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

Chapter Twenty

T hey finally emerged from the Harrow Road police station shortly after one in the morning. Mitchell gently grasped Corrine’s arm as they slowly navigated the steps. The temperature had plunged during the past few hours; their breath hung in the air in frosty puffs.

“Where can I take you?” Mitchell asked quietly.

“Not to Wimpole Street. Not to my father’s,” Corrine replied firmly.

“To a friend’s place, perhaps?”

“My nursing friends have no room to put me up. And as for my recent reacquaintance with my school chums, well, Celia has returned to Northern England, and Selena has enough problems without me adding to them.”

“Perhaps a hotel, then? The Savoy? Brown’s Hotel?”

“I prefer your suggestion of staying with friends. Do you and Drew have a spare room? Just for a night or two until I get my bearings.”

“Drew has a few rooms in the rear he will let in January. I’m certain he will allow you to stay there. It is a separate small flat.”

“Do you think he will? I would be ever so grateful.” Corrine looked down the street. “Wright is not still here? The poor man, waiting all this time.”

“I came out two hours ago and sent him home. He will tell Drew to wait up for me. So we should catch a hansom cab. They are about at all hours. Here comes one now.” Mitchell flagged it down, then assisted Corrine inside. Once seated, he took her gloved hand and laced his fingers through hers. She held tight.

“Poor Thomason. To come upon a murder scene, then find police tramping all through the house…. He told the police that Travis had insisted he take the night off.” Corrine shuddered. “And now, he has to oversee the cleanup, the poor man.” She gazed outside the window. “Why would Travis schedule his meeting when I had an appointment, and tell Thomason to take the night off, unless he wanted to be sure there would be no one around?”

“That is what it looks like—a private meeting that ended in murder and a possible robbery. I suppose it is up to Mahone and his men to track all leads. I have a feeling one of them might include a mysterious man in a hooded cloak.”

“So you believe the hooded man was meeting Travis tonight?”

“I do. He is at least the top suspect.”

“A terrible thought just came to me. My father. Maybe he confronted Travis over the loan!”

“I thought that as well, but I’m not sure your father is capable of killing someone. And the young man said his father left him. Unless your father has more children than you know of, I think it’s fair to say he wasn’t involved. Still, I’ll keep that information private for now, and tell Mahone about the loan soon.”

“You will continue to pursue this on your end, correct?” Corrine asked.

“I will. It’s possible the hooded man brought someone—his son?—with him as backup, and since the safe was opened, it involved money. A payoff? Blackmail? One possibility is that the baron had no intention of paying. He opened the safe, brought forth the revolver, and fired. He might not have had any idea the hooded man was armed, too. And the younger man must have got in the way. Or maybe the younger man did the shooting.” Mitchell exhaled wearily. “It might be wise for you to stay with Drew and me. The hooded man may still want money from the estate. And who else can he get it from than the widowed baroness?” At her stricken look, he added, “I am sorry to be so blunt. I don’t wish to frighten you.”

Corrine squeezed his hand. “No. I like it when you are honest with me and discuss everything. I want that to continue. We have to consider every possibility.”

“Exactly. We also have to consider the possibility that the hooded man may be Jedi Danaher.”

“Good heavens. What happens next?”

“We should visit the solicitor, Mr. Dobson, first thing tomorrow and find out the reason for all those visits to Addington. How long is your brother away for?”

“A week or more. He said he would send word when he returned. Oh, but I will not be at Wimpole Street, though I will keep the servants on the payroll until I know more. Thomason can send on any inquiries and correspondence.” Corrine laid her head against Mitchell’s shoulder. “I am so exhausted, yet also wound up inside. I’m not sure I can sleep tonight. The scene we came upon will haunt my dreams for the foreseeable future.”

Mitchell’s, as well. It was one of the bloodiest crime scenes he had ever come upon. Mahone had told him they’d dusted for prints, a relatively new procedure, but Mitchell figured it would not do much good. Still, one selfish thought filled his mind.

Corrine is free.

Free from her imprudent marriage and, hopefully, any financial obligations. It would depend on what they found in the will—if there was one. Would Addington be bitter enough to leave Corrine nothing at all or place a codicil, demanding the loan be paid in the event of his death? Or would he exclude her altogether? Surely not. Even if Addington left her no money, there was still the eighteen thousand pounds in Drew’s safe. Mahone knew nothing about that. Yet. Did they dare risk keeping it from the detective? All Mahone had to do was speak with Viscount Rothley, his son, Jeffery Edgeworth, or Mrs. Robson and he’d know the truth. Mitchell frowned. Perhaps he should have mentioned it after all. He would have to give it further consideration after they saw the solicitor.

“Who was that injured young man?” Corrine asked softly, interrupting his disturbed thoughts.

“It could be Danaher’s son. He said his ‘father’ left him. I read about him in the police reports. He was wanted for questioning concerning Danaher. The son wasn’t there the night I was shot, but he might have been involved in the abduction of Miss Claudia Ellingford. He fits the general description. Then again, it could just be an accomplice.”

“His own father deserted him. How heartless. But then, he killed Travis, so it is not surprising. I cannot quite accept Travis is gone.” Corrine let out a quivering breath. “I suppose we will have to wait until the accomplice regains consciousness and answers questions before we know of his identity.”

“If he awakens at all.” Mitchell pulled Corrine closer.

They remained silent during the trip to Gloucester Square. Mitchell saw lights blazing in the bottom flat when the hansom pulled up by the front door. As requested, Drew had waited up. After paying the cab driver, Mitchell opened the folding doors and assisted Corrine out, and to the house.

Drew greeted them. “Come into the parlor. I have a fire going and brandy at the ready.”

Once situated in the parlor, Drew passed the filled brandy snifters to Mitchell and Corrine. “Wright mentioned a crime scene, the police, and a body under a tarp being carried out. Addington?”

Corrine nodded as she swirled her brandy.

“I am sorry for your loss, Corrine.”

She gave Drew a wan smile, then motioned toward Mitchell. “Tell him what we came upon.”

Mitchell relayed a condensed version of the events. Drew’s eyebrows shot skyward more than once through the brief narrative. “My God. Corrine, I absolutely agree it would be best if you stayed here with us. In fact, I prepared the small flat for you. It was recently renovated and has a bedroom, water closet, sitting room, and a small kitchen with a gas cooker. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. It’s rather cozy, if I say so myself.”

“Thank you so much. I will pay you,” Corrine answered, her voice wobbling. After sipping the warmed brandy, she placed the snifter on the table.

“At the end of the month. We will discuss terms later,” Drew replied kindly.

“Corrine will need a solicitor or barrister to navigate the legal waters regarding Addington’s untimely death. Can you recommend anyone?”

“You may think it forward of me, but when Wright told me what had occurred, I sent word to a school chum of mine—Baxter Chambers. He is a solicitor and will be here at ten in the morning.”

Corrine erupted into tears. As she had predicted, tonight’s happenings suddenly caught up with her, and a rush of emotions burst forth. Mitchell gathered her into his arms. She calmed but still sobbed softly against his coat sleeve. Mitchell smoothed her hair, whispering comforting words.

Drew stood and held out his hand, offering a set of keys to Mitchell. “For the flat upstairs.”

Mitchell took them. “Thank you, Drew. For everything.”

His half-brother gave him a brief smile and left the room. It was the first time Mitchell had thought of Drew in that context. How extraordinary.

Corrine sniffled, then sat upright, laying her head against his shoulder. “I usually do not go to pieces like that. I’m not much of a crier.”

“I feel a little like crying myself,” Mitchell murmured. “It has been a stressful night. And it is not over. There are more hurdles to overcome. Would you like to go to your rooms? Or stay here by the fire?”

“By the fire. With you holding me. Drinking brandy. And just—being together.”

“Then we shall.” Mitchell reached for her glass and handed it to her. Then he retrieved his own. They sat together in quiet contemplation and companionship for two more hours. It was half past three when he finally escorted her to the rear flat.

The next few days would be difficult, but Mitchell would be by her side as long as she needed him. He loved her with his very heart and soul and would do so until he breathed his last.

*

They could not get an early appointment with Mr. Dobson but obtained one at half past one in the afternoon. Mitchell gave the reason for the meeting, although the murder was splashed across the morning papers. It was a good thing Mitchell—with Corrine’s permission—had sent word early in the morning to Thomason to pack a valise with some of her possessions and clothes and bring them to the rear entrance at Gloucester Square. The butler had informed Mitchell that reporters were already gathering on the front walkway, eager to glimpse the grieving widow. The vultures .

Surprisingly, Corrine managed to catch a few hours of restful sleep. When she awoke, she felt as if some of the weight she had been carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. Then, she immediately felt guilty. Travis’s death should not give her a sense of relief—but it did. In a small part, but it was there, nonetheless.

Mr. Chambers arrived promptly at noon, and they gathered in the parlor. After introductions, Drew said, “Bax, take care of my friends. I am off to the clinic.”

Then they were left alone with the solicitor. Mr. Chambers placed his soft leather case on the table and pulled out papers and a pencil. “Now, my lady, Sergeant Simpson. Tell me everything. I’m your solicitor, and everything you relay to me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Corrine and Mitchell took turns in the narration. They told the solicitor everything, including about the loan, her thoughtless father, Travis’s horrible proposition, and the hasty marriage itself.

“And did you tell the police all of this?” Mr. Chambers asked.

“No,” Mitchell replied. “Not everything. Nothing personal like the loan or the entire truth of the state of the marriage. Corrine told them that the baron was living at Carol Street to prepare it to be sold. It was the truth.”

“And you have possession of the eighteen thousand pounds?” Mr. Chambers asked.

“Yes. It’s in a safe,” Corrine replied.

“I suggest we allow Mr. Dobson to reveal the will’s contents before deciding anything else. Is there an heir presumptive?”

Corrine shook her head. “Not that I am aware of. But then, Travis and I had not conversed much since the hasty marriage.”

“If no heir exists, the entailed property and money passes to the crown. If the baron did not mention you in his will, there is not much I can do. Such are the laws. I would suggest we not mention the loan unless we have to. I do not recommend keeping it, but we will remain quiet until we know more.”

“Who will the money belong to, legally speaking?” Corrine asked.

“This loan could be a legal muddle. If your father raises a fuss and actually has legal papers to back up the loan, it may have to be returned to him. However, he will still owe the barony, if the terms are stated as such. But we will deal with that when the need arises.”

“About those loan papers… They might not even exist. My father has been known to tell falsehoods over the years, if they served his purposes,” she said.

Mr. Chambers took a few notes. “Noted. We’ll look into that. And how much was the marriage settlement that the baron paid?”

“Twenty-five thousand pounds, and after paying my father’s massive debts and giving him and my brother monthly incomes, there is about ten thousand remaining. As far as I know, Travis put it in a trust that only I can draw on.

“Good. I can safely say that settlement will not be part of the entailed estate. The remaining money is yours, my lady. You have a contract for that money?” Corrine nodded. “Good. Now, we had best head to Mr. Dobson’s office and see what’s what.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were shown into Mr. Dobson’s plush office. After introductions and taking their seats, Mr. Dobson opened his desk drawer and put on gold spectacles. “Right. I have all the relevant papers before me. My condolences, my lady, for your loss. First, let me state that there is an heir presumptive.”

Corrine gasped. “Travis never said. Not ever.”

“We only learned of that fact recently, my lady. It is standard practice to investigate the family tree, and I did so the moment Travis Addington became the new baron. It’s called agnatic primogeniture. A male heir is discovered by tracing shared descendants through the male line. I found one. His name is Patrick Addington-Wells, and he is currently living in Ireland. I mailed a letter to him last month. He replied swiftly, stating his shock, and agreed to the terms.”

“Terms?” Corrine asked.

“That when he becomes baron, he drops the Wells part of his name and only goes by Addington. There are other issues to iron out, like a deed of settlement. He is twenty-five and recently married into a well-to-do family. They are the ones who insisted he add Wells to his name. Many wealthy families do so when all they have are daughters. It is a way to carry on the name.”

“Married?” Corrine whispered. “So what does that make me?”

“Lady Corrine, Dowager Baroness Addington.”

How many more shocks could Corrine endure? If Travis had recently learned of this, why the push to advance his heir scheme? It made his suggestion all the more sordid. It also explained his haste in trying for an heir, by whatever means. To deny an actual relative a chance to be the heir for one that did not have Addington blood was decidedly selfish. It proved she didn’t know Travis at all.

“Mr. Dobson, when did you tell Travis of the discovered heir?” Corrine asked.

“Only last week, my lady, when I received Patrick Addington’s reply. I wanted to have all the details in place before I informed his lordship,” Mr. Dobson replied.

So Travis had been told after he’d revealed his scandalous heir plan. Would he have kept this newly discovered information from her? She would never know.

“Before I go over the relevant part of the will,” Mr. Dobson said, bringing Corrine out of her thoughts, “there is something I must reveal. The baron asked me to do so in the event of his death. When we read Gilbert Addington’s will, the old baron attached a letter.” He held it out toward Corrine.

“Could you read it aloud?” she asked.

“Are you certain, my lady? There are personal revelations within.”

“Mr. Chambers is my solicitor, and Sergeant Simpson is my trusted protector and advisor. Please, read it.”

“Very well. ‘To Travis Addington. The barony is now yours, and with it, the responsibility of producing an heir by whatever means necessary. As we discussed, this is of paramount importance. There might be another heir out there. I never bothered to have it investigated. But concerning this particular branch of the family tree, you are the last man. See it done. I left you plenty of money and investments. Use them well to ensure the family’s future. Speaking of family, I have a confession to make, a shame I have carried with me for more than forty years. A thorn in my side. I have an illegitimate son. Have a care. He is a loathsome human being and a criminal besides. He may come looking for money. Arm yourself. He is dangerous. His name is—Jedidiah Danaher.’”