Page 12 of The Detective and the Baroness

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.”