Sneak Peek of The Detective and The Baroness (The Duke’s Bastards #1)

Coming soon!

 

Prologue

 

 

 

Early November 1898

London, England

 

 

“Detective Simpson!”

Mitchell groaned and strained to open his eyes, but it proved impossible. He heard a woman’s voice and one somewhat familiar. His bewildered brain tried to place it. There was a familiarity, to be sure, and the sound of the breathy voice sent frissons of pleasure through his aching body.

“Sergeant, please wake up!” The woman gripped his arm and gave it a shake.

The haze started to clear. What had happened? The villain, Jedidah Danaher, had shot him, leaving him to bleed out in a condemned building. He recalled that much; after that, he could only extract brief snippets, and Mitchell couldn’t tell what was true and what was not.

Someone transported him to his half-brother’s house, where they called in a doctor. But Mitchell remembered her voice through his numerous fever dreams while slipping in and out of consciousness. He recollected her soothing touch. The lady had laid a cool cloth on his forehead when hot and covered him with blankets when Mitchell felt cold. She told him that all would be well, that he would recover.

Not that he genuinely believed it. 

“Mitchell!”

The sound of his name brought him the rest of the way of the mist. He groaned and placed his blurry gaze on the sound of the frantic voice.

When his vision cleared, and he saw who had awakened him, a powerful yearning tore through him. Baroness Corrine Addington. The Honorable Corrine Edgeworth, daughter of Viscount Rothley. The recently married baroness, bride to Travis Addington, the new baron. Travis Addington was a distant cousin to the recently passed old baron, Gilbert Addington.

He was sick and injured, yet his mind still could pluck out relevant facts stockpiled in his organized detective brain. It boded well for his recovery. Why was Lady Corrine here? Right. In a previous life, she had been a nurse. Yes, he had asked about her.

“We have not been properly or officially introduced. I was at the Galway’s residence when you came looking for Viscount Tensbridge and Miss Ellingford. There was no time for conversation, only a passing acknowledgment. We saw each other again when I assisted in nursing Miss Ellingford’s injuries.”

Mitchell remembered it all. He recalled locking gazes with her and how a potent blast of awareness and arousal had gripped him tight—just like now.

“I was at the Galways again,” she continued in her husky tone. “When the Duke of Chellenham came to tell Althea Galway your injuries resulted from a police raid. I offered my services again.” 

“How long have you been here?” Mitchell croaked.

“Since your friends brought you here five days ago.”

Five days? “What about the baron, your husband?”

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he wondering where you are?”

The baroness shrugged. “I highly doubt it. We are separated, at least temporarily.”

Already? Weren’t they married only a few months ago? Why did the prospect of her estrangement from her husband fill him with hope? It was inappropriate, especially since Mitchell had met the baroness only recently—and briefly, not so formally.

“I must tell the others you are awake.”

“Others?” he rasped.

“Your family and friends. They are all here at the moment. I will fetch them.”

Family? He had no family. 

Mitchell groaned. Damon, his recently revealed half-brother, was the new Duke of Chellenham. Why was he brought to Damon’s residence instead of a hospital to recover? What did it matter? 

Discovering you are the bastard son of a duke was just one of the shocking twists and turns Mitchell’s life had taken lately. Before he could reply, the baroness departed, leaving an enticing odor of vanilla and roses in her wake.

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

“I am relieved,” Damon exhaled. “It was touch and go there for a few days. You may stay here as long as it takes to recover,” Damon added. “Olivia will be by later this afternoon.”

Their half-sister. He had more family than he thought.

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

“Lady Corrine was with the Galway sisters when word of your adventure reached them. She volunteered once again to assist us.”

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. “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. “No offense.”

Children?

His assorted much younger half-brothers and half-sister. Mitchell had only met them a few weeks ago. Yes, he had more family than he knew what to do with. All of them, he, Damon, and Olivia included, were the progeny of the detestable Edward Cranston, the late Duke of Chellenham. But Mitchell couldn’t deal with the confused emotions tearing through him on all fronts.

“Thank you. I cannot see the children in this condition. Not for a while.” His mind was still in a fog. “Is everyone well? Tensbridge and the rest? Is Danaher dead?” Mitchell could hardly keep all that had transpired straight in his head as the events occurred swiftly.

“A body was discovered in the burned building. The police allege the corpse to be the villain Danaher but state that, scientifically speaking, it will be difficult to know for sure. Everyone is well. And as far as seeing the children, I surmised you would not be up to having rambunctious tots running about your room. I will explain it to them. By the by, your supervisor, Inspector Stanhope, came to see you, but you were not up to visitors. He wanted an update on your medical condition.”

Mitchell’s blood chilled. “Why?”

“Doctor Drew Hornsby will relay that to you.” Damon strode toward the door, opened it, and waved in the young doctor. Once Hornsby entered the room, Damon left them alone.

A sickening feeling settled in Mitchell’s guts. The news wasn’t good, and 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.

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.

Doctor Hornsby stood by his bed. “Awake at last, Sergeant Simpson. How gratifying. 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 has passed.”

Sepsis? Isn’t that derived from the Greek word sepo, which translates 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. Medical leave for the Metropolitan Police was barely sufficient for basic survival. How in hell will he live? His savings were for his retirement rather than for everyday living.

“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 will offer that you stay with him as you recover.”

Oh, no. 

They hardly knew each other, and besides, Damon was to be married next month to Althea Galway, and they were taking in those younger siblings. The duke didn’t need a grumpy older half-brother lurching about the residence like a restless beast.

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

“The duke guessed you would say exactly that. 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, a lucky side benefit from being the adopted son of a viscount and nephew to a duke.”

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 with a deep conviction in eugenics. Edward Cranston believed he possessed a superior bloodline and ensured he spread that lineage as far and wide as possible. There were dozens upon dozens of his progeny out in the world. It was a long, complicated tale, not one Mitchell wanted to discuss. He would leave that conversation for another day. But observing Hornsby, he could see it: those sky-blue eyes, the light-colored hair, and the tall frame. Almost all 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 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 it. When Edward Cranston died a few months ago, my father decided to inform me of the truth. You see, my mother and I lived under a fake name. She was hiding me from Cranston. A long, sordid story for another time.”

Mitchell could not be more shocked if Hornsby had smacked him with a pine board across the head. “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. “Me as well. I am thinking about joining the club.”

“Perhaps we can join—but later. Let's form one of our own. I appreciate the duke’s offer concerning The Rakes and their charity work, but I would like us to focus on another purpose besides that.” 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 is the names of the illegitimate children that the duchess knew of. I say we find these people.”

The list Mitchell’s name was on. He had no idea what to say. 

“I am overwhelming you. I do apologize,” Hornsby said softly. “I am still trying to digest the news myself. I did not expect this turn of events. I cannot explain why I feel compelled to seek out these people. It is not for family’s sake, as I have a wonderful 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? I say we band together and form a support group. Do good works from within for those who need it.”

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

Hornsby handed him the paper. Eight names. Six males and two females. “Damon told you of Olivia Durham here on the list? She is married to the Duke of Watford, a friend of Damon’s, and a member of The Rakes.”

“Yes. Chellenham also mentioned that August Donaldson, a footman at the country estate, came to him recently to ask for money. Donaldson claimed to be heading to North America to start a new life, but Damon doesn’t know if he left the country.”

“There is a ledger full of names beyond this list.”

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

Yes, the foundling home—yet another discussion to add to the growing agenda. Mitchell returned his attention to the paper. The next name on the list after he and Olivia? Liam Hallahan, pub owner. 

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. He could do some private investigative work by opening a temporary agency.

“You need to think about it, I understand,” Hornsby said solemnly. “Take all the time you need.”

Mitchell didn’t need time. Be damned if he would lie about bemoaning his fate. Doing good works was why he considered joining Damon’s group, but Hornsby’s proposal intrigued him more. Why not offer assistance to those who share an unfortunate bloodline? What better way to expunge Edward Cranston’s loathsome legacy than banning together and rising above it?

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