Page 43 of The Detective and the Baroness

“I once heard of a story of an earl and his countess desperate for a legitimate heir. They found out that they couldn’t have children but announced to society that they were expecting, and then the countess was whisked away to an isolated manor in Scotland. She returned seven months later with a baby boy. The heir was an orphaned baby from a tiny village in the Highlands that no one had ever heard of. These types of elaborate secret baby schemes have been done for centuries. This particular tale occurred over one hundred years ago, but the practice is still done. I have no doubt.”

“I’ve heard various stories, too. Yet, the Highlands tale you relayed leaked out, nonetheless. And something like that would have been easier to conceal in the Georgian era.”

“Perhaps. But as you say, there is always gossip about one’s aristocratic lineage. The thing is, the earl and the countess got away with it. You could use this idea to stall Addington.”

Corrine’s eyebrow raised. “Stall?”

“As I said, you have to fight fire with fire. For example, tell him to wait on selling his residence until after Christmas, that it’s difficult to shift a property during the holidays, and that he should stay there until it can be sold. Or anything you can think of. Tell him you need more time. Tell him there are other ways to get an heir, and they need consideration.”

Corrine frowned. “I’m not well-versed in lying. And that is what I will be doing.”

“I’m not one for deceitful actions either. Frankly, I cannot believe I proposed this. Dismiss it out of hand. If you wish for a divorce, you will have to claim adultery and add cruelty or desertion. You must prove it in court, and the details will become fodder for the newspapers. Or you can go for an annulment and claim him impotent.”

Corrine shook her head. “That is no choice at all. It will bring scandal and ruin down on my family and the Addington barony.” She smiled shakily. “We could always run away. Then Travis would have no choice but to divorce me for adultery and desertion. But again, the shame of it all. I honestly do not know what to do.”

“Find a competent solicitor? Stall for time, and allow me and your brother, when he returns, to find all the information we can. Do not give up. Not yet.” Mitchell gave her a crooked grin. “I must admit, running away is tempting. For us to be alone, to explore our feelings? I cannot imagine anything more enticing.”

“Thank you for saying that—about us escaping,” she murmured. “It is vastly enticing.”

“But?”

Corrine sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Even if I manage the divorce, there is the matter of the money owed. I would never ask you or anyone to take on the debt of tens of thousands of pounds. As I said, I am stuck.” Her voice sounded miserable to her own ears.

“One thing at a time. Let’s meet in three days. I will ask Drew to pick you up in his carriage and bring you to Hallahan’s restaurant. We will do it under the cover of night. I think it prudent that we no longer have private meetings at our residences. Why give your detestable husband any more ammunition to use against you?”

Mitchell was right. They could not meet alone like this again. “Doesn’t Hallahan’s become a pub and gaming room in the evenings?”

“There are still tables set aside at the back for those wishing an evening repast. It’s basically leftovers from luncheon, or so Hallahan tells me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “He is very shrewd, using every last crumb he can.” Corrine sighed. “Yes, I will meet you at Hallahan’s. What time?”

“Tell Thomason that you are meeting with Doctor Drew Hornsby to discuss your charity nursing work and will be gone two hours. I will have Drew pick you up at seven sharp.”

“That is clever. Well done.”

“Being a detective has its advantages. It appears I can lie when necessary.”

“And what about…us? Can there be an us?”

*

Mitchell’s heart contracted in pain at her words. When she ran into his arms, he thought he was dreaming. But Corrine felt real, soft, and utterly glorious in his embrace. He never wanted to let go. He also had a physical reaction, but he managed not to make it obvious. Any barriers he had placed between them came tumbling down as he held her close to his rapidly beating heart. “Yes. We must keep the faith that it will work out.” He stood, for if he lingered any longer, he would pull her into his arms again. “We will talk more at dinner about the other aspects of your case. As for now, I will look into your father’s loan immediately.”

Taking his cane, Mitchell came to her side. “Do not get up.” He took her hand and laid a tender kiss upon it. “One day at a time,” he murmured. “We will get through this.”

Turning, he exited the room as swiftly as his aching leg would allow. Nodding to Thomason standing in the hallway, he exited onto the walkway. He loathed leaving her, but he had much to do. Not only concerning her case but also dealing with her father. Corrine was distressed, and Mitchell did not want to add more to her troubles today by telling her what he suspected about the hooded man. Perhaps he’d break the news of the possibility at dinner, in a more relaxed setting. First things first: Corrine’s wayward and reckless father.

Mitchell waved down an approaching hansom cab. “Sixty-nine Baker Street, Marylebone.” It wasn’t a high-end address, but a fashionable one, nonetheless. Seven minutes later, he arrived at the residence to find two men arguing on the front step. The tall, younger man had brown hair shot with dark red, the same shade as Corrine’s hair, or near to it. This had to be Jeffery, her brother. The older man, a few inches shorter, had white-gray hair with bushy white whiskers, and his physicality was lean. He had his arms folded in defiance.

With a disgusted look, the heir apparent turned on his heel and stormed into the house. The viscount strode toward Mitchell’s hansom, motioning to the driver. Mitchell could not hear the conversation, but the viscount must have understood the cab was occupied, for he hailed another cab. Mitchell took his cane and tapped the roof again.

“Yes, sir?”

“Follow that cab at a discreet distance.”

They were off. The viscount’s cab eventually turned onto Westbourne Grove, a chic shopping area in Notting Hill. The busy street was filled with horse-drawn omnibuses, carriages of all sizes, hansom cabs, and several automobiles. The viscount’s cab pulled up in front of Whiteley’s Department Store. The store consisted of a row of shops containing seventeen departments. The viscount exited his cab and entered one of the boutiques. Mitchell grabbed his notebook and pencil from his inside coat pocket and took notes. Rothley had gone into the perfumier and beauty department showroom. Was he buying for a woman, perhaps? Mitchell made a note to return and question the staff.

Rothley wasn’t in the shop long and was soon in his cab traveling out of the West End. Mitchell’s driver followed at a distance. At last, the cab stopped in front of a modest row house. A maid answered the door and let him in. The cab departed. Mitchell wrote the address in his book. Ninety-four Old Street, in northeast London. Then he tapped the roof.