Page 28 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Balance.

She had it right.

He nodded. “So . . . trial, possible error, and subsequent adjustment.”

She smiled, a brilliant smile shaded with understanding. “Thank you.”

Stretching up, one hand gripping his nape, the other framing his face, she pressed her lips to his. Any doubt he possessed that she didn’t understand, that she hadn’t understood exactly what thoughts, what considerations and reservations had passed through his mind, was eradicated by that kiss.

That they were together in this, that they would face the challenge side by side, hand in hand, was underscored by all that followed.

Later, much later, when she snuggled deeper into his arms and they settled to sleep, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Together, we’ll find our way.”

Well! That was much easier than I’d imagined.” He felt slightly giddy—with relief, with satisfaction, with the fading remnants of the illicit thrill of the act; his hand shook as he lit the wick of the lamp in his dressing room.

Once the flame had steadied, he replaced the glass, then looked down at his clothes, examining them carefully in the golden light. It was after midnight; all about him was silent and still. Only he stirred in this time between one day and the next.

Satisfied there were no telltale signs, he set about shedding his clothes.

Along with his conscience.

“There was no help for it, really, not once the old girl had started the ball rolling. I could hardly let it go on. If she’d just let things be, but no—she had to do the right thing and get her affairs in order . . . bah!”

Donning his nightshirt, he checked his face in his shaving mirror, as he did every night.

And as often happened when he did, doubts rose like phantoms in his mind. His eyes locked with those in his reflection, then he murmured, “If she’d spoken to her agent . . . she would have discussed doing so, wouldn’t she?”

After a moment, his features contorted and he straightened. “Damn! I’m not safe yet.”

Chapter 6

There it is.” Montague nodded across Winchester Street at the office of Runcorn and Son.

Beside him, Mrs. Adair—Penelope, as she’d insisted he call her—held up a gloved hand to screen her eyes. “Ah, yes. It looks decently prosperous.” Lowering her hand, she scanned the street. “I haven’t been in this area before. I’m always amazed by how immense London is.”

Striding along on her other side, Adair grinned but said nothing. He, too, was surveying the street, taking note of the area and the office.

The pair had arrived at Montague’s office for the meeting arranged the day before, bringing with them the news that Stokes had been summoned to a meeting on another case but hoped to join them within a few hours.

Adair had briefly explained his wife’s interest in the case, and that Stokes was aware of her involvement. Having been exposed to ladies of Penelope Adair’s ilk through his association with various noble families, Montague took her presence—and her interest—in his stride. He wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate her abilities, and he could easily imagine several ways in which her insights might prove valuable. Consequently, he’d felt no reservations over sharing everything he’d thus far learned about Lady Halstead’s accounts, investments, and estate with Penelope as well as Adair.

Although he’d spent hours combing through the copies of Lady Halstead’s financial records, he had yet to find any hint of a legitimate source for the odd payments. However, as he’d told the others, Sir Hugo Halstead had had his finger in a great many pies, and tracking, accounting for, and excluding every last possible avenue that might explain the odd payments was going to take considerable time.

The payments didn’t follow any recognizable pattern, but that didn’t mean some peculiar investment hadn’t been structured to pay out in such a fashion. Until they excluded such a source—and that could only be done by exhaustive searching and analysis—that the payments were legitimate had to remain a possibility.

Against that, as Penelope had noted, stood the fact that her ladyship had been murdered all but coincident with her announcement that she was looking into her financial affairs.

Or rather, having them looked into.

They’d concluded that consulting with Runcorn as to whether he had a complete listing of the Halsteads’ investments, past as well as present, would be a helpful next step. Adair and Penelope had also been keen to meet the young man-of-business, in their eyes another player in the drama.

Crossing Winchester Street, they reached the door of Runcorn and Son. Opening the door, Montague stood back while Penelope and Adair entered, then Montague followed.

Only to walk into consternation.

An ashen-looking Pringle came hurrying up, waving his hands. “No, no—I’m sorry, ma’am, but the office is closed.”

Penelope blinked, then looked past the slight man at the two constables hovering about an inner door. “Why?”