Chapter 7 #2
“Everyone will think she is.” Her features softened, and she gazed at him with great concern.
“Your association with her will be a negative influence. I have always liked Miss Wren, and I’m sorry she’s been disparaged so publicly—whether true or not.
I also appreciate whatever…emotional entanglement you have with her.
” She held up her hand as Hadrian clenched his jaw, then opened his mouth to speak.
“However, Miss Wren is not an appropriate choice for your countess, and you know that. You aren’t betrothed, are you? ”
“Not yet. We’re conducting a private courtship. I prefer you not mention this to anyone.” He wished he hadn’t said anything to her at all, but he’d been unable to keep his own emotions in check.
“You can be assured I won’t say a word,” she said quickly. “We must discuss this before you do anything you regret.”
Hadrian didn’t want to lose his temper again. “Not right now. I need to see Tilda. This horrible article will have certainly upset her, and I want to be there for her.”
“There’s another reason that I wanted to speak with you. The Duke of Alnwick’s daughter went missing yesterday.”
“What?” Hadrian said, barely waiting for her to finish. “What do you mean she’s gone missing? Has she been kidnapped? Why didn’t you tell me this straightaway?”
“Because I was going to suggest to Alnwick that he hire Miss Wren to find Lady Priscilla, but after reading that article, I don’t know if I can. I wanted to talk to you about that first.”
Hadrian tamped down his frustration, which was growing increasingly difficult with each passing moment of this conversation. “What do you know about Lady Priscilla’s disappearance?”
“Only that Alnwick said they received a note asking for money—a ransom, I suppose.”
This sounded too much like Miss Chadwick’s abduction. “Was it signed by Spring-heeled Jack?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Did they report this to the Met?” Hadrian asked, wondering if the note had also instructed the duke not to alert the police.
Her brow creased briefly. “I don’t believe so. I heard all this from Hetty.”
Henrietta York was a friend of his mother’s and one of London’s most feverish gossips. “And how on earth did she hear it?”
“Her housekeeper is the sister of the Alnwicks’ housekeeper.”
“You should know better than to listen to servants’ gossip,” Hadrian said shortly. Even so, given the abduction of Miss Chadwick, he would not discount the veracity of the rumor. It was better that Teague looked into the matter.
Blast! He realized Mrs. Chadwick had listed Lady Priscilla as one of Miss Chadwick’s close friends. Hadrian needed to see Tilda as soon as possible. “I must go.” He started toward the door.
“Promise me you won’t do anything rash with Miss Wren,” his mother called after him. “And will you please think about taking some time away from investigating? You’ve been woefully absent from social engagements this Season.”
Turning his head to look back at his mother, he worked to keep his voice even. “I think what you’re saying is that I should take some time away from Tilda, but I will not. I will stand with her. Always.”
Hadrian stalked from the room, driven by anger and apprehension that Spring-heeled Jack might have kidnapped someone else.
Collier met him in the entrance hall with his hat and gloves. “Leach just pulled up with the coach.”
“Good,” Hadrian replied, quickly donning his accessories. “See if my mother wants tea before she leaves.”
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, my lord, but please give Miss Wren my very best.”
Hadrian didn’t know if the butler had overheard any of the conversation with his mother, which wouldn’t have been impossible given the volume of Hadrian’s voice; or if the butler had read the newspaper. Either way, he appreciated Collier’s support and thoughtfulness.
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
Collier opened the door, and Hadrian hurried toward the coach. He never should have told his mother about his feelings for Tilda or their courtship, except that he couldn’t keep it secret forever. The timing had just been exceedingly poor, and now another young woman might have been kidnapped.
He arrived at the coach, where Leach opened the door. “Make haste to Marylebone,” Hadrian said sternly as he stepped inside. He turned his head and met his coachman’s gaze. “Great haste.”
Tilda had not thought she could feel any worse than after visiting with the Chadwicks the day before, but then she’d read the Daily News that morning.
Fortunately, she’d seen it before her grandmother and asked Mrs. Acorn to dispose of the newspaper.
Tilda had also requested the housekeeper fib and say it wasn’t delivered today.
When Tilda had simply explained that it would spare her grandmother considerable worry, Mrs. Acorn had understood.
The last thing Tilda needed was Grandmama fretting over what Clement had written about her.
It wasn’t that Tilda wanted to hide anything from her grandmother.
She’d already told her that Miss Chadwick had been found deceased, though she hadn’t revealed the details.
Her grandmother had embraced her tightly and soothed Tilda’s raw emotions.
Grandmama had then noted, with grave concern, that once again, the case that Tilda and Hadrian were working on had turned into a murder. How Tilda wished it hadn’t.
They’d had a shopping excursion planned today to pick up several items for the household, but Tilda had received word from Dr. Giles that he planned to come by to remove her stitches. So, she’d remained at home whilst her grandmother and Clara went out.
Dr. Giles’s visit had gone quickly, and the removal of the stitches caused only a mild discomfort. He’d advised her to continue to be cautious with her shoulder for another week or so.
After he’d gone, Tilda focused on what she could do next in order to find Miss Chadwick’s killer.
All she could think was that this new “Spring-heeled Jack” was using information from prior Spring-heeled Jack attacks.
Why else would he leave Miss Chadwick in Green Dragon Alley with what appeared to be burns on her face and scratches across her body?
Tilda was anxious for the inquest, which was to be held Wednesday afternoon.
Vaughn came into the library at the back of the house where Tilda was seated at her grandfather’s old desk and paused in the doorway. “Mr. Clement is here to see you.”
Tilda leapt up. “Good.” She strode quickly toward the door, prompting Vaughn to step backward.
“I hope you’re going to berate him, Miss Wren,” Vaughn said quietly as she passed.
Pausing, Tilda turned her head to look back at the butler. “You saw the newspaper this morning?”
“I confess I read it every morning,” he said a bit sheepishly. “His article was unkind to you.” His brow darkened. “I know Mr. Clement has been here before, and I believe you’ve worked together, but if you don’t mind, I’d be happy to thrash him.”
Tilda suppressed a smile as warmth spread through her chest. Vaughn had become such a dear member of their household—no, their family. “Thank you, but I shall verbally thrash him myself. I do appreciate the offer.”
Grateful for the interlude with Vaughn, for it calmed her ire, Tilda walked more sedately to the entrance hall where Mr. Clement stood.
He held his hat in his hands, and his thinning brown hair was tousled as if he’d run his hand through it.
His brown eyes were wide with contrition as he regarded her.
As usual, he wore impossibly outrageous trousers made of purple and yellow striped wool.
Though Tilda had calmed herself, she did not mask her irritation with him. “Have you come to apologize?”
“I have, actually. May we speak for a few moments?”
“Yes.” Tilda exhaled and led him into the parlor where she closed the door. It wasn’t that Vaughn or Mrs. Acorn eavesdropped, but she didn’t want them inadvertently hearing anything about the case, because it was frankly disturbing.
She faced Clement, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was quite an article you wrote. I should think you would have taken the effort to interview me, but perhaps you weren’t interested in the full truth.”
“You know I am,” he said earnestly. “However, I didn’t have any choice as to the scope of this article.
One of the newspaper’s proprietors is a close friend to Chadwick.
He went directly to the proprietor’s house to demand that an interview with him be published as soon as possible.
The proprietor instructed my editor to assign the interview to his best reporter. ”
“You,” Tilda concluded. She didn’t doubt it, for Clement was very good at his job. “I’m sure you were thrilled to write the first report of Miss Chadwick’s murder at the hands of the notorious Spring-heeled Jack.”
“I was,” he replied without guile. “Until Chadwick began to blame and disparage you. I want you to know that I defended your abilities.”
“I appreciate that.” She unfolded her arms, relieved to hear that Clement had verbally supported her at least. “Could you not have included some of that in your article?”
“I tried. However, the night editor was instructed to change the tone to be more…”
“Sensational?” Tilda suggested. This was Chadwick’s anger seeking revenge against the one person he could publicly ruin. He wouldn’t have been able to do that to Teague and certainly not to Hadrian. “Chadwick would like me to be held accountable for his daughter’s death.”
“As the editor put it, since there’s no suspect at this time, the public’s anger—and the blame—can be directed at you. He said those were the proprietor’s words.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry. You must know I value you as an associate—and as a friend.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.” She’d also thought they’d become friends. “Did you only come to apologize?”
“Actually, no. I’m going to write another article interviewing you about the case.”