The Masterful Mr. Montague (2 page)

Violet held Lady Halstead’s anxious gaze. She had no reassuring answer to her ladyship’s question.

Worse, she had no idea how to easily get one.

In the end, she lifted the writing desk and returned it to the bottom drawer of the tallboy. Straightening, she went back to the bed, smoothed the covers, and reached for the lamp on the bedside table. Before dousing the light, she met Lady Halstead’s eyes. “Let me think about it overnight, and tomorrow morning we’ll discuss what to do.”

Lady Halstead’s lips twisted, but she nodded. As Violet turned the tiny wheel and the light faded, Lady Halstead closed her eyes.

Satisfied, Violet quietly left the room. With conjecture as to the deepening mystery of the Halstead estate circling in her mind, she walked slowly down the corridor to her own bed.

I
’ve come to a decision.”

Lady Halstead made the announcement the instant Violet, accompanied by Tilly, came through her ladyship’s bedroom door the next morning.

Hurrying to open the curtains, then to help Lady Halstead into a sitting position and resettle the pillows at her back, Violet smiled. “You can tell me while you eat breakfast.”

As Tilly stepped forward and set the breakfast tray across Lady Halstead’s lap, her ladyship waved Violet away. “No. That will keep you from your own breakfast, and I will require your assistance in doing what I wish. And”—Lady Halstead pounced on the copy of
The Times
Tilly had ironed, rolled, and set to one side of the tray—“I have to do some research first.”

Reassured by the enthusiasm lighting Lady Halstead’s face, Violet acquiesced. “Very well—I’ll come back as soon as I’ve broken my fast.”

“Hmm.” Lady Halstead was already engaged in searching through the news sheet.

Violet retreated, closing the door and following Tilly downstairs.

Stepping off the stairs, Tilly glanced back at Violet. “She seems in fine fettle again—not like the last few days.”

Violet nodded. “It sounds as if she’s thought of a solution—of a way to learn the answers to the questions that have been plaguing her.”

“Good. Don’t like to see her bothered.”

“No, indeed.” Smiling, Violet followed Tilly into the kitchen. Tilly and Cook were as devoted to Lady Halstead as Violet was. The old lady was the lynchpin around whom the household revolved, and she’d always been a kind mistress, one who attracted affection, loyalty, and respect purely by being herself.

Half an hour later, their breakfasts consumed, Violet and Tilly returned to Lady Halstead’s room. Lady Halstead looked confident, even smug, but she had Violet and Tilly help her out of bed and assist her to wash and dress for the day, then instructed Tilly to make up her bed, all without a word regarding her new tack.

But when Tilly left, bearing away the breakfast tray, Lady Halstead lay atop her smoothed counterpane, a shawl over her legs, and smiled at Violet. “I really do feel so much better now I’ve decided what I should do.”

Sinking into the armchair beside the bed, Violet murmured supportively and prayed that whatever her ladyship had decided was a reasonable course of action; if it came to it, there was no one she could appeal to for help should her ladyship decide on some less-than-wise course. Although she had four children, Lady Halstead allowed none of the four to influence her in any way, despite this one or that attempting to do so every now and then. Having known the Halstead children for nearly as long as she had known Lady Halstead, Violet considered her ladyship’s stance fully justified. “So,” Violet prompted, “tell me what you want to do.”

“I have decided,” Lady Halstead said, “that while I do not expect any blame in this situation to attach to Mr. Runcorn or his associates, the bald truth is that he is as yet inexperienced, and clearly this matter of the monies being paid into my bank account, especially if in any way connected with the people at the country house, might have quite complex implications, ones young Runcorn might well fail to see, inexperienced as he is. I need to be sure about what is going on—I need to be certain we’ve got to the bottom of it—and I doubt I will ever feel that degree of certitude in young Runcorn’s conclusions.

“So!” Lady Halstead lifted her chin. “I propose to engage the most experienced man-of-business in London to consult on this matter.” Lady Halstead paused, then looked at Violet. “What do you think?”

Violet blinked, then refocused on Lady Halstead’s face. “I think . . . that that’s an excellent idea.” Now her ladyship had mentioned it, Violet, too, had harbored a niggling doubt, not of Runcorn’s expertise but of his ability to reassure Lady Halstead. Regardless of whatever Runcorn found, her ladyship wouldn’t be completely reassured. . . . Violet nodded. “I can’t see any reason you shouldn’t ask some more-experienced person to consult in this matter. Defining their role as a consultant purely engaged to look into this strange business should smooth the way with Runcorn—he seems the sort who would welcome advice from a more senior practitioner.”

Lady Halstead was nodding. “Indeed—that was a point I considered. I quite like young Runcorn and don’t want to put his back up.” Her chin firmed. “But I must have certainty, or I won’t feel I’ve kept my promise to dear Hugo.”

And that, Violet fully understood. “Very well. So who is this more-experienced man-of-business you wish to engage?”

“That,” Lady Halstead confessed, “stumped me for a while, because, of course, I have no notion about other such agents. But then”—reaching out, she picked up the news sheet that she’d left on her bedside table—“I recalled that there is a column in the financial section of
The Times
where the correspondent urges readers to write to him with questions that are pertinent to managing finances.” Unfurling the paper, she pointed to a column. “See? There.”

Taking the paper, Violet scanned the column. It wasn’t long; the enterprising columnist had taken three questions and provided a paragraph-long answer to each. “So . . . you want to write to
The Times
for a recommendation?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.” When Violet glanced up, Lady Halstead informed her, “I’d thought to write and ask who, in the columnist’s erudite opinion, is the most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London.”

Chapter 1

A week later

H
eathcote Montague was sitting at his desk in the inner sanctum of his suite of offices a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, the gloom of an October evening closing in beyond the window, when he heard an altercation in the outer office. Deep in the ledger of one of his noble clients’ enterprises, he blocked out the sounds of dispute and worked steadily on through the figures.

Numbers—especially numbers that represented sums of money—held a near-hypnotic appeal; quite aside from being his bread and butter, they were his passion.

And had been for years.

Possibly for too long.

Certainly too exclusively.

Ignoring the niggling inner voice that, over the last year, with each passing month, each successive week, had grown from a vague whisper to a persistent, nerve-jarring whine, he focused on the neat rows of figures marching down the page and forced himself to concentrate.

The hubbub by the main office door subsided; he heard the outer door open, then shut. Doubtless the caller had been another potential client attracted by that wretched article in
The Times
. A terse note to the editor had resulted in bemused bafflement; how could Montague not be pleased at being named the most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London?

He had refrained from blasting back an excoriating reply to the effect that he and his firm did not require, much less appreciate, public referrals. Which was the plain truth; he and his small staff were stretched to their limit. Experienced agents as skilled with figures as he was were thin on the ground, yet the reason his practice was universally held in high esteem was precisely because he refused to hire those who were not as pedantic about business, and especially clients’ money, as he was; he had no intention of risking his firm’s standing by hiring less-able, less-devoted, or less-trustworthy men.

He’d inherited a sound client list from his father some twenty or so years ago; in his father’s day, the firm had operated principally as agents assisting clients in managing the income from their estates. He, however, had had wider interests and greater ambitions; under him, the firm had expanded to become a practice dedicated to managing their clients’ wealth. With protecting their money and using it to make more.

His direction had drawn the attention of several noblemen, especially those of a progressive stripe, those lords who were not content to simply sit back and watch their assets stagnate but who, instead, shared Montague’s personal conviction that money was best put to use.

Early successes had seen his firm prosper. Managing investments with consummate skill and knowing the ins and outs of money in all its varied forms were now synonymous with his name.

But even success could ultimately turn boring—or, at least, not be as exciting, as fulfilling, as it once had been.

Peace had returned to the outer office; he heard his senior clerk, Slocum, make some dry comment to Phillip Foster, Montague’s junior assistant. A quick laugh came from others—Thomas Slater, the junior clerk, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts—then the usual calm descended, a quiet broken by the shuffling of paper, the turning of pages, the soft clap as a file box was shut, the shushing slide as it was returned to its shelf.

Montague sank deeper into the figures before him, into the world of the Duke of Wolverstone’s sheep-breeding business, one Montague had overseen from inception to its present international success; the results, if no longer as exhilarating as they might once have been, were nevertheless gratifying. He compared and assessed, analyzed and evaluated, but found nothing over which he felt moved to take action.

As he neared the end of the ledger, the sounds from the large outer office where his staff performed their duties changed. The working day was drawing to a close.

Distantly, he registered the sounds of drawers being shut, of chairs being pushed back, heard the exchange of pleasantries as his men shared what waited for them at home—the small joys they were looking forward to. Frederick Gibbons, Montague’s senior assistant, and his wife had a new baby, adding to the two youngsters they already had. Slocum’s children were in their teens now, while Thomas Slater and his wife were expecting their first child any day. Even Phillip Foster would return to his sister’s house and her cheerful brood, while as for Reginald, he was one of a rambunctious family, the middle child of seven.

Everyone had someone waiting at home, someone who would smile and kiss their cheek when they walked through the door.

Everyone but Montague.

The thought, clear and hard as crystal, jerked him from his complacency. For one instant focused him on the utter loneliness of his existence, the sense of being singular, unconnected with anyone in the world, that had been steadily growing within him.

Good-byes were called in the outer office, although none were directed at him; his staff knew better than to interrupt him when he was working. The outer door opened and closed, most of the men departing. Slocum would be the last; any minute, he would appear in Montague’s doorway to confirm that the day’s work was done and all was in order—

The outer door opened.

“Your pardon, ma’am,” Slocum said, “but the office is closed.”

The door shut. “Indeed, I do realize it’s the end of the day, but I was hoping Mr. Montague would therefore be able to spare me a few minutes—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Montague isn’t taking on any new clients—
The Times
should have said as much and saved everyone a lot of bother.”

“I quite understand, but I’m not here to inquire about being taken on as a client.” The woman’s voice was clear, her diction precise, her tones well modulated, educated. “I have a proposition for Mr. Montague—an offer to consult on a puzzling financial matter.”

“Ah.” Slocum was unsure, uncertain what to do.

Curiosity aroused, Montague shut the Wolverstone ledger and rose. Although Slocum had apparently not yet registered the oddity, ladies were not customarily the ones who, at least initially, approached a man-of-business. Montague couldn’t recall ever being engaged by any female directly—at least, not about business.

Opening his office door, he walked out.

Slocum heard him and turned. “Sir, this lady—”

“Yes, I heard.” His gaze fixing on the lady who stood, spine straight, head high, before Slocum, Montague knew he said the words, but they seemed to come from far away.

Of average height, neither slender nor buxom but perfectly proportioned, the lady regarded him with a frank directness that instantly captivated, and effortlessly commanded, his attention. Beneath the soft wave of her dark brown hair, from beneath finely arched brown brows, eyes of a delicate light blue held his gaze.

As he neared, drawn across the room by some power far more potent than politeness, those eyes widened fractionally, but then her chin rose a notch, and lips of pale rose parted on the query, “Mr. Montague?”

Halting before her, he bowed. “Miss . . . ?”

She extended her hand. “My name is Miss Matcham, and I’m here to speak with you on behalf of my employer, Lady Halstead.”

He closed his hand around hers, engulfing long, slender fingers in a momentary—sadly brief, strictly businesslike—clasp. “I see.” Releasing her, he stepped back and waved toward the door to his office. “Perhaps you would take a seat and explain in what manner I can assist Lady Halstead.”

She inclined her head with subtle grace. “Thank you.”

She moved past him, and the scent of roses and violets speared through his senses. He glanced at Slocum. “It’s all right, Jonas. You can go home—I’ll lock up later.”

“Thank you, sir.” Slocum lowered his voice. “Not our usual sort of client—I wonder what she wants.”

Anticipation rising, Montague softly answered, “No doubt I’ll find out.”

With a salute, Slocum gathered his coat and left. As Montague followed Miss Matcham, who had paused in the doorway to his office, he heard the outer door close.

With a wave, he indicated Miss Matcham should enter, then he followed her in. The question of the propriety of meeting with a young lady alone rose in his mind, but after one searching glance at his visitor, he merely left his office door open. She wasn’t that young; although he was no expert on ladies, he would put Miss Matcham somewhere in her early thirties.

Her walking dress of fine wool in a pale violet hue and the matching felt bonnet neatly enclosing her head were stylish, yet not, he thought, in the current height of fashion. The reticule she carried was more practical than decorative.

Halting before his desk, she glanced at him. Rounding the desk, he gestured to one of the well-padded chairs set before it. “Please, be seated.”

Once she’d complied, her movements as she drew in her skirts again displaying the inherent grace he’d noted earlier, he sat, set the Wolverstone ledger aside, leaned his forearms on his blotter, clasped his hands, and fixed his gaze on her fascinating face. “Now—how do you believe I might help you, or, rather, Lady Halstead?”

Violet hesitated, yet she and Lady Halstead had plotted and planned to gain access to Mr. Heathcote Montague, and now here she was . . . she heard herself say, “Please excuse my hesitation, sir, but you’re not what I had expected.”

His brows—neat, brown brows arched over unexpectedly round eyes that, in her opinion, would have made him appear trustworthy even were he not—rose in surprise.

The sight made her smile; she doubted he was often surprised. “The most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London—I’d expected to have to deal with a cranky, crusty old gentleman with ink-stained fingers and bushy white brows, who would glower at me over the tops of his half spectacles.”

Montague blinked, slowly, lids rising to re-reveal his golden brown eyes. He was brown and brown—brown hair of a shade lighter than Violet’s own, and hazelish eyes that were more brown than green. But it was his face and his physical presence that had struck her most forcefully; as her gaze once more passed over the broad sweep of his forehead, the strong, clean planes of his cheeks, his squared jaw, he shifted. He caught her gaze, then held up his right hand, fingers spread.

There were ink stains, faint but discernible, on the calluses on his index and middle fingers.

As she registered that, he reached to one side and picked up a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I have these, too.” He waved them. “If it would help, I could put them on. Glowering, however, might be beyond me.”

She met his eyes, saw the lurking smile, and laughed, smiling, too.

He joined her in her laughter and his smile became manifest, his face creasing in a way that made him seem years younger than the midforties she guessed he must be.

Sound, solid, dependable; everything about him—his features, the shape of his head, his build, his attire—underscored that reality. The accolades of “most experienced” and “most trustworthy” bestowed by
The Times
weren’t at all hard to believe.

“I do apologize.” She let her laughter fade, but her lips remained stubbornly curved. She straightened on the chair, surprised to discover she’d relaxed against its back. “Despite my unbecoming levity, I am, indeed, here to speak with you on behalf of Lady Halstead.”

“And your relationship to her ladyship?”

“I’m her paid companion.”

“Have you been with her for long?”

“Over eight years.”

“And what can I do for her ladyship?”

Violet paused to reorder her thoughts. “Lady Halstead already has a man-of-business, a Mr. Runcorn. It was the current Mr. Runcorn’s father the Halsteads originally engaged, and the younger Mr. Runcorn has only recently taken his late father’s place. That said, Lady Halstead has no specific fault to find with young Mr. Runcorn’s abilities. However, a situation has arisen with Lady Halstead’s bank account that she believes Mr. Runcorn lacks the experience to adequately resolve. At least not to her ladyship’s satisfaction.” Violet met Montague’s golden-brown eyes. “I should mention that Lady Halstead is a widow, her husband, Sir Hugo, having died ten years ago, and her ladyship is now very old. Indeed, the problem with her bank account only came to light because, in keeping with a promise she made to Sir Hugo, she decided that it was time she ensured that her financial affairs, and those of the estate, were in order.”

Montague nodded. “I see. And what is it her ladyship believes I can do?”

“Lady Halstead would like you to look into the puzzling question of what is going on with her bank account. She requires an explanation, one she can be certain is correct. Essentially, she wishes to engage you to give a second opinion—a consultation on this matter, nothing more.” Violet held Montague’s gaze and calmly added, “I, on the other hand, am here to ask you to help give reassurance to a gentle old lady in her declining years.”

Montague returned her regard steadily, then the ends of his lips quirked. “You have a way with an argument, Miss Matcham.”

“I do what I can for my ladies, sir.”

Devotion, in Montague’s opinion, was a laudable trait. “What can you tell me about the . . . irregularities afflicting this bank account?”

“I will leave that to Lady Halstead to elucidate.” As if sensing the question rising in his mind, the intriguing Miss Matcham added, “However, I have seen enough to verify that there is, indeed, something odd going on, but I haven’t studied the statement Mr. Runcorn provided so cannot put forward any definite opinion.”

Would that all his clients were so circumspect. “Very well.” Looking away from Miss Matcham’s remarkably fine eyes, Montague drew his appointment book closer and consulted it. “As it happens, I can spare Lady Halstead half an hour tomorrow morning.” He glanced across the desk. “When would be the best time to call?”

Miss Matcham smiled—not a dazzling smile but a gentle, inclusive gesture that somehow struck through his usually impenetrable businessman’s shields and literally warmed his heart. He blinked, then quickly marshaled his wits as she replied, “Midmorning would be best—shall we say eleven o’clock? In Lowndes Street, number four, just south of Lowndes Square.”