Page 5 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Halting before her, he bowed. “Miss . . . ?”

She extended her hand. “My name is Miss Matcham, and I’m here to speak with you on behalf of my employer, Lady Halstead.”

He closed his hand around hers, engulfing long, slender fingers in a momentary—sadly brief, strictly businesslike—clasp. “I see.” Releasing her, he stepped back and waved toward the door to his office. “Perhaps you would take a seat and explain in what manner I can assist Lady Halstead.”

She inclined her head with subtle grace. “Thank you.”

She moved past him, and the scent of roses and violets speared through his senses. He glanced at Slocum. “It’s all right, Jonas. You can go home—I’ll lock up later.”

“Thank you, sir.” Slocum lowered his voice. “Not our usual sort of client—I wonder what she wants.”

Anticipation rising, Montague softly answered, “No doubt I’ll find out.”

With a salute, Slocum gathered his coat and left. As Montague followed Miss Matcham, who had paused in the doorway to his office, he heard the outer door close.

With a wave, he indicated Miss Matcham should enter, then he followed her in. The question of the propriety of meeting with a young lady alone rose in his mind, but after one searching glance at his visitor, he merely left his office door open. She wasn’t that young; although he was no expert on ladies, he would put Miss Matcham somewhere in her early thirties.

Her walking dress of fine wool in a pale violet hue and the matching felt bonnet neatly enclosing her head were stylish, yet not, he thought, in the current height of fashion. The reticule she carried was more practical than decorative.

Halting before his desk, she glanced at him. Rounding the desk, he gestured to one of the well-padded chairs set before it. “Please, be seated.”

Once she’d complied, her movements as she drew in her skirts again displaying the inherent grace he’d noted earlier, he sat, set the Wolverstone ledger aside, leaned his forearms on his blotter, clasped his hands, and fixed his gaze on her fascinating face. “Now—how do you believe I might help you, or, rather, Lady Halstead?”

Violet hesitated, yet she and Lady Halstead had plotted and planned to gain access to Mr. Heathcote Montague, and now here she was . . . she heard herself say, “Please excuse my hesitation, sir, but you’re not what I had expected.”

His brows—neat, brown brows arched over unexpectedly round eyes that, in her opinion, would have made him appear trustworthy even were he not—rose in surprise.

The sight made her smile; she doubted he was often surprised. “The most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London—I’d expected to have to deal with a cranky, crusty old gentleman with ink-stained fingers and bushy white brows, who would glower at me over the tops of his half spectacles.”

Montague blinked, slowly, lids rising to re-reveal his golden brown eyes. He was brown and brown—brown hair of a shade lighter than Violet’s own, and hazelish eyes that were more brown than green. But it was his face and his physical presence that had struck her most forcefully; as her gaze once more passed over the broad sweep of his forehead, the strong, clean planes of his cheeks, his squared jaw, he shifted. He caught her gaze, then held up his right hand, fingers spread.

There were ink stains, faint but discernible, on the calluses on his index and middle fingers.

As she registered that, he reached to one side and picked up a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I have these, too.” He waved them. “If it would help, I could put them on. Glowering, however, might be beyond me.”

She met his eyes, saw the lurking smile, and laughed, smiling, too.

He joined her in her laughter and his smile became manifest, his face creasing in a way that made him seem years younger than the midforties she guessed he must be.

Sound, solid, dependable; everything about him—his features, the shape of his head, his build, his attire—underscored that reality. The accolades of “most experienced” and “most trustworthy” bestowed by The Times weren’t at all hard to believe.

“I do apologize.” She let her laughter fade, but her lips remained stubbornly curved. She straightened on the chair, surprised to discover she’d relaxed against its back. “Despite my unbecoming levity, I am, indeed, here to speak with you on behalf of Lady Halstead.”

“And your relationship to her ladyship?”

“I’m her paid companion.”

“Have you been with her for long?”

“Over eight years.”

“And what can I do for her ladyship?”

Violet paused to reorder her thoughts. “Lady Halstead already has a man-of-business, a Mr. Runcorn. It was the current Mr. Runcorn’s father the Halsteads originally engaged, and the younger Mr. Runcorn has only recently taken his late father’s place. That said, Lady Halstead has no specific fault to find with young Mr. Runcorn’s abilities. However, a situation has arisen with Lady Halstead’s bank account that she believes Mr. Runcorn lacks the experience to adequately resolve. At least not to her ladyship’s satisfaction.” Violet met Montague’s golden-brown eyes. “I should mention that Lady Halstead is a widow, her husband, Sir Hugo, having died ten years ago, and her ladyship is now very old. Indeed, the problem with her bank account only came to light because, in keeping with a promise she made to Sir Hugo, she decided that it was time she ensured that her financial affairs, and those of the estate, were in order.”

Montague nodded. “I see. And what is it her ladyship believes I can do?”