Page 72 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

The door swung soundlessly inward, and a man—thin, only a few inches taller than Penelope, who definitely didn’t qualify as tall—looked out at them, the expression on his distinctly weasel-like features declaring he was supremely bored. “Whatever you’ve come to suggest, we’re not interested.”

His accent suggested he’d spent much of his youth in the London slums, but although there were telltale broken veins decorating his face and nose, he did not appear to be inebriated at that moment. Regardless, he would never qualify as a butler, nor even a respectable manservant.

Penelope looked down her nose at him, something her breeding allowed her to accomplish despite her lack of inches. “I beg your pardon?”

Her tone, that of a daughter of the nobility addressing an abject serf, made the man blink, and rethink his approach. “Ah . . . what would you be wanting, miss—” His gaze took in Violet, Griselda, James, and the men and the carriage behind them, and he amended, “ma’am?”

Penelope waited with quite awful patience until he brought his gaze back to her face. “I wish to speak with your master. Please conduct us to the drawing room and inform him we are here.”

The man frowned. “And you would be?”

Penelope’s brows rose. “A lady from London—that is all you need to know.”

She went to sweep forward, but the man, eyes widening, leapt to swing the front door half closed.

Penelope halted, then drew in a breath, clearly outraged.

Before she could wither him, the man hurriedly said, “My master—he’s very particular-like. Doesn’t let just anyone inside. Worth my job, it’d be, to let you in.” His eyes flicked to James and the other men. He swallowed. “If you’ll give me your name, I could see if he’ll make an exception for you.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man you call your master? If he’s the man I think he is . . . well, clearly he can’t be, for he would never hire such an ill-informed manservant. So, sirrah, his name if you please. If he is who he should be, I will give you my name to take to him.”

Violet had to admit that was a masterstroke, but, sadly, it didn’t get them anywhere.

Edging the door even further closed, the man shook his head. “Only people the master knows come here. You don’t even know who he is.”

“I know who the owners of this house are,” Penelope declared. “And I seriously doubt they’re your supposed master. Does this man even exist?”

“He exists, all right, and there’s nothing havey-cavey about us being here. We rent the place, all right and proper.”

“No, you don’t,” Penelope stated. “I’m acquainted with the Halsteads, the owners of this house, and they know nothing about your tenancy.”

That piece of information rocked the man; he pulled back for an instant, then, jaw clenching, growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this—you’re trespassing! And I don’t have to answer to trespassers!”

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Immediately, they heard the bolts rammed home.

Penelope stared at the door. “Well!” She swung around and, leading the way, marched back down the two shallow steps and headed across the gravel to the waiting coach.

Griselda and Violet had fallen in behind. They were halfway across the stretch of gravel when Griselda murmured, “Don’t turn around and look, but there’s a girl at the first-floor window at the far end—I think she’s trying to attract our attention.”

“Indeed?” Penelope tossed her head as if flinging the comment over her shoulder. As she faced forward again, pausing before the carriage steps to sweep up her skirts and take James’s hand to steady her, she said, “Yes—I saw.”

Violet followed Penelope into the carriage; sinking onto the seat, she looked for the girl, but from where she was, the light reflected off the window. “Damn!” she muttered. “I can’t see past the glass.”

Penelope looked across the carriage at Griselda, who met her gaze. James shut the door, then the carriage dipped as he and Conner climbed up.

With a sharp crack of Phelps’s whip, the carriage started rolling, slowly turning, gravel crunching loudly under the wheels.

Penelope ducked her head and peered up at the house again, then sat back. Again she met Griselda’s now very serious and sober gaze. Penelope waited until the carriage rolled out of the gates and was bowling freely down the lane before nodding. “Yes, I saw—the poor thing looked quite desperate.”

“Indeed,” Griselda rather grimly said. “And I just realized something else. All the windows had bars—not just the downstairs windows but the first-floor windows as well.”

Penelope stilled. “We’re so used to seeing bars on windows in Mayfair that we don’t register them anymore.”

“But,” Violet said, her expression turning as grim as Griselda’s, “why would they have bars on windows in the country?”

“And even more to the point,” Penelope said, “why does one have bars on windows on an upper floor?”