Page 12 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“There must be some interesting case we can assist you with,” Penelope declared.

Barnaby Adair, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Basil Stokes, friend and colleague, then Barnaby straightened, negligently waved, and nonchalantly said, “There really isn’t much by way of ‘crimes-to-investigate’ plaguing the ton and Scotland Yard at this particular time.”

Aware of the oblique qualifications built into that statement, Penelope regarded her spouse through narrowing eyes. “It needn’t be anything expressly to do with the ton—you aren’t about to tell me that there aren’t any crimes to investigate in London at all, are you?”

“Hardly!” The spontaneous reply came from Stokes, lounging in his chair. He immediately recovered and stated, “However, Barnaby’s correct in that there are no drawing room dramas, so to speak, presently unsolved.”

“The Crimmins affair was the last,” Barnaby said. “But since then—over the summer and into the autumn—all has been quiet in Mayfair.”

“I believe,” Griselda said, her soft voice a contrast to the bolder, more confident tones of the others; of the four of them, she spoke the least, but when she did, the others listened, as they did now, “that what Penelope meant to imply was that the insights she and I can offer, and the investigative skills we possess, would almost certainly be of value in investigations over a wider social arena.”

Penelope nodded. “Well said.” Shifting her gaze to their husbands, she added, “Dealing with the infants—with Oliver and Megan—absorbed us entirely for the first months, but now that the pair have grown to the point of no longer requiring our attention hour by hour, both Griselda and I need”—she airily waved—“something to engage us, to challenge us, mentally at least, and provide greater stimulation of the cerebral sort.”

Stokes frowned, rather blackly. “What do other ladies with small children do for ‘cerebral stimulation’?”

Penelope’s nose tipped upward. “Other ladies are not us.”

“Indubitably,” Barnaby muttered, quietly enough that only Stokes would hear.

Penelope still narrowed her eyes at him. After a moment, she said, “Helping to protect Henrietta when she had to go with that blackguard Affry in order to find James reminded us, Griselda and me, of what we were missing—of what we most enjoyed doing other than being with our children.”

“And,” Griselda murmured, “you should remember that us assisting you, even in the minor way we do, does help us understand what you, both of you, are absorbed with, and why the pair of you are so devoted to apprehending villains, be they lord or servant.”

Silence fell as both men considered their wives, then Stokes heaved a sigh and straightened from his slouch. “The fact is that there truly is no investigation currently underway in which we might benefit from your help.”

Penelope regarded him, her dark brown gaze, as always, unforgivingly direct. “Very well, but if one should arise, you will tell us, won’t you?”

A fractional hesitation ensued, then both men heaved tiny sighs.

Stokes merely tipped his head in resignation.

Barnaby met Penelope’s gaze and said, “When the next case in which the pair of you might be able to assist us arises, we—all four of us—will discuss the possibilities then.”

Is there truly no case we might possibly help with?” Penelope trailed across their bedroom to the window overlooking the side garden. She and Barnaby had lived in this house for eighteen months now, and she truly considered it her home. Hers. Just as he was.

Reaching the window, she turned and watched him walk slowly across the room to her. He still moved with the same predatory grace he had always possessed; the sight of him still brought a smile to her heart, even if sometimes, as now, she strove to keep the expression from her lips.

He halted before her, frowning slightly as he studied her uptilted face. “There truly is nothing. Stokes has been assisting with those murders about the docks—and, trust me, none of those are in any way linked with endeavors you and Griselda know anything about. And as you already know, because of the dearth in interesting crimes, I’ve been working with my father on his various political machinations.” Barnaby’s lips twisted in a reluctantly rueful smile. “And although I would love to have you help me with that, you know you’re hopeless with political machinations—you’re so direct you scare the marks away.”

Penelope waved dismissively. “Politicking is such a waste of time.”

“I rest my case.” Barnaby reached for her, sliding his hands around her narrow waist and drawing her to him.

She came readily. After more than eighteen months of marriage, the magic was still there—the delicious jolt to the senses, the resulting rapid rise of desire.

Of a hunger that, through growing accustomed to being sated, had become even more potent.

Sinking against him, spreading her hands on his chest, she looked into his face. And the magic—the sudden focus, the heightening of tension as anticipation sparked, the sharpening of their senses as their intentions aligned—gripped. As he spread his hands over her silk-clad back, she tilted her head, searched his eyes. “You’re going to try to distract me, aren’t you?”

His lips quirked. “It had crossed my mind.” Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers, lingered just long enough to hear her breath catch, to sense her hunger leap to meet his, then murmured, “Are you going to let me?”

She pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. “By all means—you have my permission to try.”

Just don’t expect to succeed. Barnaby heard the words she didn’t say—the challenge she didn’t utter—but for his own peace of mind, he had to try.

He gave it his best shot.

Drawing her into a heated exchange, into a heated melding of their mouths, an increasingly ravenous duel of lips and tongues that swelled and grew to consume them both, he orchestrated the moments, with consummate skill drew each fragile instant out, until they were both panting and yearning, hungry and desperate.