Page 46 of The Detective and the Baroness

Rothley buried his face in his hands.

“I’m temporarily on leave, ma’am, and working as a private investigator. I was hired to recover this ill-conceived loan. Naturally, I cannot reveal who hired me.”

“James, where is the money?” Mrs. Robson demanded. “The truth, for once.”

“You told Addington you’d placed it in some scheme and had already lost most of the money. Is that true?” Mitchell interjected.

“No,” the viscount replied wearily. “He threatened to call in the loan if his marriage to my daughter faltered. I told Addington I’d lost it so he would not ask for it back. I have lost money before in such dealings, so I concluded he would accept that explanation.”

“Where is it?” Mitchell growled. He was swiftly losing his patience.

“I have it tucked away. But I have already spent six thousand pounds.”

Had the idiot spent that much in less than ten days? What a sniveling, thoughtless bastard. Mitchell grabbed his cane from the floor. “Go and get it and bring it here.”

“I will not!” Rothley sniffed haughtily. “This could be some elaborate plan to fleece me of my money. I will lay coin my son is behind this. How dare he go all over town, cancel my accounts, and tell the shops not to give me credit? And my daughter? She hounded me endlessly for years about my lifestyle. How dare she? I am a viscount—”

Mitchell gave Rothley a backhanded slap. It was not very gentlemanly, but Mitchell had never claimed to be a gentleman. At least it silenced the viscount. “Collect the money. You have thirty minutes. I will stay right here. And do not think about doing a runner. I will have the Metropolitan Police on your trail, and you will be found and arrested for fraud. Think of the scandal. Go now.”

Silently, the viscount grabbed his coat and marched from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Robson wobbled, and Mitchell took her arm to keep her from swooning. He escorted her to the wing chair and sat opposite her. “I had no idea about any of this,” she whispered.

“When did you become involved with him?”

“Six years ago. I was a singer in an upscale West End theater. He asked me out for a late supper. I nearly refused since he was so much older, but I found him charming and handsome. He is sixty years old but hasn’t changed since I met him. Except his hair is whiter.” She frowned, looking quite miserable. “He lied to me all this time. James said he was a wealthy but lonely widower with no children. I fell in love with him.”

“He is a widower, and his family lived on the edge of financial ruin for years because of his thoughtless, spendthrift ways. At first, he invested in one business scheme or another and bought creature comforts for himself without ever thinking of his son and daughter.”

Mrs. Robson pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “Then, when he met me, I became his new scheme. He spent money on me. I did not ask for any of the lavish gifts or fancy furnishings. Then James came along—”

“The boy is his, then?”

“There has been no one but James. Ever. We never talked about marriage. I supposed I liked things as they were. I had no desire to be a viscountess. I regretted that decision after my son was born. I should have looked out for his future. He could have been the heir—so I thought. But James has another son, after all. Perhaps, deep down, I didn’t trust James. I always felt he kept things from me. Now I know.” She caught Mitchell’s gaze. “And why am I telling you all this? Because I believe one of his children hired you. Please explain to Lady Addington and her brother that I had no idea about any of this. You do believe me?”

“Yes. I believe you. Your reaction to the news was not counterfeit. What will you do now?”

“What choice do I have? Regardless of his lies, I suppose I still love him. He is the father of my son. I will try to forgive, but he broke the thin line of trust between us. I’m not sure it can be mended.” Mrs. Robson looked about the room. “He bought this residence—or so he claims. If so, I will make him sell it along with the garish furnishings. It is time I thought of my son’s future. Marriage, with James claiming his son and giving him his name however it is legally done, would be a start—if it can be done at all. Where we go from there, I know not.”

“I will tell Lady Addington about this. And Jeffery Edgeworth, her brother. They are good people and have suffered for years from their father’s reckless ways.”

“This Addington person James spoke of, Lady Corrine’s husband?”

“He is a baron. She entered the arranged marriage to settle her father’s debts.”

“Oh, dear God. What a muddle.”

They fell silent after that, both lost in their thoughts. Mitchell felt sympathy for Mrs. Robson. She had much to consider. And so did Mitchell. Even if Corrine and her brother paid back most of the loan, there were still six thousand pounds to consider, as well as the money spent from the marriage settlement. It could cost Corrine close to ten thousand pounds to be free of Addington. And that was only if he would even agree to a quick divorce—with him claiming that he committed adultery. The man would likely never agree to it.

Financially speaking, Mitchell could not help. He had six hundred pounds in his account, meant for his retirement—and borrowing ten thousand or more from his few nob acquaintances, whether family or not, was out of the question. Most of them were not overtly wealthy and had little money to spare. Mitchell could never ask for such a huge favor.

The door burst open, and Rothley strode through, tossing a silk bag at Mitchell. “It is all there. Take it and get out.”

“Not until I count it.”

Mrs. Robson dragged over a small round table and positioned it before Mitchell. He nodded, then pulled the paper notes from the bag. Dividing them into denominations, he tallied up the money. “There are eighteen thousand pounds here. You said you spent about six. You are a thousand short.”

“I need to live!” Rothley sputtered.