Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Late February

T he door swung open before Miss Matilda Wren could reach for the handle. Mrs. Acorn, the housekeeper, greeted her. Tall and slender with dove-gray hair tucked beneath a white cap; she was in her early sixties and possessed a keen aptitude for keeping an exceptionally tidy house, baking the best tarts in London, and caring for Tilda as if she were her daughter. Which was most welcome, since Tilda's own mother had remarried nine years earlier and relocated to Birmingham.

"How did things go with Mr. Forrest?" Mrs. Acorn asked as Tilda walked into the small entrance hall of her grandmother's compact terrace house in Marylebone.

Mr. Forrest was the barrister for whom Tilda did occasional investigative work. "He was most pleased with the evidence I provided regarding Mrs. Paine's case."

Mrs. Paine was seeking to divorce her husband on the grounds of abuse and adultery. Tilda had collected a statement from the owner of the brothel where Mr. Paine had spent every Thursday evening for the past four years. They already had proof of abuse from Scotland Yard where Mrs. Paine had filed a report last month. Mr. Paine was a truly horrid man, and Tilda was delighted to help Mrs. Paine be free of him.

Indeed, Tilda would have done the work for free, but she could not afford to be charitable. The money left by Tilda's grandfather only stretched so far, and there had been no money from Tilda's father—not for Tilda anyway. Her mother had inherited a small sum and taken it with her when she'd remarried. She'd told Tilda that her grandmother would care for her, particularly since Tilda had decided to stay with her rather than join her mother and her new husband in Birmingham, where he resided.

Whilst Tilda could probably ask for money from her stepfather, Sir Bardolph, she would not. He'd been delighted that Tilda, at the age of seventeen, had chosen to remain in London with her grandmother. Since then, Tilda's relationship with her mother had diminished to monthly letters and one visit each year when her mother traveled to London with her husband so he could see one of his own adult children. They never came to just see Tilda.

Mrs. Acorn smiled as she nodded at Tilda with encouragement. "I hope that earned you a fair price."

"Fair enough." Investigating for Mr. Forrest wasn't lucrative work, but every little bit helped. "Unfortunately, he doesn't have anything else for me at the moment." Tilda chose not to work on cases for husbands, preferring to focus her investigative attention on helping women, for they had little enough assistance.

"Ah, well, things will work themselves out," Mrs. Acorn said, brushing her hands on her apron. "I'd best get back to the kitchen so I can bring tea up shortly."

Leaving her hat and gloves in the small entry hall, Tilda made her way past the staircase into the sitting room where she was sure to find her grandmother. As expected, Grandmama was settled in her favorite chair near the fireplace, her feet propped on a small stool and a blanket covering her legs. Half-moon glasses perched on her nose as she read a newspaper. A lantern on the table beside her chair gave her the additional light she needed to adequately see the print.

"I've returned, Grandmama. Mrs. Acorn will bring tea soon."

Grandmama looked up at Tilda over the rim of her glasses. "Splendid. How was your meeting, my dear?"

"Very pleasant, thank you." Tilda sat in the other chair situated before the hearth. It once matched the one her grandmother occupied, but its cushion was fuller and the dark gold and brown fabric more vibrant since it was not used as regularly as Grandmama's.

"Your grandfather would be so proud of you, even as he would be troubled by the idea of you being employed in such a manner." Grandmama set the newspaper in her lap and removed her glasses, setting them on the small, square table beside her chair.

"I'm sure if Grandpapa were still with us, he would have accepted how things have changed—and continue to change—for women."

"I'm sorry you feel the need to work at all." Grandmama frowned, the curved lines that bracketed her mouth from her nose to her chin deepening.

They'd had this conversation many times. It wasn't at all that Tilda felt the need. There was, quite simply, a need. Even so, she knew why her grandmother thought it was more due to Tilda's own desire. Tilda did enjoy her investigative work and even if there wasn't a need, she would want to do it. If she could, she would have taken up a position at Scotland Yard, just as her father had done. He'd taught her so much about what he did—how to gather evidence methodically and thoroughly, how to consider and deduce, how to ask questions and adopt the right demeanor to ensure you obtained answers. She couldn't help but possess a keen appreciation for justice and helping others. How she longed to make a difference to people as her father had done.

Without that, what would she do? Besides be invisible, as all unmarried women became.

Though, in truth, since her father's death, Tilda had felt, if not invisible then…small. When he'd died, the light from their household had gone with him. Things were much brighter here with her grandmother, but Tilda still thought a part of her remained in the shadows and probably always would.

Tilda turned her thoughts to addressing her grandmother. "As it happens, Grandmama, our finances are stretched rather thin. We'll need to speak with Sir Henry about increasing your quarterly stipend." Grandmama received payments on an investment, but there was a second investment that was to be used as Grandmama aged, which Tilda had only learned of a few months ago.

Sir Henry Meacham was Tilda's grandfather's cousin and their closest living male relative after Tilda's father had died. At that time, Sir Henry had taken over management of Grandmama's funds.

"Is that really necessary?" Grandmama asked with a slight purse to her lips.

"Yes. I will call on him." Tilda knew her grandmother disliked asking him for more money. She found it a "ghastly" subject. "I'm sure you remember that the rent increased last year." Tilda wasn't at all certain that was true but would give her grandmother the benefit of the doubt. "And I'm afraid some expenses have simply inflated." It seemed odd to Tilda that the quarterly stipend hadn't changed even once since she'd come to live with her grandmother eight years earlier. When she'd attempted to speak to Sir Henry about that and, more recently, about the secondary investment, he always said it wasn't convenient, but that they would discuss it "soon." She understood he was a busy man, but she was beginning to think she and her grandmother were not important to him. Perhaps she should see about taking over the management of the finances herself—if she could.

"It's my new medicine, isn't it?" Grandmama's worried blue eyes met Tilda's. "If it's too expensive, I'll stop taking it. My hands are much better."

"Owing to Mr. Harvey's cream," Tilda said. "Your medicine is necessary. We can afford it." In truth, it was one of the reasons they needed more money. Tilda budgeted to their very last pence. "Grandmama, please do not fret about any of this. I will speak with Sir Henry tomorrow and all will be well." Tilda regretted saying anything to her grandmother. She should have gone to see Sir Henry without mentioning it.

"If you say so, my dear. Only promise me you won't press Sir Henry unduly."

Tilda would if she had to. She would brook no further procrastination.

And she would hope for more work from Mr. Forrest. If she couldn't work for Scotland Yard or become a private investigator in her own right, that was the next best thing. She ought to consider different lines of work, but she didn't really have other skills besides investigation. She couldn't sew or mind children—she had absolutely no experience with anyone younger than herself. Working as a clerk might appeal to her, but the truth was that helping people solve their problems was all she wanted to do. Sometimes she wondered if she was just being selfish.

Exhaling, Tilda reasoned the day may come when she would take a position as a clerk or some other passionless job. Or worse, that she would marry. She wanted that even less than employment that didn't inspire her. For now, she could make do with her occasional work for Mr. Forrest, especially if she could persuade Sir Henry to increase their quarterly stipend.

Mrs. Acorn brought in the tea tray and poured out before departing for the kitchen once more.

Grandmama sipped her tea with a smile then reached for a lemon cake. "I saw Mr. Orchard this morning," she said before taking a bite of cake.

Tilda responded with a vague, "Mmm." She did not want to engage her grandmother on the topic of Mr. Orchard. A widower with two children, he was very nice. He was also clearly interested in Tilda as a potential mother for his offspring. If she wanted to care for children, she would seek a position as a governess.

"You could at least consider him," Grandmama said. "You are not so firmly on the shelf, are you?"

At twenty-five, Tilda regarded herself as a spinster and had no quarrel with that. To marry would be to surrender everything, and given that she had so little, she was not willing to do that. Marriage as an institution also held little appeal, but then Tilda had only ever been privy to an unhappy one—her parents'. How she wished she could have known her grandfather and seen her grandparents together. The love her grandmother had for him was still very present, even if he wasn't.

"I think I am, Grandmama," Tilda said. "What's more, I find the shelf comfortable. The view is most diverting."

"Well, then I shall put Mr. Orchard from my mind." Grandmama's gaze drifted to her teacup but not before Tilda caught the sheen of sadness in her eyes. She wanted to know that Tilda wouldn't be alone once she departed this earth. Tilda could only console her by saying she didn't mind being alone, that she actually enjoyed independence. To which Grandmama would scoff—with a smile—and say there was nothing wrong with being dependent. That caring for someone and having someone to care for you was indeed lovely.

Such comments never failed to bring Tilda's father to the forefront of her thoughts. How she missed him. He'd cared for her greatly—more than her mother ever had. His loss still hurt, and Tilda knew it always would.

Tilda set her teacup down. "I think it's time for our word puzzles." One of their "luxury" expenses was a book full of word games published monthly. Most afternoons, they did a few pages together.

Beaming, Grandmama leaned forward. "Oh, yes, let's."

Tilda moved the table next to her chair between them and fetched the book. Opening it to their last completed puzzle, she flipped the page to the next one.

Grandmama rubbed her hands together. "This one looks quite complex."

They settled in to decipher the rebus, and Tilda set her financial worries aside. For the moment.

A fter five weeks of recuperation, Hadrian was more than ready to leave the confines of his home in Mayfair. But the destination of his first foray back into the world would have surprised anyone. There was no way he would reveal his intentions, not even to Sharp. He simply could not.

"You look very well, my lord," the valet declared as he stepped back.

"I feel well, thank you." The lingering ache in Hadrian's right side where he'd been stabbed had finally subsided.

The pain in his head had also diminished, though he still had the occasional headache. He'd taken a hard blow, so the doctor had said. Hadrian had to agree, for things had not been the same since he'd struck his head on the pavement. But did he really blame the injury, or was that confounded ring he'd taken from his assailant at fault?

Hadrian had continued to see visions and feel sensations whenever he handled the ring with his bare hands. Indeed, the more he touched the ring, the longer the visions lasted and the more detail he could discern. Though, it was never quite enough—not until the last few days when he'd finally determined what he was seeing. He was fairly confident the visions were like memories, but they belonged to whomever had owned the ring.

Keeping the ring from Scotland Yard hadn't been a concern. The inspector had not returned to speak with Hadrian despite Hadrian sending two letters requesting his presence. Whilst Hadrian had no intention of surrendering the ring, or even mentioning it just now, he was still eager to have his case reopened.

Perhaps calling on Padgett at Scotland Yard should be Hadrian's first excursion, but Hadrian had something more pressing—finding answers to whatever he was seeing when he touched that bloody ring. If the visions could lead him to his assailant, Hadrian could discover the truth behind the attack, for there was no way the man had been a common footpad. This crime carried a different sort of motivation, and Hadrian intended to solve this mystery. He'd always felt he had a purpose in life, but this was something different. This was a visceral need to determine why he'd almost died.

Releasing the ring, Hadrian took his hat and gloves from Sharp whose vertical creases between his brows had formed deep crevasses. "Erase the worry from your mind. I'm truly fine, and I'm quite looking forward to being outside."

Hadrian set his hat atop his head and departed his dressing chamber. Making his way downstairs, he drew on his gloves. His butler, Collier, greeted him in the entrance hall. "It's good to see you going out, my lord."

"Thank you. Do see that Sharp has some tea. He seems nervous about my departure. I've assured him all will be well."

"I will do so," Collier replied with a nod. "We are all concerned for your welfare. Do take care."

"Always." Hadrian strode from the house onto Curzon Street. He'd already decided to walk to Piccadilly where he would hail a hack to his dubious destination.

It felt good to be out, even if the air seemed worse. Or perhaps in the weeks since his injury, he'd simply forgotten how bad it was. Every summer he spent weeks at his estate in Hampshire and was somehow shocked by the quality of the air when he returned to London.

Once he reached Piccadilly, he had no trouble hailing a hack. "Fish Street Hill," he told the driver as he handed him payment. Hadrian climbed inside and pulled the door closed in front of him.

"Aye," the driver responded, and they were quickly on their way.

Hadrian felt the energy and bustle of the city as they traveled east. Smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen gave way to people of business rushing along the pavement. The farther east they went, the number of people increased—and they were of a decidedly lower economic class. Children dashed about, and some worked alongside their parents, hawking pies or coffee or any number of goods. Some children worked alone, selling matches or flowers. He only saw one of the latter, as it was still early in the season. The child had clusters of barely blooming daffodils, their bright yellow a glimpse of the coming spring sun.

Blinking, Hadrian wondered at his sense of curiosity and even nostalgia today. He had been too long cooped up, he reasoned.

At last, they arrived at Fish Street Hill. The image he'd seen most in his mind rose before him, tall and unmistakable, though it had taken him more than a week to hold the vision long enough to discern what he was seeing.

Hadrian departed the hack and walked slowly toward the monument. Erected more than two hundred years ago, it commemorated the Great Fire that had destroyed most of the city of London. This obelisk had lived in Hadrian's mind for weeks now, along with a sign featuring a carved and painted bell. Turning in a circle, he looked for that sign.

Of course it wasn't immediately visible. He began to walk, deciding to follow Fish Street Hill toward the river. After a few dozen steps, he saw the sign, precisely as he'd seen it in his vision. It hung over a tavern—the Bell.

Hadrian quickened his pace until he stood outside the pub. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. And had no idea what to do next.

The ring had led him this far, and he needed help to continue. He hated relying on the vexing object with its inexplicable power, and it wasn't just because seeing and feeling things from it made his head ache most fiercely. The strange ring made him question his sanity. It was bad enough that he saw and felt things, but to follow them? He'd end up in Bedlam before long.

Which was why he'd told no one about the ring.

Steeling himself, Hadrian removed his glove and reached into his pocket to stroke the ring. Nothing came to him at first, which wasn't unusual.

Come on, Hadrian urged silently. He just knew the ring was trying to lead him somewhere. Why show him the monument and this tavern?

Because they had something to do with the man who'd worn the ring. The footpad who wasn't a footpad, no matter what Scotland Yard had resolved.

The door behind Hadrian creaked as someone pushed inside. Hadrian hurriedly stepped away, his eyes adjusting to the dim, low-ceilinged interior. The pub's common room was long with a rough collection of tables taking up the bulk of the space. Two dingy windows looked out onto Fish Street Hill. A bar stretched along the back of the room, behind which stood a burly barkeep with a beard. He spoke familiarly with the man who'd just entered and gone straight to the bar.

Was the man who'd worn the ring in Hadrian's pocket a patron of this pub? If the visions Hadrian saw in his mind were indeed the man's memories, somehow trapped in the ring he'd worn, then it was likely. Unless his assailant had never actually walked into the pub. Perhaps he saw the sign as he walked past it to his lodgings.

Hadrian could very well be wasting his time and energy. And for what? Was he going to haul the footpad to Whitehall himself? Or inform Scotland Yard that he'd found his attacker…through visions from a magic ring?

Not that last part, but the rest, hell yes. If Scotland Yard wasn't going to properly investigate this crime, then someone needed to. Hadrian had considered hiring a private investigator, but for now he wanted to determine whatever the ring was trying to tell him.

And how would he explain that to the man he hired?

Hadrian shrugged those thoughts away. He needed to concentrate on whyever the ring had driven him here.

He thrust his hand into his pocket once more and pulled out the ring out to slip it onto his little finger. Wearing it generally gave him the best results, as far as seeing visions and perchance grasping them for more than a flickering moment. It was also the best way to ensure his head was pounding, but that was a risk he would take now that he was here.

Running the forefinger of his right hand over the engraved M, Hadrian wondered what the initial stood for. Probably a family name, but whose? Certainly not the man who'd attacked him. He did not seem the sort whose family would have such a treasure.

The ring never failed to make Hadrian feel unsettled, as if he'd just received bad news. It infused him with a sense of anxiety that he didn't care for, but his need for information outweighed that discomfort. For now.

A few of the tables were occupied, but most were not. Likely, that would change as the day aged. Empty tables meant Hadrian could stop at each one and see if something, anything would flash in his brain.

After moving about from table to table and feeling nothing save a growing ache behind his temples, Hadrian became aware of the barkeep and the man who'd walked in after him looking in his direction. And why wouldn't they? He was behaving oddly.

Frustrated, Hadrian sat at a table and put his palm on the pocked wood. Something flickered within him, like an energy. Hadrian closed his eyes and pressed his bare hand more firmly against the tabletop.

There! An image rose in his mind. But it was impossibly brief. He tried again, focusing on his mind's eye. "Show me," he whispered.

"Ye need something?"

Hadrian opened his eyes to see the barkeep standing over him. He didn't want to be thrown out for behaving as though he belonged in an insane asylum, which seemed imminent given the barkeep's wary gaze and the hard set of his mouth. "Ale, thank you," Hadrian said pleasantly.

The barkeep returned to the bar. As he did so, Hadrian saw another image. It was definitely a man's face. The only other faces he'd seen were the red-haired woman and the bruised man. Seeing them repeatedly had not increased his recognition. Hadrian didn't know them, and why should he?

But something about this face tickled his brain. A sense of excitement rushed through him. Hadrian took off his other glove, wondering if pressing both hands against the table would help. Hell, he had no idea what he was doing. He just knew he needed to see that face again.

The barkeep deposited a tankard on the table, and Hadrian paid him. "Thank you," he said, eager for the barkeep to go away.

"Ye seem a long way from home," the barkeep said.

"Not that far." Hadrian narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked up at the man. He would prefer to be genial, as that generally smoothed disagreeable situations. However, this man was rough, his demeanor that of distrust and suspicion. "I'm in the neighborhood conducting business and fancied an ale."

The barkeep eyed him another moment then nodded before returning to the bar.

Suppressing a scowl, Hadrian swept up the tankard and took a long drink. The ale was weak, but it was wet and eased the ache in his head a bit.

Hadrian took a second drink then set the tankard down. Summoning all his focus, he pressed his hands against the table once more and closed his eyes. Nothing.

Then he realized he typically saw more when his eyes were, in fact, open. He silently cursed himself for not noticing that sooner. Fixing his gaze ahead, he moved his hands to a new position.

The image of the man came again. He was older, his thinning hair gray, the flesh of his face loose and weathered. His eyes were wide. He seemed frightened.

Hadrian felt he knew this man, but he couldn't see him long enough to know for certain. He drank more ale and, over the course of nearly an hour, kept chasing the image, taking breaks to allow the pain in his head to ease. At last, Hadrian recognized him. Without a doubt, he knew this man. But what, pray tell, did he have to do with the man who'd attacked Hadrian?

Head aching and his body thrumming with excitement, Hadrian removed the ring and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled on his gloves then rose from the chair, intent on following the path the vision had laid. Hopefully the man he'd seen would be able to tell him the identity of Hadrian's assailant.

How Hadrian would ascertain that knowledge was uncertain, but he would not be daunted. He would determine why he'd been stabbed, for he was convinced that theft had nothing to do with it.

Hadrian strode from the pub, aware that he may very well be on a fool's errand.