Page 24 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

T ilda decided to wear black to Hawkins’s séance since the purpose was to speak to a recently departed gentleman. As they rode in Hadrian’s coach to Clerkenwell, Hadrian had applauded her choice and regretted he hadn’t thought to do the same.

“I apologize for not suggesting it,” Tilda said. “It was a last-minute decision. In fact, it was my grandmother’s idea when I told her that the Duchess of Chester would be at the séance. She found it shocking that Her Grace would emerge from mourning to attend.”

“How did your grandmother know the duchess was in mourning?”

“She read it in the newspaper. There are countless stories pertaining to the Levitation Killer, and the duchess has been identified as a patron of the spiritualism society.”

Hadrian frowned. “These murders and everything associated with them are the talk of London.”

They arrived at Hawkins’s house, where a constable stood outside. He stopped Tilda and Hadrian before they could approach the front door.

“Are you here for the séance?” the constable asked.

Tilda didn’t recognize the young man. “We are. I am Miss Wren, and this is Lord Ravenhurst. May I ask your name? My father was with the Metropolitan Police.”

The constable’s expression lit up. “Thomas Wren?”

Nodding, Tilda asked, “You’ve heard of him?”

“I have indeed. My father worked with him. I’m Phillip Gibbs.”

Tilda thought the name Gibbs sounded vaguely familiar but didn’t recall the man specifically. “Is your father still with the police?”

“He’s a sergeant in F Division. I’m in G, which is why I’m stationed here.”

“Aren’t there supposed to be two of you?” Hadrian asked.

Gibbs nodded. “The other constable is at the door at the back of the house. We’ll make sure no one is allowed inside who isn’t supposed to be.” He gave them a firm look that showed his intent to keep everyone safe.

“I feel secure knowing you are here,” Tilda said warmly.

They continued to the door and were greeted by a familiar face—Michael Crocker.

“Good evening, my lord, Miss Wren.” Crocker welcomed them inside.

“Evening, Crocker. How pleasant to see you here.” Hadrian escorted Tilda into the entrance hall.

“Have you been promoted to butler in this household?” Tilda asked.

“I have.” Crocker gave them a proud smile. “This way.” He led them to the parlor where they’d met with Hawkins the other day.

Several other people were already there, but no one Tilda recognized. Their host approached them. “Welcome, my lord, Miss Wren. I’m grateful you could come this evening.”

He offered his hand first to Tilda and then to Hadrian who’d already removed his gloves.

Tilda’s breath snagged as she wondered if Hadrian was seeing a vision.

Upon releasing Hawkins, Hadrian looked at her and shook his head subtly.

She took that to mean he hadn’t seen anything.

Perhaps because the touch had been brief.

Tilda noticed a woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore black, including a heavy veil that obscured her features. “Is that Her Grace?” she asked quietly.

Hawkins glanced toward the woman. “No, that is Miss Sullivan. Her Grace is not yet here. Indeed, I don’t expect her for a short while. She prefers to be the last to arrive. Please excuse me whilst I greet the next guest.”

Hadrian guided Tilda farther into the parlor, but not too far from the door. “I want to be close when the duchess arrives.”

“Is that so we can pounce?” Tilda asked wryly as she also removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule.

A smile flitted across his mouth. “I want to introduce you, and yes, I thought that would give you an opportunity—however brief—to perhaps ask one question.”

“I appreciate your forward thinking.” Tilda looked toward the doorway, where Hawkins was greeting an older gentleman with thick, round spectacles.

“Miss Sullivan is coming this way,” Hadrian murmured.

Tilda pivoted as the veiled lady approached them. She was slightly hunched, but still tall for a woman.

“Good evening,” the woman rasped, her scratchy voice revealing advanced age or perhaps the ravages of respiratory damage. “I am Miss Cordelia Sullivan. I belong to the London Spiritualism Society and often participate in séances.” She offered her hand to Tilda.

“I am Miss Matilda Wren.” Tilda took the woman’s hand, which was encased in a knit glove. Except Tilda felt the warmth of Miss Sullivan’s bare palm against hers. Dropping her gaze to their clasped hands, Tilda removed her hand and looked at the woman’s exposed palm.

Miss Sullivan chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “I prefer to keep my hands covered, but touching with bare skin is necessary for the energy of the séance. I knit my own gloves for these occasions.” She clasped her hands together in front of her waist.

Tilda wished she could see the woman’s face. She possessed a charming demeanor. “Ingenious. I’m afraid I’ve no talent for such endeavors.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of other talents,” Miss Sullivan assured her. “What brings you to the séance this evening?”

“We attended one the other night with Mrs. Frost,” Hadrian replied.

Miss Sullivan tipped her head toward Hadrian. “My apologies. I did not introduce myself to you. An oversight, for I’m afraid I already know who you are, Lord Ravenhurst. Mr. Hawkins told me you would be here tonight, and I deduced you must be the esteemed earl.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?” Tilda asked.

“Just look at him, my dear. If this man isn’t an earl, I will eat my veil.” She emitted another low, husky laugh.

“It is difficult to argue with that,” Tilda said, flashing a smile toward Hadrian, who did not seem amused.

“I do apologize, my lord,” Miss Sullivan went on.

“It was rather gauche of me to ignore you. At my age, I find I prefer the company of like-minded people, which are primarily those of the gentler sex. To be perfectly honest, Mr. Hawkins told me your companion is a private investigator, and I am most intrigued by that. Are you truly investigating the murders of Mrs. Frost and Mr. Ward?”

“I am,” Tilda replied.

“She has solved several murders, in fact,” Hadrian told the older woman.

Miss Sullivan gasped. “Goodness. That is astonishing. Are you close to finding the killer?”

“That is difficult to say.” Tilda edged closer to the woman. “Since you’ve attended many séances and are familiar with the society, can you think of anyone who would want to kill the mediums?”

“Absolutely not. They are lovely people. I am aghast that someone would kill them.”

“And worried too, I imagine,” Tilda said. “It doesn’t concern you to attend the séance tonight?”

Miss Sullivan gave her head a shake, which sent the veil moving about her shoulders. “Not at all, especially since there are constables present. I am glad the society has continued to conduct séances. Perhaps I am being selfish, but I would hate to see them stop, even temporarily.”

Tilda noted the arrival of another woman. Of average height and with a somewhat thick middle, she also wore black and a veil, though hers was sheer enough to allow her facial features to be seen, while Miss Sullivan’s was not.

“Her Grace has arrived,” Miss Sullivan said.

Hawkins announced the duchess’s arrival. Everyone in the room bowed or curtsied, including Tilda. She worried that Hadrian had missed his chance to intercept her immediately, but he moved toward her with alacrity.

Tilda looked to Miss Sullivan, murmuring, “Please excuse me,” before following Hadrian.

Hadrian approached the duchess with a mild smile. “Good evening, Duchess.”

Though Tilda hadn’t had much occasion to recall formal address, she knew that Hadrian could call her “Duchess” as her peer. Tilda, however, and everyone else here, would call her “Your Grace.”

“Ravenhurst,” the duchess replied. Her voice sounded a bit tremulous. “It’s been some time.”

Hadrian inclined his head. “Indeed it has. I am deeply sorry for your loss. I understand Mr. Ward was a special person to you.”

The duchess cleared her throat. “Like a son.” She sounded stronger now.

“Allow me to present my friend, Miss Matilda Wren.” Hadrian took a small step to the right to allow for Tilda to present the duchess with another curtsey.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

The duchess did not reply. She turned her head slightly to address Hadrian once more, and Tilda wondered if she was invisible. “What brings you to this séance?” the duchess asked. “Are you a patron of the spiritualism society?”

“I am not. I attended a séance the other evening—conducted by Mrs. Frost—and wanted to come tonight.”

“Be warned,” the duchess said thickly. “They are addictive. Were you close with Mrs. Frost? Perhaps we should try to contact her as well.”

“I was not,” Hadrian said. “Her death is a great loss.”

Hawkins nodded in agreement, his features solemn. “We are deeply saddened by the deaths of Deborah and Cyril. But tonight we will hear from Cyril and know that he is well and safe in the spirit realm.”

The duchess turned her head toward Hawkins. “That is my fervent hope. May we please begin?”

“Certainly,” Hawkins said quickly. He addressed the room. “Please take your seats.” He turned to the duchess. “You are at number ten, of course.”

Tilda wondered if “of course” meant that was her usual seat. “Where would you like Lord Ravenhurst and I to sit?” Tilda asked.

Hawkins gave his head a shake. “I neglected to tell you, my apologies. Miss Wren, you will be at number six, and my lord, you will be at number five.” He moved to escort the duchess to her chair.

Tilda saw that Miss Sullivan was making her way back around the table. She stopped at number eleven. “I see that Miss Sullivan will be next to Her Grace,” she whispered to Hadrian. “That does not follow the typical man-woman arrangement.”

“The same as the vision I saw with Hawkins seated beside Montrose,” Hadrian noted. “It seems Hawkins does not adhere to that rule, despite him saying it was typical.”

“There must be a reason,” Tilda murmured.