Chapter Thirty
Lady Mary
Sun streamed through the windows of the Royal Brew.
Every table was occupied, and I thought the coffeehouse could benefit from a few rugs thrown on the floor to help muffle the cheerful din.
The barrister was in the same spot at the same time, with the same jam tart in front of him as when I’d first been introduced to the man.
I hoped that even without Mr. Ryder by my side, Mr. Plummer would be as forthcoming.
“Mr. Plummer,” I exclaimed, as though this was but a chance meeting. “This establishment is a favorite of yours, is it?”
He looked up and blinked, his whiskey eyes narrowing. His forehead cleared. “Ah. Lady Mary, isn’t it? What are you doing back here?”
What, indeed. “After seeing your luncheon the other day, I thought I had to come back to try it. Do you mind if I join you?” Without waiting for his consent, I pulled out a chair and plopped down.
My desire for luncheon was real, regardless of my motives for being here.
I had eaten poorly last night, waiting for a confession from Marie or Burton that never came.
I’d even asked them leading questions, to no avail.
I inhaled deeply. The tart did smell delicious, as did the meat pie at the neighboring table. I was glad I’d left Southey at home today or I might have had to share.
He tidied up some of the papers in front of him, making room for me. “Any friend of Ryder’s is welcome. Erm, he isn’t accompanying you today?”
“He is not.” I was one of only a few women, and the only one to enter the establishment alone I was sure. “I am most grateful for your company.”
The server came by and I ordered. When she’d left, I draped the napkin at my setting across my lap. “I was speaking with Mrs. Trent the other day. Such a terrible business.”
The attorney shook his head sadly. “Nasty business. And the authorities still don’t know who killed him?”
“No.” A meat pie was placed before me and I inhaled appreciatively. “Mrs. Trent is quite distraught.” A lie, but a small one I told myself.
“Understandably.”
I cut into the meal. “With the passing of her husband, I do hope financial worries aren’t also weighing her down.”
Mr. Plummer brought the last of his tart to his mouth, a cascade of crumbs drifting to his cravat.
“No, thank goodness.” He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.
“Mrs. Trent’s father settled a large sum on her at the wedding.
With Trent dead, control of it now reverts to her.
And Trent’s own fortune, of course, will go to her and the daughter. ”
“Of course.” The burst of flavor from the pie almost distracted me from my purpose.
With all the cake I’d been eating of late (those ungrateful, married wretches) and now this rich meat pie, I would have to restrain myself soon or require a new wardrobe.
“It’s such a pity that Trent died before he and Mrs. Trent could resolve their differences.
I always feel that conflict in a marriage is such a tragedy. ”
“Differences?” Plummer brushed at the crumbs on his cravat, only managing to spread them to his trousers. “Were they having problems then?”
I leaned forward. “You didn’t know? Well, I’m not one to gossip, but the Trents lived separate lives. She had moved in with her sister.”
“What a shame.” He clucked his tongue. “When I wrote the settlement agreement, I’d had high hopes for the two of them. Mind you, I only met the lady once.”
“One never knows why some marriages succeed and others don’t.
” My Christopher and I had barely met before the wedding was arranged.
But we had been in accord in wanting our marriage to be a happy one.
We’d both known we couldn’t be selfish. Common values, similar temperaments, and a happy marriage had been achieved.
Of course, it hadn’t always been easy.
I tapped my fork against the plate. “If the Trents hadn’t been able to remain married, would Mrs. Trent’s financial security have been threatened?”
“Divorce?” His eyebrows shot up.
“It does happen.”
“Not very often. And after that debacle with King George trying to divorce the queen, it’s more unpopular than ever. God rest her soul.” He bowed his head.
Her Majesty, Queen Caroline had only recently passed. Sympathy had already been on her side against her husband’s, and her death had made the injustice of the king’s actions more deeply felt. “So you don’t think either Mr. or Mrs. Trent could have obtained a divorce if they sought it?”
“Most likely not.”
Meaning Mrs. Trent’s motive was strong if she ever wanted to be free of her husband. And even if she had managed a divorce, she would have been a social pariah. “In the divorces that you do know of, are the marital funds equitably divided? Do you write such clauses into your marriage contracts?”
A line creased his forehead. “I don’t, and I hope that never becomes the custom. Imagine writing a settlement for a marriage with a clause expecting it to fail.”
I scooted forward in my chair. “Yes, but if there is a divorce, and say the couple has a marriage settlement similar to what you wrote for the Trents, does the husband keep control of the dowry?”
“This is a very depressing thing to speak of, Lady Mary.” He frowned. “Our vows do say ‘til death do us part’ for a reason.”
“Yes, but indulge me please. Which spouse would have the advantage, do you think?”
He blew out a breath, his cheeks going round. “Typically, for an atypical situation, the husband benefits. However, if fault could be shown….”
He wasn’t more explicit than this, but I understood his meaning. “And if both parties were at fault, chances are the wife would emerge from a divorce with little.” I nodded, unsurprised.
“Why all the questions about divorce?” he asked. “You don’t know anyone who is contemplating it, do you?” He sounded horrified at the thought.
I smiled. For an attorney, he was surprisingly idealistic.
“No. Though I do know a couple who rashly married on a whim. They are young and foolish and didn’t bother to ask my opinion.
” Nor my presence at their wedding, the ingrates.
“But I think their marriage will be a happy one.” They were both equally foolhardy.
“Let’s hope.” Mr. Plummer poked at his plate for more tart, but the fork came up bare. He looked sadly at the empty plate.
“I have also recently become acquainted with Mrs. Trent’s brother, Mr. Platt. Do you do any business with him?”
His face closed. “I can’t talk about my work with current clients.”
Interesting. “Of course.” I pushed my plate with half the uneaten pie toward the barrister, glad his confidentiality rules didn’t apply to dead clients. I wondered what sort of business Platt was engaged in that required an attorney.
Plummer dug into my remaining meal with enthusiasm.
And I wondered if Platt’s business could have anything to do with murder.