The Masterful Mr. Montague Read online

  Swinging over Mortimer, straddling him, Montague planted a hand on Mortimer’s heaving chest and held the man down while he prepared to rise—to check that Violet was all right.

  It was her scream that saved him. “Heathcote—watch out!”

  He saw the poker swinging at his head just in time.

  Grabbing the iron bar in his left hand, he staved off the blow. Gritting his teeth, he held the poker back, raised his right fist, and slammed it into Mortimer’s jaw.

  Something crunched. Even though his hand throbbed, Montague realized on a flash of savage satisfaction that it wasn’t his bones that had broken.

  Mortimer groaned, then slumped, eyes closed.

  Montague twisted the poker from Mortimer’s lax grip, then slowly—watching to make sure the man truly was unconscious—he eased up and rose to his feet.

  He turned to Violet—as she rushed into his arms.

  He closed them around her, felt her arms go around him and crush tight.

  Tossing the poker onto the bed, he hugged her even tighter, setting his cheek to her hair. “I was so frightened,” he confessed. “All the way from Albemarle Street, all I could think about was you—him hurting you. Possibly killing you. Then the carriage couldn’t get through, and I had to leave it and run . . . I didn’t think I would get here in time.”

  He heard the emotion investing his words, heard the inherent vulnerability exposed, and didn’t care. Violet was in his arms, safe and whole, and nothing else mattered.

  She tightened her arms, then eased her hold enough to lean back and look into his face. She met his eyes, and her face, her smile, was everything any knight could ever hope for; radiant, joyous, she held his gaze, her love shining in her eyes. “But you did arrive in time, and you saved me.” She studied his eyes and her smile softened. “Actually, you did more than that. You lent me your strength so I could hold on until you came.”

  He arched his brows. “I did?”

  She nodded. “When it came to that fraught moment when I had to face the reality of possibly losing my life . . . I discovered I wanted to live—so much. I wanted to live, was determined to live, because of you. You lent me your strength, even though you weren’t here. You gave me the will, and therefore the wherewithal, to fight, to resist, even though I had no idea anyone might arrive to help. But you did.”

  Lacing the fingers of one hand with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her knuckles. “You fought, and held on, and I came, and so we’ve caught our murderer, and now we can go forward.”

  She’d agreed he could speak the instant this was over. Trapped in his gaze, Violet felt the moment close around them. The sounds of arrivals downstairs reached them, but neither paid the impending interruption any heed. Heathcote’s gaze moved lovingly over her face, then, almost tentatively, he lowered his head.

  Violet stretched up and, inwardly joyous, set her lips to his.

  Kissed him as he kissed her, in an inexpressibly sweet exchange, an acknowledgment that they were there, together beyond the danger, alive and unharmed, able and ready to go forward hand in hand.

  That they had found each other, had saved each other, and valued and wanted and desired the other above all else in the world—that was what their simple kiss said.

  Eventually, he raised his head and she lowered her heels to the floor.

  Still locked in each other’s smiles, arms twined, they turned to the door—and found Stokes and Barnaby waiting, both trying to hide their smiles.

  Keeping one arm around Violet, not even trying to hide his pride, Montague waved at Mortimer. “I”—he glanced at Violet, met her eyes, and amended—“we give you our murderer, gentlemen.”

  Resuming his usual stern mien, Stokes stalked forward and looked down at Mortimer Halstead, who was beginning to stir, to groan. “Not Maurice?”

  “No. Millhouse sent me word earlier.” Montague looked across the room at Barnaby. “You were right that it was Maurice who was a member of Corby’s club, but you don’t have to be a member to play at a club, much less lose to Corby.”

  Barnaby nodded, then ambled around the bed to join them, allowing two large constables, who had been waiting by the door, to respond to Stokes’s beckoning; Stokes was still standing looking down at a semiconscious Mortimer.

  Acknowledging Violet with a smile, Barnaby said, “And I suspect I know why he did it—why someone like Mortimer sat down to play with a notorious gambler like Corby. I’ve just been talking to the pater, and he mentioned that Corby was one of the peers sitting on an appointment board for the Home Office. Mortimer was due to appear before it in a week’s time, seeking promotion.”

  Montague glanced at Mortimer, still stretched supine at Stokes’s feet. “So he what? Intended to lose, or thought to win?”

  “In Mortimer’s eyes, I suspect either would have served,” Barnaby murmured. After a moment, he went on, “All of this, from start to finish, has been about currying favor with Corby to ensure Mortimer’s promotion.”

  Another moment passed, then Violet shivered. “It almost beggars belief that anyone would be so . . . cold-bloodedly self-serving.”

  A stir at the doorway had them all looking that way—to see Penelope poised on the threshold. She took all the elements of the scene in in one glance, then she looked at Barnaby, Montague, and Violet, and wrinkled her nose. “Damn! I’m too late.” Walking forward, she gestured widely. “Clearly everyone is hale and whole, and, sadly for me, you appear to have everything well in hand.”

  Barnaby laughed. He held out one hand, and when she reached for it, he twined their fingers and drew her close.

  Penelope took it further and linked her arm with his, but her bright, dark gaze wasn’t distracted; it traveled to Violet’s face, then moved on to Montague’s.

  Then Penelope smiled brilliantly; looking up, she met Barnaby’s gaze. “And, equally clearly, everything has worked out wonderfully all around!”

  Barnaby grinned. Violet and Montague shared a smile. And Penelope continued to beam delightedly upon them all.

  Unsurprisingly, Mortimer, once he regained consciousness, didn’t share Penelope’s view.

  “This is nonsense!” Marched down the stairs with his wrists shackled, then thrust into a chair at the dining room table, he huffed and puffed. “I’m an important senior Home Office official. I’ll have you know that the Home Secretary himself is chairing a meeting at this very moment, one I’m supposed to be at, and instead—” With his bound hands, Mortimer gestured at Montague and Violet, who, along with Penelope and Barnaby, had followed Stokes and his men into the room, purely to see what transpired.

  What sort of story Mortimer would concoct.

  “Instead,” Mortimer all but spat, “I was set on by those two. I found them upstairs, rifling through my mother’s papers. Doubtless trying to find something to steal—or perhaps trying to conceal something.”

  Stokes, who had halted, standing, at the head of the table, eyed Mortimer with a certain curiosity.

  When Stokes made no response, Mortimer squirmed; his features contorted. “Get these shackles off me, I say! I’ve done nothing wrong!” With his head, he gestured to Montague and Violet. “It was them, I tell you!”

  Stokes studied him some more, then in a perfectly equable tone asked, “Any more lies you’d like to get off your chest?”

  When Mortimer glared at him, Stokes smiled his sharklike smile. “It’s no good, Halstead. We have Corby’s word, and when that’s combined with everything else, all the evidence we’ve accumulated, it’ll be more than enough to hang you.”

  Mortimer looked belligerently recalcitrant. He dropped his gaze from Stokes’s face, but his eyes shifted back and forth, as if he was searching for some other way to excuse himself, or to talk his way out of his crimes.

  Stokes arched his brows. “Nothing more to say?” When Mortimer didn’t respond, not even by a look, Stokes glanced at his constables. “Take him to the Yard. Tell the desk he’ll be charged with t
he murders of Lady Halstead, Mr. Andrew Runcorn, and Miss Tilly Westcott. Also the attempted murder of Miss Violet Matcham, and the theft of a share certificate from Lady Halstead.” Stokes looked back at Mortimer; the man had hunched his shoulders and was looking down, occasionally shooting furtive glances to either side. “I’ll be along shortly to finalize the charges. Meanwhile, put him in a cell and tell the desk he stays there until the Chief says otherwise.”

  Both constables snapped off salutes. “Aye, sir.” With determined expressions, they closed in on Mortimer.

  The others stood back and watched as, between them, the constables hauled Mortimer Halstead to his feet and marched him out of his mother’s house.

  They all trailed behind. Halting in the dim front hall, through the open door, they watched as Mortimer was escorted down the path and out of the gate.

  When the constables and their prisoner had passed out of sight, Stokes turned to Violet, Montague, Barnaby, and Penelope. And grinned. “Got him. I’ll have to go and formalize the charges, but after that”—his gaze settled on Montague and Violet—“I believe a celebration is in order, on several counts.”

  Chapter 19

  Everyone had agreed with Stokes’s suggestion, and plans were made for a celebratory dinner in Albemarle Street that evening. In the interim, Stokes and Barnaby returned to Scotland Yard to put the final touches to their case, while Montague took Violet and Penelope for a celebratory luncheon, then returned them to Albemarle Street and journeyed on to the City, to his office, to tell his staff the news.

  The intrepid investigators regathered at six o’clock in Penelope’s drawing room. Oliver and Megan were present, and were placed on rugs on the floor the better to entertain and divert their proud fathers while Penelope and Griselda demanded and received a full report of all the day’s doings from Montague and Violet.

  Like Penelope, Griselda was disappointed not to have witnessed the spectacular culmination of their investigation. While Penelope had pieced together most of what had occurred from comments the others had let fall, she, too, wished to hear the sequence of events properly related by those who had experienced said events firsthand. The two friends sat side by side on one of the sofas and interrogated Violet and Montague, extracting every last little detail of their thrilling, frightening, and ultimately wonderfully successful day.

  Sitting beside each other on the other sofa, both still smiling, indeed, unable to stop, Montague and Violet bore with the inquisition with indulgent good cheer.

  When they reached the end of their exciting tale, Griselda frowned. “Do you think Mrs. Halstead was . . . well, an accomplice? Did she know of Mortimer’s actions? Did she support them?”

  Stokes looked up from the blocks he was stacking for Megan. “It seems not. She was utterly shocked when we informed her of her husband’s arrest, and I don’t think she was acting.”

  “She came close to fainting when she realized that she had, however unwittingly, played a part in, as she subsequently described it, Mortimer’s foul scheme by persuading Violet to go with her to the Lowndes Street house.” Barnaby glanced up briefly from the tussle he was having with Oliver over a rattle. “I agree with Stokes. She was beyond aghast, and she wasn’t acting.”

  “To her credit, once she grasped the reality, her first thought was for her children—about how their father’s disgrace would affect them and their futures.” Stokes grinned as, with one bat of her small hand, Megan set the tower he’d built crashing to the rug. All but bouncing on her plump bottom, eyes bright with glee, she chortled and clapped. Then she crawled to one of the blocks and retrieved it.

  Stokes glanced at the others. “Incidentally, had there been any doubt as to who the murderer was, when we searched Halstead’s dressing room, we discovered a key to the side door of the Lowndes Street house. It was made some years ago, so Mortimer has had some notion of stealing from his mother for at least that long.”

  “I noticed the keys he—or rather Mrs. Halstead—used to enter the house today were the ones I used to have,” Violet said.

  Stokes nodded. “Exactly. And we didn’t find any other keys to the house, so his key to the side door—and it was well hidden, and why was that?—was his secret way into and out of the house. But to cap it all off”—Stokes’s grin brimmed with satisfaction—“the curtain cord he’d used to strangle Runcorn was cut from one of the cords in his dressing room.”

  Barnaby snorted. “Believe it or not, he’d deliberately scheduled a clash of meetings at the Home Office so one group thought he was in the other group’s meeting, and vice versa—and then he told his staff he’d been summoned by some ambassador and had to step out for an hour.”

  Stokes’s chuckle was dark. “He’s been so busy planning things, there’s no chance he’ll be able to plead insanity.”

  “So he will hang?” Violet asked. When Stokes glanced at her, she said, “I’m not normally so bloodthirsty, but he stole three lives.”

  Stokes merely nodded, his gray gaze direct. “He’ll hang.”

  “I fear I have to ask,” Penelope said. “How are the rest of Lady Halstead’s children reacting to the news?”

  “With all speed,” Barnaby replied, his tone beyond cynical. “They are predictably horrified and cutting all ties, distancing themselves with all possible haste.”

  Penelope feigned a shudder. “What a terrible brood. They are the antithesis of what a family should be.”

  Barnaby arched his brows. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if this incident didn’t draw the other three closer. Maurice and William were both truly shocked—and Cynthia seemed thoroughly shaken. And with her and Camberly already reeling from the impact of Walter’s disgrace, well . . .” After a moment, Barnaby shrugged. “I got the impression the shock might, this time, have shaken the three remaining enough to make them grow up. Enough to make them realize that, to survive, they’ll need to pull together, rather than pull apart.”

  A moment passed, then Griselda said, “For the sake of the Halstead children, I hope that proves to be the case.”

  Gurgles and the patter of blocks on the floor diverted everyone’s attention. For the next several minutes, they all watched the antics of the pair of infants rolling and playing on the rug.

  Montague watched as Violet, soft laughter and encouragement lighting her face, leaned forward to clasp little Megan’s hands and help the tiny tot, who had crawled to Violet’s feet, then had determinedly climbed, hand over hand, up Violet’s skirts until she was upright, stand on her own tiny feet.

  Megan rocked back and forth, weaving, then, with one of her signature chortling gurgles, she fell back on her bottom, hands waving, then batting in delight.

  Stretched out on his stomach, Oliver watched, big eyes curious and wondering.

  Smiling, Violet sat back. She felt Heathcote’s gaze, turned her head, and saw him watching her, a curious, arrested look much like Oliver’s in his eyes.

  It took her only a moment to realize what he was thinking—imagining. She blushed but didn’t look away. Instead, following his train of thought, she held his gaze, then, smiling still, reached out and lightly squeezed his hand.

  Her message, one she felt sure he understood, was simple: They had so much to talk about, and now they could—but later.

  Mostyn chose that moment to enter and announce that dinner was served. Hettie and Gloria followed at his heels, ready to retrieve their young charges and cart them off to bed.

  The six stalwart investigators rose and, each couple arm in arm, went in to dine—to enjoy their celebratory dinner.

  Penelope’s cook had been informed of their news and had responded appropriately; the fare was festive and delicious. The conversation turned general, roaming freely from politics to the police force, to the continuing progress with the seven girls they’d rescued, to social news and around again to their families, their children.

  To the future—a future built upon all that they already possessed.

  When they reached
the syllabub, Barnaby tapped his glass with his spoon.

  At the tinkling, the others all looked up, looked his way.

  “I have a toast,” he told them, raising his wineglass, “and a suggestion. First, the toast.” He lifted his glass high, let his gaze sweep their faces as they did the same. “To us—to the six of us. Working together, we’ve successfully brought a triple-murderer to justice and avenged the three innocents he killed. So—to us!”

  “Hear, hear!” Everyone murmured the refrain and drank.

  “And now,” he said, lowering the glass, “to my suggestion.” He looked at Montague, seated to his right. “Over the last years during which I’ve been a consultant to the Yard, Stokes and I have come upon several cases which have involved financial dealings, at least in part. On some, we had your assistance, while with others we muddled through. However, more than ever these days, criminal cases of the sort Stokes requires my help with are also those most likely to involve—” Barnaby gestured.

  “Financial instruments of one sort or another?” Montague supplied.

  Barnaby inclined his head. “Just so. Crimes within the upper echelons of society usually involve money, and ton money is rarely left under any bed.”

  “Or in a tin on top of some wardrobe,” Stokes dryly added. While the others chuckled, Stokes met Montague’s eyes. “What I believe my friend and colleague here is trying to say is that we—he and I—would be honored if you would consent to join with us in solving whatever such cases come our way.”

  Montague looked from Stokes to Barnaby, then glanced at Violet, seated opposite, and nodded. Looking back at Barnaby, he more formally inclined his head. “It is I who would be honored to join with you gentlemen in your endeavors.”

  “In seeking justice.” Violet raised her glass. “To our three champions of justice.”

  Penelope and Griselda promptly raised their glasses. “Our champions! Hear, hear!”