Page 97 of A Whisper and a Curse

Tilda glanced toward the dowager countess. She stood with Mrs. Langdon. “I thought you were going to tell her about your ability.”

“I confess I did think of it when I saw her this afternoon. But I am glad I did not,” Hadrian said. “Because my curse issilly, whilst pretending to speak with the dead is not.”

She heard an edge of hurt in his tone. “You’re afraid to tell her, aren’t you?”

His gaze snapped to hers and held it. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I … I don’t know. What are you afraid of?”

He looked away, his jaw tight. “That she won’t believe me. Or she will laugh. Worst of all, that she will think I’ve gone mad.”

Tilda gently touched his sleeve. “You aren’t still worried that will happen?”

“I can’t help wondering, especially after what Captain Vale told us.”

Tilda dropped her hand to her side. “You aren’t mad. And I think your mother might just believe you. She wants to believe that she can talk to her dead son. Why wouldn’t she believe that her living son can experience other people’s memories?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know if I can take the risk. Not yet anyway. But I will continue to think about it.”

Tilda smiled at him. “I’m glad. You have a wonderful bond.”

“Whilst that is true, I realize I harbor some … ill feelings toward her. She should have done more to protect my sisters and Gabriel from our father’s coldness. I don’t know what that would have been, but to hear her now, acting as though things were pleasant when they bloody well were not, is disappointing.”

“I wonder if her need to hear from Gabriel comes from regret,” Tilda suggested quietly.

Surprise flashed in Hadrian’s eyes, but before he could respond, Crocker approached them with a tray holding glasses of a red wine.

“Would you care for wine?” the butler asked.

“No, thank you,” Hadrian replied. “We will be leaving shortly.”

“Did you not enjoy the séance?” the butler asked, his brow creased with worry.

“I don’t think séances are for me,” Hadrian said blandly.

Crocker looked to Tilda. “What about you, Miss Wren?”

“They are most interesting.” Tilda cocked her head. “When will you lead one yourself?”

“Soon,” he said excitedly. “Mrs. Griswold says the society needs to promote the mediums who have been training now that …” His voice trailed off. “Well, you know.”

“Yes,” Tilda replied soberly. “I wish you good luck.”

His eyes lit with gratitude. “Thank you.”

After he walked away, Tilda inclined her head toward the corner where she thought the breeze may have originated. She and Hadrian sauntered in that direction.

Hadrian tilted his head and looked high up on the wall. “That is a vent.” He lifted his hand. “I feel air, but not strong enough to make the candles flicker.”

Tilda looked at Hadrian. “I’ll wager they use a bellows to blow air.”

“That is entirely possible.” He moved closer and scrutinized the area. “See how the wallpaper has been recently replaced around the vent—it’s a more vibrant hue than what’s below.”

“Do you think they installed it when Mrs. Frost moved in?” Tilda mused.

“That’s a reasonable estimation,” Hadrian replied.

“What are you looking at?”