Page 101 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

What did his dignity, his reputation, matter against that?

Clinging to the strap as the hackney veered dangerously around some dowager’s carriage, then rocketed ahead along Piccadilly, Montague suffered a moment of utter self-astonishment. Of looking at himself and seeing . . . someone he hadn’t realized was there, lurking beneath his reserved, conservative, deliberately mild exterior.

He’d never thought of himself as a man of action, yet here he was, racing through Mayfair to rescue a lady.

Compelled to do so, even if it meant making an abject fool of himself.

He truly didn’t care.

All he cared about was Violet.

The thought, and all it meant, resonated in his brain.

Then he drew breath and grimly focused on the Lowndes Street house, and what he might find when he reached there.

They’d been in Lady Halstead’s house for barely half an hour when Violet saw Constance check her tiny watch for the third time.

They’d finished emptying the writing desk of its contents and had sorted the keepsakes into various piles. In a rare burst of familial feeling, Constance had remarked that she supposed she’d better let Cynthia look at things before she threw anything away. Of course, Constance had immediately marred her performance by making a snide, gloating comment about Cynthia no doubt having much to cope with in the wake of Walter’s spectacular fall from grace.

Ignoring the remarks, Violet had moved on to the bureau. It contained significantly more by way of personal mementos than the desk had. Three long, deep drawers’ and three smaller ones’ worth, to be precise.

She and Constance worked steadily through the drawers, top to bottom. They’d started on the first of the long drawers when Constance once again checked her watch.

Hands inside the drawer, Violet paused, assembling the words for a polite inquiry as to what Constance was waiting for, when the sound of the front door opening had them both looking up, then turning to face the sitting room door.

Violet in surprise, but, she immediately saw, Constance in relief.

“Thank heavens.” Constance went to the side table, where she’d left her reticule.

Before Violet could ask what was going on, the sitting room door opened and Mortimer Halstead walked in. He, too, was consulting his watch.

“About time!” Constance’s exasperation rang clearly. “I told you I was expected at noon for luncheon with Mrs. Denning, and that’s all the way out at Twickenham!”

Tucking his fob-watch back in his waistcoat pocket, Mortimer raised his gaze to his wife’s face. “Indeed. My apologies, but I was delayed by some accident at Hyde Park Corner—all the traffic is banked up.”

Violet experienced a sudden pang of memory; the detached, disconnected, subtly dismissive expression on Mortimer’s face—entirely usual for him—was one Lady Halstead had described as “Home Office neutral.” It told the world precisely nothing about what was going on in his mind—indeed, it raised the question of whether anything was going on in his mind at all.

Entirely accustomed to her husband’s unresponsive demeanor, Constance humphed. “Lucky, then, that I’m headed in the opposite direction, or my day would have been a disaster.” She glanced at the table before the sofa where she and Violet had arranged the piles of letters and mementos. “Miss Matcham and I have made a start in here, but she says her time is limited today, so I’ll leave you to decide what most needs doing.” Tugging her coat straight, reticule in hand, Constance nodded coldly to Violet. “Miss Matcham.”

Violet didn’t bother replying, not that Constance waited for any acknowledgment; she was already sweeping past Mortimer and on into the front hall.

A second later, the front door opened and shut. Leaving Violet alone with Mortimer Halstead.

It had happened so quickly, and distracted by the unexpected memory, Violet hadn’t had a chance to consider . . . but Maurice was the murderer, not Mortimer. Nevertheless, she’d never liked Mortimer—if she’d had to choose the Halstead offspring she liked least, it would have been him—and, now she consulted them, her thumbs were pricking.

She didn’t want to be alone in this house with Mortimer Halstead.

Even if he wasn’t the murderer.

His gaze, slightly frowning, had fixed on the piles of his mother’s belongings. Mortimer walked forward; halting before the sofa, he examined the various groupings, then sighed. “It’s a start, I suppose, but . . .”

From outside, the sound of a carriage rattling off reached them; Mrs. Halstead making good her escape.

Violet inwardly grimaced. Should she have protested against the impropriety of being left alone with Constance’s husband? Could she have? Would Constance have listened?

No; Constance would have looked at Violet as if she’d been some species of insect far beneath her, much less her husband’s, notice. Constance would have told her not to be ridiculous; she would have been no help.

And as for Mortimer . . . watching him, Violet knew that, innocent of the crimes though he might be, his only interest would be in seeing her do the work he wanted her to do, and that most expeditiously.