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The tall, beautiful brunette who was obviously awaiting orders on the other side of the curtain reappeared.
“Take this young person somewhere secure while I make a few arrangements.” Madame smiled at Mr Montpelier, who Lily observed, smiled back for the first time. The effect was not comforting. The relaxation of his facial features merely emphasised the hardness of his eyes.
“Come to my office, Mr Montpelier. Celeste, entertain our unexpected young guest while I’m gone. I’m sure we both want to know a little more about her.”
* * *
So, she was to be a prisoner after all.
Lily closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall of the small withdrawing room to which she’d been led.
The young woman who had led her there—Celeste—seemed to regard the duty as rather tiresome, for she sighed in irritation as she wandered to the window and looked out over the small garden.
“You’ve certainly caused a great deal of trouble today,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she suddenly burst ou
t in mimicry, adding in jaded tones, “Where did you perfect such a perfectly plaintive little speech. Well…” She sighed. “It won’t work on Madame. She sees through everyone who comes to work here and—”
“I am not coming to work here!”
Celeste cast a surprised look over her shoulder. “Goodness, you really have perfected the talk. I thought you had only a couple of lines. Go on, tell me where you’re from.”
Lily stared. What could she say? I’m Lady Bradden? A glance at her emaciated form and her shabby clothing was enough to remind her that the truth was both beyond belief and dangerous. And even if she were convincing enough as to her real identity, the moment someone from her husband’s circles got wind of the possibility she’d absconded from her maison of the insane in Brussels, then her freedom would be at an end.
“I’m not from the gutter even if I look it,” she muttered.
“Good lord, you’re very good,” Celeste said admiringly. “I, too, have had a spectacular fall in circumstance, but I grew up speaking like this. You must surely have learned from imitation? Your employer, perhaps? Or were you on the stage?”
Lily was saved from answering by the voices of Madame and Mr Montpelier, though he was not by her side when Madame opened the door.
“It has been arranged,” she said, beckoning to Lily. “Come, my new protégé. Mr Montpelier has provided me with a small stipend to go towards improving your appearance and prospects. He shall return in a month to collect you.” Madame put her head on one side and sent Lily another thoughtful look. “That is, unless you decide you’d prefer to stay here, after all.”
Chapter 5
Hamish removed his bowler and was shrugging out of his dark woollen coat when he glimpsed the photographs that littered his desk.
One in particular struck a note, and he froze, wondering if his mind was playing tricks.
Then, slowly, he finished removing his outerwear and settled himself in his chair.
The previous edition of the periodical of which he was editor, The Family’s Guide to Manners & Morals, had included three photographs taken by a talented street urchin turned photographer named Archie Benedict. Several society matrons had edged out the whiskered men of the church that had hitherto been the usual pictorial fare, of what had begun as a monthly newssheet established by Hamish’s father before it had become one of the country’s greatest treatises on exemplary behaviour. For all classes of society.
The response from the magazine’s readership at Hamish’s attempt to lighten the tone in the last issue had been mixed.
Now, Hamish drew the first photograph that lay on his desk towards himself. It featured a dark-haired beauty in a fashionable polonaise, draped over the arm of a high-profile minister in Disraeli’s government.
Hamish swallowed, blinked, and then brought the photograph up to the light.
It was the woman he’d met briefly at Madame Chambon’s.
Celeste.
He did not know her by any other name, but the curve of her swan-like neck, the swell of her bosom, the brightness of her eyes, and the glossy curls of her hair set her apart from other beauties.
Or was it the challenging twist to her lush mouth? Few society women looked at anyone like that. And no woman pictured in Manners & Morals had ever looked like that.
Hamish felt an uncomfortable stirring of his loins as he studied the pair.
Lord Carruthers was a married man; his wife was the daughter of the Earl of Clunes. There was not a chance in Hades that Hamish could publish the photograph, and he wondered if Benedict knew the potential for cashing in on a large blackmail payment if he showed this to Lord Carruthers, who, clearly, had not known he was being photographed.
