Page 42 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Arching her brows, Lady Osbaldestone glanced at the other ladies. “It should hardly surprise anyone that, under such circumstances, with no parental hand to guide them and what is most likely an inherited ambitious streak, then, as Penelope suggested, rather than bonding together, the two older children vied for attention, for dominance, forcing the younger two to find other ways to make their mark, to stake their claim.”

Many heads nodded in agreement. “That sounds very right,” Caro said. “That would account for exactly the impressions I’ve received from both Cynthia Camberly and Mortimer Halstead.” Caro narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never met them together—as far as I know, I’ve never seen them in the same room—but I sensed in both of them that there was some deep drive to their desire to get ahead, that it was a need more than a wish.”

Again there was a round of murmured agreement.

Penelope glanced at Griselda and arched her brows. “I’m so glad we came.”

Griselda smiled, nodded, and finished her tea.

Soon after, Penelope rose, and she and Griselda took their leave.

Gaining the pavement, Penelope linked her arm in Griselda’s and they set off strolling slowly along the street; turning right into Grafton Street, and then right into Albemarle Street was the fastest route to Penelope’s house.

The afternoon was cool, soft gray clouds slowly drifting across the autumn sky, the sun already hidden by the buildings to the west. A light breeze threaded between the houses, flirting with the ribbons of Penelope’s bonnet and teasing strands of Griselda’s black hair free from her restrained topknot.

“Hmm,” Penelope murmured as they slowly paced. “I truly want—even need—to involve myself in investigations again, to give myself that additional purpose, but, at the same time, I have absolutely no intention of neglecting Oliver and any other children we might be blessed with.”

Griselda wasn’t surprised to hear her friend’s thoughts echo her own, yet her lips twisted in a wry smile as she admitted, “I was thinking the same, but, more, that it isn’t just a matter of us taking time away from them to do our investigating but also that, when it comes to the situations those investigations lead us into, it’s incumbent on us, our responsibility, as it were, to ensure we, ourselves, are never at risk.” She glanced at Penelope and met her dark eyes. “Our children can’t afford to lose us.”

Penelope nodded, one of her curt, definite, forceful nods. “No, indeed. I agree, and that’s the challenge—well, one aspect of the challenge—of us finding our way back into investigating and defining our roles with regard to the future. That’s something we need to work on.”

“And not just us,” Griselda murmured.

Penelope laughed, then, sobering, tilted her head. “In fact, if we extrapolate from what Lady Osbaldestone said—and what has happened with the Halsteads should, indeed, stand as a salutary lesson—then it’s not just us, you and me, who need to ensure that investigating doesn’t pull us away from our darlings for too long. The time we need to devote to our children may be greater than what Barnaby and Stokes need to give them, but they do need to give them some part of their time.”

“Some part of their life,” Griselda said.

“Exactly.” Penelope fell silent until they turned into Albemarle Street. Setting eyes on the door of her home, she said, “That’s the responsibility one must accept in bringing a child into the world—that we, both parents, need to give that child a defined, and real, and uncontestable place in our lives.”

Griselda echoed, “A defined, real, and uncontestable piece of our lives.”

Chapter 8

So,” Stokes said, slouching in one of the chairs facing Montague’s desk, “no one saw any woman who might have been our mysterious lady in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office. I’m inclined to think that she may have been brought in, even hired, purely to withdraw the money from the bank.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, seated to his right. “Did you learn any more in Threadneedle Street?”

“As it happened,” Barnaby said, “luck favored me, and in more ways than one. First, I can report that the payments in question were deposited using a courier service. The tellers who received them are experienced enough to recognize the signs, and have remembered because they thought it odd that couriers were making deposits into Lady Halstead’s account.”

Stokes grunted. “That increases the odds that this is something illegal and, what’s more, being carried out by someone with a criminal connection.”

Montague nodded. “That also fits with something I’ve discovered, but before we get to that”—he looked at Barnaby—“what else did you find?”

Barnaby grinned. “A young and observant street-sweeper, who remembers seeing our veiled lady come along the street from the bank to where a coach was waiting, drawn up by the curb. The door opened and the boy saw a gentleman inside the coach help the lady in.”

“And could our observant tyke describe the gentleman?” Stokes asked.

“He saw enough to tell me that the gentleman in question didn’t have a beard but sideburns, that his face was roundish, and he had brown hair. He couldn’t tell me how tall he was, and wasn’t sure about age.”

Stokes looked grim. “It seems that every clue we uncover points to our villain being one of the Halsteads.”

“True.” Barnaby grimaced. “But that leaves us with five—Mortimer, Maurice, William, Walter, and Hayden—and thus far all five fit our bill.”

“And,” Stokes said, “we shouldn’t at this point discount the possibility that two or more are in this together.” He frowned. “If that proves so, it’s going to make our job a lot more difficult.”

“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned, too. “If one did the first murder, and another the second . . .”

Stokes shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

After a moment, Barnaby looked at Montague. “You said you’ve discovered something?”