Lord Carruthers from a distance.
