Chapter Seven
C orrine paced back and forth in the sitting room, impatient, bored, and mildly irritated—not a healthy combination. But five days had passed, and there had not been a word from Travis or Mitchell. What was going on? Had Mitchell discovered any information?
The cook/housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, had already questioned her about Christmas, the menu, and who might attend, such as her family—if anyone. But Christmas was the last thing on her mind. She definitely did not feel like celebrating anything. Especially because she knew that Travis’s absence had been noted—and discussed—by the staff. What to do?
There was a small country estate outside of London belonging to the Addington barony. Still, Travis had never suggested going there for the winter, although many in the aristocracy spent the colder months away from London. Nor was she aware of where it was located. Somewhere west of the city? Aldershot? Or was it in Alton? It started with an A. She was sure of it.
Corrine gazed out the window. Her family also owned a small country estate but had started renting it out years ago for the income. Even that monthly stipend hadn’t been enough to keep her family’s head above water. Now they had money, or rather, she did. Corrine had Travis authorize a trust account in her name, and only she could draw on it. She paid her father and brother a generous stipend every month. To her brother Jeffery’s credit, he remained working at the bank. Their lives were finally stable—at least for now.
If only her life felt as steadfast. So much remained unsettled, including her marriage. Corrine was not one for sitting still. And in that moment, she decided to do something about it. Her nurse uniforms were stored in a trunk with other garments she had not unpacked yet. She could use one of those as a disguise and do a little investigating independently.
Corrine rushed upstairs to the empty room next to hers. Upon opening the trunk, she rifled through the neatly packed clothes and located her most recent uniform and cloak. The fact that she hadn’t even finished unpacking yet spoke of her continued uncertainty. The tiny lace cap would not do, so she located the long veil that most nurses no longer wore. If she pulled the veil forward, it would hide most of her hair and partially conceal her face.
Grabbing the garments, she hurried into her bedroom and swiftly changed. As she emerged from her room and descended the stairs, Corrine looked about for the footman. Frustrated, she entered the sitting room and pressed the buzzer twice.
“There you are, Jonathan. Please hail me a hansom cab.”
The footman was startled at her attire but soon showed a neutral expression. “At once, my lady.”
As Corrine climbed into the cab, she had no earthly idea of what to do next.
The roof hatch opened. “Where to, miss?”
“Carol Street, Camden Town.” She wanted to see Travis’s residence for herself.
As the cab lurched forward, Corrine started having second thoughts. A nurse would stand out in a crowd. Too late now.
Clasping her nurse’s bag tightly, she watched the bustling city pass by. What did she hope to find out? How impulsive of her to do this. Still, there was no use wringing her hands over it.
Once she arrived on Travis’s street, Corrine paid the driver, pulled the veil over her face, and then leisurely strolled along the walkway. Travis’s house was located at the opposite end. Walking up and down the lane more than once would draw attention. Shaking her head, Corrine lamented that she did not think this through at all.
The street consisted of tightly packed rowhouses. There wasn’t much of a vantage point to do a surveillance since there were no alleys, shops, or a park. Corrine had never been here before. The houses were modest and middle-class. What did Travis do before becoming the baron? To her eternal shame, Corrine never bothered to ask him about his occupation or past—another negative mark to add to her regrets.
She spotted a vendor selling gingerbread, crumpets, and raisin cake from his wooden cart. Everything looked and smelled delicious. As she passed, Corrine glanced at the goods, finding fresh bread and ginger biscuits. It was a good thing she’d brought a few shillings with her. She would buy some items on her way back.
Travis’s home finally came into view. She slowed her gait and had a peek. The draperies were open, and Corrine saw Travis sitting across from another man through the window. They were deep in conversation. Then the man handed Travis a sheath of papers, and he sat back in his chair to read them.
Good lord, was he meeting with a solicitor to begin divorce proceedings? She stopped and took a deep breath. Of course her fevered mind would race to that conclusion, but she knew it wasn’t likely. Corrine pretended to look up and down the street while snatching glances through the large window. There was more discussion, and the other man took notes. Standing before the costermonger’s cart, she pointed at the ginger biscuits. “How much?”
“Two for a penny, miss. One penny for a crumpet or slice of cake. Four pennies for the bread.”
“I will have twelve biscuits and a loaf of bread.”
“Right away, miss.” The costermonger was busy wrapping her goods in brown paper when someone approached her from behind and clasped her elbow.
Corrine gasped in response.
“What are you doing here, Corrine?” a male voice whispered in her ear.
Every nerve ending came alive at his touch and nearness. He called me by my name. Only one man caused such emotional turbulence within her.
“Good day, Mitchell,” she murmured in reply.
*
Mitchell could not believe it. He had been sitting in a carriage across the street, observing the comings and goings at the baron’s residence, when he spotted a nurse perambulating on the walkway. Although the woman tried to act inconspicuously, her movements sparked Mitchell’s suspicion. The more he watched her, the more it dawned on him that the woman was Corrine. Especially when every nerve-ending sparked to life. The sway of her hips and the confident way she strolled along the walkway, her head held high, also aided his conclusion. Now, he still held her arm at the elbow, and heat licked through his blood at the contact.
“Here, let the nurse go,” the costermonger snapped. He pulled a whistle out from around his neck. “Or I’ll call for the coppers.”
Mitchell released Corrine’s arm, reached in his pocket, and brought forth his ID card. He flipped the leather wallet open. “I am the police.” He shouldn’t be flashing his division card about while on medical leave, but right now, it was necessary.
After tucking his card in his coat, he again took Corrine’s arm.
“Can I at least wait for my purchase?” Corrine asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
The tradesman handed her the brown paper-wrapped parcel, and Corrine paid him.
The transaction was completed, and Mitchell steered her toward the carriage.
“Is this yours, Sergeant?”
“No. Doctor Hornsby’s family returned to their country home for Christmas, leaving this carriage behind for Doctor Drew’s use. He allowed me to borrow it today. Inside, my lady.” Mitchell opened the coach door and assisted Corrine inside. Then, with great difficulty, he climbed in after her, sitting on the bench opposite.
Corrine pulled the veil from her face. “How did you know it was me?”
Because every fiber of my body and soul is attuned to your every movement. “A lucky guess. Why are you here?”
Corrine slammed her case on the bench next to her packaged baked goods. “Because I have not heard from you!” she snapped irritably. Then she exhaled. “I apologize. I should not vent my frustrations on you. I had to see for myself what was going on.”
“I have not been by to see you because there has been nothing to report—until today. There is no need to apologize.”
“Yes, there is. I am afraid I have a quick temper, but it dissipates swiftly enough. The report. Does it concern the man visiting with Travis?”
“It does. His name is Mr. Stanley Dobson, and he is a solicitor and partner with Dobson, Weiss, and Handleman,” Mitchell replied.
“Oh, I see,” Corrine replied softly. “So Travis is planning to divorce me.”
“No, my lady. I do not believe so. Dobson specializes in estate planning, inheritance, and wills. He came to Addington’s yesterday afternoon, and I followed him back to his office not far from here. I then went inside and questioned who in the firm handles divorce cases. The lady receptionist gave me all the particulars of which partner does what legal activity. Dobson is strictly the kind of solicitor I mentioned.”
Corrine frowned. “Wills and inheritance. To what end?”
“Probably, Addington has not had a chance to sort out his will since becoming the baron. Is there someone to inherit the title if anything should happen to him, my lady?”
“I would prefer you call me Corrine, as you did earlier. At least when we are alone.”
“It’s not proper,” Mitchell mumbled. “You hired me. You are a baron’s wife.” As he kept reminding himself—to no avail.
“Nevertheless, I do request it.”
Why argue? “Very well—Corrine. My question?”
“And it’s an excellent inquiry. I have no earthly idea. My husband and I rarely discussed anything of consequence, especially concerning the past and the future. I will bring it up casually next we speak. If we ever speak again.” Corrine glanced out the window. “Mr. Dobson is leaving. Shall we follow him?”
Mitchell’s eyebrow cocked. “We?”
“I want to assist with this case. Please allow me to help when I can. I am going mad sitting alone in the parlor, imagining all sorts of things. Please, Mitchell.”
Her suggestion was tempting. Spending time with the beautiful baroness? He should shut this down before it went any further. Wasn’t this how many of his acquaintances began intimate relationships? By having someone assist with an investigative case? But none of the couples in question had been married at the time. That was a barrier Mitchell would never cross, no matter how enticing the lady. He hadn’t known Corrine for long, but had the distinct impression that she would never break her marital vows. Not that he would ever propose they do so.
“It is rather dull doings conducting a surveillance, and two people are not usually needed in such a circumstance. There’s no need to follow Dobson, for I would guess he is returning to his office.” Her lovely face showed acute disappointment. “However, if I should require assistance, you will be the first person I contact.”
Her smile lit up the carriage’s interior, basking him in soothing warmth.
“You may consider this forward of me,” Mitchell continued. “If you are going mad sitting in the parlor, I have a place where you can put your nursing talents to use at least once a week.”
“Do tell.”
“Remember I told you about the late Duke of Chellenham?”
“Yes, I do. You are his biological son.”
“I am not alone. You see, the late duke was an egotistical, despicable creature who believed his bloodline was superior to any other. Damon found numerous books on eugenics in his study.”
Corrine shook her head. “I have heard of it. It is a belief and practice to improve the so-called quality of the human population by excluding those deemed unworthy. It’s entirely repugnant. The late duke believed in this preposterous theory?”
“He did, to an extent. Damon said his father aimed to produce beautiful children but wasn’t overly concerned with the intellectual aspect. He set up a home for foundlings, brought in some like-minded peers and business acquaintances, and set up a profitable pyramid scheme to sell children and babies, some of them, his own.”
Corrine’s hand fled to her mouth in shock. “My God. Don’t tell me—”
“Yes. I was sold to the Simpsons, all but wiping out their savings. It worked out well enough for me. And for Drew Hornsby.”
“The doctor is your half-brother. When did you discover this?” Corrine asked with a shocked tone.
“Shortly after Drew did, while he treated my injury. There are possibly hundreds of us. Drew suggested we form a group to locate and offer assistance to those siblings we know of. We have an initial list that Damon’s mother had in her possession, plus there are ledgers of names beyond that. Decades’ worth. I cheekily suggested we call ourselves ‘The Duke’s Bastards.’ The name stuck.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Drew and I contacted the next name on the list. The man’s name is Liam Hallahan, and he owns a restaurant and pub in Spitalfields. In the morning, before his place opens, he feeds the poor of the neighborhood. Drew offered medical care. He is there now. Why don’t we join him, and perhaps you can assist? After all, you’re wearing your nurse’s uniform. Or am I stepping over the bounds?”
Mitchell couldn’t believe he had discharged all this information on Corrine, but he felt comfortable and at ease in her presence. He knew he could trust her, even after such a short acquaintance.
“Yes,” Corrine replied softly. “Let us go there right now.” She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “I am glad you told me. I will keep your confidence.”
He felt her reassuring touch through their gloves. He lingered momentarily, basking in the connection, then slowly pulled his hand away. Then he knocked on the roof.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Forty Brick Lane, Spitalfields.”
“Right away, sir.”
The carriage jerked forward, and they locked gazes. Corrine gave him an empathic look. “Your life has had its upheavals these past months. I commend you for pushing onward. I should do the same, starting by admitting my mistake of marrying Travis Addington.”
“Allow me to continue with the case for a while longer before you do anything. Call it my detective intuition, but I believe there is more going on here than we know.”
“Very well, Mitchell.”
As they headed to the East End, a hope bloomed within him—the outlandish possibility that if she detangled herself from her ill-fated marriage, he and Corrine could become—more. The thought was fanciful at his core and not like him at all. But then, no other woman had ever caught his notice like this. Mitchell was swimming in uncharted waters.