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

Chapter Twenty-Two

A uniformed policeman brought Mahone and Mitchell steaming mugs of tea, then closed the door and left them alone.

Mahone took a sip. “Nice and hot. Now, about the young man. He’s still alive, but the doctors are not sure he will fully recover. As the baroness surmised, his intestines were nicked by the bullet. There was a great deal of internal bleeding. After hours of surgery, they removed the bullet along with several feet of gut. They say he is young and strong and may recover if he lives through the next few days.” Mahone took another sip of tea and opened his folder. “A woman showed up at the hospital. She would not say how she discovered the young man had been injured. Her name is Erin Quinlan, and she says her son’s name is Cillian Quinlan.”

“Danaher’s son,” Mitchell stated. “I remember the name Cillian from my precinct’s reports.”

“She admitted that much and said the boy had no connection to his father until about a year ago when Danaher showed up out of the blue. Against her strong objections, Cillian has been following him around like a loyal puppy ever since. The young man just turned twenty years of age.”

“Danaher must have sent word to her about Cillian’s injury. Have you questioned the young man by chance?”

Mahone shook his head. “No. He’s been unconscious since coming back from the operating theater. The hospital will contact me when or if he wakes. What have you learned since we last spoke?”

“The late baron’s solicitor, Mr. Dobson, will be in touch with the details. But we discovered a possible motive for Danaher to have been at the baron’s estate that night at the meeting earlier today. He is the illegitimate son of the previous baron.” Mitchell went on to explain about the demand for money and the supposed document.

“The inkwell set was on the desk and freshly used. We dusted it for prints. Danaher could have signed a paper, legal or not, and taken it with him. I will reach out to the Lancaster Station and warn them about Danaher.”

Mitchell sipped his tea. “I will see them as well. If Cillian recovers, I assume he’s in legal trouble. Cillian is already wanted for bodily injury. He was in a knife fight with Miss Ellingford and also may have assisted his father in holding her against her will. You can use those charges to obtain information from the young man—if Inspector Stanhope agrees to reduce the charges in exchange for information. I don’t see why he wouldn’t. He is anxious to have Danaher off the street.”

“I will certainly mention that when I speak with Stanhope.”

Mitchell took a sip of the hot tea. “And what about the baroness?”

Mahone arched an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“She could be Danaher’s next target if he didn’t get the money he wanted from Addington.”

“Then it’s good that she has employed you, Simpson. I’ve no men to spare. You know what the staffing levels are. When the police department was formed in ’29, London’s population was one and a half million. It is now closing in on seven million, and recruitment efforts for the police have not kept up.” Mahone opened his desk drawer and brought out a sheath of papers. “Since PC Baldwin’s murder in October, there has been a public outcry for the police to be armed with revolvers.”

“Perhaps we should. I know it is optional for detectives.” Mitchell shook his head. “I put in for one shortly before I was shot. Talk about irony.”

“Do you have it now?”

Mitchell shook his head. “I took the test shortly before being injured. Stanhope is keeping the revolver for me until I come off leave. I can try and collect it from him.”

Mahone pointed to the desk drawer on the right. “I also have one. It’s locked in here. I do not need it, but you, on the other hand, may. We know Danaher is armed and dangerous. I will do what I can on my end to locate him—I know a detective at the CID at New Scotland Yard headquarters—and will arrange a city-wide search.” Mahone stood, went to a cabinet, and unlocked it. “You might be better served carrying the British Bull Dog revolver. It fits nicely in a coat pocket.” Mahone placed it on the desk. “And here are two boxes of Webley .442 caliber cartridges. I got this from a search in an opium den. It hasn’t been cataloged. Take it. As you are aware, there are no rules or registration regarding guns for the police or the public.”

Mitchell stood, palmed the pistol, and slipped it in his coat pocket. It was a good fit and well-hidden. “Thank you. I appreciate it. We will keep each other informed of any developments?”

“We shall.”

A uniformed constable knocked and entered. “A note, detective.”

Mahone took it and read it. “It’s from the solicitor, Dobson. He wants me to come and see him tomorrow, no doubt to tell me about Danaher. Have a care, Sergeant. Stay safe. And do not hesitate to use your weapon. We know Danaher has no qualms. He tried to kill you already.”

Mitchell picked up the boxes of cartridges. “Actually, he was aiming for my friend. I shoved him out of the way and caught the bullet instead. But your point is well taken. We know what Danaher is capable of. Believe me, I will not hesitate.”

“Jedidiah Danaher is wanted for questioning for this crime. We have no solid proof he pulled the trigger as we have no weapon, and the one eyewitness is unconscious and may not recover. However, he is wanted for kidnapping and extortion in Notting Dale. I would prefer we arrest him. I want him to serve time in prison, at the very least. But if he leaves us no choice—”

Mitchell nodded. “I understand. Goodbye, Mahone.”

Taking his cane and tucking the cartridges under his arm, he exited the police station. The afternoon sun was setting, but he had enough time to travel to Lancaster Station and bring the inspector up to date on Danaher. Soon, the entire force would be out looking for him. Mitchell could only hope they pulled him out of whatever dark hole he was hiding in before he came near Corrine. But if he did, Mitchell would be ready.

No one would ever threaten Corrine. Not while he breathed.

*

Corrine awoke suddenly, sitting upright in bed. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the light. Rays from the setting sun poured in through the sheer draperies. It took a moment for her to recall where she was—Doctor Drew’s rental flat. Because her estranged husband had been murdered. The horrific image of the murder scene formed in her sleep-groggy mind, but Corrine shook it away. The sight was not something she would soon forget.

Regardless of recent events, at least the bed was comfortable, and she had slept soundly. It was the first time since the murder that she had been alone with her thoughts. In less than six months, she had gone from being an impoverished nurse and daughter to a viscount, to a baroness, to a widowed dowager baroness without a home. At least she had some money. But it must be budgeted, and the generous monthly stipend to her father and brother would have to be reduced or eliminated. Her father would rail about that. Still, it was time he changed his ways, especially now that he had a young son and Mrs. Robson to support.

And that was yet another shocking revelation. How could her self-seeking father not tell her and Jeffery of the boy’s existence? Or of Mrs. Robson? It was becoming clear that it was time for Corrine to think of herself, her future, and let her father take care of himself.

And that future will include Mitchell Simpson.

Corrine closed her eyes and sighed. Oh, the kisses in the alley. Just thinking of the passion that had flared between them had her insides doing somersaults.

She was in love; there was no denying it.

Exhaling, Corrine stood and slipped on her gown, then her cape. A thought struck her as she snatched the key from the bedside table. Nearly ninety pounds were in the sitting room desk drawer at Wimpole Street. The key was in her jewelry box in her bedroom. She remembered placing the money there when Travis had given her a roll of pound notes for the household and her expenses. She had given Thomason ten pounds to settle any outstanding accounts and to order more groceries.

Corrine would have to ask Mitchell to go to Wimpole Street to retrieve the money, for she would not cross that threshold again. What would she do without Mitchell? All he had ever done was offer assistance, comfort, and protection. Independent she might be, but having him as her stalwart support meant the world to her.

Once in the lower yard, she slipped through the rear entrance. The hallway was lit, so she called out, “Drew? Mitchell?”

“In here,” a voice called out. It sounded like Drew. “We are in my study, three doors down on your right.”

Both men stood when she entered the room.

“Good evening. I am unsure of the time.” She smiled, removing her cape.

Mitchell assisted her, the brush of his hands across her shoulders sending her heart tumbling. “It is fifteen minutes past six. Did you manage to sleep?”

“I did. What a comfortable bed and cozy rooms. Thank you, Drew, for allowing me to stay here. It may be several weeks.”

“Stay as long as you like. Mr. Dobson sent me a ten-pound note this afternoon for your rent. Very generous. He also included another ten for your incidentals, food, dishes, and the like. What can I get you to drink before dinner?”

Mitchell escorted her to the leather sofa and sat beside her.

“Do you have sherry?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Drew replied. “I recently added a few choice spirits and liquors to my sparse cupboard.” He strolled over to his cabinet, opened the doors, and located the bottle of sherry. Taking a crystal glass from the shelves above, he poured a generous amount and then handed it to her. “Mitchell and I were discussing Christmas when you came in.”

“Oh, good heavens. I nearly forgot,” Corrine murmured as she sipped the sherry.

“We would be honored if you joined us for a holiday meal,” Drew said, smiling.

“Nothing too elaborate,” Mitchell interjected. “Mrs. Evans will cook a turkey and a few side dishes on the twenty-fourth. All we will need to do is reheat it. Drew and I have become experts at doing that.”

Corrine smiled. “I am also proficient at reheating. Between the three of us, we can manage it. I would love to join you.” Her smile slipped away. “It seems so strange to smile and talk of holidays and festive dinners with Travis at the morgue.”

Mitchell took her hand and squeezed it assuredly. “It is, no matter the circumstances. Saying life goes on sounds rather odious, in light of recent events, but it is the truth. What also came from Mr. Dobson, besides the money, is a letter to you.” Mitchell released her hand, then took the sealed note from the table and gave it to her.

Corrine broke the seal and scanned the contents. “How very swift and efficient. The funeral will be in three days, on the twenty-second. There will be no wake. There will be a hearse with four horses decked out in plumes of ostrich feathers, along with two mourning coaches, ten men marching alongside acting as pages. There will be a brief, private funeral service, then the procession to the cemetery, about one and a half miles from the church. Tradition says I am not to attend the graveside burial, but as Mr. Dobson states, many mid-century traditions are not always followed now.”

“Who will be attending the service?” Drew asked.

“Mr. Dobson says he will be there, as will Mr. Chambers. And myself. That is it. Because of the murder, Mr. Dobson suggested we not turn the funeral into a possible gawking spectacle. Though I suppose curious onlookers will watch the procession. I must buy a black mourning gown as soon as possible.”

“This is just a suggestion, but perhaps you should send word to your brother to cut his business meeting short so he can be at your side through the funeral service and burial. It would not look appropriate if Drew and I attended.”

“I will do that first thing in the morning. Yes, Jeffery should come home.” Corrine folded the note and laid it on the table.

“And your father?” Mitchell murmured.

“I do not want him there. His support would be all for show, as he has never given me any facilitation before. I cannot abide hypocrisy.”

Drew stood. “Allow me to check on dinner. Nothing too elaborate, a beef stew.”

“That sounds delicious,” Corrine said, sighing.

Drew left them alone.

Corrine turned to face Mitchell. “I have a favor to ask. There are over ninety pounds in the sitting room desk drawer at Wimpole Street. Can you retrieve it for me? Travis gave me the money about three weeks ago.”

“I will go first thing in the morning.”

“The key is in my jewelry box in my room, not that I have much in the way of jewelry. I managed to hide a few brooches that belonged to my mother from my father. He sold the rest over the years. The key is located under the shelf within the box. I will write a note you can show Thomason to allow you into the room. Hopefully, they haven’t packed it yet.”

“A note is a good idea. Would you like me to contact the bank where your brother is employed? They can get word to him sooner.”

“Would the murder make the papers in Manchester?”

“A murder in London? Not usually, as they have enough of their own crimes to fill the papers, but since the victim is a baron, possibly.”

“Yes, I would appreciate it. It’s the Strand Provincial Bank, 210 Piccadilly.”

“I will make the stop tomorrow.”

Corrine took Mitchell’s hand. “Thank you for being here for me.”

“If you haven’t guessed already, I would do anything for you. Anything.”

Corrine threw her arms around Mitchell’s neck and embraced him. She loved him fiercely, and as soon as the funeral was over and Travis was laid to rest, she would tell Mitchell just that.

Life, indeed, did go on. And Corrine was not going to waste a moment of it.