EPILOGUE
The funeral of Marjorie, Lady Galbraith, was held at St. George’s in Hanover Square. The subsequent burial and committal service was held at the new cemetery at Kensal Green.
With Barnaby, Violet, and Griselda, Penelope attended the church service as well as the burial. She was quite clear in her own mind that her purpose in doing so was to support the living rather than mourn, much less honor, the dead. As she murmured to Barnaby as they took their seats in the upper gallery of the church, “I’m finding it difficult to muster any sympathy for a lady who so signally failed to extend that sentiment to her nearest and dearest.” After a moment, she added, “And who was so silly as to not value the best things in life.”
Barnaby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t reply.
The coffin was already in place before the altar. From her perch in the gallery, Penelope observed those congregating in the nave below. Stokes’s announcement had appeared in all the major news sheets that morning; from the myriad snippets of conversation floating up from the crowd—along the lines of “I say, did you see…?” and “It was an accident after all”—most of those in attendance had caught up with the news.
The arrival of the Latimers together with the Galbraiths, Lord and Lady Latimer walking slowly up the aisle on either side of Lord Galbraith, caused what in any other situation would have been a sensation. But as the members of both families followed their elders up the aisle, Hartley, pale and drawn, with Cynthia on his arm, followed by Georgina and Lord Fitzforsythe supporting Geraldine, Cecilia and Brandywell supporting Primrose, with Millicent and Monica, arms twined, heads bowed together, quietly bringing up the rear, the incipient speculation transmogrified into approving murmurs.
Alert to the nuances, Penelope spent much of the short service reading the expressions, and where possible the lips, of those she knew to be the biggest gossipmongers among the crowd. There had been a decent turnout, and those who actually knew the family greatly outnumbered those who had merely come to gawp and say they had attended the funeral of a three-day celebrity.
Eventually satisfied that the overall impression later conveyed to the wider ton would be one of a reconciliation to be approved of and quietly applauded—and of a service that was otherwise unremarkable and in understated good taste—Penelope relaxed and allowed herself to be swept up in the singing of the hymns.
Later, after they had traveled in their carriage in slow procession to Kensal Green, she stood with the others on the fringes of the mourners and watched the final laying to rest of Marjorie, Lady Galbraith. The crowd was smaller, perhaps a hundred strong; Penelope recognized several faces from the Fairchilds’ ball, Lady Howatch among them.
Monica, the veil she’d worn in the church put back for the final farewell, looked utterly wretched but had thus far borne up. Millicent stood beside her, her arm wound in Monica’s; Monica leaned on Millicent, who stood staunchly beside her throughout, occasionally dipping her head to murmur something soothing. Or perhaps distracting. Deeming Monica in capable hands, Penelope considered the rest of the Galbraiths. As in the church, all were supported by their Latimer counterparts.
Then the coffin was lowered, the last prayer said, and the benediction offered.
At the minister’s invitation, Lord Galbraith, moving stiffly, bent and cast the first sod. Then, with a quiet word and a wave, he invited Lady Latimer to the graveside.
Garbed in unrelieved black, her veil put back, Hester Latimer stepped forward and cast her own sod. In that moment, her customary mask was not in place; her sorrow and sadness were there for all to see as she farewelled her childhood friend. None could doubt the sincerity of what, in that instant, was revealed, and in the face of one who was usually so rigidly reserved, the naked emotion was all the more powerful.
What followed as Galbraiths, then Latimers, stepped forward in turn, was deeply moving.
Behind her glasses, Penelope blinked several times; she noticed Lady Howatch wielding a lace-trimmed handkerchief.
And then it was done. It was time for the living to get on with their lives, and for the dead to be left in peace.
Lady Latimer’s bosom swelled as she drew in a deep breath, then, raising her head, she turned to her family—not just her own but the Galbraiths as well—and like the matriarch she was, she gathered them up, gently chivvied them into line, and with her husband on Lord Galbraith’s other side, she took his lordship’s arm and led them all from the grave.
Penelope watched for a moment longer, and saw Hester Latimer raise her head and glance back, casting her eye over her brood—all of them—in a manner Penelope recognized from having seen her own mother so often do the same.
Barnaby turned to her and raised his brows.
Penelope met his eyes and smiled. “The Galbraiths and the Latimers are going to be all right.”
Barnaby glanced at the families in question, then he smiled, set his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve, and with Violet and Griselda, they started walking back to their carriage.
* * *
Eight days later, Penelope was sitting in her garden parlor, curled up in one corner of the sofa, slippers off and feet tucked under her skirts while she devoured that morning’s Gazette, catching up with the latest news.
On the floor before the sofa, Griselda and Violet were playing with Oliver and Megan. Earlier, Violet had admitted to having felt queasy for the last several mornings, which had raised hopes, but it was too early yet to tell. The possibility of another baby to add to their group had delighted them, but they’d agreed to keep their raptures in check for the moment, and that their husbands didn’t yet need to know.
With Violet’s help, and after an emergency outing to Montrose Place to seek Jeremy Carling’s advice on several convoluted passages, Penelope had finally finished her translation and dispatched it to the museum. She’d been glad to see the last of it; it had been one of the most boring tracts she’d ever read.
Reaching the announcements section in the Gazette, her eyes alighted on the notice she’d hoped to find. “Aha! Here it is.”
Both Violet and Griselda looked up expectantly.
Penelope duly read, “Lord and Lady Latimer, of Hanover Square and Beechly Park, Surrey, are pleased to announce the betrothal of their daughter, Cynthia Alice, to Mr. Hartley William Galbraith, the son of Lord Galbraith and the late Lady Galbraith, of Hanover Square and Colmey Grange, Sussex. Due to recent bereavement, neither family is presently receiving.”
“Good.” Griselda nodded approvingly. “I’m glad they didn’t wait.”
“Indeed.” Violet handed Megan the block she was stretching for. “Those families have had their lives suspended for quite long enough.”
Folding the paper and setting it aside, Penelope said, “Neither Cynthia nor Hartley struck me as the sort to let life pass them by, but I’m glad their elders are supporting them in that. Both families need to move forward, and it’s reassuring to see that they are.”
Oliver got to his feet and toddled over to the sofa, a block in one chubby hand. Casting himself at Penelope, he held out the block. “M’ma, play.”
Penelope grinned, took the block, and bent to place a kiss amid Oliver’s golden curls.
Impatient, he tugged her sleeve. “M’ma, play now!”
Both Griselda and Violet burst out laughing.
“He may have Barnaby’s curls,” Griselda said.
“But he has your temperament,” Violet finished.
Penelope’s eyes were all for her demanding son. She beamed at him. “Yes, my darling, now that Mama’s work is all done, it is definitely time to play.”
With that, she slid off the sofa and joined the others on the Aubusson rug for a rowdy hour of simple fun.
Later, when both children were sated and lolling dozily in their mothers’ laps while, sitting amid the strewn blocks, the three ladies leaned contentedly against the sofa and chairs, Violet looked at the others—not in envy but in expectation—and murmured, “The greatest pleasures in life are, indeed, free, and most often found with family.”
“Mmm.” Penelope gently combed her fingers through Oliver’s curls. “Truer words, Violet dear, would be hard to find, but I feel compelled to clarify that family in that context isn’t only about blood. Family, in that sense, is what you make it.”
Griselda and Violet murmured agreement, then Hettie and Gloria arrived to take the children upstairs for their luncheon, and the ladies rose, shook out their skirts, re-gathered their dignities, and sat down to plan the rest of their day.
* * *
The wedding of Cynthia Latimer and Hartley Galbraith was celebrated quietly just over a month later. Penelope, Griselda, and Violet were thrilled to have received gilt-edged invitations; they duly took their seats in the nave of St. George’s and watched with interest and appreciation as Cynthia and Hartley succeeded in formally linking their families.
“Of course,” Penelope whispered, “the link was already there, but as the minister just stated, it’s now a link that no man—or woman—can put asunder.”
Despite the subdued nature of the event, an undercurrent of happiness welled, carried in Cynthia and Hartley’s shared glances, in the joy and the hope that lit their faces and was reflected in their siblings’ and parents’ eyes. Regardless of the recent past, it was a joyous occasion, and that joy burgeoned and overflowed, and, combining with hopeful expectations for the future, swept away the wraiths of sorrow lingering from the previous time the two families had gathered in that church.
And when the time came and the music from the organ swelled into the triumphal march, the assembled friends and connections all rose, cheering, clapping, smiling with sincere pleasure and encouragement, and calling out greetings and good wishes as the beaming couple, now man and wife, walked back up the aisle.
As Penelope, Griselda, and Violet—all smiling delightedly, too—gathered their shawls and reticules and prepared to follow, Penelope whispered, “Did you see?”
When, brows rising in question, the other two looked at her, she grinned. “All the ladies in the bridal party are wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes.”
* * *
Several months later, Penelope sat at the breakfast table, munching a slice of toast slathered with her favorite gooseberry preserves, while she mentally reviewed the recent announcements from the Latimer and Galbraith families.
Geraldine was now engaged to Major General Quigley, a senior man in the army, and was no doubt busily arranging her wedding, which was to be held later in the year—a month after Cecilia Latimer and Herbert Brandywell’s nuptials. Primrose and the highly eligible Mr. Hammond had announced their betrothal, which had been quickly followed by the news that Millicent Latimer and Rupert, the Duke of Salford’s son, had fallen rather dramatically in love, but as both were relatively young, their parents had suggested—and everyone was expecting—a long engagement.
And in the last week, Penelope had heard via her very efficient grapevine that Monica Galbraith and the Earl of Exeter’s son, a close friend of the Duke of Salford’s son, were inseparable, and the Exeters had invited both the Galbraiths and the Latimers for an extended visit at their castle.
Thinking of how Marjorie Galbraith would have wallowed in such excitement and social interest, Penelope humphed and muttered to herself, “If she’d only done the right thing, she wouldn’t be just happy, she would be in alt.”
Unsurprisingly, the latter two announcements in particular had enshrined the reputation of Lady Latimer’s shoes as Cinderella talismans. To Penelope’s mind, in light of her own, somewhat unexpected interest in the shoes, that was all to the good.
Seated at the other end of the table, sipping his coffee, Barnaby had been immersed in reading The Times and the other major morning news sheets; suddenly, he gave a surprised laugh. Setting down his cup, he stared at the page he’d been perusing. “Huh!”
Folding the news sheet open to the relevant page, he leaned forward and, smiling, tossed the paper down the table to Penelope. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
Picking up the news sheet, Penelope focused on an announcement prominently placed and outlined in black. In clear and concise language, it stated that the exclusive agreements held by the Latimer and Galbraith families for the supply of the ladies’ ballroom shoes known as Lady Latimer’s shoes had been made over to the Foundling House of London. All ladies wishing to acquire such shoes were directed to make inquiries at either Hook’s Emporium in New Road, Camden Town, or at Gibson and Sons in Mercer Street, Long Acre. Prospective purchasers were advised that a portion of the sale price would be paid to an account managed by Montague and Son of Chapel Court in the City for the upkeep of premises and the furthering of lessons for the foundlings of London.
The announcement concluded with a subtly worded exhortation to all ladies, young and old, to buy.
Reaching the end of the notice, Penelope grinned. “Violet outdid herself.”
Barnaby had been checking the other news sheets. “The same notice is in all the others, too.”
“Excellent.” Penelope had sent the notices herself. “I couldn’t be sure they would all run on the same day.”
After studying another copy of the notice, Barnaby looked down the table and caught her eye. “This is really very neat.”
Penelope’s grin widened into a beaming smile. “I thought so. And I have to say, along with the other directors of the Foundling House, I am really very pleased with the way everything’s turned out.”
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ENTRIES IN THE CASEBOOK OF BARNABY ADAIR
Volume 1: Full Length Novel
Volume 1.5: Short Novel
Volume 2: Full Length Novel
THE CURIOUS CASE OF LADY LATIMER’S SHOES
Volume 2.5: Mid-length Novel
Volume 3: Full Length Novel – July 29, 2014.
COMING on JULY 29, 2014
The next fascinating installment in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair
LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR
Volume 3 in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Series
Miraculously spared from death, Malcolm Sinclair erases the notorious man he once was. Reinventing himself as Thomas Glendower, he strives to make amends for his past, yet he never imagines penance might come via a secretive lady he discovers living in his secluded manor.
Rose has a plausible explanation for why she and her children are residing in Thomas’s house, but she quickly realizes that he’s far too intelligent to fool. Revealing the truth is impossibly dangerous, yet day by day he wins her trust, and then her heart.
But then her enemy closes in, and Rose turns to Thomas as the only man who can protect her and the children. And when she asks for his help, Thomas finally understands his true purpose, and with unwavering commitment, he seeks redemption the only way he can—through living the reality of loving Rose.
A pre-Victorian tale of romance and mystery in the classic historical romance style.
Full length novel of 100,000 words.
Short Excerpt from LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR:
CHAPTER 1
March 1838
Lilstock Priory, Somerset
Thomas rode out through the gates with the sun glistening on the frosted grass and sparkling in the dewdrops decorating the still bare branches.
His horse was a pale gray he’d bought some months previously, when traveling with Roland on one of his visits to the abbey. Their route had taken them through Bridgewater, and he’d found the dappled gray there. The gelding was mature, strong, very much up to his weight, but also steady, a necessity given his physical limitations; he could no longer be certain of applying sufficient force with his knees to manage the horse in stressful situations.
Silver—the novices had named him—was beyond getting stressed. If he didn’t like something, he simply stopped, which, in the circumstances, was entirely acceptable to Thomas, who harbored no wish whatever to be thrown.
His bones already had enough fractures for five lifetimes.
As he rode down the road toward Bridgewater, he instinctively assessed his aches and pains. He would always have them, but, in general, they had sunk to a level he could ignore. That, or his senses had grown dulled, his nerves inured to the constant abrading.
He’d ridden daily over the last month in preparation for this journey, building up his strength and reassuring himself that he could, indeed, ride for the four or five days required to reach his destination.
The first crest in the road drew near, and a sense of leaving something precious behind tugged. Insistently.
Drawing rein on the rise, he wheeled Silver and looked back.
The priory sat, gray stone walls sunk into the green of the headland grasses, with the blue sky and the pewter of the Channel beyond. He looked, and remembered all the hours he’d spent, with Roland, with Geoffrey, with all the other monks who had accepted him without question or judgment.
They, more than he, had given him this chance—to go forth and complete his penance, and so find ultimate peace.
Courtesy of Drayton, he had money in his pocket, and in his saddlebags he had everything he would need to reach his chosen abode and settle in.
He was finally doing it, taking the first step along the road to find his fate.
In effect, surrendering himself to Fate, freely giving himself up to whatever lay in wait.
Thomas stared at the walls of the priory for a moment more, then, turning Silver, he rode on.
* * *
His way lay via Taunton, a place of memories, and of people who might, despite the disfigurement of his injuries, recognize him; he rode straight through and on, spending the night at the small village of Waterloo Cross before rising with the sun and continuing west.
Late in the afternoon on the fourth day after he’d ridden out from the priory, he arrived at Breage Manor. He’d ridden through Helston and out along the road to Penzance, then had turned south along the lane that led toward the cliffs. The entrance to the drive was unremarkable; a simple gravel avenue, it wended between stunted trees, then across a short stretch of rising open ground to end before the front door.
He’d bought the property years ago, entirely on a whim. It had appealed to him, and for once in his life he’d given into impulse and purchased it—a simple, but sound gentleman’s residence in the depths of Cornwall. In all his forty-two years, it was the only house he’d personally owned, the only place he could imagine calling home.
A solid, but unimaginative rectangular block constructed of local bricks in muted shades of red, ochre, and yellow, the house consisted of two stories plus dormers beneath a lead roof. The windows of the main rooms looked south, over the cliffs to the sea.
As he walked Silver up the drive, Thomas scanned the house, and found it the same as his memories had painted it. He hadn’t been back in years—many more than the five years he’d spent in the priory. The Gattings, the couple he’d installed as caretaker and housekeeper, had clearly continued to look after the house as if it were their own. The glass in the windows gleamed, the front steps were swept, and even from a distance the brass knocker gleamed.
Thomas halted Silver at the point where the track to the stable met the drive, but then, in deference to the old couple who he hadn’t informed of his impending arrival, he urged Silver nearer to the front steps and dismounted. Despite the damage to the left side of his face and his other injuries, the Gattings would recognize him, but he didn’t need to shock them by walking unheralded through the back door.
Or clomping, as the case would be.
Retrieving his cane from the saddle-holder that the stable-master at the priory had fashioned for it, then releasing Silver’s reins, Thomas watched as the big gray ambled a few steps off the drive and bent his head to crop the rough grass. Satisfied the horse wouldn’t stray much further, Thomas headed for the front door.
Gaining the small front porch, he was aware of tiredness dragging at his limbs—hardly surprising given the distance he’d ridden combined with the additional physical effort of having to cope with his injuries. But he was finally there—the only place he considered home—and now he could rest, at least until Fate found him.
The bell chain hung beside the door; grasping it, he tugged.
Deep in the house, he heard the bell jangling. Straightening, stiffening his spine, adjusting his grip on the silver handle of his cane, he prepared to meet Gatting again.
Footsteps approached the door, swift and light. Before he had time to do more than register the oddity, the door opened.
A woman stood in the doorway; she regarded him steadily. “Yes? Can I help you?”
He’d never seen her before. Thomas blinked, then frowned. “Who are you?” Who the devil are you were the words that had leapt to his tongue, but his years in the priory had taught him to watch his words.
Her chin lifted a notch. She was tallish for a woman, only half a head shorter than he, and she definitely wasn’t young enough—or demure enough—to be any sort of maid. “I rather think that’s my question.”
“Actually, no—it’s mine. I’m Thomas Glendower, and I own this house.”
She blinked at him. Her gaze didn’t waver but her grip on the edge of the door tightened. After several seconds of utter silence, she cleared her throat, then said, “As I’m afraid I don’t know you, I will need to see some proof of your identity before I allow you into the house.”
He hadn’t stopped frowning. He tried to look past her, into the shadows of the front hall. “Where are the Gattings? The couple I left here as caretakers?”
“They retired—two years ago now. I’d been assisting them for two years before that, so I took over when they left.” Suspicion—which, he realized, had been there from the outset—deepened in her eyes. “If you really were Mr. Glendower, you would know that. It was all arranged properly with…your agent in London—he would have informed you of the change.”
She’d been smart enough not to give him the name. As she started to edge the door shut, he replied, with more than a touch of acerbity, “If you mean Drayton, he would not have thought the change of sufficient importance to bother me with.” With a brief wave, he indicated his damaged self. “For the last five years, I’ve been otherwise occupied.”
At least that served to stop her from shutting the door in his face. Instead, she studied him, a frown blooming in her eyes; her lips—quite nice lips, as it happened—slowly firmed into a thin line. “I’m afraid, sir, that, regardless, I will need some proof of your identity before I can allow you into this house.”
Try to see things from the other person’s point of view. He was still having a hard enough time doing that with men; she was a woman—he wasn’t going to succeed. Thomas stared at her—and she stared back. She wasn’t going to budge. So…he set his mind to the task, and it solved it easily enough. “Do you dust in the library?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
“The desk in there—it sits before a window that faces the side garden.”
“It does, but anyone could have looked in and seen that.”
“True, but if you dust the desk, you will know that the center drawer is locked.” He held up a hand to stop her from telling him that that was often the case with such desks. “If you go to the desk and put your back to that drawer, then look to your right, you will see a set of bookshelves, and on the shelf at”—he ran his gaze measuringly over her—“about your chin height, on the nearer corner you will see a carriage clock. In the front face of the base of that clock is a small rectangular panel. Press on it lightly and it will spring open. Inside the hidden space, you will find the key to the center drawer of the desk. Open the drawer, and you will see a black-leather-covered notebook. Inside, on the first leaf, you will find my name, along with the date—1816. On the following pages are figures that represent the monthly ore tonnages cleared from the two local mining leases I then owned.” He paused, then cocked a brow at her. “Will that satisfy you as identification?”
Lips tight, she held his gaze steadily, then, with commendable calm, replied, “If you will wait here, I’ll put your identification to the test.”
With that, she shut the door.
Thomas sighed, then he heard a bolt slide home and felt affronted.
What did she think? That he might force his way in?
As if to confirm his incapacity, his left leg started to ache; he needed to get his weight off it for at least a few minutes, or the ache would convert to a throb. Going back down the three shallow steps, he let himself down to sit on the porch, stretching his legs out and leaning his cane against his left knee.
He hadn’t even learned her name, yet he still felt insulted that she might imagine he was any threat to her. How could she think so? He couldn’t even chase her. Even if he tried, all she would have to do would be to toss something in his path, and he would trip and fall on his face.
Some people found disfigurement hard to look upon, but although she’d seen his scars, she’d hardly seemed to notice—she certainly hadn’t allowed him any leeway because of his injuries. And, in truth, he didn’t look that bad. The left side of his face had been battered, leaving his eyelid drooping, his cheekbone slightly depressed, and a bad scar across his jaw on that side, but the right side of his face had survived with only a few minor scars; that was why he’d been so sure the Gattings would know him on sight.
The rest of his body was a similar patchwork of badly scarred areas, and those relatively unscathed, but all that was concealed by his clothes. His hands had survived well enough, at least after Roland had finished with them, to pass in all normal circumstances. The only obvious outward signs of his injuries were his left leg, stiff from the hip down, and the cane he needed to ensure he kept his balance.
He was trying to see himself through her eyes, and, admittedly, he was still capable sexually, but, really, how could she possibly see him as a threat?
He’d reached that point in his fruitless cogitations when he realized he was the object of someone’s gaze. Glancing to the right, he saw two children—a boy of about ten and a girl several years younger—staring at him from around the corner of the house.
As they didn’t duck back when he saw them, he deduced that they had a right to be there…and that they might well be the reason for his new housekeeper’s caution.
The little girl continued to unabashedly study him, but the boy’s gaze shifted to Silver.
Even from this distance and angle, Thomas saw the longing in the boy’s face. “You can pat him if you like. He’s oldish and used to people. He won’t bite or fuss.”
The boy looked at Thomas; his eyes, his whole face, lit with pleasure. “Thank you.” He stepped out from the house and walked calmly toward Silver, who saw him, but, as Thomas had predicted, the horse made no fuss and allowed the boy to stroke his long neck, which the lad did with all due reverence.
Thomas watched the pair, for, of course, the girl trailed after her brother; from their features, Thomas was fairly certain they were siblings, and related to his new housekeeper. He’d also noticed the clarity of the boy’s diction, and realized that it, too, matched that of the woman who had opened the door. Whoever they were, wherever they had come from, it wasn’t from around here.
“Nor,” Thomas murmured, “from any simple cottage.”
There could, of course, be many reasons for that. The role of housekeeper to a gentleman of Mr. Thomas Glendower’s standing would be an acceptable post for a lady from a gentry family fallen on hard times.
Hearing footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, rather more slowly this time, Thomas picked up his cane and levered himself back onto his feet. He turned to the door as the woman opened it. She held his black notebook in her hand, opened to the front page.
Rose looked out at the man who had told her what date she would find in the black-leather-covered notebook in her absent employer’s locked desk drawer—a drawer she knew had not been opened during all the years she’d been in the house. Hiding her inward sigh, she shut the book and used it to wave him in as she pulled held the door wide. “Welcome home, Mr. Glendower.”
His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head and didn’t openly gloat. “Perhaps we can commence anew, Mrs….?”
Her hand falling, Rose lifted her chin. “Sheridan. Mrs. Sheridan. I’m a widow.” Looking out to where Homer and Pippin were petting Glendower’s horse, she added, “My children and I joined the Gattings here four years ago. I was looking for work, and the Gattings had grown old and needed help.”
“Indeed. Having added up the years, I now realize that was likely to have occurred. I haven’t visited here for quite some time.”
So why had he had to return now? But Rose knew there was no point railing at Fate; there was nothing for it but to allow him in, to allow him to reclaim his property—it was his, after all. She no longer had any doubt of that; quite aside from the date in the book, she would never have found the hidden compartment in the clock if he hadn’t told her of it. She’d handled the clock often enough while dusting, and had never had any inkling that it contained a concealed compartment. And the clock had been there for at least the last four years, so how could he have known? No, he was Thomas Glendower, just as he claimed, and she couldn’t keep him out of his own house. And the situation might have been much worse.
Stepping back, she held the door open and waited while, leaning heavily on his cane, he negotiated the final step into the house. “Homer—my son—will bring up your bags and stable your horse.”
“Thank you.” Head rising, he halted before her.
She looked into eyes that were a mixture of browns and greens—and a frisson of awareness slithered down her spine. Her lungs tightened in reaction. Why, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, she felt perfectly certain that behind those eyes dwelled a mind that was incisive, observant, and acutely intelligent.
Not a helpful fact, yet she sensed no threat emanating from him, not on any level. She’d grown accustomed to trusting her instincts about men, had learned that those instincts were rarely wrong. And said instincts were informing her that the advent of her until-now-absent employer wasn’t the disaster she had at first thought.
Despite the damage done to his face, he appeared personable enough—indeed, the undamaged side of his face was almost angelic in its purity of feature. And regardless of his injuries, and the fact he was clearly restricted in his movements, his strength was still palpable; he might be a damaged archangel, but he still had power.
Mentally castigating herself for such fanciful analogies, she released the door, letting it swing half shut. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, sir, I’ll make up your room. And I expect you’d like some warm water to wash away the dust.”
Thomas inclined his head. Stepping further inside as the door swung behind him, he reached for the black notebook she still held. His fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath and rapidly released the book.
So…the attraction he’d sensed moments earlier had been real, and not just on his part?
He felt faintly shocked. He hadn’t expected…straightening, he raised his head, drew in a deeper breath—and detected the fragile, elusive scent of roses.
The effect that had on him—instantaneous and intense—was even more shocking.
Abruptly clamping a lid on all such reactions—he couldn’t afford to frighten her; he needed her to keep house for him, not flee into the night—he tucked the notebook into his coat pocket and quietly said, “I’ll be in the library.”
One glance at the stairs was enough to convince him that he wouldn’t be able to manage them until he’d rested for a while.
“Indeed, sir.” His new housekeeper shut the door, and in brisk, no-nonsense fashion informed him, “Dinner will be ready at six o’clock. As I didn’t know you would be here—”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sheridan.” He started limping toward the library. “I’ve been living with monks for the last five years. I’m sure your cooking will be more than up to the mark.”
He didn’t look, but was prepared to swear she narrowed her eyes on his back. Ignoring that, and the niggling lure of the mystery she and her children posed, he opened the library door and went in—to reclaim the space, and then wait for Fate to find him.
To be released July 29, 2014.
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Another entry in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair
THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE
Montague has devoted his life to managing the wealth of London's elite, but at a huge cost: a family of his own. Then the enticing Miss Violet Matcham seeks his help, and in the puzzle she presents him, he finds an intriguing new challenge professionally…and personally.
Violet, devoted lady-companion to the aging Lady Halstead, turns to Montague to reassure her ladyship that her affairs are in order. But the famous Montague is not at all what she'd expected—this man is compelling, decisive, supportive, and strong—everything Violet needs in a champion, a position to which Montague rapidly lays claim.
But then Lady Halstead is murdered and Violet and Montague, aided by Barnaby Adair, Inspector Stokes, Penelope, and Griselda, race to expose a cunning and cold-blooded killer...who stalks closer and closer. Will Montague and Violet learn the shocking truth too late to seize their chance at enduring love?
A pre-Victorian tale of romance and mystery in the classic historical romance style.
Full length novel of 120,000 words.
Short Excerpt from THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE:
CHAPTER 1
Heathcote Montague was sitting at his desk in the inner sanctum of his suite of offices a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, the gloom of an October evening closing in beyond the window, when he heard an altercation in the outer office. Deep in the ledger of one of his noble clients’ enterprises, he blocked out the sounds of dispute and worked steadily on through the figures.
Numbers—especially numbers that represented sums of money—held a near-hypnotic appeal; quite aside from being his bread and butter, they were his passion.
And had been for years.
Possibly for too long.
Certainly too exclusively.
Ignoring the niggling inner voice that, over the last year, with each passing month, each successive week, had grown from a vague whisper to a persistent, nerve-jarring whine, he focused on the neat rows of figures marching down the page and forced himself to concentrate.
The hubbub by the main office door subsided; he heard the outer door open, then shut. Doubtless the caller had been another potential client attracted by that wretched article in The Times. A terse note to the editor had resulted in bemused bafflement; how could Montague not be pleased at being named the most experienced and most trustworthy man-of-business in London?
He had refrained from blasting back an excoriating reply to the effect that he and his firm did not require, much less appreciate, public referrals. Which was the plain truth; he and his small staff were stretched to their limit. Experienced agents as skilled with figures as he was were thin on the ground, yet the reason his practice was universally held in high esteem was precisely because he refused to hire those who were not as pedantic about business, and especially clients’ money, as he was; he had no intention of risking his firm’s standing by hiring less-able, less-devoted, or less-trustworthy men.
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 hazelish 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.
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.
FURTHER UPCOMING ENTRIES IN THE CASEBOOK OF BARNABY ADAIR
LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR
Volume 3; Full Length Novel – July 29, 2014.
&
THERE ARE 3 MORE CASES PENDING FOR BARNABY, PENELOPE, AND FRIENDS:
starring the following characters:
Dr. David Sanderson – Ryder’s friend, first sighted in The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh
Hugo Adair – Barnaby’s cousin, first sighted in The Curious Case of Lady Latimer’s Shoes
Lord Carradale – Barnaby’s acquaintance, first sighted in The Curious Case of Lady Latimer’s Shoes
Other Titles from Stephanie Laurens
Cynster Series
Cynster Sisters Trilogy
Cynster Sisters Duo
Cynster Special
By Winter’s Light (coming October 28, 2014)
The Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novels
The Curious Case of Lady Latimer’s Shoes
(coming July 29, 2014)
Bastion Club Series
(Prequel)
Black Cobra Quartet Series
Other Novels
Medieval
Novellas
– from the anthologies Rough Around the Edges and Scandalous Brides
– from the anthology Scottish Brides
– from the anthology Secrets of a Perfect Night
– from the anthology Hero, Come Back
– from the anthology It Happened One Night
– from the anthology It Happened One Season
Short Stories
– from the anthology Royal Weddings
– from the anthology Royal Bridesmaids
UK-Style Regency Romances
Tangled Reins
Four in Hand
Impetuous Innocent
Fair Juno
The Reasons for Marriage
A Lady of Expectations
An Unwilling Conquest
A Comfortable Wife