Page 33 of The Detective and the Baroness

Mitchell decided the library would be a more appropriate place for his meeting with Corrine; it was a more public space than the office behind his bedroom. He had ordered tea and biscuits from Mrs. Evans and instructed her to bring them in about quarter past. And now, he stood at the window, waiting with breathless anticipation for her arrival. This was not good at all—longing for a married woman. Such powerful yearning made his heart ache like the devil. He now understood what the poets meant about describing love and pain within the same sonnet.

Speaking of his tortured heart, it leaped at the sight of a hansom cab pulling up by the front entrance. Mitchell pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and popped it open—she was right on time. Snapping it shut, he tucked it in his pocket as he headed to the door. He had to slow his stride to alleviate the numbing pain. Leaning on his cane for support, he opened the door to greet her.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

She wore a gray cape with a fur-trimmed hood. Her hands were tucked in a gray fur muff. It was chilly today, so the brisk air had brushed an attractive reddish-pink color on her cheeks. He stood aside to allow her to pass. “Good day, Sergeant.”

“Right this way. We will have our meeting in the library. Doctor Drew is huddled in his study, and Mrs. Evans will bring us tea.” Why had he said that? Mitchell supposed it was to reassure her they were not alone.

Once in the library, he assisted her with her cape, laying it on the chair by the door. Her afternoon gown had shades of dark gray and silver embroidery, complementing her lovely auburn hair. The fact that he noticed all this convinced him he was entirely smitten. After taking his seat facing her, Mitchell’s heart flipped over again.

Say something. Anything to distract me from the fact that I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms and kiss you senseless. Until we both cease to breathe. Until the end of time.

“How was your afternoon tea? Any success with your assignment?” Mitchell asked, choosing a topic to divert his thoughts from his intense growing feelings.

“Yes. The duchess I was to observe and gather information on is an old friend from school. What are the odds? I gave my report to Althea nonetheless. A couple of good things came from the tea party. I became reacquainted with my old schoolmates—Selena, the aforementioned duchess, and Celia, who is married to the Earl of Winterwood. Also, the Duchess of Gransford enlisted me to attend a board meeting for the Wollstonecraft-Hornsby medical initiative and was happy to hear I’d already decided to volunteer a few hours a week at the clinic. The duchess was a nurse years ago. I had no idea.”

“Damon told me about it. The duke studied medicine at Cambridge, which was unheard of for an aristocrat. He labored anonymously in an abandoned underground train tunnel, offering medical care to the destitute. He met the duchess in that clinic. She was in reduced circumstances then, though I am unaware of all the particulars.”

Corrine’s perfectly shaped eyebrows arched in surprise. “Well, that is impressive. An heir to a duke performing medical charity work? I—”

“Here we are!” Mrs. Evans announced as she hurried into the room. “Tea and biscuits as ordered.” She plunked the tray on the table between them, and the china teapot wobbled precariously. “Fresh out of the oven, they are. And the tea’s hot. All cozy now? Good. I’m off.” The housekeeper turned and exited the room so swiftly, Mitchell had no time to speak, let alone blink.

“That was Mrs. Evans.”

Corrine giggled, and the blissful sound trickled across his heart. She leaned forward and poured their tea, preparing it as if she had done so for years. Holding her cup, she sat back in the chair. “I’m afraid I did not get a chance to inquire after the Addington barony. Now, I am all attention. What have you discovered?”

“The current baron has been sticking close to home. He has met with his solicitor, Mr. Dobson, twice more. He also spent two days at the railway office. His boss is Mr. Gregory McFadden, a wealthy industrialist. McFadden and Addington appear to be friends, as I observed them having luncheon at a nearby restaurant both days. The conversation was animated, and they seemed at ease with each other.”

“Do you think there is more between them? I know Travis denied preferring men, but he would disavow it to anyone, seeing the legal ramifications of having an intimate relationship with the same gender. Such laws are so unfair.”

Mitchell had liked her forthrightness, right from their first meeting. “I agree about the laws. It’s a clandestine world, and it has to be. Serving time in prison for your desires is not appealing. As far as I know, Mr. McFadden has not been to visit, nor has Addington visited anyone or any place other than what I relayed to you.” Should he mention Drew’s a-sexual theory? Best not. “My guess from what I have observed is simply that they are friends. Nothing more.”

“Any more sightings of the hooded man?” Corrine asked as she reached for a biscuit.

“Not on my end. You?”

“None at all.”

Mitchell shook his head. “You must think me to be the most incompetent of detectives.”

“Of course not. The man disappeared like a wisp of wind. That is no reflection on you,” Corrine said, then paused for a moment. “There is a connection between the hooded man and Gilbert Addington; we’ve established that much. But what, I wonder? Will he turn up again?” she asked.

“I believe so,” Mitchell replied. “Thomason said Gilbert did not invite the man in and left him on the stoop. Gilbert went into his study and returned minutes later. To retrieve something? Did he give something to the hooded man? Money, perhaps?”

Corrine’s cornflower blue eyes sparkled. “Of course! Money! Brilliant! What else could it be? Correspondence? I doubt it. Why did he say he would return to talk to Travis, the new baron, unless he is owed something?” Then Corrine’s brows knotted with worry. “What if he’s dangerous? I should inform Travis of this as soon as possible so he can remain vigilant.” Corrine caught his gaze. “I have something else to discuss with Travis. I’m going to ask for a divorce.”

Mitchell could not believe his ears. His heart soared at the news. It took all his inner resolve not to smile. “Are you certain?” he asked softly.

“Seeing my old friends in loveless unions and their various levels of misery made me realize I do not want that for myself. I should have considered that before agreeing to marriage. I am hopeful Travis and I can come to some equitable arrangement.” Corrine sighed wearily. “Do you think me inconstant? Flighty? For I am beginning to doubt the soundness of my decisions, as hasty as most of them have been lately.”

“As you explained before, you were in an untenable situation. I’m sure the baron would understand if you presented your reasons to him as you described them to me. And no, I don’t think you are flighty or inconstant.”

Corrine reached for another biscuit and took a dainty bite, deep in thought, as she ate it. “Thank you for that. I’m about to be blunt again. Will you—wait for me? Oh, that sounds selfish on my part and terribly forward in making such an assumption.”

Mitchell rose from his chair, grabbed his cane beside it, and joined Corrine on the sofa. Giving her an assuring smile, he gently took her gloved hand and turned it over. She wore white silk gloves with three small pearl buttons past her wrist. Slowly and reverently, he unfastened the buttons, then trailed the tips of his fingers across her upturned palm. A soft moan escaped her lips. Mitchell then tugged on her glove, removing it completely. Taking her hand once again, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the pulse point on her wrist. Corrine’s moan deepened. That glorious sound spurred him onward. Turning her hand over, he softly kissed each knuckle while he caressed the top of her fingers with the pad of his thumb.

“Oh, Mitchell,” she breathed huskily.