Page 18 of The Detective and the Baroness

Drew had Hallahan’s undivided attention now.

“And what would I do with it, exactly?”

“Well, you are the chef. I suppose you could—repurpose it. Repurpose is not really a word. What I mean is sell it to your customers and use that profit to fund your free meals or any other charity plan you may have. Or give it away to the hungry.”

Mitchell was dually impressed with Drew’s suggestions.

Hallahan took his mug of tea, sat back, and regarded them closely. “You say there are more names beyond what you showed me.”

Drew took a spoonful of the fruity dessert. “Mitchell is correct. This is very tasty, like a comforting blanket of warmth. To answer your question, yes. There are dozens upon dozens. The youngest that we know of is five years of age. She and three others are moving in with Damon Cranston, the new Duke of Chellenham, and his bride, the first of next month.”

Hallahan arched his eyebrow again. “A ready-made family. Here’s the thing: I’m not looking for one. I got this far on my own, more or less. The closest thing I have to family are the ladies downstairs. Some of them worked in the brothel until I closed it. Now, they are waitresses, managers, and more. I look out for them. They look out for me. That is the definition of a family in my eyes.”

“You are correct,” Mitchell murmured. “We are not here to recruit you as a brother but as someone with a common purpose: to rise above Edward Cranston’s despicable legacy. To assist those less fortunate, whether in our immediate sphere or beyond. And especially those Edward Cranston left to flounder: his own children.”

Hallahan was giving it some thought. Mitchell could almost hear the wheels turning in the Irishman’s mind.

“All right. I will join your group for now. You can ask your nob friends to make a donation as well, to buy vegetables and meat for the stew I serve. Hornsby, come here in five days, at ten in the morning, and we will see how it goes. Also, I can reuse, or as you call it, repurpose the toff food and sell it. I would welcome that, too.”

Drew placed his empty bowl on the table. “I will come at ten.” Drew reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Our address.”

Hallahan read it, then snorted. “Gloucester Square? Pardon me all to hell.”

Drew shrugged, then stood. So did Mitchell. “My father is a viscount, my uncle, a duke.”

“And yet you labor in a free medical clinic?” Hallahan questioned.

“Like you, I do my part.” Drew held out his hand. “Welcome to The Duke’s Bastards.”

Hallahan tucked the slip of paper in his trousers pocket, took Drew’s hand, and shook it. “The Duke’s Bastards. An appropriate name.”

After shaking Mitchell’s hand, Hallahan turned to go.

It was an interesting beginning to their group, Mitchell thought. What would become of it all remained to be seen.

Tomorrow, he’d have to turn his attention to his Addington case. How inappropriate that he physically ached to see Corrine again.

Oh, this is not good at all.

Chapter Seven

Corrine paced back and forth in the sitting room, impatient, bored, and mildly irritated—not a healthy combination. But five days had passed, and there had not been a word from Travis or Mitchell. What was going on? Had Mitchell discovered any information?

The cook/housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, had already questioned her about Christmas, the menu, and who might attend, such as her family—if anyone. But Christmas was the last thing on her mind. She definitely did not feel like celebrating anything. Especially because she knew that Travis’s absence had been noted—and discussed—by the staff. What to do?

There was a small country estate outside of London belonging to the Addington barony. Still, Travis had never suggested going there for the winter, although many in the aristocracy spent the colder months away from London. Nor was she aware of where it was located. Somewhere west of the city? Aldershot? Or was it in Alton? It started with an A. She was sure of it.

Corrine gazed out the window. Her family also owned a small country estate but had started renting it out years ago for the income. Even that monthly stipend hadn’t been enough to keep her family’s head above water. Now they had money, or rather, she did. Corrine had Travis authorize a trust account in her name, and only she could draw on it. She paid her father and brother a generous stipend every month. To her brother Jeffery’s credit, he remained working at the bank. Their lives were finally stable—at least for now.

If only her life felt as steadfast. So much remained unsettled, including her marriage. Corrine was not one for sitting still. And in that moment, she decided to do something about it. Her nurse uniforms were stored in a trunk with other garments she had not unpacked yet. She could use one of those as a disguise and do a little investigating independently.

Corrine rushed upstairs to the empty room next to hers. Upon opening the trunk, she rifled through the neatly packed clothes and located her most recent uniform and cloak. The fact that she hadn’t even finished unpacking yet spoke of her continued uncertainty. The tiny lace cap would not do, so she located the long veil that most nurses no longer wore. If she pulled the veil forward, it would hide most of her hair and partially conceal her face.

Grabbing the garments, she hurried into her bedroom and swiftly changed. As she emerged from her room and descended the stairs, Corrine looked about for the footman. Frustrated, she entered the sitting room and pressed the buzzer twice.

“There you are, Jonathan. Please hail me a hansom cab.”

The footman was startled at her attire but soon showed a neutral expression. “At once, my lady.”