Lady gambit, p.16
Lady Gambit, page 16
“I know,” she said wistfully. “I love Aaron dearly. But once we uncover the truth, I cannot go back to hiding in the shadows.”
A life without purpose was no life at all.
“No,” he agreed. “It must be frightening … getting closer to knowing who you are after being in the dark all these years. I pray you’re not disappointed.”
Her stomach roiled at the prospect of what she might find. “What could be worse than being left on the streets and spending a year in Mrs Haggert’s hen house?”
His expression turned as grave as her thoughts. “Just promise me you’ll remember you have a home. Whatever happens, you will always be part of this family. To me, you will always be Delphine Chance.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you.”
She blinked back tears and gripped his hand. “You will always be my brother, Theo. Someone dear to my heart. Someone I cherish and adore.”
“I couldn’t love you more if we shared the same blood.”
In the still seconds that followed, affection flowed between them.
She stood before she wept again and became a bumbling wreck. “Well, there’s no rest for the wicked. No doubt Miss Darrow is waiting outside with your breakfast tray. Be kind to her. We know nothing about her background, and I’m sure she thought she was doing a good deed when she allowed me to meet Mr Flynn.”
Theo pursed his lips and nodded. “What are your plans for today? Return to Bethlem and interview Powell?”
“Yes. If Mrs Haggert can be believed, and I am Caterina, then Nora Adkins knew me. We need to know who blackmailed Lord Meldrum to keep her locked away all these years.” It might be the only hope they had of finding Nora.
“You’re sure the letters Meldrum showed you are genuine and he’s not involved?” Theo’s disdain was evident. He often referred to the lord as an obnoxious prig. “Perhaps his father wrote them in case the truth came to light.”
“Anything is possible.” And Lord Meldrum did seem overly keen to marry her when he had plenty of other options. “That’s why I have an appointment with Monsieur Chabert this morning. The mesmerist helps people unlock hidden parts of their memory.”
Nerves pulsed in her throat. It was Dorian’s idea. Despite her distrust of mesmerism, he had called in a debt to secure a meeting.
Theo jerked as if he might leap out of bed. “What the blazes? Flynn is not to leave you alone with the fellow. I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories, tales too lurid to repeat.”
“Mr Flynn assures me he won’t leave my side.”
“Daventry better be there,” he said, a little panicked. “Other than Aaron, he’s the shrewdest man I know.”
“He will be.” She offered a confident smile, not one filled with doubt. Mr Daventry was to meet them outside Monsieur Chabert’s abode at eleven o’clock. The question was, would he show? “You can trust Mr Flynn. He would not see me harmed just to solve the case.”
“Flynn has his own agenda. All men do.”
She ignored the comment. He didn’t know Dorian the way she did, and her brothers were suspicious by nature. “There’s no need for concern. I’ll put your mind at ease the moment I return home.”
“Home? How strange you should call it that.”
“It was a mere slip of the tongue,” she lied.
Home was Mrs Maloney’s bookshop or the opulent Fortune’s Den.
Home had quickly become a beautiful manor known as Mile End.
Home was anywhere belonging to Dorian Flynn.
Chabert’s Physiology of Mental Disorders
Seymore Court, Covent Garden
The peel of St Martin’s bells echoed in the distance, marking the strike of the eleventh hour. There was no sign of Mr Daventry, whose office was a short walk away. No sign of his agent striding briskly towards them carrying a note.
“We should proceed without him.” Delphine scanned the length of Chandos Street, trying to distinguish the gentleman’s top hat amongst a sea of heads. “Perhaps Mr Daventry arrived earlier and is waiting inside.”
Dorian’s hand came to rest gently on her back like it had yesterday when he held her naked body in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Or perhaps Daventry knows how much we value these precious moments alone.”
Desire unfurled in her belly. “I lay awake last night, wishing we were still in your quaint little room above the Old Swan.” Wishing they were making love.
Heat flared in his hypnotic brown eyes. “We may have cause to return there again this afternoon. The description of the man who came looking for me is somewhat vague.”
According to the landlord, the mysterious visitor had a West Country accent. The silversmith next door thought he hailed from West Sussex. Both agreed he had a forgettable face. Both said the man refused to discuss the private nature of his business.
“Then we should not delay.” Excitement gave way to trepidation when she glanced at the entrance to Seymore Court. The narrow alleyway led to Monsieur Chabert’s premises. The place where her darkest memories might be revealed. “Although before we visit the Old Swan, we must gain the answers we need from Mr Powell.”
Dorian gritted his teeth and cursed Mr Powell to Hades. “Damn the devil. He’s been playing us for fools. If we don’t get the truth from him today, I’m taking him into custody for hindering the investigation.”
Judging by the anxious look on Mr Powell’s face when she suggested he had a problem with liquor, he would comply.
Not wanting to be late for the appointment, she approached the alley. All four doors in the dim passage were painted black. The tall brick buildings loomed over her like silent soldiers, forever watchful, the weight of the chilling things they’d witnessed hidden behind the stone facade.
A shiver crawled over Delphine’s shoulders when Dorian stopped walking and gestured to a door. There was no shiny plate outside alluding to Monsieur Chabert’s business. No wooden plaque bearing the mesmerist’s name or profession. Whatever occurred behind the door of Number 20, Seymore Court was a guarded secret.
“Are you certain this is the right place?” She hugged Dorian’s arm tightly, her thoughts like frenzied whispers telling her not to proceed.
Theo’s warning echoed in her mind. What horrors had occurred here? People said mesmerism was akin to witchcraft. Would she lose something more precious than her memory? Would her attachment to Dorian fade like a morning dream?
Dorian faced her, though his fetching countenance did little to settle her nerves. “I’ve had dealings with Chabert before. He’s skilled in the complex workings of the mind.” He glanced at the entrance to the alley, making sure they were alone before kissing her tenderly on the lips. “He will help you understand why you cannot remember anything about the first ten years of your life. Though it could take months to unravel every thread.”
She swallowed past a lump in her throat. One’s memory was a delicate instrument. “In unlocking the door to the past, I may forget other things. What if these last few weeks become a blur? What if I forget about you?”
What if they were gambling with their future?
She had expected another kiss to reassure her but noted an element of fear in his eyes. “I’m sure that won’t be the case, but we will seek Chabert’s advice before we proceed.”
He turned to the ominous black door and knocked three times in quick succession. He counted to five and knocked again.
“Anyone would think we’re meeting the Crown’s best spymaster.” She tried to sound jovial, but the mysterious ritual played havoc with her nerves. It didn’t help that Dorian had consulted the Frenchman as a last resort. “Why the secrecy?”
“People are distrusting of things they don’t understand. Chabert was attacked in the street by a client’s husband.” Dorian paused upon hearing the clip of footsteps in the hall beyond the door and looked at her. “Chabert is a quirky fellow. His methods may seem unusual, but we can trust him. If there’s a way to unlock your mind, he will know.”
The scrape of metal and the jangle of keys preceded the door creaking open mere inches. Large brown eyes peered at her through the tiny gap. “Can I help you, madame?”
Dorian stepped closer. “It’s me, Chabert.”
Recognition dawned. “Of course. Forgive me. I sat on my spectacles this morning and broke one lens.” He opened the door and scanned the deserted alley before beckoning them inside. “Come into the sitting room. It is more comfortable there.”
Monsieur Chabert was a short, slender man with wavy black hair. Though he looked to be around forty, he had an innocent, boyish face. They followed him along the sparse hallway. He moved slowly, almost gliding in an effort to remain silent as he led them into his unusual sitting room.
Red velvet curtains and dark oak furniture added an element of warmth to the gloomy space. The console table was littered with strange objects—a picture of an eye, a musical box shaped like an egg, a wooden tower with a hundred steps circling the structure. Her gaze drifted to the painted mural filling one wall. A Japanese woman stood on a footbridge over a river, staring at a path that disappeared into a forbidden forest.
Once the introductions were made, the Frenchman said, “May I fetch refreshment?” He motioned to the plush sofa and invited them to sit. “People, they say it is a warm summer’s day, but they have never lived in Toulouse.”
They laughed before declining his kind offer.
She could barely breathe, let alone drink.
“You should have a dram of something to settle the blood, madame.” He used his thumb and forefinger to indicate a small measure, though it was the subtle insistence in his voice that made it impossible to refuse. “I sense your hesitance, but you must have faith in the process for it to succeed.”
She inhaled slowly to calm her thundering pulse. “I shall do whatever you advise, monsieur, but there are questions I must ask before we begin.”
He anticipated her first question, saying, “There is nothing of the supernatural in my methods.” He moved to the drinks table, his steps as seamless as a ghost’s. “Imagine the mind. It is like a warren of corridors with an endless series of doors. Some are open. Some are closed, but they open with ease. Some are locked, barred to all intruders. Even to you.”
Seated beside her on the sofa, Dorian touched her arm gently. “We tend to suppress what is too painful to process.”
“Or we label it as something it is not. Jealousy is just a mask for fear.” Monsieur Chabert returned to the sitting area and gave her a small glass of sherry. “Often a memory can be distressing, but the emotion we attach to it is the key to opening the door.”
The Frenchman encouraged her to toss back the drink. It wasn’t sherry—she realised once it was too late—but perhaps some other fortified wine that tasted far too bitter. Every muscle tensed as it slid serpent-like down her throat.
“The drink, it will relax you so I might access your memory.”
“It’s not sherry,” she gasped.
“I did not say it was.”
Then what in God’s name was it?
Amid the rising panic, nausea roiled in her stomach. She clutched her throat. There was no time to prepare. She had reached the point of no return. She was trapped, about to plunge into the darkness, into a mysterious maze of fog only this stranger could help her navigate.
“I’m here. You’re safe.” Dorian knelt before her, clasping her face in his warm hands, reassuring her all was well. “I’ll not leave your side, not for a second.”
If only that were true.
Indeed, she hoped it took forever to solve the case.
Blinking to clear her vision, she looked for Monsieur Chabert. “Promise me I won’t forget him. Promise me I will feel the same when I wake from this strange stupor.” She would forsake every lost memory to keep her love for Dorian alive.
The Frenchman gave a curious hum. “Ah, you are lovers, non? Be assured, madame, I do not meddle with the heart, only the complex tunnels of the mind.”
Dorian was more than her lover.
He was her friend, her confidant; he was everything.
“I cannot forget him,” she reiterated.
“Of course. And if your heart is true, nothing will change.”
Monsieur Chabert instructed Dorian to help her from the sofa to the wooden chair facing the richly painted mural. “Stand behind and keep your hands resting on her shoulders. You will be a constant reminder of the present. The reason she will return.”
The fellow swept across the room and closed the heavy red curtains. Darkness descended. Though the feel of Dorian’s strong hands on her shoulders brought an instant wave of comfort.
While Monsieur Chabert busied himself with lighting the many candles dotted about the room, Dorian bowed his head and whispered, “Don’t be ashamed to say what comes into your mind.” His thumbs caressed her neck in lazy strokes that had her closing her eyes and rocking gently to the soothing rhythm. “We keep no secrets from each other.”
She had a secret.
A secret love that grew stronger by the day.
Indeed, as her mind turned woozy, and she felt herself slip back from reality, she feared she might make a confession.
The Frenchman appeared before her, and she became fixated with the swirling pattern on his waistcoat. “Look into my eyes, madame.” He spoke softly, like a melody one could not get out of their head. He tilted her chin so their gazes locked. “Hold this tower and place your finger gently on the bottom step.” He cupped her hands around the stone form. “Close your eyes and listen only to my voice. When I tell you, you will begin counting the steps. Each one leads to a door in your memory.”
She did as he asked.
In a deep, soporific tone, he began describing the cylindrical tower, telling a story of how it was built and how the staircase curved round and round. Every word bewitched her, the spell like a persistent hand drawing her down into a peaceful abyss.
Upon hearing his instruction, she started counting, letting her finger climb each tiny stone step. She lost count when she reached twelve, though she was not awake or asleep but somewhere in between. That’s when Monsieur Chabert lifted her eyelids and peered at her pupils.
A lengthy silence ensued before he asked his first question.
“You open a door. Inside, you see your ten-year-old self waking in the entrance to a baker’s shop. Picture it for me, the sounds and smells of the city. Do you remember why you chose to rest your weary head there?”
It took a little more prompting before an image formed in her mind’s eye. She recalled being cold but thankful it was summer and not the dead of winter. She remembered being terrified. Helpless. Alone.
“B-because the step was deep and hidden in shadow,” she said but then realised someone else had made the suggestion. Someone had guided her to that specific place on that particular night. “I was told to stay there.”
“By whom?”
She tried hard to focus but couldn’t see a face. “I don’t know.”
“Where did you come from?”
The answer was out of reach, far beyond her grasp. More questions followed, but her mind was a blank canvas and she lacked the ability to lift the brush and paint a picture.
“Has someone tried to access her memory before?” she heard the Frenchman ask. “There is a resistance beyond what I would usually expect.”
Dorian spoke, his voice a beacon in the darkness. “Not that I’m aware. If there has been some mind manipulation, it would have occurred before she met Aaron Chance.”
“I suspect one session will not be enough to gain the answers you seek. Fear prevents her from opening the doors.”
Keen to keep her in this lucid state, Monsieur Chabert urged her to open her eyes and focus on the mural. He brought the picture to life by telling the story of a woman searching for a lost child missing in the woods. Again, his words were so compelling she imagined crossing the bridge and calling her own name.
“Find the girl,” he said when her lids grew heavy, and she felt herself sinking deeper into the dream. He encouraged her to take steady steps along the path towards the woods. “Find Caterina. She is alone in the darkness, longing to return home.”
As she moved closer, the woods became a park. Despite the gloom, she recognised the views of Westminster in the distance and knew the path around the reservoir meant she was in Green Park.
Fear slithered through every vein in her body.
The desperation to run had her in its powerful grip.
“Where are you?” Monsieur Chabert persisted.
“Green Park.” She was permitted to say that. It was not breaking the rules. It would not have her dangling from the hangman’s noose, limp like a cloth doll. “I must hide.”
“From whom?”
She saw a figure, nothing more, but knew to keep her lips pursed tightly. They would slice out her tongue and feed it to the crows.
Monsieur Chabert grumbled in frustration. “Someone has been tampering with her mind. I have seen this before. When under a mesmerist’s spell, the person is compelled to answer. Miss Chance, she knows the truth but has been conditioned to remain silent.”
Death comes to those with loose tongues.
She didn’t want to die.
Not while scattering the flowers or when—
She gasped aloud then. “I’ll die if I scatter the flowers. My mother will die if I don’t.” She knew it was important when the words left her lips but had no idea why.
Monsieur Chabert muttered something in French, which sounded much like a curse. “I must bring her out of the trance. Her mind, it is too fragile. The damage was done in her formative years. Who would do this to a child?”
Dorian rubbed her shoulders. His touch calmed her restless spirit. The love in her heart was an anchor, mooring her to the present and the reason she had come to visit Monsieur Chabert.
“Wait!” she cried because there was something else she could say. A secret no one had tried to erase from her memory. “I was told to hide in Green Park, told someone would come, and I should go without a fuss.” Fragments of a memory returned. Strange flickers in her mind’s eye. “I was scared and confused and hid in the wrong place. It took them longer to find me.”
