Chapter 8
As the coach stopped in front of the Duke of Alnwick’s house in Upper Brook Street, Hadrian pondered whether he ought to go in alone.
Except he knew Tilda would want to be part of the interview.
Furthermore, she needed to be. Whilst Hadrian had learned many investigative skills from her, she was still the professional with far more experience.
“You should conduct the interview,” Tilda said. “I’ll join in if necessary.”
“Because of my title?” he asked as Leach opened the door.
She arched her brow in a sardonic fashion. “He’s a duke. Don’t you think he’ll be more likely to speak with you?”
Hadrian smirked before climbing from the coach and helping Tilda to the pavement. She didn’t take his arm for the short walk up the steps to the front door.
The late spring afternoon was particularly temperate and bright. It was hard to think that things such as murder and kidnapping could happen on a day like this. Hadrian dearly hoped that Lady Priscilla had not, in fact, been kidnapped. They would soon find out.
He knocked, and a moment later a short, austere butler with a small, sharp nose and dark, assessing eyes opened the door. The butler regarded them with a cool hauteur that some members of the peerage preferred their butlers project, particularly when greeting people.
Hadrian adopted an amiable tone and pleasant expression. “Good afternoon, I’m Ravenhurst, and this is my associate, Miss Wren. We’ve come to speak with the duke about an urgent issue.”
The butler’s gray brows dipped toward his nose in a perfect V. “I am not sure His Grace is receiving. Please step inside for a moment.” After Tilda and Hadrian moved into the entrance hall, the butler closed the door and faced them. “May I tell His Grace what this is about, specifically?”
Hadrian hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say. What if the rumor his mother had heard was nothing but nonsense?
Fortunately, Tilda spoke up. “Please tell His Grace we have information about his daughter.”
Surprise flashed unmistakably in the butler’s gaze, but he quickly composed himself. He inclined his head, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the staircase hall.
Hadrian pivoted toward Tilda. “What do you suppose his reaction meant?”
Tilda lifted a shoulder. “It could be anything, but I’m inclined to think he was eager to tell His Grace that we’re here.”
“I am as well,” Hadrian said. “Even if the duke’s daughter hasn’t been kidnapped, he’ll want to know what sort of information we might have about her.”
“That was my hope,” Tilda said.
Hadrian regarded her with admiration. “This is why you are a brilliant investigator.”
They waited only a few moments before the butler returned. “Come this way.”
Hadrian and Tilda exchanged a glance and followed him through to the staircase hall, then to the left into a handsomely appointed study with mahogany bookcases.
The chandelier hung from the center of a painting of Midas receiving his golden touch from Dionysus.
Hadrian recalled that several of Alnwick House’s ceilings had been painted a few years ago by an Italian artist. The scene here in his study was fitting for a man known for his investment acumen and wealth.
The duke was in his late forties with thick, dark sable hair, and wide features, particularly his nose and chin.
He’d been athletic in his younger years, with a reputation for exceptional equestrian skill.
However, he now sported a slight paunch.
He sat in a red and gold chair near the hearth, clutching a nearly empty glass of what looked to be whiskey. His eyes narrowed at Hadrian.
“Ravenhurst, I can’t imagine what’s brought you here today, but my butler says you have information about my daughter.” The duke’s low voice rumbled toward them like an approaching carriage. “What does that mean?”
“We’ve heard she’s missing and came to speak with you about that,” Hadrian replied.
The duke bolted to his feet, his face twisting with fury. “Who told you that?” He tossed back the remainder of his drink and set the empty glass on the mantel next to a photograph of a young woman with large eyes and sculpted features. She was very pretty.
As the duke’s gaze flicked to the photograph, Hadrian wondered if that was his daughter, Lady Priscilla.
“It’s true then?” Hadrian asked.
“Nobody is supposed to know,” the duke snapped. “You had to have heard it from someone in my household. No one else is aware.”
Hadrian kept his expression neutral. “I can’t say precisely how the information came to us.” He wasn’t going to reveal the duke’s housekeeper as the origination of the leak.
The duke eyed them skeptically, his brows riding low over his eyes. “Why have you come here?”
“Miss Wren is a private detective,” Hadrian replied. “I work with her, and we’d like to help you.”
“You work with her? What the bloody hell for?” the duke asked, incredulous.
“I enjoy it,” Hadrian said evenly. “And I like helping others.”
“Did you say her name was Miss Wren? I recognize the name from that article about the other young woman who was kidnapped and murdered.” The duke’s angry stare moved to Tilda. “You must be the same person.”
“I am.” Tilda didn’t flinch as she met the duke’s gaze, and Hadrian felt a surge of pride—as well as a need to protect her.
“I don’t know why you bothered coming here,” the duke scoffed. “I wouldn’t allow you to help if you were the last detective in London.”
“She’s not the last,” Hadrian said. “But she is the best. That article in the paper didn’t tell the entire story of what happened.” He regarded the duke intently. “You’ve known me for some time. I would not align myself with anyone who wasn’t completely competent and capable.”
“I would expect that, yes.” The duke pursed his lips. “Still, I’m not interested in hiring her. Now, be on your way.”
Hadrian wondered if he’d have more luck with Lady Priscilla’s mother. “Where is the duchess?”
“When Priscilla was discovered to be kidnapped, she took to her bed.” Again, he glanced at the photograph, and Hadrian was certain it was Lady Priscilla.
“I have kept the news about Miss Chadwick from her today, so she’s not aware that our daughter is in mortal peril.
I prefer to keep it that way. She cannot suffer more devastating news. ”
“I understand.” Hadrian felt bad for the man despite his rudeness to Tilda.
He truly wanted to help him. “You can trust us with this matter—and you wouldn’t be hiring us, for we aren’t asking for payment.
We only want to help you bring your daughter home.
We’ve already been investigating what happened with Miss Chadwick, and we think we can help find Lady Priscilla.
You must believe me when I say there is no one better than Miss Wren. ”
“Then why did she seek help from the police?” The duke demanded. “Or was that not true?”
Hadrian hurried to answer the man. He didn’t want Tilda to have to defend herself.
She’d done nothing wrong. “That newspaper article is not a true representation of what transpired. I prefer not to delve into the specifics, but Chadwick is distraught and under unimaginable stress. I fully support every action Miss Wren took.”
“May I see the ransom note you received?” Tilda asked, surprising Hadrian by not contributing to her defense. Though, he should not have been. It was not only natural but expected for her to focus on the case.
The duke regarded her a long moment, his eyes narrowing. He abruptly turned and went to his desk where he plucked up a piece of parchment and handed it to Tilda.
Hadrian looked over at Tilda as she scanned the short note. She didn’t give it to Hadrian quite yet.
“This letter reads verbatim to the one the Chadwicks received, including that you should not contact the police,” Tilda said.
“My advice, however, is that you must. When it comes to recovering someone who has been kidnapped, the Met has the resources to execute such an endeavor. Furthermore, this appears to be the same kidnapper, and if he behaves in the same manner as with Miss Chadwick, we can expect he’ll demand the ransom be delivered at an unsafe place and time and that your daughter will not be returned. ” She handed the note to Hadrian.
The duke’s lips flattened as he went to the mantel, where he plucked up his empty glass.
Hadrian focused on the note he held and instructed his mind to see the author’s memory of when he wrote it.
The Duke of Alnwick’s study faded as Hadrian was transported to the same place of the memory he’d seen when he’d handled the other notes.
A candle flickered on the corner of the mahogany desk, and the scent of tobacco lingered in the air.
The hand with the rough fingernails was now frustratingly familiar.
Worry pulled at Hadrian from the memory along with a nervous anticipation. The kidnapper turned his head toward a doorway to another room. A flash of irritation streaked through him.
As the kidnapper returned his attention to the letter, Hadrian strained to see something else that might help them find the man’s location.
The desk also held a book and a small hand mirror beside it.
Gold lettering on the green spine of the book lodged into Hadrian’s mind: Enfield.
The hand mirror was crafted of silver filigree and tickled Hadrian’s memory.
Hadrian was immediately distracted by a sensation of fury—a deep bitterness that was nearly smothering in its strength.
Excruciating pain exploded in his head. He winced as he tipped his head forward slightly.
Blinking several times, he handed the note back to Tilda.
The agony was too great to allow another vision just then.
Hadrian found Tilda’s eyes. They conveyed that she was both anxious to hear whether he’d seen anything and worried he might be in pain. The latter typically happened when he experienced a longer memory. He gathered he’d been lost in the vision for several moments.