Page 68 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Mrs. Adair.” Slocum’s gaze went past Penelope to Griselda, whom he had never met, but then his eyes lighted on Violet and his smile deepened. “And Miss Matcham, isn’t it?”

“And this is Mrs. Stokes.” Penelope indicated Griselda. “You have recently encountered her husband, Inspector Stokes, I believe.”

“Indeed, yes.” Slocum bowed. “Good morning, ladies, and how may we help you?”

Violet smiled in return. “Good morning, Mr. Slocum. I’m here to deliver my keys to Lady Halstead’s house to Mr. Montague. If he has a moment, I would prefer to give the keys into his hand.”

“Yes, of course, miss.” Slocum glanced over his shoulder at the door to Montague’s office, presently closed. “He’s with another client, but the meeting is in the nature of a lengthy review, so I will inquire if Mr. Montague can take a moment to meet with you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Slocum—a moment is all that I need,” Violet said.

Recognizing a familiar but unexpected face, Penelope left Violet and Griselda in the reception area before Slocum’s desk and crossed to the smaller desk to one side. The clerk working there had glanced up at their entrance but had gone back to his papers. Penelope halted before the desk. “Mr. Pringle, isn’t it?”

Pringle looked up and smiled a touch tiredly. “Yes, Mrs. Adair.”

Slocum had disappeared into Montague’s office; with a soft rustle of skirts, Violet and Griselda came to join Penelope. Turning to them, Penelope waved at Pringle. “Pringle was Mr. Runcorn’s clerk.” She looked back at Pringle. “You’re working here now?”

Pringle nodded. “Mr. Montague was kind enough to take me on. His practice is quite large and varied, so there’s plenty for me to help with—and I have to say it was a huge relief. Finding a new post at my age wouldn’t have been easy. So few employers value experience these days.”

“Indeed,” Violet said. “I’m Miss Matcham—I was Lady Halstead’s companion and met Mr. Runcorn several times. I was deeply saddened to learn of his death. Working alongside him, you must have felt the loss deeply—you have my sympathies.”

Both Griselda and Penelope echoed the sentiment.

Pringle gravely inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am, ladies.” Drawing breath, he straightened. “As I said, in the circumstances it’s been a great boon to be kept busy, so I’m doubly grateful to Mr. Montague in that regard.”

Penelope angled her head, swiftly scanning the topmost documents. “So are you working on new clients, then?”

Pringle glanced down at the documents. “Not new ones as yet. My first task is to reassemble the Halstead file.”

“And how is that proceeding?” Penelope asked.

Pringle sighed. “Slowly, I’m sorry to say. I’m aware the information might prove useful to the investigation, but Sir Hugo had quite eclectic tastes in investments, and therefore the documents are very varied, and often not what one might expect. Properly reordering them will take some time.”

Behind them, the door to Montague’s office opened. The three ladies turned in time to see Montague follow Slocum into the main room. Montague’s gaze, Penelope noticed, locked on Violet.

“Violet?” Concern, restrained but ready to leap to the fore, colored Montague’s expression as he strode across the room. Then he noticed Penelope and Griselda, and, slowing, briefly inclined his head. “Penelope. Griselda.” Halting before them, he returned his gaze to Violet’s face; a fraction of a second passed before he asked, “What’s happened?”

Violet smiled reassuringly. “Nothing of any great import.” Raising a hand, she offered him the keys. “I remembered I hadn’t yet surrendered these. They’re the keys to the front and back doors of Lady Halstead’s house. I thought I might leave them with you, to pass on when appropriate.”

Montague took the keys. “Thank you. Yes, that would be best.” His imminent concern evaporating, he glanced at Penelope and Griselda, then once again at Violet. “And what have you three planned for your day?”

Penelope smiled sunnily and leapt in to deflect his attention from the suddenly blank looks on her companions’ faces. “Actually, we’re off for a short jaunt into the country, and we need to be off.”

“Indeed.” Violet had recovered her composure. “We won’t keep you any longer.” She extended her hand.

Montague took it, held it, but his gaze returned to Penelope’s face. “As it happens, my client of the moment”—he tipped his head toward his office—“is a relative of yours. Dexter. He’s your cousin, I believe. Would you like to have a word with him?”

Dexter? Penelope’s smile grew wider; she waved the notion away. “No, no—no need to distract him.”

Dexter shared many similarities with her older brother, Luc; the two had been thick as thieves for most of their lives—they’d even married twin sisters. And, like Luc, on hearing that she, Penelope, was about to go for a drive in the country, Dexter would be instantly suspicious, and ask why, and where to, and what she thought to do there . . . and while Barnaby was well on the way to evolving into a modern man, one who didn’t feel the need to hem ladies like her in at every step, Luc and Dexter were throwbacks to a more primitive—and much more protective—age.

Keeping her smile bright, Penelope added, “I’ll see him at the next family dinner soon enough, but do give him my regards.” Tugging her gloves on tighter, she turned to Griselda and Violet. “But now we really must be off.”

The other two grasped her desire to leave; even though they didn’t fully understand, both sensed her wish to avoid Dexter, so they smiled and immediately joined with her in taking their leave of Montague.

Penelope was the first out of the door; she didn’t breathe easily until the carriage door was shut, the coach was moving, and they were safely on their way.

A more relaxed smile blooming, she leaned back against the squabs. “To Essex!” she declared.