Page 18 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

H adrian kept himself from lunging at Clement, but he raised his voice to stop the reporter from knocking on his mother’s door. “Clement, a word.”

Clement turned, his brown eyes glinting with surprise beneath the brim of his hat. “Lord Ravenhurst.”

“Are you shocked to see me here?” Hadrian didn’t bother disguising his irritation. “You must know this is my mother’s house. Why are you here?”

“That’s quite easily explained, my lord.” Clement shifted his weight. It was the only sign of nervousness he displayed. If it was nervousness.

“I’m waiting.” Hadrian saw Tilda approach. She stopped a few feet behind him, but she stepped to the side so she could watch the encounter.

“Another medium was murdered,” Clement announced rather importantly.

“Deborah Frost,” Hadrian clipped.

Clement’s eyes rounded briefly. “You already heard? Then you must know why I am here to speak with your mother.”

Hadrian glowered at him. “I do not.”

“That seems unlikely,” Clement said with a sardonic edge. “I spoke with Mrs. Frost’s housekeeper, and she told me that Lady Ravenhurst attended a séance at Mrs. Frost’s house the other evening. As did you,” he added as he returned Hadrian’s stare.

“I did as well,” Tilda said, moving to stand beside Hadrian.

“My mother is not part of any news story you are writing,” Hadrian growled. “Take yourself off.”

Clement pursed his lips at Hadrian. “Of course Lady Ravenhurst is part of the story. Our readers will want to know of the association between her and the latest deceased medium.”

The ‘latest,’ as if there were a succession and not just two. Although, two was bad enough. “You’re sensationalizing tragedy.” Hadrian stepped between Clement and the door. “Your readers won’t know of the association if you don’t tell them.”

Tilda also moved so that she stood before the reporter. “Mr. Clement, I do appreciate that your job is to inform the public, however, there is no reason to share details of Lady Ravenhurst’s attendance at a séance. Just say she was there, as was his lordship and I.”

Hadrian frowned at Tilda. Why was she telling the man this?

Clement’s brows rose. “Will you confirm that all three of you were there?”

“Yes,” Tilda replied succinctly.

“Why did you attend a séance?” He glanced toward Hadrian but clearly expected Tilda to answer. And why not, since she was being helpful?

Tilda lifted a shoulder. “Why does anyone? That is all you need to know to interest your readers.”

“You’re an investigator, Miss Wren. Surely there is more you can share regarding these murders.” Clement regarded her eagerly.

“I have not been hired to investigate a murder,” Tilda said, which was technically true. “However, if I do learn of something that I think your readers should know, I will be sure to tell you.” She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good day, Mr. Clement.”

The reporter appeared uncertain and perhaps peeved. But he ultimately turned and stalked away.

Hadrian exhaled. “Did you need to confirm anything to that hack writer?”

“He is actually a decent writer,” Tilda said. “And yes, I confirmed something unimportant so he would leave.”

“I don’t think the dowager Countess of Ravenhurst attending a séance for the purposes of speaking to her dead son is ‘unimportant,’” Hadrian grumbled.

“I didn’t say a thing about Gabriel. However, you must prepare yourself that others at the séance may speak to Clement or other reporters. It’s not the worst thing. There are plenty of other women of her status who are involved with the society,” she added gently.

“I suppose that is true.” He pivoted. “Let us speak to my mother about Mrs. Frost. I am glad we arrived when we did so that she didn’t hear the news from the odious Mr. Clement.”

Hadrian opened the door and held it for Tilda. His mother’s butler, Peverell, strode toward the door.

“Come in, my lord. We weren’t expecting you.” The butler hastened to take the door from Hadrian. His mostly bald pate gleamed in the daylight before he closed the door. White hair clung to the sides and back of his head, and his bright-blue eyes surveyed Hadrian and Tilda.

“Allow me to present my associate, Miss Matilda Wren,” Hadrian said, gesturing to Tilda.

“Miss Wren?” Peverell smiled at Tilda. “You are the investigator her ladyship engaged.”

“I am.” Tilda returned his smile. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Peverell looked to Hadrian. “Your mother is working on correspondence. If you go up to the drawing room, I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”

“Thank you, Peverell.” Hadrian turned to Tilda. “Allow me to escort you.” He offered his arm.

As they ascended the stairs, Tilda glanced at Hadrian. “You are so concerned about people knowing of your mother consulting with a medium and wishing to speak with Gabriel. Why is it that her retainers are aware?”

“My mother’s household is very close—they are like family,” he explained. “Peverell was our butler when I was growing up. When my mother moved out of Ravenhurst House, he accompanied her. She also took the cook, the housekeeper, two footmen, and, of course, her maid.”

Tilda laughed softly. “She left you with a skeleton household.”

“I didn’t begrudge her,” Hadrian said. “Peverell and Mrs. Denimore—the housekeeper—were kind enough to train everyone up.”

Tilda paused as they reached the top of the stairs, her attention focused on a portrait of Hadrian’s father, Hadrian, and Gabriel hanging there. “Is that you?”

“And my father and brother.” Hadrian stood to his father’s right, with Gabriel in front. “I was fifteen when that was painted. Gabriel was ten. It’s one of my mother’s favorites. She likes it here so she can see it every time she uses the stairs.”

“You look very serious,” Tilda said.

“My father wanted us to appear ‘sedate.’ If you only knew how hard it was for Gabriel to do that. He had boundless energy, which my father often found annoying.” Hadrian frowned.

He hadn’t thought of that in a very long time.

Their father had been difficult, and Hadrian often clashed with him.

However, Hadrian was most disgruntled about the way he’d treated Gabriel, as if he truly were a spare and not worth their father’s attention.

“It sounds as though your father may have been cold,” Tilda said softly.

“As ice,” Hadrian replied. “Particularly with my sisters and Gabriel. As the heir, I received the bulk of his attention. I did not, however, mistake it for concern or care. I don’t believe my father was capable of demonstrating that sort of emotion.”

“Not even for his family?”

“Not for anyone.” Hadrian turned his head from the painting, hoping that could be the end of their conversation.

Tilda seemed to understand the hint, and they continued to the drawing room.

Hadrian urged Tilda to sit—but not in his mother’s preferred chair—then waited for the dowager to arrive. She appeared just a moment later.

“What a lovely surprise,” his mother said warmly, stopping beside him so he could buss her cheek. She continued to her chair, eyeing Tilda. “And Miss Wren. I trust this means you’ve come with a report on your investigation?”

“Somewhat, yes,” Tilda said. She looked toward Hadrian, seeming to silently ask if she ought to tell his mother about Mrs. Frost.

Deciding it might be better if he told her, Hadrian took the chair nearest his mother. “We’ve some terribly unfortunate news, I’m afraid. Mrs. Frost is dead.”

His mother gasped, her hand fluttering to her chest. “How can that be? She was just fine two days ago.”

“I’m sorry to say she was, ah, murdered.” Hadrian reached over and clasped his mother’s hand briefly.

“Oh no.” She looked to Hadrian, her eyes dark with concern. “Like that other medium I read about?” At Hadrian’s nod, she added, “How dastardly.” She diverted her attention to Tilda. “Are you investigating these murders?”

“Since Mrs. Frost is one of the victims, I am,” Tilda replied. “More accurately, the investigation of Mrs. Frost has required investigation of the London Spiritualism Society, and since two of their mediums have died, their murders have become part of my inquiry.”

“Good,” his mother said firmly. “Poor Mrs. Frost deserves justice. Though I suppose the police are conducting an investigation.”

“They are,” Tilda said.

Hadrian’s mother fell silent a moment, her brow pleated. He could tell she was thinking. Finally, she said, “I wonder if I ought to find a new medium in the London Spiritualism Society.”

Tilda exchanged a look with Hadrian before speaking. “This may not be the best time since two of their number have died.”

“Oh yes, of course.” His mother waved a hand before settling it in her lap. “They are likely upset. Perhaps they won’t be holding séances for a while.”

Hadrian wasn’t going to tell her that they were. “Perhaps this is a sign that you should not continue with your endeavor.”

His mother arched a brow as she leveled a wry stare at him. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in signs or messages from beyond?”

From the corner of his eye, Hadrian saw Tilda quashing a smile. “I think it’s common sense to keep a distance from an organization whose members are dying.”

“I’m sure they didn’t deserve that,” his mother said. “Perhaps now is the precise time the society needs support. Mrs. Frost mentioned membership to me and said she hosts weekly teas for some of the members. I admit I was intrigued and have been considering becoming a patron of the society.”

“Mother, I must also tell you that news of your attendance at Mrs. Frost’s séance will circulate. In the papers.”

Her brows shot up. “Indeed?” She waved her hand again. “No matter. It’s de rigueur to attend a séance.”

Hadrian looked to Tilda. “We must inform my mother of what we’ve learned regarding their tricks.”