Page 3 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

E arly Monday morning, Tilda surveyed herself in the mirror in her bedchamber. The brown powder her maid, Clara, had used to darken her hair was effective in transforming Tilda from a blonde with hues of red to a brunette. Clara, whom Tilda still wasn’t used to, stood just behind her.

Clara had worked for one of Tilda’s past clients. When the client had been forced to return to her parents in the country, Clara, who had no family, had been without employment or even lodging. Tilda had invited her to join her grandmother’s household temporarily while she sought a new position.

However, Tilda’s grandmother liked having a maid in addition to their extremely capable housekeeper, Mrs. Acorn.

Clara’s presence had eased the housekeeper’s workload and provided more direct assistance to Tilda and her grandmother, such as laundering their clothing and styling their hair.

To please her grandmother, Tilda worked to make sure they could afford to keep Clara, though Tilda was certain the maid could earn better wages elsewhere.

She was skilled enough to work in Mayfair or even Belgravia.

“Are you certain I can’t do something more with your hair?” Clara asked hopefully.

“You are a marvel with styling hair, Clara,” Tilda said. “However, this investigative assignment requires that I present myself as a working-class wife, which is why I’m wearing one of my older gowns that is no longer in fashion and have asked you to do something simple with my hair.”

“I understand.” Clara sounded a trifle disappointed.

Tilda had to admit she was beginning to dislike having to don her older gowns since purchasing a few new costumes in the last several months.

Her new garments were simpler and less voluminous, which made them easier to wear.

They also looked smarter and were generally more appealing to Tilda as a woman of business.

Today, however, she would assume the role of a wife and matchbook maker.

“I think I look the part I need to play,” Tilda said with a smile. “Thank you, Clara.”

Grabbing her reticule, Tilda left the bedchamber and went downstairs.

Mrs. Acorn met Tilda at the bottom of the stairs. “Your grandmother would like to see you in the sitting room before you go.”

“She’s up this early?” Tilda asked.

In her early sixties, with kind brown eyes and dove-gray hair beneath a pristine white cap, Mrs. Acorn inclined her head. “She wanted to be sure to see you this morning. I believe she’s concerned.”

Tilda already knew that, for her grandmother had done nothing but express her worry about this new assignment over the past several days.

“I don’t have much time,” Tilda said. “I will speak with her briefly. Thank you, Mrs. Acorn.”

Mrs. Acorn smiled. “You are a good granddaughter to alleviate her concerns.”

Tilda made her way to the sitting room, where her grandmother was ensconced in her favorite chair near the hearth, sipping tea.

“Grandmama, why are you up so early?” Tilda asked. “You should be sleeping.”

Her grandmother set her cup down and waved her hand. She lifted her bright blue gaze to Tilda. “Bah, I couldn’t sleep much, thinking about you being gone all day and well into the evening.”

Tilda had explained that this assignment would require her to be gone every day for a long period of time, as she was to pretend to be the wife of Inspector Maxwell. She needed to give the impression that she was living in White Alley without actually living there.

“What is it you’re worried about, Grandmama?” Tilda asked. “This is not a dangerous case.”

“It could be to your reputation,” her grandmother said. “And you can’t be sure there won’t be danger. You’ll be in the City, after all. I was thinking you should perhaps take your father’s pistol.”

Tilda had considered the same, but the weapon was large and heavy, and while it fit in her reticule, she didn’t want to carry it, nor did she want anyone to guess she was carrying a pistol.

She’d also considered buying a smaller pistol that she could carry with her, at least most of the time.

However, it was not required for this case.

That her grandmother was suggesting Tilda carry her father’s pistol was notable. In general, she did not like that Tilda had learned to shoot or saw the need to even own a weapon. Now, she was advocating it.

“I wish there was something I could say to assure you that this assignment is safe and that I will be fine,” Tilda said. “Don’t forget that I’ll be working with a police inspector.”

“You also said he would be away from the house all day, and you’ll be there alone.” Her mouth turned into a gentle frown.

Tilda gave her a reassuring smile. “All will be well. Now, I must be off.” She bent and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I’m not sure what time I’ll be home this evening. If you are tired from rising so early this morning, you mustn’t wait up for me, all right?” Tilda looked at her expectantly.

Her grandmother pursed her lips briefly. “We’ll see. Do be careful, dear.”

“I always am.”

“I do prefer your natural hair color,” Grandmama added.

“I do too,” Tilda replied with a chuckle. “But this will help in preserving my reputation.”

“Then we shall suffer it.” Her grandmother sighed, and Tilda quashed a smile as she hastened from the sitting room. She strode to the entrance hall, where their butler, another retainer she’d acquired from an investigation, stood from his chair.

Vaughn was quite tall but stooped. He’d been Tilda’s grandfather’s cousin’s butler, and upon his employer’s death—a murder that Tilda and Hadrian had solved together—Vaughn had come to stay with Tilda and her grandmother.

He’d needed to recover from a concussion sustained from the man who’d killed his employer.

But by the time he had fully healed, he’d already made himself indispensable.

It turned out Vaughn was uninterested in retirement, which was just as well since his employer hadn’t provided a settlement for him.

As a result, Tilda felt it necessary to keep him in their household. Plus, she quite liked him. His presence also pleased her grandmother, though they had as much need of a butler as they did of a maid.

“Good morning, Miss Wren,” Vaughn said with a smile. “You’re fetching the omnibus to the City?”

Tilda plucked up a basket from the corner, which she’d set there last night. “I am. I’ll tell you what I said to Grandmama: I don’t know what time I’ll return this evening, but if you’re tired, you mustn’t stay up to welcome me, just as you needn’t have been at your post this early.”

“It is no trouble to remain at my post later than usual,” Vaughn said. “Just as it was not a problem to rise early. Anyway, I doubt I will be able to rest until you’re home safely.”

He gave her a warm smile, then opened the door for her. Tilda decided it was rather nice to be cared for, but she would draw the line at being fussed over.

“Have a good day, Vaughn.”

Tilda stepped outside and hurried to catch the omnibus to the City.

She departed at Poultry and found a market where she bought several items for the kitchen in Maxwell’s house and tucked them into the basket.

Then she walked to White Alley with her items, so that she would appear to everyone as a housewife who had gone out to shop.

The house Maxwell had let was small and quite old. Tilda wondered if it was built just after the Great Fire. There were only two storeys, plus a garret, and it was so narrow as to only allow for the width of one small room.

Tilda let herself into the house and closed the door. “Good morning,” she called.

Inspector Maxwell stepped into the narrow hall.

He looked quite different, for he’d shaved his facial hair entirely.

Without the beard, his cheeks appeared fuller and he looked younger.

He was rather handsome, and she noted that attribute may be helpful in their investigation.

“Good morning, Miss—” He stopped himself and shook his head with a faint smile. “Mrs. Harwood. Your hair is different.”

“I wanted to disguise the true color. Your face is also changed.”

“Since the police station isn’t far and I’ve worked there several years, I wanted to make sure no one would recognize me.” He wiped his hand over his chin. “It’s been a shocking adjustment as I’ve worn the beard and mustache for nigh on a decade.”

“Well, the loss has perhaps taken a decade from your age,” she said with a smile.

Maxwell laughed. “I hope not, for then I would be a mere seventeen. I don’t know that anyone would take me seriously.”

“I spoke in jest,” Tilda assured him, though he did not seem upset. “You’re only a year or so older than me. I’ll be twenty-six in November.”

“My mother’s birthday was Guy Fawkes Day,” he said.

Tilda blinked in surprise. “Really? That is my birthday.”

He smiled. “What a coincidence.”

A moment stretched between them before Tilda wondered if it was becoming awkward. She held up the basket. “Where is the kitchen?”

“This way,” Maxwell replied. “Such as it is.” His gaze swept over her. “You’ve done very well with your costume.”

“Thank you.” Tilda didn’t plan on telling him that until somewhat recently, her entire wardrobe looked similar to this. She also surrendered, finally, to the realization that she ought to stop wearing her older gowns, at least when she left the house.

“Allow me to give you a tour of our new lodgings, not that it’s very large.” He showed her the front sitting room, which was as small as Tilda expected. The furniture was minimal and the decoration nonexistent.

“I hope I won’t be required to entertain,” Tilda said as she glanced about. “The guests would find my housewifery skills lacking.” She gave him a sardonic smile.

“No one will think that. We are fortunate to afford a house like this.” Was there a note of affront in his response?