Page 66 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Penelope and her staff, and even young Oliver, had gathered around and done what they could to distract her; even Barnaby, when he’d joined them for dinner, had been almost unbearably kind.

When night had fallen, she’d escaped early to her bed, and in doing so had underscored that she, unlike Tilly, still had a place, a purpose, and a life to live.

This morning, when she’d woken, she’d discovered that her determination to expose the murderer and gain justice for Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly had only grown more steely.

Meeting Penelope’s gaze, she said, “Actually, there’s something curious I remembered this morning about the Halstead estate.”

Penelope widened her eyes, her interest immediate. “Do tell.”

“The family arguing about how to divide the estate jogged my memory—they mentioned the family’s country house, The Laurels. It’s part of the estate, and they were all arguing about whether to sell or lease it.” Violet licked the last of the gooseberry preserve—it really was excellent—from her fingers, then, frowning, went on, “I have no reason to believe that this has anything at all to do with what’s been going on, with those odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account, but one of the factors contributing to her anxiety about the estate was that she’d received a letter from a neighbor in the country—the vicar’s wife—about someone living at The Laurels.” She met Penelope’s gaze. “As far as Lady Halstead knew, The Laurels is closed up and untenanted, and has been for years.”

“Ah.” After a moment of considering her, Penelope asked, “I don’t suppose you read this letter?”

“No.” Violet held Penelope’s gaze. “But I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“In Lady Halstead’s traveling writing desk, which is in the bottom drawer of that big chest of drawers in her room.” Violet paused, then said, “While they might have taken the jewelry by now, I doubt the family will have bothered with the writing desk. It was old and not especially noteworthy.”

“They might not even have stumbled on it yet.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed.

Violet nodded. “And I remembered something else this morning that I’d forgotten.”

Penelope’s eyes widened even further. “What?”

“That I haven’t handed Mr. Montague my keys to the house.”

“Oh, my.” A smile of quite remarkable energy spread across Penelope’s face. “That settles it, I believe.” She locked eyes with Violet. “Clearly, we are supposed to go to the house and examine this letter, and, if it proves to be interesting, remove it. Who knows? It might be vital evidence, even if we don’t yet know what about.”

Barely pausing to blink, Penelope continued, “I suggest, my dear Violet, that you and I have the carriage brought around, then take a trip to Greenbury Street to pick up Griselda—she’ll definitely want to be a part of this—and then we can stop by in Lowndes Street and secure the letter before going on to the City and calling at Montague’s so you can hand him those keys.”

Penelope beamed. Violet couldn’t help but beam back.

“And that,” Penelope said, pushing back her chair, “sounds like an excellent way to spend our morning.”

The Lowndes Street house already looked deserted.

When, at Penelope’s direction, her carriage slowed to a halt by the curb in front of the house across the street, Violet peered out at the fully curtained windows. “They must have had the footmen and butlers draw all the curtains.”

Seated opposite, Griselda gave a little shiver. “I hate it when they do that—it’s as if the house dies, too.”

“But there’s not even black ribbon on the knocker.” Penelope leaned closer to the window, scanning the house, then what she could see of the street. “Which is just as well, I suppose. Less reason to note us if anyone sees us going in.”

She glanced at Violet. “Ready?”

Fishing the ring with the keys to the front and back doors from her reticule, Violet nodded. Jaw setting, she glanced at the house, then followed Penelope and Griselda from the carriage.

Leaving Penelope’s groom with the carriage, they crossed the street—three ladies out for a morning stroll.

“Quick.” Penelope swung open the gate. “There’s no one about at the moment. Let’s get inside.”

Violet knew Penelope didn’t mean her to hurry but rather not to dally. Very ready to oblige, she walked directly up the path, key already in her gloved fingers. Reaching the door, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, then twisted the knob, opened the door, and led the way inside.

Whisking around, she quietly closed the door immediately Griselda stepped past.

In the gloomy dimness of the hall, they all paused, listening, straining their ears for the least little sound that might indicate the presence of some footman or other servant left to watch over the house. If anyone arrived to question their presence, Violet would explain that she’d forgotten something from her room upstairs; she’d even brought a finely carved thimble so she could produce some real item as their excuse.

But no one came.