The Matter of the Secret Bride

“. . . this fatal, ill-starred connection so un fortunate, probably, for both the parties concerned.”

Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert

Josiah Poole turned and found himself facing a tall, pale man in a black coat.

The fellow was impeccably turned out, with a tall beaver hat and stovepipe trousers. Poole thought he had the look of a clerk, with that black coat and cravat. He was stooped and ink-stained like one, as well, with the hard, knowing eyes of a man who spent his life pouring over ledgers, looking for the smallest mistakes.

It was early June, but summer’s warmth had yet to penetrate the gritty air of this particular neighborhood. That, Poole told himself, was why he shivered.

Up until now, Poole had been enjoying a good morning. He’d just secured a gratifying new client—a young man from a highly placed family. Being plump in his pocket gave Poole a satisfaction that even London’s shadows could not dim.

“We have not previously met,” the clerkish man told Poole. “I, however, have heard great things about your reputation as a man of business.”

“Indeed?” Poole’s chest expanded at the compliment.

Poole was a solicitor. His specialty lay in straightening out the affairs of gentlemen who found themselves in unfortunate financial circumstances, particularly those who had been relegated to the confines of that institution colloquially known as “the sponging house.”

English public life had numerous peculiarities. One was the existence of numerous enterprises dedicated to the collecting and transferring of debt and the punishing of debtors. The sponging house was part of this vast mechanism. A bastard cross between a boardinghouse and a private prison, this house lodged debtors on a temporary basis. The idea was to give them a last chance to discharge their obligations before they were escorted to a less comfortable sort of prison, such as Newgate or the Marshalsea.

That the fees charged by the sponging houses tended to increase the amount of debt owed by the prisoners was one of the little contradictions of English law that Poole chose not to bother his head about. His business was to pull his clients free of the machinery and collect his own fee.

His newest client, for example, had been deposited into the house run by Henry Ross. The young man had made a substantial payment to Poole on the understanding that Poole would help bring a speedy resolution to his various difficulties—preferably before his noble father learned of his current whereabouts. Poole would help this bewildered unfortunate raise money to pay his debts or, at the least, find a friend to stand his bail. Poole was always diligent in his efforts and left no avenue unexplored, however crooked and poorly illuminated the path might be.

Poole squinted at the clerkish stranger in front of him now. This man was most definitely not one of Ross’s inmates. He noted the quality of the man’s black coat. He further noted that while his fingers might be ink-stained, his shirt was unblemished white lawn. His collar points remained crisp, despite the damp morning air.

“I’m sorry,” said Poole. “Who did you say you were?”

“A man with a proposal for you,” the other answered smoothly. “If you’d care to walk with me? We can have a drink and discuss matters.”

“I do not care to walk anywhere with a man who will not give his name.” His business, by its nature, attracted quite a few flattering ne’er-do-wells and some genuinely dangerous men.

“A sensible precaution.” The man’s smile was thin. “My name is Carmichael.”

You’re lying, thought Poole at once. “Have you a card?”

Instead of bringing out a card case, Mr. Carmichael—whoever he might really be—pulled his pocketbook from his coat and extracted a folded paper. Poole opened this. With his practiced eye, Poole quickly ascertained it was a draft on the private bank of Ames & King. For twenty-five pounds.

“Shall we see about that drink, Mr. Poole?” Carmichael inquired.

Poole folded the draft and tucked it into his own pocket. Mr. Carmichael made no objection.

“Very well. If you would care to lead the way, Mr. Carmichael?”

In short order, Poole found himself seated in the best tavern the neighborhood had to offer—which was, admittedly, not saying much—and being treated to a bottle of the best red wine the landlord had in his cellar. Again, it was not much, but it showed that Mr. Carmichael had more in his pocket than just the one bank draft.

“Your health, sir.” Poole raised his glass and drank. “May I assume you—or some client of yours—have need of a solicitor?”

Carmichael returned his wintry smile. “As it happens, I do represent another party, and they find themselves in need of a person with your particular set of skills. They are willing to pay handsomely for your time. And your discretion.”

“Discretion is everything to a man in my business,” said Poole. “What is it your client requires?”

“My client has an interest in a matter that is heading to trial, Mr. Poole. A difficult and public business. A divorce, in fact.”

“Not my usual line of work, Mr. Carmichael.”

“I am aware,” replied Carmichael. “You prefer preying upon debtors. But in this case, there is a marriage certificate, indicating a prior connection with a person yet living.”

“Ah.” Poole allowed his face to assume a sympathetic expression. He’d had plenty of practice at it.

While it was true that Poole did not normally take on marital cases, it was also true that such work could be quite lucrative. Especially when the involved party was anxious for a result.

Like many other aspects of English law, divorce was a convoluted and contradictory affair. For the most part, however, it was fairly easy for a man to bring suit against a wife who strayed from the confines of domestic bliss. The church, the law, and society at large frowned heavily upon female indiscretion.

But there existed several impediments to the man seeking to end an unsatisfactory union. There was, for example, the matter of “recrimination.” If the defendant (say, the wife) could offer positive proof that the complainant (say, the husband) had behaved at least as badly as she had, the divorce would be denied.

Proof of a second marriage would serve such a purpose extremely well.

Poole took another drink of wine and considered. Exposing bigamy did mean the second marriage would be declared invalid. It would also, however, mean that damages and support would have to be paid to the second wife, or at least to her male relations. Also, if proved, bigamy brought the very real probability of jail, not to mention the social ignominy that must accompany such a revelation.

A man might be willing to go to unusual lengths to prevent any of these things from happening.

Poole looked at Carmichael again. He looked at his good coat and his spotless cravat. Poole kept abreast of public affairs. He read the papers religiously, because one never knew what one might find in the advertisements or the agony columns. Divorce cases that made it all the way to Parliament were widely reported.

There was, in fact, much talk of a divorce in the works. An extremely public and prominent divorce, one that had already gotten quite ugly. That divorce brought with it rumors of a previous marriage. Rumors that had been circulating for years. Pamphlets had been published. Accusations traded.

No. Poole grabbed the bottle and refilled his own glass. Couldn’t be.

Except . . . that coat was of excellent quality. The man who wore it was hard, close, and clever, and thought nothing of handing over twenty-five pounds simply to secure Poole’s attention.

Poole took another swallow of wine. He noted that Carmichael had not touched his. “May I ask you something, Mr. Carmichael?”

Carmichael hesitated a moment before he nodded. His face remained inscrutable. Poole was impressed. He’d played at cards as well as at the law for many years. A truly unreadable man was a rarity.

“This client of yours,” began Poole. Carmichael opened his mouth, but Poole cut him off. “We’ll say, rather, this person your client has taken an interest in. Public man, is he? Very highly placed?”

Carmichael did not so much as move, which gave Poole his answer. Poole felt his heart—a normally insensible organ—thud heavily.

It could be. Well, well, well. It could indeed be.

“Wife been living abroad, maybe?” Poole went on. “Suspected of shenanigans with foreigners and all sorts?”

That, it seemed, was quite enough for Mr. Carmichael. “Mr. Poole, do you wish to undertake this job? I can promise you payment of two hundred pounds upon delivery of the document and verification that it is the true and original certificate. However . . .” Carmichael leaned just a little closer. Poole smelled peppermint and stale coffee on his breath. “Whether you accept my offer or not, if I discover you have breathed one word beyond what is strictly necessary for this business, I promise you will vanish from the face of the earth so completely, it will be as if you’d never been born.”