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He put it to one side. Hamish was not in the blackmail business, but as he was the photograph’s custodian for the moment, he had a moral imperative to ensure it never saw the light of day.
The next couple of photographs were posed social gatherings. The Derby, tea at the Dorchester. Fashionable men and women. Benedict would shop these around until he found a buyer. Probably some ladies’ journal.
The next photograph once again featured Celeste, but this time in company with a delicately featured golden-haired woman. One so dark, the other so fair. The composition set the pair off to perfection. Both sat on a love seat staring into the distance, as if they had no idea their likenesses were being so carefully committed to posterity. In fact, Hamish suspected they did not know, for there was no trace of self-consciousness or suggestion of careful posing. They were in a room where the background was a blur of movement, suggestive of couples dancing. He brought the photograph closer towards the light and stared at it for much longer than a busy man with no interest in these kinds of women ought to, he knew.
He’d thought Celeste beautiful, but her brazen, lush beauty seemed to pale in comparison with the fragile perfection of her companion. He felt his mouth go dry, the blood fizz near the surface of his skin, and was surprised at such a visceral reaction. He was often in the company of beautiful women who had no effect on him.
And he was not a man who forgot his scruples the moment temptation came knocking.
Finally, there was one photograph left. It was less well developed than the others, and not of sufficient quality to make it into a publication so that he might have discarded it if the woman had not again caught his eye.
This time the awareness that roared through him was magnified.
It wasn’t just that it was beautiful, immoral Celeste.
It was that she was draped across a man Hamish knew to be a Russian diplomat with suspected criminal connections. A man who certainly should not be seen in the company of a woman who consorted with government ministers. Namely, Lord Carruthers.
Warily, he withdrew the first hidden picture of Celeste, and lined it up next to the second. Frowning over both of them, his brain whirled with the ramifications.
A British Cabinet Minister and a suspected Russian spy. Each consorting with the same woman. A prostitute. Possibly both sleeping with her, given her line of work.
He wasn’t aware of the faint rap upon the door, or the protest of hinges and the fact he was no longer alone until the cheery, “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” made him jump.
Dumping a leather bag of photographic equipment at his feet, Benedict glanced from Hamish’s face to that of the dark-haired young woman in the photograph.
“Where did you take these?” Hamish asked.
“At Madame Plumb’s Dancin’ Rooms.” Then, deducing that Hamish had no idea who Madame Plumb was, Benedict went on in his thick cockney accent, “’Tis the salon where the Fair Cyprians go ter dance an’ cast their nets. The place ter find beautiful women.”
“Did you take them on the same night?”
Benedict shook his head. “Takes a fair bit o’ time an’ work ter get a good photograph when the subject don’t know ’bout it.”
“Only a true artist could achieve something like this.” Hamish picked up the photographic plate of the two beauties, dark and blonde, while Benedict puffed up his chest making an impressive show of his barely five feet tall stature as he responded proudly, “The past belonged ter the painter. The future belongs ter the man who can use a camera like an artist.” Grinning his sly, broken-toothed smile, he indicated the cumbersome equipment at his feet. “Gettin’ easier an’ quicker all the time ter set this gear up, though. An’ ain’t the brunette beyond description?”
“I’m rather partial to the blonde,” Hamish said without thinking as he perused the photograph once again. He glanced at Benedict, who muttered, “I reckon I oughtn’t tell that ter yer ol’ man. Glad yer are takin’ the magazine in anuvver direction so I can sell yer more o’ me wares.”
Hamish considered his response. He was tinkering with the pictorial content only. The readership was loyal, and his father would not sanction changes. But Benedict was valuable to him, and he couldn’t afford not to see what he had to sell in the future if the Cockney thought Ha
mish remained interested only in whiskered churchmen.
He especially wanted to keep an eye on Celeste in case future actions on her part should have political ramifications, considering a fair proportion of his magazine’s upstanding readership was indeed government ministers and their families.
“So, yer goin’ ter take all o’ ’em?” Benedict asked, making a sweeping motion over the photographs.
Hamish pulled out his fob watch and consulted the time, saying distractedly, “What do you think, Benedict? I have room for three, but I want to take these, also.” He drew across the three pictures that contained Celeste, in addition to the dreary-looking personages he meant to publish.
“Wot do yer want wiv ’em if yer don’t mean ter publish ’em?”
“I may include them in a later edition.”
“Reckon yer jest sayin’ that.”
Benedict wasn’t stupid. Of course Manners & Morals would not publish a photograph of women like these. “They don’t come cheap.”
“Doesn’t matter. I still want to buy them.”
Benedict sent him an uncertain look. “Yer said yer liked the blonde. ’Tis the brunette who’s in all three.”
