The Detective and the Baroness (The Duke’s Bastards #1)

Prologue

Late October 1898

London, England

“D etective Simpson!”

Mitchell groaned, straining to open his eyes. He heard a woman’s voice, one somewhat familiar. His bewildered brain tried to place it because the sound of the breathy voice sent frissons of pleasure through his aching body.

“Sergeant, please wake up!” The lady gripped his arm and gave it a vigorous shake.

Mitchell’s mind was a haze, struggling to understand what had happened to him. The revelation that the late, loathsome Duke of Chellenham was his birth father had left him reeling these past weeks. As a result, he’d found himself caught up in the lives of certain aristocrats, even ending up agreeing to act as a backup in an intricate plan to retrieve a kidnap victim from the Notting Dale slum area.

The thief and kidnapper, Jedidiah Danaher, was unpredictable. Mitchell knew that made him particularly dangerous. So Mitchell stayed close by with a small contingent of constables as his friends went forward with their plan. Mitchell closed his eyes tight, reliving the event. It unfolded in his mind as if in slow motion. When he heard gunshots, Mitchell and his constables entered the fray, and during a scuffle, Mitchell saw Danaher point a revolver at his friend, Viscount Tensbridge. He pushed him out of the way only to be shot instead.

After that, Mitchell did not remember much else. Someone transported him to the house of his half-brother, the new Duke of Chellenham, where they called in a doctor. But Mitchell distinctly remembered this lady’s voice through his numerous fever dreams, as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He recollected her soothing touch as she’d laid a cool cloth on his forehead when he’d been burning up and covered him with blankets when he felt cold. The lady had told him that all would be well, that he would recover.

Not that he had genuinely believed it.

“Mitchell!”

The sound brought him more fully awake. He groaned and placed his blurry gaze on the owner of the frantic voice.

His vision cleared, and when Mitchell saw who had awakened him, a powerful yearning tore through him—just as it had the first time he’d seen her a few weeks ago.

Lady Corrine Addington, Baroness.

The Honorable Corrine Edgeworth, the only daughter of Viscount Rothley. The recently married bride to Travis Addington, the new baron. Travis Addington was a distant cousin to the recently passed old baron, Gilbert Addington.

He might be sick and injured, yet Mitchell still could pluck out relevant facts stockpiled in his organized police detective brain. At least, that boded well for his recovery. Why was Lady Addington here? Then he remembered something else. Of course. Before she’d married, she had been a nurse. His friends had told him so. It made the baroness all the more fascinating. “I am glad you are awake, Sergeant. Do you remember me?”

Remember? How could I forget?

“I was at the Galway Investigative Agency when you came looking for Viscount Tensbridge and Miss Ellingford. We met again when I assisted in nursing Miss Ellingford’s injuries.”

Mitchell remembered it all. He recalled locking gazes with her, and the potent blast of awareness and arousal that had gripped him tight—just like now.

“I heard that your injuries resulted from a police raid, so I offered my medical services.”

“How long have you been here, my lady?” Mitchell croaked.

“Since your friends brought you here five days ago.”

Five days? “What about the baron, your husband?”

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he wondering where you are?”

The baroness shrugged. “I highly doubt it. We are separated, at least temporarily.”

Already? Weren’t they married only a few months ago? Why did the prospect of her estrangement from her husband fill him with hope? It was inappropriate, particularly since Mitchell had only met Lady Addington.

“I must tell the others you are awake.”

“Others?” he rasped.

“Your family and friends. I will fetch them.”

Family? He had no family. His parents died years ago.

There was Damon Cranston, his recently revealed half-brother, and the new Duke of Chellenham. Why had he been brought to Damon’s residence instead of a hospital? Still, he’d probably received better care here—a duke could afford top-notch medical attention. What did it matter where he recovered? The fact that he had been shot was the paramount occurrence.

His thoughts and emotions were chaotic and had been for a few weeks. Discovering he was the bastard son of a duke was just one of the shocking twists and turns Mitchell’s life had taken lately. But learning he was one of possibly dozens upon dozens of illegitimate offspring from that same late duke was particularly shocking. Then he’d received his recent surprising but welcome promotion to sergeant. Now, this injury on top of it all? Before he could reply, Lady Addington departed, leaving an enticing aroma of vanilla and roses in her wake.

Damon Cranston stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Unfortunately, the utterly alluring baroness did not return with him. And damn it, he’d never thanked her for her care.

“I am relieved,” Damon said, exhaling. “It was touch and go there for a few days. But still, you must be careful. Why don’t you stay here as long as it takes to recover?”

“Thank you,” Mitchell replied quietly. “The baroness, why was she here?”

“Lady Addington volunteered once again to offer medical assistance.”

Right. She had said that. But why was the baroness meeting with the ladies who ran the Galway Investigative Agency? And multiple times? The questions he longed to ask were piling up. Although, how tempting it would be to have Damon call her back into the room so he could enjoy her comforting presence. “Where am I, Clarendon Place or the Duke’s house at Queen Anne’s Gate?”

“Clarendon Place. The duke’s residence is in the last weeks of its renovation. The children wish to see you, but I said you were still too ill for company. And by looking at you, that seems to be the case.” Damon smiled teasingly. “No offense.”

Children?

Mitchell had only met his assorted much younger half-brothers and half-sister a few weeks ago. Yes, he had more ‘family’ than he knew what to do with. All of them were the progeny of the detestable Edward Cranston, the late Duke of Chellenham. But Mitchell wasn’t ready to deal with them now.

“Thank you. But I cannot see the children in this condition. Not for a while. Is everyone well? Tensbridge and the rest? Is Danaher dead?”

“A body was discovered in the burned building. The police allege the corpse to be Jedidiah Danaher but state that, scientifically speaking, it will be difficult to know for sure. Everyone is well. I don’t suppose you can talk about what happened.”

“No. It is not my story to tell. Certain aspects—I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Say no more. And as far as seeing the children, I surmised you would not be up to having rambunctious tots skipping about your room. By the by, your supervisor, Inspector Stanhope, came to see you, but you were not yet conscious. He wanted an update on your medical condition.”

Mitchell’s blood chilled. “Why?” A sickening feeling settled in Mitchell’s guts. Stanhope would take immediate steps to replace him if he weren’t up to co-running the F Division Lancaster Station near the Notting Dale district.

“Doctor Drew Hornsby will relay that to you. He’s been seeing to your care.” Damon strode toward the door, opened it, and waved in the young doctor. Once Hornsby arrived, Damon left them alone.

Mitchell tried to move his injured leg but couldn’t. Panic tore through him, and he elevated his head and looked down the length of the bed.

Oh, thank Christ. He still had his leg. A wave of relief overtook him.

Doctor Hornsby stood by his bed. “Awake at last, Sergeant Simpson. I will be blunt: we almost had to take the leg. Sepsis started to settle in the wound, but I used carbolic acid on the bandages, and luckily, the danger passed.”

Sepsis? Wasn’t that derived from the Greek word sepo , which translated to ‘I rot.’ His late adoptive parents ensured he obtained a good education, which came in handy more than once. Mitchell flared his nostrils. Thankfully, there was no putrid smell. “And what is my diagnosis?”

The young doctor pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat upon it. “It will be several months before you can return to duty, Sergeant. I am sorry.”

The crushing disappointment moving through him was potent, indeed. “If at all?”

“I believe with a sufficient recovery period and rehabilitation exercises, you will regain full use of your leg, at least enough to return to work. Your inspector said he will come by tomorrow to discuss your sick leave.”

Mitchell groaned. Payment received while on medical leave for the Metropolitan Police was barely sufficient for basic survival. How in hell would he live? His savings were for his retirement. He really didn’t want to touch that money, if possible.

“You will have to use a cane in the interim. And there may be sporadic pain,” the doctor continued. “But with focus and determination, you shall recover. I place my reputation on it.”

“In other words, don’t wallow in self-pity and get on with it,” Mitchell growled, allowing himself a moment of temper for his unfortunate fate.

Hornsby pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “Yes. That is the gist of it. I believe your brother intends to ask you to stay with him as you recover.”

Oh, no.

They hardly knew each other, and besides, Damon was to be married. The duke didn’t need a grumpy older half-brother wandering around the residence like a restless beast.

“I can make my own arrangements. And Chellenham is my half-brother.”

“The duke guessed you would say exactly that, so I have another proposition. You can stay with me. That way, I can assist you in your recovery. I live in a large flat not far from here.”

Mitchell blinked several times, shocked at the suggestion. “Why would you make such an offer to a perfect stranger?”

“Well, it turns out we are not exactly strangers—in the biological sense.”

Mitchell stared at the doctor in disbelief.

No. Not another one.

Damon’s father, the old duke, was a miserable, egotistical excuse for a man who held a deep conviction in eugenics. Edward Cranston believed he possessed a superior bloodline and ensured he spread that lineage far and wide. It was a complicated tale, not one Mitchell wanted to discuss right now. But observing Hornsby, he could see it: those tell-tale sky-blue eyes, the light-colored hair, and the tall frame. Almost all of the Duke’s offspring had the same physical attributes, himself included.

“How and when did you find out?” Mitchell whispered.

“Only recently. My mother passed when I was nine, and Tremain Hornsby, Viscount Hawkestone, adopted me shortly thereafter. On her deathbed, she told my adopted father, then a vicar, who my birth father was and made him swear never to tell anyone. But when Edward Cranston died a few months ago, my father decided to inform me of the truth. You see, my mother and I had been living under a false name—she was hiding me from Cranston. Quite the sordid story…”

Mitchell could not be more shocked if Hornsby had smacked him across the head with a pine board. “Have you told Damon?”

“Yesterday. Chellenham promptly invited me into his club. And more generously, into his life and family.”

That sounded like Damon. The club in question was The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. “He invited me, as well. I’m thinking about joining.”

“Perhaps we can join, but maybe later. For now, let us form our own group. I appreciate the duke’s offer considering their charity work, but I would like us to focus on another purpose.” Hornsby reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is the list Damon’s mother gave him that started him on his journey of discovery. It contains the names of all the illegitimate children the duchess knew of. I say we find these people, taking on one name at a time.”

Mitchell was on that list. He had no idea what to say.

“I’m overwhelming you. I do apologize,” Hornsby said softly. “I’m still trying to digest the news myself. I did not expect this turn of events and I cannot explain why I feel compelled to seek out these people. It is not for family’s sake, as I have a loving family with the Hornsbys, as you did with the Simpsons. Damon told me of the particulars.”

“We were fortunate to be taken in by good people,” Mitchell murmured.

“Yes. But how many on this list were not? What say we work together and form a support group of sorts. Do good works for those who need it, whether on the list or not.”

The idea began to germinate in Mitchell’s mind. He liked Damon more with each passing day, but joining his half-brother’s exclusive club filled with aristocratic and wealthy members did not appeal to him, even though they were honorable men. “Let me see the list.”

Hornsby handed him the paper. Ten names. Eight males and two females. “There is a ledger full of names beyond this list. We just have to find it.”

Hornsby nodded. “The duke told me about that and the foundling home.”

Yes, the foundling home—Chellenhome. And another discussion to add to the mounting agenda. The late duke sold his illegitimate offspring, as well as those of other wealthy men of business or the peerage, for profit. When he’d discovered he had been sold to his adoptive parents—like a piece of merchandise—it had stung. But he didn’t blame the Simpsons, not at all. No, he blamed the late duke for taking advantage of a couple desperate for a child, charging such an exorbitant price, it decimated their savings. Mitchell returned his attention to the paper. The next name on the list—Liam Hallahan, pub owner.

Following through with this idea would be like ripping off a bandage and exposing a better left-alone wound. But this quest would give Mitchell some purpose while he recovered. He was a detective, after all. There was no reason he could not do some private investigative work on the side.

“You need to think about it. I understand,” Hornsby said solemnly. “Take all the time you need. Though I may not show it outwardly, I’m still reeling from finding out who fathered me. I’m sure you are as well.”

That was an understatement. It had shaken the very foundation of Mitchell’s life. “It was bad enough to find out I was a duke’s by-blow, as society calls it, but discovering he was, in essence, a Dickens’s villain, selling children, including his own? Yes, I’m reeling.” Mitchell exhaled. “Look, Hornsby. I don’t need time to think about your offer. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie around and bemoan my fate. Doing good works was the reason I considered joining Damon’s group, but your proposal intrigues me more.”

Hornsby nodded. “Good. Why not offer assistance to those who share our unfortunate bloodline? Why not do good, not just for the names on the list but for anyone in the periphery? What better way to expunge Edward Cranston’s loathsome legacy than banding together and rising above it?”

“Well said. I say we forge ahead,” Mitchell declared firmly. “And I have just the name for our group. The Duke’s Bastards.”