Chapter Two
C orrine let out a shuddering breath as she plopped into the oversized chair behind Travis’s desk. She hadn’t expected to experience such a physical reaction to the detective. That is not wise at all. She had decided to hire him, not only for his competence, but to see if that initial spark she had experienced when she first saw him some weeks past was merely an anomaly.
But it hadn’t been. That spark had flamed to life, causing a maelstrom within her. Every nerve ending pinged with awareness. All from a slight touch of his hand. How shameful! Yes, Corrine felt shame—for entering into a loveless arrangement with her now husband, taking the money offered, and making a demand concerning children. Obviously, she had spooked Travis. Did he prefer men? If so, why did he not say that upfront? She wouldn’t have cared. They could have negotiated another proposal that benefited them both, perhaps leading separate lives. Corrine should have traveled to Camden Town and confronted him today, but she had already tried that. It was the reason Travis had fled.
She’d had three marriage proposals in the past decade, but all her suitors had been as impoverished as her, and none had caught her interest, either physically or intellectually.
Until Mitchell Simpson. How tragic that she’d met him after she had married.
When Corrine was fifteen, her mother died, throwing the family into chaos. While her father had wallowed in grief, they’d sunk deeper into debt. She’d had to take control even at a young age, which meant letting some of the servants go and selling her mother’s jewels and the family’s treasured artwork to keep food on the table. Borderline destitution had worn her down, borrowing from one person to pay another, scrimping and worrying.
Worn down. Weary. Exhausted. Discontented.
Nursing had taken its toll as well. Witnessing such grinding poverty while employed at a workhouse infirmary reminded Corrine that her hardships were trifling compared to those who had neither a home nor a crust of bread to their names. It certainly put things in perspective and made her work all the harder to assist those less fortunate.
When Travis Addington approached her with his proposal, Corrine had had enough and urgently needed a change for sanity’s sake. Being a nurse made her well aware of when a person was near the breaking point. And she had arrived at that juncture. Accepting Travis’s deal meant she could aid her father and brother—all the better. Travis offered the money, and she approved the deal. Her arrangement was not shameful, as it was standard procedure in most aristocratic marriages. No, she would not feel guilty for taking the money.
Corrine had met Travis years before at a ball—couldn’t remember which one. He claimed he had never forgotten her, which Corrine doubted because he hadn’t he sought her out before. She had never asked Travis that vital question, and she should have. The sudden reacquaintance caught her at a particularly low ebb in her life, and without giving his proposal the careful thought it deserved, she had said yes to his business marriage plan.
A categorical mistake.
The butler, Thomason, entered the study. “My lady, a man is at the door and insists on seeing the baron. He will not go away.”
Corrine stood and strode down the hall toward the front entrance. If this stranger did not leave, she would ring the police. Travis had had one of those telephone contraptions installed before moving into the old baron’s home.
Corrine flung open the door. A man stood before her wearing a long cloak, a hood obscuring his face.
“May I help you?” Corrine demanded in an inauspicious tone.
“I need to talk to the baron. Now.” The voice was deep and scratchy, sending a jolt of unease along her spine.
“He’s not here at the moment, but you may leave your name and address with the butler, and I will ensure he gets back to you.”
“And who are you, then?”
“Baroness Addington.”
A sharp bark of cynical laughter left the strange man. “That old goat remarried? Trying for another heir, is he? He has more gumption than I thought.”
Another heir? Old goat?
Then it struck Corrine what the stranger meant. “You must mean Gilbert Addington. He died five months ago. My husband, a distant cousin, is now the new baron.”
The man’s head snapped up briefly, as if shocked by the information. Corrine could see scarring on the left side of the man’s forehead. He lowered his head and stepped back. “Then I’ll seek out the new baron. I’ll be back. And soon. Tell him to expect me anytime.”
Corrine wasn’t about to inform a stranger that her husband had temporary living arrangements elsewhere, for there was something deeply unsettling about this man.
With a flick of his long cloak, he turned and hurried down the walkway. Corrine closed the door, locked it, and swirled about to face Thomason, who hovered nearby. “Did you give any information to this stranger?”
“None, my lady. All I said was that the baron was not available. He became insistent, saying he’d had an audience with the baron on other occasions.”
“Did you recognize him? You were with the old baron for twenty-five years.”
“No, my lady. I did not see the man’s face or recognize the voice. When I tried to close the door, he stuck his boot in it and spoke in an insistent manner. I thought it best that he hear the information from the lady of the house.”
How curious. “If he comes to the door again, let me know immediately. We may have to involve the police.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Corrine returned to the sitting room and sat by the fire with her cold tea.
“Shall I fetch you a fresh pot, my lady?” Thomason offered.
Corrine visibly started. Her family had not had a butler for years, and she had forgotten how much they silently moved about a residence.
“Yes, thank you.”
Thomason took away the tray and left her alone. What possible business could that stranger have had with Gilbert Addington? The man had lived alone in this house for years and had hardly ventured out after the death of his only son and, soon thereafter, his wife, which was why the furnishings were decades old. The baron had left a healthy bank balance for his heir—even after Travis’s settlement on her, tens of thousands of pounds were still available. At least, that was what Travis had mentioned in passing shortly before their wedding.
As far as Corrine knew, Travis hadn’t spent any significant amount since their marriage. Perhaps all this change and upheaval had been hard for Travis to comprehend. It was also problematic for Corrine to take in.
Travis had initially agreed about the children aspect of their arrangement, yet balked when it came time to consummate their marriage—and every time since. The rebuff had hurt Corrine, and so, she had decided to hire Sergeant Simpson to see if divorce was an option.
At some point, she would send a note to Travis and ask him to come for a heart-to-heart discussion. They must have it out before she took the final step of ending their tenuous union. But first, Corrine had to allow the investigation to continue. As Sir Francis Bacon had said centuries before, knowledge was power. The more information she gathered about Travis’s doings, the better. She would mail the note once she had evidence of…anything.
As for Mitchell?
Yes, she thought of him by his first name. Embarrassment filled her for finding a man not her husband—fascinating. She knew it would be wise to keep the association between them professional, but Corrine was aware that Mitchell returned the interest. She wasn’t sure if it was instinct or just wishful thinking, but there was a definite reciprocal spark when their hands had touched.
Mitchell was around six feet tall and had wavy hair the color of golden wheat. His azure eyes, rugged physique, and handsome facial features were mesmerizing. But as tempting as the detective was, Corrine would never break her marital vows, no matter the circumstance. Maybe that was another reason she wanted a divorce. To be free and allow these heated sparks to flourish and grow. But Corrine would deal with that obstacle later. Right now, more complications loomed on the horizon. What about the settlement? Would she have to return it? Part of it was already spent keeping her family afloat. She was getting a headache just thinking about it.
Thomason entered with another tray and placed it on the table. When he departed, Corrine prepared a fresh cup of tea and carried it to her desk. Once seated, she pulled open the drawer. Locating note paper, pen, and ink, she composed the letter she intended to send to her absentee husband.
*
Mitchell immediately headed to Camden Town, where the baron had taken up residence. The house had a white stucco main floor and two light brick stories above it. A small wrought iron fence blocked off a greenery area, complete with assorted shrubberies, before the entrance. There hadn’t been much snowfall the past few winters, and it seemed this one would be the same. Only a sprinkling of snow clung to the leafless branches, all that remained of the light flurries that occurred overnight.
How should he approach this?
Did he wear a disguise and watch the residence for Addington’s comings and goings? It was not a pleasant prospect, regardless of the sporadic moderate temperatures. The official start of winter was a few weeks away, so the weather would grow colder, making outside surveillance difficult.
It would be prudent to uncover a little background first. Was the new baron a member of a club? Did he attend the House of Lords? Mitchell could have asked the baroness those questions, but considering his jumbled emotions, he thought it best to leave immediately. He could enlist Damon to ask a few questions about the baron, discreetly, of course. But no. He’d told his half-brother he needed space. Mitchell would have to discover this information on his own. Besides, Damon needed time to get his new life off on the right foot. Their young half-siblings were coming to live with Althea and Damon on the first of the new year—a ready-made family. Damon had confided that he had always longed for a large family, and now he was getting it.
Where should he go now? Perhaps, he should check out another place since he was already in the cab. Mitchell banged on the roof, and the hansom’s top hatch slid open. “Yes, sir?” the driver asked.
“Head to Old Montague Street.” Mitchell didn’t know his way around the East End, as all his police work had taken place in the West End, and his parents brought him up north of London, but he mentioned the one street he knew of. It wouldn’t hurt to ask around about Hallahan before heading home. Not only did he have Corrine as a client, but now, Hornsby as well.
Corrine.
He shouldn’t be thinking of her by her given name, but hang it all, all this overwhelming yearning had taken him by surprise. Mitchell did not possess a vast romantic history. There had been no intense affairs of the heart or even casual encounters beyond some in his twenties.
Some? Try four.
And there had been nothing for the past five years. Work had become his entire life. Routine and discipline guided his every move—until three months ago, when he’d discovered he was the bastard son of a disreputable duke. Since then, Mitchell’s life had been cut from its moorings, drifting in all directions, taking unexpected turns. And it certainly showed in his recent decisions, such as taking on cases for the Galway Investigative Agency, moving in with Drew Hornsby, and creating a group with him to find the other bastards. But he’d be damned if he would sit and brood over these upheavals. And the beautiful baroness was indeed part of that turbulence.
The hansom stopped; Mitchell paid the driver, gingerly exited the cab, and then slowly strolled along the street. He noticed many synagogues, as the Jewish population of London lived mainly in the East End. It was hard to believe ten years had passed since the unsolved Jack the Ripper murders, but the area remained scarred by the incident. The discrimination toward Jews at the time of the murders and even to this day turned his stomach.
Whitechapel Mortuary, where the Ripper’s victims had been kept, was gone, and laborers were hard at work erecting a new school in its place. Mitchell stopped and watched as several men dug, exhuming graves in the burial ground next to the mortuary. He pondered over where the remains would wind up. Not coming up with a satisfactory answer, he continued along the street, passing tailors, furriers, and shoemaker shops.
After walking for several minutes, Mitchell entered a pub, The Old Commodore, and located a table in the corner. Groaning from discomfort, he sat, relieved to take the weight off his leg. The pain was bad, but at least it wasn’t mind-numbing or disabling. There’s a mercy. Grabbing his cane, he laid it on the table.
A bearded man with a bar towel slung over his shoulder approached him. “What can I get you, guv?”
“A pint of bitter—and some information. I’m not a copper but a private investigator.” Mitchell looked about the primarily empty pub. “You’re not busy. Surely you can spare a moment.”
“Aye, that I can. I’ll fetch your drink.” The older man hurried away, waited on another customer sitting at the bar, and then returned with Mitchell’s pint. The man sat across from him. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to locate someone. The man in question’s family hired me. One particular member is very anxious to find him.” That is not exactly a lie. “The last information I was given was that he managed or owned a pub in the East End.”
“Blimey, mate. Do you know how many pubs and taverns are hereabouts? There are half a dozen just in this section alone.”
“I have my work cut out for me then. Still, perhaps I’ll get lucky. The name of the man is Liam Hallahan.”
The barkeeper sat back in his chair and shook his head incredulously. “Well, you just got lucky, mate, for I know of the bloke. He owns The Crowing Cock on the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street. Just a few streets over. You can’t miss it.”
What were the odds of finding him that easily? It had to be luck—or fate.
“What can you tell me about him?” Mitchell asked between sips.
The barkeeper shrugged. “Not bloody much. The blighter keeps to his territory. Big Irishman with coal-black hair. And piercing blue eyes, much like yours.”
That statement about the eyes caught Mitchell by surprise, causing a swift pain around his heart, as if someone had slipped a blade between his ribs. It reminded him, once again, that there were serious ramifications to heading down this road. And one of them was to make him relive his own shock and distress at learning of his duke father. Perhaps looking for the duke’s bastards was not a wise idea if it meant he’d experience this reaction with every revelation.
“It’s a bigger place than this one,” the man continued. “He ran a brothel upstairs up until six months ago. It’s a pub and nighttime gaming establishment, mostly cards. He fancies himself a chef, if you imagine. He’s branching out into lunches, teas, early suppers, and the like, trying to lure in a better class of clientele. Good luck to him and all. One thing—you don’t want to cross him.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“He nearly murdered a man who slapped around one of his girls. I think that’s when he gave up flesh peddling. Not worth the trouble and strife.” The barkeeper stood. “That’s all I know about the boyo.”
Mitchell held out several shillings. “You’ve been very accommodating. For the pint and some extra. Have one for yourself, as well.”
“Cheers, mate.” The barkeeper touched his forelock, spun about, and headed to the bar where another customer waited.
Mitchell didn’t intend to go to the pub right now, at least not inside it. But he’d quickly inspect the exterior and surrounding streets, then catch a hansom cab home.
Fifteen minutes later, Mitchell stood in front of the corner lot pub. The front entrance was dark wood, with large windows on either side. Above the hanging sign, the building had two stories with red brick walls. Is that where Hallahan lived and where he had housed his brothel? The rest of the street was filled with various flats and small businesses, some in better condition than others. Rising over the horizon, farther along the street, he saw the brick pipe stack of Trueman’s Brewery. Mitchell inhaled. He could detect the faint odor of hops. And the underlying smell of sulfur from the yeast. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Mitchell returned his attention to the pub. It was a lively spot, with waitresses carrying trays of food and drink to the many tables and booths. The aroma was heavenly, an olfactory mixture of fried onions, bacon, and grilled steak. It all but eradicated the odors from the brewery. A tall man appeared from the rear, yelling instructions to the servers. Mitchell had a good look. Just as the barkeeper described, the fellow was big, as in muscular and tall, and dark Irish all the way—it had to be Hallahan.
Yet another half-brother. God above!
Mitchell turned and hailed a hansom. He would return to this pub with Drew—and soon. How he’d approach the Irishman was another question.
As he settled in the cab, his thoughts returned to Lady Addington. It would be best to wrap up her case as quickly as possible. Married or not, she appealed too much to him, and Mitchell didn’t know how long he could hide it.
If he had hidden it at all.