Chapter One
London, June 1868
Private investigator Matilda Wren’s pulse sped with anticipation as the coach rumbled on its way from Marylebone to Belgrave Square. As usual, she was riding with her partner, Hadrian Becket, the Earl of Ravenhurst, in his coach. She was seated next to him today on the forward-facing seat and imagined she’d sit there every day now that they were courting. Not that it was official yet. Or at least, public knowledge.
How Tilda wished it could remain private. However, Hadrian had, regrettably, informed her that wouldn’t be possible given his position in Society. Tilda ought to have known that. He was an earl and couldn’t marry just anyone, especially someone like her.
Tilda was not from the same social or economic class as he was, and she had a job reserved for men. Both those things would almost certainly earn her censure from the Polite Society in which Hadrian moved.
She glanced over at him, sensing he was as anxious as she was. Her apprehension had nothing to do with their courtship, however. It was entirely due to their current case, for which they’d just been hired. A young Society miss had been kidnapped two days ago, and they were on their way to her family’s home to investigate.
Her parents, the Chadwicks, had come to Tilda’s earlier to hire her. The chilling ransom note they’d brought still echoed in her mind:
We have your daughter. You will exchange twenty thousand pounds for her safe return. Another note with instructions will be delivered soon. Do not contact the police for assistance. If you do, Delia will die.
Yours,
Spring-heeled Jack
“We’ve scarcely had time to recover from our last case,” Hadrian said, breaking into Tilda’s thoughts. “And almost none to discuss our courtship,” he added with a wry smile.
“I was thinking of that,” Tilda replied. “There will be time to discuss our…attachment. For now, we must focus on the Chadwicks and their missing daughter.”
“Agreed.” Hadrian’s tone held the faintest note of regret.
Tilda knew he was thrilled that she’d agreed to his courtship. Despite her many concerns about a future in which she became the Countess of Ravenhurst, she loved him fiercely, which was quite a shock to her, and he loved her. Hopefully, they could navigate a way to be together, even though it seemed—to Tilda in particular—challenging.
“Chadwick offered you an exceptionally large fee,” Hadrian noted.
A staggering sum—two thousand pounds. Tilda could scarcely imagine it. Chadwick had offered half when they arrived at the family residence in Belgrave Square, to which they were on their way, and half after their daughter, Miss Delia Chadwick, was found.
“How do you feel about that?” Hadrian asked.
“I’m not sure.” Nor did she want to discuss it. Especially with a man for whom that was not a large sum. Hadrian would never understand what it meant to carefully budget a household to the last penny or to worry that he may not have enough funds to pay for his dear grandmother’s medication, as Tilda had.
She’d managed her grandmother’s household for eight years, since her own mother had remarried and relocated to Birmingham. Tilda had preferred to stay in London with her grandmother, not that Tilda’s mother had extended an invitation for Tilda to live with her and her new husband.
Tilda straightened. “Let us review what we know before we arrive at the Chadwicks’. Miss Chadwick was discovered missing two days ago by her maid when she went to wake her. The maid found the bed empty and a ransom note on the pillow signed by Spring-heeled Jack.” Tilda made a derogatory sound in her throat.
“You don’t believe in Spring-heeled Jack?” Hadrian asked.
“A red-eyed demon who spits blue fire, leaps atop coaches, attacks young women, and has never been identified or caught?” Tilda shook her head. “No, I don’t believe in him. Spring-heeled Jack is a story told to children to titillate and frighten. Speaking of the ransom note, you were going to apply some lavender for your headache.”
“It has lessened a great deal, so I nearly forgot.” Hadrian kept a small bottler of lavender oil in the coach for when he sustained headaches provoked by his highly unusual ability to see others’ memories when he touched people or objects. Only some people, not all, for Hadrian did not see the memories of those closest to him, including Tilda.
There was some indication that Hadrian’s emotions might influence what he was able to see. Following one of their investigations, he’d been struck in the head and lost the ability for a time. He’d only regained it after experiencing great fear for Tilda’s safety. He’d saved her life and had realized in that moment how deeply he cared for her.
Today’s headache was due to Hadrian touching the ransom note and experiencing a memory that carried a deep fear. He hadn’t seen anything, just a flash of darkness, but he’d felt the emotion. He could also, on a rare occasion, smell something from a memory. He had not ever, however, heard anything.
After taking the small bottle of lavender oil from a compartment beneath the rear-facing seat, Hadrian dabbed a bit to his temples.
“It’s odd that you have such a headache without having actually seen anything,” Tilda noted. “I think you’re correct that Miss Chadwick must have touched the note, and you were sensing her fright.” They’d discussed the unlikelihood that the kidnapper would have felt that kind of fear. “It could also have been Mrs. Chadwick or Mr. Chadwick. They handled the note, and their fear was palpable.”
Hadrian nodded. “That’s very true.”
“Back to Spring-heeled Jack.” Tilda arched a brow at him. “You don’t believe in him, do you?”
“No, but I admit I’m curious about the legend. I grew up hearing frightening stories about him.” Spring-heeled Jack had terrorized London thirty years earlier with several attacks against young women. Hadrian’s mother had told him and his siblings more than once how horrible that time had been. He replaced the vial of lavender beneath the rear-facing seat. “Whether he was real or not, I can’t imagine this kidnapper claiming to be him is the same person.”
“Nor can I,” Tilda said. “From what I recall of stories about Spring-heeled Jack, he was not a kidnapper.”
“I’ve never heard that he was either. Why do you think the kidnapper claims to be this notorious figure?” Hadrian asked.
Tilda lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps he merely hopes to provoke terror so that Mr. Chadwick will pay the ransom. It’s an odd choice given the crime.”
They arrived at number seven Belgrave Square. Leach, Hadrian’s coachman and a vital member of their investigative team, opened the door. In his middle forties, Leach did not possess a great height, but he was barrel-chested and strong. Tilda would not want to tussle with him. He was also an excellent marksman, as evidenced just a few days ago when he’d saved Tilda from certain death at the hands of a thieving murderer.
Had that really only been this past week? And here they were in the throes of another investigation. Tilda didn’t mind. In fact, this was what she’d dreamed of—a thriving business as a private detective. She hoped her father, a sergeant with the Metropolitan Police before he’d been murdered eleven years ago, would be proud.
Hadrian climbed out of the coach and helped Tilda to the pavement. They walked up the steps to the grand house. The glossy black door stood in sharp contrast to the cream stucco. Elegant pilasters framed the doorway, and neat, black wrought-iron railings enclosed the lower level.
An imposing, bespectacled butler opened the door. He had a stern face with thin lips and small, brown-green eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed back from his high forehead. “You must be Lord Ravenhurst and Miss Wren.”
“Yes,” Tilda replied.
The butler gestured for them to proceed into the entrance hall. “Come in.”
Gleaming marble greeted them along with a statue of what appeared to be Hermes, given his winged hat. Looking into the lavishly decorated rooms on either side of the entrance hall, Tilda could see how Mr. Chadwick was easily able to pay her two thousand pounds. The furnishings appeared stately and expensive and were quite plentiful. Tilda wasn’t sure she could be comfortable in such formal trappings.
“Mr. Chadwick said I should show you directly to Miss Chadwick’s bedchamber. He and Mrs. Chadwick are waiting for you there.” The butler turned sharply on his foot and led them into the immense staircase hall where a double set of stairs curved up to a landing. They took the left side, and Tilda tried not to gape at all the portraits covering the walls. She wondered if the Chadwicks were depriving some museum of its art.
As they neared the top of the stairs, Hadrian paused and leaned his head toward her. “I will endeavor to touch as much as I can in Miss Chadwick’s chamber to see what I can detect. And I will be careful,” he added with a knowing look, because he was undoubtedly aware—and rightly so—that Tilda would have cautioned him to be. Too many memories in succession could cause him to suffer a debilitating headache, and he already had one.
On the first floor, the butler led them to a small sitting room decorated with bright yellow floral wallpaper and pale oak furnishings. Mrs. Chadwick, a blonde who appeared paler than when they’d seen her at Tilda’s a short while ago, sat in an ivory upholstered chair clutching a handkerchief.
Mr. Chadwick glowered into the fireplace, then turned his head as Tilda and Hadrian moved into the chamber. His heavy-lidded eyes fixed on them. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He spoke gruffly, and though he had a thick black and gray mustache, Tilda could see his mouth was drawn tight.
Tilda withdrew her notebook and a pencil from her reticule. “Can we begin with you providing a clear description of your daughter, including what she was wearing.”
“We have a photograph.” Mr. Chadwick swept a small, framed portrait from the mantel and handed it to Hadrian. Hopefully, he did that because Tilda was already holding her notebook and not because he saw Hadrian as in charge.
Hadrian moved closer to Tilda and held the photograph so they could both see it. Since he still wore his gloves, he would not experience a memory. Miss Chadwick was very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and the hint of a smile.
“What color is her hair?” Tilda asked.
“Light brown,” Mrs. Chadwick answered. “She has a milky complexion—it’s quite enviable. And beautiful rosebud cheeks.” She sniffed. “Her eyes are a delightful brown, not blue like mine, nor are they lighter like Benjamin’s. They have a golden sheen.” She looked at her husband who nodded in response.
“They remind me of my favorite tawny port,” Mr. Chadwick said with a faint smile that quickly disappeared. “Can’t drink that just now,” he added gruffly before coughing.
Mrs. Chadwick dabbed at her eyes. “She’s of average height and is fortunate to have a very slender waist. The modiste loves to dress her.”
Tilda recorded the description in her notebook and looked back at the Chadwicks with a serene expression. “Does she have any attributes or perhaps marks on her skin that stand out?”
“She has a dark mole on the back of her neck,” Mrs. Chadwick replied. “I’d estimate it to be the size of the top of your pencil there.”
“And what was she wearing when she went missing?” Tilda asked gently.
“Her nightclothes, I presume.” Mrs. Chadwick pressed the handkerchief to her nose as she drew a stuttering breath. “I don’t know precisely what she was wearing, but Bannet will.” They’d mentioned Miss Chadwick’s maid, Bannet, when they’d called at Tilda’s earlier.
“We’d like to speak with the maid,” Tilda said.
“Simpson, the butler, has gone to fetch her,” Mr. Chadwick said. “She’s resting upstairs. There’s not much for her to do with Delia gone.” He twisted his face, pulling his mouth to the side as if he were trying not to succumb to emotion.
“May we go into the bedchamber to look around?” Tilda asked, glancing toward Hadrian.
Mr. Chadwick gestured toward the door leaning into the next chamber. “Please.”
Mrs. Chadwick began to rise, but Tilda stepped toward her. “If you don’t mind, his lordship and I would like a few moments to investigate without interference. We’ll invite you in when we’re ready to ask further questions.” She gave the woman a warm, hopefully supportive smile before preceding Hadrian into Miss Chadwick’s bedchamber.
The room was also decorated with yellow floral wallpaper and ivory furnishings. There were many touches of gilt—a lamp on the bedside table, the mirror hanging over the mantel, the decorations on the marble fireplace. As Tilda looked about the chamber, she realized there wasn’t a thing out of place.
Frowning, she moved toward the bed, which was hung with golden velvet curtains. “They’ve made up the bed.”
“They’ve disturbed any clues that might have been left,” Hadrian noted.
“It’s unlikely the state of the bedclothes would have told us much, but we’ll never know.” Tilda tamped down her mild disappointment as she turned her attention to the table beside the bed. In addition to the gilt lamp, there was a book, The Woman in White, and a silver filigree hairbrush. Tilda confirmed the color of Miss Chadwick’s hair from the strands that clung to the bristles.
“May I?” Hadrian held out his hand—he’d removed his gloves—and Tilda gave the brush to him.
She glanced toward the doorway, hoping no one would walk in until they were invited. Tilda had specifically stated they wanted to be alone so that Hadrian could try to see Miss Chadwick’s memories. If they were exceptionally lucky, he would see her memory of the abduction and be able to identify the kidnapper.
Hadrian’s gaze went blank, as if he were asleep with his eyes open. The more skilled he’d become at using his ability, the more altered he appeared. Consequently, they endeavored to keep others from observing him in that state.
After several long moments, he blinked. “Nothing helpful.” He pressed his lips together as he set the brush back on the table.
“I’m going to look at her dressing table,” Tilda said. “Perhaps you should touch the bedclothes in case they haven’t been entirely changed, just tidied.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Tilda moved away. She didn’t need to watch him employ his ability. Miss Chadwick’s oak dressing table had several drawers and an oval mirror. Beginning with the center drawer, Tilda searched the contents of the table. She found all manner of beauty implements. Indeed, Miss Chadwick had multiples of many items, which seemed extravagant to Tilda. The drawers were quite full. Until she opened the fifth and final one, the lower drawer on the right side. It held a few letters and nothing else.
Tilda withdrew the three envelopes and perused the exterior. They were addressed to Miss Chadwick, but they had no return address. That wasn’t terribly uncommon. Tilda removed the first letter. It was signed, “With love from Vin.”
The letter revealed Vin to be her brother. Earlier, the Chadwicks said they had two sons—one who was traveling and one in the navy. Since this envelope had not originated with the navy, Tilda concluded the missive must be from the traveling brother.
Tilda read the other two letters, then tucked them back into their envelopes before placing them into her reticule. “These are from one of her brothers. They aren’t very long as he appears to be concerned with just two things.”
“What are those?” Hadrian asked as he joined her at the dressing table.
“Vin’s gratitude for some favor his sister was performing and anger toward their parents. In the last one, Vin begged Miss Chadwick not to turn against him. He said he couldn’t bear to lose her faith and assistance. Tilda tucked the letters back into the envelopes and returned them to the drawer before closing it.
“Should I touch them?” Hadrian asked.
“I don’t want you to overwhelm yourself,” she said with concern. “Did you learn anything from the bed?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Hadrian shook his head, then winced.
“Has your headache worsened?” Tilda was now especially glad she’d returned the letters to the drawer without handing them to Hadrian.
“I’m not seeing anything noteworthy.” His brow creased with frustration. “I see her parents. I see who is probably her maid. I see Hyde Park. I see a ball. I see the theatre. Everything is fleeting and benign. I don’t feel any strong emotion whatsoever, and certainly not the fear I gleaned from the ransom note.”
“Well, that’s disappointing. But at least your ability hasn’t disappeared.” She smiled at him, but he shuddered.
“I don’t like to think of that happening again. Not when we need it.”
“I suppose we should invite the Chadwicks and the maid in.” Tilda went to the doorway and saw that the Chadwicks had been joined by a woman around thirty years of age. She was dressed like a maid, in a dark blue gown and a stiff, white apron. Her sable hair was pinned up beneath a white cap.
“This is Bannet, Delia’s maid,” Mr. Chadwick said.
“Please come in so we may discuss what happened two days ago.” Tilda pivoted away from the door to give them space to enter the bedchamber.
The Chadwicks came in first, followed by Bannet, whose hands were clasped tightly before her. Mrs. Chadwick immediately went to sit in a chair near the hearth, as if she didn’t have the energy to stand. Mr. Chadwick stood beside her, his expression as dark as it had been since they’d arrived.
Tilda turned her attention to the maid. “I’m Miss Wren, and this is Lord Ravenhurst. We’re investigating Miss Chadwick’s disappearance.”
“She didn’t disappear,” Mr. Chadwick said. “She was taken. We have a note stating there is a ransom.”
“We know, Mr. Chadwick,” Hadrian replied calmly. “Bannet, can you tell us about finding that note?”
“It was there.” The maid pointed toward the pillows. “I came in to wake Miss Chadwick at nine, as always, and she wasn’t in bed. I found the note instead.”
Tilda moved to stand next to the bed. “I presume the bed wasn’t in this state when you arrived that morning. Did you change the linens?”
“I did. It seemed wrong to leave them after they’d been touched by a villain.” Bannet shuddered.
“Was there something on the bedclothes?” Tilda tried not to let her excitement show. Perhaps the maid had seen evidence of the kidnapper and that’s what she meant by “touched.”
“Not that I saw. I just imagined him stealing poor Miss Chadwick from the bed.” Bannet bit back a sob, then composed herself before continuing. “The linens were tossed about, which was unlike her. Sometimes, the bed looked as if she hadn’t even slept in it.”
“I told you she was a tidy sleeper,” Mrs. Chadwick said.
“So, two mornings ago, the bed looked different.” How Tilda wished the maid had left things as she’d found them in order to preserve any evidence. “Can you tell me if anything else in the room seemed odd that morning?”
The maid gestured to the window that faced the back. “The lower sash was open the barest amount, but sometimes Miss Chadwick likes to take the morning air. It could be that she didn’t close it entirely.”
Tilda started toward the window, though Hadrian was already ahead of her. He kept his back to everyone as he touched the frame. Tilda eyed him expectantly, hoping this time he’d see something useful whilst also worrying he would suffer a greater headache.
To give him more time, she turned to face the maid and the Chadwicks. Before she could speak, Mr. Chadwick snapped at Bannet. “You didn’t tell us about the window!”
“I forgot!” the maid cried, clearly agitated and perhaps defensive. Her cheeks flushed, and she chewed the inside of her mouth, twisting her lips. Her eyes flashed with heat. Was she angry?
“Did you notice anything out of place near the window?” Tilda asked. “Anything that may have suggested someone climbed in from outside?” She glanced out the window and didn’t see a tree or anything that someone could have used to reach the window. Perhaps Spring-heeled Jack had leapt from the ground, she thought sardonically. She did not believe that.
Bannet shook her head.
“Are you certain?” Mr. Chadwick demanded. “Your memory seems unreliable.”
Mrs. Chadwick touched her husband’s arm. “Don’t be cruel,” she murmured before looking at the maid. “It’s all right, Bannet. Please do your best to remember every detail. Anything at all could be helpful to Miss Wren.” She turned her attention to Tilda. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Tilda replied. “Any detail—no matter how insignificant—could be of assistance to our investigation.”
Finally, Hadrian turned from the window. His brow was creased and he brushed his fingers against his temple, which meant his head was still aching. She narrowed her eyes at him, hoping to wordlessly communicate that he mustn’t try to use his power anymore.
Tilda fixed her attention on Bannet once more. “Mrs. Chadwick thinks Miss Chadwick was likely wearing her nightclothes when she was taken. Can you describe what she was wearing?”
“Just a simple night rail—ivory muslin with a bit of lace and blue ribbon around the neck and the ends of the long sleeves.”
“Thank you.” Tilda split her gaze between the Chadwicks and Bannet. “What does a typical day for Miss Chadwick entail? What appointments does she keep, particularly regular ones? What about social events?”
Mrs. Chadwick clasped her hands around her handkerchief. “She is in the midst of her first Season, so there are many social events. I would say we have engagements most days. We have one shopping day each week, usually Thursdays. She has riding lessons on Tuesdays and Saturdays, the pianoforte on Wednesdays, and watercolors on Mondays.”
As Tilda recorded the young woman’s schedule, she noted that she was busy nearly every day. Surely Sunday was reserved for church. That left Friday for her to be unencumbered. “What of Miss Chadwick’s associates and your friends, particularly those who’ve visited here?”
“What do you mean by that question?” Mr. Chadwick asked brusquely. “Are you implying our friends had something to do with Delia’s kidnapping?”
“Not at all. It’s helpful for us to have an idea of who’s been here. The kidnapper targeted your daughter—he knew she lived here and how to strike.” Tilda paused. “It’s odd that no one heard anything when Miss Chadwick was abducted. We must investigate the possibility that she knew her kidnapper, hence she didn’t cause a ruckus.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Mrs. Chadwick said with great animation, her eyes widening and her cheeks flushing. “No one we know would do such a thing.”
“And why would Delia allow herself to be quietly kidnapped?” Mr. Chadwick snapped as his thick brows drew together with irritation. “She is not a shrinking violet, Miss Wren.”
Tilda made a note of that in her book. “I’m merely collecting information. The more I know, the better I can be of assistance. Can you think of anyone who might have conceived of this scheme?”
“Of course not!” Mr. Chadwick nearly shouted. Mrs. Chadwick grabbed his hand and gave him an imploring look. He took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing in a more moderate tone. “My apologies. We’re all upset. I hired you to find the person who conceived of this scheme.”
Frustration buzzed through Tilda, but she maintained a placid expression. “It would be helpful if someone could provide me with a list of your daughter’s tutors, friends, and anyone else you think would be helpful for us to speak with. This will allow us to determine if anyone from perhaps outside your circle was somehow inadvertently given information that may have led to this scheme. With an investigation like this, it’s always wise to start at the center of the missing person’s life and work outward.” At least, that was what Tilda’s father had said.
“That does make sense.” Mrs. Chadwick sent her husband an encouraging look, then released his hand.
Hadrian stepped forward, his expression smoothed into an amenable almost-smile. “Chadwick, I wonder if we might have a glass of brandy or whatever you have on hand. You can tell me about your inner circle.”
Tilda sent Hadrian a grateful glance. She wished she’d thought to pair him off with Chadwick. Besides Chadwick being unhelpful and even obstructive, it was likely he would feel more comfortable conversing with the Earl of Ravenhurst—or at least offer him a deference he didn’t seem to want to give Tilda despite hiring her.
“That would be most welcome,” Mr. Chadwick said wearily. He almost seemed relieved. “We’ll go to my study.” He looked at Tilda. “You may meet us there when you’re finished to collect the first payment.”
“Thank you.” Tilda inclined her head, and Hadrian preceded Mr. Chadwick from the room.
“I must apologize for my husband.” Mrs. Chadwick wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “This has been so difficult, especially for him. He blames himself.”
“Why would he?” Tilda asked.
“He’s frustrated with himself, and with the staff, for not noticing or hearing anything,” Mrs. Chadwick replied.
“I’m to blame,” Bannet said, as a sob shook her shoulders. “Miss Chadwick is my charge.”
Mrs. Chadwick turned her gaze on the maid, her brow forming deep creases. “You mustn’t think that. I suspect Delia was drugged or perhaps knocked unconscious, and that is why no one heard her.” The woman’s chin quivered as she appeared to fight a wave of tears. She blinked several times and sniffed.
Tilda regarded the woman with kindness and understanding. “That is certainly a possibility, but don’t think of that now. I try never to move ahead of where the evidence takes me.” She looked to the maid once more. “Did you tidy anything else in the chamber? I want to confirm there were no other signs of a struggle.”
Bannet frowned. “Do you think the unkempt bedclothes mean Delia struggled?”
“It’s a possibility, but I can’t say for certain, of course. Was anything else out of place or unexpected?”
“No. Everything was as it should be, except the bed. And the window being open, which wasn’t unusual.” She flushed as she looked toward Mrs. Chadwick. “I won’t blame you if you dismiss me for not recalling and mentioning that.” Her gaze dipped to the floor.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Chadwick replied quickly. “It was a mistake anyone could have made. Of course we won’t dismiss you.”
“How was Miss Chadwick’s temperament the night before she disappeared?” Tilda asked. “Was there anything odd about her behavior?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Chadwick frowned. “Why would she have acted differently? It wasn’t as if she knew she was going to be kidnapped from her bed. What a ridiculous question.”
Tilda knew they were upset and did not blame them for being…vexing. “It may seem an odd query, but everything could be pertinent or nothing could be. For instance, what if your daughter was threatened and didn’t tell you. She might have acted fearful or nervous. I’m not saying that’s what happened, merely providing an example of why details that seem unimportant can actually be helpful during an investigation.”
Mrs. Chadwick nodded, her features smoothing. “I see. I do apologize, Miss Wren. You seem very capable, which is why I wanted to hire you. I read about your brilliant role in the capture of the Levitation Killers.”
That case in particular had earned Tilda a bit of notoriety and, with it, a steady stream of clients. “I’m going to do everything I can to ensure your daughter is found and safely returned to you.”
“I’ll write out a list of Delia’s friends. I don’t know how they could help you, but I believe you know what you’re doing. I’ll go to my desk and meet you downstairs.” Mrs. Chadwick stood. “Bannet, please show Miss Wren to Mr. Chadwick’s study.”
“After you finish the list, I’d like to interview the rest of your staff,” Tilda said.
“Certainly.” Mrs. Chadwick departed.
Bannet led Tilda downstairs to the study where Hadrian and Mr. Chadwick were sipping brandy. They immediately stood as Tilda entered.
“I’ve a list of the Chadwicks’ closest friends, as well as the names of Miss Chadwick’s tutors,” Hadrian said.
Bannet didn’t linger. As the maid left, she passed the butler who went to speak with Mr. Chadwick. Tilda took the opportunity to go to Hadrian.
“Quickly, what did you see when you touched the window?” she asked.
“Nothing helpful. It was night, and I saw a reflection in the glass—it was only Miss Chadwick.”
“Her memory then,” Tilda said.
Hadrian nodded. “I had a brief sensation of excitement and happiness. I’m disappointed I couldn’t see anything of use, but I do wonder if the kidnapper was wearing gloves. That would explain not seeing any of his memories.”
“Good point.” Before she could comment on the Chadwicks’ agitation, Mr. Chadwick let out a gasp.
Tilda and Hadrian turned sharply toward where the man stood with the butler.
Mr. Chadwick held a piece of parchment, his hand shaking. He lifted his gaze to Tilda and Hadrian, his eyes wide. “This is from him—Spring-heeled Jack. I’m to deliver the twenty thousand pounds to Hampstead Heath at midnight.”
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