Page 28 of Four Promises to Love

He shivered, feeling the frigid air against his cheek. Through his clothes. The cold was as dangerous as gunfire, chipping away at the regiment, taking down the bravest soldiers one by one.

“Keep going, fellows. Don’t stop. We will make it to the garrison in Jalalabad—to safety.”

“I see you standing in this hostile land. There is fear around you.”

His skin felt too tight, his breath stabbing his throat. He felt the weight of command—command that was not supposed to be his. But there was no one else left to lead. Over sixteen thousand had started on this disastrous march, and now there were fewer than a hundred.

“We’re trapped here. No place to hide. We’re penned like sheep in this stone coffin⁠—”

“I see a color. Red.” She hissed the word. “You are covered in red.”

Shouts rang in his head. Screams of panic as bullets rained from the open sky.

I have him now.

Feeling Owen’s ice-cold fingers, Finn knew her aim had been true.

From their first meeting, she’d observed that he dressed like a man unafraid of the elements. He hadn’t worn a greatcoat on that chilly London evening or during their recent graveyard rendezvous. She attributed this partly to his natural hot-bloodedness (a condition to which she could personally attest) and partly to his prior experiences. Knowing his military past, she deduced that he’d learned to adapt to harsh climes from his time in the army.

Feeling him shiver from remembered cold, she suppressed a triumphant grin. While she didn’t know where he’d been stationed, her best guess would be Ireland. Somewhere not too foreign or far away. The Marquess of Blackwood would have seen to it that his youngest son had a plush assignment. Something routine where Owen could climb the ranks with honor—and without undue risk or discomfort.

Finn was pleased with her logic. From an early age, she’d learned to read others, even their subtlest cues, to survive. At the orphanage, the tick of a certain attendant’s jaw had warned of impending violence. The gleam in a porter’s eyes had foreshadowed assault of a different nature. Finn’s observational abilities had saved her—and made her powerful as Madame Seraphina.

Observing Owen’s stillness and frozen expression, she knew she’d pierced a hole in his righteous armor.

Not so sure of yourself now, are you?

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.”