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

Chapter Sixteen

C orrine was not looking forward to this visit with Mitchell only because she loathed to tell him the details of her husband’s bizarre suggestion. This entire situation was mortifying. She had considered more than once breaking it clean with Mitchell, paying his fees, and stating that they could have no further contact as she had decided to stay in the marriage and offer no further details. But in the end, Corrine could not do it. It would be cruel to the extreme. Not only that, but never seeing him again would permanently scar her soul.

Regardless, she had puzzled and ruminated over Travis’s completely inappropriate proposal. If she agreed to stay with him, what would he do? Bring what he deemed suitable men to parade before her? Like she was at Tattersalls, choosing a prime bit of horseflesh. It would not do. The fact that Travis even recommended it wiped away any semblance of goodwill she felt toward him.

But the money. Blast money and all the problems associated with it!

What a damnable muddle.

Thomason entered the room. “Shall I bring tea, my lady?”

Corrine whirled about to face the butler. “How do you know I’m having company?”

“Your note to the sergeant was not properly sealed, my lady. The footman told me. I run this house and need to know the particulars to carry out my duties efficiently.”

“Like informing the baron of any visitors while he stays at his former residence?” Corrine replied sarcastically.

“I do not take sides, my lady. The baron asked if anyone had come here since he departed, and I would not lie to him. I gave him the sergeant’s name and nothing else. Nor would I lie to you. I am aware you and the baron are having difficulties. I do live downstairs. But I assure you I have not spoken of it with anyone. That is the business of this house and no one else. I do not allow the servants to gossip while under this roof or outside of it. I would dismiss them immediately.”

“Thank you, Thomason. I appreciate your discretion. You may bring a tea tray if you please.”

Thomason gave her a slight bow, then quit the room.

Corrine believed the butler as his tone was firm and absolute. But she had more significant problems than gossiping servants. It was past time to acknowledge her feelings toward Mitchell.

They were more than friends.

If this was what falling in love felt like, it was a miserable experience. But only because she could not speak her heart to anyone and could not fully accept her feelings toward Mitchell as long as she remained married. However, in this quiet moment, she wholly embraced the rush of emotions. It brought misery because of her situation but also a surging torrent of bliss, filling her heart to near bursting. Her insides fluttered as if butterflies had been let loose whenever she saw him. Corrine wanted him with a yearning so fierce, she knew not how to contain it.

So, when Thomason announced Mitchell’s arrival, all restraints temporarily melted away. Once the butler left to fetch the tea tray, Corrine ran to Mitchell’s arms. He was shocked at first, then his cane hit the floorboards with a clatter, and he immediately pulled her into his embrace. His strong arms wrapped around her, and Corrine laid her head against his chest. His heart beat as rapidly as hers.

Mitchell gently smoothed her hair. “What is it? What has happened? What can I do to make it better?”

The last question caused tears to shimmer in her eyes, and she felt the fluttering within her turn into rolling waves. The sensation felt like she was falling off a cliff, which she was—falling more deeply in love with this exquisite man. “Just hold me,” she whispered shakily. Corrine could stay like this until the end of time, but Thomason would return with the tray at any moment.

Mitchell pulled her closer and softly kissed her forehead. In that tranquil paradise of mutual affection and tenderness, Corrine lingered in his giving warmth—until she heard the footfalls of the butler. Reluctantly, she stepped back, already missing the comfort of his embrace. “Thomason,” she whispered.

Mitchell immediately picked up his cane and sat on the sofa, while Corrine sat in the wing chair opposite him. The butler entered the room, placed the tray on the table between them, and left without a word. It was as if he could sense the intense emotions swirling about the room.

She caught Mitchell’s gaze. “If only I had met you first.”

His brow furrowed. “I do not like the sound of that.”

She shook her head. “It’s not a dismissal, although I very briefly considered it. So much has happened since we last spoke, and I hardly know where to begin. When last we parted, I came home to find Travis waiting to speak with me.” Corrine told him everything about the conversation, including her innermost thoughts. As she poured their tea, she revealed her husband’s twisted scheme and the reason he’d proposed it. Then, when she passed the plate of sandwiches, she told him of the latest loan and her brother’s late discovery of it. Corrine also gave Mitchell her father’s address.

Mitchell listened intently, slowly nibbling on the cheese and onion sandwich between gulps of tea. For once, he did not keep his emotions hidden. The rapidly changing expression on his face ran from concern to disgust, then anger. “That deviant. To make such a grotesque demand and tie it to debts and your family’s financial survival. Addington’s behavior is questionable, and I doubt his sanity. Regardless, I’m sorely tempted to visit him and pound some sense into him. With my fists. Your father, as well.”

“I’m tempted to encourage you to do that very thing. But we cannot sink to his level. I agree that he’s not acting in a way that is considered normal. What kind of man makes such a twisted proposal? And why? All his blather about heirs, and he is content to have another man’s child be the heir?”

“It makes no sense. He wants society to know he can produce an heir when, by his own admission, he clearly cannot. It appears that becoming a baron laid responsibilities at his feet, and he has no idea how to handle them.” Mitchell’s look turned thoughtful. “Perhaps we can sink to his level—to a point. He has given you two weeks to consider his offer. That gives me time to investigate this loan of your father’s, if it even exists.”

Corrine sipped her tea. “Why would he lie? We can easily check. Besides, my father admitted the loan to Jeffery, though he would not say what he did with the money nor show my brother the supposed loan papers. Perhaps my father lied to Travis when he said he put everything into a financial scheme.” She placed her cup on the saucer. “I agree with your observations on Travis’s character. How can I extricate myself from this mistake of a marriage?”

Mitchell exhaled. “I have asked a friend who studied law at university. The prospect will not be an easy one.”

Corrine listened as Mitchell laid out the options open to her regarding annulment and divorce. She grew more horrified the more he revealed. “Oh, lord. I am truly stuck. Travis will never agree to terms. He made it quite plain that he wishes the marriage to continue and wants an heir.”

“I once heard of a story of an earl and his countess desperate for a legitimate heir. They found out that they couldn’t have children but announced to society that they were expecting, and then the countess was whisked away to an isolated manor in Scotland. She returned seven months later with a baby boy. The heir was an orphaned baby from a tiny village in the Highlands that no one had ever heard of. These types of elaborate secret baby schemes have been done for centuries. This particular tale occurred over one hundred years ago, but the practice is still done. I have no doubt.”

“I’ve heard various stories, too. Yet, the Highlands tale you relayed leaked out, nonetheless. And something like that would have been easier to conceal in the Georgian era.”

“Perhaps. But as you say, there is always gossip about one’s aristocratic lineage. The thing is, the earl and the countess got away with it. You could use this idea to stall Addington.”

Corrine’s eyebrow raised. “Stall?”

“As I said, you have to fight fire with fire. For example, tell him to wait on selling his residence until after Christmas, that it’s difficult to shift a property during the holidays, and that he should stay there until it can be sold. Or anything you can think of. Tell him you need more time. Tell him there are other ways to get an heir, and they need consideration.”

Corrine frowned. “I’m not well-versed in lying. And that is what I will be doing.”

“I’m not one for deceitful actions either. Frankly, I cannot believe I proposed this. Dismiss it out of hand. If you wish for a divorce, you will have to claim adultery and add cruelty or desertion. You must prove it in court, and the details will become fodder for the newspapers. Or you can go for an annulment and claim him impotent.”

Corrine shook her head. “That is no choice at all. It will bring scandal and ruin down on my family and the Addington barony.” She smiled shakily. “We could always run away. Then Travis would have no choice but to divorce me for adultery and desertion. But again, the shame of it all. I honestly do not know what to do.”

“Find a competent solicitor? Stall for time, and allow me and your brother, when he returns, to find all the information we can. Do not give up. Not yet.” Mitchell gave her a crooked grin. “I must admit, running away is tempting. For us to be alone, to explore our feelings? I cannot imagine anything more enticing.”

“Thank you for saying that—about us escaping,” she murmured. “It is vastly enticing.”

“But?”

Corrine sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Even if I manage the divorce, there is the matter of the money owed. I would never ask you or anyone to take on the debt of tens of thousands of pounds. As I said, I am stuck.” Her voice sounded miserable to her own ears.

“One thing at a time. Let’s meet in three days. I will ask Drew to pick you up in his carriage and bring you to Hallahan’s restaurant. We will do it under the cover of night. I think it prudent that we no longer have private meetings at our residences. Why give your detestable husband any more ammunition to use against you?”

Mitchell was right. They could not meet alone like this again. “Doesn’t Hallahan’s become a pub and gaming room in the evenings?”

“There are still tables set aside at the back for those wishing an evening repast. It’s basically leftovers from luncheon, or so Hallahan tells me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “He is very shrewd, using every last crumb he can.” Corrine sighed. “Yes, I will meet you at Hallahan’s. What time?”

“Tell Thomason that you are meeting with Doctor Drew Hornsby to discuss your charity nursing work and will be gone two hours. I will have Drew pick you up at seven sharp.”

“That is clever. Well done.”

“Being a detective has its advantages. It appears I can lie when necessary.”

“And what about…us? Can there be an us?”

*

Mitchell’s heart contracted in pain at her words. When she ran into his arms, he thought he was dreaming. But Corrine felt real, soft, and utterly glorious in his embrace. He never wanted to let go. He also had a physical reaction, but he managed not to make it obvious. Any barriers he had placed between them came tumbling down as he held her close to his rapidly beating heart. “Yes. We must keep the faith that it will work out.” He stood, for if he lingered any longer, he would pull her into his arms again. “We will talk more at dinner about the other aspects of your case. As for now, I will look into your father’s loan immediately.”

Taking his cane, Mitchell came to her side. “Do not get up.” He took her hand and laid a tender kiss upon it. “One day at a time,” he murmured. “We will get through this.”

Turning, he exited the room as swiftly as his aching leg would allow. Nodding to Thomason standing in the hallway, he exited onto the walkway. He loathed leaving her, but he had much to do. Not only concerning her case but also dealing with her father. Corrine was distressed, and Mitchell did not want to add more to her troubles today by telling her what he suspected about the hooded man. Perhaps he’d break the news of the possibility at dinner, in a more relaxed setting. First things first: Corrine’s wayward and reckless father.

Mitchell waved down an approaching hansom cab. “Sixty-nine Baker Street, Marylebone.” It wasn’t a high-end address, but a fashionable one, nonetheless. Seven minutes later, he arrived at the residence to find two men arguing on the front step. The tall, younger man had brown hair shot with dark red, the same shade as Corrine’s hair, or near to it. This had to be Jeffery, her brother. The older man, a few inches shorter, had white-gray hair with bushy white whiskers, and his physicality was lean. He had his arms folded in defiance.

With a disgusted look, the heir apparent turned on his heel and stormed into the house. The viscount strode toward Mitchell’s hansom, motioning to the driver. Mitchell could not hear the conversation, but the viscount must have understood the cab was occupied, for he hailed another cab. Mitchell took his cane and tapped the roof again.

“Yes, sir?”

“Follow that cab at a discreet distance.”

They were off. The viscount’s cab eventually turned onto Westbourne Grove, a chic shopping area in Notting Hill. The busy street was filled with horse-drawn omnibuses, carriages of all sizes, hansom cabs, and several automobiles. The viscount’s cab pulled up in front of Whiteley’s Department Store. The store consisted of a row of shops containing seventeen departments. The viscount exited his cab and entered one of the boutiques. Mitchell grabbed his notebook and pencil from his inside coat pocket and took notes. Rothley had gone into the perfumier and beauty department showroom. Was he buying for a woman, perhaps? Mitchell made a note to return and question the staff.

Rothley wasn’t in the shop long and was soon in his cab traveling out of the West End. Mitchell’s driver followed at a distance. At last, the cab stopped in front of a modest row house. A maid answered the door and let him in. The cab departed. Mitchell wrote the address in his book. Ninety-four Old Street, in northeast London. Then he tapped the roof.

“Yes, sir?”

“Back to Whiteley’s, if you please.”

Once they arrived, Mitchell paid the driver. He gave him a little extra for his deft navigation of the overcrowded London streets and keeping an inconspicuous distance from the viscount’s cab. Mitchell stepped across the threshold of the perfumier shop and was inundated with a blend of evocative scents. The place was fancy and reeked of money, decorated with white Grecian columns, glass display cases, and electric lighting overhead. Female shop assistants manned every case, and many were waiting on customers.

A well-dressed gentleman came toward him, no doubt the floor supervisor. “Good afternoon, sir. May I direct you?”

Mitchell wasn’t keen on flashing his division card again, but technically, he was still among the ranks. Reaching into his side coat pocket, he fetched his leather card case and flipped it open. “Detective Sergeant Simpson. Viscount Rothley was just in here.”

“Yes, I served him myself. Is something the matter, Sergeant?”

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?” Mitchell asked solemnly, giving the supervisor a reason to take the conversation elsewhere.

“Of course. Follow me. Natasha, you have the floor.” The supervisor led Mitchell down a narrow hallway and into a cramped office. “Her name isn’t Natasha; it’s Annie Jones, but fancy names give the customers a dash of class.”

Good. The man was chatty. Which meant he might reveal all sorts of things. Mitchell sat in front of the desk facing the supervisor. “And your name, sir?”

“I am Colin Peterson. How may I help you?”

Mitchell gave him a crooked smile. “I’m sure you’ve said those words many times through the years.”

Peterson laughed personably. “Very clever, sir. Yes, I have.”

“Viscount Rothley, why was he here?”

Peterson sobered. “I am not certain I should discuss such an important client.”

“I would not ask if it were not imperative and integral to my case. Of course, I am unable to discuss it.”

“Of course.”

“I assure you that anything you tell me will be under the strictest confidence. Your name will never be mentioned.”

“Well, in that case.” Peterson reached into his desk drawer, brought forth a hefty ledger, and flipped through the pages. “The viscount opened an account with us last year. He ran up quite the bill—several hundred pounds, in fact. I was vastly relieved when his son came into the store about six days ago, paid off the arrears, and closed the account. He informed me not to give his father any more credit. I just informed the viscount that the account was paid in full and would be unavailable to him in the future.”

“And what was his reaction?”

“Understandably angry. He cursed his son, calling him ‘an interfering young buck with no business sticking his nose in his business.’ The viscount demanded I open another account, and I politely refused. He fumed but eventually placed an order and paid cash.”

Mitchell scribbled in his notebook. “And what did the viscount usually order?”

“All sorts of perfumes, lotions, creams, soaps, cosmetics, only the best quality.” Peterson leaned in and squinted at the ledger. “All deliveries were to a Mrs. Robson, ninety-four Old Street.”

So Rothley kept a paramour. Was that where all the money was going? At least in the last year or so?

“The viscount came into the shop with Mrs. Robson about seven months ago. He placed a huge order,” Peterson continued, warming up to the subject. “I heard from supervisors from other departments that the viscount spent hundreds of pounds on ladies’ clothing, like leather gloves, expensive undergarments, and the like. Do not get me started on the jewelry.”

Rothley had a mistress, all right. “How would you describe Mrs. Robson?”

“Early forties, much younger than the viscount. She was dressed stylishly and had an air of quality about her. It was hard to tell if it was real, or if she was putting it on. I have seen men of means come in with their side pieces, sometimes with those of the lower classes. Giggling and rubbing up against the men. Mrs. Robson did not act that way. She had dignity.”

Mitchell tucked away his notebook. “You have been most accommodating, Mr. Peterson. Thank you.”

“I appreciate that I was able to take a short break.”

Mitchell grabbed his cane and stood. “This is to be kept under the strictest confidence,” Mitchell reiterated gravely.

“Of course.”

Mitchell touched the brim of his hat and departed. Once out on the walkway, he gazed up and down the street. Mitchell waved to an approaching hansom cab and gave the driver the address. He might as well grab the bull by the horns and confront Rothley. Right now.