The Masterful Mr. Montague (5 page)

Something he observed in others, not something he experienced.

He felt no happy eagerness as he opened the door, stepped through and locked it, then turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor.

He had bought the building in Chapel Court, off Bartholomew Lane, behind the Bank of England, over ten years ago, and had converted the floor above his office and the offices to either side into a comfortable apartment. The proximity to his office suited him; if he thought of some question during the evening or night, it took only a minute to check a file, or make a note at his desk. And this section of the City, although humming with activity during the day, grew quiet at night. It wasn’t deserted by any means—what part of London was?—but the denizens who lived in the area were by nature a sober, reserved lot.

Fishing his key out of his waistcoat pocket, he paused on the upper landing to unlock and open his front door. The apartment was spacious, comprising a small foyer giving onto a long sitting room, with a dining room beyond, a small study he used as a library, and a master suite including a large bedroom, twin dressing rooms, and a bathroom with the latest accoutrements. The apartment also contained a large kitchen and separate staff quarters, which were the domain of his housekeeper, Mrs. Trewick, and her husband, Trewick, who acted as general manservant. The middle-aged couple had been with Montague for nearly twenty years and knew his habits and requirements to a T.

He walked into the sitting room, his footsteps faintly echoing.

“Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir!” Mrs. Trewick sang from the kitchen. “Just take your seat at the table and Trewick will bring it out.”

Montague smiled and did as he was bid. He exchanged the usual comments with Trewick as the man served the three courses of succulent and substantial fare; at the completion of the meal, as he usually did, Montague sent his compliments to Mrs. Trewick, which, as it always did, pleased Trewick no end.

In pleasant accord, he and his staff parted for the night, the pair to retreat to their quarters while he ambled into the study, then, book in hand, wandered into the sitting room, where the fire Trewick had stoked blazed, eradicating the chill of the evening.

Sinking into his favorite of the pair of armchairs angled before the fire, Montague reached for the small tantalus that sat on the side table. He poured himself a small glass of whisky, a drop he’d grown partial to since taking over the Earl of Glencrae’s accounts, then sat back and sipped.

For several moments, he simply sat, book closed in his lap, glass poised in one hand, and stared into the flames.

And heard again in his mind the contrast in sound between when his staff left the office for their homes, and when he did.

When his staff left, their expectations of pleasure, of simple joy, and their confidence in finding those things when they returned to their hearths, homes, and loved ones rang in their voices. When he left, all was silent, even within him.

Because he didn’t have anyone, no one dear to him, so he only had a house, not a home.

That, he knew, was the critical difference, and while it hadn’t previously bothered him—not over the long years during which he had striven to build his firm to its present preeminence—the silence, the emptiness of his house, the loneliness, all reached him now.

He’d achieved his goals, and more, but the triumph seemed hollow.

After a moment, his gaze drifted, coming to rest on the empty armchair opposite. Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Violet Matcham sitting there, the firelight glinting in her dark hair, her head tilted with that subtle grace that was peculiarly hers, a gentle smile curving her lips, lighting her blue eyes.

Montague considered the image for several minutes, then shook his head, dismissed the dream, opened his book, and settled to read.

A
cross London, in Albemarle Street in Mayfair, Penelope Adair sat at the foot of her dinner table and exchanged a meaningful look with her friend, Griselda Stokes, then both ladies turned their eyes upon the two gentlemen sharing the table with them.

“There must be
some
interesting case we can assist you with,” Penelope declared.

Barnaby Adair, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Basil Stokes, friend and colleague, then Barnaby straightened, negligently waved, and nonchalantly said, “There really isn’t much by way of ‘crimes-to-investigate’ plaguing the ton and Scotland Yard at this particular time.”

Aware of the oblique qualifications built into that statement, Penelope regarded her spouse through narrowing eyes. “It needn’t be anything expressly to do with the ton—you aren’t about to tell me that there aren’t any crimes to investigate in London at all, are you?”

“Hardly!” The spontaneous reply came from Stokes, lounging in his chair. He immediately recovered and stated, “However, Barnaby’s correct in that there are no drawing room dramas, so to speak, presently unsolved.”

“The Crimmins affair was the last,” Barnaby said. “But since then—over the summer and into the autumn—all has been quiet in Mayfair.”

“I believe,” Griselda said, her soft voice a contrast to the bolder, more confident tones of the others; of the four of them, she spoke the least, but when she did, the others listened, as they did now, “that what Penelope meant to imply was that the insights she and I can offer, and the investigative skills we possess, would almost certainly be of value in investigations over a wider social arena.”

Penelope nodded. “Well said.” Shifting her gaze to their husbands, she added, “Dealing with the infants—with Oliver and Megan—absorbed us entirely for the first months, but now that the pair have grown to the point of no longer requiring our attention hour by hour, both Griselda and I need”—she airily waved—“something to engage us, to challenge us, mentally at least, and provide greater stimulation of the cerebral sort.”

Stokes frowned, rather blackly. “What do other ladies with small children do for ‘cerebral stimulation’?”

Penelope’s nose tipped upward. “Other ladies are not us.”

“Indubitably,” Barnaby muttered, quietly enough that only Stokes would hear.

Penelope still narrowed her eyes at him. After a moment, she said, “Helping to protect Henrietta when she had to go with that blackguard Affry in order to find James reminded us, Griselda and me, of what we were missing—of what we most enjoyed doing other than being with our children.”

“And,” Griselda murmured, “you should remember that us assisting you, even in the minor way we do, does help us understand what you, both of you, are absorbed with, and why the pair of you are so devoted to apprehending villains, be they lord or servant.”

Silence fell as both men considered their wives, then Stokes heaved a sigh and straightened from his slouch. “The fact is that there truly is no investigation currently underway in which we might benefit from your help.”

Penelope regarded him, her dark brown gaze, as always, unforgivingly direct. “Very well, but if one should arise, you will tell us, won’t you?”

A fractional hesitation ensued, then both men heaved tiny sighs.

Stokes merely tipped his head in resignation.

Barnaby met Penelope’s gaze and said, “When the next case in which the pair of you might be able to assist us arises, we—all four of us—will discuss the possibilities then.”

I
s there truly no case we might
possibly
help with?” Penelope trailed across their bedroom to the window overlooking the side garden. She and Barnaby had lived in this house for eighteen months now, and she truly considered it her home. Hers. Just as he was.

Reaching the window, she turned and watched him walk slowly across the room to her. He still moved with the same predatory grace he had always possessed; the sight of him still brought a smile to her heart, even if sometimes, as now, she strove to keep the expression from her lips.

He halted before her, frowning slightly as he studied her uptilted face. “There truly is nothing. Stokes has been assisting with those murders about the docks—and, trust me, none of those are in any way linked with endeavors you and Griselda know anything about. And as you already know, because of the dearth in interesting crimes, I’ve been working with my father on his various political machinations.” Barnaby’s lips twisted in a reluctantly rueful smile. “And although I would love to have you help me with that, you know you’re hopeless with political machinations—you’re so direct you scare the marks away.”

Penelope waved dismissively. “Politicking is such a waste of time.”

“I rest my case.” Barnaby reached for her, sliding his hands around her narrow waist and drawing her to him.

She came readily. After more than eighteen months of marriage, the magic was still there—the delicious jolt to the senses, the resulting rapid rise of desire.

Of a hunger that, through growing accustomed to being sated, had become even more potent.

Sinking against him, spreading her hands on his chest, she looked into his face. And the magic—the sudden focus, the heightening of tension as anticipation sparked, the sharpening of their senses as their intentions aligned—gripped. As he spread his hands over her silk-clad back, she tilted her head, searched his eyes. “You’re going to try to distract me, aren’t you?”

His lips quirked. “It had crossed my mind.” Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers, lingered just long enough to hear her breath catch, to sense her hunger leap to meet his, then murmured, “Are you going to let me?”

She pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. “By all means—you have my permission to try.”

Just don’t expect to succeed
. Barnaby heard the words she didn’t say—the challenge she didn’t utter—but for his own peace of mind, he had to try.

He gave it his best shot.

Drawing her into a heated exchange, into a heated melding of their mouths, an increasingly ravenous duel of lips and tongues that swelled and grew to consume them both, he orchestrated the moments, with consummate skill drew each fragile instant out, until they were both panting and yearning, hungry and desperate.

Clothes were shed, but by his dictate. Wanton and delighted, she held to her permissive stance and let him lead, let him manage the reins as he would and devote himself—to the top of his bent—to his aim of distracting her.

Utterly. Completely.

In this world, and on that other plane.

His hands roved her body and made her arch and moan.

He allowed her—nay, encouraged her, knowing the exercise to be enthralling to her—to explore his body and fill her senses with him, and she seized the chance and immersed herself in their passion.

Together they pushed and strove to extend the long moments of worship, of reverence and delight, of pleasure and fraught joy, but the escalating beat of passionate need could not be forever denied.

They came together in a rush of fire and heat, the sensual cataclysm of bodies and souls so familiar, so gloriously reliable yet never to be taken for granted.

Joined and urgent, now desperate in their need, together they rode, together they climbed, together they reached the pinnacle’s peak where ecstasy found them, wracked and bound them, then flung them into the void . . . to where love lay waiting to wrap them in bliss, and cushion them, cocoon them, as they spiraled back to earth.

To the haven of each other’s arms, to the comforting sound of each other’s ragged breaths, of each other’s thudding hearts.

To the soul-easing closeness of their intimate embrace.

Later, when they’d disengaged and settled in the bed, and Penelope snuggled deeper into his arms, Barnaby brushed a kiss to her temple. “I promise to tell you when next Stokes and I have some case you and Griselda can help with.”

He felt Penelope’s lips curve against his skin. Blindly, she patted his chest. “Thank you.”

Her limbs lost what little tension they’d regained; he listened as she sank into sated slumber.

Somewhere amid the glory, reality had broken through and he’d realized that he and Stokes had no option but to find a solution to their ladies’ need—to re-involve them in suitable investigations as and when such investigations arose.

It was that, or have them striking out on their own—and he didn’t need to think to know what he thought of that. The sudden lurching of his heart at the mere idea provided all the incentive he needed.

So he would do as he’d promised.

But he didn’t have to like it.

Chapter 3

V
iolet walked into the kitchen the next morning to find Tilly already busy setting out Lady Halstead’s breakfast tray. Violet smiled. “Good morning.” Scanning the tray, she added, “Nearly ready?”

She routinely accompanied Tilly upstairs to wake Lady Halstead and hold the door, then help her ladyship sit up in bed.

“A good morning to you, too,” Tilly sang back. “And yes, almost there. Just the toast—ah, thank you, Cook, dear.”

Tilly was a tallish, raw-boned, middle-aged woman, her brown-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her large hands capable as they set the two slices of toast into the toast rack, then grasped the tray’s handles. Tilly hefted the tray. Perennially cheerful, she’d been with Lady Halstead for decades, far longer than Violet or Cook. Looking at Violet, Tilly beamed. “Lead the way.”

Exchanging a quick smile and a good morning with Cook—a short, rotund, older woman with corkscrew red curls bound back with a white scarf—Violet held open the kitchen door, waved Tilly through, then followed and, as directed, took the lead through the hallway and up the stairs.

Tilly trudged heavily but happily at her heels. “Hope her ladyship slept a trifle better last night.”

“Indeed. I’m hoping that Mr. Montague will return soon and set her mind at rest. She’s still fretting over those odd payments.” Violet didn’t hesitate over mentioning the payments to Tilly; Lady Halstead herself had shared the information with her longtime maid.

Reaching the first floor, Violet went along the corridor to Lady Halstead’s door. She tapped. “Lady Halstead?” No answer came, but that wasn’t uncommon. Despite her sometimes disturbed slumber, Lady Halstead adhered to a rigid regimen and expected to be woken and supplied with her breakfast tray at eight o’clock sharp. Sharing a resigned look with Tilly—if it had been left to them, they would have let the old lady sleep—Violet opened the door and went in.

As usual, the room was drenched in gloomy shadow; Violet crossed to the window to draw back the heavy curtains.

Tilly followed Violet over the threshold but halted just inside the door, waiting patiently until she could better see.

Violet smoothly drew one curtain, then the other, wide and turned to the bed. “Good morning, your ladyship.”

Violet halted, not quite sure what she was seeing.

Tilly, taller and closer to the bed, had a clearer view. “Oh, my God!”

A sharp rattle of crockery broke the silence as Tilly shook and the cup on the tray rattled. “Oh, my God.
Oh, my God
.” In a fluster, Tilly swung around, saw the tallboy, and rushed to set the tray down upon it. Then she whirled and hurried to the bed—just as Violet did the same on the other side.

Stunned, shocked, barely able to breathe, Violet looked down at Lady Halstead. The old lady’s eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, her jaws wide, as if she’d been shouting. Or screaming.

Her arms, Violet saw, were oddly splayed, and her hands lay lax on the covers, gnarled fingers crooked, as if she’d been clutching, seizing. Her legs, too, weak though they’d been, had churned beneath the sheets.

That Lady Halstead was dead Violet did not doubt. But her ladyship hadn’t died peacefully.

Tilly put Violet’s thoughts into words. “I knew she’d go, and probably soon, but I didn’t think she’d go like this.”

Violet forced herself to look, to see what was before her. “Tilly—this isn’t how she should look, is it? Not if she went quietly in her sleep.”

Tilly audibly gulped. Her eyes locked on her mistress’s face, she murmured, “You’re thinking the same as I am. She was murdered, wasn’t she?”

“Look at the top pillow. No—don’t touch. But see how it’s been stuffed under her head? That’s why her head is at that odd angle. But she never sleeps with that many pillows—she wouldn’t have put it there herself.” Violet glanced at the chair by the bed. “When I left her last night, that pillow was on the chair.”

“We have to call the doctor.” Tilly wrapped her arms tightly about herself. “That’s what you’re supposed to do with a death these days.”

Violet’s wits were whirling, but she knew well enough how matters would proceed. “If we just call the doctor”—looking up, she met Tilly’s wide eyes—“he’ll say she was old, that she died in her sleep, because he’ll know the family will be furious if he declares this a murder.”

Tilly blinked, then her jaw firmed and she nodded. “Aye, that he will, weak weasel that he is. And none of the family will care, will they?”

“No, they won’t. They won’t bother about getting justice for Lady Halstead—won’t care about finding her murderer. All they’ll care about is the will and the estate.”

“Getting their share of it—you don’t need to tell me. She’s known for years they’ve just been waiting for her to die.”

“Exactly. They’d seemed to be waiting patiently enough, but now . . .” Violet looked down at the gentle old lady she’d come to love. “We can’t let her murderer get away.” She glanced at Tilly. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I . . . just let this be swept under the carpet.”

“Nor me.” Tilly paused, then asked, “So what do we do? Send a boy for the police? Chances are they’ll just have us send for the doctor anyway, and he’ll say what you said, and it’ll all come to nothing.”

Violet did not know where her certainty sprang from, did not know on what it was based, but she had no doubt whatever about her tack. “We send for Mr. Montague. Lady Halstead gave him a letter of authority—it’s reasonable for us to consult him over this. We’re only females, after all, and our sex is known to panic.” She looked at Tilly. “So we’re in a panic and we don’t know what to do—so we’ll summon Mr. Montague, because we know that her ladyship only very recently put her faith, and her trust, in him.”

Tilly blinked, then slowly nodded. “But will he know what’s best to do next?”

“Yes.” Violet thought of the solid assurance with which Montague moved through the world. “I’m sure of it.”

Tilly nodded more decisively. “Right, then—you write a note, and I’ll go and fetch a boy to take it.” Tilly glanced at her dead mistress, reached out, gently stroked the back of one crooked hand, then, jaw tightening, raised her head, turned, and headed for the door.

Her gaze on Lady Halstead, Violet slowly straightened, then, more slowly, more lingeringly, mimicked Tilly’s loving gesture, then followed the maid from the room.

V
iolet wrote the note in the sitting room, and was still sitting there in a daze when Montague arrived.

Rising to answer the door, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was barely nine o’clock; he must have raced to have got there so quickly.

Opening the front door, she registered the concern vivid in his face.

“What’s happened?” His gaze raced over her features, returning to her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Lady Halstead is dead.” Violet heard her voice say the words, intonation flat, and she finally accepted it as real.

“Dead?” Montague’s features registered his shock. “But . . .” He searched her face, her eyes. “Did she die peacefully?”

Violet drew herself up, drew breath, and said, “I—we, Tilly and I—don’t think so.” She stepped back. “Please, come in.”

Stepping over the threshold, Montague felt an unexpected urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her. She was pale, her expression, judging from their previous encounters, uncharacteristically closed in.

Brittle. Fragile. In need of help.

His help.

He bludgeoned his brain into functioning. “Who else have you notified?”

Turning from closing the door, she met his eyes. “No one—not yet. We know we’re supposed to notify the doctor, and I’m sure he will immediately send word to her family, but . . .” She paused, then, raising her head, went on, “He—Doctor Milborne—will be more interested in serving the interests of the family, the interests of the living rather than the dead.”

Montague nodded curtly. “Yes. I see.” He glanced at the stairs. “Where is she?”

“In her bed upstairs.” Violet waved him on, following as he strode for the staircase. “She went to bed last night as usual. Nothing seemed amiss, nothing at all. Tilly and I went to wake her this morning, as we always do, taking up her breakfast tray and . . . we found her.”

Reaching the head of the stairs, Montague halted. “Tilly?”

“Lady Halstead’s maid—Tilly has been with her ladyship for more than twenty years.”

When he nodded and glanced around, Violet indicated a door along the corridor. “In there.”

Suppressing the impulse to ask why she thought Lady Halstead’s death was suspicious—was murder, even if she hadn’t used the word—Montague strode for the door. “Did anyone—you, or Tilly, or anyone else—move anything?”

“No. Other than opening the curtains and placing the tray on the tallboy, we haven’t moved or changed a thing.” Violet paused, then added as he opened the door, “It’s painfully obvious she’s dead.”

Montague walked into the room and saw what she meant. He halted a yard from the foot of the bed and surveyed the scene. A bare minute passed, then he said, “I concur. This was not a natural”—
much less peaceful
—“death.”

Violet had halted nearer the door. In a small voice, she asked, “So what should we do?” When he turned to face her, she nodded toward the old lady lying in the bed. “For her.” Meeting his eyes, voice strengthening, she stated, “We—Tilly, Cook, and I—want to see justice done. We want to see her murderer caught and held to account. She was a gentle old lady. She never harmed a soul. She might have been old, might even have been dying, but she didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Looking into her eyes, seeing the resolve behind the soft blue, he stated, “In that case, while we must at some point call for her doctor, we should first summon the police.”

A
s matters transpired, Doctor Milborne arrived first.

After leaving Lady Halstead’s room, Montague had gone downstairs with Violet. In the kitchen, he had consulted with her, Tilly, and Cook, then he’d written an urgent note to Inspector Basil Stokes at Scotland Yard, sending it off via a local boy Tilly and Cook often engaged to run errands. Montague had assisted Stokes in several cases over recent years; he’d felt confident Stokes would return the favor.

They had then waited for as long as they’d dared—for as long as they would reasonably be able to explain—before dispatching a summons penned by Violet to the doctor. That note had been sent via the first boy’s brother at eleven o’clock.

The doctor knocked on the door half an hour later.

Subdued and somber, Violet greeted the man, saying only that she and Tilly believed that Lady Halstead had died during the night.

Standing behind Violet in the shadows of the front hall, Montague assessed the doctor; he was in his late thirties and, from the cut of his coat, appeared to be prospering.

Milborne assumed a suitably grave mien. “Of course, we knew this day would come. Nevertheless, you have my condolences, Miss Matcham. You must be overwrought.”

“As to that, sir . . .” Violet paused to draw in a breath that wasn’t entirely steady. Pressing her hands together, she tipped her head toward the stairs. “We believe we need you to view the body and give your opinion as to how her ladyship died.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Milborne glanced at the stairs. “In her room, is she?” He headed for the stairs. “I know the way.”

Violet and Montague ignored the implied dismissal and followed Milborne up the stairs; they were at his heels when he walked into the bedroom.

Milborne checked at the sight of Lady Halstead’s body, but then recovered and, rather more slowly, continued to the side of the bed.

Thinking, Montague decided; Milborne was thinking hard about how best to handle the situation—about which avenue promised the greatest benefit to him.

Milborne looked down at her ladyship’s face, jaw hinged wide, mouth agape, then he reached for her wrist and made a show of checking for a pulse there, and then at the side of the old lady’s neck. Then he raised her lids, first one, then the other, but he only gave a cursory glance at the staring eyes thus revealed.

He was going through the motions
.

Violet felt certain her and Tilly’s assumptions about the doctor were correct; he would do what was best for the family.

Sure enough, after that most superficial of examinations, he sighed and turned to face her. “It seems her heart gave out. To be expected, at her age.”

Especially if someone held a pillow over her face while she screamed and screamed.
Violet dragged in a breath. Wrapping her arms about her, she swallowed the words and glanced at Montague. They’d agreed it would be unwise to try to force their opinions or conclusions on Milborne, but . . .

Montague met her gaze, almost imperceptibly nodded in support. Then he looked at Milborne. “Am I to take it you intend to declare this a natural death?”

Milborne blinked, shifting his attention to Montague. “Well, in the circumstances . . .” Then he frowned. “I’m sorry—you are?”

“Heathcote Montague, of Montague and Son, in the City.” Montague said nothing more; they needed to delay Milborne, to keep him from issuing a death certificate declaring the death natural, until help, in the form of Stokes, arrived. Stokes would take one look at this scene and know there was nothing natural about the manner of Lady Halstead’s passing.

Milborne’s frown grew more puzzled. “I’m unclear as to what your interest in Lady Halstead’s demise might be.”

“Her ladyship recently engaged me as a financial consultant with wide-ranging authority to delve into all matters concerning her situation.” Montague let Milborne puzzle over that for a moment, then, when the man was clearly searching for the correct words with which to frame his next question, added, “Given the circumstances surrounding the initiation of my consultancy, and given the scope of the formal letter of authority Lady Halstead enacted, I believe her demise most definitely falls within my purview.”