Chapter 8 #2
She couldn’t take full credit. The Hawks were doing their part splendidly.
Nell was controlling the lighting. Simon’s devices—one which simulated a cool draft and another which caused the water to swirl in the bowl—had worked like a charm.
The mark was disoriented, struggling to understand what his senses told him, which made him open to her suggestions.
“Yes, I see red,” she intoned. “Red wool. You are wearing a red wool coat.”
“My uniform.”
His hoarse reply confirmed that she’d hit the bullseye again. This guess had been easy. A scarlet uniform with gold trimmings would be regulation for a man of his rank—a captain, at least, if his papa’s money had anything to do with it.
“The image is becoming clearer.” She swayed in the way of mesmerists, moving her torso in a subtle circle that drew the audience deeper into her trance. “A scarlet coat with gilt buttons and braid.”
His chest heaved at her words, and he looked dazed.
Doubt me, will you? You will eat your words. Better yet, I shall have my invitation to Bottoms House—straight from your mouth.
The thought drew her attention to the tight seam of his lips. Recalling how firm they had felt against hers and how masterfully he’d kissed her, she felt a frisson of heat in her belly.
Don’t get distracted. You have him in your thrall. Finish the job.
The trick with spiritualism was to start with generalizations—things that could apply to most people.
From there, Finn monitored the individual’s responses, and when they confirmed her guess, she continued in that vein.
She did not consider herself a charlatan; she was merely giving people what they wanted.
To her, it was irrelevant whether the responses came from a spirit or her own cleverness.
She focused on putting the nail in the coffin of Owen’s doubts.
She could bring him back to some pleasant memory.
Folks liked reminiscing about good times and paid handsomely for it.
After the “reunion” she’d facilitated between Mrs. Elmwood and her beloved Gerald, the lady had given a generous donation.
Owen could give Finn something far more important.
I must get into Bottoms House and find those jewels. I cannot fail. Iris is depending upon me.
“I sense an aura around you,” she said. “An aura of power and command.”
Men liked to be in charge—to feel formidable. At public houses, she’d heard soldiers bragging about their prowess on the battlefield over pints. From Owen’s glazed eyes and flushed face, he was reliving those days of glory and excitement.
“You were in charge, weren’t you?” she said serenely.
“Yes.”
She took his automatic reply as a positive sign.
Some people responded more keenly to her skills, and she was able to pull them deeply into their past. Owen appeared to be submerged in his memories, barely registering her presence.
This was good; in his impressionable state, he would readily believe that she was channeling spirits.
Time to pour on the butterboat. Nothing like flattery to win a man over.
“A strong, capable fellow like you,” she purred. “Despite your youth, men readily followed your lead.”
His eyelids drooped, his lashes veiling his gaze. “Yes.”
“You took charge as only a true leader can.”
“Yes.”
“The other soldiers—they trust you. Depend upon you.”
His lashes flew up. Seeing his wide pupils, she felt a stab of unease. There was a blankness in his stare—as if he were lost in whatever he was remembering.
Am I pushing too hard? I should pull back. Appeal to his vanity.
“I sense the admiration of those around you,” she said soothingly. “Men looking up to you, their brave and fearless leader.”
When he nodded, she plowed on.
“The responsibility is great, but I feel your confidence, your knack for command—”
“Run!”
His sudden shout cut through the room. An instant later, he was on his feet, yanking her toward him. She stumbled, but he caught her—only to throw her on the ground. He leapt atop her. Winded and stunned, she could only stare at him.
His expression was wild, and his eyes were blind with panic.
“Stay down,” he barked. “The bullets!”
“B-bullets?” she whispered.
Then she realized what she’d done. What she hadn’t anticipated.
The panic slowly bled from his gaze. She saw the moment he returned to himself. Saw the horror carved on his face—saw far too much in his turbulent gaze before the door banged open, and he was suddenly yanked off her.
“Get your hands off her, you bounder,” Caleb snarled.
He and Simon each held Owen by an arm, jerking him roughly, though he did not resist.
“Don’t hurt him!” Finn choked out as she staggered to her feet. “He didn’t do anything.”
“You swells are all the same,” Caleb spat. “You think you’re entitled to take whatever you want. Well, Madame Seraphina is not yours to manhandle.”
“You’ve been bad, your lordship.” Tansy emerged by Simon’s side. “You ought to be punished.”
The thread of menace in the girl’s voice dispelled the rest of Finn’s shock.
“Leave Lord Owen be. This was my fault, not his.”
Her voice trembled at Owen’s raw expression. At the anguish in his eyes.
“I-I am sorry,” she said falteringly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it.”
He shook off Caleb and Simon as if they were no more than fleas. She saw his barely leashed aggression, the shuddering power of his wiry frame as he tried to regain control.
“You were trying to prove a point, and you did,” he said tautly. “I am a madman. Stay away from me—and my family.”
He strode out. Paralyzed by remorse, she heard the front door slam.