A low, masculine voice drew her attention to the small group of people in the corner. Three ladies, presumably patients, were gathered around a young man who, if anything, was even more handsome than the secretary. He read to the ladies from a leather-bound volume.

Lavinia recognized the lines. They were from one of Shakespeare’s more sensual sonnets. Pleased with the prospect of listening to some well-read poetry, she collected her skirts, preparing to rise and move to another chair, one that was closer to the young man with the book.

At that moment, the door of the waiting room opened again. The blond secretary motioned to Lavinia.

“Dr. Darfield will see you now,” he said in a low voice.

“Excellent.” Already out of her chair, she changed direction and went through the door into the hall.

The secretary closed the door softly and inclined his head toward the staircase.

“Dr. Darfield’s treatment rooms are on the floor above,” he said. “If you will follow me I will show you.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her a charming smile. “But I must ask that you pay the fee in advance.”

“Yes, of course.” She opened her reticule.

The business transaction was completed with stunning efficiency. When it was finished, the secretary escorted her up the stairs and down a hall. He opened a door and bowed her into the chamber.

“Please be seated in the treatment chair. Dr. Darfield will be with you shortly.”

She went through the opening and found herself in a dimly lit room. Heavy drapes were drawn across the window. A single candle burned on a table. The air was scented with fragrant incense.

The door closed quietly behind her. When her eyes were adjusted to the low illumination, she saw a large, padded chair with an unusual, hinged footrest and wide arms in the center of the room. A strange-looking mechanical device with a hand crank sat on a small, wheeled cart.

She put her bonnet aside and went forward to sit down on the padded chair. It proved to be quite comfortable, even with the footrest down.

The door opened just as she was bending over to see how the footrest worked.

“Mrs. Lake? I am Dr. Darfield.”

“Oh.” She sat up quickly at the sound of the deep, resonant voice.

A tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in exotically patterned blue robes stood in the doorway. The attire marked him as a true student of Mesmer, she thought. She had read accounts written by persons who had been privileged to observe the great man at work. According to them, Mesmer had favored flowing robes, subdued lighting, and background music played by handsome young men. Several of the observers had also taken note of the large numbers of women who had flocked to Mesmer’s rooms for treatments, she recalled.

Darfield’s brown hair was cut in a fashionable style that set off his deep, penetrating eyes and showed his excellent profile to perfection. He was not quite so handsome as his assistants, she decided, but he was a good deal more interesting, probably because he was not as young as his employees. It occurred to her that she had reached the age when a gentleman with some crinkles at the corners of his eyes and some experience of the world on his face was vastly more intriguing than a smooth-faced younger man.

She gave him what she hoped was a suitably grateful smile, the sort of smile a lady on the brink of a fit of female hysteria might give her medical practitioner.

“It was kind of you to see me on such short notice,” she said.

Dr. Darfield walked into the chamber and closed the door. “My secretary tells me that your nerves are in very bad condition. Something of an emergency, I collect.”

“Yes, I have been under considerable strain lately and I fear my nerves have not borne up well. I do hope you will be able to relieve me of some of my tension and anxiety.”

“I will be happy to do what I can.” Darfield picked up the single taper and carried it across the room to where she sat. “May I ask how you learned of my practice?”

“I saw your advertisement in a newspaper,” she said, not wanting to mention Mrs. Rushton’s name.

“I see.” He sat down in a wooden chair across from her, his knees very close to her own. He looked at her across the flame of the candle. In the shadows his eyes were even more penetrating. “You were not referred by one of my other clients, then?”

“No.”

“Very well. In that case perhaps I should explain a bit about my therapy. It is necessary that you relax and gaze directly at the flame.”

She had no intention of allowing him to hypnotize her. In point of fact, she was not a good subject, according to her parents, who had run some experiments. But she had been an expert practitioner at one time and she certainly knew what a trance looked like in others.

A feigned trance would provide her with an opportunity to observe Dr. Darfield at work. Even if it transpired that it provided no particular insight into her investigation, it was always interesting to observe another professional in the field.

“A lady’s nerves are delicate, in keeping with the gentle, refined sensibilities that nature has bestowed upon her.” Dr. Darfield’s voice was low and deep, with a melodious quality that could have taken him far in the theater. “This is especially true in widows such as yourself, who are deprived of the normal attentions of a husband.”

She nodded politely and tried to conceal her impatience. The assumption that nervous disorders in women, together with myriad other vague symptoms classified under the label of female hysteria, were due to a lack of regular, energetic sexual congress was common among members of the medical profession. It was, she knew, a very ancient and well-documented tenet.

“The symptoms of anxiety, agitation, melancholia, and other nervous conditions in ladies are expelled from the body when the patient undergoes a crisis in the course of a treatment,” Darfield explained.

“Crisis?”

“Yes. In medical terms it is known as an hysterical paroxysm.”

“I have heard the term,” she said.

That much was true, but for the first time she wondered if her scheme to feign an entranced state might have some drawbacks. She had never actually witnessed a subject in the throes of an hysterical paroxysm and therefore was uncertain how to simulate a realistic crisis.

The problem was that there were vast differences among practitioners of mesmerism when it came to styles and methods. She had learned her techniques from her parents, who had not put much stock in the business of inducing paroxysms. Her father had often said that the response, while dramatic, was generally a short-lived cure at best.

“The hysterical paroxysm relieves the congestion in the flow of the waves of the body’s natural magnetic fluids,” Dr. Darfield continued in his deep voice. “There is no cause for concern. It produces what my patients assure me is a very pleasant convulsion followed by an extremely tranquil effect on the senses. Mesmer and many learned doctors believe the crisis to be highly efficacious.”

“I see.”

“Now, then, to obtain the full effect of the process, you must be as comfortable as possible.”

He leaned toward her and grasped a small lever she had not noticed in the side of the chair. When he pulled it forward, the footrest promptly elevated. She was marveling at that clever result when she noticed that Darfield had risen and moved to stand behind her.

She heard another lever shift and simultaneously the rear section of the chair went back by several degrees.

She suddenly found herself in a partially reclining position. It was somewhat disconcerting, she decided, but on the whole, quite comfortable. It also altered the angle of her gaze to show her the ceiling. For the first time she noticed that it had been decorated with a scene depicting a twilight sky complete with wispy pink clouds and a scattering of stars.

“A most unusual chair,” she said.

“I designed it myself.”

Dr. Darfield came back around to the side of the chair. He droned on pleasantly in her ear as he continued to discuss the delicate nature of the female constitution and how unnatural it was for an adult lady to be unable to experience healthy, invigorating marital relations on a regular basis. He explained that many married women also suffered from similar symptoms due to a lack of proper attention from their husbands. She recognized the quiet, authoritative tone that was used to induce a light trance and tried to compose her expression appropriately.

“Please watch the flame now,” he said in a soft but very firm voice.

He held the candle so that she could see it and began to inscribe a slow circle in the air with it.

“Think of that most delicate and tender region of the female form,” Darfield murmured. “That is where the congestion that causes nervous disorders occurs in ladies. I must relieve that tight, full feeling in order for you to find relief.”

She knew that the little blaze was meant to concentrate her attention. Politely, she followed it with her eyes.

Darfield moved the taper in a slow, steady pattern. Behind the glow of the flame he watched her with riveting intensity.

“You will abandon yourself to my healing touch, Mrs. Lake.” His voice, still mellifluous, grew more authoritative. He leaned over the chair, the folds of his robes sweeping lightly against her arm.

“I am going to put down the candle now.” He did not take his eyes off her as he set the taper on a nearby stand. “You will close your eyes and be guided by my voice and my touch.”

Obediently, she lowered her lashes. But she could not resist peeking.