Page 3 of The Detective and the Baroness

“I can make my own arrangements. And Chellenham is my half-brother.”

“The duke guessed you would say exactly that, so I have another proposition. You can stay with me. That way, I can assist you in your recovery. I live in a large flat not far from here.”

Mitchell blinked several times, shocked at the suggestion. “Why would you make such an offer to a perfect stranger?”

“Well, it turns out we are not exactly strangers—in the biological sense.”

Mitchell stared at the doctor in disbelief.

No. Not another one.

Damon’s father, the old duke, was a miserable, egotistical excuse for a man who held a deep conviction in eugenics. Edward Cranston believed he possessed a superior bloodline and ensured he spread that lineage far and wide. It was a complicated tale, not one Mitchell wanted to discuss right now. But observing Hornsby, he could see it: those tell-tale sky-blue eyes, the light-colored hair, and the tall frame. Almost all of the Duke’s offspring had the same physical attributes, himself included.

“How and when did you find out?” Mitchell whispered.

“Only recently. My mother passed when I was nine, and Tremain Hornsby, Viscount Hawkestone, adopted me shortly thereafter. On her deathbed, she told my adopted father, then a vicar, who my birth father was and made him swear never to tell anyone. But when Edward Cranston died a few months ago, my father decided to inform me of the truth. You see, my mother and I had been living under a false name—she was hiding me from Cranston. Quite the sordid story…”

Mitchell could not be more shocked if Hornsby had smacked him across the head with a pine board. “Have you told Damon?”

“Yesterday. Chellenham promptly invited me into his club. And more generously, into his life and family.”

That sounded like Damon. The club in question was The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. “He invited me, as well. I’m thinking about joining.”

“Perhaps we can join, but maybe later. For now, let us form our own group. I appreciate the duke’s offer considering their charity work, but I would like us to focus on another purpose.” Hornsby reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is the list Damon’s mother gave him that started him on his journey of discovery. It contains the names of all the illegitimate children the duchess knew of. I say we find these people, taking on one name at a time.”

Mitchell was on that list. He had no idea what to say.

“I’m overwhelming you. I do apologize,” Hornsby said softly. “I’m still trying to digest the news myself. I did not expect this turn of events and I cannot explain why I feel compelled to seek out these people. It is not for family’s sake, as I have a loving family with the Hornsbys, as you did with the Simpsons. Damon told me of the particulars.”

“We were fortunate to be taken in by good people,” Mitchell murmured.

“Yes. But how many on this list were not? What say we work together and form a support group of sorts. Do good works for those who need it, whether on the list or not.”

The idea began to germinate in Mitchell’s mind. He liked Damon more with each passing day, but joining his half-brother’s exclusive club filled with aristocratic and wealthy members did not appeal to him, even though they were honorable men. “Let me see the list.”

Hornsby handed him the paper. Ten names. Eight males and two females. “There is a ledger full of names beyond this list. We just have to find it.”

Hornsby nodded. “The duke told me about that and the foundling home.”

Yes, the foundling home—Chellenhome. And another discussion to add to the mounting agenda. The late duke sold his illegitimate offspring, as well as those of other wealthy men of business or the peerage, for profit. When he’d discovered he had been sold to his adoptive parents—like a piece of merchandise—it had stung. But he didn’t blame the Simpsons, not at all. No, he blamed the late duke for taking advantage of a couple desperate for a child, charging such an exorbitant price, it decimated their savings. Mitchell returned his attention to the paper. The next name on the list—Liam Hallahan, pub owner.

Following through with this idea would be like ripping off a bandage and exposing a better left-alone wound. But this quest would give Mitchell some purpose while he recovered. He was a detective, after all. There was no reason he could not do some private investigative work on the side.

“You need to think about it. I understand,” Hornsby said solemnly. “Take all the time you need. Though I may not show it outwardly, I’m still reeling from finding out who fathered me. I’m sure you are as well.”

That was an understatement. It had shaken the very foundation of Mitchell’s life. “It was bad enough to find out I was a duke’s by-blow, as society calls it, but discovering he was, in essence, a Dickens’s villain, selling children, including his own? Yes, I’m reeling.” Mitchell exhaled. “Look, Hornsby. I don’t need time to think about your offer. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie around and bemoan my fate. Doing good works was the reason I considered joining Damon’s group, but your proposal intrigues me more.”

Hornsby nodded. “Good. Why not offer assistance to those who share our unfortunate bloodline? Why not do good, not just for the names on the list but for anyone in the periphery? What better way to expunge Edward Cranston’s loathsome legacy than banding together and rising above it?”

“Well said. I say we forge ahead,” Mitchell declared firmly. “And I have just the name for our group. The Duke’s Bastards.”

Chapter One

Early December 1898

London, England

Mitchell gazed out the window of the hansom cab that carried him to his first case as a private investigator. How ironic that it was Baroness Corrine Addington who wished to hire him. He had not seen the lovely lady since she had awakened him six weeks ago. At times, especially late at night, he swore he could detect her enticing scent, a mixture of vanilla and roses, and feel her soft, silky touch on his forehead as she soothed his fevered brow. Since he found her attractive, he should have declined the appointment outright, but curiosity got the better of him—and he longed to see her again.