A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  “I have every confidence the fiend shall be apprehended,” a hawk-nosed, elderly gent declared. “The police have thrown a net over the whole of London. Rest assured, they’ll catch their man.”

  “A foreign degenerate, by all accounts,” someone else piped in. “No Englishman could possibly commit so heinous a crime.”

  “And to think that the radicals in Parliament had the audacity to blame the murder of Whitechapel whores on the members of our class,” a well-heeled man asserted in an aggrieved huff. “They erroneously claim that our refusal to aid the downtrodden masses in the East End has precipitated this ghastly horror. Really!”

  For some inexplicable reason, this last comment threw the entire group into a tizzy.

  “Someone ought to horsewhip the masses en masse,” a bored, anemic-looking man deadpanned. “The downtrodden must learn to contend with their lot in life just as we—” he gestured to the room’s opulent furnishings— “must contend with ours.”

  “And never the twain shall meet, eh?” the older man quipped.

  “Perish the thought,” the anemic Brit said with a shudder.

  “Sir Charles, is it true that Scotland Yard will be bringing in bloodhounds to track down the Ripper?”

  “Indeed, I have given the authorization for a pack of bloodhounds to be brought in from Surrey.”

  This last Q&A snagged Mick’s attention. Eyeballing a nearby group of men, he was able to positively ID Charles Warren, the police commissioner. He nudged his way toward the group, figuring that now was as good a time as any to question Sir Charles about the Tabrum case.

  “Excuse me. Sir Charles?”

  A tall man with a military bearing and sporting a monocle warily nodded his head.

  “Hey, how ya doing, sir? If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to talk to you about the Martha Tabrum murder.”

  Adjusting the monocle, Sir Charles gave him a once-over. “And just who do I have the questionable honor of addressing?”

  “Mick Giovanni. I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Emmaline Merryweather,” Mick said gamely, deciding to put of all of his cards on the table. “During the course of my investigation, I discovered that the deceased, Martha Tabrum, was in possession of a piece of jewelry belonging to Miss Merryweather. So, naturally, I figured that there must be a connection between the two women.”

  “None that I am aware of,” the police commissioner replied, punctuating the denial with a brusque shake of the head.

  “Nevertheless, I was hoping that you would let me examine the police file for the Tabrum murder.”

  The monocle slipped from Sir Charles’s eye socket. “Under no circumstance. The case is closed, and the records already filed at Scotland Yard.”

  “Is there any chance you could un-file them?” Mick entreated, refusing to toss in the towel.

  “I will do no such thing, Mister Giuseppe.”

  “The name is Giovanni,” Mick corrected.

  “Ah, yes. How remiss of me. Giuseppe is the name of my gardener. As I said, the Tabrum case is closed. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  Mick had no choice but to let the bastard pass. Fuck. Another dead end.

  As he turned to leave, Mick was surprised when a thin, twenty-something man with blond hair approached, his features vaguely familiar.

  “I h-heard you m-mention Emmaline,” the young man stuttered, having a hard time looking Mick in the eye.

  “Yeah, you know her?”

  The younger man’s lips twitched, clearly amused by the question. “Sh-she’s my s-sister.”

  All of a sudden Mick knew why the stuttering man looked so familiar—he had Lettitia’s gray eyes and Emmaline’s blond hair.

  “Mick Giovanni,” he said, thrusting out his hand. He couldn’t help but wonder why Lettitia had failed to mention that she had a brother.

  “F-Freddy Mer-Merryweather,” the other man replied, shaking Mick’s hand.

  “When was the last time that you saw your sister Emmaline?”

  The question clearly took young Freddy by surprise. Shoving his hands into his pants’ pockets, he stared at the floor and said, “Not s-since she ran off with the stable m-m-master. She shamed the entire family.”

  “And she also shamed Lord Wortham, as I understand it,” Mick goaded, hoping to get Freddy’s take on events.

  Freddy didn’t disappoint, vigorously nodding his head. “Emmaline wanted p-poetry and flowers from Wortham. She wanted him to bow to her every whim. She didn’t understand that it was she who had been b-bestowed with the honor of Wortham’s attention.”

  Deducing that Freddy didn’t know anything about Emmaline’s disappearance, nor that he cared about his sister’s whereabouts, Mick said, “Thanks for answering my questions. It was nice meeting you.”

  As he took his departure from the smoking room, Mick caught sight of an ornately framed portrait hanging on the wall. He assumed that it was a painting of the great man himself, Lord Wortham. Dark-haired with a thin, well-groomed mustache, Wortham had the air of bored elegance inbred amongst those born with a silver spoon up their ass.

  Emmaline Merryweather got out of that relationship in the nick of time.

  Suddenly inundated with the noxious smell emitted by the mansion’s gas lighting—not to mention the mingled aromas of at least a hundred perfumed bosoms and that many sets of pomaded whiskers—Mick headed toward a set of French doors that opened onto a terrace.

  As fate would have it, the master of the house had also taken that same moment to catch a breath of fresh air.

  “I got to hand it to you, Lord Wortham, you know how to throw a helluva party,” Mick said as he made his approach.

  “And who might you be?” Wortham inquired in a patronizingly cool tone of voice.

  Taking an immediate dislike to the man who stood across from him, Mick replied, “Bond… James Bond.”

  “Since we’ve not previously met, I can only assume that my fiancée invited you. Her set of acquaintances tend toward the, ahem, eclectic.”

  “Actually, I came with a lady friend.”

  “But of course,” Lord Wortham said dismissively.

  “Hey, if you’re implying that I’m some sort of male escort, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Ah, here is the very lady of whom I just spoke.” Lord Wortham gestured to someone standing directly behind Mick. “Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Miss Lettitia Merryweather.”

  Chapter 7

  As the gut-wrenching realization sank in, Mick felt like he’d just taken a belly-flop off the high dive. Not quite as hard-hitting as when Diane had told him that she wanted a divorce, but damned close.

  “Mister Giovanni and I are already acquainted with one another,” Lettitia announced, evading Mick’s pointed stare.

  “ ‘Giovanni?’ The man told me that his name is Bond.”

  Clearly befuddled, Lettitia shot Mick a questioning glance. “Why in heaven’s name would you tell him that?”

  “You had to have been there,” he answered with a negligent shrug.

  “I deduce from your surname that you’re an Italian,” the lord of the manor intoned. “Unfortunately, my command of the Italian language is limited to opera libretto.”

  Because there was a very real possibility that he might throw a punch in Lord Wortham’s direction, Mick stuffed his right hand into his trouser pocket.

  Sweeping his gaze over Lettitia, Wortham’s washed-out blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Am I correct to assume that you are the ‘lady friend’ that this Giovanni fellow mentioned?”

  Lettitia nervously bit her lower lip. Mick had interviewed enough suspects over the years to know that his lady friend just realized that she had to tread lightly.

  “If you will recall, I mentioned that I had retained an investigator to look into Emmaline’s disappearance,” she replied somewhat hesitantly.

  A look of pure irritation flashed across Wortham’s face before he schooled it behind a bland expression.
“I thought that you’d let that man go. Something about his slovenly work habits as I recall.”

  Lettitia smiled weakly. “This is his replacement.”

  “You sure know how to kick a guy when he’s down,” Mick muttered under his breath, getting the distinct impression that he was of no more consequence to Lettitia than a new air filter. Necessary, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you forgot to replace it.

  Taking a step toward Lettitia, Wortham snatched hold of her left hand. The proprietary gesture caused Mick to grind his back teeth.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?”

  Once again, Lettitia nervously licked her lips. Watching her, Mick wondered what had happened to the strident female who’d earlier lectured him on the subjugation of women.

  “The ring is… is still at the jeweler’s being re-sized,” she sputtered, pulling her hand free of Wortham’s grasp.

  “But you dropped off the ring last week. I daresay enough time has passed for the jeweler to have made the adjustment.”

  Annoyed with the way that Wortham was browbeating her, Mick stepped forward. Lettitia instantly warned him off with a terse shake of the head.

  “If you must know, I… I’ve been rather busy.”

  “That is what the servants are for, my dear.” Wortham waved a hand in Mick’s direction. “No doubt, Giovanni can stop by the jeweler’s tomorrow and pick up the ring for you.”

  Mick yanked his fist out of his pocket. “Listen, you little—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Lettitia quickly interjected. “I shall attend to the matter myself.”

  “See that you do,” Wortham snapped, his domineering tone indicating that it was a command, not a request. “Ah! Your parents approach. Alfred… Davinia… a pleasure to see you both.”

  Glancing at the couple who’d just stepped onto the terrace, Mick was unable to see the family resemblance. Alfred Merryweather, his bald pate fringed with curly red hair, was a short, beefy man who looked like a teamster in a tux; whereas Davinia Merryweather had the fragile look of a lost child, her blond tresses giving her an almost ethereal air. With her jet black hair and statuesque build, Lettitia appeared to be the odd one out in the Merryweather family.

  “Lord Wortham, you’re the very man that I wish to see.” Alfred Merryweather greeted his host in a hearty tone of voice. “Have you given any more consideration to that matter we recently discussed?”

  “I assume that you’re referring to my potential sponsorship of you for the House of Commons?” When his future father-in-law anxiously bobbed his head, Wortham, continuing in a blasé tone, said, “Since I’m still undecided, I suggest that we further discuss the matter at the hunting party this weekend… when we finalize the details of Lettitia’s dowry.”

  Mick watched as the color drained from Lettitia’s face. Granted, he was only an observer in this family soap opera, but he had the distinct impression that Lettitia was being used as a bargaining chip in a political deal that the two men were trying to broker. Which meant that there was far more to the engagement than met the eye.

  Then again, what do I know? Maybe Lettitia couldn’t wait to become Lady Wortham and live out the rest of her days in a gaudy mansion that would have done Elvis proud.

  His facial features reworking into a glower, Alfred turned to Lettitia and said, “What’s this I hear about some upstart American stirring up trouble with Sir Charles?”

  Able to speak for himself, Mick immediately stepped forward. “I’m Mick Giovanni. Lettitia has retained me to look into your daughter’s disappearance.”

  “Good, God. Why would she do an asinine thing like that?” Alfred barked, a blue vein visibly throbbing in his temple.

  “Because the Metropolitan Police refuse to raise so much as a finger to find Emmaline,” Lettitia informed her father. Mick was glad to see that she’d regained some of her fighting spirit.

  Clearly incensed, Alfred took a threatening step toward his daughter. “I forbid you to mention her name in my house.”

  “Then it is fortuitous that this social gathering is being held at Lord Wortham’s residence and not yours,” Lettitia shot back.

  A still hush suddenly fell over the terrace. Although Mick wasn’t an expert—his bachelor’s degree was in sociology, not psychology—the exchange between Lettitia and her father had “dysfunctional” written all over it.

  “Perhaps we should adjourn to the house,” Davinia Merryweather suggested in a voice so feathery soft she was barely audible.

  “An excellent suggestion.” An amused smile hovered on Lord Wortham’s thin lips. “There is a distinct chill in the air.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you guys.” Considering that enough of a farewell, Mick stepped away from the group and headed for the house. Still irate over Lettitia’s memory lapse—if her blatant failure to mention her engagement could be deemed as such—he figured she could fend for herself.

  Once he was back inside the mansion, Mick pushed his way through the milling crowd of bejeweled ladies and tuxedoed gents. After retrieving his hat and cape from a footman, he exited through the front door, helping himself to an unlit lantern he spied on the stoop.

  Lantern in hand, he strode toward the line of parked carriages. Discovering Babu napping on the carriage box, Mick nudged him awake and told him where he wanted to go, causing the Indian coachman to give a startled exclamation in his native tongue.

  A few moments later, settled inside the carriage, Mick spied one of Lettitia’s evening gloves on the floor. Picking it up, he crushed it in his hand before tossing it onto the opposite seat.

  “Goddamn her.”

  “Yes, no doubt he will,” Lettitia announced as she opened the carriage door and peered inside. “What are you doing in here?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m leaving,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Such as…?”

  Mick folded his arms over his chest, confident that the answer would send her packing.

  “Such as breaking into Scotland Yard so I can steal Martha Tabrum’s murder file.”

  * * *

  “In that case, I’m coming with you.”

  Mick Giovanni shot Lettitia a withering glance; clearly the man was in high dudgeon. “The hell you are.”

  Not to be deterred, she lifted the skirt of her evening gown and hefted herself into the carriage, taking the vacant seat opposite the scowling detective. “If you’re going to go traipsing about Scotland Yard after hours, you will need an accomplice.”

  “Sorry, we ain’t taking applications.”

  “You, sir, have no choice in the matter. Either you let me accompany you or I shall return to the soiree and inform Sir Charles of your nefarious scheme.”

  “Damn you, woman.”

  “I believe we have already adjudicated that point.”

  Cursing liberally, Mick banged on the carriage roof, signaling to Babu that they were ready to depart. As the carriage rattled down the cobbled lane, a tense silence ensued.

  “So, Tisha, when were you planning to tell me about your engagement to Lord Stick-Up-His-Ass?” Mick demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a jagged knife blade. One aimed right at the heart.

  Although she was sorely tempted to chastise him for his crude language, Lettitia intuited that doing so would only add fuel to the flame. Instead, she said, “We met two days ago. Hardly enough time for you to become privy to all of the inconsequential details of my private life. In time, I would have informed you of my engagement to Percival.”

  “His first name is Percival. Christ, why am I not surprised?” Mick snickered caustically. “And since when is a marriage engagement inconsequential?”

  “In light of Emmaline’s disappearance, my engagement is just that, inconsequential.”

  “Oh, but I beg to differ with you on that point, Lady Wortham.”

  “Please do not call me that!”

  “Why not?
That’ll be your new title soon enough. Speaking of which… when did Percival pop the question?”

  “Lord Wortham asked for my hand three months ago.” Uncomfortable with the line of inquiry, Lettitia peered out the side window.

  “Was that before or after Emmaline disappeared?”

  Lettitia swiveled her head back in Mick’s direction, unnerved by the insinuating tone in his voice. “He proposed to me several days after Emmaline’s initial disappearance. Although why that detail should be important is beyond—”

  “Who’s in charge of this investigation?” he growled.

  “You are. Much to my regret.”

  “Hey, if that’s the way you feel about it, let’s pull a U-ie and head over to Madame Mazursky’s house so I can retrieve the time traveling device. I’m more than ready to say hasta la vista to this hellhole.”

  Although Lettitia didn’t comprehend the letter of his remarks, she did understand the gist of them. Mick wished to return posthaste to the future.

  “I apologize for my last remark,” she said contritely. “I spoke in anger.”

  “Apology accepted.” Mick bestowed his forgiveness with a lordly nod of the head.

  Ignoring his antics, Lettitia expanded on her mea culpa. “Furthermore, I would like to apologize for my grievous lapse in judgment. I should have informed you of my engagement to Lord Wortham. I am sorry that I did not.”

  A long, drawn-out silence ensued. Lettitia silently counted the seconds. When she reached the count of twenty, Mick finally deigned to speak.

  “Are you also sorry that you kissed me?”

  Unwillingly, Lettitia called to mind those brief moments of stolen passion. Because she was foresworn to another, she should have resisted Mick’s advances. But she did not. Could not.

  “No. I am not the least bit sorry,” she answered truthfully.

  “Guess you were just slumming, huh?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, seeing how the other half makes love,” he clarified. “Well, I’ll tell you how we make love, Tisha; we groan, and we grunt, and we get real sweaty.”

  A ragged breath caught in her throat; the image that Mick conjured was tantalizingly carnal.