Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

" W hat the bloody hell are you doing here?" Miss Wren exclaimed, her green eyes sparking.

For a moment, Hadrian couldn't quite process with his mind what he was seeing: Miss Wren in a heap on the floor with a pistol directed squarely between his eyes. Mentally shaking himself, he managed to finally find words. "Good Lord, I am so sorry! Let me help you up. Though, perhaps you could put the pistol away, so you don't accidentally shoot me."

"If I shoot you, it won't be accidental." Her reply could have frozen the Thames.

She lowered the pistol and released the hammer before tucking it into the pocket of her dreadful black gown. Hadrian, his hands bare, grasped her hands and pulled her up to stand. He thought of what might have happened if her hands had been bare too. Would he have seen something? He hoped not, for that would feel like prying. And yet, he couldn't deny wanting to know more about her, including how her hands felt in his.

Immediately releasing him, she brushed her gloved hands over her skirts, her features drawn into a deep frown. "I'm still waiting for you to explain what you're doing here and why you leapt upon me."

"I heard the door open and thought you were the thief returning."

"As you can see, I am not." She continued to glower at him, but her expression smoothed. "And why are you even here? The door was unlatched, and I also thought the thief had returned. And that he'd knocked me to the floor." The frown returned.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Wren. I came here to ensure that the thief hadn't returned."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How did you get inside?"

He glanced away rather sheepishly. "I confess I own a device that will release a locking mechanism."

Now her eyes rounded, and her nostrils flared. "Why would you have one of those?"

He shrugged. "My valet gave it to me."

"Seems like there ought to be more to that story, but I shan't inquire after it just now." She gave him a high-browed stare. "You still owe me a story about a mistake that spared you being married. Perhaps someday you'll share your secrets. For now, I am troubled that you would take it upon yourself to break into my cousin's house."

"I meant no harm," Hadrian vowed. "I truly was trying to make sure the house remained secure." Though that hadn't been the primary purpose of his visit. He decided it was best to divert the conversation. "Why are you here with a pistol? Where did you even get that?"

"It is my father's, if you must know. My grandmother was concerned for my safety when I informed her that I was coming here."

"She takes no issue with you going about brandishing a pistol?" Hadrian would be surprised if that were the case.

Miss Wren gave him a haughty stare. "She is not aware I have it with me, and I would not have been brandishing it if I hadn't thought someone had broken in—and rightly so, I might add." She glanced around the room. "Did you find that all is, in fact, well?"

"I haven't been here long."

Her gaze fixed to the left of him, and she drew in a sharp breath. "It is here."

Hadrian saw that she was looking at the photograph on the table. He'd brought it with him and set it down just moments before she'd arrived. Bringing it here was the primary reason for his visit. Well, not just bringing it here.

She moved toward the table. "I discovered this photograph was missing from that crate you packed up the other day. Grandmama felt certain it was probably still here, but I didn't think you would have missed it."

He had not. He'd removed his gloves that day when he'd been helping, and the moment he'd touched that photograph, a horrible vision had flashed through his mind. He'd seen the body of a dead young woman, her pale neck covered in bruises, her dark-brown eyes open and unseeing. He'd seen it long enough to recall those details but hadn't recognized the woman. His efforts to recall the vision for the next short while had resulted in nothing more than a seething headache. So, he'd tucked the photograph into his coat and taken it with him when he'd left.

"I must have," he lied.

She studied him a moment, and he wondered if she could sense he was fibbing. "I thought the villain must have stolen it, which begged the question why." She turned her attention to the photograph. "I wondered if it bore any significance."

It most certainly did, not that she would know that. Blast, but he needed to find a way to share his curse with her. "Do you know who the people are in the photograph? I imagine the one on the right is Sir Henry, though he looks much younger."

"Yes, but I don't know who the others are specifically, just that they are friends of his." She picked it up, and Hadrian tensed. Was he worried she would get the same vision? Of course she wouldn't. She hadn't been cursed with an infernal, inexplicable ability.

"It's a shame the two on the left are too blurry to identify. And I don't know the fourth man who is next to Sir Henry."

"They must not have been standing still enough. If they were moving even a little, they wouldn't appear correctly." Hadrian had brought the photograph back here in the hope of seeing the vision again. After taking it home, he'd tried repeatedly to summon it once more, but he'd been entirely unsuccessful. By returning the photograph to this place where it had resided for so long, he'd hoped he would see the dead woman again. Or something related to her. Anything that might help him determine what the hell he was seeing.

His head still ached. He massaged his temple briefly. He had to try again. At least once. "Do you mind if I take a closer look?" he asked.

"Not at all. I do wonder why he kept such a poor photograph, but I suppose a great many from that time were somewhat blurred." She handed him the photograph, and as soon as Hadrian gripped the frame, the image of the dead woman rose in his mind. He gasped and dropped the photograph. It clattered to the floor as he clasped his head, a brutal pain striking him.

"My goodness, Lord Ravenhurst! Are you all right?" Miss Wren moved closer—not that he could see her, for he'd closed his eyes. He could, however, feel her presence. And it was a welcome comfort.

"I'll be fine in a moment," he rasped, blinking his eyes open.

"I've seen you rub your forehead before. Do you suffer headaches from your attack?"

Hadrian managed to focus on her, to see the concern in her eyes. "Yes." It wasn't a lie exactly. He hadn't endured headaches like these—or the visions and sensations that accompanied them—before he was attacked.

"Come and sit down." She took his arm and guided him to the nearest seat—a chair. "What does your physician say?"

The pain in his head was lessening. Hadrian exhaled as he settled himself on the cushion. "That I could have headaches for months. I suffered a serious concussion." That was also all true. But he certainly hadn't discussed his visions with his doctor. The man would have committed him directly to Bedlam. Which was perhaps where he belonged. He wanted to tell Miss Wren, but he could not .

A dull throb remained, but Hadrian felt recovered from the vision. No, not from the vision but from the accompanying pain. The vision would haunt him for some time. He'd seen the young woman in more detail just then. Her lips were purple, like the bruises at her throat. Her hair was brown with strands that had come loose against her cheeks. A white cap perched atop her head, but it was askew. She wore a blue patterned gown several decades out of fashion with low shoulders and puffed sleeves. A cameo was pinned to the neckline.

He felt a surge of sadness for her. Who was she? What had happened to her? And what did she have to do with Sir Henry?

Hadrian had to think the two people were connected. Why else would he see that vision of her in Sir Henry's house whilst touching an item that belonged to him? More than anything, Hadrian wanted to move about the house and learn what else he might see from touching various objects and furniture.

Miss Wren moved to pick up the photograph and put it back on the table. She was unaffected, not that he expected her to experience what he had. But damn, this was frustrating. And lonely. He couldn't tell anyone for fear he was going mad. To say it out loud was to make that fear manifest, he realized.

Miss Wren stood to the side watching him, her expression tense and full of worry.

"I'm feeling much better now," he said, hoping to ease her tension.

"I'm glad to hear it." She seemed to relax slightly. "You should go home and rest, but I did not see your coach outside."

"My coachman will return shortly." Hadrian hadn't wanted his coach to be parked outside for the neighbors to see and report back to Miss Wren or Mrs. Forsythe. "Perhaps we should look around the house to make sure everything is as it should be." That way he could try to learn more—if his unreliable curse would cooperate. When he'd helped with moving and packing things, he hadn't sensed anything beyond domestic visions with their accompanying routine emotions—until he'd touched the photograph. Now was perhaps his last chance to try to see something helpful. "We could also ensure that the rooms are indeed empty of everything save the furniture."

"That is probably for the best," she said with a nod.

Hadrian stood. "I'll go upstairs."

"Thank you. I need to fetch a crate from the study. That was the other reason I came, besides searching for the missing photograph." She started toward the door, then stopped, turning back to face him. "Please take it easy. If your head hurts too much, you should really go home."

"I can't until my coach returns," he said with a smile. "I'm fine, truly. I promise I will be careful. I've been dealing with this for weeks. I'll make sure the front door is locked before I go upstairs."

She nodded once, then Hadrian left the parlor.

Upstairs, Hadrian looked for Sir Henry's bedchamber. Finding it at the back of the first floor, he surveyed the room. There was a bed, an armoire, a chest of drawers, a small table beside the bed, and a cozy chair near the fireplace, but it looked devoid of life. There were no personal items. Even the bed had been stripped of everything but the mattress.

Hadrian first went to the chair by the dark, cold hearth. It looked as though it had seen many years of providing Sir Henry comfort. Hadrian contemplated sitting in it, but he feared what a connection of that nature, involving his entire body, would bring. Although, for that to work, he would need to remove his clothing, and he certainly wouldn't want to chance Miss Wren finding him like that.

He ran his bare fingers along the back of the chair. There was nothing at first, then he felt a general sense of relaxation and warmth. These sensations were followed by something darker and sharper—worry or fear. Or both.

Moving slowly about the room, he touched the various pieces of furniture and kept experiencing the same sensations. The worry and fear began to overtake the other. When he reached the bed, he touched the headboard and felt a wave of comfort that was quickly disrupted by a rush of disappointment and anger, then sharp, stringent fear.

A vision came. However, it wasn't the dead woman. It was a gaming table. There were faces but he couldn't seem them clearly. A card before him flipped over, as if turned by his own hand. It signified loss. The disappointment and fear intensified. Then there were a series of visions, flickering before him in rapid succession. All of them horrible losses.

Had Sir Henry been a gambler? Was that the reason for the poor state of his finances?

Hadrian's head was now pounding once more. He removed his hand and put it to his forehead, closing his eyes as he sought to massage the pain away.

Taking slower breaths—for his heart had been racing—Hadrian worked to ease himself. When he felt a little better, he turned toward the door and froze. He was not alone.

Miss Wren stood leaning against the frame, her head cocked to the side. "I think it's time you explain to me whatever it is you've been hiding."