Chapter Fifteen
S ince Mitchell received the note from Corrine three days ago, he had been watching the baron’s residence on and off during the day, but not so much at night. The only activity he had noticed was the solicitor paying another visit. What could all the legal visits concern? Making up a will was what that man specialized in. Why now? To keep Corrine from being a beneficiary? Today was Thursday, so she would head toward Hallahan’s place to assist Drew at ten this morning. Should he head there as well?
Since their restrained but emotional parting, he had been thinking of nothing else but Corrine. His fevered mind ran through all sorts of scenarios. Why would the daughter of a viscount and ex-wife of a baron give him—a lowly detective, a bastard son of a notorious duke—the time of day? But Corrine liked him and was attracted to him. She’d said so.
If he were to be honest with himself, he was already falling in love. There. He finally acknowledged and placed a name on the intense emotion. Mitchell’s nighttime dreams were filled with snippets of domestic bliss. The two of them sitting in a parlor, drinking tea, laughing, and talking. But his nocturnal imaginings were also filled with sensual images of them in bed, Corrine riding him, her long auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders, a look of ecstasy on her face. Or him, behind, taking complete possession, wild, unabandoned—Mitchell scrubbed his hand down his face in frustration.
Taking one last glance at Addington’s residence, he flagged a hansom. “Forty Brick Lane, Spitalfields,” he said to the driver.
He climbed in, and the cab turned onto the road. Mitchell sat back and sighed, his cane laying across his lap. The streets passed in a blur, as he was still lost in thought. Would the baron release her? Strictly speaking, and even legally speaking, the marriage stood on dubious grounds since it was not consummated. Or was it? An idea struck him. He could stop by and quickly meet with Rett Wollstonecraft. Hadn’t Oliver mentioned his cousin studied law? Besides, he had to speak to him about the cloak found at the scene. He glanced at his pocket watch and calculated the time it would take to make a slight detour. He could still make it to the East End on time if he was quick. Mitchell took his cane and banged on the trap door on the roof.
“Yes, sir?” the driver questioned.
“A slight detour. Five Hill Street, Mayfair.”
It was not even nine o’clock. Hopefully, Rett was up already.
They arrived in no time at all. Mitchell gingerly exited the cab, then said to the driver. “Wait here, please. I will not be long.”
The driver touched his forelock in reply.
Mitchell pulled on the bell, and the butler, Dalton, opened the door. “Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Good morning. Is Mr. Rett available?”
The butler stepped aside. “He is in the dining room. I shall announce you.”
Mitchell followed Dalton, who, once they reached the threshold, announced imperiously, “Detective Sergeant Simpson to see you, Mr. Rett.”
Rett looked comfortable, reading his paper in his dressing gown. He jumped to his feet and came to Mitchell, holding out his hand. “It is good to see you, Mitchell.” They shook hands. “Have you had breakfast? There is a veritable feast laid out.”
Mitchell had to admit he felt a little peckish as he’d only had a biscuit. “I cannot stay long. I must travel to the East End in less than an hour, so I will keep my coat on. But I will have something, to be sure.”
The butler bowed and left them alone.
Mitchell immediately tucked his cane under his arm and lifted the covers of a few silver chafing dishes. Piling his plate, he selected bacon, scrambled eggs, and roasted potatoes.
As soon as he sat down, Mitchell tucked in. Having toff friends was a decided advantage, especially regarding meals. Once he finished eating, he wiped his mouth with the napkin and laid it across his empty plate. “Sorry about that. I was hungrier than I’d thought. But I appreciate your willingness to speak to me, Rett. Tell me, how much do you know of the law?”
Rett sat back in his chair, nursing his cup of coffee. “It depends. It has been a few years since I studied it, and I have yet to take my Certificate of Laws, but ask away.”
“First, I have a matrimonial question. If a couple does not consummate their marriage, is it null and void?” Mitchell asked between sips of tea.
“Not as such. In decades past, the church annulled marriages for such a reason. Now, it’s done through the courts. This much I remember from my studies. It came about after the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857. I recall there are three “I’s” that are considered acceptable reasons for annulment: incest, impotence, and imbecility. Fraud is also considered. An annulment is not easy to obtain, and neither is a divorce.”
Mitchell frowned. “In what way?”
“A man can ask for a divorce, claim infidelity by his wife without providing proof, and even name the man in question and sue him for monetary compensation. But if a woman files for divorce for infidelity by her husband, she needs grounds other than adultery. Grounds like cruelty, bigamy, incest, or desertion. That makes it very difficult for a woman to obtain a divorce.”
“Not exactly fair,” Mitchell murmured.
“When have laws ever been fair toward women and children? And all these court proceedings are public. I’m sure you have seen the newspaper write-ups for the more salacious cases. Only wealthy people can obtain divorces, especially the aristocracy, when bloodlines come into the picture.”
“Yes. I see.”
“Are you asking for a lady?” Rett raised one eyebrow. “As I said, it’s very difficult. Her husband could make all sorts of false allegations, make it fodder for the press, convince the judge the divorce or annulment is frivolous, and that would be the end of it. The best way is to have the parties agree to the divorce and have the man apply for it. It would go much smoother.”
“You are quite knowledgeable. Why did you not pursue a career in law?”
Rett smiled and placed his cup on the table. “Well, I have given it a good deal of thought lately. At twenty-seven, I should settle on a career. When I return to London next, I intend to work toward my certificate. Do you have other questions?”
“I do. It has to do with Danaher. He wasn’t wearing a cloak when I showed up that fateful night. Did he have one on when you encountered him?”
“Danaher? There’s a name I never thought to hear again. Yes, he wore a cloak with a hood pulled low over his eyes.”
Mitchell’s inner alarm began to stir. “I have never been face-to-face with Danaher. I only caught sight of him for a brief moment in the shadows when he shot me. How would you describe him physically since you faced him that night to pay the ransom?”
Rett crossed his arms. “I have to ask why you need to know this. You have piqued my curiosity.”
Mitchell gave a condensed version of the hooded man’s encounter with Corrine. He mentioned her name because he knew he could trust Rett to keep his confidence.
“That would be a fantastical twist in a mystery fiction book if Danaher was not the charred corpse in the cellar.”
Mitchell snorted. “Yes, incredible fiction, to be certain.”
“But you cannot rule it out.”
“No, not entirely.”
“At first, I only saw Danaher with the hooded cloak. When he removed it, I was able to see more of him. He had black hair and an ugly, mottled scar above his left eye, as if someone had cleaved open his forehead, and it had healed without proper stitches. There was also a thin scar from the left side of this mouth down part of his neck. I’d say he was in his forties, but who can be sure? His face itself would be considered good-looking enough if you ignored the scarring. Danaher stood about nine or ten inches over five feet, no more than that. Notice I mention him in the past tense.”
Mitchell smiled. “An extensive description. Perhaps you should be a policeman instead of a barrister or solicitor.” The smile faded. “Lady Addington saw scarring when the hooded Man briefly lifted his head.”
“It cannot be him. Surely not,” Rett gasped.
Mitchell grabbed his cane and stood slowly. “I’m beginning to wonder. I must take my leave as I have another appointment.” Mitchell held out his hand, and Rett stood, came toward him, and took it. “Happy Christmas to you and your family, and get in touch when you return. I appreciate your help.”
“I am glad to assist in any way. And a Merry Christmas to you. I hope everything turns out satisfactorily and you return to work soon. I cannot wait to hear how this concludes, including with the lady in question.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Mitchell hobbled toward the door. Then he stopped and turned. “I will tell you everything when you return. Safe journey to Kent.”
Mitchell stepped out onto the walkway and hesitated. Traveling to Hallahan’s to seek out Corrine, showing up unannounced, smacked of desperation. For God’s sake, he would see her tomorrow. All these new and unwieldy emotions were wreaking havoc on his usually ordered mind. He climbed into the hansom cab and closed the folding doors. When the trap door opened, he said, “Forget Spitalfields. Forty-eight Gloucester Square, if you please.”
“Right away, sir.”
He would see Corrine tomorrow as planned. Yet, his inner alarm trilled insistently. What did she want to see him about?
*
Corrine finished her nursing duties with Doctor Drew and headed into the restaurant. Her brother, Jeffery, was waiting in one of the booths. She had sent him a note two days ago asking him to meet her here at half past eleven. She slid across the bench across from him. Already, Jeffery looked contrite.
“This is about that damnable loan. Corri, I had no idea Father went to Travis with his begging cup out. I was gobsmacked when I learned of it,” he said in a rush. “I immediately sought out your husband—”
“But it was too late,” Corrine interrupted. “Or so Travis says.”
A waitress came to the table. “Good day. Today we are serving roasted herb chicken, roasted potatoes, braised carrots, and green beans. We also have a nice lamb stew.”
Corrine sighed. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or much of anything the past few days. “I will have the chicken. And tea.”
“I will have the same,” Jeffery smiled. Once the waitress left, Jeffery’s smile disappeared. “I’d no sooner canceled Father’s accounts and paid his previous bills when I heard of this,” her brother groused.
“Now you know what I have had to tolerate the past decade and more,” Corrine replied sardonically. “And what I still suffer.” She held nothing back and informed her brother of her recent conversation with Travis.
Jeffery’s eyes widened the more she revealed. “That miserable bastard! You mean, you—and he never—” Jeffery paused as the waitress approached with a tray.
She placed a sizeable ceramic teapot, cups, and saucers before them, along with a milk pitcher and a sugar bowl. “Luncheon will be another ten minutes. Enjoy the tea.”
Corrine nodded, gave a brief, polite smile, and turned slightly to watch the waitress return to the kitchen.
“No. We never. Now you know why I’m considering a divorce. His suggestion is beyond the pale. I would never involve myself with a stranger to have a child. I do not need or want a child that much,” Corrine whispered fiercely as she poured their tea.
“We should have Father committed,” Jeffery muttered crossly as he took the cup and saucer from her. “Look at what his irresponsible actions have caused. Is it possible to place someone in an asylum for monetary reckless behavior?”
“I doubt it. If so, the asylums would be filled to bursting. Jeffery, I need you to discover if Father put the money in some ill-advised scheme.”
“As soon as I return from Manchester. I’m going to attend meetings at our branch there. I have heard rumblings I may be promoted—and transferred.”
“No, they cannot do that. You’re the heir apparent to a viscountcy. Who will watch over Father?” A sick feeling settled within Corrine at this unwelcome news. “I cannot deal with our father any longer. I cannot take over his guardianship. It will break me.” Quite the confession, but true. Being a nurse, Corrine was well aware of the signs of someone near a complete collapse, and she was close to that point of no return just before Travis’s proposal. The last few months of financial stability had managed to eliminate most of her anxieties regarding money and had made her feel somewhat safe from ruin. But how long would that fragile repair hold?
Her brother took her trembling hand. “Do not be distressed over this. I will refuse to take the transfer and tell the bank exactly why. That Father is not well and cannot be left alone and unsupervised. Nor can he leave London, not even temporarily.”
Corrine exhaled. “Thank you. Will it place your status there in jeopardy?”
Jeffery released her hand, picked up his cup, and sipped the tea. “I am heir to a viscount. They will want to keep me on the payroll and keep me content. They will place me on the board of directors as soon as I inherit the title. They told me so. The bank is not all that large and prominent, so having a viscount on the board would be a feather in their cap. However, I must attend the meeting and may be gone for a week, perhaps more. But I will dive right into Father’s loan when I return.”
“I will ask Detective Sergeant Simpson to look into it as well. He is coming by tomorrow.”
Jeffery placed his cup on the saucer. “I do apologize for what I said about Sergeant Simpson. Good for you for hiring him to follow Addington. Yes, have him investigate Father’s actions, as well. We must untangle you from this imprudent marriage. But how?”
Corrine sighed. The marriage was impulsive, rash, irresponsible, and whatever other synonyms fit. “I’m not sure it is possible. But we must try.”
“Thank you for confiding in me.”
Corrine smiled warmly. She loved her younger brother dearly. He had still been a child when their mother had passed away, and in reality, Corrine had brought him up since their father hadn’t wanted to be bothered.
Just then, the waitress returned with the food, setting heaping platters before them. Then she hurried to another table.
“Look at this. Absolute perfection,” Jeffery marveled as he stared at the golden breast of chicken.
“The chef here is very talented. Nothing fancy, just basic meals that excel. He is a half-brother to Detective Sergeant Simpson.”
Jeffery sliced into his chicken. “I take it there is an interesting story there.”
“But it is not mine to tell. When are you going to Manchester?”
“In two days. I will come and see you as soon as I return.”
Feeling relieved, Corrine speared some roasted potatoes onto her fork and ate them.
When they were nearly finished with their meals, the waitress came to the table and placed a platter of tarts, fancy biscuits, sliced seed cake, and other assorted petit fours before them. “Liam said this dessert assortment is on the house, in thanks for your help with the nursing. I will bring you plates and a fresh pot of tea. Enjoy the rest of your luncheon.”
“This looks fancy enough to grace an aristocrat’s table,” Jeffery exclaimed.
Corrine laughed, then leaned in and whispered, “They came from an aristocrat’s table. Mr. Hallahan sells them to his customers to raise the needed money to feed the unfortunates of the neighborhood every morning before he opens.”
“Well done. I am impressed.” Jeffery took her hand once again. “I have a feeling everything will work out for you, Corri. Wait and see.”
Will it? Corrine was not so confident. But with her brother on her side and Mitchell there as well, perhaps she could have some semblance of hope. All she knew was that she looked forward to seeing Mitchell tomorrow. He made her feel safe. But more importantly, alive.
And Jeffery was correct. She had to detach herself from this irresponsible marriage as soon as possible.