Chapter Seven

Water spewed from his mouth and nose. This was it. He was dying for certain this time. He’d never get enough out. He gagged and sputtered, fighting to clear his airway. Then he gasped and, God be praised, the dank air of the subterranean chamber invaded his oxygen-starved lungs.

I’m going to live, shrieked through his brain.

No one was more surprised than he.

His head lolled forward. He fought the gathering blackness at the edge of his vision. If he sank into it, his tormentors would only use the cattle prod to revive him again. He forced himself to look up at his doctor’s face.

“Very good, Mr. Langdon,” the quack said. Pierce couldn’t remember the man’s name. Couldn’t remember ever hearing it. Or if he had, subsequent water “treatments” must have rinsed it right out of his brain. “You came through that surprisingly well.”

Pierce was strapped naked to a wooden chair whose surfaces had been scoured smooth by countless thousands of gallons of water. The only rough spot was under Pierce’s bare backside, but that discomfort was minor compared with the other indignities he suffered. He shivered so hard his teeth knocked against one another. If his tongue got in the way, he’d bite it in two. He had no sensation below his ankles. Cold leached up his shins from the wet stone floor.

“As you can see, my device is a significant improvement over Van Helmont’s full immersion therapy,” the doctor jabbered on to his colleague who was taking copious notes. “It completely pacifies the belligerent patient and puts him in a suggestible state.”

“Not to mention that the patient, he is less likely to drown than with Van Helmont’s method.” The new doctor had an Italian accent. His nasal tone danced up and down Pierce’s spine, pausing at intervals to grind in its sharp heel.

“Quite. I’m happy to report we’ve only lost four this month.”

The Italian made a noise of approval. The men’s thoughts, small-minded and self-aggrandizing at the same time, vied with each other for supremacy in the air over their heads. Pierce tried not to listen to them. The words coming out of their mouths were confusing enough.

Instead, he stared at the drain in the floor. It was between his feet. He thought they were his feet, but he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t feel them any longer. The last of the deluge pooled around his blue toes and glumped down the drain in belching hitches, ready to be forced through a system of pumps back into the massive tank above his head.

“A quantifiable improvement, indeed. What is Signor Langdon’s diagnosis?”

He might as well have been a dumb beast, the way they spoke about him as if he weren’t even present. Perhaps he wasn’t. Not in any way that counted.

“Pitiable case, sir. Pitiable. You’d never know he was a lord to look at him, would you?”

No one looks lordly if you strip them naked and strap them to a chair, Pierce thought defiantly, but he was careful to keep his eyes downcast lest the doctors see bloodlust swirling behind his irises. If he wasn’t so weakened by the “treatments,” he’d tear off his bonds, cheerfully strangle the pair of them, and sleep like the just, once the deed was done.

“But his title is no proof against what’s going on in his poor brainpan,” the doctor went on. “He first presented with mania, claiming he heard voices. Even more incredible, Langdon believed he was hearing the thoughts of those around him. He was quite adamant that I believe him on that point and, I must admit, he did come up with some rather amazing guesses that might have fooled those who are disposed to believe such rot. However, after a few weeks of treatment he stopped trying to coerce me into joining in his manic fantasy and became sullen and uncooperative.”

The Italian doctor made a tsking noise. “Melancholia, you think?”

The first doctor nodded. “Now I fear he may be slipping into dementia. He often cannot remember his own name.”

“Neither would you if someone half drowned you every day,” Pierce mumbled, but the words were so garbled as to be unintelligible.

“He speaks. Oh, good. It’s very important to implant the desired change when the mind is at its most pliable. Now, Mr. Langdon, I want you to repeat after me. I CANNOT HEAR THE THOUGHTS OF THOSE AROUND ME. Say it. Say it just once and the orderly will come and dress you and you can return to your cell. I CANNOT HEAR THE THOUGHTS OF THOSE AROUND ME.”

Pierce forced himself to focus on the doctor’s gaunt face. The man was so pale and his cheekbones protruded so sharply as he leered down at him that Pierce couldn’t shake the thought that he was looking at a skull.

“I can see your bones,” he muttered.

“Dear me, now he’s delusional,” the doctor said, making a mark on the paper in his folder. “Fill the tank again, if you please, Dr. Falco.”

Pierce screamed.

“For the love of God, no!”

His own shouting woke him. All his muscles were clenched. Even though he recognized his surroundings, and he knew he was safe, it was some minutes before he could slow his racing heart.

Only a dream. It was only a dream.

Westfall wasn’t still held captive in the lower reaches of Bedlam. No quack was about to administer yet another treatment. He was warm and dry and comfortable on a thick feather tick in one of the Duke of Camden’s sumptuous guest quarters.

But he couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

Fortunately, the servants at Camden House were accustomed to all manner of strange noises coming from his room and no longer came running when a nightmare chased him from sleep. However, someone had probably heard him cry out. He cringed with embarrassment over the fact that his weakness had been exposed once again.

Westfall forced himself out of bed and got dressed. His wardrobe needs were simple. Besides, he didn’t want to bother with a valet’s attentions. It would only mean one more mind from whom he’d have to shield himself. As usual, a servant had slipped into his chamber while he slept and left a breakfast tray for him. He suffered through suppers in the dining room with the entire household, but this small concession saved him from having to sit with the other minds around a table for his morning meal as well.

So far, Westfall was allowed to live in monk-like seclusion whenever he wished. Eventually, however, the duke would expect him to be more sociable with the other residents and guests of Camden House.

Since he’d been venturing out into society on behalf of the Order and he had to erect and maintain his mental shield most of the time, he appreciated the leisure of being able to relax his vigilance in the mornings. After taking his tea and wolfing down three rolls with clotted cream and jam, he wandered down to the solarium.

The fresh green breath of plants met him at the door. The duke’s gardener cultivated a number of exotic species, but the man was careful to make himself scarce when Westfall entered. The duke must have left orders in that regard. Since Pierce had demonstrated a knack for it, the gardener even allowed Pierce to do some of the watering and a bit of minor pruning.

Plants were so much easier than people.

A number of African violets needed repotting, so Pierce removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and went to work. It felt good to get his hands dirty, to feel the tender roots loosen and then settle into their new home.

If he could hear the thoughts of plants, he suspected they’d be breathing a sigh of relief and saying, “Thank you.” He smiled at the imagined chorus of greenery expressing their gratitude. They’d have sweet, bloodless voices.

Like angels.

He’d always enjoyed his own company and rarely felt solitude was a burden. For the first time, though, he began to wish he could tolerate someone else’s presence well enough to share his passions and pleasures. Would anyone else be amused by the thought of his angelic violet chorus? What would Lady Nora think about it?

“Where are you hiding? Oh, there you are, Pierce.”

He’d wished for company, and now he had it. “Be careful what you wish for,” he grumbled to himself as he quickly refastened his cuffs and donned his jacket.

Vesta LaMotte stepped gingerly down the narrow path between the new beds.

“I was hoping I’d catch you alone,” she said gaily.

“Of course, I’m alone.” As if he ever sought out the company of others. Still, Vesta was always unfailingly kind to him, and he had the sense that she carefully guarded her thoughts when she was near so as not to shock him unduly. Her mind never battered away at his shield like Stanstead’s did.

“How are you?” he asked because it was the “done” thing to inquire.

“Getting old,” she said because it was not the “done” response. Vesta often advised him that if one couldn’t be witty one should at least strive to be surprising. “But I suppose I ought not to complain, considering the alternative. Now what’s this I hear about you turning into a recluse again? Camden tells me you have gone to ground since the opera last week. You’d been making such great strides prior to that. Why are you refusing to venture out?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t do the Order any good at the opera. I’m not likely to do any better at a piano recital or a gallery opening or a bear baiting, for that matter.”

Those were all places where Lady Nora was expected to be, probably on the arm of her patron Lord Albemarle. Westfall could have made an appearance at any of them since they were public events and no invitation was required. But he didn’t want to have to grit his teeth and watch as the baron made love to Nora in the open again the way he had in his box at the opera.

“I’ll have you know that it was not easy for me to tease the lady’s schedule from her,” Vesta said. “Quite tedious, actually.”

“I would have thought you and she would enjoy each other’s company. You have a great deal in common.”

“A sisterhood of tarts, as it were? Oh, I am sorry. I can see that word shocks you, but believe me when I say I was censoring myself. Polite Society calls us much worse.” She gave a dismissive wave of her bejeweled hand. Vesta never wore gloves if she could help it. She liked showing off her rings far too much. Some fingers boasted more than one. “Well, since Lady Nora and I have chosen similar paths, I suppose one might expect that to lead to a sense of camaraderie, if not for the fact that our line of work is extremely competitive. And since the care and pleasing of the male of the species is our bread and butter, we tend not to be disposed toward female friendships. However, she surprised me yesterday afternoon. Lady Nora paid me a call.”

His ears pricked. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Vesta slipped her hand into the crook of Pierce’s elbow and gracefully forced him to escort her through the greenery, stooping occasionally to smell a beckoning blossom. “She disguised her purpose well. At first, she asked my advice about how to set up the annuity her current protector wishes to settle on her. But then as soon as I finished giving her the barest of guidance about her financial matter, she turned the conversation to you almost immediately. You have definitely piqued the lady’s interest.”

Something snapped to attention inside him. “What did you tell her?”

“That you’re a hopeless neurotic who hears the thoughts of others but won’t use his formidable power to control them.”

“What?” The cardinal rule of the Order of the M.U.S.E. was that one never discussed the psychic gifts (or burdens, in his case) of its members.

“I’m only teasing, dear boy. I’d never betray you.” She patted his forearm. “But you could, you know. Control others, I mean. The ability you bear is ripe with ever so many powerful possibilities. It’s fortunate for the world that you’re the one to whom it was given. Just imagine if Bonaparte had possessed your gift—or even our own Prinny!” She shuddered delicately.

Privately, Pierce thought it might be good for those in power to know exactly what the others around them thought. As it stood, they were more likely to be advised by people who said only what their ruler wanted to hear. No one should be guided solely by thoughts that mirrored their own. No one was smart enough or principled enough for that.

“In any case, I told Lady Nora that you’re one of the duke’s trusted associates which, Lord knows, is true. Honestly, I don’t know which of you is the most misanthropic, you or Camden, but he does seem to like you well enough. He seeks out the company of so few. At least you have good reason to avoid others, while Edward…but that’s neither here nor there.” She made small circles with one hand, another of her expressive gestures. Tiny sparks seemed to shoot from under her lacquered nails, a small indication of the power of a fire mage which she kept under firm control most of the time. “At any rate, you seem to have captured the lady’s attention.”

He shook his head. He’d made a cake of himself at their last meeting. Given his limited experience with the fair sex, why on earth had he dared to kiss a courtesan? “You’re just saying that.”

“No, this letter is just saying that.” She drew a slender sealed parchment from her reticule and waggled it in the air. The violets he was working with had very little smell, but the scents of mint, lavender, and apple wafted from the missive.

The heady mix was Nora’s fragrance.

He reached for it, but Vesta snatched it away beyond his grasp.

“Not so fast,” Vesta said. “First, the courier must have her pay, and I’ve decided mine will be to know what’s in this message.”

“Agreed.” He’d have licked the sole of her foot if she’d demanded it. “Now give it to me.”

“As you wish. But pace yourself, dear boy. It’s only a letter.”

Only a letter. Only something she’d touched. Only words she’d thought and committed to foolscap. And addressed to him. Maybe she didn’t think him mad. Maybe…

He tore open the seal, pausing for a moment to close his eyes and drink in more of her scent as it emanated from the missive. Then he unfolded the foolscap and read:

My dear Lord Westfall,

I understand from my good friend, Miss LaMotte, that you are a horticultural enthusiast. My gardener has done some miraculous things with orchids of late. If you would like to see them, I will be at home on Thursday between the hours of two and four.

Yours truly,

N. Claremont

“She invites me to visit her on Thursday. That’s today,” he realized. Vesta was looking at him expectantly, as if she couldn’t hear his heart thundering in his chest. He read the letter over a few more times to make certain he hadn’t misunderstood.

“You’ll go, of course.” Vesta’s smile was so brilliant, it hurt to look at it.

“But won’t Lord Albemarle be upset if I visit his mistress?”

“If he isn’t, you’re not doing it right,” Vesta said dryly. “And if he is, worse things could happen. You are more likely to learn something of worth from an upset man than one who is in perfect charity with the world.”

He’d forgotten completely that his association with Nora was supposed to be about discovering the nature and whereabouts of the Fides Pulvis. That reminder steadied him a bit.

Then too, he ought to be repulsed by the notion of pursuing a courtesan in the first place. If a woman’s favor could be bought and sold, how could he put any value on it?

But when he thought of Nora, things like right or wrong, respectable or beyond the pale, took wing and flew out the window.

“What’s wrong with me, Vesta?”

The fire mage leaned her head on his shoulder, and he noticed for the first time that a few strands of silver were interspersed with her golden locks. “Not a thing, Pierce. Not anything you can help, at any rate, so there’s no point in fretting over it.”

“What do you mean? What can’t I help?”

“Falling in love, my dear boy. Falling in love.”

“That’s ludicrous. I barely know the lady.”

“I would beg to differ. Because you can hear Lady Nora’s thoughts, you are able to know her deeply and well, in short order,” Vesta said. “Besides, you’re exhibiting the classic signs.”

But what was Lady Nora exhibiting? She was interested in him, Vesta said. Was he a curiosity, like her orchids? Was he an amusement for when her patron wasn’t looking? No, someone tenderhearted enough to weep over the plight of opera characters wasn’t likely to use real people for sport.

But he wasn’t like real people. Westfall was different and always would be. Would she run from him in horror once she knew what he was?