Lady gambit, p.3
Lady Gambit, page 3
He used to daydream, invent the perfect life, the perfect parents. He used to imagine he was like the other boys at school. But he came to learn a valuable lesson. The things that set him apart were the things that made him excel.
“No, but dreams are often a doorway to one’s destiny. The mind uses mysterious ways to guide us on our journey.”
She didn’t question his logic or suggest he spoke nonsense.
“Why in every dream am I compelled to follow a faceless man? What if it’s my father, and he is brokenhearted? What if, in finding him, I make a dreadful mistake and lose those I care about most?”
Pain coated her words and had her reaching for him. A mere hand on his coat sleeve to steady her balance. But then her knees buckled, and she collapsed into his arms and wept.
Sweet mercy!
He’d demand double the fee after this.
Miss Chance cried on his coat while he tried to ignore the alluring smell of lilac in her hair. The delicate scent tightened the muscles in his abdomen. It didn’t help that her breasts were squashed against his chest, that his palms were hot against her back. That he thought about kissing away her troubles and tasting those luscious lips.
The Chance brothers were dangerous men.
Their sister’s sweetness would be Dorian’s downfall.
He set his hands to her upper arms and stepped away. Hell, he was struggling to suppress the first stirrings of arousal. “We could take things at a slow pace,” he began but quickly clarified his meaning. “I could make discreet enquiries. Give you time to consider how you wish to proceed.”
The sooner he put some distance between them, the better. Even the possessive way she clutched his handkerchief had an odd effect on him.
“Yes,” she said, inhaling a calming breath. “There’s no need to tell anyone. It could be our secret. But I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” He needed to do something to appease Daventry and earn his fee. “What say we meet here at the same time next week? Send word to Miss Darrow if you change your mind and want to cancel the appointment.”
She thought for a moment. “Very well.”
“I’ll need a lead to follow. A name, address, a prominent memory.”
This was not how he usually conducted business. When taking a case, he demanded a detailed list of facts, a timeline of events. He asked sensible questions and remained impartial. He did not attend secret rendezvous with beautiful women or embrace them as if they were destined to be lovers.
She blinked tears from her long lashes. “I have no memory of my life before the night I met my brothers. But you might try speaking to a patient in Bethlem Royal Hospital. On a recent visit, a woman called to me through the bars. She seemed to think my name was Sofia.”
What the devil was Miss Chance doing at Bethlem?
“Do you know this woman’s name?”
“No. But she was in the last cell at the end of the gallery, opposite the day room. Her hair was white and lank, and her hands were shackled. I saw the irons as she gripped the bars.”
There seemed little point questioning a madwoman, but he’d earned a reputation for being thorough, and after a visit to Bethlem, one always counted their blessings.
“When we meet again, you must tell me your story from the beginning.” He prayed she didn’t appear in the same fetching gown. “It might save time if you record anything you remember.”
She nodded and edged towards the door. “It won’t be much.”
“Any insignificant detail might help.”
Her smile carried the warmth of a summer’s day. Yet he suspected storm clouds gathered beneath the surface. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Flynn. If only all men were so approachable.”
With that unexpected compliment, she left him standing alone in the yard, minus his handkerchief and the steely armour he’d worn since being locked in a chest at school barely able to breathe.
Dorian made his way to Bethlem Royal Hospital in St George’s Fields, south of the Thames. It wasn’t difficult to gain admission, not as a visitor or a patient. Half the people housed in cells or taking air in the ornate gardens were a burden to their families, not insane. People often said the only lunatics in Bethlem were the staff.
That was Dorian’s current opinion of the Superintendent, Mr Powell. The thin, long-legged fellow had a menacing look in his eyes. One could imagine him slipping through the shadows at night to cause mayhem. A real monster. Not a figment of the patients’ nightmares.
“What do you want with Nora Adkins?” Powell drummed his bony fingers on the desk and glanced at the mantel clock.
Dorian kept his temper. “It relates to a missing person’s case. One I’ve been asked to investigate.” He handed Powell the letter given to him by the magistrate at Bow Street. It was from a previous case but wasn’t dated. “Sir Malcolm Langley grants me permission to question anyone I deem relevant to my enquiries.”
He watched Powell squirm as he read the missive. The glow of satisfaction was akin to what he’d felt upon pummelling his tormentors at boarding school.
Powell mumbled his displeasure. “You’ll get no sense from her. The woman is as mad as a March hare. She’s been a patient at the hospital for over sixteen years. She yanks out her hair and nibbles her nails until they bleed.”
Sixteen years?
The length of time Miss Chance had lived with her brothers.
Was it a coincidence?
Dorian shrugged. “Then I suspect the interview will be brief.”
Like a petulant child, Powell threw the letter across the table. “I’ll have Peters show you to her cell. For your own safety, I must insist you speak to her from the corridor. She’s liable to scratch out your eyes and carve her name into your soul.”
Dorian gave a humourless snort. The patients needed the man’s compassion, not his contempt. “I’ll need to see the physician’s report.” He didn’t need to see the report but wished to unsettle Powell. “What is the nature of Miss Adkins’ condition?”
“She’s tuppence short of a shilling, that’s what.”
“Who had her committed?”
Powell retrieved a silver flask and two glasses from the desk drawer. He was stalling. “We lost the paperwork when we moved from Moorfields to the new premises,” he said, handing Dorian a tot of brandy.
How convenient.
“Is Miss Adkins a pauper, or is someone paying for her keep?” He knocked back the liquor and met Powell’s gaze. “No doubt the Board of Governors demand you examine the accounts regularly. The Select Committee on Lunacy assesses the welfare of all paupers. There must be recent records.”
A muscle in Powell’s cheek pulsed. “I can’t answer that without trawling through the files. Such things take time.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Now listen here.” Powell snatched the empty brandy glasses and shoved them back in the drawer. “That woman is a raving loon. The only thing between her ears is wool. Trust me. You’ll leave here with nothing but a barrowful of nonsense.”
Dorian stood, keen to interview Nora Adkins before Powell threw him out. “My visit is a mere formality. A means of leaving no stone unturned. I’ll ask her a few questions and be on my way. I’ll wait outside for Peters.”
Itching to get rid of him, Powell sent for the guard.
Peters arrived and barely spoke as he led Dorian along the women’s gallery. Vile bodily smells clung to the air. Cries and groans and angry protests filled the silence. Rattling chains and high-pitched rants explained why Bedlam—the nickname for Bethlem Hospital—was now a word meaning chaos.
Amid the crazed cacophony, Peters clutched his ring of keys like a weapon. The tubby man was a gaoler tasked with keeping the unruly patients chained to their rickety beds.
Peters stopped at the end of the corridor and banged on a locked door. There was no reply, not a grunt or groan from within.
Dorian stepped closer and peered through the bars in the small window. An elderly woman lay on a crude metal bed, her eyes wide open, her shackled hands covering her heart. She was so frail and thin her grey dress was lost amid the coarse grey blanket.
“Rise and shine,” Peters barked. “You’ve a visitor, Nora.”
The woman ignored him.
Dorian feared she was dead—then she released a weary breath.
Peters gritted his teeth. He hit the metal ring against the bars, his temper barely caged inside his bulky frame. “Wake up, you old witch, before—”
“Leave us.” Dorian placed a firm hand on the man’s arm. “I will return to the office once I’m satisfied she’s incapable of answering my questions.”
“But she’ll have your—”
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.” Dorian met the gaoler’s gaze, hoping he knew not to anger the spawn of the devil. “Move, or I’ll shove those keys so far down your throat you’ll be spitting metal filings for weeks.”
He did not need to tell Peters twice. The man grumbled and stomped away, gripping his keys as if primed for an attack.
Dorian moved closer to the bars, hoping to coax Nora from her bed, but she was at the door in seconds, her haggard face pressed to the iron rails, her beady eyes fixed on him.
“If I had a guinea, I’d give it to you, sir.” Nora smiled, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. “About time someone put that beggar in his place. He’s a mean devil. One day, he’ll come a cropper.”
Though Dorian agreed with her assessment, he wasn’t about to criticise Peters. The patients had probably assaulted the gaoler on countless occasions. “If you’d answered him, you might have avoided a verbal altercation.”
Nora laughed, the sound bitter. “Riling him is my only pleasure.”
“According to the Superintendent, you enjoy carving your name into men’s souls.” He observed her, anticipating the moment her inner demon revealed itself, and he learned why she was truly here.
“Do you know what happens to timid women here, sir?”
He knew what happened to timid women in gaol cells; hence, he no longer worked at Bow Street.
“I’m keen to know why you’re here.” She’d been a patient for a long time. People rarely survived a year, let alone more than a decade.
“What’s it to you? He sent you, did he? Wondering if I’d kicked the bucket. Tell him he’ll be dancing on my grave soon enough.” She hummed a folk tune and did a little jig. “Da de, di da, da diddly dum.”
“Someone is paying for your keep?”
She motioned to the dank room and cackled. “Happen he meant for me to stay at the Pulteney Hotel but got in a muddle.”
“Who?” Dorian pressed. The information might not relate to Miss Chance’s case, but it might support the theory that this woman wasn’t entirely mad. “Do you know his name? Can you describe him?”
The basic questions caused her to stare strangely.
Her sly smile made her look oddly sinister.
She shrugged. “Big black hat. Big shiny shoes. One ruby eye on a stick. He strokes it round and round and makes a girl dizzy.”
Again, Nora Adkins was keen to show how dizzy.
“Get up! Get up!” she cried, having an odd conversation with herself. “Run. Run, Caterina. Let the night swallow you whole.”
She began acting out roles.
Someone weeping, their outstretched hand grabbing at the air.
Someone running, their eyes wide in terror. “Mama!”
Someone looming, a mouth curled into a baleful grin.
“He came for the Jubilee and got lost in the whispers. And here I am, sir, in the belly of the beast, hoping it might belch.”
Dorian drew a notebook and pencil from his pocket and scribbled down the woman’s ramblings lest he forget. He wasn’t sure why, but his thoughts turned to Miss Chance. That said, it was hardly surprising. He’d thought of little else since they’d parted ways in Miss Darrow’s yard.
Nora’s cries had prompted the other patients to shout and jeer and mimic her mindless rants. The din was deafening. Worn out from her grand performance, Nora returned to her bed, where she stared at the ceiling in a trance-like state.
“A friend was here recently.” Dorian caught himself. He was a professional man. Miss Chance was his client, not his friend. A fact he would do well to remember. “You spoke to her through the bars. She said you called her Sofia.”
Nora did not move, speak or blink.
Dorian tried to coax a response but to no avail.
He returned his notebook to his pocket and moved to walk away. That’s when he caught Nora Adkins’ faint whisper.
“Sofia is dead. Find the girl. Find Caterina.”
Chapter Three
One long week had passed since Delphine had met Mr Flynn in Miss Darrow’s yard. She had spent endless hours fretting over their conversation, deciding what to do. But her sleepless nights were consumed with thoughts other than guilt and betrayal.
Why did she feel oddly connected to a stranger?
Why had his warm embrace left her craving his company?
She looked out the carriage window as the vehicle trundled along Ludgate Hill. Mr Flynn’s handkerchief was not in the blue reticule she clutched in her lap. It was wrapped in silk and tucked in the back of her drawer. The musky scent of his cologne diminished by the day. All remnants of the man would soon be lost, along with these precious moments of freedom.
“Why so glum? Anyone would think we were bound for debtors’ prison.” Theo chuckled and brushed an errant blonde lock from his brow. He wore his new blue coat and the bergamot and rosewood cologne ladies loved. “I thought Aaron’s compromise would lift your spirits.”
Aaron had summoned her to his office and spent silent seconds watching her from behind his imposing desk. She feared he knew about Mr Flynn. Knew the man had held her close and whispered soothing words against her hair.
Aaron had not asked what she thought about parties, gowns or visiting a ladies’ club. With deep furrows marring his brow, he had issued a blunt statement. The words were still ingrained in her memory.
Purchase what you desire and send me the bill. Your sisters-in-law will take you to dine at Mivart’s and to the theatre. You’ll not visit The Burnished Jade. There’s no way of knowing who Miss Lovelace permits in her club.
Aaron would be at Mivart’s, watching from the shadows. He would hide in a theatre box, pistol at the ready to shoot anyone who dared approach her.
She had smiled and thanked him for his generosity.
How could she tell the man who’d saved her life that he fell short of her expectations? How did she explain she was slowly dying inside, withering away like a rose starved of sunlight?
Perhaps it was foolish to find hope in a square of linen.
Perhaps it was wrong to think the wearer of such an enticing cologne might be the answer to her prayers. The person with the key to her prison.
“Give Aaron time to adjust,” Theo said with his usual optimism. It was a means of hiding his own disappointment in a life that had gone awry. “We should trust him. He’s stubborn to a fault but always does what is right for our family.”
Knots of guilt twisted in her gut. She had tried to talk to Aaron this morning and had begun by asking what he remembered about the night they first met. His reply had helped her reach a decision.
You looked so lost, so helpless. I swore you’d never look that way again. I’ve done everything in my power to keep you safe.
She was still lost.
She was still helpless.
She was a frightened child trapped in a woman’s body.
Ignoring the problem had not made it go away.
“Sometimes it’s hard to breathe at home,” she confessed. With Theo being her youngest brother, surely he understood. “Sometimes I feel like an ornament in a cupboard.” A useless knick-knack kept out of sight.
Theo reached for her hand and gripped it tightly. “There are times I wish we still lived above Mrs Maloney’s bookshop. Life was much simpler then.” His smile brimmed with compassion. “Let me talk to Aaron. What say we keep pushing the boundaries a little?”
She had done more than push the boundaries.
She had taken a mallet to the dry stone wall.
Perhaps it was pointless worrying. If Mr Flynn had any sense, he would fail to attend the meeting. One could not find answers without evidence, and Aaron would throttle him for prying into family affairs. The only saving grace was Mr Daventry knew both men and would act as a mediator.
“I think Miss Darrow likes you,” she said, hoping the change of subject might settle her nerves. What if Mr Flynn had learned something from his visit to Bethlem Hospital? What if he had grave news to impart?
Theo gave a playful wink. “Most women do.”
“Oh, conceit is thy middle name.”
He shrugged. “Can I help it if I’m charming?”
“I’m beginning to think Aramis is the most charming of all. Have you heard the beautiful things he says to Naomi?” And the way he looked at her. What must it be like to feel so cherished?
Theo tutted like he found affection a dreaded inconvenience. “Aramis is suffering from temporary amnesia. He’ll be back to his grumpy self soon.”
She begged to differ, and might have said true love stands the test of time but did not want to remind Theo of Lucille Bowman’s treachery.
Miss Darrow was waiting at the door when their carriage stopped outside the modiste’s shop. The lady wore a fashionable green dress and a smile capable of lighting the heavens.
Theo perused her figure as he alighted, his hum of pleasure audible. “Are you so desperate to see me, Miss Darrow, you’ve taken to loitering in the street?”
“I’m not loitering, sir. I’m looking for the barrow boy.”
“In the hope he may have something to satisfy your appetite?” he said, handing Delphine down from the vehicle.
“Yes, something that hasn’t been mauled by a dozen women’s hands.” Miss Darrow turned to Delphine. “I don’t mean to rush you, but do you mind if we begin right away? I have a pressing appointment at three.”
