Page 100 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

A fraction of a second was enough consideration for Violet to verify her deep antipathy to going anywhere upstairs. “Actually”—turning, she boldly led the way into the sitting room—“if you wish to make best use of my time, then we should start in here.” Crossing the room toward the windows, she glanced back at Constance, who had come to hover in the doorway. “There’s far more of her ladyship’s things tucked away down here than there are in her bedroom.”

Constance’s lips thinned. She looked as if she wanted very much to argue, but she couldn’t find any real grounds on which to do so.

Looking away, smiling to herself, Violet grasped the curtains and pulled them wide; enough light streamed in through the panes to allow them to work without lighting any lamps. Returning to the sofa, she set down her reticule, then reached up, undid her bonnet strings, and lifted the bonnet from her head. Setting it down on the sofa, she started unbuttoning her gloves. The house had grown cold and somewhat damp; she decided to keep her coat on. “So”—she looked at Constance—“where should we start? With the bureau, or the writing desk?”

Frowning, Constance came into the room. “The writing desk, I suppose.”

Inwardly shaking her head at the woman’s grudging tone, Violet turned to the desk, opened it, and started to pull out the top row of tiny drawers.

She tried not to listen to the ghosts of countless memories, of the happy times she, and often Tilly, too, had spent with Lady Halstead in this room, when her ladyship had been moved to show them the small trinkets she’d kept and tell them of her travels and the strange places she’d seen, the exotic adventures she’d had.

Lady Halstead had lived a full life, but she hadn’t deserved to have it end as it had.

At the hands of her son. Gasping her last under a pillow Maurice had held over her face.

A chill touched Violet’s heart, but then Constance joined her before the desk, and Violet dragged in a deeper breath and focused her mind on the task at hand—on fulfilling her last duty to her late employer.

Montague leapt from the hackney before it had halted, tossed the crown he’d had ready to the jarvey, then, hat in hand, strode up the steps of the Adairs’ house and rang the bell.

Mostyn opened the door and immediately stepped back. “Mr. Montague, sir.”

Montague strode across the threshold, eager to see Violet, to tell her the news—to learn what she thought of it. “Good morning, Mostyn. Miss Matcham, your master, and mistress—are they at home?”

“No, sir.” Closing the door, Mostyn faced him. “Mr. Adair went to the Yard to consult with Inspector Stokes, and Mrs. Adair went to meet with her sister, Mrs. Cynster, but I expect her back for luncheon.”

None of that surprised Montague, but . . . “And Miss Matcham?” Violet was supposed to have remained indoors, or alternatively have gone out only with those they trusted.

“A Mrs. Halstead called and asked Miss Matcham to go with her to the Lowndes Street house to help sort through the old lady’s things.” A slight frown bloomed in Mostyn’s eyes. “I did ask if that was wise, sir, but Miss Matcham assured me that Mrs. Halstead loathed Maurice Halstead—him who’s the murderer—and so she’d be safe with Mrs. Halstead.”

Montague felt a chill touch his soul. Instinct reared, but not one he recognized. He was accustomed to dealing with intuition, with flashes of insight born of experience, of simply knowing through recognizing some pattern . . . but those familiar instincts involved money and investments.

This one told of life and death.

This one screamed of danger.

Of murder.

He swore and swung toward the door.

“Sir?” Mostyn instinctively reached for the doorknob.

Montague paused. His face felt graven, his mind awash with a torrent of emotions, of cascading thoughts and conjecture. He dragged in a breath and forced himself to think; Violet might not survive if he made a mistake. “Send word—urgently—to your master and to Inspector Stokes. Tell them to bring constables to the Lowndes Street house.” He swallowed, had to force the next words out. “I believe the murderer has lured Miss Matcham there to do away with her.” He met Mostyn’s wide eyes. “I’m going there directly.”

He moved to the door. Mostyn opened it wide. “I’ll take the message myself, sir.”

Montague nodded, slapped his hat on his head. “Pray I’ll be in time.” With that muttered injunction, he hurried down the steps.

The jarvey who’d brought him from the City was on the verge of rolling on again. Montague hailed him. “Lowndes Street, Belgravia—at the best pace you can manage.” Opening the hackney door, he added, “A sovereign if you get me there in record time.”

The jarvey flashed him a grin. “Then hop in, guv, and hold onto your hat.”

Montague tumbled onto the seat, grabbed the door, and hauled it shut as, true to his word, the jarvey sent the carriage all but careening down the street.

Hanging onto the swinging strap, Montague ignored the mayhem left in their wake as the jarvey tacked and weaved and drove like a demon through the late morning traffic. He didn’t care about causing a public ruckus; all he cared about—the entire focus of his being—was on reaching Violet and keeping her safe.

Giving Mostyn those orders had required a leap of faith. In truth, Montague had no notion if his call to action would be an embarrassing false alarm, but . . . he couldn’t take the chance.

Not when Violet’s life hung in the balance.