Page 3 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Worse, she had no idea how to easily get one.

In the end, she lifted the writing desk and returned it to the bottom drawer of the tallboy. Straightening, she went back to the bed, smoothed the covers, and reached for the lamp on the bedside table. Before dousing the light, she met Lady Halstead’s eyes. “Let me think about it overnight, and tomorrow morning we’ll discuss what to do.”

Lady Halstead’s lips twisted, but she nodded. As Violet turned the tiny wheel and the light faded, Lady Halstead closed her eyes.

Satisfied, Violet quietly left the room. With conjecture as to the deepening mystery of the Halstead estate circling in her mind, she walked slowly down the corridor to her own bed.

I’ve come to a decision.”

Lady Halstead made the announcement the instant Violet, accompanied by Tilly, came through her ladyship’s bedroom door the next morning.

Hurrying to open the curtains, then to help Lady Halstead into a sitting position and resettle the pillows at her back, Violet smiled. “You can tell me while you eat breakfast.”

As Tilly stepped forward and set the breakfast tray across Lady Halstead’s lap, her ladyship waved Violet away. “No. That will keep you from your own breakfast, and I will require your assistance in doing what I wish. And”—Lady Halstead pounced on the copy of The Times Tilly had ironed, rolled, and set to one side of the tray—“I have to do some research first.”

Reassured by the enthusiasm lighting Lady Halstead’s face, Violet acquiesced. “Very well—I’ll come back as soon as I’ve broken my fast.”

“Hmm.” Lady Halstead was already engaged in searching through the news sheet.

Violet retreated, closing the door and following Tilly downstairs.

Stepping off the stairs, Tilly glanced back at Violet. “She seems in fine fettle again—not like the last few days.”

Violet nodded. “It sounds as if she’s thought of a solution—of a way to learn the answers to the questions that have been plaguing her.”

“Good. Don’t like to see her bothered.”

“No, indeed.” Smiling, Violet followed Tilly into the kitchen. Tilly and Cook were as devoted to Lady Halstead as Violet was. The old lady was the lynchpin around whom the household revolved, and she’d always been a kind mistress, one who attracted affection, loyalty, and respect purely by being herself.

Half an hour later, their breakfasts consumed, Violet and Tilly returned to Lady Halstead’s room. Lady Halstead looked confident, even smug, but she had Violet and Tilly help her out of bed and assist her to wash and dress for the day, then instructed Tilly to make up her bed, all without a word regarding her new tack.

But when Tilly left, bearing away the breakfast tray, Lady Halstead lay atop her smoothed counterpane, a shawl over her legs, and smiled at Violet. “I really do feel so much better now I’ve decided what I should do.”

Sinking into the armchair beside the bed, Violet murmured supportively and prayed that whatever her ladyship had decided was a reasonable course of action; if it came to it, there was no one she could appeal to for help should her ladyship decide on some less-than-wise course. Although she had four children, Lady Halstead allowed none of the four to influence her in any way, despite this one or that attempting to do so every now and then. Having known the Halstead children for nearly as long as she had known Lady Halstead, Violet considered her ladyship’s stance fully justified. “So,” Violet prompted, “tell me what you want to do.”

“I have decided,” Lady Halstead said, “that while I do not expect any blame in this situation to attach to Mr. Runcorn or his associates, the bald truth is that he is as yet inexperienced, and clearly this matter of the monies being paid into my bank account, especially if in any way connected with the people at the country house, might have quite complex implications, ones young Runcorn might well fail to see, inexperienced as he is. I need to be sure about what is going on—I need to be certain we’ve got to the bottom of it—and I doubt I will ever feel that degree of certitude in young Runcorn’s conclusions.

“So!” Lady Halstead lifted her chin. “I propose to engage the most experienced man-of-business in London to consult on this matter.” Lady Halstead paused, then looked at Violet. “What do you think?”

Violet blinked, then refocused on Lady Halstead’s face. “I think . . . that that’s an excellent idea.” Now her ladyship had mentioned it, Violet, too, had harbored a niggling doubt, not of Runcorn’s expertise but of his ability to reassure Lady Halstead. Regardless of whatever Runcorn found, her ladyship wouldn’t be completely reassured. . . . Violet nodded. “I can’t see any reason you shouldn’t ask some more-experienced person to consult in this matter. Defining their role as a consultant purely engaged to look into this strange business should smooth the way with Runcorn—he seems the sort who would welcome advice from a more senior practitioner.”

Lady Halstead was nodding. “Indeed—that was a point I considered. I quite like young Runcorn and don’t want to put his back up.” Her chin firmed. “But I must have certainty, or I won’t feel I’ve kept my promise to dear Hugo.”

And that, Violet fully understood. “Very well. So who is this more-experienced man-of-business you wish to engage?”

“That,” Lady Halstead confessed, “stumped me for a while, because, of course, I have no notion about other such agents. But then”—reaching out, she picked up the news sheet that she’d left on her bedside table—“I recalled that there is a column in the financial section of The Times where the correspondent urges readers to write to him with questions that are pertinent to managing finances.” Unfurling the paper, she pointed to a column. “See? There.”

Taking the paper, Violet scanned the column. It wasn’t long; the enterprising columnist had taken three questions and provided a paragraph-long answer to each. “So . . . you want to write to The Times for a recommendation?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.” When Violet glanced up, Lady Halstead informed her, “I’d thought to write and ask who, in the columnist’s erudite opinion, is the most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London.”

Chapter 1

A week later

Heathcote Montague was sitting at his desk in the inner sanctum of his suite of offices a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, the gloom of an October evening closing in beyond the window, when he heard an altercation in the outer office. Deep in the ledger of one of his noble clients’ enterprises, he blocked out the sounds of dispute and worked steadily on through the figures.

Numbers—especially numbers that represented sums of money—held a near-hypnotic appeal; quite aside from being his bread and butter, they were his passion.