Page 102 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

She therefore wasn’t surprised when, a touch of peevishness now in his expression, he raised his gaze to her face and stated, “While I daresay this is all well and good, my mother kept her more valued and meaningful possessions in her bedroom, and as I can only spare an hour away from the office—which, as I understand it, will also suit your timetable—might I suggest, Miss Matcham, that we continue these endeavors upstairs?”

Violet hesitated.

Mortimer glanced at the items they’d already sorted. “I’m really only concerned with items of consequence, not knick-knacks and keepsakes—if, instead of bothering with the rest of these, we can at least locate and gather everything stowed upstairs, it will greatly expedite this exercise.” He looked at her. “Don’t you think?”

Violet couldn’t disagree, and she wanted to be finished and done with this task, with this house, as much as, apparently, Mortimer did. Lips tightening—she still didn’t like any of this—she nodded. “As you say.”

She looked at the letters she still held in her hands, then ran her gaze along the piles on the table. Selecting the most appropriate, she set the letters atop it, then looked at Mortimer.

Stepping back, he somewhat pompously waved her out of the room.

Stifling a flaring impulse to head straight for the front door, Violet led the way to the stairs. As she lifted her skirts and started climbing, she realized she’d left her reticule, bonnet, and gloves in the sitting room but decided they would be safe enough there; she would be leaving in an hour.

Halfway up the stairs, premonition—strong and absolute—swept her, chilling her nape, tightening her lungs.

Mortimer . . . how odd that he’d stood back, that he’d elected to follow her up the stairs rather than lead. He’d always treated her as a higher servant, one who should follow, not be deferred to.

Until now.

Her scrambling senses abruptly focused on the man behind her.

He was following two treads back.

Senses abruptly expanding, she registered that his footfalls had altered—not just in rhythm but in weight, from the lighter steps of the fussy, self-important, but, in reality, inconsequential Home Office bureaucrat to a heavy, deliberate, intention-filled tread.

Pressing one hand to her waist, she raised her chin, surreptitiously sucked in air.

And tried to steady her giddy head.

Tried to think through the instincts that were now screaming—that knew, simply knew, regardless of all their information to the contrary, that the murderer now walked at her heels.

She’d slowed, but she forced herself to keep climbing as steadily as she could.

How to get out of this? How to escape him?

How?

Reaching the top of the stairs, moving like an automaton, she stepped into the gallery. Sheer desperation gripped her, and she shoved her wits into action. Mortimer wasn’t tall for a man, but he was taller than she was, and considerably heavier. Unquestionably stronger. As she walked steadily toward Lady Halstead’s room, and very likely to her own doom, her mind frantically surveyed her late employer’s bedroom, searching for something—anything—that might give her a chance.

Pausing outside Lady Halstead’s bedroom door, Violet dragged in another breath, then opened the door and, deliberately leaving it set wide, walked in. She paused, making a show of considering where to start, but she’d already made up her mind.

Battling to show no hint of fear, much less suspicion, she went around the bed, heading for the bedside table that stood against the wall between the bed and the fireplace. “I know her ladyship kept her most recent and important correspondence in here. As well as other items she valued.”

She clamped her lips shut. She couldn’t afford to babble. Penelope hadn’t expected to return to Albemarle Street until sometime after midday; she wouldn’t receive Violet’s message in time to grow curious and come to rescue her—not in time. Not before Mortimer killed her.

That he intended to do so Violet did not doubt—no longer harbored the slightest doubt. He had followed her into the room, his movements, his whole demeanor far different from his customary fussy vagueness; his dark gaze was focused and rested heavily on her. His expression was intent. A predatory stillness seemed to descend over him as, watching him from the corner of her eye, she drew out the top drawer of the small table and started lifting out the contents.

Laying the letters and notes, the ribbons and pins on the bed, she kept her gaze apparently on them, on her hands as she lifted, considered, and sorted each item. Again and again, her gaze flicked up, and from beneath her lashes, she checked on Mortimer, but he didn’t move.

He said nothing at all.

Just watched her.

Minutes ticked past.

Her first handful sorted, she drew in a tight breath and turned again to the drawer. She was reaching in, grasping another handful of Lady Halstead’s mementos, when she saw movement at the edge of her vision—she focused and saw that Mortimer had moved to the opposite side of the bed.

Straightening, she turned and looked at him—as, his gaze still locked on her, he lifted the pillow from that side of the bed.