Recalling it made her burn once more with curiosity.
What was he doing there? Was it simply a coincidence that he was acquainted with Ash?
She couldn’t consider the alternative. To do so opened the door to believing everything Ash had told her about The Refuge and its purpose. There was too much close to madness in that, like the notion that his wife had somehow managed to paint a portrait of Lily years before she had ever been born.
It was best that she forget any of it had ever happened.
Yet no matter how she tried to distract herself, her thoughts kept going back to Lord Strangford, the tension and surprise apparent in the rigid set of his shoulders.
She sat up and glared at the only other occupant of the room as though he might be able to provide a solution. Cat merely blinked at her from his perch atop her newly-purchased scarf, upon which he had already shed a thick coating of orange fur.
A knock sounded on the door, more perfunctory than polite, and before Lily answered, her landlady, Mrs. Bramble, thumped into the room.
She was a widow of middle years, built like an English mastiff. Her footfalls defied the laws of physics, striking the floor with the impact of a person twice her size.
She carried a tray in her hands, the dish atop it covered with a dented pewter lid.
“Nettle puddling?” Lily asked, a touch apprehensively.
“Ham steak,” Mrs. Bramble replied flatly. She set the tray down on a side table with an audible clatter. “Bit o’ broccoli.” She whipped a bundle of newsprint from under her arm with the ferocity of a fencer preparing for a bout. “Paper?”
Lily was ready to refuse, as she generally did. She paused.
“Which one is it?”
“Police News. The only one as tells any of the stories worth hearing about. The rest of ‘em could know of a horde of burglars was ready to climb in through the windows and will they warn us? No. It’s all politics and money, as if those ever made any real difference to anybody.”
It would just be a distraction, Lily told herself. It had nothing to do with wanting to discover if there’d been any developments in the murder investigation.
“I’ll take it, thank you.”
The landlady dropped the paper next to the covered plate.
“Ta, then,” she said and stomped out.
Lily lifted the lid, considering the ham steak, the bit of broccoli . . . and the paper.
She really shouldn’t.
She picked it up and flopped back down onto the bed.
The cover story told the tragic tale of a lady somnambulist who tumbled over the rail of a ship only to be a rescued by an extraordinarily brave sailor. There was also, it seemed, an escaped orangutan who had been seen stalking the streets of Paris.
A lighter note was struck by a story of the tallest man in Leeds meeting and then falling in love with the shortest woman in Dorset.
She found what she was looking for on page five.
The article was small, only a single paragraph illustrated with a vivid question mark. It reported the result of a coroner’s inquest into the latest of the “vampire killer’s” medium victims, Sylvia Durst.
Her death had been ruled to be by natural causes. The paper noted that the specific nature of those causes had not been given.
Lily had no illusions about whether the police would devote any resources to investigating a death that had not been ruled a homicide.
It should not have been upsetting. A police investigation wouldn’t make any difference. Lily knew that. What she had seen would happen. It always had before. It always would.
Nothing could change that.
She tossed the paper on the ground, disgusted with it and with herself. The pages separated, sliding across the floor.
She could imagine Bramble’s look when she came back for the dinner tray and saw it there. The notion was unpleasant enough to give her the will to get out of her bed and pick it back up.
She paused as she gathered the last page. There, between an advertisement for a curative tonic and a new engine for polishing belts, was a calendar notice for an event. It was an opening at the Carfax Gallery, “Oils by Deceased British Masters”.
Not exactly scintillating, yet the piece caught her eye thanks to a name included in the list of artists to be featured. It rested between Arthur Bardswell and Dudley Snodgrass—just five simple letters.
E.V. Ash
Could E.V. stand for Evangeline? That was the name Robert Ash had given for his deceased artist wife.
It was a leap. There might be dozens of English artists who had shared the name Ash. The initials on the page could refer to any one of them.
She looked at the rest of the advert.
The opening was that night, on Bury Street.
It was nonsense, really. What would she get out of it, even if the painting was by Ash’s wife? But then again, staying in hadn’t done anything to settle her unquiet mind. Perhaps going out wasn’t the most terrible idea. Some fresh air and a change of scene might be just what she needed to banish the memory of the man on the landing and the killer in the shadows from her mind.
One could hope.
St. James was not a part of London Lily regularly frequented.
Sitting in her hired carriage, she rolled past the elaborate townhouses of some of the nation’s finest families, a handful of embassies and elite social clubs. The granite and limestone of the buildings here seemed more resistant to London’s ever-present soot. The streets were cleaner, the carriages more stately.
It was the sort of place her noble father would have felt at home, a world that perhaps Lily would have been accustomed to, had she been his legitimate daughter and not the unexpected by-blow of his indulgence with his mistress.
The Earl of Torrington was, by all accounts, a singularly serious man, which made his choice of a charming but frivolous actress for a lover all the more unexpected. Then again, perhaps it was Deirdre Albright’s very frivolousness that attracted him. In addition to being one of the most influential members of the House of Lords, Lord Torrington also managed his significant estates and holdings with iron control. While many noble houses were struggling to remain solvent in the face of agricultural reforms and the loss of labor to the factories in Leeds and Manchester, the Torrington lands and enterprises—thoughtfully diversified, of course—continued to turn a tidy profit.
For someone who spent his waking hours with account books, investment portfolios and legislative briefs, escaping to Deirdre Albright’s world of silk, champagne and bright, easy laughter might have been a kind of balm.
One that his countess and their children must not have provided him.
That Lily was, at most, merely a curious side effect of his pastime was made clear by what occurred once the lovely, laughing Deirdre was gone.
He disappeared.
Lily was provided for, of course. Some underling turned up at their rooms on Oxford Street to escort her to Mrs. Finch’s Academy for Ladies, where her tuition was regularly paid, along with an allowance in pin money for clothing and sundries.
There had been no visits. No letters. No contact of any variety whatsoever. The man who had sired her had settled his obligation with a flourish of his checkbook, and that was the end of it.
At sixteen, Lily had as much as she could stand of table settings and French and pianoforte. Mrs. Finch’s was a place for girls destined for respectable marriages or—for the unlucky few for whom marriage was not an option—life as a governess.
Marriage was out of the question for Lily. What sort of man would be willing to ally himself with the bastard daughter of an Irish actress? And on the other hand, how could she trust that any man who did make her an offer truly wanted her and not some presumed chance at a better connection with her illustrious father?
Nor had she any illusions about her suitability for a life in service.
When she escaped from Mrs. Finch’s, Lord Torrington’s checkbook followed her.
At her first shared room off Covent Garden, a statement arrived in her mail providing details for an account opened in her name and notice that deposits would be made monthly for her maintenance and other expenses.
Lily burned it.
She burned the statements that followed, every one of them, with coal she bought with pennies earned from stitching tears in costumes.
Eventually, she took the time to write a letter to the bank asking that they discontinue mailing the statements. They did so, presumably happy to save on the postage.
She never withdrew a dime, not even when near starvation forced her to don the sequins and paint of a chorus girl—a profession so near to her mother’s “work” most men did not recognize the difference.
If all the Earl of Torrington had to offer her was his money, she would find a way to make do without it.
Nor did she have any need for his world. Her excursion to St. James’s tonight, and the inevitable mingling with the ton—the cream of London society—that would follow, was a rare exception. She told herself the errand was only to prove that Evangeline Ash’s painting was nothing more remarkable than a portrait of a banker with his beagle, or some insipid watercolor of a vase of flowers.
Her hackney stopped on Bury Street, caught in an odd little snarl of traffic. A cluster of carriages fought for space in front of a brightly-lit door on the ground floor of one of the imposing office blocks that lined the way.
As she descended the carriage steps, she analyzed the crowd.
She had chosen her gown carefully. It was one of the finest in her wardrobe, a gold silk sheath cut to the latest fashion, overlain with embroidered black gauze. From her scan of the bodies drifting from the surrounding carriages, it was entirely on par with the garments of the other ladies in attendance. She had even left the walking stick at home, knowing that it would only draw more attention to her, being rather an unusual accessory for a woman in evening dress.
This was an upper-class establishment. If the proprietors realized who she was, it was entirely possible she would be politely escorted back to the street.
The ton was generally happy to presume that a child conceived in sin carried the same loose morals in her blood like some sort of hereditary disease, one they apparently thought contagious.
Tonight, however, she looked the part of a well-bred lady. Thanks to her years of training at Mrs. Finch’s, she could also act it. What she could not do was be seen arriving at the gallery alone—something no respectable woman would have done.
She paused, bending down to make some imaginary assessment of the state of her evening slipper as the queue of carriages behind her moved forward, doors opening to disgorge more passengers.
The first to come out were an elderly couple. Lily continued to fuss with her shoe as they moved by. No lady on her husband’s arm would fail to notice the addition of a lovely young woman to their party.
Next was a trio of gentlemen of middling years, talking boisterously with each other. One of them stopped as they passed.
“Hullo, madam. Are you having a bit of trouble?”
His breath carried the scent of brandy. Perfect, Lily thought.
“Just my slipper. There! It’s back on,” she announced. “Oh, drat. Where did he get to?”
“Have you lost your escort?”
“It appears I have.”
“Allow me to serve,” he said, offering her his arm.
“How very kind of you,” Lily replied, flashing him a smile.
She had not inherited her mother’s gift for flirtation—nor would she have wanted to. While it had seen a turf-cutter’s daughter rise to stardom on the London stage, it would only ensure that her bastard was all the more easily labeled a woman of equally loose morals.
Tonight, however, required an exception—just until she got through the door.
She hoped her skills were sufficient to pass muster. Likely the brandy her partner had consumed would help.
“What a curious accessory,” she said, nodding toward the small brass pin her escort wore on his lapel. It appeared to be some sort of signet, marked with a symbol made up of two opposing carats melded together.
ᛝ
“Wherever did you acquire it?”
“This?” he replied, tapping the pin. “This, my dear, is the symbol of The Society for the Betterment of the British Race, a scientific association I am privileged to belong to. It is the ancient Saxon rune for ‘hero’. And that is precisely what our future promises if we are bold enough to grasp it—a race of noble heroes.”
“Are you a scientist, then?” Lily asked as they stepped through the door.
“A scientist? No, no. I’m in toothpicks.”
“Toothpicks?”
“World’s leading manufacturer of toothpicks,” he confirmed with a slight slur.
An attendant swooped in at the door, plucking her cloak from her shoulders. She forced herself not to shiver as the cold winter air touched the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders. She did not often wear evening dress—she had no occasion to—so the feeling of open air on her skin was unusual. The attendant moved to pass her coat check ticket to the brandy-scented gentleman, but Lily neatly plucked it from his hand in midair, tucking it into her reticule.
“Thank you,” she said.
The shedding of coats had given her an excuse to detach herself from her escort. She made sure to slip forward into the crowd before he could collect himself and wonder where she had got to.
Once away from the door, the room warmed considerably, bordering on stuffy. It was crowded with bodies. Women in silk, jewels and feathers flitted between men with neatly waxed mustaches who smelled of scotch and tobacco.
The interior of the gallery was designed to look like a well-appointed drawing room. It was done in tasteful hues of red and gold. Deep crimson covered the walls while antique oriental carpets warmed the floor. Potted palms and ferns offered splashes of bright green. The space was lit with electric lights, far more tastefully than usual. Instead of the typical glare, the effect was that of a warm glow, providing ample illumination for viewing the pieces covering the walls without compromising the softness of the atmosphere.
The room buzzed with conversation and the occasional tinkle of bright, artificial laughter.
She moved along the wall, studying the assortment of works carefully framed and mounted there. Most were what she had expected. There were dull landscapes and gory hunting scenes. A portrait of someone’s once-scandalous grandmother reclining on a chaise in eighteenth century splendor.
She paused to accept a glass of champagne, letting the natural current of all those well-dressed bodies carry her along, until she came up short at the utterly unexpected sound of a familiar voice.
“Tell the rotters they need to circulate. Circulate!”
The point was emphasized by a quick twirl of the speaker’s hand, and a name dropped from Lily’s surprised lips before she could think better of it.
“Mr. Roth?”
The man in question was of middle age, his head bald save for a neatly-trimmed ring around his ears and neck. He carried a touch of extra weight, but the excellent cut of his suit did much to ameliorate any impact it might have on his appearance. He turned at the sound of her voice.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Lily said, trying to think of a way to backpedal from the attention her outburst had drawn. “You likely don’t remember me and are obviously busy. I won’t trouble you.”
“Hold on. I know that hair. And the voice! It is you, isn’t it? You’re Deirdre’s girl.”
Mordecai Roth had been a fixture of London’s theatre scene when Lily was a girl, despite the fact that he neither acted, wrote nor directed. But he had, so the rumors went, once been the lover of Oscar Wilde. As the son of a powerful Jewish family with a fortune in shipping insurance and a thorough set of ton connections, he also had the funds to throw patronage at struggling shows he deemed worthy of the support.
Roth had been a regular guest at the
salons and parties Deirdre held in her suite of rooms on Oxford Street, providing cutting commentary on the current state of British playwriting and brushing off the importunities of aspiring actors and producers. Lily had been a child at the time, but Deirdre’s lackadaisical parenting style had enabled her to sit with the crowd at her soirees, so long as she could escape her nanny unnoticed—which she had always found easy enough to do.
“Of course it’s Deirdre’s girl,” he went on, not bothering to wait for confirmation. “The resemblance is unmistakable. Though you’ve a fair bit of him in you as well—for whatever that’s worth. But what brings you out to my modest little gallery?”
“This is your gallery?”
“I bought it for a song off a couple of incompetents who had managed to bring it to the brink of foreclosure. It has since been entirely turned around.”
“I am sure it has. It is quite lovely.”
“Thank you, dear girl. But don’t tell me you’ve taken up collecting?”
“Heavens, no. I was just . . . curious. And looking for something to do.”
“Aren’t we all?” Roth sighed.
Lily realized she had inadvertently stumbled across a means of getting straight to the piece that interested her, rather than fighting her way through the crowd that continued to eddy about the room.
“Mr. Roth—your advert mentioned you were showing a piece by E.V. Ash. I recently heard of an artist by that name and am wondering if it’s the same person.”
“It’s the Ash you’re interested in, is it? Well—she is quite the popular lady this evening. Allow me to introduce you.”
He took her arm and steered her expertly through the crush of bodies to a work at the far side of the gallery.
“Mrs. Ash, meet Miss Albright. Miss Albright, may I present Mrs. Ash,” he announced with a flourish, waving from Lily to a portrait that hung on the wall, elegantly lit by a set of electric sconces.
“It’s a self-portrait?” Lily asked quietly, the impact of the painting taking some of the breath out of her lungs.
“More or less,” Roth replied.
The image was of moderate size, no more than two feet in either direction. It depicted a woman who would not have been considered conventionally lovely. Her brows were too pronounced, thick and dark, her mouth too wide. Her dark eyes and tawny skin hinted at an origin something other than entirely English.
The Fire in the Glass Page 7
