Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
H adrian walked into the study and immediately saw the ledger on the desk. However, he ignored it and went straight to the bedchamber, opening the door slowly lest it creak and alert someone he was going into the room.
The chamber was dark, the curtains drawn. It was in much the same condition as it had been that morning. Even the bloodied linens were still on the bed. He supposed that was understandable. The household had undergone a great shock.
Hadrian wasn’t sure how much time he had, so he moved quickly. Well, as fast as he could when he was trying to coax his mind to see a vision. He wished he knew how this bloody power worked. Would it be easier if he knew what he was trying to see? Or at least whose memories he wanted to glimpse?
Perhaps he should think of Beryl, except he didn’t want to see any intimate moments between her and Chambers. Perhaps he ought to think of her being angry, so that he could see their discord instead. That was what he was most interested in.
Except without being able to hear what was being said, would it really be helpful? He thought back to the visions that had been most integral to the case he’d solved with Tilda recently.
It was the visions in which he’d been able to recognize the people who were involved. Then he and Tilda could question them and gain more information. The most helpful vision was when he’d identified the killer, but that had been because there were multiple people present. Hadrian had been able to see the murderer in the memory of another person. He realized that had been the first instance he’d seen the memories of someone who was dead.
Hadrian hadn’t been able to see or feel anything from the corpse they’d found—and Hadrian had seen that man’s memories when he’d been alive. Hadrian also hadn’t been able to see the memories of Tilda’s grandfather’s cousin who had recently died. What was the difference? Was it because the one man had been dead longer? Or was it that he hadn’t been murdered as the others had been? Hadrian really wished this ability had come with a handbook.
Perhaps the ability would change over time, particularly as Hadrian learned to manage it. If he could learn to do so.
Hadrian went to the bed and touched the headboard. Nothing came to him. He moved around the bed, gliding his hands over the bedclothes, careful to avoid any blood, and the posts as well as the draperies. Still nothing.
He should not have been surprised. Perhaps he wouldn’t see Chambers’ memories because he had very recently died, or he’d been murdered. Or perhaps both.
Pausing at the post where he’d seen the vision from the paramour’s perspective earlier, he pressed his hands to the carved wood. He didn’t particularly want to see memories of her engaged in sexual acts with Chambers, but he couldn’t control that.
He focused on what he’d seen earlier. The vision rose in his mind—or was it just his memory of the vision? Pain sparked in his temple. Then it was a vision, apparently.
But it wasn’t quite what he’d seen before. Chambers looked slightly different. His hair was longer. And his position on the bed was different. He was fully reclined, his lips spread in a lazy smile. Whoever’s memory Hadrian was seeing, the woman put her hands on his bare chest. Recalling Tilda’s question about a ring on the woman’s hand, he saw that there wasn’t one. But these hands were different from the ones he’d seen earlier. They were rougher, the nails short and blunt.
Hadrian realized the first memory had been of someone from a higher status than what he was seeing now.
Chambers’ head suddenly turned toward the door. And Hadrian was now looking at the door. It was closed. The woman scrambled from the bed, dragging something with her—clothing, he realized. He saw a white cap and a dark-blue garment.
Hadrian’s perspective changed with her movements. She flattened herself onto the floor and slid under the bed. Hadrian was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. He concluded that someone was about to enter the chamber, and she did not want to be caught in Chambers’ bed.
“Hadrian?”
Damn. He hadn’t been paying attention to how long he was in here, and now Beryl was in the study.
He massaged his hand across his forehead as the pain blossomed. This headache would take a while to dissipate, he feared.
Turning, he started toward the door but felt a bit wobbly. He grazed his hand along the back of a chair to steady himself. Another vision flashed in his mind. A woman stood before him. She was dressed as a maid, her dark-blonde hair pinned up beneath a white cap. Pretty, with plump lips and sultry, heavy-lidded eyes, she was not familiar to Hadrian.
A hand gestured before him. It belonged to whoever’s memory he was seeing. The wrist was feminine. And she wore a wedding ring studded with garnets.
Pain streaked through his head once more. He forced himself to release the chair, to end the vision and because he needed to leave the bedchamber.
He took several deep breaths as he made his way to the study. “Beryl, my apologies. I’m afraid I couldn’t help looking in the bedchamber.” He closed the door behind him, his head throbbing.
She stood near the desk. “Why?”
“I suppose I wanted to see if there was anything that might help the investigation.”
“You want to help the inspector?” Beryl asked, aghast. “But he thinks I’m guilty.”
“I don’t know that he does,” Hadrian said. “But I understand how it feels to be investigated. Teague also sees me as a suspect.”
Beryl scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve hired Miss Wren again to find Louis’s killer.”
“Were you helping her then by searching Louis’s bedchamber?”
“I was,” Hadrian replied. “Though I am sure she’ll want to look for herself when she’s finished with the maid.”
Beryl cocked her head. “If she’s going to search it anyway, why would you bother? Are you helping with her investigation?”
“Yes. We made a good team when we worked together before.”
“But I thought you hired her to investigate for you.” She appeared confused.
“I did, and I also provided assistance.” He wasn’t going to explain that he provided a valuable resource for Tilda. “In this case, she’s glad for my help since you and I have known each other several years.”
“We have not known each other well,” Beryl said, sounding perhaps regretful. “At least not since I … married Louis. I am sorry for that,” she added softly. “If I could go back, I would not have allowed him to woo me to break things off with you.”
There was Hadrian’s answer. “I’m sorry you have regrets. But I thought you loved him.”
“I thought I did. He made me feel very … wanted. Not that you didn’t. It’s just … he was so persistent and … ardent.” She seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. Was she trying to say Hadrian had not felt as passionately toward her as Chambers had? Looking back, she was right. Hadrian hadn’t been ardent at all.
But Hadrian didn’t want to upset her in the midst of her current ordeal. “I am sorry for the way things ended.” That wasn’t entirely true since he was quite relieved they hadn’t married. Though it was better than saying he regretted becoming betrothed to her, which was the real truth. He’d made a mistake, and she’d managed to correct it with her betrayal. How cold that sounded.
“I suppose one could say we didn’t know each other all that well when we were betrothed,” she said. “I confess that I was intimidated by you.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “At first, it was just because you are an earl. I never imagined I could attract the interest of someone like you. As we became acquainted, I could see you were different than the other men on the Marriage Mart. You are sophisticated and intelligent. Most of all, you seemed genuinely interested in knowing me.”
“I was genuinely interested,” Hadrian said. Thinking back on her behavior then, he could see how she was shy and hesitant at first. She’d lacked the confidence that Tilda possessed. Now he wondered what had attracted him to Beryl in the first place.
He’d found her attractive, and he’d liked that she wasn’t from London. He’d been sought after on the Marriage Mart, mostly for his title, but Beryl hadn’t worked to gain his attention. He’d seen her at a few balls, and no one had danced with her. In those days, he went out of his way to dance with the wallflowers. Even if he decided he wasn’t interested in courting them, they would at least be seen dancing with an earl. Some people cared a great deal about such things.
“You aren’t intimidated anymore, I hope,” he added with a smile.
“No. If I can suffer marriage to Louis, I am made of the sternest stuff, I think.”
Hadrian sobered. “I am truly sorry for all you’ve endured. I had no idea he was so beastly.”
“Nor did I, or I would not have married him, would I?” she asked wryly. “Still, I am sorry he died and in such a ghastly manner. I know a divorce would have been difficult, or perhaps even impossible, but that was what I hoped to achieve. If I’d wanted to kill him, why would I bother with hiring a barrister?”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Hadrian said, lifting his hand. Though hadn’t he begun to consider that she could be guilty of the crime?
Still, he believed she was innocent. Or that she’d been motivated by desperation or some sense of self-defense—he and Tilda had even discussed that.
Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge that he would betroth himself to a killer. Except he had betrothed himself to someone capable of betrayal.
Hadrian pushed that thought away. “Shall we look at the ledger?”
“Yes.” Beryl pivoted toward the desk. “I confess I only glanced at it to make sure it was the correct book.”
Hadrian sat at the desk, and she took the chair beside it. His head still ached, and he massaged his forehead as he opened the ledger.
After reviewing several pages, he quickly deduced that each page contained entries for a given month. There were the usual household records, though they seemed inconsistent with the retainers’ payments, detailed by person some months and then grouped together in others.
Beryl’s quarterly allowance was documented, and Hadrian could see how it had decreased in the last year. Starting in August, there were payments to Pollard. They were the same for three months, then diminished in November and December. This lessening amount matched what Pollard had told them.
December also contained an entry for “Oliver.”
Hadrian glanced at Beryl. “Why did Louis give his brother twenty pounds?” That was a large sum for someone to part with who was struggling financially.
“I don’t know.” Beryl shrugged, her gaze dipping to the ledger. “Perhaps he wanted to help Oliver after he’d left his post in Kent.”
Hadrian turned to January and saw that there was no entry for Pollard that month. Nor was there one in February. His accounting since the new year was slipshod. There was income in January—his “quarterly interest”—but there was hardly any money left at the start of March. Looking back, Hadrian could not see where all the money had gone. It appeared some payments had not been recorded or had been entered with the wrong amount. Whatever the reason, there didn’t seem to be much money at present.
Beryl leaned close to him. “What is it? You’re frowning.”
Hadrian turned his head toward her and was shocked to see her face just scant inches from his. He could see the golden flecks in her amber-brown eyes. He’d forgotten they were there, but now he was transported back to when he’d held her in his arms and kissed her. That seemed a lifetime ago. He hadn’t thought of her in that way in a very long time. And he found he couldn’t think of her that way now, nor did he want to.
A sound from the doorway made them both turn their heads. Tilda stood there, her features serene, her green eyes leveled on them. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Hadrian stood. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he’d been the one caught in a compromising position, which was silly.
First of all, there was nothing between him and Beryl. Secondly, Tilda wouldn’t be upset if there were. Or would she? Hadrian froze for a moment. Did he have burgeoning romantic feelings toward Tilda?
He might.
Shaking himself internally, Hadrian decided it was far too early to think such things. They hadn’t even been acquainted for a month.
“How did your conversation with Clara go?” Beryl rose from her chair. “Did you put her mind at ease?”
“Somewhat, at least.” Tilda moved farther into the room. “I know this is extremely trying. For all of you.”
Beryl glanced down at the floor. “Yes,” she murmured.
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Chambers, you’ve a guest. Mrs. Styles-Rowdon is here with her maid and an array of black garments. For now, they are in the parlor.”
Eyes widening with something akin to glee, Beryl smiled. “Wonderful, thank you, Oswald. Please tell her I’ll be there directly.”
The butler inclined his head before departing.
“That is your neighbor?” Tilda asked.
“Yes. You should come meet her,” Beryl said with enthusiasm.
Tilda sent Beryl an expectant look. “Do you mind if I take a few minutes to peruse the bedchamber first? I should like to conduct my own investigation of where your husband died. It won’t take long.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Beryl said, stepping toward the doorway that the butler had just vacated. “Hadrian said you would want to do that. I appreciate any help you can offer in proving my innocence.” She moved her gaze to Hadrian, her features softening slightly. “Just as I am deeply grateful for your assistance. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Beryl left the study, and Tilda speared Hadrian with a dubious stare. “Did you tell her I was going to prove she is innocent? That is not what you hired me to do.”
“I said you would find the killer, and we would both be found innocent. Or something to that effect. I wanted her to let us search the bedchamber. I was in there when she arrived.”
Tilda’s brow shot up. “Were you? And did you learn anything? You must have—you’re massaging your temple,” she said with a frown.
Hadrian hadn’t even realized he’d put his hand to his head. “I’ve a headache.”
“What did you see?”
“Do you want to hear about the visions first or the ledger?”
“Did you say visions, plural?” She held up her hand. “Tell me about the ledger. I’ve always preferred to save the best things for last.” She started toward the bedchamber.
He followed her. “Why is that?”
She shrugged. “I like the anticipation, I suppose? Or perhaps I have always preferred to do harder or less interesting things first so that I can enjoy what I really want.”
Hadrian grinned. “I am precisely the same way. I always studied Latin before anything else.” He shuddered as he recalled working to somewhat master the language.
“I know only a smattering of Latin. And a little more French.” She faced him when they were inside the bedchamber. There was a wistful glint in her gaze. “I would have loved to learn languages. I tried, but I had no one with whom to practice speaking them.”
“I can help you with French. My Greek and Latin are far less impressive, and I can’t really speak either.”
She laughed softly. “When you find someone with whom to speak Latin outside of a university, I will be most impressed.” She turned and began searching the room, starting with the small table near the door. It held a single drawer, which she opened. “Tell me about the ledger.”
Hadrian watched as she surveyed the contents, then closed the drawer firmly. “Chambers made payments to Pollard at the same amount for three months starting in August, then lesser amounts for two months. By January, Pollard had disappeared from the ledger.”
Tilda glanced at him as she continued her search, moving to the hearth where she looked behind and under the clock that sat atop the mantel. “What do you suppose happened to cause Chambers to reduce payments to Pollard?”
“I’ve no idea, but Louis made a payment of twenty pounds to his brother Oliver in December. There’s no indication as to why. Beryl supposed it was to help Oliver after he left his post as curate in Kent.”
Pausing briefly, Tilda put her hand on her hip as she looked toward Hadrian. “Twenty pounds is a great deal for someone who was apparently short on funds.”
“I came to the same conclusion,” Hadrian said. “As of March, there isn’t much left in the household account—definitely not enough to meet the expenses.”
“How fortunate you are paying for the investigation into her missing jewelry as part of the murder inquiry,” Tilda noted. “Always coming to the rescue.”
“For you, yes.” He was eager to help anyone. Except it was somehow different with Tilda—and he knew it.
Breaking their eye contact, Tilda moved to a dresser on the other side of the hearth situated in the corner of the bedchamber. She opened drawers and moved the contents about. She closed the drawer and went to the bed where she wrinkled her nose. “I wonder when they plan to launder the bedclothes.”
“I’m sure they’re all distracted and overwhelmed with grief.”
“Yes, I suppose,” she murmured. She moved the pillows and the bedclothes about, careful not to touch any of the bloodstained areas.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
“No,” she replied crisply. “I suppose I am looking for the knife that was used to stab him, but a good investigator does not search with an end goal in mind. That is an excellent way to miss something. It is far better to look with open curiosity for whatever you may find.”
“Did your father teach you that?” he asked softly. He knew how much the man had meant to her and how much he’d taught her about investigation.
Hunched over the bed, she turned her head and met his gaze, but only briefly. “Yes.” She straightened. “What did you see in here earlier? With your ability, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant,” he said wryly. “The first vision was similar to the other one I had with the woman and Chambers. He was inviting her to his bed, but it wasn’t the same woman.”
Tilda looked at him shrewdly. “How do you know?”
“Because of what you asked me regarding her hands, I paid close attention. No wedding ring, and the nails were short and blunt, the hands roughened. She was not of the same economic class as the first woman I saw.”
Tilda’s nostrils flared, and he could see that this interested her. “Well done, Hadrian. Did you see anything else that might point to her identity?”
“I did, in fact,” Hadrian was eager to see her reaction. “She and Chambers were interrupted. I could sense her fear and anxiety. She leapt off the bed and scurried underneath to hide, grabbing some clothing as she went. I made out a white cap and a dark-blue garment. I believe she was a maid.”
Tilda’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “That is very helpful. I learned in my conversation with Clara that she was intimate with Chambers before he wed Beryl.”
Hadrian didn’t know Clara’s age, but he judged her to be younger than Tilda, who was twenty-five. “She had to have been quite young.”
“Just seventeen when she joined the household,” Tilda confirmed. “Chambers’ treatment of her is appalling.”
“I did not think my opinion of him could sink lower, but it has.” Hadrian was glad he wouldn’t ever see the man again. “You think I was seeing Clara in his bed?”
“Perhaps. What was your second vision?”
“It came when I touched that chair.” He considered putting his hand on the back of it once more, but the pain in his head had only just started to lessen.
“It’s no wonder your head was hurting after two visions. Does it still ache?” Her worry was evident in her tone and her expression.
“Yes, but it’s improving. Slowly.” He was pleased she’d asked. “I appreciate your concern. When I touched the chair, I saw a woman—a maid, I believe. She wore a cap and a dark-blue dress, like the one Clara wears. But this maid’s hair was blonde. She was quite attractive.”
“You didn’t recognize her?” Tilda asked.
“I did not.”
Tilda’s expression became contemplative, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I wonder if it was the maid who resigned her post recently—Martha Farrow. I spoke with Clara about her, but she wasn’t able to tell me much, such as why she left. I wonder if it’s possible that she was the maid in Chambers’ bed.”
“He was having an affair with her too?” Hadrian was thoroughly disgusted by the dead man.
“I don’t know, but given what we know of Chambers, it seems possible.” Tilda spoke with an edge of derision. She refocused on Hadrian. “Do you have any idea whose memory you were seeing when you touched the chair?”
Hadrian shook his head. “No, but the person gestured, and I saw a woman’s left hand and wrist. She wore a garnet-studded wedding band.”
Admiration sparked in Tilda’s gaze. “Hadrian, this is excellent information.”
Whilst he was pleased by her reaction, he could not escape his own frustration—that only he could see what had happened. And through a wholly bizarre and inexplicable manner. “Except it only exists in my mind’s eye. It’s not proof we can use.”
“No, but we’ve no reason not to trust what you see. It hasn’t led us wrong yet.”
That was true. It bolstered Hadrian’s confidence whilst also making him wonder if the visions might mislead them someday. He hoped not. And he certainly hoped not now.
Tilda looked around the room in resignation. “I think we’re finished here. Is it possible the maid you saw in the second vision was the same as the woman who crawled under the bed with her garments?”
“It seems more than possible. Do you know what Martha Farrow looked like?”
“No, but we can ask Beryl,” Tilda said with a sly, brief smile. “I am quite eager to find Miss Farrow. Clara says her father is a solicitor in Stepney. I am hopeful we can find her through him. Alas, that will have to wait until tomorrow. I need to go home to my grandmother. She will wonder where I’ve been all day. I didn’t tell her when I would return, but she may be growing slightly concerned.”
“I can convey you home now, if you like.”
“Thank you, I would appreciate that.” She glanced away. “Unless there is a reason you need to stay here? I can take a hack.”
He wondered again if she felt a touch of jealousy. “There is no need for me to remain. We can depart at your convenience.”
Tilda moved to the doorway and turned to look back over the room, her eyes seeming to scrutinize every space. “Where does he dress? There is no clothing in here. The dresser held linens and some accessories. Is there a separate chamber?”
Hadrian looked at the corners of the wall behind the bed’s headboard. A faint line in the dark-bronze-colored wallpaper drew his eye in the corner to the right of the bed—the same side of the bed on which he still stood. He walked to the wall and saw the release in the top of the wainscoting. He pressed the lever, and the door swung inward.
“Here’s his dressing room.”
“Brilliant,” Tilda said with a smile, which Hadrian was delighted to see. She came around the bed and Hadrian waited for her to precede him into the newly revealed chamber. “Can you grab the lantern?”
Hadrian went to the mantel to fetch the lantern that had been left burning and brought it to the dressing room. Inside, there was a table with a mirror and a stool, along with an armoire and a tall dresser as well as a tub. There were also implements for the valet to do his job. Where was the valet? Perhaps he was upstairs in his chamber as the maid had been in hers.
Moving to the opposite side of the small chamber, Hadrian located another door. It led to a servants’ staircase. “This is how the valet accesses his chamber from upstairs.” He saw another door and moving to open it, he found the dining room. There were stairs down to the kitchen as well, which made sense.
He returned to the dressing room where Tilda was searching the table, opening drawers and looking beneath it. Pausing at the threshold from the servants’ corridor, he braced his hand on the doorjamb. “There’s a servants’ staircase with access to the dining room as well as to the kitchen and the upper floors.”
Hadrian grimaced as another pain shot through his temple. The vision rose fast and strong, a memory of the dressing chamber. A lantern burned low on the dressing table. The light from it glinted off the blade in the hand of the person this memory belonged to …
Gasping as a sharper pain tore through his head, Hadrian released the door.
Tilda was at his side, her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.
Hadrian blinked to see her gaze was full of concern. He nodded but winced as that only made his head hurt more. “I don’t know whose memory I saw, but it was the killer, I think.”
Tilda sucked in a breath. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they were holding a knife,” he said darkly. “They came in through this door. And no, I didn’t see the hand because they were wearing a dark glove. The vision was also too fast. And too painful.” He cupped his hand to his forehead and tried to take a deep breath.
“You need to sit.” She guided him to a stool and gently pushed him down, not that he needed much assistance. Sitting sounded rather necessary.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his head pounding. Even if Tilda hadn’t wanted to leave soon, he would ask to do so. “I ought to go home, I think.”
“In a moment. You need to right yourself first. Can I fetch you anything? Water? Brandy? A cool cloth?”
All of those would probably help, but for now he was fine just sitting here with her. Tilda’s company was most soothing.
He started to shake his head. “Dammit,” he breathed. “I can’t shake my head in these moments, and I always seem to forget.”
“This spell seems worse than usual. Perhaps because you were already in pain. You need to put your gloves back on.”
“Yes. Thankfully I stopped myself from nodding that time.” He smiled, and even that added to his discomfort. He pulled his gloves from his pocket and donned them.
Tilda studied the door a moment. “The killer came in here, passed through the dressing chamber into Chambers’ room, and killed him. He—or she—brought the knife, meaning they’d planned to kill him.” She looked to Hadrian. “Was it a kitchen knife?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Why come in this way and not through the study?” Tilda asked. “Unless they were a servant.”
“That seems to make the most sense.” Hadrian was having a hard time thinking through his worsening headache. He’d no idea why some visions impacted him more adversely than others. All he could discern was that this one had been fast and strong. Perhaps those kinds of visions caused more pain. They also tended to be the most helpful.
He groaned. “Let us take our leave.” He started to rise, and Tilda took his arm.
“Let me help you,” she said, guiding him back into the bedchamber. She closed the door behind them.
“Thank you. I am very glad you know about this terrible affliction of mine. It is good to have at least one person I can lean upon.” He tried another smile, but it was weak. “Literally,” he added.
“I am sorry it affects you in this way.” Her tone was low and deep with concern.
They walked through the study and made their way to the entrance hall, where they came face-to-face with Beryl and an exceptionally attractive woman in her early-thirties with gleaming blonde hair and the most exquisite heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes sparkled with a pleasing spirit that instantly made one want to befriend her. Or perhaps take her to bed.
Hadrian made that observation objectively. He was not attracted to her in that way. But he imagined many gentlemen were.
“There you are,” Beryl said. “I was waiting for you to come so I could introduce you to Mrs. Styles-Rowdon.” She turned her head toward the stunning woman. “Gillian, this is Lord Ravenhurst and Miss Wren.”
“Ravenhurst,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon murmured. She almost sounded as if she were purring. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Beryl has told me all about you.” She smiled alluringly. Flirtatiously, even. Then she moved her gaze to Tilda. “And Miss Wren, I’m equally delighted to meet you. Beryl has told me you are helping her, and I am so glad a woman has come to her aid. She says you’re an investigator. I confess I am agog. How absolutely wonderful!” She spoke with great animation, her hands moving and her features creasing with genuine interest.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Tilda said. “I’m happy I can be of service to Beryl. Now, you must excuse us, for we need to be on our way.” She looked to Beryl. “We’ll see you tomorrow before the inquest.”
“Thank you. With you and my new widow’s weeds from Gillian, I will be ready to face the coroner.” Beryl smiled, but there was an underlying tenseness to her expression.
“I’ll be there too,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon said. “For moral support. You need all the help and friends you can have at this time.”
Beryl sniffed. “Thank you, Gillian. Could I trouble you to bring a batch of your cinnamon biscuits? It’s been too long since I’ve had any.”
Gillian gave Beryl a warm, sympathetic smile. “Of course, my dear.”
Hadrian and Tilda bid them farewell and left. The cool breeze outside eased Hadrian’s headache. He closed his eyes briefly as Tilda guided him toward the coach.
“Are you going to be all right?” she asked quietly.
“Yes. Don’t say anything in front of Leach. I don’t need my staff worrying over me.”
“But it’s fine for me to do so?” Her query was dry, her eyes glinting with humor.
“More than,” he said as they reached the coach. He met her gaze and saw a surprising heat in her eyes—a warmth he felt too.
Then she looked away as Leach opened the door and she climbed inside. Hadrian followed her and situated himself on the seat beside her. He settled back against the seat and closed his eyes immediately.
Tilda sucked in a breath. “Blast.”
He opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot to ask Beryl what Martha Farrow looked like.” Her mouth turned into a deep frown. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.” Still, she looked very disappointed.
“We can go back,” Hadrian offered, though he was rather eager to go home.
Tilda shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I didn’t think to ask her because I was concerned for you, and that worry has not lessened. You must rest,” she added gently. “Close your eyes again.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, once again soothed by her.
As the coach rumbled along, Hadrian tried to think of the case and all they’d learned over the course of this incredibly busy day. But he only wanted to absorb the energy and warmth of the woman beside him and imagine her beautiful green eyes watching him with concern.
And wonder what may come in the future.