Page 90 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Montague smiled. “I’m sure you won’t. But hurry now—it needs to be there as soon as possible.”

Reginald spun away and ran. Pausing only to drag on his coat and get directions from Slocum, he rushed out of the office.

“Ah, the exuberance of youth.” With a nod, still smiling, Gibbons ambled out, followed by Foster. Slater and Pringle had already returned to their desks.

Slocum looked in. “Just checked my book, sir—it is Mr. Millhouse, at number six, Throgmorton Street.”

“Thank you, Slocum.” Montague set a fresh sheet on his blotter. “Tell Slater this might take a few minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

It took him a full half hour before he was satisfied with the wording of his request to Mr. Millhouse. Millhouse was a few years younger than Montague, and while Montague was considered by most to be the preeminent man-of-business in London, there was a certain degree of professional courtesy and rivalry involved; striking the right note with his first communication on this matter with Millhouse was important. Especially as Montague fully expected the first communication would, inevitably, be followed by several others; getting all the answers he wanted couldn’t be done with a single note.

If he baldly listed all the questions he—and Scotland Yard—needed answers to, Millhouse would balk, and his noble client would be even less inclined to be helpful.

Reining in his own, very real, impatience wasn’t easy, but he’d been in business—had been dealing with business and the men involved—for too long not to play by the rules, unwritten though most of those were. Indeed, he’d built his considerable reputation on his precise understanding of those rules.

So his letter to Mr. Millhouse of Throgmorton Street was a masterpiece of understated respect and carried within it a subtle invitation to Millhouse to join with Montague in unraveling a minor mystery as to the transference of the Grand Junction Railway Company share certificate in question.

Rereading the missive, imagining Millhouse reading it and his reactions, Montague let his lips ease into a smile. “Done.” Carefully blotting his penmanship, he folded the letter, inscribed the direction on the front, then sealed it. “Slater!”

Slater had clearly been waiting for the summons. He already had his coat on when he looked in through the doorway. “Ready?”

Montague held out the letter. “Try and catch him before he leaves for the day, then go on home yourself. He won’t reply tonight.”

Slater nodded, took the letter, and departed.

Montague glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. He listened, and realized that most of the others had already left.

As if to confirm, Slocum put his head through the doorway. “I’m off now, sir.”

“Very good, Slocum.” Montague stood. “I believe I’ll go up myself.”

He followed Slocum from the office. After locking the door, he turned and climbed the stairs to his apartment, very conscious of a wish to—like the rest of his staff—find that intangible thing called “home” waiting for him there.

But Violet was in Albemarle Street, and although he wanted, very much, to share this latest discovery with her, to sit by her side, relax in the glow of what he’d accomplished that day and look forward to the challenges of the morrow, it was already six o’clock. By the time he reached Albemarle Street, it would be too close to dinnertime, and, besides, although he would be happy to share this latest development with the others, he didn’t want to share Violet’s company with them.

That wasn’t what he craved.

Reaching the door to his apartment, he went in and instantly smelled the scents of roasting beef and baking. From the kitchen, Mrs. Trewick’s usual greeting floated out. “Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir! If you’ll take your seat at the table, Trewick will bring it out.”

Montague walked into the sitting room and halted. He looked around the room—the empty room devoid of all companionship—and vowed to himself that it wouldn’t remain so for long.

He’d waited long enough, and at last he’d found Violet.

As soon as they identified who the murderer was, and saw Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly avenged, he would ask Violet to be his.

He needed her here; he’d had enough of living alone.

The reply from Millhouse arrived at eleven o’clock the next morning. Reading the careful phrases, Montague couldn’t help a cynical smile; he would take an oath Millhouse had labored over his reply for even longer than he himself had worked on the phrasing of his request.

Slocum was hovering; Gibbons and Foster were leaning in the doorway.

Montague glanced their way, then said, “After various preliminaries, Millhouse writes that he understands that the share certificate in question was acquired by the earl when it was tendered in lieu in settlement of a debt of honor.”

Hands sliding into his pockets, Gibbons let out a low whistle. “Some debt!”

“Indeed.” Montague scanned the subsequent lines a second time and inwardly sighed. “And, as one might expect, Millhouse doesn’t know and therefore cannot answer as to the identity of the gentleman who surrendered the share certificate.”