“They’re my family,” I say, vexed by her conventionality, defensive on my friends’ behalf as well as my own. After my father disappeared, I had no friends until I met Hugh and Mick more than twenty years later. They’re as dear to me as Sally and my father, who are my only blood kin. “If you would get to know them, you would learn what good men they are.”
“But what will people think?” Mrs. Barrett wails.
“I don’t care what they think.” Beneath my demure facade, I have a temper, and I’m on the verge of losing it and telling her that I don’t care what she thinks.
Barrett clears his throat. “Sarah, why don’t you and I visit with our guests?”
“Good idea,” Sir Gerald says. With more kindly tact than I thought he had, he says to Mrs. Barrett, “What did you think of Princess Beatrice’s wedding gown?”
Thankful to escape, I accompany Barrett to other tables, and he introduces me to people whose names I immediately forget. Then I discover that his mother has seated Mick beside my friend Catherine Price, a beautiful young, blond actress. Mick is in love with Catherine, but she considers him an enemy.
“There’s a good show at the Alhambra,” Mick says to her. “How ’bout I take you tomorrow night?”
Catherine sniffs. “I’ve already seen it.” She’s angry because last winter he ruined her romance with a wealthy swain.
“Aw, for cripes’ sake!” Mick says. “You’re lucky you found out that guy was no good. Ain’t you ever gonna forgive me?”
Her blue eyes fix him with an icy glare. “Not in a million years.” She sees Barrett and me, smiles brightly, and says, “Congratulations!”
We chat with her and the other guests while Mick broods. I feel bad because his problems with Catherine were a direct result of investigating a murder with me. At the next table, Hugh is arguing with one of Mr. Barrett’s police cronies.
“If I’d had my way, I would’ve arrested you and thrown you in the nick along with the other degenerates,” says the crony, an older man with a squashed face like a bulldog’s. “But no—the boss said to let you go because you’re a lord.”
My heart plummets. This man must have been on the vice squadron the night of the raid. Whenever the subject comes up, Hugh usually shrivels into mortified silence. Sometimes he manages to turn detractors into friends—such is the power of his charm. Normally a most courteous and kind person, he wouldn’t dream of quarreling at my wedding breakfast, but lately his demeanor has changed. He’s devastated by his recent breakup with Sir Gerald’s son Tristan Mariner, a former priest who fled to Switzerland. His usually sleek blond hair is mussed, his green eyes bleary, and his reddened complexion tells me that he’s been drowning his sorrows in too much champagne.
“If I’d had my way,” Hugh says, “you would have caught Jack the Ripper. But no—you coppers are good for nothing except persecuting people who’ve never caused you any harm and scratching your behinds.”
I want to clap my hand over Hugh’s mouth. The Ripper is a sensitive subject with the police, whose failure to catch the notorious killer made them the butt of public scorn. Hugh, Barrett, Mick, and I are among the few people who know why the Ripper has never been caught. It’s a deep, dark secret that, if revealed, could send us to the gallows.
His adversary grabs Hugh by the lapels. “You take that back!”
“Or what?” Hugh shoves the man away and laughs. “You’ll cry uncle while I tan your hide on behalf of all us degenerates?”
An appalled hush descends on the room. I’m less upset about Hugh’s making a scene than worried about him. His troubles, like Mick’s, stem from our work, and nevertheless, both my friends have stuck with it—and with me. That’s no small act of friendship and loyalty. I would excuse almost any misbehavior from Hugh and Mick. As I start toward Hugh, intending to escort him from the room, the thin, gray-haired man seated beside him rises, takes him by the arm, and says, “Let’s go home.” It’s Fitzmorris, officially Hugh’s valet, unofficially our housekeeper, manager, cook, and accountant.
As Fitzmorris leads Hugh out of the room, Mrs. Barrett glares after them, then forces a smile and announces, “It’s time to cut the cake.”
Pretending nothing happened, everyone gathers around the huge cake decorated with white frosting scrolls and flowers. Mick takes photographs as Barrett and I cut into it with a silver knife.
A man barges into the hall. Big and thickset, in his forties, he’s dressed in an old tweed jacket that strains across his paunch. His curly, graying brown hair and beard are longer and shaggier than when I last saw him a few weeks ago. He’s John Porter, once a police constable and Barrett’s assistant. His ruddy face wears an ugly smile.
Barrett frowns at him. “You weren’t invited.”
“I just stopped by to pay my respects to the blushing bride.” Porter’s smile turns contemptuous as he beholds me. “I wouldn’t wish the likes of you on anybody except him. Bet he ends up hoping ‘death do you part’ happens sooner rather than later.”
Porter was fired from the police force and blames Barrett and me, although it was his own fault, the result of a scheme to sabotage our last investigation. My temper, already vexed by my mother-in-law, flares at Porter. That he would try to spoil my wedding day!
“It’s not us you should hate,” I tell him. “Inspector Reid put you up to the scheme.” Reid is Barrett’s superior, another person with a grudge against us. “When it went awry, he let you take the punishment.”
Barrett stares Porter down and speaks in a quiet, ominous voice. “Get out.”
As everyone watches in fearful yet eager suspense, my heart pounds, sending currents of dread and excitement through me. I tighten my fingers around the cake knife. When a fight starts, I don’t sit on the sidelines; I pitch in.
Sir Gerald’s two bodyguards advance on Porter. Their heft and menacing expressions brook no defiance. Even as Porter backs away, he jabs his finger at Barrett and me. “I’m going to make you both pay. Just see if I don’t.”
He stalks out, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. Everyone consumes cake and coffee; nobody mentions him; but the festivities are over.
“Your carriage is here,” Sally says to me.
Guests gather outside to see Barrett and me into the carriage we hired to take us to the hotel where we’ll spend our wedding night. We didn’t have time to plan a honeymoon.
Amid the farewells, Mrs. Barrett squeezes my hand hard, kisses my cheek, and whispers, “You’ll think about what I said, won’t you, dear?”
Inside the carriage, riding away from the church, Barrett and I slump back against the seat, exhausted. “Porter will make more trouble,” I say.
Barrett pats my hand. “If the worst he can think of is to crash our wedding breakfast, I don’t think we need to worry.”
Instead of letting the driver take us to the hotel, I tell him to stop at the train station. I have an important rendezvous. Barrett says, “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not a good idea.” Seeing displeasure cloud his expression again, I remind him, “You know why.”