“O-of course not,” Zechariah said. “My apologies.”

He doubted she wanted him to ask how thick any instruments he might have beaten her with were, let alone what she was being disciplined for. He doubted, even more, that she wanted hear that the most she could hope for was her husband’s shame, that his wife be rendered into such a shameful state by his drunken fits.

Greedy with tea or not … he wanted this woman to have a better future than the one he saw.

For a moment, he looked very young. Wide-eyed and lips pursed, searching for an answer better than the one he had available to her. An answer that led to some sort of safety from this volatile man’s furies, from the callous brutishness of a man who saw himself as entitled to others’ destruction just because they talked back.

“… If he has assaulted you and had a proven infidelity, Mrs. Carrington, then you might qualify for divorce under the Crown. I am sorry,” he hastily added. “You deserve more than that. Family court is not my expertise, but I can consult with someone who knows more about those aspects.”

He was not optimistic. London had just passed an ordinance this year against beating one’s wife between 10PM and 7AM … lest it wake the neighbors up.