Page 111 of A Whisper in the Shadows

“I did. You must be mistaken. I’m sure Phelps corrupted him.”

“You sound rather certain,” Hadrian said. “Do you have any proof that Phelps did that?”

A look of unease passed over Draper’s features as he glanced away. “I just know that he did.”

Hadrian sensed the opportunity to provoke a confession, but wished Furnier was there. Where the devil was he? “It sounds as though Phelps ruined a good manandrobbed the society. That’s bloody enraging.”

Draper’s eyes gleamed with righteous fury. “You’re damned right it is.”

“I can see where someone might have killed him. Even by accident,” Hadrian added softly.

Two things happened at once: Draper rose and dropped the diary on the chair, and Hadrian heard a shuffle outside, perhaps signaling Furnier’s arrival.

Hadrian pivoted to make his way to the door just as it opened. But it wasn’t Furnier on the other side of the threshold. It was Tilda.

Her eyes rounded, and he heard her shout his name just as he felt something crash onto his head. The blow sent him to his knees, and in a horrid flash, it was a cold night in January when he’d been stabbed and fell to the cobblestones.

But Hadrian refused to lose consciousness this time.

Everything froze as Tilda watched Draper strike Hadrian over the head with a small table he’d swept up. Hadrian fell forward to his knees, where he swayed. Then he collapsed onto the floor.

Tilda rushed forward, desperate to reach Hadrian.

“Bloody hell!” Dr. Giles shouted from behind her.

She dropped down next to Hadrian as Dr. Giles moved beside her. “Put the table down, Draper! What are you doing?”

“He killed Phelps,” Hadrian muttered. He moaned softly and touched his head. “Is it bleeding?”

Tilda looked at his scalp. “No, but your wig is askew,” she whispered.

“Did you say Draper killed Phelps?” the doctor asked, his voice rising.

“Yes,” Hadrian groaned. “He has the candle from the missing brass candlestick on his mantel.”

Tilda’s gaze shot to the mantel. Right away, she saw how the candles were different. “Brilliant investigative work,” she murmured to Hadrian.

“I saw him do it,” Hadrian whispered.

Tilda nodded, eager to hear the details when he could share them.

Draper’s eyes were wide. He still held the table aloft.

“What are you going to do?” Tilda asked him. “You’ve already killed one man, poisoned another, and now you’ve struck my brother. Do you hope to kill the three of us and flee?”

“I didn’t mean to do any of it,” Draper croaked. He lowered the table slowly.

“What on earth is going on?”

Tilda recognized Furnier’s voice but didn’t dare turn her head away from Draper.

“Draper killed Phelps, poisoned Mr. Harwood, and just hit Mr. Beck,” Tilda replied.

“He poisoned Maxwell?” Hadrian said, his voice low and unsteady, so that it was possible no one noticed he’d called Maxwell by the wrong name.

“Yes. We puzzled that out, and I rushed over here. But you were busy unmasking him as the murderer.” She felt an enormous sense of pride, along with something else she couldn’t quite identify. She just knew she felt more drawn to Hadrian than ever before, and she didn’t know if it was because of her worry for his safety or her admiration for him solving the case.

Or if it was both of those things as well as some deeper sentiment.