The Masterful Mr. Montague

by Stephanie Laurens

  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, “Midmorning 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, then 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.

  His eagerness, the ready-to-be-engaged enthusiasm that carried him to Lowndes Street at eleven o’clock the following morning, was, he tried to tell himself, engendered more by the sense of fate dangling something new—some financial irregularity outside the norm, a tantalizing prospect certain to excite his jaded inner self—than by any lure attached to the lovely Miss Matcham.

  She opened the door to his knock, instantly obliterating his attempt at self-deception. He would have sworn his heart literally sped up at the sight of her. Then she smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Montague. Do come in.”

  Reminding himself to breathe, he stepped forward as she stepped back. He walked into a narrow front hall; a quick survey showed decent artwork, good-quality furniture, polished woodwork, and painted walls. All was neat and tidy. The sight confirmed that, as he’d suspected from the address, Lady Halstead wasn’t short of funds. She might not rank as high in wealth as the majority of his clients, but she would have assets worth protecting; in consulting for her, he wouldn’t be wasting his time.

  Miss Matcham closed the door and joined him. With one hand, she directed him to the room on their right. “Lady Halstead is waiting in the sitting room.”

  He inclined his head and gestured for Miss Matcham to precede him, seizing the moment to wonder anew at the effect she had on him. He didn’t quite understand it; she was lovely to look at—he could, he felt, stare at her for hours—yet she was no raving beauty. Today, she wore a pale blue morning gown that skimmed her curves in a distracting way—at least, he found it distracting. Being indoors and thus bonnetless, her coiffure was on display, so he could better appreciate the thick lushness of her hair, the dark locks confined in a bun at the back of her head but with one sweeping wave crossing her forehead, softening the line of her brow and emphasizing her pale, flawless, milk-and-roses complexion.

  Following her through the doorway, he forced his gaze from her and scanned the room. A very old lady with wispy silver hair and refined features sat in a straight-backed chair, her forearms resting on the padded armrests. She was dressed in dark bombazine, with shawls draped about her shoulders and also over her legs. An ebony cane with a silver head rested against the side of the chair.

  Miss Matcham went forward. “This is Mr. Montague, ma’am.” She glanced at Montague. “Lady Halstead.”

  As Miss Matcham moved to take the armchair to Lady Halstead’s right, her ladyship, who had been shrewdly studying him, held out her hand. “Thank you for calling, sir. I’m sure you are a very busy man—I will endeavor not to take up too much of your time.”

  Taking her hand, Montague bowed over it. “Not at all, ma’am. I’m keen to learn what the issue with your bank account might be.”

  “Is that so?” Lady Halstead waved to the armchair to her left. “In that case, please sit.”

  As he did, Miss Matcham passed several documents to her ladyship. Turning to him, Lady Halstead held out the papers. “This is a copy of the bank’s statement of the payments into and out of my bank account over the last six months.”

  Accepting the sheets, Montague scanned them as Lady Halstead continued, “You will see I have circled various deposits. Those deposits are a complete mystery to me—I have no notion whatever of who is paying that money into my account, much less why.”

  Montague inwardly blinked. Flicking through the five sheets her ladyship had supplied, doing calculations in his head . . . “I have to admit”—he looked up at Lady Halstead, then at Miss Matcham—“that I had imagined your irregularities would prove to be some confusion on the bank’s part, or else a matter of embezzlement.” He looked again at the statements. “But this is quite different.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Halstead sounded vindicated. “Young Runcorn, my man-of-business, believes the payments must derive from some old, forgotten investment that has only now started to pay a return.”

  Studying the figures, Montague shook his head. “I know of no financial instrument that pays in this manner. The payments are roughly monthly but are not regular enough to be specified by any financial contract—for instance, the repayment of a debt. Such payments would come in on a fixed date of every month. And as for investment dividends, I know of no company that pays monthly amounts. Insurance companies might pay certain stipends monthly, but again, they would be on a fixed date.” He paused, then added, “As for the size of the payments, they amount to a considerable sum.”

  He looked at Lady Halstead. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Fourteen months, I believe.”

  He glanced again at the amounts. “At a similar rate?”

  “More or less.”

  Montague’s head was whirling, his financial brain trying to find some pattern that these payments would fit, but there wasn’t one. He was sure of it. As for the total sum paid into her ladyship’s account over the past fourteen months, would that he could find an investment for his clients that returned such a result.

  “I’ll have to look into it.” His financial self wouldn’t be able to let the puzzle lie.

  “Thank you. I will, of course, meet your customary fee.”

  “No.” He looked up, the underlying boredom—ignored, suppressed, and largely unacknowledged—that had assailed him for months rising high in his mind; that dull, deadening feeling had been growing increasingly weighty, dragging him down, until Miss Matcham had arrived to tempt him. “I would, in all honesty, consider it a favor were you to allow me to investigate this matter.” Aside from all else, it would allow him to continue to meet with Miss Matcham. “I was feeling rather jaded, but this”—he held up the papers—“is challenging. At least for a gentleman like me. The satisfaction of finding an answer for you—and myself—will be payment enough.”

  Lady Halstead arched her brows, considered him for a long moment, but then nodded. “If that is what you wish, then so be it.” She glanced at Miss Matcham.

  Who met Montague’s gaze, then dipp
ed her head, indicating the papers he still held. “That’s a copy you may take with you. Is there anything else you need?”

  He held her gaze for an instant, quite surprised by the tenor of the answers rolling through his mind. Then he concentrated and frowned. “Actually, yes. I would like the style and direction of her ladyship’s man-of-business . . . Runcorn. And also”—he looked at Lady Halstead—“I will need a letter of authority to act as your investigator—to ask questions on your behalf and for those I ask such questions of to be authorized to answer as if I were you.”

  Lady Halstead nodded. “I can imagine that will be necessary. Do you know the proper form of such an authority?”

  “Indeed. If you like, I can dictate it for you.” He glanced at Miss Matcham, then looked back at Lady Halstead. “And if at all possible, ma’am, I would prefer the entire letter be in your hand. It’s much less easy to question such a document.”

  “Of course.” Lady Halstead looked at Miss Matcham. “Violet, dear, would you fetch my writing desk?”

  With a nod, Miss Matcham rose and left the room.

  Montague watched her go. Violet. The name suited her.

  “Now,” Lady Halstead said, “Runcorn’s address is . . .”

  Setting the papers on his knee, Montague pulled out his notebook and quickly jotted down the address.

  Twenty minutes later, the required letter of authority in his pocket, along with the copy of the bank account statement, Montague took his leave of Lady Halstead. Violet Matcham walked him to the front door.

  Opening it, she met his gaze. “Thank you. You might not have been able to see it, but she’s already much relieved and more settled—she’s been in a fret ever since she noticed the irregularity in her account a week ago.”

  Montague held her gaze and considered various responses—all of them the truth—but, in the end, settled for a brief bow and “I’m happy to know I’ve already been of some service, however small.” He paused, then, his eyes still on hers, added, “I will get to the bottom of this. If her ladyship starts to grow anxious, please do assure her of that.”

  Violet found it difficult to draw her eyes from his, but, lips curving at her own susceptibility, and because he was as he was, she dipped her head and murmured, “Again, thank you. We’ll wait to hear from you in due course.”

  Montague inclined his head, stepped over the threshold, crossed the porch, and went down the steps.

  She watched him stride away and realized she felt lighter—as if he’d lifted a burden she hadn’t been aware she’d carried on her shoulders. He really was something of a white knight; he’d answered her summons, had ridden in, and had commenced the process of alleviating the trouble besetting Lady Halstead and, therefore, her, too.

  No doubt that was why he left her feeling giddy.

  Smiling again at her unexpected susceptibility, she closed the door and returned to Lady Halstead.

  That evening, Lady Halstead hosted a dinner for her family. As she no longer had the strength to visit their homes, she invited them to dine in Lowndes Street once a month, and they all came.

  Every time.

  During her first months with Lady Halstead, Violet had been somewhat surprised that even her ladyship’s three adult grandchildren invariably attended and stayed for the entire evening, but as the months had rolled past, she had realized that among the Halstead children, sibling rivalry had reached astonishing heights; even though said grandchildren might wish to be elsewhere, they had to obey their parents’ commands and show all due observance to their grandmother’s dignity.

  As usual, Violet sat at the table on Lady Halstead’s left, ready to lend assistance if required. The Halstead children, all of whom were also very conscious of their dignity, tolerated her presence because Lady Halstead insisted on it, and, as Violet’s birth was as good as, if not better than, their own, they had no viable excuse to exclude her.

  They did, however, ignore her, which suited Violet. She was immensely grateful not to have to interact with “The Brood” as she, Tilly, and Cook privately termed them. Instead, she kept her lips shut and observed; as an only child, she found the tensions and constant sniping between members of The Brood curious and fascinating in a horrifying sort of way.

  More than once, she’d retired to her room after a Halstead family dinner giving thanks that she had never had brothers or sisters; then again, she doubted most families behaved like the Halsteads. They seemed a law unto themselves.

  Tonight, the conversation had ranged from the importance of the bills currently before Parliament, to the Irish Question and the weightiness of the relevant deliberations taking place inside the Home Office. The former topic was espoused by Cynthia, only daughter and second-born of the Halstead children, in order to call attention to her husband, the Honorable Wallace Camberly, Member of Parliament, and underscore his importance and, by extension, hers.

  A severe-looking matron in an azure satin gown, Cynthia sat on Lady Halstead’s right, opposite Violet. Cynthia’s features were hard, her brown eyes like onyx. Constant bad temper had left her lips pinched and thin; her most frequent expressions were of disapproval and disdain. Very little in life, it seemed, found favor with Cynthia. If blind ambition had a face, it was hers. “Of course,” she declared, “the coronation will soon take precedence over all else. The parliamentary committee to oversee it will shortly be named.”

  Seated down the table on the opposite side, Constance Halstead, wife of Mortimer, who was her ladyship’s firstborn, reached for her wineglass. A tall, large-boned lady with a buxom figure and round features, Constance had an unfortunate fondness for frills and furbelows, and a voice that, regardless of the company, was always pitched too loud. “I daresay,” she stated. “But, of course, it will fall to the Home Office to oversee all the details of the day. Mortimer”—Constance glanced at her husband, seated at the head of the table—“will no doubt be heavily involved.”

  Violet, too, glanced at Mortimer. Of average height and build, Mortimer’s adherence to rigid correctness in every aspect of his dress only served to make him unmemorable, easily overlooked in a crowd. His face, too, lacked distinction, his features held under such absolute control that his expression was usually bland, if not blank. Mortimer had been addressing the excellent roast beef, but now he looked up, his pale eyes going to Cynthia, his expression a stone-faced challenge as he said, “Indeed. There will be a great deal to be organized, and the Home Office will be in charge. There have already been preliminary discussions, although I am not at liberty to divulge any details.”

  All he got out of Cynthia was a smirk, effectively communicating her belief that Mortimer could not reveal any details because he didn’t know any, not actually being involved at all.

  Mortimer’s choler started to rise, but before he could respond to Cynthia, Maurice Halstead, second son and social black sheep—rake, roué, gambler, womanizer, and general profligate—drawled, “So it’ll be you who’ll be consulted as to how many frills will be on Alexandrina’s coronation gown? Oh, no, wait—she’s to be called Victoria, isn’t she?”

  Mortimer narrowed his eyes on Maurice. “The coronation gown will be decided by the Palace, as is proper, and, yes, as even you should have heard, the young queen has declared she will be Victoria.”

  The man seated next to Constance stirred. “What’s she got against the name Alexandrina, then?” William Halstead’s words were fractionally slurred.

  If Maurice was the social black sheep, William was the family’s pariah. Violet was certain he attended Lady Halstead’s dinners in order to get at least one good meal a month, but even more because he knew his presence severely disturbed his brothers and sister, and their spouses, all of whom viewed William much as they would a cockroach, one they could sadly not squash.

  The youngest of the Halstead children, William was always the most soberly dressed, in a plain black suit that was only just passable as suitable attire for a gentry dining table.

  “Actually�
��—Wallace Camberly spoke for what Violet thought was the first time since they’d sat at the table—“I understand the boot’s on the other foot, so to speak, and it was more that she favors the name Victoria over all others.”

  The reasonable and, coming from Camberly, most likely informed comment defused that topic, effectively ending it.

  Seated beside Cynthia, Wallace Camberly was, Violet judged, even more ambitious than the lady he’d taken to wife. However, unlike Cynthia, he had no stake in the Halstead family’s internecine battles and largely remained aloof, commenting only when some subject interested him. As usual, he was quietly but fashionably dressed, as befitted his station. Violet knew him to be cold and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his goals, but he assiduously played by the rules as he perceived them—because that served him best in the long run, and if something did not benefit him, he didn’t waste time or energy on the matter.

  The Halstead family sniping did nothing for him, so he ignored it.

  Wallace’s lead was largely followed by his son, Walter Camberly, seated opposite, between Violet and William. Although already twenty-seven years old, Walter had yet to settle on any occupation; he drifted through life, apparently aimlessly. Violet wasn’t sure how Walter filled his days, but as Cynthia ruled that roost with an iron fist, Violet doubted that Walter derived much joy from his outwardly unfettered existence.

  Like Violet, Walter kept his head down and let the conversational volleys fly past. The others of the younger generation—Mortimer and Constance’s children, Hayden, presently twenty-three years old, and his sister, Caroline, just twenty—likewise endured, rather than enjoyed, these evenings. They rarely made a comment of any sort. As far as Violet knew, the younger Halsteads were ordinary, unremarkable young people; if she had to guess, she would have said they found the Halstead dinners utterly boring but were too polite, and too reliant on their parents’ goodwill, to do anything but attend and remain silent. They spoke when spoken to but contributed little.