The Masterful Mr. Montague

by Stephanie Laurens

  Penelope read the truth in his blue eyes, the cerulean hue brilliantly bright even in the muted light. She heard the echo in his deep, rough tone, felt it in her heart, in her bones.

  Letting the curve of her lips deepen, she stretched up and drew his lips to hers. Murmured, in the instant before their lips met, “We’re a pair, you and I—just as well we’re doing this together.”

  She pressed upward and sealed his lips with hers, kissed him—then let her lips part in invitation, let the reins slide from her grasp, and sensed him make the same decision, and surrender to the moment, to the night. To her.

  To them, together.

  Clothes fell to the floor, hands whispered over skin. Stroked, caressed, and kneaded.

  Pleasure was their only goal—that, and togetherness.

  Sharing, not just their bodies but each other’s delight, the joys and the thrills and the passion-filled yearning, they divested each other of all restraint.

  They knew the journey well, and neither saw any reason to rush. Crystal moments of sensation spun out, stretched, fragile and exquisite, before the next rush of heady, greedy desire surged, and shattered them.

  Naked, bodies gilded by the lamplight, they swayed and danced, played and twined. Hands worshipped and lips paid homage; desire thrummed beneath their skins, heating, burning, while need sharpened passion’s whip and lashed their flesh, their senses.

  Then, at last, it was time, and he lifted her and they came together on a breathless gasp, a guttural groan, as the moment of joining seized their wits, their senses, their very beings. As the cascade of sensation and emotion ruthlessly focused each of them on themselves, on the other, on what together they were, could be, could create.

  On the wonder.

  On the indescribable, utterly overwhelming delight.

  Catching her breath, she tossed back the tangling mane of her dark hair, brushed one damp curl back from his forehead, and looked down into eyes burning with the steady glow of his passion.

  She read of his need, undisguised and viscerally real, saw the steadfast commitment, the devotion, the love.

  Felt the complementary emotions surge through her in response.

  Bending her head, she pressed her lips to his, merged their mouths, and gave herself—all she was, all her love—to him.

  As he gave his to her.

  Together in body, together in mind.

  Together in bliss.

  They had each other, and together they had everything.

  Fog blanketed the streets, wrapping houses in gray clouds, impenetrable and disorienting.

  Affected by the pervasive damp, the stairs in the Lowndes Street house creaked.

  He paused, listened, but detected no movement from above, no sign that she’d heard him.

  Drawing breath, he continued more carefully, keeping to the edge of the treads. Reaching the first floor, he paused again. Listened again.

  When nothing but the echo of silence filled his ears, he drew another breath, a deeper one this time, to steel himself.

  The doorknob turned freely. To his surprise, the door swung open.

  Poised before the threshold, he stared at the half-open, freely swinging door, at the patch of moonlit floorboards now revealed.

  He’d expected to have to push the dresser out of the way; he’d been willing to risk the noise, trusting to time, distance, and the cook’s self-interest to be able to do what he’d come to do and quit the house without being seen.

  Without risking being identified.

  If push had come to shove, he’d been prepared to kill the cook, too.

  He watched as one of his gloved hands reached out and pushed the door fully open.

  Even as, still taking care to be quiet, he tiptoed into the room, some part of his mind already knew what he would find—had already understood what the absence of the dresser across the door meant.

  The bed lay empty, the covers straight.

  “She’s not here.” His whisper swelled to fill the room. Seemed to echo back and fill his ears, slide in and fill his mind.

  Abruptly, he shook his head, shaking away the whispering.

  Glancing around, he registered the absence of brushes, combs, all personal items.

  Frowning, he stared again at the bed. “Where the devil has she gone?”

  Chapter 11

  Lady Halstead’s funeral was held the following morning. Cynthia Camberly had prevailed, and the service was held at St. Peter’s Church in Grosvenor Street, with the interment following immediately afterward in the graveyard beside the church.

  Violet was glad Cynthia had won that round; many of the parishioners had been acquainted with Lady Halstead, and they filled the church to overflowing, their voices swelling the three hymns with genuine sorrow. The principal eulogy was delivered by the minister who had known her ladyship well. The large number of others who crowded into the church—older ladies and gentlemen both, many, judging by the gentlemen’s unimpeachably conservative attire, from government and diplomatic circles—would have surprised Violet had Penelope not told her of the Halsteads’ past status in that sphere.

  All in all, Violet felt the event was a fitting tribute to Lady Halstead and her life.

  From the second pew, with Montague to her left, and Penelope on her right, with Griselda beyond her, and Cook in the corner, Violet watched the casket carried up the aisle on the shoulders of Lady Halstead’s sons, grandsons, and son-in-law.

  Cynthia and Constance, both heavily veiled, followed, with Caroline, head dutifully bowed, close behind.

  When the trio had passed, Montague stepped into the central aisle and gave Violet his hand.

  She took it, felt his strength, that rock-solid certainty that was peculiarly his; she let her fingers curl, grasped, and let him anchor her.

  He twined her arm in his, then escorted her up the aisle.

  Penelope and Griselda, kindly supporting Cook between them, followed.

  The interment was simple and rapidly done, laying Lady Halstead beside Sir Hugo in the family plot. Violet noted that Stokes, Adair, and several constables hung back at the fringes of the crowd; earlier they’d hovered at the rear of the church, watching and noting, although she hadn’t seen anything worthy of their attention.

  All went smoothly, uneventfully, unmarred by any bickering among the Halstead brood, for which Violet gave due thanks; despite the circumstances, she wouldn’t have put creating a scene past any of them.

  Then the first sod was cast by Mortimer—quickly followed by Cynthia.

  Montague turned Violet away. “Come—let’s head to the house ahead of the rush.”

  She nodded and allowed him to lead her down a side path to where their group had left their various carriages. Penelope and Griselda had already gone ahead with Cook in Penelope’s town carriage, leaving the Stokeses’ small black carriage for Montague and Violet.

  As he handed her up, Violet murmured, “What about Stokes and Mr. Adair?”

  “They’ve two carriages from Scotland Yard to ferry them and the constables.” Montague settled on the seat beside her. He waited until the carriage had pulled out into the stream of traffic before saying, “Incidentally, you should be present at the reading of the will.” When Violet looked at him, he met her gaze and nodded. “Lady Halstead clearly valued you, and Tilly and Cook, as well.”

  Violet blinked, then softly snorted. “The family won’t be pleased.”

  “The family can like it or lump it.” Montague felt uncharacteristically belligerent, but he rather liked the sensation. Rather liked the man he was discovering himself to be, courtesy of the lady by his side. Facing forward, he said, “I’ve seen the will—it’s legally watertight. Any challenge will be a waste of time.”

  He felt Violet’s gaze on the side of his face. “Will you be reading the will?” she asked.

  “Given the letter of authority from Lady Halstead and my more recent acquaintance with the family, her solicitor, a Mr. Entwaite, has asked me to do the h
onors.” He glanced at Violet. “Entwaite’s a sound man, but he dislikes dealing with forceful people and unnecessary confrontations.”

  A smile curved her lips, dissipating some of the shadows that, today, had closed about her. Satisfied, he faced forward again and listened to the rattling of the wheels as they covered the short distance to Lowndes Street.

  Once there, the volume of guests made it easy enough for their small band of investigators to gather in a corner of the drawing room without attracting undue attention.

  Cook had retreated to her domain to oversee the presentation of the funeral meats. “She views it as her final duty for Lady Halstead,” Penelope reported.

  Both the Camberly and Mortimer Halstead’s households had sent footmen to assist, but both had also sent their butlers. Inclining his head to where those two individuals were eyeing each other much in the vein of cocks about to fight, Montague murmured, “One can only hope the butlers don’t come to blows.”

  Following his nod, the others looked, then Griselda, lips twitching, said, “Heaven help them if they do—can you imagine the apoplexy that would cause their mistresses?”

  After an exchange of cutting looks, the butlers turned and stalked toward opposite sides of the room.

  Penelope snorted. “Crisis averted. It looks like they’ve realized the limitations of their situations.”

  “Speaking of situations”—Barnaby caught Montague’s eye—“what are the odds the family will ignore this crowd and, instead of acting as any manner of host, insist on having the will read immediately?”

  Montague huffed. “That’s not much of a wager, but apropos of that”—he looked at Stokes—“as I mentioned to Violet, at their solicitor’s request and courtesy of that letter of authority, I will be reading the will. Violet and Cook should be present—the family can’t argue that, as both are minor beneficiaries. And as Lady Halstead was murdered, I will propose that a representative of Scotland Yard has reason to be there—I imagine you would wish to attend?”

  Stokes nodded. “Most definitely.”

  “Only one representative?” Barnaby asked, his tone a plaintive whine.

  Montague turned his grin into a grimace. “Sadly, yes. One is easy to excuse, especially an inspector, but two is inviting the family to protest, and they could become difficult if they dig in their heels.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “My thinking is that there’s no reason we wish to delay the reading of the will.”

  Stokes nodded. “The sooner the better. The more things that happen, and the more quickly they occur, the greater the pressure on our murderer. Who knows? There may be something in the will that casts some light, however murky, on his motives.”

  “From what I’ve seen of the will, that’s unlikely—” Montague broke off, his eye caught by a beckoning wave from the ageing solicitor, who was standing in the doorway and craning his neck to look over the crowd. “Ah—here we go.” Montague met Barnaby’s eyes. “That didn’t take them long at all.”

  To a chorus of “Good luck” from the others, Montague took Violet’s arm and steered her through the considerable crowd.

  As he fell in at their backs, Stokes murmured, his deep voice so low only they would hear, “I would appreciate it if both of you could keep your eyes peeled for whatever reaction we get from the five men we consider suspects. Given there’s just the three of us in this meeting, let’s concentrate on them.”

  Montague nodded. Glancing at Violet, he saw her jaw firm as she nodded, too.

  The family had elected to use the sitting room for the reading of the will. As Montague ushered her through the door, Violet saw that the furniture had been rearranged. Lady Halstead’s writing desk now sat before the fireplace; a small, neat, precise man in the dark garb favored by solicitors was just slipping into the chair behind the narrow desk. Settling, he perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez on his nose, then rather nervously smoothed his thinning white hair over the sides of his head before somewhat trepidatiously surveying the family members seated in serried rows on more comfortable chairs set in an arc facing the desk.

  Montague guided her past those chairs and on to two empty chairs set to one side of the bow window at the end of the room. As she whispered her thanks and sank down, she realized that the position, with the light streaming past her, gave her the best possible view of the family and the tableau before the fireplace.

  Of course, the position also gave the family a clear view of her—and of Stokes, who took up a position standing to her left.

  Having seen them installed, Montague went to the desk, to the second chair behind it.

  Mortimer Halstead frowned at Montague. “What are you doing here?”

  The solicitor—Entwaite—cleared his throat. “As Mr. Montague has a valid and wide-ranging letter of authority from my late client, and given his experience with complex estates, I have asked him to assist me in reading her ladyship’s will and explaining its provisions if such explanations are required.” Entwaite paused, then gravely added, “Such an arrangement is entirely within the scope of normal practice.”

  Mortimer’s frown turned disgruntled.

  “I believe,” Cynthia said, her gaze fixed on Violet and Stokes, “that the reading of my mother’s will should be restricted to the family.”

  Picking up what was obviously the will, Montague calmly replied, “All named beneficiaries have a right to be present at the reading of a will. In addition, in this case, given that her ladyship was murdered, Scotland Yard’s interest in the contents of the will cannot be denied.”

  Violet noted the glib turn of Montague’s phrases and, despite the occasion, inwardly smiled; all he had done was state the obvious, yet as he surveyed the assembled family, brows raised, clearly inviting any dissenter to speak up, although various family members shifted, none were so brave as to voice their opposition.

  The door edged open and Cook slipped in, carefully closing the door behind her.

  Montague smiled reassuringly and waved her in Violet’s direction.

  Cook all but scuttled down the room; Stokes held the chair beside Violet for her, and Cook sank onto it gratefully.

  Violet patted Cook’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.

  “Very good.” Montague glanced at Entwaite. “Everyone is present, I believe?”

  Entwaite nodded. “Indeed. We may proceed.”

  Montague raised the will, transfixing the attention of every member of the family. In a clear, steady voice, he read the preamble, then passed on to the clauses giving effect to the distribution of the estate established under Sir Hugo’s will, followed by the provisions detailing the disbursement of Lady Halstead’s personal property.

  Although he had read the will earlier in the day, he still had to pay attention to the words. He used the pause after each clause to quickly scan the faces turned his way.

  There was nothing in the will to cause consternation; as expected, the combined wills of Sir Hugo and Lady Halstead stipulated that the bulk of the estate, being the residue after all disbursements to the minor beneficiaries, be divided equally between their four children.

  Said children heard the news, and—as might be expected of the Halstead brood—each appeared disappointed that their mother hadn’t somehow favored them over their siblings.

  Also as Montague had anticipated, the entire family paid close attention to what Lady Halstead had willed to others; when he named the sum of the annuity left to Violet—enough, if properly managed, to see her through the rest of her days in quiet but genteel comfort—the family threw darkling glances her way. The smaller annuities left to Tilly Westcott and Cook—Mrs. Edmonds, as she proved to be—elicited several mutters. He ignored the grumbling but took a moment to confirm aloud that, as Tilly had died after Lady Halstead, all that Lady Halstead had left to Tilly would pass on to Tilly’s heirs.

  Entwaite helpfully capped the comment by stating that he had located Tilly’s brother, who was her legal heir.

  Montague inclined his head
in thanks. He scanned the family’s faces once more, but as had been the case throughout, they all appeared faintly disgruntled, dissatisfied, but also detached; none appeared greatly exercised by anything they’d heard thus far.

  Raising the will, he continued reading, listing the last of the bequests. Lady Halstead had—very sensibly in Montague’s view—divided her jewelry piece by piece, naming which family member should receive each item. At the end of the list, her ladyship had left what she’d described as tokens of her affection to the three members of her household—a pearl choker to Violet—and that news made Cynthia Halstead suck in a quick breath through her teeth—a pearl brooch to Tilly, and a pearl ring to Cook.

  Montague looked at Cynthia Halstead, wondering if she would protest, but although her face had set in lines of deep disaffection, her lips had compressed to a thin line, and she made no move to open them.

  He was about to announce that that was the conclusion of the reading when Caroline Halstead said, “There’s no sense in giving a pearl brooch to a dead woman, much less to her laborer brother.” Fixing Montague with a stare every bit as arrogant as her aunt’s, she stated, “As my late grandmother’s only granddaughter, the brooch should instead come to me.”

  Montague had hoped—all but prayed—that someone would protest something. Caroline’s objection gave him the chance to say, “If you wish to insist on such a redirection, you will need to contest the will, which, of course, will delay probate.”

  Mortimer frowned at him. “Delaying probate—what will that mean for the rest of us?”

  Montague arched his brows. “In effect”—he cast his gaze over the faces turned his way, focusing on the men as he said—“not a penny of the estate will be paid out to anyone, not until the disputed matter is decided by the court and probate is finally granted.”