Page 40 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

As Penelope’s carriage rocked around the corner into Dover Street, she was still shaking her head over the wealth of information she and Griselda had gathered thus far that afternoon. “I will never not notice a shopgirl again.” When Griselda laughed, Penelope insisted, “No—it’s true. Now that I know how much they remember of what one says and does, I’ll be forever minding my p’s and q’s.”

“I rather think the Halsteads are a special case,” Griselda said. “Difficult behavior is always remembered.”

She’d taken Penelope to visit a long row of shops in Kensington High Street, within easy walking distance of Lowndes Street, where Lady Halstead had lived; as it transpired, those were also the shops favored by Mrs. Wallace Camberly, who lived with her husband and son in Belgrave Square, and, even more importantly, by their household staff. While Penelope had played the lady, examining items with a view to purchase, Griselda, in the role of lady’s maid, had chatted with the shopgirls at each of the establishments.

“Yes, indeed, but behavior aside, the comments and information passed on by the Camberlys’ staff were . . . well, amazing.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope widened her eyes. “Amazingly detailed.”

“It helped that the shop assistants still remembered Mortimer and his family from before they moved out of the area.” Griselda glanced out of the window as the carriage slowed. “So what we heard wasn’t simply bad-mouthing on the part of the Camberlys’ staff but attitudes the shopgirls had had confirmed by the Halsteads’ staff directly.”

The carriage halted.

“Regardless”—Penelope sat up and eased toward the carriage door—“we’ve now got one quite definite view of the Halsteads and the Camberlys. Let’s see what the grandes dames can add.”

When the groom opened the door, Penelope let him hand her down to the pavement, waited until Griselda joined her, then spoke to the coachman. “We’ll walk home, Phelps.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

With a salute, Phelps set the coach rolling again; Albemarle Street was only a block away.

Turning, Penelope led the way up the front steps of the house of her aunt-by-marriage, Horatia Cynster.

“Are you sure my presence won’t be . . . well, awkward?” Griselda murmured. “I’m not the sort usually found swanning about ladies’ drawing rooms.”

Halting on the narrow porch, Penelope threw Griselda a reassuring glance “Don’t worry. Horatia’s at-home is such a regular event it goes like clockwork. By this time, the only ones left will be the Cynster ladies and perhaps Lady Osbaldestone. All of them have met Stokes at one time or another, and all of them know he’s helped the family at numerous times. They know he helped Henrietta and James, and that was only recently.” Lips lifting mischievously, Penelope turned and plied the knocker. “Trust me, if anything, they’re going to be quite interested in meeting you.”

Griselda shut her lips on a tart retort as the door swung open, held by a rather stiff-looking butler, who, on lowering his gaze to Penelope, immediately unbent enough to smile. “Mrs. Adair—a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you, Grantley. Is her ladyship still receiving?”

“Not in general, but in your case I’m sure Lady Horatia will be delighted to have you join the ladies still here.”

Leading the way into the front hall, Penelope inquired, “So it’s the Cynster ladies, and who else?”

“Only Lady Osbaldestone, ma’am.”

Penelope allowed Grantley to take her pelisse, then waved at Griselda. “This is Mrs. Stokes, Inspector Stokes’s wife.”

“Indeed.” Grantley bowed. “Welcome, ma’am. May I take your coat?”

Griselda nodded. “Thank you.” She mimicked Penelope’s earlier stance, allowing the butler to help her out of her coat.

“The drawing room?” Penelope inquired.

“Indeed, ma’am.” Grantley crossed to a door. “Allow me.” Opening the door, he announced, “My lady—Mrs. Adair and Mrs. Stokes.”

Penelope, of course, swept over the threshold; quashing a sudden attack of nerves, Griselda raised her chin and followed.

Only to have the doubts she’d harbored over being welcomed into such an august and exclusive social circle instantly banished. Five ladies were seated on the sofa and the armchairs arranged before the fireplace; they smiled warmly at Penelope, but the instant their gazes moved on to Griselda, their eyes lit and expressions of expectant delight bloomed across their fine features.

All of the ladies were older matrons, and one—who, Griselda assumed, was the notorious Lady Osbaldestone—was bordering on ancient.

One dark-haired lady, presumably their hostess, Lady Horatia, rose to greet them. “Welcome, Penelope, dear!” She pressed Penelope’s fingers and they touched cheeks. Immediately she released Penelope, Lady Horatia’s bright eyes fixed on Griselda. “And this is Mrs. Stokes? Inspector Stokes’s lady?”

“Yes, indeed.” Penelope glanced at Griselda with a smile that clearly said, I told you so. “Griselda, I’d like you to meet . . .”

Griselda smiled, shyly touched fingers, and exchanged greetings with Lady Horatia, Lady Louise Cynster, Lady Celia Cynster, Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, and, finally, with Therese, Lady Osbaldestone.

While Griselda was so engaged, Lady Horatia instructed Grantley to set chairs for her new guests. Once the introductions were over, and Penelope and Griselda were seated and supplied with cups of nice, strong tea and tiny, delicate tea cakes that Griselda quite approved of, Lady Osbaldestone rapped the tip of her cane on the floor—much as if calling a meeting to order. “So, my dears, how can we help you?” Her ladyship’s finely drawn brows arched over quite terrifyingly piercing black eyes. “I presume that is why you are here?”