Page 6 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Lady Halstead would like you to look into the puzzling question of what is going on with her bank account. She requires an explanation, one she can be certain is correct. Essentially, she wishes to engage you to give a second opinion—a consultation on this matter, nothing more.” Violet held Montague’s gaze and calmly added, “I, on the other hand, am here to ask you to help give reassurance to a gentle old lady in her declining years.”

Montague returned her regard steadily, then the ends of his lips quirked. “You have a way with an argument, Miss Matcham.”

“I do what I can for my ladies, sir.”

Devotion, in Montague’s opinion, was a laudable trait. “What can you tell me about the . . . irregularities afflicting this bank account?”

“I will leave that to Lady Halstead to elucidate.” As if sensing the question rising in his mind, the intriguing Miss Matcham added, “However, I have seen enough to verify that there is, indeed, something odd going on, but I haven’t studied the statement Mr. Runcorn provided so cannot put forward any definite opinion.”

Would that all his clients were so circumspect. “Very well.” Looking away from Miss Matcham’s remarkably fine eyes, Montague drew his appointment book closer and consulted it. “As it happens, I can spare Lady Halstead half an hour tomorrow morning.” He glanced across the desk. “When would be the best time to call?”

Miss Matcham smiled—not a dazzling smile but a gentle, inclusive gesture that somehow struck through his usually impenetrable businessman’s shields and literally warmed his heart. He blinked, then quickly marshaled his wits as she replied, “Midmorning would be best—shall we say eleven o’clock? In Lowndes Street, number four, just south of Lowndes Square.”

Gripping his pen firmly, Montague focused on his appointment book and wrote in the details. “Excellent.”

He looked up, then rose as Miss Matcham came to her feet.

“Thank you, Mr. Montague.” Meeting his gaze, she extended her hand. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

Montague gripped her fingers, then had to make himself let go. “Indeed, Miss Matcham.” He waved her to the door. “Until tomorrow.”

After seeing Miss Matcham out of the office and on her way down the stairs to the ground floor, Montague closed the door, then stood stock-still, his mind replaying the interview, dwelling on this aspect, then that . . .

Until he shook free of the lingering spell and, wondering at himself, strode back to his desk.

His eagerness, the ready-to-be-engaged enthusiasm that carried him to Lowndes Street at eleven o’clock the following morning, was, he tried to tell himself, engendered more by the sense of fate dangling something new—some financial irregularity outside the norm, a tantalizing prospect certain to excite his jaded inner self—than by any lure attached to the lovely Miss Matcham.

She opened the door to his knock, instantly obliterating his attempt at self-deception. He would have sworn his heart literally sped up at the sight of her. Then she smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Montague. Do come in.”

Reminding himself to breathe, he stepped forward as she stepped back. He walked into a narrow front hall; a quick survey showed decent artwork, good-quality furniture, polished woodwork, and painted walls. All was neat and tidy. The sight confirmed that, as he’d suspected from the address, Lady Halstead wasn’t short of funds. She might not rank as high in wealth as the majority of his clients, but she would have assets worth protecting; in consulting for her, he wouldn’t be wasting his time.

Miss Matcham closed the door and joined him. With one hand, she directed him to the room on their right. “Lady Halstead is waiting in the sitting room.”

He inclined his head and gestured for Miss Matcham to precede him, seizing the moment to wonder anew at the effect she had on him. He didn’t quite understand it; she was lovely to look at—he could, he felt, stare at her for hours—yet she was no raving beauty. Today, she wore a pale blue morning gown that skimmed her curves in a distracting way—at least, he found it distracting. Being indoors and thus bonnetless, her coiffure was on display, so he could better appreciate the thick lushness of her hair, the dark locks confined in a bun at the back of her head but with one sweeping wave crossing her forehead, softening the line of her brow and emphasizing her pale, flawless, milk-and-roses complexion.

Following her through the doorway, he forced his gaze from her and scanned the room. A very old lady with wispy silver hair and refined features sat in a straight-backed chair, her forearms resting on the padded armrests. She was dressed in dark bombazine, with shawls draped about her shoulders and also over her legs. An ebony cane with a silver head rested against the side of the chair.

Miss Matcham went forward. “This is Mr. Montague, ma’am.” She glanced at Montague. “Lady Halstead.”

As Miss Matcham moved to take the armchair to Lady Halstead’s right, her ladyship, who had been shrewdly studying him, held out her hand. “Thank you for calling, sir. I’m sure you are a very busy man—I will endeavor not to take up too much of your time.”

Taking her hand, Montague bowed over it. “Not at all, ma’am. I’m keen to learn what the issue with your bank account might be.”

“Is that so?” Lady Halstead waved to the armchair to her left. “In that case, please sit.”

As he did, Miss Matcham passed several documents to her ladyship. Turning to him, Lady Halstead held out the papers. “This is a copy of the bank’s statement of the payments into and out of my bank account over the last six months.”

Accepting the sheets, Montague scanned them as Lady Halstead continued, “You will see I have circled various deposits. Those deposits are a complete mystery to me—I have no notion whatever of who is paying that money into my account, much less why.”

Montague inwardly blinked. Flicking through the five sheets her ladyship had supplied, doing calculations in his head . . . “I have to admit”—he looked up at Lady Halstead, then at Miss Matcham—“that I had imagined your irregularities would prove to be some confusion on the bank’s part, or else a matter of embezzlement.” He looked again at the statements. “But this is quite different.”

“Indeed.” Lady Halstead sounded vindicated. “Young Runcorn, my man-of-business, believes the payments must derive from some old, forgotten investment that has only now started to pay a return.”

Studying the figures, Montague shook his head. “I know of no financial instrument that pays in this manner. The payments are roughly monthly but are not regular enough to be specified by any financial contract—for instance, the repayment of a debt. Such payments would come in on a fixed date of every month. And as for investment dividends, I know of no company that pays monthly amounts. Insurance companies might pay certain stipends monthly, but again, they would be on a fixed date.” He paused, then added, “As for the size of the payments, they amount to a considerable sum.”

He looked at Lady Halstead. “How long has this been going on?”

“Fourteen months, I believe.”