The Masterful Mr. Montague: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel

by Stephanie Laurens

  Another strand woven into the emotional rope that linked them.

  Another element of their love.

  An additional strength that would hold them together over the years to come.

  Heavy-lidded, passion-spent, their gazes held for an instant longer, then she let her lids fall, felt a smile—full and open—curve her lips.

  Felt its mate curving his lips as he touched them to hers.

  And they let go and sank into the glory, into the bliss that was theirs to claim.

  Later, they shifted and settled amid the rumpled sheets, wrapped in each other’s arms. His head on the pillows, Penelope slumped against him, her head resting in the hollow beneath his shoulder, Barnaby stared up at the shadowed ceiling and, without conscious intention, found his mind sorting through all he’d felt. All he’d sensed.

  All that had come to be, settling like an additional layer of experience between them.

  Raising one hand, he stroked the rumpled silk of her dark hair. He knew she wasn’t yet asleep. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” She’d grown more settled, more assured and content, over the last weeks. “Happy with the way things are working out.”

  It was that happiness he’d sensed running through their loving.

  Without raising her head, she nodded. “We might not have caught our murderer yet, but in a personal sense, we’ve already succeeded—or so I believe.” A second ticked past, then she lifted her head; looking into his face, she met his eyes. “I’ve found the balance I was searching for—I don’t just think that, I know that. It feels right. My studies, my lectures, my helping others with translations—that’s all still important, still speaks to a certain part of me, of my mind—and you, Oliver, and this household, and to a lesser extent our wider families, will always come first, have first claim on my time and my energies, yet still I truly need that extra element that comes through investigations.”

  She paused, eyes on his; after several seconds of considering, she stated, “It’s not just the intellectual challenge of solving a mystery, of ferreting out all the facts and putting them together in a jigsaw of events to clearly define what took place. That’s a part of it, true, but, ultimately the highest calling, the strongest motivation, is to see justice done. Through helping with investigations when the opportunity is there, contributing to the overall justice of our world is something I can do, and therefore should do.”

  Her lips curved lightly as she added, “The pursuit of, and support of, justice. That’s why you do what you do, and why I should, and need to, assist whenever I can. Whenever Fate lays the opportunity before me, I should, and need to, respond.”

  He paused, studying all he could see—all she let him see—in her eyes, all that he could feel through her gaze, read in her expression, then he murmured, “I see it, too—that you have found your balance. And it’s one I understand, a stance I can—and will happily—accommodate and support.”

  Her smile was the definition of radiant. “Excellent!” Snuggling back into his arms, settling her head as she liked, in the hollow beneath his shoulder, closing her hands over his as he settled his arms about her, she sighed deeply and relaxed. “Now we just need Corby to confirm that Maurice Halstead is our murderer, and all will be completely well.”

  Chapter 18

  The following morning, seated before a delicate escritoire set in one corner of the parlor, Violet was drafting a letter Penelope needed to send to a scholar in Aberdeen when, in the distance, she heard the front doorbell peal. Knowing Mostyn would take care of whoever had called, Violet continued carefully scribing.

  It had taken her days, but she had finally succeeded in completely organizing Penelope’s huge desk, in the process uncovering several matters Penelope had forgotten to address. With Penelope’s blessing, nay, encouragement, Violet had taken on the role of communicating with the various scholars involved, styling herself as Mrs. Adair’s secretary.

  She smiled whenever she thought of the title; in many ways, it was more to her taste than that of companion.

  The door opened and Mostyn looked in. When Violet looked up, he tipped his head toward the front of the house. “A Mrs. Halstead to see you, miss. I told her Mrs. Adair’s not in, but she insisted it was you she’s come to see. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”

  Violet blinked, then set down her pen. Penelope had gone to meet with her sister Portia, and Griselda had decided that trimming bonnets in her shop was the best way to spend the time while they waited for Corby’s confirmation of Maurice Halstead’s guilt.

  But why on earth had Constance Halstead come to see Violet? Today?

  Rising, Violet smoothed down her skirt. “Thank you, Mostyn. I suppose I must see what she wants.”

  Noting her lack of enthusiasm, Mostyn trailed her into the front hall. “I’ll be just out here, miss, should you need anything.”

  Meeting Mostyn’s eyes, Violet smiled her thanks, then, pausing before the drawing room door, she drew in a breath, raised her head, and nodded as Mostyn reached for the doorknob. He opened the door, and, head high, she walked into the room.

  To her mind, she owed the Halsteads nothing. Certainly not more than a moment of her time, and, truth be told, she was driven more by curiosity than any real wish to speak with Constance Halstead.

  Constance had been sitting on one corner of one of the damask-covered sofas; she was still wearing her half-cape, still had her bonnet and gloves on, and was clutching her reticule tightly in her lap. Seeing Violet gliding toward her, Constance quickly stood.

  Violet inclined her head. “Mrs. Halstead.”

  With severe civility, Constance stiffly returned the gesture. “Miss Matcham.”

  Violet waved to the sofa. “Please, do sit.”

  “Actually, I won’t, if you don’t mind.” Constance’s gaze shifted over the furnishings, the fashionable, undeniable elegance of the decor. “This . . . ah, won’t take long.”

  With a sudden spurt of insight, Violet realized Constance felt out of her depth. Although the Adairs didn’t flaunt their wealth and aristocratic backgrounds, there was an indefinable, intangible air that marked the household as being of the upper echelon of the ton. Several degrees above the circles in which Constance and her family moved.

  Violet’s station fell somewhere between that of the Halsteads and that of the Adairs; she could move in both circles—one higher, one lower—with reasonable assurance, certainly without suffering from the nervous uncertainty currently afflicting Constance.

  Telling herself she should take pity on the woman, Violet remained standing, too. “In that case . . . what brings you here, Mrs. Halstead?”

  Constance’s lips pinched, her expression reverting to her customary, fussy, never-satisfied mien. “I have come to request your assistance in sorting through Lady Halstead’s things. Now that the police and that Mr. Montague have finally deigned to give the family the keys to the house, we wish to ensure that everything is appropriately dealt with—we don’t want anything vital being accidentally thrown out.” Constance paused, her expression hardening. “What with Tilly gone—”

  Violet noted that Constance managed to make it sound as if Tilly had deserted her post, rather than been murdered.

  “—then you are the one who knows her ladyship’s belongings best.” Tipping up her chin, Constance somewhat belligerently stated, “I require your help to get her things together so that we can properly decide what should be done with them.”

  Violet had no wish whatever to return to the Lowndes Street house. “I’m afraid I’m currently engaged—”

  “Miss Matcham.” Constance drew herself up and made a valiant attempt to look down her nose. “Lady Halstead gave you employment for more than eight years. I would have thought simple loyalty alone would move you to perform this last task—this last duty—for her. Only you know where her belongings—those she held dear and would wish passed on—are stowed. Only with your help can we be certain we’ve adequately dealt with such items as she would ha
ve wished.”

  Violet drew in a breath but continued to hold Constance’s gaze. Her increasingly belligerent gaze.

  Constance had been quick to attempt to evoke Violet’s guilt, but the precipitousness didn’t make the sentiment, once called into being, any less effective. Lady Halstead deserved to have her belongings treated with respect and a degree of understanding and compassion her children and their spouses unquestionably lacked. And while there seemed little doubt that Constance wanted to leave this drawing room, to quit what was for her a subtly unnerving stage, equally clearly she was determined to take Violet with her.

  Inwardly sighing—knowing Constance’s stubbornness of old—Violet slowly inclined her head. “I can spare you—or rather, Lady Halstead—a few hours. But I will have to return here by one o’clock.”

  Constance waved the qualification aside. “We can see how far we’ve got by then.” She turned toward the door. “But as you are pressed for time, I suggest we don’t waste any. My carriage is waiting outside.”

  Resigning herself to spending the next two and more hours in Constance’s aggravating company, Violet turned and led the way to the door. Opening it, she let Constance precede her into the front hall.

  Closing the door behind her, she caught Mostyn’s eyes. “Mostyn—I’m going to go to Lowndes Street, to Lady Halstead’s house, to assist Mrs. Halstead in sorting through her late ladyship’s things.”

  “Indeed, miss.” Mostyn glanced at Constance, then looked back at Violet. “I’ll inform Mrs. Adair when she returns.”

  “Please tell her I will be back by one o’clock.” Violet glanced at Constance. “If you’ll wait while I fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Constance replied, “I’ll wait in my carriage.” Turning to the door, she added, “Don’t be long.”

  Raising her eyes to the heavens, Violet turned and went quickly upstairs.

  Two minutes later, when she returned downstairs, her bonnet on her head, gloves and reticule in one hand, and her green pelisse neatly fastened over her pale green gown, Mostyn was waiting before the closed front door. “Are you sure this will be all right, miss? Going back to that house with one of that family?”

  The thought had already occurred to Violet; she gave Mostyn the answer she’d given herself. “It seems all but certain that the murderer is Maurice Halstead—we’re only really waiting for confirmation—and believe me, Constance positively loathes Maurice, and I’ll be with her the whole time.” Pausing before the door, she met Mostyn’s gaze. “And Lady Halstead does, indeed, deserve to have her belongings dealt with by someone who loved her, rather than one of her noxious brood.”

  Mostyn briefly studied her eyes, then bowed. “Indeed, miss.” Opening the door, he added, “I’ll keep an eye out for your return.”

  Stepping outside into a gusty autumn breeze, Violet clamped her hat on her head and, lifting her skirts, hurried down the steps to where Constance Halstead’s carriage waited.

  Millhouse’s runner appeared at Montague’s office a few minutes after the City’s bells had tolled eleven o’clock.

  Montague, working at his desk, heard the boy’s voice pipe, “From Mr. Millhouse for Mr. Montague,” and only just restrained himself from leaping to his feet and striding out into the outer office.

  Through the open doorway to his inner sanctum, he saw Slocum receive a simple missive. Noting the eager, inquisitive glances thrown his way by Gibbons and Foster, and the others, too, he jettisoned all attempts at nonchalance and, rising, met Slocum in the doorway.

  Slocum handed over the packet.

  Everyone in the office watched, breath bated, as Montague broke Millhouse’s simple seal, unfolded the single sheet, and read.

  “Good God!” Head rising, Montague stared blankly across the room as he rearranged the pieces of the jigsaw in his mind . . . then, jaw firming, he nodded decisively. “Yes.” He looked back at the note. “That does fit.”

  He had to tell Violet and the others.

  Folding the note and slipping it into his pocket, he returned to his office for his hat, saying to Slocum as he did, “Send a brief note to Millhouse thanking him for his help. Tell him it’s been invaluable and I’ll be in touch to explain as soon as I’m able.” Noting Millhouse’s boy hovering by the door, eyes wide, Montague added, “And give the boy half a crown.”

  “Yes, sir.” Slocum followed as Montague strode across the office, heading for the coat-stand by the door.

  “Who was it?” Gibbons called out. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

  Shrugging on his greatcoat, Montague told them, adding, “I’m heading to Albemarle Street—depending on who is there, I’ll most likely go on to Scotland Yard.”

  Leaving his staff speculating as to the ramifications of the truth, Montague went out of the door, clattered down the stairs, and, setting his hat on his head, strode into Bartholomew Lane in search of a hackney.

  At last, they had their man.

  Violet followed Constance Halstead into the dimness of the front hall of the Lowndes Street house. As had been the case when Violet had slipped in with Penelope and Griselda, and later with Montague, the house was dark, all the curtains drawn tight.

  “Faugh!” Constance dropped the keys she’d used to unlock the door on the hall stand and reached up to untie the strings of her bonnet.

  Violet noted that the keys were her old house keys; Montague must have sent them to the Halsteads. Deciding that she would rather keep her reticule, bonnet, gloves, and pelisse with her so she could more easily leave when the time came, she wondered, “Where should we start?”

  She hadn’t really meant to speak aloud, but Constance glanced at the jeweled watch she wore pinned to her collar, then looked up the stairs. “I daresay we should start in Mama-in-law’s bedroom.”

  A fraction of a second was enough consideration for Violet to verify her deep antipathy to going anywhere upstairs. “Actually”—turning, she boldly led the way into the sitting room—“if you wish to make best use of my time, then we should start in here.” Crossing the room toward the windows, she glanced back at Constance, who had come to hover in the doorway. “There’s far more of her ladyship’s things tucked away down here than there are in her bedroom.”

  Constance’s lips thinned. She looked as if she wanted very much to argue, but she couldn’t find any real grounds on which to do so.

  Looking away, smiling to herself, Violet grasped the curtains and pulled them wide; enough light streamed in through the panes to allow them to work without lighting any lamps. Returning to the sofa, she set down her reticule, then reached up, undid her bonnet strings, and lifted the bonnet from her head. Setting it down on the sofa, she started unbuttoning her gloves. The house had grown cold and somewhat damp; she decided to keep her coat on. “So”—she looked at Constance—“where should we start? With the bureau, or the writing desk?”

  Frowning, Constance came into the room. “The writing desk, I suppose.”

  Inwardly shaking her head at the woman’s grudging tone, Violet turned to the desk, opened it, and started to pull out the top row of tiny drawers.

  She tried not to listen to the ghosts of countless memories, of the happy times she, and often Tilly, too, had spent with Lady Halstead in this room, when her ladyship had been moved to show them the small trinkets she’d kept and tell them of her travels and the strange places she’d seen, the exotic adventures she’d had.

  Lady Halstead had lived a full life, but she hadn’t deserved to have it end as it had.

  At the hands of her son. Gasping her last under a pillow Maurice had held over her face.

  A chill touched Violet’s heart, but then Constance joined her before the desk, and Violet dragged in a deeper breath and focused her mind on the task at hand—on fulfilling her last duty to her late employer.

  Montague leapt from the hackney before it had halted, tossed the crown he’d had ready to the jarvey, then, hat in hand, strode up the steps of the Adairs�
�� house and rang the bell.

  Mostyn opened the door and immediately stepped back. “Mr. Montague, sir.”

  Montague strode across the threshold, eager to see Violet, to tell her the news—to learn what she thought of it. “Good morning, Mostyn. Miss Matcham, your master, and mistress—are they at home?”

  “No, sir.” Closing the door, Mostyn faced him. “Mr. Adair went to the Yard to consult with Inspector Stokes, and Mrs. Adair went to meet with her sister, Mrs. Cynster, but I expect her back for luncheon.”

  None of that surprised Montague, but . . . “And Miss Matcham?” Violet was supposed to have remained indoors, or alternatively have gone out only with those they trusted.

  “A Mrs. Halstead called and asked Miss Matcham to go with her to the Lowndes Street house to help sort through the old lady’s things.” A slight frown bloomed in Mostyn’s eyes. “I did ask if that was wise, sir, but Miss Matcham assured me that Mrs. Halstead loathed Maurice Halstead—him who’s the murderer—and so she’d be safe with Mrs. Halstead.”

  Montague felt a chill touch his soul. Instinct reared, but not one he recognized. He was accustomed to dealing with intuition, with flashes of insight born of experience, of simply knowing through recognizing some pattern . . . but those familiar instincts involved money and investments.

  This one told of life and death.

  This one screamed of danger.

  Of murder.

  He swore and swung toward the door.

  “Sir?” Mostyn instinctively reached for the doorknob.

  Montague paused. His face felt graven, his mind awash with a torrent of emotions, of cascading thoughts and conjecture. He dragged in a breath and forced himself to think; Violet might not survive if he made a mistake. “Send word—urgently—to your master and to Inspector Stokes. Tell them to bring constables to the Lowndes Street house.” He swallowed, had to force the next words out. “I believe the murderer has lured Miss Matcham there to do away with her.” He met Mostyn’s wide eyes. “I’m going there directly.”