The Masterful Mr. Montague (37 page)

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.

What did his dignity, his reputation, matter against that?

Clinging to the strap as the hackney veered dangerously around some dowager’s carriage, then rocketed ahead along Piccadilly, Montague suffered a moment of utter self-astonishment. Of looking at himself and seeing . . . someone he hadn’t realized was there, lurking beneath his reserved, conservative, deliberately mild exterior.

He’d never thought of himself as a man of action, yet here he was, racing through Mayfair to rescue a lady.

Compelled to do so, even if it meant making an abject fool of himself.

He truly didn’t care.

All he cared about was Violet.

The thought, and all it meant, resonated in his brain.

Then he drew breath and grimly focused on the Lowndes Street house, and what he might find when he reached there.

T
hey’d been in Lady Halstead’s house for barely half an hour when Violet saw Constance check her tiny watch for the third time.

They’d finished emptying the writing desk of its contents and had sorted the keepsakes into various piles. In a rare burst of familial feeling, Constance had remarked that she supposed she’d better let Cynthia look at things before she threw anything away. Of course, Constance had immediately marred her performance by making a snide, gloating comment about Cynthia no doubt having much to cope with in the wake of Walter’s spectacular fall from grace.

Ignoring the remarks, Violet had moved on to the bureau. It contained significantly more by way of personal mementos than the desk had. Three long, deep drawers’ and three smaller ones’ worth, to be precise.

She and Constance worked steadily through the drawers, top to bottom. They’d started on the first of the long drawers when Constance once again checked her watch.

Hands inside the drawer, Violet paused, assembling the words for a polite inquiry as to what Constance was waiting for, when the sound of the front door opening had them both looking up, then turning to face the sitting room door.

Violet in surprise, but, she immediately saw, Constance in relief.

“Thank heavens.” Constance went to the side table, where she’d left her reticule.

Before Violet could ask what was going on, the sitting room door opened and Mortimer Halstead walked in. He, too, was consulting his watch.

“About time!” Constance’s exasperation rang clearly. “I
told
you I was expected at noon for luncheon with Mrs. Denning, and that’s all the way out at Twickenham!”

Tucking his fob-watch back in his waistcoat pocket, Mortimer raised his gaze to his wife’s face. “Indeed. My apologies, but I was delayed by some accident at Hyde Park Corner—all the traffic is banked up.”

Violet experienced a sudden pang of memory; the detached, disconnected, subtly dismissive expression on Mortimer’s face—entirely usual for him—was one Lady Halstead had described as “Home Office neutral.” It told the world precisely nothing about what was going on in his mind—indeed, it raised the question of whether anything was going on in his mind at all.

Entirely accustomed to her husband’s unresponsive demeanor, Constance humphed. “Lucky, then, that I’m headed in the opposite direction, or my day would have been a disaster.” She glanced at the table before the sofa where she and Violet had arranged the piles of letters and mementos. “Miss Matcham and I have made a start in here, but she says her time is limited today, so I’ll leave you to decide what most needs doing.” Tugging her coat straight, reticule in hand, Constance nodded coldly to Violet. “Miss Matcham.”

Violet didn’t bother replying, not that Constance waited for any acknowledgment; she was already sweeping past Mortimer and on into the front hall.

A second later, the front door opened and shut. Leaving Violet alone with Mortimer Halstead.

It had happened so quickly, and distracted by the unexpected memory, Violet hadn’t had a chance to consider . . . but Maurice was the murderer, not Mortimer. Nevertheless, she’d never liked Mortimer—if she’d had to choose the Halstead offspring she liked least, it would have been him—and, now she consulted them, her thumbs were pricking.

She didn’t want to be alone in this house with Mortimer Halstead.

Even if he wasn’t the murderer.

His gaze, slightly frowning, had fixed on the piles of his mother’s belongings. Mortimer walked forward; halting before the sofa, he examined the various groupings, then sighed. “It’s a start, I suppose, but . . .”

From outside, the sound of a carriage rattling off reached them; Mrs. Halstead making good her escape.

Violet inwardly grimaced. Should she have protested against the impropriety of being left alone with Constance’s husband? Could she have? Would Constance have listened?

No; Constance would have looked at Violet as if she’d been some species of insect far beneath her, much less her husband’s, notice. Constance would have told her not to be ridiculous; she would have been no help.

And as for Mortimer . . . watching him, Violet knew that, innocent of the crimes though he might be, his only interest would be in seeing her do the work he wanted her to do, and that most expeditiously.

She therefore wasn’t surprised when, a touch of peevishness now in his expression, he raised his gaze to her face and stated, “While I daresay this is all well and good, my mother kept her more valued and meaningful possessions in her bedroom, and as I can only spare an hour away from the office—which, as I understand it, will also suit your timetable—might I suggest, Miss Matcham, that we continue these endeavors upstairs?”

Violet hesitated.

Mortimer glanced at the items they’d already sorted. “I’m really only concerned with items of consequence, not knick-knacks and keepsakes—if, instead of bothering with the rest of these, we can at least locate and gather everything stowed upstairs, it will greatly expedite this exercise.” He looked at her. “Don’t you think?”

Violet couldn’t disagree, and she wanted to be finished and done with this task, with this house, as much as, apparently, Mortimer did. Lips tightening—she still didn’t like any of this—she nodded. “As you say.”

She looked at the letters she still held in her hands, then ran her gaze along the piles on the table. Selecting the most appropriate, she set the letters atop it, then looked at Mortimer.

Stepping back, he somewhat pompously waved her out of the room.

Stifling a flaring impulse to head straight for the front door, Violet led the way to the stairs. As she lifted her skirts and started climbing, she realized she’d left her reticule, bonnet, and gloves in the sitting room but decided they would be safe enough there; she would be leaving in an hour.

Halfway up the stairs, premonition—strong and absolute—swept her, chilling her nape, tightening her lungs.

Mortimer . . . how odd that he’d stood back, that he’d elected to follow her up the stairs rather than lead. He’d always treated her as a higher servant, one who should follow, not be deferred to.

Until now.

Her scrambling senses abruptly focused on the man behind her.

He was following two treads back.

Senses abruptly expanding, she registered that his footfalls had altered—not just in rhythm but in weight, from the lighter steps of the fussy, self-important, but, in reality, inconsequential Home Office bureaucrat to a heavy, deliberate, intention-filled tread.

Pressing one hand to her waist, she raised her chin, surreptitiously sucked in air.

And tried to steady her giddy head.

Tried to think through the instincts that were now screaming—that knew, simply
knew,
regardless of all their information to the contrary, that the murderer now walked at her heels.

She’d slowed, but she forced herself to keep climbing as steadily as she could.

How to get out of this? How to escape him?

How
?

Reaching the top of the stairs, moving like an automaton, she stepped into the gallery. Sheer desperation gripped her, and she shoved her wits into action. Mortimer wasn’t tall for a man, but he was taller than she was, and considerably heavier. Unquestionably stronger. As she walked steadily toward Lady Halstead’s room, and very likely to her own doom, her mind frantically surveyed her late employer’s bedroom, searching for something—anything—that might give her a chance.

Pausing outside Lady Halstead’s bedroom door, Violet dragged in another breath, then opened the door and, deliberately leaving it set wide, walked in. She paused, making a show of considering where to start, but she’d already made up her mind.

Battling to show no hint of fear, much less suspicion, she went around the bed, heading for the bedside table that stood against the wall between the bed and the fireplace. “I know her ladyship kept her most recent and important correspondence in here. As well as other items she valued.”

She clamped her lips shut. She couldn’t afford to babble. Penelope hadn’t expected to return to Albemarle Street until sometime after midday; she wouldn’t receive Violet’s message in time to grow curious and come to rescue her—not in time. Not before Mortimer killed her.

That he intended to do so Violet did not doubt—no longer harbored the slightest doubt. He had followed her into the room, his movements, his whole demeanor far different from his customary fussy vagueness; his dark gaze was focused and rested heavily on her. His expression was intent. A predatory stillness seemed to descend over him as, watching him from the corner of her eye, she drew out the top drawer of the small table and started lifting out the contents.

Laying the letters and notes, the ribbons and pins on the bed, she kept her gaze apparently on them, on her hands as she lifted, considered, and sorted each item. Again and again, her gaze flicked up, and from beneath her lashes, she checked on Mortimer, but he didn’t move.

He said nothing at all.

Just watched her.

Minutes ticked past.

Her first handful sorted, she drew in a tight breath and turned again to the drawer. She was reaching in, grasping another handful of Lady Halstead’s mementos, when she saw movement at the edge of her vision—she focused and saw that Mortimer had moved to the opposite side of the bed.

Straightening, she turned and looked at him—as, his gaze still locked on her, he lifted the pillow from that side of the bed.

His expression was set. His mind was made up.

Slowly and deliberately, he started to walk around the bed, his gaze rising to lock with hers.

Violet saw her death in the dark orbs, in his fixed and weighty stare.

She swallowed and took a step back. Found her tongue. “Is that how you killed her?” She nodded at the pillow. “Your mother? With that pillow?”

He blinked, slowed. “Yes.” He hesitated, then added in a blandly conversational tone, “It was surprisingly easy.”

He stepped around the corner of the bed, and she sidled another step, scrambled to say, “What about Runcorn? Was that you, too?”

Halting, turning the pillow so he held it crosswise, he frowned. “Of course. Once the old bat set him onto going through her affairs, eventually he would have stumbled across the missing shares.”

“But Tilly.” Keeping her eyes locked with his—if his gaze was locked with hers he wouldn’t notice what lay beyond her—Violet clasped her hands before her, wrung her fingers, and hoped she was projecting a suitably helpless image. “Why did you kill Tilly? She was no threat to you.”

“Ah—that’s where you’re wrong. Tilly surprised me while I was going through Mama’s share certificates, looking for the one that would best serve my need. When the question of the missing share certificate arose, as it would have at some point, Tilly would have remembered, and I couldn’t have that.” Mortimer’s gaze searched Violet’s face, then his eyes narrowed.

Violet held her breath and prayed he hadn’t guessed her plan.

She almost exhaled in relief when he asked, “Didn’t Tilly tell you? Didn’t she mention seeing me here, going through Mama’s papers?”

Violet forced herself to shake her head. “No. She never mentioned it.”

Mortimer stared at her for a long moment, then his brows faintly arched. “How sad for you that you’re going to die essentially for no reason.”