Page 4 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

The coach moved, and Tilda resituated herself toward the center of the seat since she now had it to herself. She was torn between wanting to address the seating, and the new tension in their association, and simply ignoring that in order to focus on the investigation.

The latter won out.

“I learned more about the spiritualism society from my grandmother’s friend, Mrs. Richardson. She only lives a short walk away, so I called on her earlier to ask about her séance experience.”

“I don’t suppose she started and concluded by saying Mrs. Frost is a fraud?” Hadrian asked with a quirk of a smile.

Tilda laughed softly. “She did not. In fact, the séance she attended was not conducted by Mrs. Frost. The medium was Victor Hawkins, who is also with the London Spiritualism Society. Mrs. Richardson was kind enough to tell me where I could find the society as well as where she attended Mr. Hawkins’s séance. He lives in Clerkenwell.”

Hadrian blinked. “I’m aghast that there is a society focused on spiritualism. Is that where one goes to find a medium?”

“Apparently so,” Tilda said. “Mrs. Richardson has not been there. She was invited to the séance by a friend who’d gone to the society. I’m quite eager to learn more about it.”

“It seems as though I must educate myself on spiritualism,” Hadrian said. “I understand it’s quite popular in America. It’s not a topic that ever interested me.”

“Does it interest you now that you have experienced things you cannot explain?”

“I suppose it should.” He lifted a shoulder. “Honestly, I just considered this … ability to be a strange anomaly that would disappear over time. Instead, it seems to be growing stronger. I had so many successive visions together at the end of our last investigation.”

Indeed, he’d had two or three in a row on more than one occasion whilst they’d been investigating.

They were incredibly helpful, but they also caused him a great deal of pain.

Each vision was accompanied by a headache.

The longer or more intense a vision, the greater his discomfort.

He’d needed time to recover from them when he’d had several in succession.

Tilda had started telling him to try to avoid having visions—which meant not touching things or people with his bare hands—unless they agreed it was necessary.

Tilda met his gaze. “I am hopeful that Mrs. Frost, or perhaps another medium, might be able to help you with your visions.”

He appeared very uncertain, almost alarmed even. “Do you propose we reveal my ability? What if Mrs. Frost, or some other medium, is, in fact, a charlatan? I would prefer not to expose myself to anyone. You are still the only person who is aware of my curse.”

He hadn’t called it a curse in a while. At first, that was almost the only way in which he’d referred to it. She knew it was confounding for him. If she were the one with visions, she wasn’t at all sure how she would feel.

“I promise we won’t speak to anyone unless we both feel absolutely comfortable doing so. I am merely hoping we can learn things that might help you.”

He arched a brow. “Do you really think we’ll encounter someone in this spiritualism realm who shares my abilities?”

“I retain a moderate optimism. You know I am insatiably curious. I will dig until I am satisfied.” She grinned at him, and he laughed again.

“Insatiably curious is precisely how I would describe you. In fact, I am sure I have done so.”

“Do you mind presenting your card when we arrive at the society?” His title often aided their investigation. People were annoyingly eager to speak with a peer. Besides, she didn’t particularly wish to alert the society that she was a private investigator.

“Of course not. What about your cards?” he asked. “You did order them, didn’t you? I’ve yet to see how they came out.”

He’d suggested to her that she ought to have cards printed with her name and occupation, as well as her direction.

She hadn’t wanted to share her grandmother’s address, so she’d asked her occasional employer, Mr. Forrest, a barrister who sometimes hired her to assist him with divorce cases, if potential clients could contact her via his office.

He’d been eager to agree, since a client for her may also end up being a client for him.

Tilda removed a card from her reticule and handed it to Hadrian. She felt a rush of pleasure as his mouth curled into a brilliant smile.

“I love seeing this,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet hers briefly before he returned to perusing the card. “This looks splendid. I hope you are pleased.” He’d recommended the printer, and Tilda was certain she’d been given an excellent bargain thanks to Hadrian’s status.

“Honestly, I still can’t believe I have them.”

“You should have given one to my mother. She would have been even more impressed with you.” He held up the card between his middle and forefinger. “May I keep this?”

“Certainly.” She felt another flash of pleasure but worked to ignore it as he tucked the card into his coat. “When we arrive, we should ask for the head of the society, though I don’t know his name.”

“I will do that when I present my card.” Returning his attention to her, he asked, “Were you able to obtain a gown for this evening?”

Tilda nodded. “Clara is altering it now. My grandmother insisted I purchase a ridiculous feather for my hair.” She rolled her eyes.

Hadrian laughed. “I look forward to seeing it.”

The coach stopped, and a moment later, Leach opened the door. He helped Tilda to descend to the pavement, and Hadrian followed her.

They walked up the short set of stone steps to the front door. A brass plaque that read “London Spiritualism Society 1867” was affixed to the brick.

“This was just founded last year,” Hadrian noted before knocking.

Tilda’s pulse thrummed with anticipation.

A butler wearing spectacles opened the door. He looked to be in his early thirties and possessed the squarest shoulders Tilda had ever seen.

“Good afternoon.” The butler’s voice was smooth and low.

Hadrian presented his card. “Good afternoon. We’d like to speak with the head of the society.”

The butler opened the door wider. “Do come in.”

They stepped into a massive rectangular entrance hall. A stone staircase curled up the left side at the rear of the room.

“This way.” The butler led them to the right, through a doorway into a parlor that looked out onto Cadogan Place. A large circular table dominated the central area of the room, and a separate seating area was situated near the hearth. “I’ll let Mr. Mallory know you have arrived.”

“Will you tell Mallory that you’re an investigator?” Hadrian asked softly.

“No, which is another reason I didn’t wish to present my card. I think it’s best if they don’t know we’re investigating one of the mediums in the society.”

“That is probably best,” Hadrian murmured as a gentleman strode into the parlor.

The man was tall and muscular with blond hair and a pleasing countenance. A smile lifted his mouth as he approached them. “I’m Lysander Mallory. Lord Ravenhurst, I presume.” He glanced at Hadrian before turning his attention to Tilda. “And?”

“Miss Matilda Wren,” Tilda replied smoothly.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us. We’ve come to ask you about how séances work.

Lord Ravenhurst’s mother has invited us to attend one this evening.

We aren’t sure what to expect.” Tilda clasped her hands and worried them slightly, hoping to convey a sense of anxiety.

“We thought you or another medium might guide us. We want to ensure the most successful séance possible.”

Mr. Mallory smiled again. “I’m more than happy to help.” He gestured to the seating area near the hearth. “Shall we sit?”

Tilda turned and walked to a dark-purple settee with mahogany trim. She sat, and Hadrian lowered himself beside her.

The medium took an adjacent chair upholstered in dark gold. “What is it you’d like to know?”

“Lord Ravenhurst’s mother is hoping to speak to her deceased son,” Tilda said, glancing toward Hadrian. His profile revealed a blank expression. “We hope that is possible, for her sake. However, we are skeptical. Can you perhaps explain how this is accomplished?”

“I understand your doubt.” Mr. Mallory’s brow creased. “Indeed, it is most healthy. I shared your skepticism until I first spoke with someone from beyond.”

“The spirit realm?” Hadrian asked dubiously. To his credit, he did not sound disdainful, although Tilda assumed he must be.

A faint smile flashed across Mr. Mallory’s features. “Precisely. The spirit realm is real, and your brother is there, probably just as eager to speak with your mother as she is to him. Don’t you wish to talk to him?”

Hadrian hesitated. “If I could, I would, yes.”

Mr. Mallory held up his finger and wagged it briefly. “You will see, my lord.”

“I’ll be able to see him?” Hadrian asked.

“You’ll hear him—through the medium. May I ask who is conducting the séance?”

“Deborah Frost,” Hadrian replied. “We understand she is a medium with the society.”

“Indeed. We have the very best mediums in London.” Mr. Mallory’s brown eyes gleamed. “Mrs. Frost is wonderful. You will no doubt have success.”

Tilda addressed Mallory. “You are a medium then?”

“I am,” Mallory said proudly. “I founded this society with the hope of bringing mediums and spiritualists together with a common goal of breaking down the barriers between this world and the spirit realm.”

“How fascinating,” Tilda remarked. “You’ve managed to attract mediums, and did I hear the society offers patronages?”

“We do indeed.” Mallory moved his gaze to Hadrian. “Are you interested in joining our society, my lord? We’d be honored to have you.”

Tilda noted that the medium addressed Hadrian about membership—not her. Was that just because he was an earl, and his presence would lend credibility to the society? Or was it because Tilda couldn’t hope to afford the cost?

Hadrian managed a tepid smile, and Tilda wondered how difficult that had been. “For now, I’m just accompanying my mother to her séance this evening. I’m eager to see what happens.”

“Can you tell us more about the society? Do you just hold séances?” Tilda asked. “I’m quite fascinated.”

“We do much more than conduct séances, though we do that almost every evening, in addition to the séances our premier mediums conduct at their homes.” Mallory’s expression was bright, his enthusiasm evident as he spoke.

“We host teas on Wednesdays and Fridays, and we have a library which we encourage people to visit if they wish to learn more about spiritualism. On any given day or evening, you will find people there.”

“You have an entire library dedicated to that?” Hadrian asked with a touch of incredulity. Tilda tensed, but Mallory seemed flattered.

“Indeed we do,” Mallory said with a nod. “I’d be happy to show you. We also train new mediums who have joined our flock.”

“You mentioned ‘premier’ mediums,” Tilda said. “Is Mrs. Frost one of them?”

“Yes. She is one of three, besides me, of course.” His tone held a casual arrogance that Tilda believed many would find charming.

“There is also Cyril Ward and Victor Hawkins. The three of them are our most experienced,” Mallory explained.

“They were with me when I founded the society in January of last year.”

Before Tilda could ask more questions, the butler entered the parlor. His lips were parted and his cheeks flushed. He appeared distressed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mallory, but I must speak with you.”

Mr. Mallory inclined his head toward Tilda and Hadrian as he rose. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He walked toward the doorway and moved out of the parlor with the butler.

“I wonder what that is about,” Tilda said softly. “The butler seemed upset.”

“How do you find Mallory?” Hadrian asked.

“A trifle arrogant and very enthusiastic about his society.” Tilda cocked her head. “And you?”

“I can’t imagine an entire library dedicated to spiritualism. I’d no idea there could be that much published information on the subject. Perhaps it is a very small room.”

Tilda quashed a smile as Mr. Mallory returned. His forehead was deeply creased. “I’m sorry, but I must go. Tuttle has informed me that one of the mediums in the society has died in a most … indelicate manner.”

Tilda stood and Hadrian joined her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Hadrian pinned his gaze on the medium. “Pardon my curiosity, but what does indelicate mean?”

“He has hanged himself.”