Page 5 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

“Not just yet,” the man next to Phelps said with a hearty laugh.

He appeared a few years older and had a thick head of gray hair and round brown eyes.

His nose was rather bulbous, and he had a cheerful smile.

Tilda noted that of all the men in the room, he dressed the smartest. He wore an exceptionally well-tailored coat made of fine claret wool. She wondered at his occupation.

“I’m Harvey Nevill,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” His gaze flicked to Tilda. “Have you brought Mrs. Harwood with you?”

“I have,” Maxwell replied. “This is my lovely wife.”

“She is lovely indeed,” Mr. Nevill said affably. He looked to Maxwell with a more serious expression. “I meant no offense when I said that you were not a member yet, but the truth is you are not until you’ve taken your oath.”

“An oath isn’t absolutely required, but you’re getting ahead of things, Nevill,” the third man said, sounding almost cross.

He had sable hair and an equally dark mustache.

His coffee-brown eyes were sharp and perhaps a trifle cold, or perhaps they only seemed that way after Nevill’s open charm.

He snapped his gaze to Draper. “Shouldn’t you set up the collection table? ”

“Of course.” Draper looked toward Maxwell. “If you recall, I assist with collecting the weekly dues.” He took himself off, and Mrs. Draper followed behind him as if she too had been dismissed.

The terse gentleman cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Harwood must meet the requirements of membership first.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Nevill said with a wave of his hand. He looked back to Tilda and Maxwell. “This is Ernest Furnier. He is the bursar, and what he means by meeting the standards of membership is that he wants to know you can afford it.”

“I would not have come if I could not,” Maxwell assured them. “Draper said it was six farthings a week.”

“The cost depends on your age,” Furnier said with a frown. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” the inspector replied.

“Then yes, six farthings a week. Plus the entrance fee, which is two shillings, six pence— if you are accepted,” Furnier said sharply. “Are you prepared to pay that?”

“I am. When will I—or my wife—be eligible to collect benefits?”

“In one year. What is your occupation?” Furnier demanded.

Nevill gave the treasurer an exasperated look. “He’s a clerk like Draper, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Maxwell said. “I heard we may be eligible for benefits in six months.”

Furnier exhaled, then cast an angry look toward his colleagues. “I wish I knew where that rumor started. I would make sure to bury it once and for all.”

Tilda took note of Furnier’s irritation, as well as him saying the six-month eligibility was a rumor.

“Who told you it was six months?” Nevill asked, his wide brow furrowed.

“I can’t recall,” the inspector said with a light shrug. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“You were indeed.” Furnier turned his expectant gaze on Tilda, his thin brows drawn together. “And do you have employment, Mrs. Harwood?”

“Yes, I make matchbooks.”

Furnier looked immediately satisfied. He returned his attention to the inspector. “And where do you reside?”

“In White Alley,” Maxwell replied. “Number Five.”

“I know it,” Nevill said with a wag of his finger. “It’s been empty for a bit. I’m sure it will keep you busy to clean it properly.” He chuckled as he looked at Tilda. Of course that would be entirely her duty.

Tilda merely smiled and nodded. She was making a great effort to remain quiet. In this situation, she thought it best to let her “husband” do the talking.

“Is my membership application accepted then?” Maxwell asked.

Mr. Phelps scrutinized him a moment. “The three of us must decide together, but you’ve met the financial requirements. Let us discuss your character. How long have you and Mrs. Harwood been married?”

Maxwell smiled at Tilda. “Just over a year.”

“And you’re new to the City?” Phelps asked.

“Yes, we’ve just moved from Essex,” Maxwell replied. “I was fortunate enough to be hired by the mercantile house. I thought it would be beneficial for me to join a society such as this, so I was quite pleased when Draper mentioned it to me.”

“How long has the society been in operation?” Tilda asked. Though Maxwell had told her it was six months or so, she wanted to hear it from the society administrators.

“About six months,” Phelps replied. “Our membership already boasts nearly two hundred and fifty members.”

“Indeed?” Maxwell’s brows climbed. “That is impressive.”

Phelps puffed up a bit, his shoulders arching back as his chin notched up. “For the final stage of admission, we must ask about your health. If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Harwood, we will take your husband to meet our society physician, Dr. Giles.”

He indicated a gentleman with dark blond hair who stood talking to another gentleman near the first row of chairs.

He was younger than the three administrators, who all looked as if they were in their forties.

The doctor appeared to be in his late twenties.

He smiled broadly—and rather charmingly—at something the other man said.

“Of course,” Tilda murmured as Mr. Phelps took Maxwell to meet the doctor.

“It’s a shame women can’t join your society,” Tilda said to Nevill and Furnier.

Nevill chuckled. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, however, you ladies are welcome to sit in the common room of the pub and have your own little club of sorts.” There was an air of condescension in his tone.

Furnier narrowed his eyes at Tilda. “You will be taken care of should your husband die tragically. This society ensures your well-being. Is that not pleasing?”

Tilda summoned a mild smile. “Indeed it is. I am very grateful my husband has the opportunity to be considered for membership in this wonderful congregation.”

Furnier gave her a slight nod of approval, but it didn’t matter. Tilda had already decided she didn’t care for the man.

“Pardon me,” Furnier murmured before moving to the doorway where Draper had relocated a small table and a pair of chairs.

Tilda cast a glance toward where Maxwell was speaking with the doctor and Mr. Phelps.

The other gentleman had moved away. Another man walked into the room and recognition sparked in Tilda before she even saw his face.

She knew that form, never mind that he was dressed in a simple dark blue suit.

Taking in his blond hair and long side whiskers, she suffered a moment’s doubt.

But his familiar features banished that immediately.

Sucking in a breath, she narrowed her eyes at Hadrian. What in the devil was he doing here?