The Blood Royal(117)
‘Cabby! Back to Melton Square! Fast!’
Lily walked past the Dedhams’ house and went to tug on the door bell of the residence of Mr Ingleby Mountfitchet.
She didn’t much like the look of the manservant who answered. Untidy, unwashed she suspected, and displaying all the cold cunning of a polecat. She told him she’d been sent to meet Mr Mountfitchet. His master would be expecting her, she added, dropping her voice to a confidential purr and putting a foot over the threshold.
‘Don’t be daft,’ was the rude response. ‘He’s said nothing to me. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday. He’s in his room. Recovering. And he’s not asked for one of your kind as far as I know. You’ve got the wrong day. It’s Fridays he’s frisky.’ He began to swing the door shut.
This was exactly what Lily wanted to hear. Her calculations and wild theories had been on the right lines. She wasn’t withdrawing now. She decided to make a scene. In her loudest cockney screech and waving her arms about, she pretended to lose her temper. ‘What the ’ell’s going on ’ere? I’ve come halfway across town for an encounter with Mr Mountfitchet … This is number thirty-nine, isn’t it? Well then, muttonhead, I’m the replacement for that last little disappointment. Besides, he owes us and I’m here to collect. Let me in or I’ll have to stand in the street an’ shout fire an’ rape an’—’
‘For God’s sake get her in off the doorstep, Warminster!’ The voice from the shadows at the end of the hall was lazy and amused.
The manservant stood aside, slammed the door behind her and grumpily moved off down the hallway.
Lily looked around to get her bearings. She was remembering a conversation with the ageing tart patrolling the Baze. ‘Before yer takes yer ’at off, dearie, yer checks yer exit. In case ’e turns nasty.’ Lily located the door knob and noted that the door was not locked.
The space in which she found herself hadn’t changed since Victorian times. She had an impression of tiled floor, mahogany furnishings, drooping drapery and dust-filmed plants struggling for survival in ornate pots. A grandfather clock whirred and clunked and began to strike six. There was about everything a sweet smell of rotting foliage.
The source of it moved quietly forward.
‘Well, well, let’s take a look at you, shall we?’
Ingleby Mountfitchet proceeded in accordance with his own suggestion. He stared long and critically at Lily. She stared back. He was in his forties and what Lily thought of as ‘going to seed’. Stooped shoulders, long unkempt hair, a pot belly and a dingy skin marred what might once have been a good-looking man. The impression of neglect was offset by the splendid Chinese lounging coat he was wearing. In brightly patterned silk and of loose cut, it was the perfect choice of garment for a Mayfair gentleman recovering from something unspecified on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Lily refused to speculate on what he might or might not have on beneath it. His breath stank fruitily of alcohol. Lord! Could that smell be cherry brandy? But he was by no means incoherent. She was relieved to see, as she gave him a professional evaluation, that his eyes, though rheumy, were perfectly focused. They swept her from head to foot and his lip curled.
This was the moment when Lily’s plan might very well falter. She stood tall and, aware that she had very little to tempt a man in the bosom department, stuck out her chin instead. She peeled off her gloves and placed them on the hall table; a hatstand received her hat. She shook out her hair. That at least always seemed to get attention. She took a few nonchalant strides down the hall towards him.
‘Two out of ten,’ he sneered. ‘Blonde and young. But the rest … a bit of a disaster, wouldn’t you say? The upholstery? Oh, my dear! Someone’s rather skimped on the filling. They field the reserves on a Sunday, I take it? Or is Mrs Braithwaite running out of full-bodied recruits?’
Lily raised her eyebrows in scorn. ‘Mrs Braithwaite knows her business. She knows her clients. You should trust her. I’ve been specially selected for this visit. She thought you might be in need of a good whacking after your disgraceful conduct the other night. And I’m rather good at punishing wayward young gentlemen.’ Lily advanced on him aggressively, reached out, and grasped the loose collar of his robe in one hand. She tugged his face close to hers and snarled, ‘You upset one of our girls. One of our top-drawer first eleven. Can’t have that, can we? I think I’m going to have to send you up to your room and deal with you.’
While she spoke she passed her other hand round his back and slipped the sash of his gown from its moorings at his waist. Trying for a lascivious leer, she looped the length of silk playfully round his neck, encountering a bobbing Adam’s apple but no resistance.