Page 107 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

To the future—a future built upon all that they already possessed.

When they reached the syllabub, Barnaby tapped his glass with his spoon.

At the tinkling, the others all looked up, looked his way.

“I have a toast,” he told them, raising his wineglass, “and a suggestion. First, the toast.” He lifted his glass high, let his gaze sweep their faces as they did the same. “To us—to the six of us. Working together, we’ve successfully brought a triple-murderer to justice and avenged the three innocents he killed. So—to us!”

“Hear, hear!” Everyone murmured the refrain and drank.

“And now,” he said, lowering the glass, “to my suggestion.” He looked at Montague, seated to his right. “Over the last years during which I’ve been a consultant to the Yard, Stokes and I have come upon several cases which have involved financial dealings, at least in part. On some, we had your assistance, while with others we muddled through. However, more than ever these days, criminal cases of the sort Stokes requires my help with are also those most likely to involve—” Barnaby gestured.

“Financial instruments of one sort or another?” Montague supplied.

Barnaby inclined his head. “Just so. Crimes within the upper echelons of society usually involve money, and ton money is rarely left under any bed.”

“Or in a tin on top of some wardrobe,” Stokes dryly added. While the others chuckled, Stokes met Montague’s eyes. “What I believe my friend and colleague here is trying to say is that we—he and I—would be honored if you would consent to join with us in solving whatever such cases come our way.”

Montague looked from Stokes to Barnaby, then glanced at Violet, seated opposite, and nodded. Looking back at Barnaby, he more formally inclined his head. “It is I who would be honored to join with you gentlemen in your endeavors.”

“In seeking justice.” Violet raised her glass. “To our three champions of justice.”

Penelope and Griselda promptly raised their glasses. “Our champions! Hear, hear!”

Barnaby grinned down the table. “As it happens, that was only half of my suggestion. The other half”—he looked at Violet, on Penelope’s right—“was to pay tribute to Violet’s contribution to the investigation, especially her insights into the people involved, and to ask, if I may, whether you are intending to continue as Penelope’s secretary?”

Violet blinked and looked at Penelope.

Who reached out and closed her hand over Violet’s. “Oh, please, do say yes.” Penelope’s expression conveyed a hint of incipient desperation. “God alone knows what I might be forgetting these days—I do so need you, someone I trust, to take charge of things.”

Violet smiled and closed her other hand over Penelope’s, lightly squeezed. “Then of course I’ll remain in the post—I’d be delighted to continue working with you.”

“Excellent.” Penelope beamed, then looked up the table at her husband. “But why did you want to know that?”

“Because,” Barnaby said, “I wanted to suggest that, in support of yours and Griselda’s reemergence into more active investigating, having Violet add her particular expertise would bring yet another dimension to our team.”

“Of course!” Griselda turned an approving gaze on Barnaby. “How very insightful of you, Barnaby dear.” Leaning forward to address Penelope and Violet, Griselda said, “Do agree, Violet—if you join us, we’ll have an excellent base from which to understand all the victims and villains likely to come our way.” Griselda waved. “Penelope knows all about the aristocracy, and I know all about the middle and working classes, but neither Penelope nor I have all that much understanding of the social layers that lie between.”

“The gentry.” Penelope had been nodding eagerly. “Indeed.” She met Violet’s eyes. “Do say yes, again, Violet—we truly would welcome your input into our investigations.”

Her smile growing deeper, Violet looked from Barnaby, to Griselda, then to Penelope. “As your secretary, I hadn’t imagined sitting in the parlor and writing your letters all day. I had rather assumed I would join you—indeed, I’m not sure how you might manage to keep me away.”

“Wonderful!” Penelope beamed up the table, meeting Barnaby’s blue gaze and letting her very real appreciation of his tack—his suggestion—show. Having Violet join them was the perfect way to support and assist Penelope and Griselda in maintaining the new balance to which they were still making minor adjustments. The perfect way to set everything in place so they could go forward into the future with confidence.

Sitting back, letting her gaze travel the table, seeing Violet and Griselda talking about hats, and Barnaby, Stokes, and Montague exchanging comments about a recent political scandal, Penelope felt happy satisfaction well, then overflow. Reaching for her glass, she raised it. The action caught the others’ eyes and they looked at her inquiringly even as they, too, reached for their glasses.

“I have a toast, too.” So saying, Penelope raised her glass high. “To our new investigative team—may our future be bright!”

The “Hear, hears!” and echoing “To our futures!” were heartfelt and strong.

Looking up the table, Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, tipped her glass to him, and drank deeply.

They left the table for the drawing room, where the talk went on for some time. Despite their differences in station, they faced many of the same personal hurdles and shared many of the same aspirations, the same dreams, not just for themselves and their families but for wider society as well.

Eventually, Stokes raised his head, listening. “The rain’s finally here.” The clouds had been massing all afternoon, and from the drumming on the glass and the gurgling in the drains, had finally decided to spill their contents liberally over the city. Looking at Griselda, Stokes smiled, fondness and more in his eyes. “We’d better get on, my love, before the traffic slows even more.”

Griselda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Heavens, yes! Look at the time.”

Ten minutes later, Violet stood beside Heathcote, with Barnaby and Penelope near, all four hovering just inside the front door as they laughed and waved at, and called good-natured suggestions to, Stokes and Griselda, who, with Megan bundled up and hugged close in Griselda’s arms and Hettie huddling near, were escorted by Mostyn and two footmen, all holding large umbrellas high, to Stokes’s carriage, waiting at the curb. The rain was teeming down, drops glinting in the lamp-beams as they pelted to the ground.