Page 2 of The Detective and the Baroness

Family? He had no family. His parents died years ago.

There was Damon Cranston, his recently revealed half-brother, and the new Duke of Chellenham. Why had he been brought to Damon’s residence instead of a hospital? Still, he’d probably received better care here—a duke could afford top-notch medical attention. What did it matter where he recovered? The fact that he had been shot was the paramount occurrence.

His thoughts and emotions were chaotic and had been for a few weeks. Discovering he was the bastard son of a duke was just one of the shocking twists and turns Mitchell’s life had taken lately. But learning he was one of possibly dozens upon dozens of illegitimate offspring from that same late duke was particularly shocking. Then he’d received his recent surprising but welcome promotion to sergeant. Now, this injury on top of it all? Before he could reply, Lady Addington departed, leaving an enticing aroma of vanilla and roses in her wake.

Damon Cranston stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Unfortunately, the utterly alluring baroness did not return with him. And damn it, he’d never thanked her for her care.

“I am relieved,” Damon said, exhaling. “It was touch and go there for a few days. But still, you must be careful. Why don’t you stay here as long as it takes to recover?”

“Thank you,” Mitchell replied quietly. “The baroness, why was she here?”

“Lady Addington volunteered once again to offer medical assistance.”

Right. She had said that. But why was the baroness meeting with the ladies who ran the Galway Investigative Agency? And multiple times? The questions he longed to ask were piling up. Although, how tempting it would be to have Damon call her back into the room so he could enjoy her comforting presence. “Where am I, Clarendon Place or the Duke’s house at Queen Anne’s Gate?”

“Clarendon Place. The duke’s residence is in the last weeks of its renovation. The children wish to see you, but I said you were still too ill for company. And by looking at you, that seems to be the case.” Damon smiled teasingly. “No offense.”

Children?

Mitchell had only met his assorted much younger half-brothers and half-sister a few weeks ago. Yes, he had more ‘family’ than he knew what to do with. All of them were the progeny of the detestable Edward Cranston, the late Duke of Chellenham. But Mitchell wasn’t ready to deal with them now.

“Thank you. But I cannot see the children in this condition. Not for a while. Is everyone well? Tensbridge and the rest? Is Danaher dead?”

“A body was discovered in the burned building. The police allege the corpse to be Jedidiah Danaher but state that, scientifically speaking, it will be difficult to know for sure. Everyone is well. I don’t suppose you can talk about what happened.”

“No. It is not my story to tell. Certain aspects—I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Say no more. And as far as seeing the children, I surmised you would not be up to having rambunctious tots skipping about your room. By the by, your supervisor, Inspector Stanhope, came to see you, but you were not yet conscious. He wanted an update on your medical condition.”

Mitchell’s blood chilled. “Why?” A sickening feeling settled in Mitchell’s guts. Stanhope would take immediate steps to replace him if he weren’t up to co-running the F Division Lancaster Station near the Notting Dale district.

“Doctor Drew Hornsby will relay that to you. He’s been seeing to your care.” Damon strode toward the door, opened it, and waved in the young doctor. Once Hornsby arrived, Damon left them alone.

Mitchell tried to move his injured leg but couldn’t. Panic tore through him, and he elevated his head and looked down the length of the bed.

Oh, thank Christ. He still had his leg. A wave of relief overtook him.

Doctor Hornsby stood by his bed. “Awake at last, Sergeant Simpson. I will be blunt: we almost had to take the leg. Sepsis started to settle in the wound, but I used carbolic acid on the bandages, and luckily, the danger passed.”

Sepsis? Wasn’t that derived from the Greek word sepo, which translated to ‘I rot.’ His late adoptive parents ensured he obtained a good education, which came in handy more than once. Mitchell flared his nostrils. Thankfully, there was no putrid smell. “And what is my diagnosis?”

The young doctor pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat upon it. “It will be several months before you can return to duty, Sergeant. I am sorry.”

The crushing disappointment moving through him was potent, indeed. “If at all?”

“I believe with a sufficient recovery period and rehabilitation exercises, you will regain full use of your leg, at least enough to return to work. Your inspector said he will come by tomorrow to discuss your sick leave.”

Mitchell groaned. Payment received while on medical leave for the Metropolitan Police was barely sufficient for basic survival. How in hell would he live? His savings were for his retirement. He really didn’t want to touch that money, if possible.

“You will have to use a cane in the interim. And there may be sporadic pain,” the doctor continued. “But with focus and determination, you shall recover. I place my reputation on it.”

“In other words, don’t wallow in self-pity and get on with it,” Mitchell growled, allowing himself a moment of temper for his unfortunate fate.

Hornsby pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “Yes. That is the gist of it. I believe your brother intends to ask you to stay with him as you recover.”

Oh, no.

They hardly knew each other, and besides, Damon was to be married. The duke didn’t need a grumpy older half-brother wandering around the residence like a restless beast.