Chapter Seventeen
M itchell banged on the door insistently. At last, it opened, and the maid gave him an annoyed look. He didn’t give her time to speak, but merely pushed past her and into the front hall.
“Here! You cannot just come in here like that. Who are you?” the maid whined.
“Where is Rothley?” Mitchell demanded.
The maid lifted her chin and sniffed. “I don’t know who you mean.”
Mitchell was not going to get anywhere with this woman. He only hoped there weren’t muscular footmen lingering about because getting into a brawl was not on his agenda. Assessing the layout, he assumed the couple may be upstairs. Barging into a bedroom while Rothley was alone with his mistress was not ideal, but he had to do what needed to be done. He climbed the stairs as swiftly as his aching leg would allow.
“Mrs. Robson!” the maid screamed. “A strange man is in the house!”
Mitchell kept going, and when he made it above the stairs, a woman stood in the hallway in a pink silk dressing gown.
“Who are you?” she cried, her hand above her heart. On that hand and arm were expensive rings and bracelets. At least, Mitchell assumed they were expensive. The lady was as Peterson described. Mitchell took her arm, pulled her into the room, and slammed the door. Lounging on a chaise was Rothley. Thankfully, he was still dressed. He had removed his coat, and his shirt and waistcoat were undone, exposing his chest. He looked incredibly fit for a man in his early sixties. He held a brandy snifter, looking comfortable in his surroundings.
“Don’t get up,” Mitchell said sarcastically. “I’m here to collect the loan Addington gave you.”
Rothley’s annoyed look turned to one of shock. “Loan? Who sent you?”
“Where is the twenty-five thousand pounds?” However, as Mitchell looked about the room, he could see where some of the previous money had gone. The room was lush, with crystal chandeliers, expensive art, and electric lighting. Gold embossed wallpaper as well.
While Corrine had worked her heart out the past ten years, trying to keep her family from the brink of financial ruin, her father had been investing in various schemes and keeping his mistress comfortable. The miserable wretch.
“I do not have the money on me,” the viscount sputtered as he placed his snifter on the table beside him. “Did Addington send you? Those were not the terms I agreed to. He has no right to ask for it back.”
“For nearly fifteen years, your daughter has worried and scrimped, selling artwork and trinkets to keep food on your table. Lady Corrine became a nurse and toiled long hours to pay your bills. And when your son was old enough, he also found work because of your extravagant lifestyle. Have you ever given them any thought at all?”
Rothley’s eyes narrowed. “Corrine and Jeffery sent you? The ingrates.”
Mrs. Robson gasped. “Son? And a daughter?”
Mitchell did the one thing his police training warned against: he’d become personally involved. Too late. Mitchell dropped his cane and, with two hands, grabbed fistfuls of the viscount’s open shirt, bringing him to his feet. “Ingrates? Your daughter made an impulsive marriage of convenience to pay your outstanding bills since the family was close to being imprisoned for your debts. Were you even aware? Did you even care?” Mitchell’s voice rose with each question. How disconcerting to learn that he was close to giving a deserved beating to this heartless aristocrat.
“James? Is this true?” Mrs. Robson cried, clearly distressed.
A small voice arose from the doorway. “Mama? Papa?”
Still holding on to Rothley, Mitchell swung about to find a small boy rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken. Mrs. Robson rushed to the boy, dropped to her knees, and hugged him tightly. The lad looked no more than five years of age.
“It’s all right, my dear. Come back to bed and finish your nap.” Mrs. Robson looked up to find a shocked maid standing in the archway. “Mary, please take Master James to his room.”
James? They named the child after Rothley. Of course, the small lad called him ‘Papa.’
With the child escorted from the room, Mrs. Robson closed the door and faced the viscount. “You told me you were wealthy and that it was no hardship to see to my comforts. Those were your words. I objected to most of your improvements,” she said, pointing to the ornate chandelier. “But you said you could well afford it. What else have you lied about?”
Mitchell could see the mixture of anger and hurt glistening in her eyes. He released the viscount, who visibly slumped. Disgusted, Mitchell pushed him into the chaise longue.
“Flora, my love. Let us not discuss private business in front of this over-muscled thug,” Rothley soothed.
Mrs. Robson turned to face Mitchell. “I ask again, who are you?”
Mitchell grabbed his leather case and flipped it open for her to see. “Detective Sergeant Mitchell Simpson.”
“The police!” she cried.
Rothley buried his face in his hands.
“I’m temporarily on leave, ma’am, and working as a private investigator. I was hired to recover this ill-conceived loan. Naturally, I cannot reveal who hired me.”
“James, where is the money?” Mrs. Robson demanded. “The truth, for once.”
“You told Addington you’d placed it in some scheme and had already lost most of the money. Is that true?” Mitchell interjected.
“No,” the viscount replied wearily. “He threatened to call in the loan if his marriage to my daughter faltered. I told Addington I’d lost it so he would not ask for it back. I have lost money before in such dealings, so I concluded he would accept that explanation.”
“Where is it?” Mitchell growled. He was swiftly losing his patience.
“I have it tucked away. But I have already spent six thousand pounds.”
Had the idiot spent that much in less than ten days? What a sniveling, thoughtless bastard. Mitchell grabbed his cane from the floor. “Go and get it and bring it here.”
“I will not!” Rothley sniffed haughtily. “This could be some elaborate plan to fleece me of my money. I will lay coin my son is behind this. How dare he go all over town, cancel my accounts, and tell the shops not to give me credit? And my daughter? She hounded me endlessly for years about my lifestyle. How dare she? I am a viscount—”
Mitchell gave Rothley a backhanded slap. It was not very gentlemanly, but Mitchell had never claimed to be a gentleman. At least it silenced the viscount. “Collect the money. You have thirty minutes. I will stay right here. And do not think about doing a runner. I will have the Metropolitan Police on your trail, and you will be found and arrested for fraud. Think of the scandal. Go now.”
Silently, the viscount grabbed his coat and marched from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Mrs. Robson wobbled, and Mitchell took her arm to keep her from swooning. He escorted her to the wing chair and sat opposite her. “I had no idea about any of this,” she whispered.
“When did you become involved with him?”
“Six years ago. I was a singer in an upscale West End theater. He asked me out for a late supper. I nearly refused since he was so much older, but I found him charming and handsome. He is sixty years old but hasn’t changed since I met him. Except his hair is whiter.” She frowned, looking quite miserable. “He lied to me all this time. James said he was a wealthy but lonely widower with no children. I fell in love with him.”
“He is a widower, and his family lived on the edge of financial ruin for years because of his thoughtless, spendthrift ways. At first, he invested in one business scheme or another and bought creature comforts for himself without ever thinking of his son and daughter.”
Mrs. Robson pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “Then, when he met me, I became his new scheme. He spent money on me. I did not ask for any of the lavish gifts or fancy furnishings. Then James came along—”
“The boy is his, then?”
“There has been no one but James. Ever. We never talked about marriage. I supposed I liked things as they were. I had no desire to be a viscountess. I regretted that decision after my son was born. I should have looked out for his future. He could have been the heir—so I thought. But James has another son, after all. Perhaps, deep down, I didn’t trust James. I always felt he kept things from me. Now I know.” She caught Mitchell’s gaze. “And why am I telling you all this? Because I believe one of his children hired you. Please explain to Lady Addington and her brother that I had no idea about any of this. You do believe me?”
“Yes. I believe you. Your reaction to the news was not counterfeit. What will you do now?”
“What choice do I have? Regardless of his lies, I suppose I still love him. He is the father of my son. I will try to forgive, but he broke the thin line of trust between us. I’m not sure it can be mended.” Mrs. Robson looked about the room. “He bought this residence—or so he claims. If so, I will make him sell it along with the garish furnishings. It is time I thought of my son’s future. Marriage, with James claiming his son and giving him his name however it is legally done, would be a start—if it can be done at all. Where we go from there, I know not.”
“I will tell Lady Addington about this. And Jeffery Edgeworth, her brother. They are good people and have suffered for years from their father’s reckless ways.”
“This Addington person James spoke of, Lady Corrine’s husband?”
“He is a baron. She entered the arranged marriage to settle her father’s debts.”
“Oh, dear God. What a muddle.”
They fell silent after that, both lost in their thoughts. Mitchell felt sympathy for Mrs. Robson. She had much to consider. And so did Mitchell. Even if Corrine and her brother paid back most of the loan, there were still six thousand pounds to consider, as well as the money spent from the marriage settlement. It could cost Corrine close to ten thousand pounds to be free of Addington. And that was only if he would even agree to a quick divorce—with him claiming that he committed adultery. The man would likely never agree to it.
Financially speaking, Mitchell could not help. He had six hundred pounds in his account, meant for his retirement —and borrowing ten thousand or more from his few nob acquaintances, whether family or not, was out of the question. Most of them were not overtly wealthy and had little money to spare. Mitchell could never ask for such a huge favor.
The door burst open, and Rothley strode through, tossing a silk bag at Mitchell. “It is all there. Take it and get out.”
“Not until I count it.”
Mrs. Robson dragged over a small round table and positioned it before Mitchell. He nodded, then pulled the paper notes from the bag. Dividing them into denominations, he tallied up the money. “There are eighteen thousand pounds here. You said you spent about six. You are a thousand short.”
“I need to live!” Rothley sputtered.
Mrs. Robson held out her hand. “Give it here, James.”
“No,” he replied petulantly, like a small child being told to give up his favorite toy. “You will give it to him .”
Mitchell shook his head. “If Mrs. Robson has it, I will not take it. She needs it for your son.”
Rothley handed the rolls of notes to Mrs. Robson.
“Sit, James. We have much to discuss. Is that all, Sergeant?”
“For now.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Robson.”
He took the bag and his cane and departed. He didn’t envy Mrs. Robson’s upcoming conversation. But Mitchell had more important considerations—Corrine, for one. Her father might be lying about spending the six thousand; he could have all or part of it tucked away elsewhere. It was lucky Mitchell managed to retrieve this much. He could rush to Corrine’s and tell her the news about the money, but there had been enough drama for one day. Meanwhile, he had to secure this money safely. Hopefully, Drew owned a safe. Then, he would travel to his police precinct and ask to see all the reports relating to Danaher and the fire in Notting Dale. He needed proof that what he suspected could be true. Whatever he found, he would compile a full report and present it to Corrine. Things were moving at a rapid pace, rushing toward a conclusion.
Whatever the future held for them, Mitchell and Corrine would face it together.