Drake waited impatiently in the foyer of a modest townhome while the butler fetched the owners. He could hardly fathom that he was here when he needed to see to business. Hearing the footsteps of more than one person, he tensed. He wanted to make this visit as short as possible.
Sir William Graves exited a hallway, his wife at his side, her face etched with concern.
“Is it Avendale?” she asked, clearly worried. “Has he been hurt?”
He knew she was really asking if he was dead. The former Duchess of Avendale was no doubt well aware that her son was not always cautious when it came to his partaking of sin. On more than one occasion Drake had wondered if the man’s goal was to acquire an early grave. As Avendale frequented Drake’s world, it stood to reason Drake would be the one to deliver the unwelcome news. “He’s quite well. I saw him earlier at Dodger’s, looking for sport.”
Relief washed over her features, even as she gave him a skeptical look. “My son is searching for a good many things, but I’m not sure sport heads his list.”
“I assure you that he’s fine.”
“Is someone in the family ill?” Sir William asked. Years ago, he’d been knighted because of his exemplary care of the queen.
“Everyone is well, but I wondered if I might have a private word.”
“Yes, of course. Come back to my study.”
Reaching out, his wife squeezed Drake’s arm. “It’s good to see you.”
He wished he could assure her that her son would remain well, but he was convinced Avendale’s demons existed in greater numbers than Drake’s. So he settled for a reassuring smile before following the doctor to his study. He took the whiskey and chair that were offered. Graves sat in the chair opposite him, studying him intently as though he had the ability to diagnose with little more than an outward assessment.
“So what brings you to my door?” Graves asked.
Madness. Utter and complete madness. Revenge gone awry.
Drake sipped the whiskey. Now that he was here, he didn’t quite know how to handle things. Showing up at the doctor’s door had been a rash decision, but that seemed to be the way of things for him where Phee was concerned. “I know a gent, took a tumble in the river a couple of nights ago, and he seems to have left his memory there.”
“You’re having difficulty remembering things?”
“No, not me. Why would you think that?”
Graves gave him a small smile. “I often have patients describe a friend’s ailments when they are uncomfortable with their own symptoms, but I assure you that everything you tell me is held in confidence and you have no reason to be embarrassed. I do not sit in judgment.”
You bloody well might if you knew exactly what I’ve done. “I’m not the one who has no recollection of his past. I’m wondering if his health is at risk.”
“I shall have to examine him—”
“He won’t come. He has a fear of physicians.”
“Thought he’d lost his memory.”
“Not all of it. He remembers little pockets of information. How long before he’ll recall everything?”
Placing an elbow on the arm of the chair, Graves rubbed his chin in thought. “Difficult to say. I have to admit that I’ve not had much experience dealing with catastrophic loss of memory. Some patients are a bit disoriented after a head injury but usually everything comes back to them shortly. I’ve had a few patients who never regained the memories they lost.”
“There’s no cure?”
“Not to my knowledge. Although I did hear about a fellow who fell from a roof and couldn’t remember how he’d come to be there. Nor could he recall that he had a family. But when he was taken home the familiarity helped him to remember. I assume this man you know is already home.”
“He can’t remember where his home is.”
“That’s unfortunate. I wish I could be of more help. The mind is terribly complicated. It can forget what it doesn’t wish to remember. Sometimes memory can be triggered by something odd: the aroma of a particular fowl cooking, an experience, a person. But I have no magical elixir.”
“But being back in a familiar setting might be all that is needed?”
“Might be. No guarantees. A French physician is doing some amazing studies in neurology but I’ve not heard of any specific conclusions regarding amnesia. I could pen him a letter, attempt to gather some more information. Meanwhile, see if you can talk this gent into coming to see me. It sounds as though he might be a fascinating study.”
Fascinating indeed.
Because the most comfortable piece of furniture in the entire residence was Drake’s bed, Phee was curled up on it, a mound of pillows behind her back, while she read Pride and Prejudice. She knew that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy belonged together. She knew scandal was involved, although she couldn’t recall the details. It was an odd thing. As she read each page, it was as though it caused her to remember reading the page at another time—curled in a little nook or sitting beneath the boughs of an elm. Why had embracing her duties today not caused the same thing to happen?
She wondered if it was truly important to know the past, especially as she felt somewhat lightened by not knowing it. What had it entailed?
Setting aside the novel, she reached for the book on household management that she had placed on the bedside table earlier. It was dry reading, but necessary. She wanted to please her employer. No, that wasn’t quite true. She wanted to please Darling.
For all his gruffness, he possessed a tenderness that took her by surprise at the oddest moments. Sometimes she thought she recalled him from before, but the images that flickered through her mind were not those of the man she was coming to know. His were small kindnesses, but they touched her deeply. While he often seemed impatient with her, he also appeared to care for her well-being. Wrapping her hands, excusing her from carrying out her duties. Had she a servant, she didn’t know if she would be as thoughtful.
Sitting up straighter, she concentrated. Had she had a servant? It seemed she had, but that made no sense. Had she once been well off but fallen on hard times?
Settling back down, she opened the book. She considered skipping over the chapter that addressed the duties of the mistress of the house, but as he had no wife, she decided those responsibilities belonged to her as well. As she read the pages, she was surprised by how familiar the tasks of the mistress were, as though she’d once carried them out. Had she been mistress of a household? Was she a widow? Had she come into service because her husband died and left her with nothing?
Scrambling out of bed, she hurried into the bathing chamber and studied her face more closely in the reflection in the mirror on the wall. No lines, no sagging skin, no jowls. How old was she? Not old enough to be a widow surely.
Had she overseen her father’s house? Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she concentrated on bringing forth images, but nothing was there. In frustration, she smacked her hand against the wall. The past didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter.
She wouldn’t let it.
She returned to the bed and curled up with Mrs. Beeton rather than Jane Austen. She would embrace her duties, perform them to the utmost of her abilities. Darling would be grateful she managed his household. His residence could be so much more than it was. She would see to it, even as the section on housekeeping began to overwhelm her. So much to oversee, so many tasks that needed to be tended to. She wondered that she had a moment to breathe, much less find herself in the river. It appeared the evening was the only time she would have a few minutes to herself.
She was quite surprised when she read the portion that explained how she was responsible for a household budget, for purchases. Shouldn’t she have remembered such a significant detail? She was supposed to have a book where she recorded expenses. Where would she keep that? According to Mrs. Beeton, she should have a housekeeper’s room from which she oversaw the household. Darling hadn’t indicated a room for her purpose. Perhaps they shared his office. Based on the size of his desk and the fact that he was sadly lacking in servants, that made sense to her.
She wondered about the extent of the monies that she might oversee, on what she was expected to spend the funds. If she were extremely frugal, could she purchase a comfortable chair, hire a cook, secure a housemaid? Those thoughts excited her with possibilities. She needed to find her book.
Sliding off the bed, she reached for her shoes, then decided that she didn’t need them. She was the only one about. Who would be offended by her stockinged feet? She wandered out the door and down the stairs. It was so incredibly quiet, yet she didn’t feel lonely. Rather she relished the silence. Every little thing she noticed was a new discovery about herself. It was such an odd thing not to know everything that she liked and enjoyed. It was as though she’d only just met herself and was slowly unveiling the mystery of who she was, developing a friendship with herself. Did she have friends? Would they be missing her, wondering why they didn’t hear from her? Would they come to visit?
If she only knew who they were, she could go to them. As it was, she would have to wait for them to come to her—then perhaps they would answer all the questions that Darling didn’t. She did hope they wouldn’t be too long in paying a call. If they had been here before, perhaps they would visit soon.
Reaching the library, she turned on the gaslights and took a moment to appreciate the three books that presently sat upon a shelf. She would add the other two when she was finished with them. She imagined the satisfaction she would feel with books on every shelf. Perhaps she would delay the purchase of a chair in order to gain more books. She imagined the musty fragrance they would give the room, a scent of knowledge, power, journeys that knew no bounds. She could see herself spending a good deal of time in here, sitting in a stuffed chair before the fire, reading. Darling, doing the same, sitting opposite her.
She blinked. No, a servant and an employer would not sit together in companionable silence. If he were here in the evenings, she would be relegated to her room while he enjoyed the fire, the books, the calm setting she worked to create. Not fair, not fair at all.
Going to the desk, she sat in the comfortable leather chair, allowing it to ease the aches in her body. Her hands were still wrapped, protected. Perhaps an employer who took such care with her hurts would welcome her sitting with him in the evenings. Surely with only the two of them here, they weren’t as formal as they would be otherwise.
She turned her attention back to her task at hand: finding her book of accounts. She opened one drawer after another, finding most of them empty of belongings. Truly this man lived a most spartan existence. She couldn’t imagine doing the same. She paused. Based on her meager belongings, she did exactly the same. Not by choice. She was not one to do without. So why was she?
Again, no choice. The reasons behind her lack of choice were the mystery.
She went back to work, opening the last drawer. Inside was a finely crafted wooden box. Taking it out, she set it on the desk so she could see more clearly into the depths of the drawer. But again, nothing that would serve as a ledger of accounts.
Odd that she would know precisely what it should look like, so perhaps she had been a housekeeper for some years. Well, not too many as she didn’t think she was that old. A housemaid perhaps who had been in training to become a housekeeper.
With a sigh, wondering where else she might look for her account book, she rose from the chair. In the kitchen perhaps. After taking two steps, she stopped. She couldn’t leave his things lying about. She returned to the desk, studied the box. It wasn’t very large, but perhaps it contained her ledger. Maybe her ledger was small. Glancing around cautiously, she knew she should simply put it back. He’d placed it in a bottom drawer for a reason. Something private, perhaps even personal. A good servant knew her boundaries, but as she had no memory of her duties, surely she had no memory of her boundaries. She released a little laugh. She could get away with things she might not otherwise.
Slowly, half inch by half inch, she lifted the hinged lid and peered inside. Nothing more than what appeared to be a yellowed-with-age clipping from a newspaper. Because it seemed brittle and fragile, she removed and unfolded it with care. It was an article concerning the hanging of a Robert Sykes. Why would he have this in his possession? Why would he keep it shut away, and yet within easy access?
“What the devil are you doing?”
She should have screeched, should have at least been startled, but she was becoming accustomed to that booming voice intruding when she was in the midst of contemplation. Besides, she was too enamored with what she’d discovered. She glanced to the mantel, but no clock rested there. Somewhere in her life was a mantel with a clock. A gold filigreed clock. A hideous thing that ticked far too loudly.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
After snatching the clipping from her fingers, he refolded and returned it to the box. “You have no right to go through my things.”
“I was looking for something and found that instead. Who is Robert Sykes?”
“A murderer.”
“Yes I rather gathered that from the newspaper account, but why would you keep it as though it were a treasured keepsake?”
“Perhaps I’m macabre.”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe it’s something personal, something with meaning.”
Slamming down the lid, he glared at her. “I do not explain my possessions. You are to leave them be.”
As he was avoiding her questions, she could only assume it was indeed most personal, but he wasn’t going to share it with her, no matter how many times she asked. She decided it was best to justify her actions, or at least those that could be justified. “I was searching for my account book.”
“Your what?”
“According to Mrs. Beeton, I’m supposed to keep a detailed record of things ordered, purchased, received. I don’t even know what my budget for the household is so I’m at quite a loss regarding what I can purchase.”
“I handle all the purchases.”
“But I’m the housekeeper.”
“You have enough duties without worrying about that.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I am very particular about how my money is spent.”
He studied the desk for a moment, then walked over to the shelves, reached up, and placed the box on a shelf that she would be unable to reach without a stool. She didn’t bother to point out that it wasn’t safe there. If she wanted to look at it again, she could drag in a chair.
“I don’t understand our relationship,” she said instead. “I think you’re purposely keeping things from me in order to ensure I don’t regain my memories.”
He prowled toward her. An image flashed through her mind of his doing that while shadows closed in around them. She dropped down into the chair, pressed her back into it. Stopping, he hitched his hip onto the edge of the desk and leaned forward slightly. “What would I gain by such underhanded tactics?”
“You’ve come at me before like that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You were—” She shook her head. “In formal attire. That makes no sense. I wouldn’t be at a formal affair . . . unless I was serving, I suppose.”
His gaze roamed over her, taking in each detail. She remembered that action from another time as well. In the background had been music . . . a waltz. But she didn’t fear this man. She trusted him. So why this sense of discomfiture? Especially after all he’d done for her, all she’d done for him.
Abruptly, he stood. “You’ll need your shoes. We’re going out.”
“Going out? Where?”
“In search of your memories.”