Chapter Four
C orrine was shocked to find Travis waiting for her in the sitting room when she came downstairs the next morning. He immediately stood. Her husband was immaculately dressed in a black morning coat with dark gray striped trousers. Travis also wore one of those new silk neckties that had become all the rage.
“Corrine. Good morning.”
So formal. So removed from it all.
“Good morning, Travis. Have you had your breakfast?” she asked in a similar tone.
“I have. I will not be staying long. I came to collect my correspondence and other incidentals. My case is waiting for me at the front entrance.”
Corrine exhaled. “Please, Travis. Sit with me for a moment.” She strolled to the door and closed it.
Travis looked like a trapped animal, his gaze darting about the room as if looking for a means of escape. Something was seriously wrong with her husband. Empathy took hold, and she approached him slowly.
“Can we not talk?” she soothed. Corrine took his arm, and he immediately stiffened. But she ignored his reaction and led him to the sofa. They sat upon it, and she noted he kept his distance from her. “I did not expect romance in our marriage, but I want us to be truthful with each other.”
Travis exhaled. “It is not you. It’s me.”
“When people say that, they really mean it is the other person. I do apologize for insisting on children. I thought trying for an heir was prudent—as in carrying on the title. I assumed that was why you wished to be married. I also admit to a selfish motive; a child would keep me occupied. It would be someone to love and to love me in return. I presumed you wanted the same. I am sorry.” Corrine spoke from the heart.
“I never sought out marriage and children,” Travis stated wistfully. “When I became the heir, Gilbert repeatedly stated that my duty was to carry on the barony. He was most insistent about it. So, I thought of the ladies I’d met over the years, and you were the most kind and lovely one I could recall. And the most honest.”
“Yes, I was certainly upfront about my demands,” Corrine scoffed. “And I’d never sought out marriage and children either. It was not something I’d yearned for.”
“I find your honesty refreshing, then and now. Your family was in dire financial straits, and of course, you wanted to assist them. I was happy to help in that regard.”
Corrine turned to face him. “Is it me you find abhorrent, then? Is there another woman, perhaps? Or do you prefer—men? Or both?”
Travis shook his head. “No, my dear lady. To all your questions.”
Travis clearly struggled, trying to decide what to reveal, if anything at all. Peppering him with questions would only make him run from the room like a skittish horse. So they sat silently, the logs crackling in the fireplace the only audible sound.
He reached into his pocket and handed her a roll of pound notes. “There are one hundred pounds there, give or take. It is enough for the household expenses and pin money for yourself. I must go.” Travis stood, looking eager to depart.
Corrine remained seated. “Where will you go? To your old residence?”
“Yes, for a time. I need to think. But I’ll be in touch soon.”
Travis strolled over to the table, retrieved his hat and gloves, and then quit the room.
Confused, Corrine shook her head. None of this made any sense. Still, at least they’d been cordial and had managed to have a little honest conversation. But inside, she hurt, not only for herself but for him. With some work, perhaps they could make their marriage a success and become friends and partners. Perhaps… Sighing, Corrine made her way to the desk, placed the money inside the top drawer, and locked it, placing the key in her gown pocket.
At least they were speaking—to a point. It was a beginning.
But of what? What could he possibly have to ruminate over?
What secrets did he hold close to his heart?
*
Mitchell sat in the hansom cab across from the Addington residence on Wimpole Street. He had followed the baron there. Mitchell reached into his waistcoat pocket, retrieved his watch, and popped open the cover to check the time. Addington has been inside with the baroness for twenty minutes. He had no sooner made that observation when the door opened, and the baron exited, holding a large leather valise. Had he been picking up personal items? The man appeared troubled. Had he argued with Lady Addington?
The baron climbed into a waiting carriage, a fancy two-wheel brougham that looked to be a recent purchase. It had come to pick him up from Carol Street, which meant the carriage and horses were kept at a nearby livery. The property wasn’t large enough to support a barn for the horses.
A loud bang caught Mitchell’s attention. It came from an Arnold motor car, spewing black smoke as it rumbled by. More automobiles were cropping up monthly, along with just as many motor car manufacturing companies. At least half a dozen of them that had set up shop in ’96 were out of business already. Some saw these ‘horseless carriages’ as a fad. Mitchell did not. Like the telephone, he believed they were here to stay.
Something caught his eye in the direction of the motor car—a man wearing a shin-length long cloak with a hood obscuring his face. The garment looked to be something a medieval monk would wear. Because it was not in fashion, the man stood out. Mitchell’s internal detective alarm clanged incessantly. The man—at least he assumed it was a man, considering the height and build—kept casting surreptitious looks toward the baron’s house, then seemed to watch as the baron climbed into his carriage.
Once Addington’s coach pulled onto the street, the hooded man waved down an approaching hansom cab. Mitchell banged on the roof with his cane.
The hatch slid open. “Yes, sir?”
“Follow the brougham with the two matched grays. But wait a moment. Allow that hansom to go first.”
“Yes, sir.” The hatch slid shut. Mitchell watched the hooded man climb into the cab in front of him. His inner warning alarm increased in volume when he saw the man’s face peeking from under the hood. He wore a mask. All Mitchell could see were two dark eyes darting about suspiciously.
They were immediately on the move, but before they approached Carol Street, the hansom turned off onto a side street. Perhaps it was a coincidence that the man in the cloak headed the same way. But Mitchell didn’t believe in coincidences. Addington’s carriage stopped before his residence, and the baron hurried into his home.
The hatch slid open. “Anywhere else, sir?”
“Yes, travel along the next few streets. I want to see where that other hansom went.”
They did, but there was no sign of the cab or the cloaked man. Blast it. Using his cane, he banged on the roof. When the trap door opened, he said, “Return me to Wimpole Street.”
Once he arrived at the baroness’s residence, Mitchell paid the driver, then gave the door knocker several raps. The butler opened the door.
“Thomason, correct? I need to see Lady Addington at once.”
“I will see if she is available, Mr. Simpson,” the butler said with a sniff.
“It is all right, Thomason. Show Sergeant Simpson inside,” a feminine voice called out.
The butler stood back and opened the door.
Once inside, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Corrine, resplendent in yet another glorious tea gown. This frock was a shimmering gold shade with embroidered pink roses down the left side and around the high neckline.
It was not very wise to think of her by her first name, but no matter how inappropriate, he could not help doing it, all the same. But what caught his attention was that she clutched a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Corrine had been crying. He was at her side instantly—at least, as swiftly as his injured leg could take him.
“My lady, you are distressed,” he said softly.
“You followed him here.”
“I did.”
Corrine looked at the butler. “We are not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Mitchell offered his arm, and they headed to the sitting room. Just that brief contact of her hand gently resting on his arm sent bolts of desire through him. He closed the door behind them, then sat in the wing chair opposite the baroness, who still dabbed at her eyes.
“He was here twenty minutes,” Mitchell stated.
Corrine sniffled. “Yes. He came to collect his correspondence and more clothes, I imagine. I should not be upset. We did not argue. I feel sad about our situation. He denied it was someone else or that he preferred men. He also said it was him, not me, whatever that means. Travis said he needed more time to think. I’m not sure about that aspect, either.” She tucked her handkerchief under the sleeve of her gown. “He told me he felt pressure from the late baron to marry and carry on the name and title, but for whatever reason, he cannot go through with it, even though he says I am the kindest woman he has ever known. What a muddle this is. And I am prattling again.”
Mitchell found he was growing rather fond of her chattering. “The baron returned to his home. I will head there and pick up the surveillance, my lady. I also have feelers among my peerage acquaintances regarding any information about your husband.”
“I know it is none of my business, but I am curious—”
“As to how I have aristocratic ties?” He smiled to show he wasn’t offended by her question. “It’s a recent development. The Duke of Chellenham is my half-brother. We share a horrid father. I only found out about our blood connection recently. Through him, I have met the men in his social group and even made friends with one recently—Viscount Tensbridge.”
To her credit, Corrine did not seem shocked by his pronouncement. Still, he was surprised that he’d felt comfortable sharing such a personal aspect of his life. They conversed so easily that he knew he could trust her with such intimate information.
“That explains why you were caught up in Tensbridge’s and Claudia Ellingford’s mysterious adventure. And how you were injured.” She paused, and her look softened. “It must have been a complete shock to find out the late duke is your father.”
“It was, and still is, my lady.” Mitchell hesitated. “Here is a strange coincidence. I was called to Queen Anne’s Gate a few months ago to attend to the death of a peer to see if it was suspicious. It wasn’t. However, less than two weeks later, I found out that the peer in question, the Duke of Chellenham, was my biological father.”
Corrine’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “Good lord! You attended the death scene? That is astonishing, indeed. Did the new duke, Damon Cranston, know you were his half-brother at the time?”
“Damon had just been given a list by his mother of her husband’s illegitimate children, at least those she knew of. When I introduced myself at the scene, he stated he was completely floored. He approached me with the information shortly after that.” Mitchell paused, for speaking of this was still difficult. “I will never think of the late Duke of Chellenham as my father. I had a decent and kind father. The Simpsons were an older couple; my father was a retired policeman. They gave me a good home, a decent education, and more love than I ever needed.”
Good God, yet another personal revelation.
Corrine’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “How gratifying. If only all orphans could find loving, caring homes. I cannot begin to describe the misery I witnessed nursing at a workhouse infirmary. It certainly put my family’s financial woes in perspective.”
“Experiencing and witnessing poverty and misery over the long term can take its toll,” Mitchell offered sympathetically.
“Yes, it can do that. You have seen your share as a policeman. But witnessing it is not as devastating as living it.”
Their gazes locked. They shared a profound philosophical understanding of what they had seen while acting in their professions, knowing it caused its own trauma. Although, as Corrine said, it was not nearly as difficult as it was for the people experiencing it.
But understanding was not the only thing passing between them. Their mutual attraction crackled with energy. All he wanted to do was pull Corrine into his arms, hold her—and never let go.
Mitchell grabbed his cane and stood abruptly. “I must return to Carol Street. I will let you know if I find anything important.”
“Thank you—Mitchell.”
Hearing his name on her lips again made his heart ache with yearning. Turning away, he closed his eyes briefly before exiting the room.
These meetings alone were not a good idea.
Corrine was married. Out of reach. Not for him. And he would do well to remember it.