Page 98 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Without raising her head, she nodded. “We might not have caught our murderer yet, but in a personal sense, we’ve already succeeded—or so I believe.” A second ticked past, then she lifted her head; looking into his face, she met his eyes. “I’ve found the balance I was searching for—I don’t just think that, I know that. It feels right. My studies, my lectures, my helping others with translations—that’s all still important, still speaks to a certain part of me, of my mind—and you, Oliver, and this household, and to a lesser extent our wider families, will always come first, have first claim on my time and my energies, yet still I truly need that extra element that comes through investigations.”

She paused, eyes on his; after several seconds of considering, she stated, “It’s not just the intellectual challenge of solving a mystery, of ferreting out all the facts and putting them together in a jigsaw of events to clearly define what took place. That’s a part of it, true, but, ultimately the highest calling, the strongest motivation, is to see justice done. Through helping with investigations when the opportunity is there, contributing to the overall justice of our world is something I can do, and therefore should do.”

Her lips curved lightly as she added, “The pursuit of, and support of, justice. That’s why you do what you do, and why I should, and need to, assist whenever I can. Whenever Fate lays the opportunity before me, I should, and need to, respond.”

He paused, studying all he could see—all she let him see—in her eyes, all that he could feel through her gaze, read in her expression, then he murmured, “I see it, too—that you have found your balance. And it’s one I understand, a stance I can—and will happily—accommodate and support.”

Her smile was the definition of radiant. “Excellent!” Snuggling back into his arms, settling her head as she liked, in the hollow beneath his shoulder, closing her hands over his as he settled his arms about her, she sighed deeply and relaxed. “Now we just need Corby to confirm that Maurice Halstead is our murderer, and all will be completely well.”

Chapter 18

The following morning, seated before a delicate escritoire set in one corner of the parlor, Violet was drafting a letter Penelope needed to send to a scholar in Aberdeen when, in the distance, she heard the front doorbell peal. Knowing Mostyn would take care of whoever had called, Violet continued carefully scribing.

It had taken her days, but she had finally succeeded in completely organizing Penelope’s huge desk, in the process uncovering several matters Penelope had forgotten to address. With Penelope’s blessing, nay, encouragement, Violet had taken on the role of communicating with the various scholars involved, styling herself as Mrs. Adair’s secretary.

She smiled whenever she thought of the title; in many ways, it was more to her taste than that of companion.

The door opened and Mostyn looked in. When Violet looked up, he tipped his head toward the front of the house. “A Mrs. Halstead to see you, miss. I told her Mrs. Adair’s not in, but she insisted it was you she’s come to see. I’ve put her in the drawing room.”

Violet blinked, then set down her pen. Penelope had gone to meet with her sister Portia, and Griselda had decided that trimming bonnets in her shop was the best way to spend the time while they waited for Corby’s confirmation of Maurice Halstead’s guilt.

But why on earth had Constance Halstead come to see Violet? Today?

Rising, Violet smoothed down her skirt. “Thank you, Mostyn. I suppose I must see what she wants.”

Noting her lack of enthusiasm, Mostyn trailed her into the front hall. “I’ll be just out here, miss, should you need anything.”

Meeting Mostyn’s eyes, Violet smiled her thanks, then, pausing before the drawing room door, she drew in a breath, raised her head, and nodded as Mostyn reached for the doorknob. He opened the door, and, head high, she walked into the room.

To her mind, she owed the Halsteads nothing. Certainly not more than a moment of her time, and, truth be told, she was driven more by curiosity than any real wish to speak with Constance Halstead.

Constance had been sitting on one corner of one of the damask-covered sofas; she was still wearing her half-cape, still had her bonnet and gloves on, and was clutching her reticule tightly in her lap. Seeing Violet gliding toward her, Constance quickly stood.

Violet inclined her head. “Mrs. Halstead.”

With severe civility, Constance stiffly returned the gesture. “Miss Matcham.”

Violet waved to the sofa. “Please, do sit.”

“Actually, I won’t, if you don’t mind.” Constance’s gaze shifted over the furnishings, the fashionable, undeniable elegance of the decor. “This . . . ah, won’t take long.”

With a sudden spurt of insight, Violet realized Constance felt out of her depth. Although the Adairs didn’t flaunt their wealth and aristocratic backgrounds, there was an indefinable, intangible air that marked the household as being of the upper echelon of the ton. Several degrees above the circles in which Constance and her family moved.

Violet’s station fell somewhere between that of the Halsteads and that of the Adairs; she could move in both circles—one higher, one lower—with reasonable assurance, certainly without suffering from the nervous uncertainty currently afflicting Constance.

Telling herself she should take pity on the woman, Violet remained standing, too. “In that case . . . what brings you here, Mrs. Halstead?”

Constance’s lips pinched, her expression reverting to her customary, fussy, never-satisfied mien. “I have come to request your assistance in sorting through Lady Halstead’s things. Now that the police and that Mr. Montague have finally deigned to give the family the keys to the house, we wish to ensure that everything is appropriately dealt with—we don’t want anything vital being accidentally thrown out.” Constance paused, her expression hardening. “What with Tilly gone—”

Violet noted that Constance managed to make it sound as if Tilly had deserted her post, rather than been murdered.

“—then you are the one who knows her ladyship’s belongings best.” Tipping up her chin, Constance somewhat belligerently stated, “I require your help to get her things together so that we can properly decide what should be done with them.”

Violet had no wish whatever to return to the Lowndes Street house. “I’m afraid I’m currently engaged—”

“Miss Matcham.” Constance drew herself up and made a valiant attempt to look down her nose. “Lady Halstead gave you employment for more than eight years. I would have thought simple loyalty alone would move you to perform this last task—this last duty—for her. Only you know where her belongings—those she held dear and would wish passed on—are stowed. Only with your help can we be certain we’ve adequately dealt with such items as she would have wished.”

Violet drew in a breath but continued to hold Constance’s gaze. Her increasingly belligerent gaze.