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

Chapter Twenty-Three

W hen Mitchell awoke the following day, he discovered snow had blanketed the ground overnight. It was only a few inches but would not melt anytime soon since it was blasted cold. After pulling his wool scarf tightly about his neck and his wool coat collar upward, he stepped outside and shuddered as the brisk wind whipped about his legs. Reaching into his coat pocket, he grabbed his fur-lined leather gloves and, once situated, retrieved his cane from under his arm and started along the walkway, keeping a wary eye out for any possible ice. All he needed to do was to take a tumble and injure his leg further. Finally, after close to a month of diligent rehabilitation exercises, Mitchell was starting to notice some improvement in flexibility over the past couple of days, and the occasional pain in his leg was not nearly as intense or as often as it had been. Or maybe the lightness in his step was Corrine.

The prospect of a future with her had him hoping as never before. But many obstacles still stood in their path. Mitchell reasoned that anything was possible as long as they faced it together.

A hansom cab traveled toward him, so he flagged it down. “Thirty Wimpole Street,” he called out to the driver as he climbed in and closed the folding doors. Now that winter was here, many of the cabs had a windowed enclosure to give some protection from the elements. Mitchell had heard, through his peerage acquaintances, that petrol cabs would replace horse-driven carriages in less than ten years. Perhaps that would be one venture Mitchell might consider, although he couldn’t invest much. Less than ten minutes later, he paid the driver and was left standing before the Addington residence. Mitchell glanced up and down the street, concentrating on the surroundings. Since it was cold this morning, there were few pedestrians or costermonger carts. Mitchell’s focused observation fell on a shivering young boy standing across the street, holding out a battered cap, hoping people would drop in a penny or a half-penny.

Mitchell crossed the road and dropped a shilling in the cap. “Best to get in out of the cold, lad. Buy yourself a hot meal.”

“Thank ye, sir. I will. Yer kind and all.” The boy, dressed in ragged clothes, quickly snatched up the coin and placed his hat on his head. With an exaggerated bow, he loped off down the street and disappeared around the corner.

Looking both ways, Mitchell crossed the street. A black mourning wreath hung on the front door of the Addington residence, and black crepe was wrapped on the door knob. He barely rapped on the knocker when Thomason opened the door to greet him.

“Sergeant Simpson. Do come in.”

The scents of turpentine, carbolic soap, and beeswax inundated his senses. “You were left with a hell of a cleaning job, Thomason. How did you fare?”

Thomason led him to the study where the odors were more potent. The rugs were gone, and the furniture had been moved against the wall. “We managed, Sergeant. However, the maid quit as the task was too gruesome and stated that she could not work in a house where a murder had taken place. I fear the footman and the housekeeper-cook are also contemplating taking their leave.”

Mitchell looked around. You could hardly tell it had been a grisly murder scene. “I will inform Lady Addington. Can you hire another maid?”

Thomason shook his head. “I doubt it, Sergeant. Jonathan and Mrs. Morris are only here because all peerage and wealthy homes are cutting back on staff levels. They would be hard-pressed to find gainful employment in service. I know this is a selfish request, but do you know what will become of us?”

“You’re to be kept on for the time being until the new baron arrives and—”

Thomason visibly staggered. “New baron?”

Mitchell probably should not have revealed that, but one of the first things Dobson or Chambers should have done was inform the servants. The way staff was treated always angered him. Mitchell had seen it many times in his capacity as a policeman. So, to hell with it. “Lady Addington was shocked by the development as well. The young man was only recently identified. He comes from another branch of the family, apparently one that Gilbert Addington had no contact with. Gilbert never informed Travis Addington that the Irish branch existed. It was the solicitor who made that discovery. The new baron is a young man in his twenties, recently married.”

“I am in shock. I do not know what to say.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. The young baron will need servants, so chances are you will be kept on. Lady Addington suggested that very thing. But that will be Patrick Addington’s decision.” Mitchell looked about the room. “Personally, I cannot see the young man bringing his new bride to a house with such tragedy attached to it. But that will be for the solicitors and the new baron to work out.” Mitchell reached into his side pocket and passed Thomason a note. “Lady Addington asked that I retrieve a few items. The rest will be collected later. The solicitors will arrange it.”

Thomason opened the note and read it. “Of course. Whatever the baroness needs. Do thank her for speaking up for the staff.” He hesitated. “There are some items in storage downstairs, such as dishes, a clock, and extra bedding. Could the baroness use them? No one has taken an inventory as yet. I take it Lady Addington will not be returning here.”

“No, she will not. As for the items, thank you for the suggestion. She is renting a small flat from a friend of mine and could use various household materials. She will appreciate the assistance.”

Thomason shook his head sadly. “I never should have gone to the pub that night. But the baron insisted. He even gave me two pounds for a steak dinner and a couple of pints.”

“How were you to know?” Mitchell murmured. “Do not feel guilty.”

“Come this way, Sergeant.” Mitchell followed Thomason upstairs and into Corrine’s bedroom. It wasn’t overly large but well decorated with light blue and gold shades—very much Corrine’s colors.

“Her ladyship has trunks in the next room. They were never fully unpacked. Her jewelry box is there.” Thomason pointed to the light oak dressing table. Mitchell opened it and, digging under the shelf, located the key to the sitting room desk.

Thomason followed him to the sitting room. Unlocking the desk drawer, Mitchell readily found the roll of notes. He peeled off five pounds and handed it to Thomason. “For any delivery charges and anything you feel the baroness will need. She has a small kitchen, so it will require a kettle and a few pots and pans, I imagine. Also, she might appreciate the bedding from her room. It may bring her comfort.”

“Leave it to me. I will see it is delivered this afternoon, Sergeant.”

“Good man.”

“A Merry Christmas, Sergeant, and to the baroness as well.”

Mitchell slipped the roll of notes in his side pocket, then pulled on his gloves. “The same goes for you and the staff, Thomason. From the baroness as well. Try and enjoy the holiday. The detective on the case, Mahone, is very competent. Look out for suspicious characters hanging about and let Mahone know immediately.”

They headed toward the front entrance, and Thomason opened the door. “I will, Sergeant. You can count on me.”

Mitchell touched his forelock and stepped out in the cold air. He glanced about the street again. Since he found no one lurking about, he waved down another hansom cab. “Seven Carol Street,” he instructed the driver.

Once they arrived, Mitchell banged on the roof.

“Yes, sir?” the driver asked.

“I will only be a moment. Then I will need to go to the bank.”

Mitchell stepped onto the walkway and stared at Addington’s residence. The door had boards nailed across it. Mahone must have had it secured. Would the new baron keep this residence? It hardly seemed likely. It was too middle class for the likes of a wealthy baron. Travis Addington had been going to sell it anyway. Mitchell scanned the street. Good, the baker’s cart was here.

Once he stood before the wagon, he touched the brim of his hat. “Good day. Are you the owner of this cart?”

The man, who was in his late thirties, gave Mitchell a wary look. “Aye. My wife and I do the baking early each morning.”

“An acquaintance of mine owns a restaurant in the East End. I would like to give him your name. He might be interested in buying some of your goods.”

The wary look deepened to one of skepticism.

Mitchell reached in his side pocket for his division card. “Detective Sergeant Simpson. This is not a scam. Baroness Addington sings your praises and wonders if you would be amenable to us putting your name forth.”

“I have no idea who the baroness is, Sergeant, but thank her.” The man held out his hand. “My name is Royce Eckley, and my wife is Rosa. She does the biscuits and cakes. I do the breads and scones. We also do tarts when the fruit is in season.”

Mitchell shook Eckley’s gloved hand. “Then you had better give me three of everything so I can send samples to my acquaintance and a dozen ginger biscuits and six scones. I’m not guaranteeing that the man who owns the restaurant will be in contact, but if he does, I will have him use my full name and today’s date. That way, you know he is on the up and up.”

“Thank you, sir!” Eckley immediately started bagging up everything. After Mitchell paid, he lifted the stuffed paper bag and tucked it close as he headed toward the carriage. His wandering gaze came upon a parked hansom. Mitchell stopped, his inner copper alarm beginning to peal. But he could not see anyone sitting inside it. Just his overactive imagination, perhaps.

Once situated in the cab, the driver pulled out onto the street, and Mitchell glanced back through the small rear window to see if the cab was following him. It was not. Overactive indeed. Mitchell settled in the carriage, and his thoughts turned to Corrinne. The sooner he was done with these errands, the sooner he could return to her. But before he went home, he had another stop to make—to the Galway Agency to bring them up to date on the case status. He should have seen them before, but these past weeks had been a whirlwind of activity and emotion. He also owed them their share of the Addington fee. Should he take on any new cases? Or wait until Corrine’s current situation calmed down? He looked out the side window. Snow flurries fluttered downward from the gray sky above. He had enough money to live for a few months and would tell the Galway sisters he would be available again when Corrine released him.

Mitchell hoped that would never happen. Because he was deeply and irrevocably in love with Corrine.

*

One hour later…

“Well, Charlie?”

The young lad stood before Jedi, twisting his cap between his fingerless gloved hands. “A man came to the house. He were in there twenty minutes or more. Before he knocked on the door, he came over and gave me a shilling. I saw him up close. Later, I snuck closer to the house and heard the butler call him sergeant summat or other.”

Sergeant? A soldier? Or a copper? “Give me a description, Charlie. A good one.”

“He were tallish, wearing a long wool coat with a gentleman’s hat. He weren’t no slubber, or skinny either. I reckon he could win a fight easy—muscles and all. The gent walked with shoulders back, determined-like. The git had light hair, not gold as such, and blue eyes like the sky. He weren’t old, and not ugly. But what do I know about it? Oh, and he were lame. He used a cane to get about.”

Lame? Could it be Simpson? The description fit. What in the hell was he doing at the baron’s, back on the job, already? The baron’s house wasn’t even in that peeler’s territory. Simpson was fast becoming a thorn in his side. First, he’d assisted in foiling Jedi’s ransom plan close to two months ago. And now he was somehow involved with Addington? “And then what?”

“I followed him. You said to follow anyone who came to the house. He went to Carol Street. Stood in front of number seven for a tetch, then walked over to a seller’s cart and bought all sorts, bread and the like. He looked over at the cab I was in, but I ducked down quick. He didn’t see me.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Aye, I’m sure. He looked away and got into his own cab. Then he went to a bank on Piccadilly, The Strand. Again, he were only there a few minutes. He were going all over. Then he stopped at a place on Cleveland Street.” Charlie twisted his cap nervously. “After that, the driver got caught in traffic, and we lost him around Paddington Station. I’m sorry, Jedi. I tried my best. Don’t cuff me one.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Charlie. Considering all the bloke’s stops, you did all right. How much money have you got left from what I gave you?” Rumor had it that Charlie was his, but Jedi didn’t care one way or the other. The lad was clever. That was why he used him in this capacity.

The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “After paying the driver? Some florins and pennies, plus the shilling the lame bugger gave me.”

“Here’s half a crown. I’ll be in touch at the usual places. Remember, tell no one I’m alive or that you’ve seen me, you follow? You know what will happen.”

Charlie snatched the half crown and swiftly tucked it and the rest of the coins in his pocket. “Aye, I know and all.” The boy ran off, leaving Jedi in his hiding place. It was a condemned building in Notting Dale, but a few people still lived there. Rumor stated the place would be pulled down next month. In the meantime, it afforded him a safe room in the basement, with its own door leading into the alley. It had a functioning fireplace running along the side of the building. Since other people were using it, so did Jedi. It kept him warm.

But he knew he couldn’t stay here long.

And he dared not venture out. Not just yet.

Jedi had no idea how Cillian was doing or if he’d grassed him to the coppers. He hadn’t known his son that long. Would he crack under pressure and give up the goods? Maybe he should send word to Erin and give her a warning only he knew how to deliver, just to ensure his son’s silence. He could sweeten the deal by offering her money and asking her to check out the Cleveland Street address for him.

Jedi threw more coal on the fire and sat back in the rickety chair, folding his arms. Paddington Station. That was in the Tyburnia area, where mucky-mucks lived. Why would a copper be traveling over there? Maybe he would make Charlie prowl the streets looking for the lame man. The area wasn’t that big. Perhaps he could contact his informant at the Lancaster Station where Simpson worked and discover the detective’s status. The more he thought about it, the more Jedi was convinced it was Simpson. And he’d make sure the sergeant would regret interfering in Jedi’s plans again.

He sat there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do next. He hadn’t heard anything about Addington’s funeral. Nothing had been in the papers, at least from the ones he found in rubbish bins. The murder was splashed all over, but nothing more. Jedi would be a complete nutter to show up there, in disguise or not. He curled his lip at the thought of the baron. What an idiot to pull a gun out of the safe and shoot. It just went to prove you couldn’t trust any toff.

Well, he paid the price of double-crossing me.

The smart thing to do would be to leave London immediately and not look back. But to do that, he’d need money. If Addington had just paid him, he would have been gone already. Granted, he still had close to two hundred pounds left from his stash, but that wasn’t enough to live on for the rest of his days. And there was still a chance he could collect… He just needed to devise a way to do precisely that. He was owed . Jedi could not let that go. Not when it concerned money. Not ever.

And this time, no one had better stand in his way.