Page 28 of The Detective and the Baroness

“Good afternoon, Thomason,” Mitchell said.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“Lady Corrine has acquired my services because she is concerned for her husband’s safety. Do you recall the man in the cloak who came to the door last week?” Mitchell asked.

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“What can you tell me about him? Has he been here before? Especially when Gilbert Addington was still the baron?”

The butler’s bushy brows furrowed as if deep in thought. “I told her ladyship I did not recognize him or his voice. And I hadn’t. But something is nagging me about it right here.” Johnson placed his fist against his midsection. “After Master Hayes’s accidental drowning, this house was never the same. The baroness took to her room, and there she died. The baron walked these halls as if he were a living ghost. Visitors were rare, though I recall a man coming here about ten years ago, demanding to see the baron.”

Corrine’s ears perked up at that information. “Can you describe him at all?”

Thomason shook his head. “I am sorry to say I barely gave him a glance. Although I remember he had black hair and scarring on the left side of his face. A rather horrible scar.”

Mitchell and Corrine exchanged astonished looks. Could it be the same man? It had to be!

“What happened next?” Mitchell asked.

“I went downstairs to polish the silver after the baron came to the door. I heard nothing of the conversation. I do not believe the baron asked him in, for their interaction was of a brief duration.” The butler scratched his chin. “But that night, I heard the baron walking across the floor. He had a certain gait that I had come to know. Then, moments later, I heard him walk back from where he had come. Then the door slammed. I never saw the man again, and the baron never discussed it. He remained in his study the rest of the day and refused a tea tray when I brought it. He said he wished to be left alone. He looked—sad. Quite miserable.”

“Gilbert’s son’s accidental drowning was indeed tragic. Do you know anything more about it?” Corrine asked.

“I do not know much, my lady. You could ask the Duke of Allenby or the new Duke of Chellenham. They were both there, along with other friends. The boys were fifteen or sixteen years of age. I heard that there was an inquiry, which ruled it accidental.”

Again, Corrine exchanged shocked looks with Mitchell. Allenby? Chellenham? The dukes married to the Galway sisters? “If you see this cloaked man again, please let her ladyship know or send word to me here.” Mitchell passed him a small card. “I’m taking on investigative cases while I recover. The address is there on the card.”

“I will, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, Thomason. You were most helpful,” Corrine said, smiling.

Taking that as a dismissal, the butler rose from the chair, bowed, and then quit the room, closing the door behind him.

Corrine waited a few moments, then whispered, “Could it be the same man? That seems impossible.”

“Impossible? No, but not probable. Still, I have learned in my police work that there is always a slim chance that something is connected. That could be the case here.”

Corrine tapped her finger against her chin. “Once the hooded man found out the old baron was dead, why would he skulk about the property? To see if I was telling the truth about Travis not being here?”

“Yes. I had that thought myself earlier,” Mitchell replied.

“I will be attending an afternoon tea party at the Duchess of Gransford’s residence the day after tomorrow. She is Doctor Drew Hornsby’s aunt. I have been given an assignment by Althea Galway to gather information on someone. Perhaps I can also gather information on the old baron.”

Mitchell gave her a warm smile, the first she had seen from him. How it enhanced his rugged good looks. “Good for you. Then why don’t we meet in three days at my small office in Gloucester Square? Let’s say at two in the afternoon?”

“Your place?”

Mitchell’s smile disappeared. “It’s not what you think. I mean, we can meet elsewhere, if you wish.”

For all their talk of being friends, there would always be this underlying—tension, for lack of a better word. To Corrine, it proved the attraction was mutual, but it complicated everything.

“I never thought that. I was merely surprised. We can meet at your office. What is the actual address?” She smiled to show she meant what she said.

“Forty-eight Gloucester Square. We are on the bottom two floors.” He stood and then gathered his hat and cane. “I will see you then.”

Corrine stood as well and came to stand before him. For the life of her, she could not stop herself from slipping her hand in his. “Thank you for the biscuits.”

They stood, holding hands, not moving or even breathing. Mitchell’s hand was warm, and a tingling sensation traveled up her arm from his potent touch. This should not be happening. But it was, and she momentarily reveled in that comforting correlation. The sensation was far beyond comfort as her insides fluttered with excitement. Was this desire? Corrine grew hot all over. She released his hand, then stepped back, immediately missing the lost connection.