He’d inherited a sound client list from his father some twenty or so years ago; in his father’s day, the firm had operated principally as agents assisting clients in managing the income from their estates. He, however, had had wider interests and greater ambitions; under him, the firm had expanded to become a practice dedicated to managing their clients’ wealth. With protecting their money and using it to make more.
His direction had drawn the attention of several noblemen, especially those of a progressive stripe, those lords who were not content to simply sit back and watch their assets stagnate but, instead, shared Montague’s personal conviction that money was best put to use.
Early successes had seen his firm prosper. Managing investments with consummate skill and knowing the ins and outs of money in all its varied forms was now synonymous with his name.
But even success could ultimately turn boring—or, at least, not be as exciting, as fulfilling, as it once had been.
Peace had returned to the outer office; he heard his senior clerk, Slocum, make some dry comment to Phillip Foster, Montague’s junior assistant. A quick laugh came from others—Thomas Slater, the junior clerk, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts—then the usual calm descended, a quiet broken by the shuffling of paper, the turning of pages, the soft clap as a file box was shut, the shushing slide as it was returned to its shelf.
Montague sank deeper into the figures before him, into the world of the Duke of Wolverstone’s sheep breeding business, one Montague had overseen from inception to its present international success; the results, if no longer as exhilarating as they might once have been, were nevertheless gratifying. He compared and assessed, analyzed and evaluated, but found nothing over which he felt moved to take action.
As he neared the end of the ledger, the sounds from the large outer office where his staff performed their duties changed. The working day was drawing to a close.
Distantly, he registered the sounds of drawers being shut, of chairs being pushed back, heard the exchange of pleasantries as his men shared what waited for them at home—the small joys they were looking forward to. Frederick Gibbons, Montague’s senior assistant, and his wife had a new baby, adding to the two youngsters they already had. Slocum’s children were in their teens now, while Thomas Slater and his wife were expecting their first child any day. Even Phillip Foster would return to his sister’s house and her cheerful brood, while as for Reginald, he was one of a rambunctious family, the middle child of seven.
Everyone had someone waiting for them, someone who would smile and kiss their cheek when they walked through the door.
Everyone but Montague.
The thought, clear and hard as crystal, jerked him from his complacency. For one instant focused him on the utter loneliness of his existence, the sense of being singular, unconnected with anyone in the world, that had been steadily growing within him.
Good-byes were called in the outer office, although none were directed at him; his staff knew better than to interrupt him when he was working. The outer door opened and closed, most of the men departing. Slocum would be the last; any minute, he would appear in Montague’s doorway to confirm that the day’s work was done and all was in order—
The outer door opened.
“Your pardon, ma’am,” Slocum said, “but the office is closed.”
The door shut. “Indeed, I do realize it’s the end of the day, but I was hoping Mr. Montague would therefore be able to spare me a few minutes—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Montague isn’t taking on any new clients—The Times should have said as much and saved everyone a lot of bother.”
“I quite understand, but I’m not here to inquire about being taken on as a client.” The woman’s voice was clear, her diction precise, her tones well-modulated, educated. “I have a proposition for Mr. Montague—an offer to consult on a puzzling financial matter.”
“Ah.” Slocum was unsure, uncertain what to do.
Curiosity aroused, Montague shut the Wolverstone ledger and rose. Although Slocum had apparently not yet registered the oddity, ladies were not customarily the ones who, at least initially, approached a man-of-business. Montague couldn’t recall ever being engaged by any female directly—at least, not about business.
Opening his office door, he walked out.
Slocum heard him and turned. “Sir, this lady—”
“Yes, I heard.” His gaze fixing on the lady who stood, spine straight, head high, before Slocum, Montague knew he said the words, but they seemed to come from far away.
Of average height, neither slender nor buxom but perfectly proportioned, the lady regarded him with a frank directness that instantly captivated, and effortlessly commanded his attention. Beneath the soft wave of her dark brown hair, from beneath finely arched brown brows, eyes of a delicate light blue held his gaze.
As he neared, drawn across the room by some power far more potent than politeness, those eyes widened fractionally, but then her chin rose a notch, and lips of pale rose parted on the query, “Mr. Montague?”
Halting before her, he bowed. “Miss…?”
She extended her hand. “My name is Miss Matcham, and I’m here to speak with you on behalf of my employer, Lady Halstead.”
He closed his hand around hers, engulfing long, slender fingers in a momentary—sadly brief, strictly business-like—clasp. “I see.” Releasing her, he stepped back and waved toward the door to his office. “Perhaps you would take a seat and explain in what manner I can assist Lady Halstead.”
She inclined her head with subtle grace. “Thank you.”
She moved past him and the scent of roses and violets speared through his senses. He glanced at Slocum. “It’s all right, Jonas. You can go home—I’ll lock up later.”
“Thank you, sir.” Slocum lowered his voice. “Not our usual sort of client—I wonder what she wants.”
Anticipation rising, Montague softly answered, “No doubt I’ll find out.”
With a salute, Slocum gathered his coat and left. As Montague followed Miss Matcham, who had paused in the doorway to his office, he heard the outer door close.
With a wave, he indicated Miss Matcham should enter, then followed her in. The question of the propriety of meeting with a young lady alone rose in his mind, but after one searching glance at his visitor, he merely left his office door open. She wasn’t that young; although he was no expert on ladies, he would put Miss Matcham somewhere in her early thirties.
Her walking dress of fine wool in a pale violet hue and the matching felt bonnet neatly enclosing her head were stylish, yet not, he thought, in the current height of fashion. The reticule she carried was more practical than decorative.
Halting before his desk, she glanced at him. Rounding the desk, he gestured to one of the well-padded chairs set before it. “Please, be seated.”
Once she’d complied, her movements as she drew in her skirts again displaying the inherent grace he’d noted earlier, he sat, set the Wolverstone ledger aside, leaned his forearms on his blotter, clasped his hands and fixed his gaze on her fascinating face. “Now—how do you believe I might help you, or, rather, Lady Halstead?”
Violet hesitated, yet she and Lady Halstead had plotted and planned to gain access to Mr. Heathcote Montague, and now here she was…she heard herself say, “Please excuse my hesitation, sir, but you’re not what I had expected.”
His brows—neat, brown brows arched over unexpectedly round eyes that, in her opinion, would have made him appear trustworthy even were he not—rose in surprise.
The sight made her smile; she doubted he was often surprised. “The most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London—I’d expected to have to deal with a cranky, crusty old gentleman with ink-stained fingers and bushy white brows, who would glower at me over the tops of his half spectacles.”
Montague blinked, slowly, lids rising to re-reveal his golden brown eyes. He was brown and brown—brown hair of a shade lighter than Violet’s own, and ha
zelish eyes that were more brown than green. But it was his face and his physical presence that had struck her most forcefully; as her gaze once more passed over the broad sweep of his forehead, the strong clean planes of his cheeks, his squared jaw, he shifted. He caught her gaze, then held up his right hand, fingers spread.
There were ink stains, faint but discernible, on the calluses on his index and middle fingers.
As she registered that, he reached to one side and picked up a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
“I have these, too.” He waved them. “If it would help, I could put them on. Glowering however, might be beyond me.”
She met his eyes, saw the lurking smile, and laughed, smiling, too.
He joined her in her laughter and his smile became manifest, his face creasing in a way that made him seem years younger than the mid-forties she guessed he must be.
Sound, solid, dependable; everything about him—his features, the shape of his head, his build, his attire—underscored that reality. The accolades of “most experienced” and “most trustworthy” bestowed by The Times weren’t at all hard to believe.
“I do apologize.” She let her laughter fade, but her lips remained stubbornly curved. She straightened on the chair, surprised to discover she’d relaxed against its back. “Despite my unbecoming levity, I am, indeed, here to speak with you on behalf of Lady Halstead.”
“And your relationship to her ladyship?”
“I’m her paid companion.”
“Have you been with her for long?”
“Over eight years.”
“And what can I do for her ladyship?”
Violet paused to reorder her thoughts. “Lady Halstead already has a man-of-business, a Mr. Runcorn. It was the current Mr. Runcorn’s father the Halsteads originally engaged, and the younger Mr. Runcorn has only recently taken his late father’s place. That said, Lady Halstead has no specific fault to find with young Mr. Runcorn’s abilities. However, a situation has arisen with Lady Halstead’s bank account that she believes Mr. Runcorn lacks the experience to adequately resolve. At least not to her ladyship’s satisfaction.” Violet met Montague’s golden-brown eyes. “I should mention that Lady Halstead is a widow, her husband, Sir Hugo, having died ten years ago, and her ladyship is now very old. Indeed, the problem with her bank account only came to light because, in keeping with a promise she made to Sir Hugo, she decided that it was time she ensured her financial affairs were in order.”
Montague nodded. “I see. And what is it her ladyship believes I can do?”
“Lady Halstead would like you to look into the puzzling question of what is going on with her bank account. She requires an explanation, one she can be certain is correct. Essentially, she wishes to engage you to give a second opinion—a consultation on this matter, nothing more.” Violet held Montague’s gaze and calmly added, “I, on the other hand, am here to ask you to help give reassurance to a gentle old lady in her declining years.”
Montague returned her regard steadily, then the ends of his lips quirked. “You have a way with an argument, Miss Matcham.”
“I do what I can for my ladies, sir.”
Devotion, in Montague’s opinion, was a laudable trait. “What can you tell me about the…irregularities afflicting this bank account?”
“I will leave that to Lady Halstead to elucidate.” As if sensing the question rising in his mind, the intriguing Miss Matcham added, “However, I have seen enough to verify that there is, indeed, something odd going on, but I haven’t studied the statement Mr. Runcorn provided so cannot put forward any definite opinion.”
Would that all his clients were so circumspect. “Very well.” Looking away from Miss Matcham’s remarkably fine eyes, Montague drew his appointment book closer and consulted it. “As it happens, I can spare Lady Halstead half an hour tomorrow morning.” He glanced across the desk. “When would be the best time to call?”
Miss Matcham smiled—not a dazzling smile, but a gentle, inclusive gesture that somehow struck through his usually impenetrable businessman’s shields and literally warmed his heart. He blinked, then quickly marshaled his wits as she replied, “Mid-morning would be best—shall we say eleven o’clock? In Lowndes Street, number four, just south of Lowndes Square.”
Gripping his pen firmly, Montague focused on his appointment book and wrote in the details. “Excellent.”
He looked up, and rose as Miss Matcham came to her feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Montague.” Meeting his gaze, she extended her hand. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Montague gripped her fingers, then had to make himself let go. “Indeed, Miss Matcham.” He waved her to the door. “Until tomorrow.”
After seeing Miss Matcham out of the office and on her way down the stairs to the ground floor, Montague closed the door, then stood stock-still, his mind replaying the interview, dwelling on this aspect, then that…
Until he shook free of the lingering spell, and, wondering at himself, strode back to his desk.
PRE-ORDER OR BUY THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE
To be released April 29, 2014.
AND FOR HOW IT ALL BEGAN…
Read about Penelope’s and Barnaby’s romance, plus that of Stokes and Griselda, in
WHERE THE HEART LEADS
Volume 1 in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Series.
Penelope Ashford, Portia Cynster's younger sister, has grown up with every advantage - wealth, position, and beauty. Yet Penelope is anything but a typical ton miss - forceful, willful and blunt to a fault, she has for years devoted her considerable energy and intelligence to directing an institution caring for the forgotten orphans of London's streets.
But now her charges are mysteriously disappearing. Desperate, Penelope turns to the one man she knows who might help her - Barnaby Adair.
Handsome scion of a noble house, Adair has made a name for himself in political and judicial circles. His powers of deduction and observation combined with his pedigree has seen him solve several serious crimes within the ton. Although he makes her irritatingly uncomfortable, Penelope throws caution to the wind and appears on his bachelor doorstep late one night, determined to recruit him to her cause.
Barnaby is intrigued—by her story, and her. Her bold beauty and undeniable brains make a striking contrast to the usual insipid ton misses. And as he's in dire need of an excuse to avoid said insipid misses, he accepts her challenge, never dreaming she and it will consume his every waking hour.
Enlisting the aid of Inspector Basil Stokes of the fledgling Scotland Yard, they infiltrate the streets of London's notorious East End. But as they unravel the mystery of the missing boys, they cross the trail of a criminal embedded in the very organization recently created to protect all Londoners. And that criminal knows of them and their efforts, and is only too ready to threaten all they hold dear, including their new-found knowledge of the intrigues of the human heart.
A pre-Victorian tale of romance and mystery in the classic historical romance style.
Full length novel of 130,000 words.
Short Excerpt from WHERE THE HEART LEADS:
CHAPTER 1
November, 1835.
London.
Slumped at ease in an armchair before the fire in the parlor of his fashionable lodgings in Jermyn Street, Barnaby Adair, third son of the Earl of Cothelstone, lifted the crystal tumbler from the salver his man offered. “Thank you, Mostyn. I won’t need anything further.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll wish you a good night.” The epitome of his calling, Mostyn bowed and silently withdrew.
Straining his ears, Barnaby heard the door shut. He smiled, sipped. Mostyn had been foisted on him by his mother when he’d first come up to town, unquestionably in the fond hope that the man would instill some degree of tractability into a son who, as she frequently declared, was ungovernable. Yet despite Mostyn’s rigid adherence to the mores of class distinction and his belief in the deference due to the son of an earl, he and Barnaby had quickly
reached an accommodation. Barnaby could no longer imagine being in London without the succor Mostyn provided, largely, as with the glass of fine brandy in his hand, without prompting.
Over the years, Mostyn had mellowed. Or perhaps both of them had.
Regardless, theirs was now a very comfortable household.
Barnaby shifted. Stretching his long legs toward the hearth, he crossed his ankles; sinking his chin on his cravat, he studied the polished toes of his boots, bathed in the light of the crackling flames.
He was comfortable yet…restless.
At peace—no, wrapped in blessed peace—yet dissatisfied.
He recognized the state well enough, but the reason for it was harder to define. It wasn’t as if the last months hadn’t been successful. After more than nine months of careful stalking he’d exposed a cadre of young gentleman, all from ton families, who, not content with using dens of iniquity had thought it a lark to run them. He’d delivered enough proof to charge and convict them despite their station. It had been a difficult, long-drawn, arduous case; its successful conclusion had earned him grateful accolades from the peers who oversaw London’s Metropolitan Police Force.
Contrarily, on hearing the news his mother would no doubt have primmed her lips, perhaps evinced an acid wish that he would develop as much interest in fox-hunting as in villain-hunting, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—say more, not with his father being one of the aforementioned peers.
The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 14