Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
T ilda climbed the staircase at the center of the drapery shop. It ascended in a circular fashion and on the first floor, a gilt railing ran around the edge where one could look down onto the ground floor. It was incredibly elegant and gave the store a sense of sophistication.
Joanna Pollard was busy near the top of the staircase where a wooden figure stood. Crouched down, she was pinning the hem of a gown that was draped over the form. She glanced at Tilda as she approached.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pollard. I am sorry to disturb you when you are so hard at work.”
Mrs. Pollard’s small blue eyes darted toward Tilda but didn’t linger. “I am indeed. I can’t imagine why you’ve come to bother us when Beryl Chambers has been arrested for killing her husband. Surely your investigation is concluded.”
“I’m not here about that,” Tilda said with a careless wave of her hand. “When you offered to make a gown for Beryl yesterday, I wondered if you might be interested in making one for me. I realize the shop isn’t open yet, and I suppose I could wait. Still, I couldn’t resist coming to ask.” She flashed a smile. “I confess I was also hoping to see more of the shop. Mr. Pollard said you’d be able to open in a fortnight since Oliver has joined as an investor.”
Rising to stand, Joanna rolled her shoulders back. Her gaze was wary, as if she wasn’t sure she trusted Tilda. “You want a gown?” Her gaze dipped over Tilda’s garment. “I can see why.”
“My wardrobe is rather outdated.” Tilda bristled slightly at the woman’s judgment. She’d liked how she looked yesterday—and how it made her feel. It hadn’t occurred to her that the right garments could instill confidence and pride. That didn’t mean Tilda ought to purchase another gown. This was nothing more than a ruse.
Joanna gave her a dubious look. “The frock you wore yesterday was from this year, I’d say.”
Tilda nodded. “It was, and after seeing myself in it, I decided I ought to have another.”
“You would look lovely in burgundy, I think, with an ivory sash.” Mrs. Pollard wrinkled her nose. “You really must dispose of the wide crinoline. It’s almost vulgar, if I am honest.”
Though Tilda wasn’t at all interested in debating the amount or shape of the crinoline in her petticoat, she resented Mrs. Pollard calling it vulgar. Did Tilda really look that bad? She was suddenly very self-conscious about how she might appear when she was out with Hadrian. She would not want to reflect poorly on him.
“I would hate to be vulgar,” Tilda said tightly. “Can you help me?”
The faintest smile passed over Joanna’s thin lips. “I can. I’ve just the wool in a lovely shade of burgundy that would look splendid on you. I will need to take your measurements. Would you like to do that today so I may get started?”
“Certainly,” Tilda said. “But first, tell me about this wooden figure and what you’re doing.”
“These figures are quite dear,” Mrs. Pollard replied. “We only have two for now. One will be downstairs in the main window, and I wanted this one up here so people coming up the stairs or looking up from the ground floor would see it straightaway. I’m adjusting this gown to its best effect, which is more difficult than I’d anticipated. The wooden figure isn’t as close an approximation to a woman’s body as I would have liked.”
“I see.” Tilda searched for a way to turn the conversation to her purpose. “Forgive me for saying so, but looking down over this railing reminds me of the death of the Chambers’ maid, Martha Farrow.” She met Joanna’s gaze, keeping her expression serene. “You knew her, didn’t you?”
Joanna’s left eye twitched, and her nostrils flared slightly. She turned and fidgeted with the sleeve of the gown on the wooden figure. “I did not.”
“Really? When Ravenhurst and I visited her lodging house in Spitalfields to investigate her tragic death, one of the occupants said you visited her.”
Joanna snapped her attention to Tilda, her eyes sparking with agitation. “They were mistaken.”
“I don’t think so,” Tilda said blithely. “They said Martha mentioned her friend Joanna who was opening a drapery store on Oxford Street. I understand that you wore a veil, so perhaps you thought they didn’t know who you were. Why did you wear a veil?”
Returning her attention to the wooden figure, Joanna’s hand appeared to shake as she gripped its waist. It was then that Tilda noticed the ring on her finger—garnets. The woman Hadrian had seen in the vision with Martha Farrow in Louis Chambers’ bedroom.
Suddenly, the wooden figure came toward Tilda. She moved to avoid it, her body hitting the railing. Gasping, Tilda recalled the railing at the lodging house when it gave way and the terror that had streaked through her. Until Hadrian had grabbed her close to him.
What she wouldn’t give for that sense of security right now.
“Tilda!” Hadrian’s voice carried up the stairs as Tilda clung to the railing, which—thankfully—hadn’t moved.
Joanna pushed at the figure again, but Tilda shoved it back. With an angry cry, Joanna came around the wobbling figure. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a long pair of scissors.
Before Joanna could lunge forward as Tilda entirely expected her to do, Hadrian leapt at her, tackling her to the floor. Tilda gasped again whilst her pulse sped impossibly fast. Heart pounding, she heard Joanna’s cries. The end of the scissors nicked Hadrian’s neck, drawing blood.
“Joanna!”
That had to be Mr. Pollard, but Tilda didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees and clasped at Joanna’s wrist, enclosing it in her grip and squeezing as she wrested the woman’s arm away from Hadrian.
“Joanna, stop!” Mr. Pollard pleaded.
Tilda glanced up to see him standing near his wife’s head. “Joanna, please listen to your husband. You don’t want to kill anyone else.”
“I didn’t kill anyone !” Joanna shrieked.
“ Kill? ” Mr. Pollard sounded horrified.
Hadrian’s hand wrapped around Joanna’s wrist next to Tilda’s. His gaze met hers, and in the blue depths she saw safety—and promise. “You can let go,” he said softly. “I’ve got her.”
Tilda released Joanna and exhaled, her heart still hammering. She noted that the cut on Hadrian’s neck had clotted quickly so that he only looked as if he’d been cut shaving. “We need to send for Teague.”
“Leach can do it,” Hadrian said.
“Get off me!” Joanna cried.
Hadrian moved his attention to her, his expression turning hard. “So that you can try to stab me again? Release the scissors and give them to Tilda.”
Grunting, Joanna loosened her hold on the would-be weapon. They fell to the floor, and Tilda scooped them up.
Pollard knelt next to his wife’s head. “You tried to stab the earl?”
“She did,” Tilda replied. She was not going to give Joanna the chance to lie. “And she tried to push me over the railing, just as she did to Martha, I presume.”
“Don’t bother lying,” Hadrian said, his gaze locked with Joanna’s. “You will already be charged with attempting to kill Miss Wren and me. Perhaps if you tell the truth about pushing Martha, you will avoid hanging.”
The woman’s face paled. “I couldn’t risk Martha telling anyone what happened to Louis Chambers. She killed him!”
Pollard looked on his wife in abject misery. “Oh, Joanna. Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Because I was there,” she said quietly. “I met Martha the night of the dinner party. We commiserated about our hatred of Louis. We decided we would scare him into giving her money because she was carrying his child and me the money he’d promised for the store.”
That had to have been the conversation Hadrian had seen in Louis’s bedchamber. Joanna, with her garnet ring, had been speaking to Martha.
“How did you plan to scare him?” Pollard asked, aghast.
“Martha said we could steal into his bedchamber the next night that his valet was gone. We planned to threaten him with a knife. But then Martha stabbed him. I don’t know what came over her.”
“Did you help her in any way?” Hadrian asked darkly, his features set into grim lines.
Tilda realized Hadrian must have had a vision downstairs. Perhaps more than one. He seemed confident that Joanna had pushed Martha. And now he was asking if Joanna had helped with Louis’s murder. What had he seen?
“I—” Joanna closed her eyes. “He began to make noise. We couldn’t have him yelling the house down.”
“I am going to stand now, and your husband can help you up,” Hadrian said. “Do not try to run. We are going to fetch the police.”
Hadrian rose and stepped back from Joanna who opened her eyes. She appeared defeated.
Pollard took his wife’s hand and helped her to stand, his features a mask of disbelief and distress. “What have you done?” He dropped her hand as if he’d touched a hot iron.
“Louis Chambers was ruining everything,” she snapped. “How were we to launch this store when he couldn’t pay what he’d promised?” She fixed on her husband, her eyes wild. “He would have bankrupted us, and you were content to let it happen.”
“I was not .” Pollard’s bushy brows pitched in anger. “I was working to bring Oliver into the business.”
“You allowed Louis to forbid it!” she shrieked. “I had to try to convince Louis. Did you know he even attempted to seduce me? Disgusting, lecherous jackanapes.”
Pollard’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t know.”
“Because I didn’t tell you.” Joanna exhaled. “What would have been the point? I knew you wouldn’t stand up to Louis. He needed to be stopped.” She glowered at her husband.
“So you visited Martha to ensure she kept your secret?” Tilda asked.
“She asked me to come, said she needed money. She wanted to exchange a brooch for money.” Joanna scoffed. “I told her to see a pawnbroker, but she said she’d tried, and he accused her of stealing the brooch. I have to agree with him. Can’t imagine why a chit like her would have something as expensive as that.”
“So instead of just refusing her, you pushed her?” Hadrian said, his tone slightly elevated. He briefly pressed his hands to his temple, and Tilda assumed his head ached from whatever vision he’d seen downstairs.
Pollard gestured toward Hadrian. “My lord, you still haven’t sat down. Are you still feeling ill?”
He’d felt ill? Tilda’s pulse had calmed in the last few minutes, but it picked up speed again as worry for Hadrian coursed through her. She moved to his side, angling herself toward him, and gently touched his back. “Do you need to sit?” she asked softly.
“Not at the moment, but thank you.” His gaze met hers briefly, and she saw the agony behind all the emotion simmering in his eyes.
“Why don’t we go downstairs?” Tilda suggested. “Mr. Pollard, do you have a seating area where we may await Detective Inspector Teague?” She would dash out to Leach and ask him to fetch Teague.
Joanna released her arms and turned on her husband. “You can’t let them send for the police! He’ll arrest me. I haven’t done anything wrong! I’ve only tried to protect our business, our livelihood!”
Pollard appeared anguished. “Joanna, I think you need to sit down. Or lie down.”
As he moved to take his wife’s arm, she jerked away and darted toward the stairs. Tilda followed in pursuit. But a third of the way down the circular staircase, Joanna slipped. Her arms flailed as she pitched forward and tumbled down several stairs until she hit the railing. If it had been a straight staircase, she would have fallen all the way to the ground floor.
“Joanna, my love!” Pollard rushed to his wife’s crumpled form.
Tilda descended to stand just above them. “I think she hit her head.”
Pollard rotated his wife so that her face was revealed. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared unconscious.
Hadrian joined Tilda. “That seems almost poetic,” he whispered.
Tears fell from Pollard’s eyes onto his wife’s cheeks, and Tilda felt rather sad for him. He seemed to have been completely unaware of his wife’s underlying violent nature.
Joanna’s eyelids fluttered open. “Edgar?” she rasped as she focused on her husband.
“I’m here, love. Are you hurt?”
She nodded but winced. “My head. And my ankle.”
“I’ll carry you downstairs,” Pollard said.
“I’ll help you,” Hadrian offered.
Tilda put her hand on his arm. “Is that wise? Are you well enough?”
“He needs help. I can manage.”
Hadrian and Pollard worked together to lift Joanna from the stairs and carry her down to the ground floor and then made their way to the back of the store where there were several chairs. They set her down in one of them, then Pollard moved another chair so that Joanna could elevate her feet.
Pollard looked to Hadrian. “When you send for the police, will you also find a physician, please?”
“I’m going out to speak with Hadrian’s coachman,” Tilda said. “Do not let Mrs. Pollard leave.”
“I can’t walk,” the woman said, lifting her skirt to her calf. “Edgar, will you remove my boot? It pains me terribly.”
“Come, let us send Leach on his way,” Hadrian said, touching Tilda’s arm.
They turned together and hurried toward the door leading to Oxford Street. Tilda looked over at him as they walked. “Are you all right? Truly? You must have had a vision or even two.”
“I had three,” he said, grimacing faintly. “In fairly rapid succession. I have never felt so poorly afterward, but I’m doing better now.” His eyes locked with hers briefly as they reached the door, and he opened it. “There is nothing like a terrible fright to allow one to put their pains aside.”
Tilda hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“As soon as I knew Joanna was a killer—she pushed Martha to her death—and that you were alone with her upstairs, I had to reach you. My headache and queasiness be damned.”
The queasiness was new, but Tilda wasn’t fixated on that. She was wholly mesmerized by the intensity of his stare and the vehemence of his words. He’d had to reach her.
“Leach!” Hadrian called as he held the door.
Shaken from her ridiculous musings, Tilda hastened outside. Leach strode toward them.
“You must go to Scotland Yard and fetch Detective Inspector Teague,” Hadrian said.
“Tell him to bring constables,” Tilda added. “He will be arresting Joanna Pollard for the murders of Martha Farrow and Louis Chambers.”
Leach’s brows shot up. “Right away.” He paused a moment as he studied Hadrian. “You all right, my lord? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” Hadrian replied. “A physician would also be helpful—not for me. Mrs. Pollard fell and has an injury.”
“Yes, sir,” Leach said with a definitive nod before dashing back to the coach. He was already pulling into the street when Tilda and Hadrian walked back into the store.
“Promise me that you will sit when we return to the back of the shop,” Tilda said sternly.
“I promise, especially since you are using that authoritative tone.” He flashed her a smile. “I’m glad to see your concern.”
“Of course, I’m concerned. I care very much about you, Hadrian.” She hadn’t intended to say that. In fact, the words somewhat surprised her, but she knew them to be true.
His features softened. “And I feel the same about you.”
He offered his arm, and she took it—to provide him support should he need it. And perhaps because she simply wanted to touch him. Yes, that felt … right.
H adrian hadn’t suffered such a terrible headache since he’d struck the pavement when he’d been stabbed two months earlier. This one, however, was not due to hitting his head but a direct result of the successive visions he’d had. Though he didn’t regret them since they’d prompted him to reach Tilda before Joanna Pollard had inflicted any physical harm upon her.
Thankfully, Teague had arrived relatively quickly with a pair of constables. He’d questioned Joanna, and she’d told him everything she’d already said to Hadrian and Tilda. She’d also confessed to putting the knife Martha had taken from the kitchen and used to stab Louis into Beryl’s drawer the day of the funeral. She’d hoped Beryl would be blamed for the murder.
Teague had arrested Joanna and asked Hadrian and Tilda to meet them at Scotland Yard so they could provide official statements.
Once they were in the coach, Hadrian had detailed the visions he’d seen whilst Tilda had hung on every word. He’d sat beside her, glad for her proximity and warmth. She’d positioned herself toward him and given him her fullest attention.
Whilst it hadn’t eased the ache in his head, her focus certainly made him feel good.
“Beryl will be released now that Joanna is in custody,” Tilda said as they neared Scotland Yard. “I suppose you should take her home.”
“I was going to offer,” Hadrian replied. “I confess I’m not too keen on helping her any longer. I’m glad this affair is concluded.” He met her gaze. “Are you?”
“I will be, though for me it is not finished quite yet. There are still missing pieces of jewelry that she hired me to find.”
They arrived at Scotland Yard and were shown to Teague’s office where they waited for a short while. A young clerk brought them tea, which was most welcome. Hadrian’s headache finally began to ease.
A constable came to take their statements. Teague arrived just as he was finishing.
The inspector poured a cup of tea and settled into a chair. “I must thank you both for your assistance today. I am rather shocked by Mrs. Pollard’s confessions.”
“Have you charged her with murder?” Tilda asked.
“At the very least, I expect to charge her with manslaughter, but I am still collecting evidence.”
Hadrian was disappointed. He’d seen Joanna push Martha Farrow and hold Louis Chambers down. “Is that because she didn’t stab Louis Chambers?”
Teague nodded. “Nor did she intend to push Martha Farrow to her death—at least not when she went to visit her initially. She says she panicked in pushing her. I’m inclined to believe her. Why would Martha tell anyone what happened? She would only implicate herself.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it is difficult to know what happened without having a direct witness besides Mrs. Pollard.”
Hadrian kept his face impassive whilst exchanging a look with Tilda. It was moments like these when his ability to see things was both a blessing and a curse. “What about Joanna’s attack on Tilda?”
“And on you,” Tilda added. “She nicked Hadrian’s throat with her scissors. I saw that with my own eyes.” She sent Teague an expectant look.
“She’ll be charged for both those crimes as well—either assault or mayhem,” Teague said.
“Will she also be charged for trying to blame Beryl for her husband’s murder?” Hadrian asked.
“Perhaps, though there’s still the matter of the poisoning. As you heard earlier, Joanna denies having anything to do with that.” Teague had questioned her about that at the shop.
Tilda fixed her gaze on Teague. “Did you know that Beryl Chambers was ill in January for some time? She’s recovered, however. Her symptoms were the same as what was mentioned at the inquest.”
Teague frowned. “You think she was poisoned?”
“I think it’s possible. But if she was, the poisoner stopped at some point.”
“Perhaps they were mistakenly poisoning her instead of her husband?” Teague mused. “It’s peculiar. I suppose I must turn my attention to the household staff. They had the ability to poison both Mr. and Mrs. Chambers. I just don’t know what their motive would be.”
“I believe none of them cared for Mr. Chambers,” Tilda said. “But I don’t know if they felt strongly enough to kill him.”
Hadrian looked from Tilda to Teague. “Perhaps they were just trying to make him ill for a while, as they’d done with Beryl?”
Teague exhaled. “I don’t suppose you could find a way to provoke the culprit to confess as you did with Mrs. Pollard?” He gave them both a sardonic look.
“We can try,” Tilda said.
“I was joking, but I would greatly accept any help you can offer,” Teague replied with a smile. “You are most helpful, Miss Wren. I think I must consider consulting with you in the future.”
“Do you have support for that from your superiors?” Tilda asked drily.
He chuckled. “Not yet.”
Tilda stood, and Hadrian joined her.
Teague also rose. “You’re conveying Mrs. Chambers to her home?”
“If she’s allowed to leave,” Hadrian said.
“She is,” Teague said. “The poisoning investigation will continue, but I don’t have strong evidence against her for that crime. I’ll have her meet you outside.”
Teague left, and Tilda and Hadrian followed him from the office.
They waited a few minutes outside before Beryl came toward them in the company of two constables, having exited from a different door. She appeared tired, her clothing creased.
Hadrian gave her a warm smile. “Beryl, you look well.”
“I do not,” she said crossly and then exhaled. “Forgive me, I am quite ready to leave this place and hopefully never return.”
“Of course,” Hadrian said. “My coach is just there.” He indicated where Leach was standing.
“Thank you.” Her expression was filled with gratitude as she made her way to the coachman.
Leach helped her inside, and she took the forward-facing seat. Tilda climbed in next and sat opposite her. Hadrian settled beside Tilda, and they were shortly on their way.
Beryl looked at Hadrian and seemed puzzled. Was that because he’d chosen to sit with Tilda?
“I can hardly believe Mrs. Pollard sought to blame me for Louis’s murder.” Beryl clucked her tongue. “I am glad she will be charged with the crime. And with pushing poor Martha. It’s all so shocking.”
“Indeed, it is,” Tilda murmured.
They were silent a few moments. Beryl looked at them warily. Finally, she said, “I know you are aware of Oliver and me, and that you probably think poorly of that … situation.”
“It is not our place to judge,” Tilda said evenly.
Hadrian was glad she’d spoken for him too since he felt the same. He also rather liked being included in her sentiments. It showed they were close partners and friends.
Beryl sniffed. “I was very unhappy with Louis. This marriage was not what I’d hoped it would be.” She flicked a glance at Hadrian.
“I can’t imagine it was,” Hadrian said. He didn’t think she knew the truth about why Louis had married her—as revenge against Hadrian, and he wasn’t going to tell her. Perhaps she would find out at some point, but not from him.
“Thank you both again for your help.” Beryl’s gaze fell on Tilda. “What of my missing jewelry? I know my brooch was found with Martha’s things, and I’ll have it back soon, and that my pearl pieces were apparently sold.” She frowned sadly. “But will you continue to look for the others?”
Tilda exchanged an uncertain look with Hadrian. “I learned that Louis gave your rubies to his mistress. He showed them to friends at his club. I’m sorry.”
Beryl gaped. “The bastard! Have you no idea who she is?”
“I’m afraid not,” Tilda said with a faint grimace. “And I doubt I can find your other missing pieces—not unless someone comes forward.”
A lone whimper sounded from Beryl’s throat. “What am I to do now? I wanted my jewelry back because it belongs to me and many of the items are heirlooms. But now I suppose I must sell them to live. Oliver says Louis had debts and that his quarterly income must pay for them. He says it will take years to satisfy them in full.” She sent a forlorn look toward Hadrian.
Was she expecting him to offer assistance? He would not. “Perhaps you ought to write to your parents.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I doubt they would help me.”
They rode the rest of the way to Beryl’s house in an awkward silence. Hadrian’s head still ached, but it was mild now. Nevertheless, he looked forward to going home.
“Let us walk you inside, Beryl,” Tilda offered, sending Hadrian a look that said this was important.
As they approached the front door, Oswald opened it. He blinked at Beryl. “Mrs. Chambers, you’ve returned.” He appeared surprised, and perhaps not in a positive way. At least, he wasn’t smiling.
“Finally,” Beryl said as she walked into the entrance hall. “I require a bath and tea.”
“Right away, Mrs. Chambers.” The butler took himself off.
Beryl removed her hat and gloves. She looked at Tilda and Hadrian, her expression morose. “I don’t suppose you need to stay. Thank you for bringing me home.”
A knock on the door prompted them all to divert their attention. In the absence of Oswald, Hadrian answered.
Mrs. Styles-Rowdon stood outside. She was not wearing a hat or gloves and appeared somewhat harried. “My housekeeper said she saw Beryl arrive.”
Hadrian opened the door wider to reveal Beryl.
“I’m here, Gillian.” Beryl looked at her friend with relief.
“My goodness, what an ordeal! Does this mean you’re free?” the neighbor asked as she bustled inside. Her cherry-colored skirt brushed Hadrian’s boots as she walked by him to embrace Beryl.
“They’ve arrested Joanna Pollard,” Beryl declared as they parted. She went on to explain to Mrs. Styles-Rowdon how Joanna had helped to kill Louis along with Martha and then killed Martha.
Mrs. Styles-Rowdon put her hand to her chest. “How gruesome.”
“Unfortunately, the detective inspector said I am still a suspect for poisoning Louis.” Beryl made a face. “Why does it matter? The poison didn’t kill him—Martha and Joanna Pollard did.”
“It matters because it’s a crime to poison someone,” Tilda said evenly, though Hadrian could see a bit of fire in her eyes.
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon said with a nod. “Beryl, you mustn’t worry about that now. I’m sure you need rest. And a bath.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Oh dear, do I smell terribly?” Beryl asked in horror. “I must.” She turned to Tilda. “Would you mind walking upstairs with me? I want to ask you about this poisoning investigation.”
“Certainly,” Tilda murmured. She sent a look toward Hadrian, her eyes rounding slighting, before following Beryl from the entrance hall.
“I’ll check on you later,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon called after Beryl. Then she faced Hadrian. “How wonderful that you and Miss Wren brought Beryl home. You and Miss Wren seem to spend a great deal of time together.”
“We are business associates. I help her with investigating.”
Mrs. Styles-Rowdon’s wheat-colored brows arched elegantly. “Is that the only reason?”
“We are also friends.” Hadrian had the distinct impression Mrs. Styles-Rowdon was trying to ascertain Hadrian’s romantic availability.
“One can never have too many of those,” she said with an alluring smile. “Beryl is lucky to call you a friend too.”
They were not friends, but Hadrian would not correct the woman. He looked forward to when Beryl would be a memory once more. He merely nodded at Mrs. Styles-Rowdon.
“You must be relieved to have the murder resolved. I can’t imagine you enjoyed being labeled a suspect.” She gave him a concerned pout, her lips forming a perfect bow.
“I did not.” Hadrian hoped Tilda wouldn’t be gone too long. Mrs. Styles-Rowdon had moved closer to him.
She gasped. “What happened to your neck?” She reached out and brushed her fingers where Joanna Pollard had cut him.
Suddenly, Hadrian was no longer in the entrance hall. He was in a small kitchen. A feminine hand poured something into a bowl of soup on a tray. He was seeing Mrs. Styles-Rowdon’s memory. She set the bottle down and looked out a window at the ocean in the distance. Then she picked up the tray and carried it into a bedchamber.
A man lay propped on a few pillows against the headboard. His eyes were tired, his face pallid. He managed a small smile as the woman whose memory he was seeing—Mrs. Styles-Rowdon—set the tray down on the table next to the bed. She then proceeded to feed the man the soup.
“My lord?”
Hadrian blinked, and Mrs. Styles-Rowdon came into focus once more. “My apologies. I fear it’s been a trying day.” His headache had improved but now returned with a vengeance. Tilda may be right that he ought to limit his visions if he could. Not that he’d provoked this one. Mrs. Styles-Rowdon had touched him. “Joanna Pollard cut me with a pair of scissors.”
Mrs. Styles-Rowdon sucked in a breath. “You poor man. It’s a pity you don’t have a countess to take care of you. Why, I’d make sure you had a steaming hot bath and a large tumbler of brandy.”
“That is precisely what I had in mind for myself when I get home. No wife necessary,” he added with a smile.
“But those things would be more enticing with a wife, would they not?” Her eyes had darkened in an almost seductive manner.
Though he wanted nothing more than to put distance between himself and this woman who had perhaps poisoned someone, he would not disappoint Tilda. After the vision he’d just seen, he had questions, and he needed to ask them, headache be damned. “Did you often ensure your husband had a bath and a glass of brandy?”
Surprise and perhaps discomfort flashed across her features. “Of course.”
“You must miss him,” Hadrian said with an excess of insincere sympathy. “How long ago were you widowed?”
“Three years.”
“Poor dear,” he murmured, echoing what she’d said to him. He held her gaze, hoping she would keep answering his questions. “Was that here in London or somewhere else?”
“Portsmouth.”
Unfortunately, Tilda walked into the entrance hall and disrupted their revelatory moment. Tilda’s gaze lingered skeptically on Mrs. Styles-Rowdon, then shifted uneasily to Hadrian. He could well imagine how this looked.
Hadrian stepped away from the woman and looked eagerly at Tilda. “Ready to depart?”
“Yes.”
“I should be going also.” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon moved toward the door, and Hadrian hurried to open it for her. “Thank you.” She inclined her head toward them and walked outside.
Hadrian continued holding the door for Tilda who preceded him from the house. They walked in silence to the coach. He waited until they were settled together inside before speaking.
Except she beat him to it.
“Was Mrs. Styles-Rowdon flirting with you?”
“Yes, and I was flirting with her.” Hadrian rubbed his forehead, wincing. “She touched me, and I saw something.”
“Another vision?” Tilda touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine.” He hoped—his head felt as though it might split in two. “I saw her pour something into a soup and give it to a man who was ill in bed. I believe it was her husband. They were near the ocean, and she said her husband died in Portsmouth.”
Tilda’s eyes rounded. “She poisoned him?”
“I think so.” He closed his eyes briefly. That felt better.
“I’m worried about you,” Tilda said softly. Her hand was still on his arm.
“I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Let’s assume she poisoned her husband. Why? And why would she poison Louis Chambers?”
Tilda took her hand from his arm, and Hadrian opened his eyes. She looked pensive.
Her gaze met his. “What if Mrs. Styles-Rowdon was Louis’s paramour? That would mean both men had something in common—their intimate relationships with her. That isn’t a motive, however.” She looked away and her expression became determined. “I’m going back to Scotland Yard after Leach takes you home. Teague should be able to send a telegram to Portsmouth. We can find out how her husband died and anything else that may be helpful.”
“I want to come with you.”
Tilda gave her head a firm shake as she moved her attention back to him. “Absolutely not. You need to rest.”
Hadrian frowned, which made him wince again. “At least let Leach drive you and then take you home.”
“All right.” She sent him a stern look. “You must promise me that you’ll rest.”
“I will. I plan to drink some brandy, take a warm bath, have a light supper, and sleep this headache away.” He hoped. The one thing he could expect from his power and the resulting headaches was that he should always be prepared for something unexpected, such as multiple visions in a short amount of time leaving him feeling as though he’d been tossed about in a boat crossing the English Channel.
“I hope you don’t have to be at Westminster tomorrow,” she said. “You should take it easy.”
He leaned back against the squab and stretched out his legs so that his toes nearly touched the other seat. “I do not, in fact. I shall take your advice. But you must come tell me what you learn from Teague.”
“Of course I will—if only to ensure you are well.” Her eyes gleamed with a warm promise that sparked something within him. He enjoyed this familiarity they shared. And he was delighted that she cared so much about him.
“Don’t forget to bring an invoice for me to pay.”
“Given how much you’ve contributed to our investigation, it hardly seems fair for you to pay me.”
He waved his hand. “You deserve to be paid for your work.”
“And what of your work?” She arched a brow at him. “And I’m not just speaking of your visions. You’ve developed very good investigative skills. Just look at what you did with Mrs. Styles-Rowdon today.”
Hadrian’s chest swelled and his heart sped for a moment as the thrill of her praise raced through him. “That is quite a compliment coming from you. Thank you.” His eyes met hers, and they simply looked at one another for a long moment. She broke the connection first, moving her focus to the other side of the coach. His gaze dipped to her mouth, and he recalled their conversation about kissing. He wanted to kiss her. Would she really allow it?
Today was not the day to find out. Between his headache and everything that had happened, he didn’t think an attempted kiss would be appropriate. Not to mention how it might affect their friendship, which he valued very much.
Hadrian would content himself with simply sitting beside her—and allowing her compliment to repeat itself in his head.
“You should divert Leach to Ravenhurst House,” Tilda said.
“Indeed.” He knocked on the roof and Leach slowed the coach. They were soon on their way to Hadrian’s house instead of Tilda’s.
As they neared Curzon Street, Hadrian loosened his cravat. “I want to say how glad I am that everything turned out well earlier. And if I haven’t thanked you for preventing Joanna from causing further damage to my neck, let me extend my sincerest gratitude.”
“I am grateful you came upstairs when you did. She likely would have come after me with the scissors since she was unable to push me over the stair rail.”
“Thank goodness for that,” he said with a great sense of relief. “What did Beryl want to speak with you about?”
Tilda rolled her eyes. “She wanted to point out that she had likely been poisoned, so it didn’t make sense that she would be the poisoner.”
“Unless it was a coincidence,” Hadrian said wryly.
“I think we know it was not. Now that we know Mrs. Styles-Rowdon poisoned her husband, that is too much of a coincidence to ignore. But would she have poisoned Beryl in addition to Louis?” Tilda’s features shifted into deep contemplation as the coach stopped.
Leach opened the door, and Tilda jolted from her pensive state, smiling at Hadrian. “Please take good care.”
Hadrian turned from her and climbed out of the coach. He wondered if thoughts of kissing her would keep him awake tonight.