Page 4 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

And had been for years.

Possibly for too long.

Certainly too exclusively.

Ignoring the niggling inner voice that, over the last year, with each passing month, each successive week, had grown from a vague whisper to a persistent, nerve-jarring whine, he focused on the neat rows of figures marching down the page and forced himself to concentrate.

The hubbub by the main office door subsided; he heard the outer door open, then shut. Doubtless the caller had been another potential client attracted by that wretched article in The Times. A terse note to the editor had resulted in bemused bafflement; how could Montague not be pleased at being named the most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London?

He had refrained from blasting back an excoriating reply to the effect that he and his firm did not require, much less appreciate, public referrals. Which was the plain truth; he and his small staff were stretched to their limit. Experienced agents as skilled with figures as he was were thin on the ground, yet the reason his practice was universally held in high esteem was precisely because he refused to hire those who were not as pedantic about business, and especially clients’ money, as he was; he had no intention of risking his firm’s standing by hiring less-able, less-devoted, or less-trustworthy men.

He’d inherited a sound client list from his father some twenty or so years ago; in his father’s day, the firm had operated principally as agents assisting clients in managing the income from their estates. He, however, had had wider interests and greater ambitions; under him, the firm had expanded to become a practice dedicated to managing their clients’ wealth. With protecting their money and using it to make more.

His direction had drawn the attention of several noblemen, especially those of a progressive stripe, those lords who were not content to simply sit back and watch their assets stagnate but who, instead, shared Montague’s personal conviction that money was best put to use.

Early successes had seen his firm prosper. Managing investments with consummate skill and knowing the ins and outs of money in all its varied forms were now synonymous with his name.

But even success could ultimately turn boring—or, at least, not be as exciting, as fulfilling, as it once had been.

Peace had returned to the outer office; he heard his senior clerk, Slocum, make some dry comment to Phillip Foster, Montague’s junior assistant. A quick laugh came from others—Thomas Slater, the junior clerk, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts—then the usual calm descended, a quiet broken by the shuffling of paper, the turning of pages, the soft clap as a file box was shut, the shushing slide as it was returned to its shelf.

Montague sank deeper into the figures before him, into the world of the Duke of Wolverstone’s sheep-breeding business, one Montague had overseen from inception to its present international success; the results, if no longer as exhilarating as they might once have been, were nevertheless gratifying. He compared and assessed, analyzed and evaluated, but found nothing over which he felt moved to take action.

As he neared the end of the ledger, the sounds from the large outer office where his staff performed their duties changed. The working day was drawing to a close.

Distantly, he registered the sounds of drawers being shut, of chairs being pushed back, heard the exchange of pleasantries as his men shared what waited for them at home—the small joys they were looking forward to. Frederick Gibbons, Montague’s senior assistant, and his wife had a new baby, adding to the two youngsters they already had. Slocum’s children were in their teens now, while Thomas Slater and his wife were expecting their first child any day. Even Phillip Foster would return to his sister’s house and her cheerful brood, while as for Reginald, he was one of a rambunctious family, the middle child of seven.

Everyone had someone waiting at home, someone who would smile and kiss their cheek when they walked through the door.

Everyone but Montague.

The thought, clear and hard as crystal, jerked him from his complacency. For one instant focused him on the utter loneliness of his existence, the sense of being singular, unconnected with anyone in the world, that had been steadily growing within him.

Good-byes were called in the outer office, although none were directed at him; his staff knew better than to interrupt him when he was working. The outer door opened and closed, most of the men departing. Slocum would be the last; any minute, he would appear in Montague’s doorway to confirm that the day’s work was done and all was in order—

The outer door opened.

“Your pardon, ma’am,” Slocum said, “but the office is closed.”

The door shut. “Indeed, I do realize it’s the end of the day, but I was hoping Mr. Montague would therefore be able to spare me a few minutes—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Montague isn’t taking on any new clients—The Times should have said as much and saved everyone a lot of bother.”

“I quite understand, but I’m not here to inquire about being taken on as a client.” The woman’s voice was clear, her diction precise, her tones well modulated, educated. “I have a proposition for Mr. Montague—an offer to consult on a puzzling financial matter.”

“Ah.” Slocum was unsure, uncertain what to do.

Curiosity aroused, Montague shut the Wolverstone ledger and rose. Although Slocum had apparently not yet registered the oddity, ladies were not customarily the ones who, at least initially, approached a man-of-business. Montague couldn’t recall ever being engaged by any female directly—at least, not about business.

Opening his office door, he walked out.

Slocum heard him and turned. “Sir, this lady—”

“Yes, I heard.” His gaze fixing on the lady who stood, spine straight, head high, before Slocum, Montague knew he said the words, but they seemed to come from far away.

Of average height, neither slender nor buxom but perfectly proportioned, the lady regarded him with a frank directness that instantly captivated, and effortlessly commanded, his attention. Beneath the soft wave of her dark brown hair, from beneath finely arched brown brows, eyes of a delicate light blue held his gaze.

As he neared, drawn across the room by some power far more potent than politeness, those eyes widened fractionally, but then her chin rose a notch, and lips of pale rose parted on the query, “Mr. Montague?”