Page 58 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Penelope placed her right palm over her heart. “I swear I really do need your help.”

Across the table, Griselda leaned forward and caught Violet’s eye. “She really does need help. Her desk has literally disappeared under a pile of letters and papers and open books.”

“Besides”—Penelope’s gaze went past Violet to Montague, currently conducting a quiet conversation with Cook—“I think you’ll discover that your case is not anywhere near as desperate as you might suppose.” Meeting Violet’s eyes, Penelope smiled. “You have friends. We would help you regardless, but, as it happens, I really do need a secretary, and I suspect you’ll be perfect for the post.”

Griselda held up a hand. “I’ll second that. Aside from anything else, you’ve already demonstrated that you will question Penelope when the situation calls for it, and, trust me, too few of her acquaintance will do that.”

Penelope pulled a face at Griselda, but both women were smiling.

The chance to join with them, to be a part of a friendship that so effortlessly spanned the social strata, to have other ladies who understood her concerns and could sympathize . . . Violet blinked. When Penelope and Griselda both turned hopeful faces her way, she nodded and met Penelope’s eyes. “Very well. I’ll come to Albemarle Street and be your secretary.”

“Excellent.” Penelope drained her cup. “In that case, let’s go upstairs and help you pack.”

Violet paused to have a word with Cook, confirming that they would meet at the church the next day. Heading for the door, Violet was conscious of Montague’s gaze following her; he had been delighted by her decision to accept Penelope’s post, an emotion fueled rather transparently by relief. Relief that she would be safe.

While their husbands had joined Montague at the table to absentmindedly drink tea and chew over the investigation, Penelope and Griselda had waited for Violet by the kitchen door; climbing the stairs with the pair at her heels, Violet realized it had been a very long time since anyone had been concerned, personally concerned, over her safety. Since her father . . . despite her friendships with Lady Ogilvie and Lady Halstead, neither had been that close—in that way, to that degree.

Reaching the first floor and the door to her room, she led the way in. Her boxes and her small suitcase were stowed under her bed; it was the work of a minute to drag them out and wipe off the dust. Then Penelope and Griselda threw themselves into helping her gather all her belongings and pack them into the boxes and case.

Fifteen minutes saw it done. Violet paused, staring at the small pile of luggage assembled on her bed, her winter coat and bonnet waiting alongside. The sense of emptiness that now pervaded the house impinged, sank in. She glanced at Penelope and Griselda. “Tilly’s things are in her room in the attic. She had even less than I. If you’re not in a rush to be off, it might be better to pack her things now and take them with us so . . .”

“So you never have to set foot upstairs in this house again?” Penelope’s glasses gleamed as she nodded. “An excellent idea.”

“And yes,” Griselda said, “we have time. We’ll help.”

Having the pair with her made climbing the attic stairs to the tiny bedroom tucked under the eaves somewhat easier. The door to Tilly’s room had been left propped open. Violet entered, then stood transfixed by the sight of the narrow cot, which remained exactly as it had been when the constables had carried Tilly’s body away, with the sheets dreadfully rumpled by Tilly’s last desperate battle, the pillow still holding the impression of her head. The reality of Tilly’s death rolled over Violet; a leaden weight settled on her shoulders, a chilly vise closed about her heart.

Tilly had been a good woman, a friendly face, a close colleague. A friend, albeit without the same sort of empathy Violet could already sense with Penelope and Griselda. Life was like that; some people were instantly within one’s inner circle, while others were frequent and near, yet remained friends at a certain remove.

One still felt their loss.

Without a word, Penelope and Griselda moved past Violet and started to strip the bed.

That broke the spell. Turning to the old washstand, Violet bent and pulled Tilly’s old, battered case from beneath it. Opening the case on the floor beside the dresser next to the washstand, Violet started transferring the contents of the dresser drawers.

She was emptying the middle drawer when footsteps, heavy and masculine, sounded on the stairs.

“Miss Matcham? Violet?”

Montague. “We’re in Tilly’s room,” she called.

He appeared in the doorway and took in the scene. Violet rose and went to him.

Without hesitation, he reached out and took her hands, one in each of his. His thumbs moved over the backs of her hands, stroking, comforting; ignoring Penelope and Griselda entirely, he studied her eyes. Then he pressed her hands gently. “We’ll find who did this—who killed Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead. We”—with a tip of his head he included Penelope and Griselda, and by inference Stokes and Barnaby—“all of us, will not rest until he’s caught. Until Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead are avenged.”

He held her hands for a moment more, then—to her intense surprise—he raised one and touched his lips to the backs of her fingers. Heat tingled where his lips brushed. Lowering her hand, he smiled faintly. “Have faith, my dear—we will find him.”

With that, he stepped back; his hands reluctantly released hers and she had to fight not to curl her fingers and hold onto him. His eyes held hers. “I must go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Looking beyond her, he dipped his head to Penelope and Griselda. “Ladies.” Again, he met Violet’s eyes. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”

She nodded. With a last, lingering look, he turned and left.

For several moments, she stood listening to his footsteps retreat, then she drew in a deep breath, turned, and went back to packing poor Tilly’s belongings. Alongside her, Penelope and Griselda finished folding the covers and straightening the mattress and pillows, then, without waiting to be asked, they came to help her close Tilly’s case.

Our endeavors are evolving in ways I, for one, hadn’t expected.” Penelope, as usual, led the way into the elegant bedroom she and Barnaby somewhat unconventionally shared.

The evening was over and night had settled over Mayfair. Ambling in in Penelope’s wake, Barnaby paused to shut the door, watching as Penelope, after setting her reticule on her dressing table, glided to one set of long windows. Beyond the glass, the night sky was a muddle of dark grays, a chill fog rolling in off the Thames. Reaching up, Penelope drew the heavy curtains closed, sealing them in with the comfortable and familiar.