But it was cold and damp, and when the crowds seemed disinclined to disperse, Lily decided to clamber out of the coal chute and seek warmth inside the house. Heavily veiled and wearing a dark cloak over her clothes, she made her way into the parlour.
The lamps were still dimmed, and the audience was shoulder to shoulder, many in working-class garments, some in the finery of the upper classes. Sherry was being dispensed freely, and the mood was merry.
“You are miraculous!” Lord Lambton declared to Mrs Moore. “I was a disbeliever, but when I faced my daughter tonight, I knew it could be none other than Cassandra come back to pour out her heart to me.” Overcome by sentiment, he dabbed damp eyes with a snowy-white handkerchief while Mrs Moore patted his shoulder.
“That I can speak with my Cassandra is…a miracle.” Lord Lambton blew his nose, loudly. “But there are others with whom you hope to communicate. I hear you are appealing to a different audience tomorrow night. Regarding the mystery of Renquist’s disappearance, I gather?”
Lily watched as Mrs Moore fingered her purple velvet scarf. “I have discovered someone whom we believe may be able to communicate with the deceased Mr Renquist.”
“Good lord! How did you manage that?”
Mrs Moore lowered her eyes. “I cannot divulge that, my Lord; however, we are confident we can bring some peace and comfort to the grieving widow, even if the mystery cannot be solved tomorrow.”
Mrs Moore slid an enigmatic look towards her credulous client, who was stroking his bushy white beard and moustache and who looked even more intrigued as the woman added, “Communication with the spirit world has been made. We are at least in the initial stages of solving a crime that has proved beyond the capabilities of the police though it may take some weeks.” She looked smug. “Indeed, performances are nearly sold out.”
“Extraordinary!” Lord Lambton muttered. “In that case, if the mystery has not been solved before the end of the month, I shall reserve a place for my old friend who comes so rarely to London. Sir Robert Bradden asked me to recommend something different in terms of entertainment to please his new wife. A séance sounds ideal.”
Lily put her hand to her veil in a convulsive act to mask her horror. However, Mrs Moore revealed her showmanship by revealing her duplicity by neither a blink nor facial twitch as she said smoothly, “And what date did you say Sir Robert may honour us with a visit? The end of the month? Well, if we have not solved the mystery, it will be a pleasure. However, if your friend is interested in the spirit world, let me recommend Madame Barooshka’s Fantastical Seances. Like me, she is a true artiste…”
Lily left at the first opportunity, slipping through the stragglers, glad that Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had been detained by a voluble woman in a purple turban and multiple ropes of pearls. She ignored the speaking glance Mr Montpelier threw her. Of course he’d have been rattled by Lord Lambton’s information, but Lily had not the stomach to discuss it with him.
Her low-heeled lace-up boots clicked over the pavements as she walked towards home, her shadow leaping and dancing in front of her as she passed beneath the gas lamps. Once, she’d have been terrified to walk alone. She rarely did so now, in fact, but she felt safe enough. What, really, did she have to lose? She wasn’t stupid, pushing out of the grasps of the occasional men who assumed her to be a lightskirt. They did not persist.
Tonight, there was a light mist, rather than the enveloping fog that she preferred. Often, as she walked, she found she rather liked the feeling of being wrapped up in the mists or fogs of anonymity. It was like a temporary blanket of comfort that put a little distance between the here and now and the worry over what was around the next corner.
Tonight, though, she felt more than just the discomfort of what the future held.
Robert was coming to London. It was bad enough to digest this horrifying piece of information.
But he had a wife?
Could Lord Lambton have been mistaken? How could Robert have a wife when Lily was his wife, though the Lord alone knew she’d do anything not to be his wife?
And she knew to her cost that the feeling was mutual.
But had Robert been sufficiently coldhearted to
have believed Lily would cause him no further problems if he despatched her to an asylum in Brussels, meaning he could therefore do what he wanted?
Yes, he was coldhearted; that was true enough. But would he seriously commit bigamy?
And if so, who was his wife? Sir John’s widow? Lady Banks? Lily had to find out. Perhaps there’d been some mistake.
“Madam, I beg your pardon.”
The thick accent more than the bulk of a man blocking Lily’s path made her jerk up her head.
He could have moved to the side without saying anything. Instead, the man remained as immovable as a column of stone on the wet pavement in front of Lily, doffing his hat and revealing a head of snowy-white hair above a face that was not genial like Lord Lambton’s.
But cold and cynical as he eyed her with very real calculation.
Mr Novichov.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Lily took a step back, glancing over her shoulder in the hope that someone bringing up the rear should come to her aid.
A family group, chattering as they took up most of the pavement, heading towards the river, boosted her courage.
When she turned back, Mr Novichov had gone.