Page 103 of A Whisper at Midnight

“I’m here, Gillian.” Beryl looked at her friend with relief.

“My goodness, what an ordeal! Does this mean you’re free?” the neighbor asked as she bustled inside. Her cherry-colored skirt brushed Hadrian’s boots as she walked by him to embrace Beryl.

“They’ve arrested Joanna Pollard,” Beryl declared as they parted. She went on to explain to Mrs. Styles-Rowdon how Joanna had helped to kill Louis along with Martha and then killed Martha.

Mrs. Styles-Rowdon put her hand to her chest. “How gruesome.”

“Unfortunately, the detective inspector said I am still a suspect for poisoning Louis.” Beryl made a face. “Why does it matter? The poison didn’t kill him—Martha and Joanna Pollard did.”

“It matters because it’s a crime to poison someone,” Tilda said evenly, though Hadrian could see a bit of fire in her eyes.

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon said with a nod. “Beryl, you mustn’t worry about that now. I’m sure you need rest. And a bath.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Oh dear, do I smell terribly?” Beryl asked in horror. “I must.” She turned to Tilda. “Would you mind walking upstairs with me? I want to ask you about this poisoning investigation.”

“Certainly,” Tilda murmured. She sent a look toward Hadrian, her eyes rounding slighting, before following Beryl from the entrance hall.

“I’ll check on you later,” Mrs. Styles-Rowdon called after Beryl. Then she faced Hadrian. “How wonderful that you and Miss Wren brought Beryl home. You and Miss Wren seem to spend a great deal of time together.”

“We are business associates. I help her with investigating.”

Mrs. Styles-Rowdon’s wheat-colored brows arched elegantly. “Is that the only reason?”

“We are also friends.” Hadrian had the distinct impression Mrs. Styles-Rowdon was trying to ascertain Hadrian’s romantic availability.

“One can never have too many of those,” she said with an alluring smile. “Beryl is lucky to call you a friend too.”

They were not friends, but Hadrian would not correct the woman. He looked forward to when Beryl would be a memory once more. He merely nodded at Mrs. Styles-Rowdon.

“You must be relieved to have the murder resolved. I can’t imagine you enjoyed being labeled a suspect.” She gave him a concerned pout, her lips forming a perfect bow.

“I did not.” Hadrian hoped Tilda wouldn’t be gone too long. Mrs. Styles-Rowdon had moved closer to him.

She gasped. “What happened to your neck?” She reached out and brushed her fingers where Joanna Pollard had cut him.

Suddenly, Hadrian was no longer in the entrance hall. He was in a small kitchen. A feminine hand poured something into a bowl of soup on a tray. He was seeing Mrs. Styles-Rowdon’s memory. She set the bottle down and looked out a window at the ocean in the distance. Then she picked up the tray and carried it into a bedchamber.

A man lay propped on a few pillows against the headboard. His eyes were tired, his face pallid. He managed a small smile as the woman whose memory he was seeing—Mrs. Styles-Rowdon—set the tray down on the table next to the bed. She then proceeded to feed the man the soup.

“My lord?”

Hadrian blinked, and Mrs. Styles-Rowdon came into focus once more. “My apologies. I fear it’s been a trying day.” His headache had improved but now returned with a vengeance. Tilda may be right that he ought to limit his visions if he could. Not that he’d provoked this one. Mrs. Styles-Rowdon had touched him. “Joanna Pollard cut me with a pair of scissors.”

Mrs. Styles-Rowdon sucked in a breath. “You poor man. It’s a pity you don’t have a countess to take care of you. Why, I’d make sure you had a steaming hot bath and a large tumbler of brandy.”

“That is precisely what I had in mind for myself when I get home. No wife necessary,” he added with a smile.

“But those things would be more enticing with a wife, would they not?” Her eyes had darkened in an almost seductive manner.

Though he wanted nothing more than to put distance between himself and this woman who had perhaps poisoned someone, he would not disappoint Tilda. After the vision he’d just seen, he had questions, and he needed to ask them, headache be damned. “Did you often ensure your husband had a bath and a glass of brandy?”

Surprise and perhaps discomfort flashed across her features. “Of course.”

“You must miss him,” Hadrian said with an excess of insincere sympathy. “How long ago were you widowed?”

“Three years.”

“Poor dear,” he murmured, echoing what she’d said to him. He held her gaze, hoping she would keep answering his questions. “Was that here in London or somewhere else?”