Page 71 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Only two hours or so—we usually hear them roll past again about twelve or just after.”

Penelope frowned, then asked, “And when the carriages leave, all their curtains are drawn?”

Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “Every single time, every carriage. So, you see, we have no idea who is living in that house and holding these odd events, and we also have no idea who is attending, much less what’s going on in the house on those evenings.”

Violet leaned forward. “You said these events happen monthly? On a specific date?”

“No, not exactly. It’s roughly every month, but we never know the exact date—not until we see the two staff head out in their cart for Romford.”

“When was the last entertainment at The Laurels?” Penelope asked. “Or, more pertinently, when do you anticipate the next event will be?”

“I can’t remember the date of the last, but the next event will be tonight.” Mrs. Findlayson met Penelope’s eyes. “My gardener saw the pair from the house head off to Romford this morning.”

They’d thanked Mrs. Findlayson, promised her that they would convey all she’d told them to those dealing with the Halsteads’ affairs, then hurried back to Penelope’s carriage, where they’d piled in as Penelope had directed Phelps to drive back to The Laurels.

Now the three of them stood just outside the overgrown front gate and, using the dense ivy as a screen, peered through the leaves at the house.

“Curtains are still open on the second floor,” Penelope said, “but all the ground-floor rooms have curtains fully drawn.”

Violet glanced at the trees in what appeared to be a dense wood growing along the side wall of the garden. “Even from high in those trees, no one could see into the first-floor rooms.”

“Hmm, no.” Penelope humphed. “No sense sending Conner into the wood to see what he can spy.” After considering the house for a moment more, she said, “So what do we do? We’re here, the house is here. If Mrs. Findlayson’s information is correct, if we go to the door and knock, we’ll either meet this odd manservant or . . . there’ll be no one at home.”

Griselda snorted. “And if there’s no one at home, you’ll want to look around, and possibly find your way inside—”

“Which might give us some clue as to what these peculiar entertainments are all about.” Penelope nodded. “Exactly.”

Violet drew back to stare at her.

Feeling her gaze, Penelope turned her head and met it.

Violet read the determination in her new employer’s face . . . then she blinked, and nodded. “What an excellent idea.”

Penelope grinned. “I knew you’d fit in with our little band.”

Griselda was still studying the house. “There’s no movement visible at all, either upstairs or down.” She glanced at Penelope and Violet. “I can’t see any point in going back to London without at least knocking on the door and seeing what more we can learn.” She focused on Penelope. “So how are we going to do this?”

Penelope thought for only a moment, then turned back to where the carriage stood a little way along the lane. “We do it in style. It’s the only sensible way.”

They climbed back into the carriage, and, following Penelope’s directions, Phelps drove up to the gate. Conner jumped down and pushed the gates wide, then swung up behind as Phelps sent the fashionable carriage sweeping through and up and around the drive, eventually slowing his team to halt the carriage before the two steps leading up to the porch before the front door.

Penelope waited for both Conner and James, the footman, who, in keeping with her promise to Barnaby, she’d had join their company for the day, to descend to the gravel. Conner went to the horses’ heads while James, at his most regal, paused, then opened the door, let down the steps, and, terribly formally, handed her down.

Head tilted high, Penelope descended, hoping very much that someone was watching to appreciate their performance.

Violet followed to stand just behind her, then Griselda joined them, taking up position beside Violet.

Penelope nodded to James, and, in formation, they ascended the steps, James in the lead.

Halting before the door, Penelope raised her head, and nodded to James.

James pulled the chain dangling to one side of the front door. Deep inside the house, they heard a bell clang.

Seconds ticked past.

His hand still on the chain, James arched a brow at Penelope. She was about to nod when she caught the tramp of feet on carpet. With her eyes, she signaled James to take up his correct position to her right. He did, to the sound of bolts being drawn.

Several—and from the sound of them, rather heavy—bolts.