Page 45 of The Detective and the Baroness

Mitchell touched the brim of his hat and departed. Once out on the walkway, he gazed up and down the street. Mitchell waved to an approaching hansom cab and gave the driver the address. He might as well grab the bull by the horns and confront Rothley. Right now.

Chapter Seventeen

Mitchell banged on the door insistently. At last, it opened, and the maid gave him an annoyed look. He didn’t give her time to speak, but merely pushed past her and into the front hall.

“Here! You cannot just come in here like that. Who are you?” the maid whined.

“Where is Rothley?” Mitchell demanded.

The maid lifted her chin and sniffed. “I don’t know who you mean.”

Mitchell was not going to get anywhere with this woman. He only hoped there weren’t muscular footmen lingering about because getting into a brawl was not on his agenda. Assessing the layout, he assumed the couple may be upstairs. Barging into a bedroom while Rothley was alone with his mistress was not ideal, but he had to do what needed to be done. He climbed the stairs as swiftly as his aching leg would allow.

“Mrs. Robson!” the maid screamed. “A strange man is in the house!”

Mitchell kept going, and when he made it above the stairs, a woman stood in the hallway in a pink silk dressing gown.

“Who are you?” she cried, her hand above her heart. On that hand and arm were expensive rings and bracelets. At least, Mitchell assumed they were expensive. The lady was as Peterson described. Mitchell took her arm, pulled her into the room, and slammed the door. Lounging on a chaise was Rothley. Thankfully, he was still dressed. He had removed his coat, and his shirt and waistcoat were undone, exposing his chest. He looked incredibly fit for a man in his early sixties. He held a brandy snifter, looking comfortable in his surroundings.

“Don’t get up,” Mitchell said sarcastically. “I’m here to collect the loan Addington gave you.”

Rothley’s annoyed look turned to one of shock. “Loan? Who sent you?”

“Where is the twenty-five thousand pounds?” However, as Mitchell looked about the room, he could see where some of the previous money had gone. The room was lush, with crystal chandeliers, expensive art, and electric lighting. Gold embossed wallpaper as well.

While Corrine had worked her heart out the past ten years, trying to keep her family from the brink of financial ruin, her father had been investing in various schemes and keeping his mistress comfortable. The miserable wretch.

“I do not have the money on me,” the viscount sputtered as he placed his snifter on the table beside him. “Did Addington send you? Those were not the terms I agreed to. He has no right to ask for it back.”

“For nearly fifteen years, your daughter has worried and scrimped, selling artwork and trinkets to keep food on your table. Lady Corrine became a nurse and toiled long hours to pay your bills. And when your son was old enough, he also found work because of your extravagant lifestyle. Have you ever given them any thought at all?”

Rothley’s eyes narrowed. “Corrine and Jeffery sent you? The ingrates.”

Mrs. Robson gasped. “Son? And a daughter?”

Mitchell did the one thing his police training warned against: he’d become personally involved. Too late. Mitchell dropped his cane and, with two hands, grabbed fistfuls of the viscount’s open shirt, bringing him to his feet. “Ingrates? Your daughter made an impulsive marriage of convenience to pay your outstanding bills since the family was close to being imprisoned for your debts. Were you even aware? Did you even care?” Mitchell’s voice rose with each question. How disconcerting to learn that he was close to giving a deserved beating to this heartless aristocrat.

“James? Is this true?” Mrs. Robson cried, clearly distressed.

A small voice arose from the doorway. “Mama? Papa?”

Still holding on to Rothley, Mitchell swung about to find a small boy rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken. Mrs. Robson rushed to the boy, dropped to her knees, and hugged him tightly. The lad looked no more than five years of age.

“It’s all right, my dear. Come back to bed and finish your nap.” Mrs. Robson looked up to find a shocked maid standing in the archway. “Mary, please take Master James to his room.”

James? They named the child after Rothley. Of course, the small lad called him ‘Papa.’

With the child escorted from the room, Mrs. Robson closed the door and faced the viscount. “You told me you were wealthy and that it was no hardship to see to my comforts. Those were your words. I objected to most of your improvements,” she said, pointing to the ornate chandelier. “But you said you could well afford it. What else have you lied about?”

Mitchell could see the mixture of anger and hurt glistening in her eyes. He released the viscount, who visibly slumped. Disgusted, Mitchell pushed him into the chaise longue.

“Flora, my love. Let us not discuss private business in front of this over-muscled thug,” Rothley soothed.

Mrs. Robson turned to face Mitchell. “I ask again, who are you?”

Mitchell grabbed his leather case and flipped it open for her to see. “Detective Sergeant Mitchell Simpson.”

“The police!” she cried.