The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Drawing in a breath and feeling his lungs constrict, Frederick resisted the urge to clear his throat and simply stated, “My lord, I wish to ask for your permission to pay my addresses to Gwen. I would very much like to ask her to be my wife.”

  Gwen turned her head and smiled radiantly up at him. Reaching out, she closed her fingers about his hand.

  Frederick looked down into her beloved face. “But before we go any further, I have a confession of sorts to make. Not just to Gwen”—he shifted his gaze to Agnes—“but to Agnes, too.” When both ladies tilted their heads in almost identical fashion and looked inquiringly at him, he girded his loins and went on, “I know I’ve led you both to believe that I am, at best, barely well-to-do. That I’m not wealthy.”

  Glancing across the desk at Lord Finsbury, who was now frowning, Frederick said, “With all due respect, my lord, I knew you were keen on Gwen marrying a wealthy man, but”—he looked at Gwen and met her eyes—“I didn’t want her marrying me for such a reason. I wanted her to marry me…because she wished to marry me.”

  “And I do.” Gwen uttered the words with simple honesty and a great deal of determination. She looked at her father.

  Who was now staring at Frederick and looking utterly perplexed.

  “Are you saying,” Lord Finsbury said, “that you are wealthy? That you’re not not wealthy?”

  “Yes.” Frederick nodded. “Precisely.” He glanced at Agnes, then looked back at Lord Finsbury. “I believe I’m now referred to as a very warm man.”

  Lord Finsbury sat back, faint shock and rather more definite respect dawning in his face. “You managed it. Your father always told me you would make your mark in Africa, but so many have tried and not even made it back…I really didn’t think you would succeed.”

  Frederick managed a smile. “But I did.” He glanced at Agnes, whose eyes were shining, then he looked at Gwen. He shifted his fingers and closed them about hers. “I’m sorry for the deception, but I needed to know that you felt for me as I do for you.”

  Gwen’s smile was all delight. “I understand. And to my mind, you have nothing of any moment to apologize for.”

  Frederick drank in her absolution and the blatant love in her eyes. He forced himself to look away, to look at Lord Finsbury. “As I’ve already told Gwen, I’ve reacquired the land my family used to own, and, of course, I inherited the house. The estate is now in my hands, unencumbered, and it’s my intention to make our home there.”

  Agnes heaved a gusty sigh. “That’s wonderful! It’s exactly what your mothers both hoped for.”

  Frederick kept his gaze locked on Lord Finsbury. “Sir?”

  Smiling more broadly, his lordship waved expansively. “Of course, you have my permission, my boy—and I apologize for not having sufficient faith in you.”

  Inclining his head, Frederick swallowed the revelation that it was his attachment to Gwen—his love for her—that had driven him and seen him through…to now. He looked into her eyes and the rest of the world faded. “What say you, Gwen?” The most important answer of all—the only one that mattered.

  Gwen looked at him with her heart in her eyes. “Yes—I forgive you. Yes—I will marry you. And yes—I adore you and will until I die.”

  Frederick raised her hand to his lips and pressed an ardent kiss to her fingers. “And I will love you come hell or high water, until my dying day.”

  * * *

  The doctor had finally been sent for. Simmonds, a short, slightly portly practitioner renowned for his no-nonsense manner, had duly arrived; he had merely nodded to Barnaby, waiting, eaten with anxiety, in the front hall, then Simonds had walked past and had ascended the stairs.

  That had been two hours ago. It was now nearly midnight and Barnaby wasn’t sure his nerves would hold up for much longer.

  Despite his father’s presence, he’d resumed his pacing; ineffective though the activity was, at least he was moving.

  The tension had steadily escalated over the past hour; he felt it as a palpable weight bearing down on his shoulders.

  Barnaby halted. The need to rush upstairs and demand to be told what was going on was close to overpowering—

  A lusty cry resounded through the house.

  Stunned, Barnaby looked up—toward where the sound had come from.

  His father, who had been calmly reading the day’s news sheets, looked up and smiled. “Ah—there we are.” Setting the news sheets aside, the earl got to his feet and clapped his son on the shoulder. “Congratulations, my boy—you’re a father now.”

  Still stunned, Barnaby absentmindedly allowed the earl to wring his hand…he was a father.

  He had a child.

  Emotion of a sort he’d never experienced crashed over him, all but drowning his faculties, his wits, with its power.

  After a moment, he swallowed and managed to croak, “What now?” He blinked and looked at his father. “Can I go up, do you think?”

  Smiling, the earl shook his head. “Not yet. We still have to wait.”

  A full half an hour later, they heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs.

  Barnaby reached the front hall as Simmonds, beaming genially, stepped off the last tread. After nodding to Mostyn to fetch his hat and coat, Simmonds turned to Barnaby and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Adair. You’re the father of a healthy boy with a very sound set of lungs. Mrs. Adair is also well. She sent a message for you—that you could stop worrying now.”

  “Oh.” Barnaby stood stock still, taking it all in—or trying to. He had a son. And Penelope was clearly well—indeed, in her usual, crisply bossy state.

  With an understanding smile, Simmonds turned to bow to the earl. “My lord.”

  Then Mostyn, also beaming, was there with Simmonds’s coat and hat. Shrugging on the former, Simmonds glanced at Barnaby. “The ladies said you could go up now—no need to wait any longer.”

  Instantly, Barnaby refocused. “Thank you.” With barely a nod, he went up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.

  His mother was waiting at the door, her eyes misty, her face wreathed in smiles. “Come in, come in. You have the most perfectly beautiful son.”

  He’d expected some degree of chaos. Instead, the room was tidy, serene, with no sign of the bowls and towels and what-not he was sure must have been there. Everything had been cleared, and a sense of joyous peace pervaded…then again, given the caliber of the ladies Penelope had had attending her, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

  But from the moment his eyes lighted on the figure—the two of them—in the big bed, he saw no one and nothing else.

  He wasn’t even aware of crossing the room, but he must have; he found himself staring down in wonder at Penelope, her dark head bent as she lightly traced the curve of the tiny shell-like ear of the baby in her arms.

  She glanced up, and although her eyes were weary and her face was pale, her smile was gloriously radiant; it lit his heart. “Here he is. And I have to say he really is quite fascinating. Did you hear him yell?”

  For the first time in hours, Barnaby’s lips curved. “The whole house heard. Simmonds said he has a good set of lungs.”

  Penelope grinned, but her expression instantly reverted to a glowing smile the like of which Barnaby hadn’t seen before as she looked back at their son. Her attitude—full of open wonderment—said she was as delighted and intrigued, as rapt in this new little person as Barnaby was.

  Gently letting himself down on the bed beside her, he joined her in staring, in marveling.

  Putting out a tentative finger, he stroked the baby’s hand. The tiny hand moved, then the even tinier fingers flexed, stretched, then closed and curled about Barnaby’s single digit. His heart constricted. After a moment, he murmured, “He’s perfect.”

  Penelope shot him one of her looks. “Of course, he is.” But she was smiling.

  The other ladies moved about the room, quietly organizing.

  Then Penelope glanced at Barnaby. “Here—you s
hould hold him.”

  Panic threatened, but, surrounded by all the females of her family, he girded his loins and somewhat gingerly accepted the bundle Penelope eased into his arms.

  “Like this.” She tugged his hand into position so that he was supporting the baby’s head.

  Gently cradling his son against his chest, Barnaby felt emotion well. It wasn’t simply the reality of the lightly swaddled weight, but the tension in the shifting, tentatively squirming limbs that brought home that this wasn’t a doll but a live little human. One who would grow, who through the next years would depend on Barnaby and Penelope to care for him, to see to his needs and his safety.

  Joy, responsibility, and commitment—all rushed through Barnaby in that moment.

  He glanced at Penelope; she met his gaze and he saw the same realization in her eyes.

  This small person was theirs to care for, and he would be a constant in their lives from now on.

  Minerva, Penelope’s mother, touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Stand up, Barnaby, dear, and take him over there”—she waved to a clear space before the fireplace—“while we make Penelope more comfortable.”

  He did as he was bid and with his son in his arms retreated from the mayhem as the ladies descended in a flock upon the bed.

  Standing before the fireplace, he looked into his son’s face. He wondered what color his eyes would be—his bright blue or Penelope’s dark brown? And what would his temperament be like? Like hers, or his, or somewhere between? How would they all get on? Would his son have the same comfortable relationship with his father as Barnaby had with the earl—a relationship built on understanding and shared interests?

  How long he stood staring at his sleeping son’s face and pondering the future he didn’t know. About him, the ladies ebbed and flowed. His father came in briefly to be introduced to his latest grandson and to kiss Penelope’s cheek, then the earl bore away Barnaby’s mother after reminding her that she had a luncheon engagement that day, at which she would doubtless wish to share the news of the latest addition to her already large brood of grandchildren. The countess had duly kissed the baby’s cheek, then kissed Barnaby’s, and gone.

  Shortly after, Emily, Anne, and Portia also took their leave. Penelope’s mother, Minerva, would be remaining in Albemarle Street for the next week at least; after confirming that Penelope had all that she required, Minerva, too, came to kiss the baby’s cheek, smile mistily at Barnaby before kissing his cheek, too, then, trailing her usual cloud of draperies, Minerva left them.

  And, finally, there was just them—the three of them.

  From across the room, Barnaby felt Penelope’s gaze on his face, but for several minutes, she seemed content to simply watch him holding their son.

  Eventually, however, she stirred. “So…who did it?”

  Barnaby heard her, but her words made no sense. Lifting his head, he looked at her blankly, his mind floundering…he had no idea what she was asking about.

  She stared at him, read his complete and utter befuddlement, and on a bubbling, laughing snort, she explained, “The case. Who killed Fletcher?”

  “Ah.” Barnaby blinked. The answer was there, the events of the past days clear enough in his mind, but it was as if they had occurred in a different age…they really weren’t important anymore. As he turned his attention back to his son, he answered, “The butler did it.”

  EPILOGUE

  In the matter of the violent murder of Gordon Fletcher, Thomas Riggs was found guilty and hanged.

  Lord Finsbury declined to bring charges against Katherine Mallard for her part in the temporary removal of the Finsbury diamonds from his safe. As the diamonds were back where they belonged, and the principal perpetrator of the scheme, namely Fletcher, had reaped a sentence far worse than any the law would have handed him, Stokes saw little benefit in further pursuing Kitty. Given her patently genuine attachment to Fletcher, Stokes doubted she would return to the game with any other man. Released from police custody, Kitty slipped away into London’s teeming streets.

  * * *

  An announcement appeared in The Times in early January informing the world of the nuptials of Mr. Frederick Culver and Miss Gwendolyn Finsbury, only daughter of Godfrey, Lord Finsbury, and the late Maude Finsbury. The wedding was celebrated at the church in the village of Hampstead, which was noted as being the local church for both the Finsbury and the Culver families. The newly-weds had eschewed any travel in favor of settling into the large house Mr. Culver had inherited from his late parents.

  Despite the formal wording, the announcement managed to convey a sense of deep and widely held satisfaction.

  * * *

  In the middle of January, as the culminating event of the lengthy Christmas and New Year family celebration the Countess of Cothelstone had insisted was her due, Oliver Lucas Barnaby Adair was christened in the chapel of Cothelstone Castle.

  Later, as part of a much more private celebration, Barnaby presented Penelope with a black velvet case containing her very own diamond necklace, designed and executed to Barnaby’s order by Aspreys of Bond Street.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Tugging the necklace from its case, Penelope literally leapt off the bed and dashed to the cheval mirror to don the heavy string and admire how it sat.

  As she happened to be naked, Barnaby lay back on the pillows and enjoyed the display.

  Penelope danced, turning this way and that, admiring the way the light fractured and sparkled in the heavy stones. “These are absolutely stunning!”

  Swinging around, she raced back to the bed and all but flung herself on Barnaby.

  Laughing, he caught her; holding her above him, he looked into her dark eyes. “Happy?”

  Her face lit with the smile—that new smile that held such a deep contentment it never failed to strike to his heart. Holding his gaze, her hands on his shoulders, she replied, “I had no idea it was possible to be this happy.”

  As content as she, he let her roll to his side. She squinted down, fingering the bright stones. “Is it similar to the Finsbury necklace?”

  “Yes and no. As per your instructions, I drew my inspiration from the Finsbury diamonds.” Barnaby raised a hand and, with one finger, traced the links gracing her throat, then he met her eyes. “These, however, are better. These are real.”

  Penelope laughed and he laughed with her—then Oliver cried and she dashed to the crib and brought their son back to join them in the bed, and all was right—deeply, assuredly, and incontrovertibly right—in their world.

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  COMING on APRIL 29, 2014

  The next fascinating installment in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair

  THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE

  Volume 2 in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Series

  Montague has devoted his life to managing the wealth of London's elite, but at a huge cost: a family of his own. Then the enticing Miss Violet Matcham seeks his help, and in the puzzle she presents him, he finds an intriguing new challenge professionally…and personally.

  Violet, devoted lady-companion to the aging Lady Halstead, turns to Montague to reassure her ladyship that her affairs are in order. But the famous Montague is not at all what Violet had expected—this man is compelling, decisive, supportive, and strong—everything she needs in a champion, a position to which Montague rapidly lays claim.

  But then Lady Halstead is murdered and Violet and Montague, a
ided by Barnaby Adair, Inspector Stokes, Penelope, and Griselda, race to expose a cunning and cold-blooded killer...who stalks closer and closer. Will Montague and Violet learn the shocking truth too late to seize their chance at enduring love?

  A pre-Victorian tale of romance and mystery in the classic historical romance style.

  Full length novel of 120,000 words.

  Short Excerpt from THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE:

  CHAPTER 1

  Heathcote 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.