The Masterful Mr. Montague (39 page)

“Indeed.” Allowing Barnaby to draw her up the stairs, Penelope sent an air-kiss winging Violet’s way. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow sometime, Violet dear.”

Violet watched the pair disappear up the stairs. As she turned to Heathcote, the two footmen came back through the front door and walked on down the hall.

One nodded to Heathcote. “Mr. Mostyn said as the hackney will be just a few minutes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Montague waited until the pair had passed through the swinging door at the rear of the hall, then, turning to Violet, taking her hands—hands she readily surrendered—he looked into her face.

Her well-beloved face.

She looked up at him; the same hopes and expectations that were burgeoning in his chest were shining in her lovely eyes.

He smiled, gently, then raised one of her hands and brushed his lips to her fingers. “We need to talk—we have so much to say, to discuss.” He searched her eyes. “To decide.” He drew a deeper breath and faintly grimaced as the sound of the rain drumming outside increased—as if to remind him he needed to go. He sighed. “Sadly, however, this is clearly not the right time or, indeed, the right place.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like, if you agree, to call on you tomorrow. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you. To show you.”

Her smile was all gentle understanding. “Of course. I’ll be here, waiting for you. At what time will you call?”

His smile deepened. “I would say as early as possible, but . . . shall we say ten o’clock? At least that seems somewhat civilized.”

Her smile broke into a soft laugh. “Dear Heathcote—ten o’clock sounds perfect.” She held his gaze and quietly said, “I would wait for you for forever, but I’d really rather not. I’ve waited all my life for you, and now you’re here . . .”

He nodded and pressed a more heated kiss to her other hand. “Indeed. Now we’re here, we both want to get on.”

On a waft of wet wind and a flurry of raindrops, Mostyn looked around the door. “Carriage is here, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Releasing Violet’s hands, Montague lifted his hat from the nearby stand. His eyes still on her, he nodded, then forced himself to turn to the door, set his hat on his head, and stride away, out into the night and the rain.

Alone, but not for long.

Slumping back in the dark of the hackney, Montague felt expectation well and realized he was grinning.

G
riselda settled Megan in her crib, then, straightening, looked down at her sleeping cherub and smiled.

Standing alongside his wife, Stokes dipped his head and, glancing into her face and savoring the madonna-like quality of that smile, felt something inside him ease, and settle, too, just like his sleeping child. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the plunge and murmured, “You’re content with this, aren’t you?”

Faint surprise in her face, Griselda looked at him, studied his eyes, then her lips curved again, reassuring and calming. “You mean being a mother, being a milliner, being the lady of this house, being Penelope’s and now Violet’s friend, and being an investigator, too, and working to somehow make everything fit?” Placing a hand on his arm, she steered him out of the nursery and toward their bedroom next door.

He nodded. “Yes—that. All of that.”

Her fingers found his and twined, and she drew him into their room, paused to let him shut the door, then she went into his arms. “Yes.” She met his gaze. “I’m content. It’s not easy, and probably never will be, but the rewards are great.”

Then she tilted her head, her eyes still searching his, a coy smile spreading across her face. “You didn’t notice, but I left something out.”

“You did?” Her list had sounded fairly comprehensive to him . . . his hands firming about her waist, he replayed her words, but he couldn’t see it. “What?”

Her sultry chuckle reached to his bones as, stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and smiled, all wifely indulgence, up at him. “I omitted to mention the best thing of all—the one that makes all the others worthwhile. Not because it’s less than all the rest but because it’s more—because it’s the foundation all the other parts of my life stand upon.”

Something in him quivered as he read the truth in her eyes, but he had to, needed to, hear it from her. To hear the words on her lips. “And that something is?”

Her smile turned radiant. “Being your wife.”

She drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Stokes tightened his arms about her, drew her tight.

And decided that, after all, everything was, and would be, all right.

A
fter checking on Oliver, then retreating to their bedroom, Penelope and Barnaby spent the next hour enthusiastically celebrating in their own private way.

Finally spent, her breasts still rising and falling deeply as she waited for her breathing to even out, her hair spread about her in tangled disarray, Penelope lay on her back and stared at the moonbeams playing fitfully across their ceiling. Slumped beside her, Barnaby lay on his chest with his face half buried in the pillow beside hers, one heavy arm flung across her waist.

His breathing was even more labored than hers—hardly surprising, given his recent performance.

The downpour had finally petered out, but the sense of everything outside having been washed and made new remained; the coming day held infinite promise.

She sighed, the sound redolent with happiness. “I’m so glad we didn’t turn away from this chance—that we faced the challenge, rather than let it slide. We’ve worked our way through, to this—to my new state of equilibrium. And as we’ve done it once, we know we can do it again—that no matter what comes, we
can
adjust, find our new path, and go on. Together.”

And in that, she felt she should give credit where credit was due. “I’m proud beyond words of you—and of Stokes, too. You both came through the challenge with colors flying.” Lifting a limp arm, she gestured widely, if weakly. “You assimilated the changes and adjusted as necessary.”

Stirring, Barnaby snorted, the sound muffled by the pillow. Shifting his head slightly, he said, “If you don’t by now know that to keep you happy—to keep you engaged, enthused, and challenged, as I know you need to be—I would alter the way the moon revolves about the earth, then you need new spectacles.”

She laughed. Turning to him, she stroked a hand down his naked side, and when, in response, with a groan he turned over and shifted his arm, she snuggled closer, resting her head where she preferred it to be, in the hollow beneath his shoulder. Relaxing as he draped his arm around her, she pressed a kiss to his chest. “I have noticed, but, in all fairness, I should admit that you don’t—and won’t—need to go to the trouble of interfering with any celestial bodies. You just need to stand by me as you have in this. You just need to keep being you.”

Lifting the hand she’d spread on his chest, Barnaby pressed a warm kiss to her palm before settling that palm once more over his heart. “That,” he murmured, “I can do.”

A second passed, then she murmured, “I love you, too.”

Eyes closed, he smiled, and decided he could live with that.

Forever.

T
he next morning, Montague arrived in Albemarle Street at precisely ten o’clock. Leaving the hackney waiting, feeling oddly nervous, he ascended the steps to the Adairs’ front door. He raised his hand to knock—and the door swung inward.

Mostyn grinned at him. “Been keeping an eye out.” The majordomo stepped back, and Violet swept through.

Her gaze locked on Montague’s face; she nodded to Mostyn without taking her eyes from Montague’s. “Thank you, Mostyn. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

In light of her smile, in light of her words, Montague felt like a conquering hero. Offering his arm, he said, “You look lovely.” To his eyes, she was radiant.

Her smile deepened. “Thank you. I have to admit that I did sleep well.”

Guiding her down the steps, he dryly murmured, “Not having the threat of a murderer hovering over you must have been a great relief.”

She glanced at him, then, smiling, allowed him to hand her into the carriage. He followed and, shutting the door, settled beside her. When the carriage rattled into motion, she reached for his hand and settled her fingers in his. “If you must know, it wasn’t relief that the murderer was caught that made it so easy to fall asleep—it was happiness, pure and simple, at knowing what today would bring.” Turning her head, she met his eyes. “I felt like a child waiting for Christmas morning.”

The words warmed him; lightly pressing her fingers, he quietly said, “I hope what comes lives up to your expectations.”

Her fingers tightened on his, returning the pressure. “Trust me, it will.” After a moment, she said, “Tell me—were you born in London?”

As they rattled through the town, he told her of his past—of the parents he’d been close to despite the fact they’d been getting on in years before he was born, of the evolution of his business from the more conservative services his father had supplied to the more varied activities he now pursued. “I was the Son in Montague and Son—as figures and money always fascinated me, I started working alongside my father when I was fifteen. Eventually, my father drew back from the business, gradually passing his clients into my hands.” Montague met Violet’s gaze. “By the time he died, I was the de facto principal of the business and had been for several years.” He shrugged and looked ahead. “Some might say I came to my position easily, that it was handed to me—and there’s some truth in that.”

Smiling, Violet shook her head. “No—the opportunity might have been laid before you, but what you did with it? That was all you.” She met his gaze. “What you are now, the businessman, the man, is entirely due to you.”

She thought he blushed, but then he glanced away. “And what of you?” he asked. He looked back at her. “Are you a Londoner, too? Or . . . ?”

“Not. I was born in Caversham, just north of Reading. My father was the vicar of Woodborough, and he held the living there until his death. My mother had died several years before, so I was left to find my way.” The carriage rolled around a corner, and she briefly met his eyes. “I was lucky enough to find a position with Lady Ogilvie in Bath, and when she died, I moved to London to take up my post with Lady Halstead. She and Lady Ogilvie had been acquainted.”

She looked ahead, but his gaze remained on her face.

“You were happy with Lady Halstead.”

Statement, not a question, but after a moment she replied, “Not
happy
—now I know what happy is, I realize I haven’t been that way in a long time.” Lips lifting, she glanced at him. “But I was content—satisfied with my lot, certainly. I can make no complaints over those years—as with you, some might say I had it easy, too.”

He returned her regard. “But life is, indeed, what you make of the opportunities that come your way.”

The carriage slowed and they both glanced out. The familiar façade that included the narrow door that led up to Heathcote’s office appeared, and the jarvey brought his horses to a halt.

Violet blinked, wondering; she looked about her as Heathcote handed her down.

Montague paid off the jarvey, then, taking Violet’s elbow, he steered her across the narrow strip of pavement to the green-painted door with its inset window bearing the words
Montague and Son, Agents of Business
, in gold letters. Fishing in his pocket, he drew out his keys. As he found and fitted the right key in the lock, he noticed Violet glancing interestedly about.

“It’s Friday,” he said, nodding at the general bustle in the court. “In this area, that means it’s extra busy as everyone rushes to get their week’s financial transactions completed. Although most businesses open on Saturday, the major banks and the Exchange are closed.”

“Ah.” She nodded. Turning back to him, she said, “I hadn’t really paid attention on the previous occasions I came here—I was too exercised by events.” Swinging to face the door as he set it wide, she noticed the small Closed sign at the bottom of the window. “As you said, it’s Friday, but it appears your office is neither open nor busy.” Arching a brow, she entered.

He followed, closing the door and relocking it before turning to look at her. “In celebration of our success with the investigation, I gave my staff the day off—Lord knows, they earned it. Every one of them contributed in some way.”

She smiled, turned, and started up the stairs. “That was nice.”

“Perhaps,” he said, following her, “but also necessary.” When she threw a questioning glance at him, he said, “I told you I wanted to show you something.”

Reaching the first-floor landing, she halted before the door to his outer office and turned an inquiring face his way. Joining her, he shook his head and waved her up the next flight. “My apartment’s one flight up.”

Her expression cleared as she remembered what he’d told her; flashing a fascinated look his way, she eagerly headed up.

“My parents,” he said, following, “had a house north of Finsbury Square. When they died, I sold the house and bought this building instead—not just my offices but the whole block. It seemed a wiser investment. I rent out the rest of the space other than my offices.” He looked ahead. “And the upper floor.”

Joining her on the small landing before his apartment door, he selected the right key, then fitted it to the lock. Reaching for the brass doorknob, he met Violet’s gaze. “This is where I live—where I’ve lived for the last ten years.”

He set the door wide and watched as she looked into the small foyer. Then she walked in and he followed, shutting the thick door behind him.

Violet took note of the simple, plain, but high-quality finishes, immediately recognized the sound solidity of Heathcote Montague reflected in his home. Glancing back at him, she asked, “Do you live here alone?”

“I have a couple—Mrs. Trewick keeps house and cooks, and Trewick performs the duties of a general manservant. They have separate quarters off the kitchen.”

Walking through the archway into what proved to be a long sitting room, Violet nodded. She paused to take in the furnishings and get her bearings, then asked, “Are they in—the Trewicks?”