A Whisper in Darkness (Raven & Wren #6)

Chapter 1

Private investigator Matilda Wren’s pulse sped with anticipation as the coach rumbled on its way from Marylebone to Belgrave Square.

As usual, she was riding with her partner, Hadrian Becket, the Earl of Ravenhurst, in his coach.

She was seated next to him today on the forward-facing seat and imagined she’d sit there every day now that they were courting.

Not that it was official yet. Or at least, public knowledge.

How Tilda wished it could remain private. However, Hadrian had, regrettably, informed her that wouldn’t be possible given his position in Society. Tilda ought to have known that. He was an earl and couldn’t marry just anyone, especially someone like her.

Tilda was not from the same social or economic class as he was, and she had a job reserved for men. Both those things would almost certainly earn her censure from the Polite Society in which Hadrian moved.

She glanced over at him, sensing he was as anxious as she was.

Her apprehension had nothing to do with their courtship, however.

It was entirely due to their current case, for which they’d just been hired.

A young Society miss had been kidnapped two days ago, and they were on their way to her family’s home to investigate.

Her parents, the Chadwicks, had come to Tilda’s earlier to hire her. The chilling ransom note they’d brought still echoed in her mind:

We have your daughter. You will exchange twenty thousand pounds for her safe return. Another note with instructions will be delivered soon. Do not contact the police for assistance. If you do, Delia will die.

Yours,

Spring-heeled Jack

“We’ve scarcely had time to recover from our last case,” Hadrian said, breaking into Tilda’s thoughts. “And almost none to discuss our courtship,” he added with a wry smile.

“I was thinking of that,” Tilda replied. “There will be time to discuss our…attachment. For now, we must focus on the Chadwicks and their missing daughter.”

“Agreed.” Hadrian’s tone held the faintest note of regret.

Tilda knew he was thrilled that she’d agreed to his courtship.

Despite her many concerns about a future in which she became the Countess of Ravenhurst, she loved him fiercely, which was quite a shock to her, and he loved her.

Hopefully, they could navigate a way to be together, even though it seemed—to Tilda in particular—challenging.

“Chadwick offered you an exceptionally large fee,” Hadrian noted.

A staggering sum—two thousand pounds. Tilda could scarcely imagine it. Chadwick had offered half when they arrived at the family residence in Belgrave Square, to which they were on their way, and half after their daughter, Miss Delia Chadwick, was found.

“How do you feel about that?” Hadrian asked.

“I’m not sure.” Nor did she want to discuss it.

Especially with a man for whom that was not a large sum.

Hadrian would never understand what it meant to carefully budget a household to the last penny or to worry that he may not have enough funds to pay for his dear grandmother’s medication, as Tilda had.

She’d managed her grandmother’s household for eight years, since her own mother had remarried and relocated to Birmingham. Tilda had preferred to stay in London with her grandmother, not that Tilda’s mother had extended an invitation for Tilda to live with her and her new husband.

Tilda straightened. “Let us review what we know before we arrive at the Chadwicks’.

Miss Chadwick was discovered missing two days ago by her maid when she went to wake her.

The maid found the bed empty and a ransom note on the pillow signed by Spring-heeled Jack.

” Tilda made a derogatory sound in her throat.

“You don’t believe in Spring-heeled Jack?” Hadrian asked.

“A red-eyed demon who spits blue fire, leaps atop coaches, attacks young women, and has never been identified or caught?” Tilda shook her head.

“No, I don’t believe in him. Spring-heeled Jack is a story told to children to titillate and frighten.

Speaking of the ransom note, you were going to apply some lavender for your headache. ”

“It has lessened a great deal, so I nearly forgot.” Hadrian kept a small bottler of lavender oil in the coach for when he sustained headaches provoked by his highly unusual ability to see others’ memories when he touched people or objects.

Only some people, not all, for Hadrian did not see the memories of those closest to him, including Tilda.

There was some indication that Hadrian’s emotions might influence what he was able to see.

Following one of their investigations, he’d been struck in the head and lost the ability for a time.

He’d only regained it after experiencing great fear for Tilda’s safety.

He’d saved her life and had realized in that moment how deeply he cared for her.

Today’s headache was due to Hadrian touching the ransom note and experiencing a memory that carried a deep fear. He hadn’t seen anything, just a flash of darkness, but he’d felt the emotion. He could also, on a rare occasion, smell something from a memory. He had not ever, however, heard anything.

After taking the small bottle of lavender oil from a compartment beneath the rear-facing seat, Hadrian dabbed a bit to his temples.

“It’s odd that you have such a headache without having actually seen anything,” Tilda noted.

“I think you’re correct that Miss Chadwick must have touched the note, and you were sensing her fright.

” They’d discussed the unlikelihood that the kidnapper would have felt that kind of fear.

“It could also have been Mrs. Chadwick or Mr. Chadwick. They handled the note, and their fear was palpable.”

Hadrian nodded. “That’s very true.”

“Back to Spring-heeled Jack.” Tilda arched a brow at him. “You don’t believe in him, do you?”

“No, but I admit I’m curious about the legend.

I grew up hearing frightening stories about him.

” Spring-heeled Jack had terrorized London thirty years earlier with several attacks against young women.

Hadrian’s mother had told him and his siblings more than once how horrible that time had been.

He replaced the vial of lavender beneath the rear-facing seat.

“Whether he was real or not, I can’t imagine this kidnapper claiming to be him is the same person. ”

“Nor can I,” Tilda said. “From what I recall of stories about Spring-heeled Jack, he was not a kidnapper.”

“I’ve never heard that he was either. Why do you think the kidnapper claims to be this notorious figure?” Hadrian asked.

Tilda lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps he merely hopes to provoke terror so that Mr. Chadwick will pay the ransom. It’s an odd choice given the crime.”

They arrived at number seven Belgrave Square.

Leach, Hadrian’s coachman and a vital member of their investigative team, opened the door.

In his middle forties, Leach did not possess a great height, but he was barrel-chested and strong.

Tilda would not want to tussle with him.

He was also an excellent marksman, as evidenced just a few days ago when he’d saved Tilda from certain death at the hands of a thieving murderer.

Had that really only been this past week?

And here they were in the throes of another investigation.

Tilda didn’t mind. In fact, this was what she’d dreamed of—a thriving business as a private detective.

She hoped her father, a sergeant with the Metropolitan Police before he’d been murdered eleven years ago, would be proud.

Hadrian climbed out of the coach and helped Tilda to the pavement. They walked up the steps to the grand house. The glossy black door stood in sharp contrast to the cream stucco. Elegant pilasters framed the doorway, and neat, black wrought-iron railings enclosed the lower level.

An imposing, bespectacled butler opened the door. He had a stern face with thin lips and small, brown-green eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed back from his high forehead. “You must be Lord Ravenhurst and Miss Wren.”

“Yes,” Tilda replied.

The butler gestured for them to proceed into the entrance hall. “Come in.”

Gleaming marble greeted them along with a statue of what appeared to be Hermes, given his winged hat.

Looking into the lavishly decorated rooms on either side of the entrance hall, Tilda could see how Mr. Chadwick was easily able to pay her two thousand pounds.

The furnishings appeared stately and expensive and were quite plentiful.

Tilda wasn’t sure she could be comfortable in such formal trappings.

“Mr. Chadwick said I should show you directly to Miss Chadwick’s bedchamber.

He and Mrs. Chadwick are waiting for you there.

” The butler turned sharply on his foot and led them into the immense staircase hall where a double set of stairs curved up to a landing.

They took the left side, and Tilda tried not to gape at all the portraits covering the walls.

She wondered if the Chadwicks were depriving some museum of its art.

As they neared the top of the stairs, Hadrian paused and leaned his head toward her.

“I will endeavor to touch as much as I can in Miss Chadwick’s chamber to see what I can detect.

And I will be careful,” he added with a knowing look, because he was undoubtedly aware—and rightly so—that Tilda would have cautioned him to be.

Too many memories in succession could cause him to suffer a debilitating headache, and he already had one.

On the first floor, the butler led them to a small sitting room decorated with bright yellow floral wallpaper and pale oak furnishings. Mrs. Chadwick, a blonde who appeared paler than when they’d seen her at Tilda’s a short while ago, sat in an ivory upholstered chair clutching a handkerchief.