The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 2




Montague hadn’t previously realized how satisfying bringing relief to those who found financial matters overwhelming could actually be. It was, he now saw, a facet of his professional activities that he had failed to appreciate but should acknowledge and, indeed, take more pride in.

After leaving the house in Lowndes Street, the satisfaction of having in some small part allayed Lady Halstead’s immediate anxiety had stayed with him through the rest of the day and the routinely uneventful evening that had followed, and had fired him to set out first thing that morning to consult with Lady Halstead’s man-of-business.

While her ladyship appeared to have no suspicions of Runcorn, Montague would make up his own mind. Had the matter been one of embezzlement, he would have been far more skeptical, not to say distrustful, but as he strode along the pavement, he was more curious than concerned.

An entire day and evening of allowing Lady Halstead’s “irregularities” to percolate in the deepest recesses of his brain had still not brought forth any possible solution. Far from being discouraged, he was even more enthused; it had been a long time since anything financial had managed to surprise him, much less intrigue him to this degree.

He almost felt like a new man as he swung around the corner from Broad Street into Winchester Street. Runcorn’s offices were some way along, on the ground floor of a building near the elbow where Winchester Street turned north. There was a public house across the road, in the opposite corner of the bend, but the office of Runcorn and Son was flanked by a small printer on one side and a tobacconist’s on the other.

The area was not as heavily dominated by businesses connected with finance as those streets and alleys close by the Bank of England, where Montague and his peers hung their plaques, yet Winchester Street was only a few blocks from that more established sector, and Runcorn’s office was a decent set of premises for a minor firm.


Pausing before the door, Montague studied the faded lettering above the single broad window giving onto the pavement, then looked through the glass in the door itself, unsurprised to see lamps burning inside. The window allowed some light to penetrate, but not enough for a business that relied on reading figures upon figures.

Opening the door, he went in. Pausing to shut the door, he surveyed the interior, more out of professional curiosity than anything else. Although poky, the office was very recognizable, at least to him; file boxes were piled high along the shelving occupying every square foot of wall, and formed a man-high stack in one corner. Papers were spread over the narrow desk behind which a clerk labored; the middle-aged man had looked up as Montague entered.

Soberly attired in the proper manner for a clerk, the man rose and came forward. “Can I help you, sir?”

Already reaching into his inner pocket, Montague withdrew his card case, extracted a card, and handed it to the clerk. “If Mr. Runcorn could spare me a few minutes of his time, I would like to consult him on the matter of the Halstead estate.”

The clerk read the script on the card and his eyes widened. “Yes, of course, sir.” He waved to a pair of chairs set before the window. “Please take a seat, Mr. Montague, and I’ll inform Mr. Runcorn of your arrival.”

Montague inclined his head and obligingly sat. He had no doubt Runcorn would see him. Even if the younger man had not been long enough in the business to recognize his name, the clerk certainly had and would duly inform his master.

The clerk tapped on an inner door, then entered, shutting the door behind him.

A moment later, the door opened again, and a man of some twenty-eight or so summers stood for a moment in the doorway, then came swiftly forward, Montague’s card in his hand.

Montague rose as he approached.

“Sir!” Runcorn Junior halted before him, his round face alight with childlike pleasure. He met Montague’s eyes, his own alive with an equal mixture of delight and conjecture, then he drew breath, reined in his excitement, and inclined his head. “It’s an honor, Mr. Montague, to welcome you to Runcorn and Son. How may we assist you?”

Montague smiled approvingly. “I have a matter to do with the Halstead estate that I would like to discuss with you. If you have the time?”

Runcorn stepped back and waved to his office. “Of course.”

He ushered Montague into the office, and into a chair before the large and well-used desk. As Runcorn rounded it, making for his own chair, he offered, “The office was my father’s before me, of course. I’m the son.”

Montague found the young man’s enthusiasm infectious. “I had heard as much.” When Runcorn looked his question, Montague added, “From Lady Halstead.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew her letter of authority. “Before we proceed, you will need to read this.”

Sobering, Runcorn took the letter, unfolded it, read it, then, slowly refolding the sheet, he looked across the desk at Montague with a faint, puzzled frown.

Montague had no difficulty reading the thoughts passing through Runcorn’s head, not with such an open, expressive face; even the vague possibility of a suspicion he’d harbored that Runcorn might in some way be involved in the irregularities was rapidly fading. “Permit me to assure you that I am not here to poach your client, Mr. Runcorn.” Holding out his hand for the letter, when Runcorn surrendered it, Montague stowed it in his pocket once again.

“Then I admit I’m confused, sir.” Runcorn regarded him steadily. “Why are you here?”

“Lady Halstead requires . . . shall we say ‘reassurance’? . . . that whatever explanation you find for the irregularities in her bank account is the correct one. That is my focus and that alone. I will also state that I have no financial interest in this matter—I have agreed to provide my oversight purely out of professional curiosity.” Montague held Runcorn’s gaze. “I am quite intrigued, Mr. Runcorn, as to what the explanation for the unusual payments into her ladyship’s bank account might be.”

A moment passed, then Runcorn blinked and, as if assuring himself, said, “She wants reassurance . . . well, I can understand that. I haven’t been in this business for all that long, and . . .” After a second, he met Montague’s eyes. “To be candid, sir, I would greatly appreciate your guidance in this matter. I had thought the payments must be due to some old, long-forgotten investment, but they’re not—or, at least, that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“No.” Montague hesitated, then added, “In fact, that’s what sparked my interest in this matter. I’ve been in this business for a very long time, yet I do not recognize the style of these payments. They don’t match any pattern I’ve seen before.”

“Exactly!” Runcorn held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “Pringle—he’s my clerk—and I have been wracking our brains trying to think of what they might be arising from, but as yet we’ve found no clue. And as the bank has noted the payments as cash deposits, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to shed light on the source, and”—Runcorn looked uncomfortable—“I didn’t think it wise to raise the issue with the bank at this time—not without Lady Halstead’s explicit permission, and not until we’ve eliminated all the more likely investment sources.”

Meeting Runcorn’s gaze, Montague nodded approvingly. “Indeed. We should only involve the bank once we’ve exhausted all other avenues of inquiry. No need to air our questions more widely than necessary.”

“So we thought.” Runcorn looked reassured. “Consequently, pursuing the angle that the payments relate to some forgotten investment, we’ve pulled the complete Halstead file—it goes back a good thirty years—and we’re combing through it page by page, but as yet we’ve had no luck.”

Montague considered, then nodded again. “At present, that’s the first question you must answer—regardless of appearances, are these payments in some way linked to some past investment? You are, indeed, taking the right tack.” He smiled at Runcorn’s expression of relief, which was almost immediately tempered by the realization of just what a huge undertaking lay before him. “Indeed,” Montague confirmed. “Learning the answer will take time and effort. However, as to my own approach, at this point I would be grateful if you would provide me with a copy of the statements of the bank account in question, going back to when these odd payments first appeared. Lady Halstead gave me her copy of the most recent statements, but I will need the earlier statements as well. In addition, I would like a list of all investments of any type, whether believed to be current or not, and all loans and deposits into interest-bearing securities.”

Runcorn was nodding; Lady Halstead’s letter gave Montague the authority to request such details and Runcorn permission to provide them. “We can give you a copy of the bank statements today—Pringle will have a spare. Likewise for the currently held investments, those that are presently paying income—we’ve been searching through those ourselves. But a listing of the wider investments—that will take a few days to compile.” He met Montague’s eyes. “To be sure we have the entire picture, all nearly thirty years’ worth of it.”


“That will be entirely satisfactory.” Montague smiled and rose. “I’m well aware that to survive, you must service your other clients as well.”

“Indeed.” Rising and coming around the desk to open the door, Runcorn grimaced. “It’s something of a juggling act at the moment, what with the Halstead review proving so much more time-consuming than anyone would have expected.”

Montague allowed himself to be ushered out and introduced to Pringle, who, on receiving Runcorn’s instructions, proved to be meticulously organized. He produced the required copies of the bank statements and the list of currently paying investments.

Pringle eyed a foot-high stack of papers on his desk. “As for the complete list of investments, that might take a few days.”

Montague nodded. “That’s entirely acceptable. It’s critically important in a case like this that the list be complete and accurate with respect to every detail. If that takes a few days more, so be it. An inaccurate list will get us nowhere.”

Pringle bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll give it my best attention.”

Given what he had already noted of Pringle’s meticulousness, Montague had no doubt that that would prove more than adequate, and said so.

Leaving Pringle and his master both preening, he exited the office of Runcorn and Son and, with a spring in his step, set out to embark on his own researches.

Montague didn’t get a chance to return to the Halstead puzzle until late in the afternoon. On his return to his office, he’d been claimed by a succession of clients, interspersed with presentations from several different firms seeking capital.

Investment was the blood and bone of his business, so he’d had to put Lady Halstead and her mysterious payments aside.

Finally, as the light was fading from the sky beyond his window, he drew the thin file containing her ladyship’s bank statements and list of investments to the center of his blotter and opened it.

Two hours later, when Slocum tapped on his door to bid him good night, he’d reached the end of the laborious process of matching payments to investments, and found himself in complete agreement with Lady Halstead. Something extremely odd was going on with her bank account.

After farewelling Slocum, Montague sat back in his chair and stared at the papers spread out on the desk. Fingernail tapping on the chair arm, he finally let the explanation—the one possibility he hadn’t discounted—form in his brain.

“Concealment of funds.” He frowned. “But by whom, and why?”

In financial terms, concealment was the opposite of embezzlement but was almost always equally illegal in that money that needed to be concealed almost certainly had some element of illegality attached to it.

“So in pursuing the matter of these payments, I’m investigating what might reasonably be supposed to be the fruits of some crime.”

Should he involve the authorities?

He considered—in particular what he might report—and grimaced. “I can’t yet be certain that there is any crime—I certainly don’t have proof of one.”

And involving the police wouldn’t, he suspected, endear him to Lady Halstead and Miss Matcham. Not that such a consideration would stop him, but . . .

He tapped his finger more decisively. “If I had proof of a crime, my way would be clear, but until I do, the possibility exists that there’s some innocent explanation behind this.”

Scanning the documents splayed across his desk, he sifted through the possibilities of what he might do next. Tracing the payments, if that proved feasible, appeared to be the most direct route forward.

He had often assisted others with their investigations when said investigations had drifted into financial waters. This, however, was the first time he had initiated such an investigation himself rather than contributing to someone else’s undertaking. Courtesy of those previous, supporting roles, he now had connections, acquaintances who knew a great deal more about investigating than he did, who, he didn’t doubt, would be happy to assist him should he ask for their help.

“But at present this is an entirely financial matter, and when it comes to investigating finances . . .” He was the best man for the job. That was why, when it came to anything involving money, those others turned to him.

Huffing out a breath, he sat up and regathered all the documents. As he returned them to the Halstead file, he recalled his earlier restlessness, his wish for some new and more exciting project; apparently Fate had been listening.

Be careful what you wish for.

Even though she’d died when he’d been ten years old, he could still remember his mother telling him that.

On the other hand, his niggling inner voice—the voice of dissatisfaction—had been silent for the past few days, a definite improvement.

Leaving the Halstead file on his desk, he rose and turned down the lamp, then, by the light thrown through the windows from the flares in Chapel Court, he made his way through the outer office. As he reached for the doorknob, the atmosphere—the anticipation—that filled that particular moment when the others in the office left for the day replayed in his mind.

Something he observed in others, not something he experienced.

He felt no happy eagerness as he opened the door, stepped through and locked it, then turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor.

He had bought the building in Chapel Court, off Bartholomew Lane, behind the Bank of England, over ten years ago, and had converted the floor above his office and the offices to either side into a comfortable apartment. The proximity to his office suited him; if he thought of some question during the evening or night, it took only a minute to check a file, or make a note at his desk. And this section of the City, although humming with activity during the day, grew quiet at night. It wasn’t deserted by any means—what part of London was?—but the denizens who lived in the area were by nature a sober, reserved lot.

Fishing his key out of his waistcoat pocket, he paused on the upper landing to unlock and open his front door. The apartment was spacious, comprising a small foyer giving onto a long sitting room, with a dining room beyond, a small study he used as a library, and a master suite including a large bedroom, twin dressing rooms, and a bathroom with the latest accoutrements. The apartment also contained a large kitchen and separate staff quarters, which were the domain of his housekeeper, Mrs. Trewick, and her husband, Trewick, who acted as general manservant. The middle-aged couple had been with Montague for nearly twenty years and knew his habits and requirements to a T.

He walked into the sitting room, his footsteps faintly echoing.

“Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir!” Mrs. Trewick sang from the kitchen. “Just take your seat at the table and Trewick will bring it out.”

Montague smiled and did as he was bid. He exchanged the usual comments with Trewick as the man served the three courses of succulent and substantial fare; at the completion of the meal, as he usually did, Montague sent his compliments to Mrs. Trewick, which, as it always did, pleased Trewick no end.

In pleasant accord, he and his staff parted for the night, the pair to retreat to their quarters while he ambled into the study, then, book in hand, wandered into the sitting room, where the fire Trewick had stoked blazed, eradicating the chill of the evening.

Sinking into his favorite of the pair of armchairs angled before the fire, Montague reached for the small tantalus that sat on the side table. He poured himself a small glass of whisky, a drop he’d grown partial to since taking over the Earl of Glencrae’s accounts, then sat back and sipped.


For several moments, he simply sat, book closed in his lap, glass poised in one hand, and stared into the flames.

And heard again in his mind the contrast in sound between when his staff left the office for their homes, and when he did.

When his staff left, their expectations of pleasure, of simple joy, and their confidence in finding those things when they returned to their hearths, homes, and loved ones rang in their voices. When he left, all was silent, even within him.

Because he didn’t have anyone, no one dear to him, so he only had a house, not a home.

That, he knew, was the critical difference, and while it hadn’t previously bothered him—not over the long years during which he had striven to build his firm to its present preeminence—the silence, the emptiness of his house, the loneliness, all reached him now.

He’d achieved his goals, and more, but the triumph seemed hollow.

After a moment, his gaze drifted, coming to rest on the empty armchair opposite. Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Violet Matcham sitting there, the firelight glinting in her dark hair, her head tilted with that subtle grace that was peculiarly hers, a gentle smile curving her lips, lighting her blue eyes.

Montague considered the image for several minutes, then shook his head, dismissed the dream, opened his book, and settled to read.

Across London, in Albemarle Street in Mayfair, Penelope Adair sat at the foot of her dinner table and exchanged a meaningful look with her friend, Griselda Stokes, then both ladies turned their eyes upon the two gentlemen sharing the table with them.

“There must be some interesting case we can assist you with,” Penelope declared.

Barnaby Adair, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Basil Stokes, friend and colleague, then Barnaby straightened, negligently waved, and nonchalantly said, “There really isn’t much by way of ‘crimes-to-investigate’ plaguing the ton and Scotland Yard at this particular time.”

Aware of the oblique qualifications built into that statement, Penelope regarded her spouse through narrowing eyes. “It needn’t be anything expressly to do with the ton—you aren’t about to tell me that there aren’t any crimes to investigate in London at all, are you?”

“Hardly!” The spontaneous reply came from Stokes, lounging in his chair. He immediately recovered and stated, “However, Barnaby’s correct in that there are no drawing room dramas, so to speak, presently unsolved.”

“The Crimmins affair was the last,” Barnaby said. “But since then—over the summer and into the autumn—all has been quiet in Mayfair.”

“I believe,” Griselda said, her soft voice a contrast to the bolder, more confident tones of the others; of the four of them, she spoke the least, but when she did, the others listened, as they did now, “that what Penelope meant to imply was that the insights she and I can offer, and the investigative skills we possess, would almost certainly be of value in investigations over a wider social arena.”

Penelope nodded. “Well said.” Shifting her gaze to their husbands, she added, “Dealing with the infants—with Oliver and Megan—absorbed us entirely for the first months, but now that the pair have grown to the point of no longer requiring our attention hour by hour, both Griselda and I need”—she airily waved—“something to engage us, to challenge us, mentally at least, and provide greater stimulation of the cerebral sort.”

Stokes frowned, rather blackly. “What do other ladies with small children do for ‘cerebral stimulation’?”

Penelope’s nose tipped upward. “Other ladies are not us.”

“Indubitably,” Barnaby muttered, quietly enough that only Stokes would hear.

Penelope still narrowed her eyes at him. After a moment, she said, “Helping to protect Henrietta when she had to go with that blackguard Affry in order to find James reminded us, Griselda and me, of what we were missing—of what we most enjoyed doing other than being with our children.”

“And,” Griselda murmured, “you should remember that us assisting you, even in the minor way we do, does help us understand what you, both of you, are absorbed with, and why the pair of you are so devoted to apprehending villains, be they lord or servant.”

Silence fell as both men considered their wives, then Stokes heaved a sigh and straightened from his slouch. “The fact is that there truly is no investigation currently underway in which we might benefit from your help.”

Penelope regarded him, her dark brown gaze, as always, unforgivingly direct. “Very well, but if one should arise, you will tell us, won’t you?”

A fractional hesitation ensued, then both men heaved tiny sighs.

Stokes merely tipped his head in resignation.

Barnaby met Penelope’s gaze and said, “When the next case in which the pair of you might be able to assist us arises, we—all four of us—will discuss the possibilities then.”

Is there truly no case we might possibly help with?” Penelope trailed across their bedroom to the window overlooking the side garden. She and Barnaby had lived in this house for eighteen months now, and she truly considered it her home. Hers. Just as he was.

Reaching the window, she turned and watched him walk slowly across the room to her. He still moved with the same predatory grace he had always possessed; the sight of him still brought a smile to her heart, even if sometimes, as now, she strove to keep the expression from her lips.

He halted before her, frowning slightly as he studied her uptilted face. “There truly is nothing. Stokes has been assisting with those murders about the docks—and, trust me, none of those are in any way linked with endeavors you and Griselda know anything about. And as you already know, because of the dearth in interesting crimes, I’ve been working with my father on his various political machinations.” Barnaby’s lips twisted in a reluctantly rueful smile. “And although I would love to have you help me with that, you know you’re hopeless with political machinations—you’re so direct you scare the marks away.”

Penelope waved dismissively. “Politicking is such a waste of time.”

“I rest my case.” Barnaby reached for her, sliding his hands around her narrow waist and drawing her to him.

She came readily. After more than eighteen months of marriage, the magic was still there—the delicious jolt to the senses, the resulting rapid rise of desire.

Of a hunger that, through growing accustomed to being sated, had become even more potent.

Sinking against him, spreading her hands on his chest, she looked into his face. And the magic—the sudden focus, the heightening of tension as anticipation sparked, the sharpening of their senses as their intentions aligned—gripped. As he spread his hands over her silk-clad back, she tilted her head, searched his eyes. “You’re going to try to distract me, aren’t you?”

His lips quirked. “It had crossed my mind.” Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers, lingered just long enough to hear her breath catch, to sense her hunger leap to meet his, then murmured, “Are you going to let me?”

She pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. “By all means—you have my permission to try.”

Just don’t expect to succeed. Barnaby heard the words she didn’t say—the challenge she didn’t utter—but for his own peace of mind, he had to try.


He gave it his best shot.

Drawing her into a heated exchange, into a heated melding of their mouths, an increasingly ravenous duel of lips and tongues that swelled and grew to consume them both, he orchestrated the moments, with consummate skill drew each fragile instant out, until they were both panting and yearning, hungry and desperate.

Clothes were shed, but by his dictate. Wanton and delighted, she held to her permissive stance and let him lead, let him manage the reins as he would and devote himself—to the top of his bent—to his aim of distracting her.

Utterly. Completely.

In this world, and on that other plane.

His hands roved her body and made her arch and moan.

He allowed her—nay, encouraged her, knowing the exercise to be enthralling to her—to explore his body and fill her senses with him, and she seized the chance and immersed herself in their passion.

Together they pushed and strove to extend the long moments of worship, of reverence and delight, of pleasure and fraught joy, but the escalating beat of passionate need could not be forever denied.

They came together in a rush of fire and heat, the sensual cataclysm of bodies and souls so familiar, so gloriously reliable yet never to be taken for granted.

Joined and urgent, now desperate in their need, together they rode, together they climbed, together they reached the pinnacle’s peak where ecstasy found them, wracked and bound them, then flung them into the void . . . to where love lay waiting to wrap them in bliss, and cushion them, cocoon them, as they spiraled back to earth.

To the haven of each other’s arms, to the comforting sound of each other’s ragged breaths, of each other’s thudding hearts.

To the soul-easing closeness of their intimate embrace.

Later, when they’d disengaged and settled in the bed, and Penelope snuggled deeper into his arms, Barnaby brushed a kiss to her temple. “I promise to tell you when next Stokes and I have some case you and Griselda can help with.”

He felt Penelope’s lips curve against his skin. Blindly, she patted his chest. “Thank you.”

Her limbs lost what little tension they’d regained; he listened as she sank into sated slumber.

Somewhere amid the glory, reality had broken through and he’d realized that he and Stokes had no option but to find a solution to their ladies’ need—to re-involve them in suitable investigations as and when such investigations arose.

It was that, or have them striking out on their own—and he didn’t need to think to know what he thought of that. The sudden lurching of his heart at the mere idea provided all the incentive he needed.

So he would do as he’d promised.

But he didn’t have to like it.