Chapter 18
After a short gathering in the drawing room at Ravenhurst House that evening, Hadrian’s mother led everyone to the dining room. She was accompanied by Mrs. Wren.
As the ranking person in attendance, Hadrian ought to have gone first, but this was a family dinner, and he did not stand on such ceremony. In fact, he escorted Tilda last, allowing his sister Beatrice and her husband, the Viscount Courtenay, to precede them.
He’d left the menu entirely to his cook, Mrs. Rowe, and had no doubt it would be spectacular as usual.
However, he had chosen the wine for each course and determined the seating arrangement.
He sat at the head, of course, and Tilda sat at his right, whilst his sister was on his left.
Next to her sat Tilda’s grandmother, and Hadrian’s mother was at the opposite end of the table from him.
The final seat, to Tilda’s right, belonged to his brother-in-law, Courtenay.
Hadrian might have preferred to seat Tilda next to her grandmother, but he knew his mother would have found fault with that. She was an enthusiastic proponent of ensuring guests had the chance to meet someone new. But Hadrian refused to place Tilda anywhere other than right beside him.
As they took their seats at the table, he couldn’t help admiring Tilda’s appearance this evening.
He so rarely saw her dressed in such a manner.
She wore the dark green gown she’d acquired for a dinner they’d attended at a medium’s house during an investigation a few months ago.
The color was perfect on her, and Hadrian found himself wanting to gift her with emeralds to wear at her ears and throat.
Except, he didn’t think she ever wore earrings.
Emerald combs then. Her maid, Clara, had arranged Tilda’s reddish-blonde hair into a flawlessly elegant style that would support such adornment.
But would Tilda even want to wear emeralds? She was used to simplicity and usefulness.
Hadrian had chosen a dry sherry to accompany the soup course with Tilda’s grandmother in mind, for he knew she enjoyed sherry. He watched for her reaction when she sipped it and was gratified when her features lit with appreciation.
“I’m pleased you could join us this evening, Mrs. Wren.” Hadrian’s mother’s blue eyes fixed first on Tilda’s grandmother and then on Tilda. “And you, Miss Wren.”
“We were delighted to receive the invitation,” Tilda’s grandmother replied. She looked down the table at Hadrian. “You must compliment your cook on this oxtail soup. It’s delicious. And the wine is perfect.”
“I will inform Mrs. Rowe,” Hadrian said warmly. “I chose the wine with you in mind, so I’m very glad you like it.”
Mrs. Wren smiled. “That was most thoughtful of you.”
After a few moments of silence, Courtenay glanced sideways at Tilda.
He was in his middle thirties and sported a rather robust pair of sideburns that cloaked his round face.
“Is it true you’re a private detective and that you investigate cases with my brother-in-law?
” He asked the question as if the answer was in doubt when, in fact, Hadrian and Tilda’s professional relationship was quite established.
Perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention when this had been mentioned in his presence.
“Yes,” Tilda confirmed before taking a sip of soup.
Courtenay squinted at Hadrian. “How do you find time to do such things, and what do you do exactly?”
Hadrian set his spoon down. “We make inquiries of people who provide information about the case that we’re working on. We investigate different persons associated with whatever we’re looking for, and—”
“What is that exactly?” Courtenay asked, cutting him off. “I seem to recall Miss Wren had something to do with those murderous mediums a few months ago, which I find incredibly hard to believe.” He tossed another glance at Tilda. “What could you possibly know about investigating a murder?”
“Courtenay, don’t interrupt,” Beatrice whispered toward her husband.
Hadrian kept a rein on his rising impatience. “She actually solves murders.”
Tilda sent Hadrian an appreciative look tinged with humor. Did she find Courtenay amusing? Hadrian supposed that was better than if she found him annoying.
“I know as much as any other detective,” Tilda replied serenely.
“Perhaps more than some, since my father worked for the Met and taught me everything he knew about investigating and solving crime. I grew up believing in discovering the truth, and I possess a strong sense of justice. It’s my calling to help those in need and ensure the safety of our society and community. ”
Mrs. Wren gazed at her granddaughter with unabashed pride. “It’s most admirable.”
“It’s odd,” Courtenay murmured. “Though, Miss Wren, I suppose you’re in a position where you must have employment, and perhaps this was all you could think to do.”
Beatrice sent her husband a pointed look, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he had no idea that she was losing patience as Hadrian was.
“I’m not the sort who can be idle.” Tilda gave Courtenay an enigmatic smile.
“Nor do I take pleasure in many of the more feminine pursuits, such as needlework or cooking. I find I prefer an enterprise that is much more invigorating for my mind. And yes, as it happens, being a private detective ensures my grandmother and our household staff are well cared for.”
“Still strange, if you ask me.” Courtenay swept his gaze back to Hadrian. “Raven, you know people have been talking about this fetish you have for working with Miss Wren for some time now. I think everyone expected it to be a temporary distraction for you. Don’t you think it’s gone on long enough?”
Beatrice sucked in an audible breath, and Hadrian noted her nostrils flaring. She pursed her lips at Courtenay.
Hadrian had picked up his spoon to have more soup and now gripped it tightly as he tamped down his anger and kept the barest hold on civility.
“On the contrary, I should like our association to continue indefinitely.” He gave his brother-in-law a placid smile as he reminded himself that Courtenay was not actively trying to stir up trouble.
He was merely fatuously obtuse. He often said things that were on his mind without thinking of how they would be received by his audience.
Beatrice was a saint, for she managed to tolerate his boorishness and only intervened when he egregiously overstepped.
If she did not, she’d likely be haranguing him endlessly.
The footman removed the soup and replaced it with the next course, a poached salmon.
Courtenay sent Tilda a pitying look. “I don’t imagine there are a great many people wanting to hire you. You can’t have much business.”
Beatrice opened her mouth, but their mother spoke before she could.
“Courtenay, you must behave,” their mother said crossly.
She didn’t have the patience for his thickheadedness, and Hadrian was surprised she’d endured his questions and comments this long.
“I hired Miss Wren to investigate something for me. She’s incredibly skilled.
Now, do find something else to converse about. ”
“I do, of course, want to discuss yesterday’s Ascot.” Courtenay didn’t look at all bothered by his mother-in-law’s reproof. Rather, he grinned as he looked about the table. “I still can’t believe Blue Gown did it—the Derby and the Ascot! Surprised you weren’t there yesterday, Raven.”
Courtenay didn’t wait for Hadrian to reply, but then he hadn’t asked a question. As he was now on the topic of horse racing, Tilda was safe from his obnoxious questions.
Whilst Hadrian listened to his brother-in-law drone on about his favorite topic, he noticed Tilda’s grandmother’s face turning red.
Suddenly, Tilda jumped up from the table and rushed around to her grandmother’s chair.
Mrs. Wren leaned forward as Tilda massaged her back and bent her head to whisper in her ear.
Nodding, Mrs. Wren tried to cough. Tilda then struck her back several times.
At last, Mrs. Wren took a gasping breath.
Tilda looked to the footman standing nearby and quietly asked him to bring a glass of water.
Courtenay had stopped talking to stare at Mrs. Wren.
Beatrice turned toward Mrs. Wren and looked at Tilda, her golden-brown eyes wide with concern. “Is there anything I can do?”
Tilda smiled softly. “I think she had a fish bone caught in her throat. It’s happened before. Grandmama is rather sensitive to such things.”
The footman brought a glass of water and handed it to Tilda, who put it to her grandmother’s lips. “Can you take a tiny sip and see if it goes down?” Tilda murmured.
Her grandmother took a small sip and swallowed, then inhaled deeply and leaned back against the chair. She smiled at Tilda and as she worked to bring her breathing under control.
Tilda continued to rub her grandmother’s back as she fixed on Courtenay. “You were just telling us about Blue Gown’s sire.” She behaved as if nothing untoward had happened, and she’d kept the thread of Courtenay’s rather boring monologue.
When Tilda finally stepped away from her grandmother, Hadrian noticed his mother lightly touched her forearm as she passed by her chair. She appeared to murmur, “Well done.”
Tilda inclined her head and returned to her seat. They finished the fish course whilst Courtenay worked to put them to sleep.
The next course was a roast saddle of lamb with mint sauce and roast potatoes, one of Mrs. Rowe’s specialties. The accompanying wine was a claret.
Beatrice’s eyes gleamed with appreciation as she swept up her glass. She looked to Hadrian. “Is this my favorite from ’63?”
“It is.” Their father had maintained a respectable wine cellar, and Hadrian had aimed to do the same.
Beatrice held up her glass. “To Miss Wren and her various and wonderful skills, and to Mrs. Wren. I’m very pleased to meet you both this evening.”
“Hear, hear,” Hadrian said, lifting his glass.