Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T ilda stepped from the hackney coach and walked toward Sir Henry Meacham's house in Huntley Street only to stop short. A yew wreath with black ribbons hanging on the door turned her blood cold. Sir Henry must be dead. They would not hang a wreath for one of his retainers, and his wife had died two years ago.

Still, her grandmother hadn't received a notice, and surely Sir Henry's daughters would have sent one. Unless the death had just happened, and they hadn't yet had them printed.

The cool wind pulled at Tilda's bonnet, but she'd tied it securely beneath her chin. Shakily, she made her way forward and summoned the courage to knock on the door. She wasn't intruding. She was family. Sir Henry's second cousin. Or was it third?

Her knock was soon answered by their decrepit butler, Vaughn. He'd been a tall man but was now stooped. Still, he was taller than Tilda and a great many others. His faded blue gaze met Tilda's. "As you can see, miss, death has visited this household."

"I'm sorry Vaughn. What, pray tell, happened to Sir Henry?"

The butler's aged skin pulled taut over his cheekbones as he grimaced. "He collapsed at one of his clubs last evening. He suffered an attack of some kind. Dr. Selwin, his physician, said it was his heart. He examined Sir Henry before he was brought here. Mrs. Forsythe was summoned and has been here since early this morning. However, she is not receiving." Millicent Forsythe was Sir Henry's eldest daughter. Tilda wondered where his other daughter, Belinda, was.

"Of course not," Tilda said softly. "Please convey our deepest sympathies."

"The funeral's to be here on Friday," Vaughn said. "Mrs. Forsythe just ordered the cards a few hours ago. I presume you and your grandmother will be in attendance."

"Most certainly." Tilda briefly touched the butler's forearm. "I know you've been with Sir Henry a very long time."

Vaughn exhaled roughly, his chest sounding as though it were shuddering. "Suppose it's time for retirement." He sounded rather despondent, which was to be expected after such a shocking tragedy.

Tilda bid the butler farewell and turned away from the closing door. Though she hadn't been terribly close to Sir Henry, she felt a wave of sadness.

She walked slowly back toward the street, her mind reeling from this shocking news. Grandmama would be very upset. In many ways, Sir Henry had kept the memory of her husband alive. They often shared stories of time spent together decades earlier. Tilda couldn't do that, for he'd died seven years before her birth. Even so, he'd loomed large in her life because of the way her grandmother and her own father spoke of him. The death of his cousin would likely bring up many emotions for her grandmother.

Reaching the pavement, Tilda stopped short once more as a gentleman stood facing the house. "I beg your pardon," she said just before colliding with him.

She had to tilt her head to look up at him, for he was most certainly over six feet tall. His eyes, beneath a wide forehead, were a deep blue with thick, dark lashes. A strong, square chin supported his full lips. The gentleman was most arresting.

"My apologies," he murmured. "I was distracted by the mourning wreath." His gaze swept over her. "Are you a member of the family?"

"I am, albeit somewhat distantly," she said. "Sir Henry was my grandfather's cousin." She would need to see about a gown of black crepe. Yet another burdensome expense. She wouldn't need to wear it long for such a distant relative. Perhaps she could adapt something of her grandmother's, though it would likely be desperately out of fashion.

The gentleman's brow puckered beneath his top hat. "It is Sir Henry then? I'm sorry for your loss."

"Were you calling on him?" Tilda asked.

"I'd hoped to."

"I'd hoped to do the same." Tilda thought of the reason for her visit. How was she to obtain an increase in her grandmother's stipend now? Indeed, what would happen to her grandmother's investments now that he was gone? He had no sons, only two daughters, one of whom had no children, and the other, Mrs. Forsythe, had just a single daughter. Tilda would need to speak with Sir Henry's solicitor. After the funeral, of course.

She cocked her head to the side and looked more closely at the gentleman. He was not familiar to her. He was, however, expensively garbed. His attire was somewhat formal, and if she'd had to guess, she would put his address squarely in Belgravia or Mayfair. He might even be nobility.

"How do you know Sir Henry?" she asked.

"We worked together somewhat before he retired from the Home Office." The man frowned faintly. "When did he die?"

"Last night. The funeral is Friday." Tilda wondered why she was sharing so much information with a stranger. She reasoned she'd been jolted by this shocking news. And he wasn't a stranger to Sir Henry.

"Is it here?" the man asked. "I should like to pay my respects."

She blinked at him, clutching her purse more tightly before her. "Forgive me, but who are you?"

He shook his head. "My apologies. I am not usually this poorly mannered. I am Lord Ravenhurst."

She'd been right about his potential nobility, and she was more confident than ever that he was nowhere near his large, certainly fashionable home. "I'm sorry we had to meet under such circumstances."

"I am the one who is sorry, both for my lapse in behavior just now and because you are the one with cause to be grieved since Sir Henry was family. At the risk of breaching etiquette even further, may I ask how he died?"

Though Ravenhurst knew he was verging upon rudeness, he chose to flirt with it anyway. He must be very keen to know what had happened. Why? His curiosity rivaled her own. But then an investigative mind demanded one ask questions.

"He suffered an attack," Tilda said slowly, uncertain of this man's interest or motives for calling on Sir Henry. "Why are you calling?"

"I wished to speak with him about a private matter." He drew a quick breath. His blue eyes sparked with intensity though his features remained passive. He seemed to be well practiced in schooling his expressions, for the most part. "Where did this attack happen? Do you know if anything was stolen from his person?"

Tilda stared at him as she realized what he meant. "He wasn't attacked by someone. He collapsed due to some sort of attack. His heart, apparently." That was all she would say, not that she knew much more. "Your interest in the specifics of Sir Henry's death is most curious, my lord."

His lips turned up in the briefest of smiles. No, it wasn't really a smile, but a resetting of his face into something more pleasant upon realizing he'd displayed too much of…something.

"Again, I must apologize. I'd hoped to speak with Sir Henry about an important matter, and I find myself perplexed as to how to move forward. But that is most selfish of me. Please accept my deepest condolences." He touched his hat, then turned and walked away from her.

Tilda's own curiosity was quite provoked. What private, important matter? She couldn't help noting that he'd been purposely vague whilst asking her a series of questions. If she didn't know better, she would assume he was an investigator.

But he was an earl, if she recalled her Burke's Peerage correctly, and what reason could he have for investigating Sir Henry?

She trailed after him. "Pardon me, my lord?"

He turned to face her. "Yes?"

"Your interest in Sir Henry's death has piqued my curiosity." She narrowed her eyes slightly, seeming to assess him. "Perhaps I could help you with your private, important matter ."

Surprise flickered in his gaze before he blinked it away. "I wouldn't want to trouble you today on the heels of such a tragedy."

"Another time then," Tilda said benignly though she wanted to press him. That he'd neatly obtained information from her whilst she'd gleaned nothing from him grated on her.

He smiled and nodded before turning away once again. This time, Tilda watched him go, her mind silently repeating their conversation.

Botheration. She couldn't focus on the perplexing earl right now, not after what had happened to Sir Henry. Turning on her heel, she walked in the opposite direction from the earl to hail a hackney to return home. She was both anxious about informing her grandmother of this tragedy and how it may affect their livelihood. She was eager to speak with Sir Henry's solicitor at the earliest possible moment.

She could only hope the man had clear instructions regarding Grandmama's investments. Waiting to confirm that would be somewhat agitating. Alas, there was nothing else to be done.

T he rain had lessened as Hadrian had returned to Sir Henry Meacham's house in Huntley Street on Friday for the funeral, but now as he arrived, it came down in buckets. He waited in the coach a few minutes before giving up on the downpour lessening.

Pulling his hat down, he jumped from the coach and hastened to the door, which was promptly opened wide by one of the oldest butlers Hadrian had ever encountered.

Stooped, with rheumy blue eyes, the man barely looked at Hadrian. "The parlor is just through there." He gestured behind him to a doorway on the left side of the entrance hall.

"Thank you," Hadrian said, removing his sodden hat and handing it to the poor man. There was already a collection of damp headwear atop a slender table.

Moving into the parlor, Hadrian felt as though he'd stepped directly into a funeral shroud. Black crepe was draped over mirrors and the windows. The space was dark and close. Gloomy.

As Hadrian scanned the room, he recognized several faces, many of whom were—or had been—with the Home Office. And not just clerks, but the secretary, Lord Cranbrook and even a former secretary, Mr. Spencer Walpole.

There were strong smells, like perfume, wafting about. This was typical at a funeral to mask the scent of death, especially in warmer months. However, the smells here were rather pungent—floral and citrus.

"Afternoon, Ravenhurst," a deep voice said from behind Hadrian.

Turning, Hadrian recognized the man who had to be around seventy but appeared quite hearty. "Ardleigh," he said with a nod.

The viscount, thick-waisted with dark gray hair and patrician features, glanced about the room before focusing his gray eyes on Hadrian once more. "Didn't realize you knew Sir Henry all that well."

"Well enough to receive an invitation," Hadrian said. He'd been surprised when it arrived but reasoned the woman he'd met outside the house the other day had included him on the list of people to receive invitations. And he was not going to pass up the opportunity to come and learn whatever he could about Sir Henry's sudden death. It was too bloody coincidental that Hadrian would see the man in a vision associated with Hadrian's own assailant.

"Nice to see a hearty turnout," Ardleigh said with a fleeting smile. "But then Sir Henry was well liked."

Hadrian recalled that about him. "Sir Henry was always most genial."

"He had a fine laugh." Ardleigh smiled again, this time for longer. "I'd known him a great many years."

"I'm sorry for the loss of your friend."

"He had better friends than I, but I shall be grateful to be considered among them. Please excuse me. I must pay my respects to his daughters." Ardleigh moved past Hadrian toward a pair of women encased in black from their veiled hats to their footwear.

"Lord Ravenhurst, you did come," a feminine tone said from behind him.

Hadrian turned. Though he'd recognized the voice as belonging to the woman he'd met the other day, he jolted to see her in black, thinking he preferred her in the blue walking dress she'd been wearing that day. She was a striking woman with moss green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a small, cunning cleft in her chin.

"Were you hoping I would?" Hadrian asked, an odd pleasure sweeping through him.

"I made sure you received an invitation since you claimed to know Sir Henry."

Her use of the word ‘claimed' made Hadrian wonder if she doubted him. She had seemed somewhat skeptical of him the other day, following him down the street to offer assistance. And curious, which made two of them.

"Thank you, Miss—I'm sorry, I don't how to address you." He smiled politely. She hadn't offered her name the other day when he'd given his.

"Miss Matilda Wren."

He knew that name. "Was Alexander Wren, the magistrate, your grandfather?"

She nodded. "You knew of him?"

"Certainly. He was highly regarded. Such a shame he died at too young an age."

"I never knew him, but I feel as if I do, living with my grandmother." Her gaze moved to an older woman leaning on a cane as she spoke with one of the women Ardleigh had identified as Sir Henry's daughters.

"Is that her?" Hadrian asked.

"Yes." Miss Wren looked at the women with marked concern. "This has been a shock for her. Sir Henry hadn't been ill, as far as anyone knew."

Hadrian noted the sleek column of Miss Wren's neck rising above the high collar of her ebony gown. She wore a stylish black hat atop her red-gold hair which was gathered at the back with curls cascading to her shoulder blades. Her gown, however, wasn't the least bit fashionable. He was no expert, but he would have guessed it was over a decade out of style. The skirt was too full.

She turned her head toward him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You were exceptionally curious about Sir Henry's death the other day, particularly when you assumed he'd been attacked."

Though she hadn't asked him a question, Hadrian again sensed her skepticism as well as her own curiosity—about him. "I heard of another attack recently and wondered if he'd suffered the same." Hadrian wasn't going to reveal the attack had been on him or why he would think the two would be connected. For then he'd have to explain the magical, preternatural ring.

Miss Wren's brow furrowed, as if she too wondered why he would think an attack on her distant cousin would be related to an attack on someone else. She opened her mouth, and Hadrian was certain she was about to ask that very question.

Only they were interrupted by the arrival of her grandmother.

Miss Wren's demeanor changed, her features softening. "Lord Ravenhurst, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Wren. Grandmama, this is Lord Ravenhurst. He was an associate of Sir Henry's."

"Please accept my condolences on the loss of your cousin-in-law," Hadrian said solemnly.

Mrs. Wren was petite, and like her granddaughter, wore a black gown that was somewhat outmoded. "Thank you. It is still quite shocking to me that he is gone. Such a strange coincidence that my granddaughter had gone to speak with him about financial matters only to discover he had perished."

Hadrian tucked that piece of information away, not that Miss Wren's financial state had aught to do with him and whatever it was he was investigating.

Miss Wren pursed her lips briefly. "It isn't all that strange, Grandmama. It is a tragedy, however."

"Well, I suppose he lived a good life," Mrs. Wren said with a light sigh, her blue eyes shuttering as she dipped her head briefly. "To go suddenly and without fuss is rather fortunate, I say." She looked to her granddaughter. "I have always been grateful that your grandfather went in the same manner."

"Do ailments of the heart run in the family then?" Hadrian asked.

Miss Wren's gaze snapped to his. But it was her grandmother who replied. "My husband did not die of a heart attack as his cousin did. He was thrown from his horse and hit his head. He died instantly." Her eyes lost focus for a moment, and her lips turned down, deep creases forming in her soft flesh.

"I'm sorry for your losses—both your husband, and his cousin." Hadrian gave them a solemn nod and a slight bow before moving away.

He was aware of Miss Wren's attention on him as he moved toward the open coffin to view the deceased. But he did not make eye contact with her. He'd already stirred her interest enough with his probing questions. He needed to find and employ subtlety if he meant to continue on this path.

And what path was that? Did he fancy himself an investigator? Perhaps, since it seemed Scotland Yard wasn't interested in doing their job. Hadrian could scarcely believe Inspector Padgett had closed his case. Since when did footpads stab their marks?

Sir Henry looked much the same as Hadrian remembered him. Perhaps his jowls were a little meatier. He was definitely paler, but Hadrian credited death for that.

If Hadrian touched the dead man, would he see another vision? Quickly removing his left glove, he reached into his pocket and clasped the troublesome ring between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. Again, he saw the sign of the Bell as well as a dingy living space with a small table next to a dirty window, which Hadrian assumed was his assailant's lodgings. Unfortunately, he never saw enough of that to aid him in finding where it might be located.

He released the ring and moved away from the coffin to a table with a handful of photographs, all of them turned face down. Pity, for Hadrian would have liked to view them.

Curious, he brushed his bare hand against the table. He had hoped for a vision, but there was nothing. But of course, there wouldn't be—he wasn't wearing the ring.

Suddenly, he felt a sense of agitation and of something darker and more arresting. Fear, almost. He pulled his hand away with a slight frown. The sensations diminished and faded away. Hadrian put his hand against the table once more, this time gripping the edge. The feelings from a moment ago, which made no sense for him to have in this moment, particularly without touching the ring, returned. They were not his emotions. Though he wasn't touching the ring, he was certain he was sensing someone else's feelings. Sir Henry's perhaps. The darker emotion was more pronounced. It was definitely fear.

Taking his hand from the table, he drew his glove back on. What did this mean? Was the ring not the conduit for whatever Hadrian was seeing and feeling? Did the ability come from…him?

He thought about the visions at the Bell when he'd touched the table. Would he have seen them even if he hadn't been wearing the ring? Now, he wanted to touch everything in the parlor, but the funeral was about to begin.

Frustrated and confused, Hadrian made his way toward a chair. He passed one of Sir Henry's daughters—Mrs. Forsythe, he thought—overhearing her as she was speaking with another woman. "I had to wash and dress him," she said in a low tone. "It was shocking to have to see my father like that."

The other woman patted her arm. "You poor dear. I had to do that for my neighbor a few years ago." She shuddered. "He had a horrible, stitched incision down his front. They said it was from the autopsy."

"My father also had a stitched incision," Mrs. Forsythe said grimly. "But it was on his right side. I suppose that was from an autopsy too."

"The funeral's about to begin. Let me get you to your seat," the other woman said, taking Mrs. Forsythe's arm.

Hadrian thought of Sir Henry having an incision on his right side as he continued to a chair in the back row. It would not have been from an autopsy. Autopsies, as far as Hadrian knew from a physician friend who'd dissected a fair number of bodies during his education, were conducted by cutting the cadaver open along the front of their chest from neck to waist in the way the other woman had described her neighbor.

Why would he have had such a wound? Was there a chance Sir Henry's death hadn't been due to a heart attack?

Glancing about the room, Hadrian wondered what he could hope to accomplish. Well, he'd just learned that Sir Henry may not have died from a heart attack. And that he had a wound on his right side, just as Hadrian had suffered. Was this another connection between Hadrian's attack and Sir Henry?

Hadrian realized in that moment that he absolutely was conducting an investigation. The ring he'd taken from his assailant had led him here to Sir Henry, who was dead. And whose death may have been unnatural.

Solving Hadrian's own attempted murder had been reason enough to continue following these infernal visions, but now it seemed he could have stumbled onto something bigger. He needed to confirm Sir Henry's cause of death, and he wanted more information about how it had happened. What had Miss Wren said, that he'd collapsed? What if that wasn't really what had happened?

But why would she lie?

He saw her seated in the front row next to her grandmother. She hadn't struck him as hiding anything from him, but she had seemed wary. He'd attributed that to his being aggressive with his curiosity, but perhaps there was more going on.

A pair of clerks whom Hadrian recognized from the Home Office sat next to him. They exchanged nods and compliments regarding Sir Henry's life and contributions to the Home Office. "He was an excellent undersecretary," one of them, a fellow in his middle fifties called Ernsby who'd served as the supplemental clerk overseeing the criminal department, said.

The funeral progressed with an appropriate shroud of melancholy. When it was finished, the pallbearers, which included the other of the two clerks who'd sat near Hadrian—the man was younger and more spry than Ernsby—walked toward the coffin. Hadrian helped move the furniture so the casket could be carried out.

Hadrian waited to join the procession and was able to approach Miss Wren briefly. She and the other women would not attend the burial.

"I am truly sorry for your loss," he said to her. "I hope you are able to resolve your financial issues."

Miss Wren's nostrils flared slightly, and he deduced this was a sensitive issue. She leaned toward him. "And I would like to know about the private matter you intended to discuss with Sir Henry. My offer to help you remains."

"Today is not the time," Hadrian said softy, but perhaps she would allow him to question her about Sir Henry's death.

"No," she said, her green eyes glittering with a heat Hadrian could not define. "Perhaps you'll call on me in Marylebone Lane."

"Perhaps I will." Hadrian had every intention of doing so, but he would give them time to grieve.

He gave her a benign smile before stepping around her into the entrance hall. The butler ambled toward the hats and accurately retrieved Hadrian's, which was more than a little surprising. But perhaps the man's faculties were far nimbler than his body.

Setting his damp hat atop his head, Hadrian stepped out into the drizzle and joined the funeral procession.