The Masterful Mr. Montague

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!”

Barnaby grinned down the table. “As it happens, that was only half of my suggestion. The other half”—he looked at Violet, on Penelope’s right—“was to pay tribute to Violet’s contribution to the investigation, especially her insights into the people involved, and to ask, if I may, whether you are intending to continue as Penelope’s secretary?”

Violet blinked and looked at Penelope.

Who reached out and closed her hand over Violet’s. “Oh, please, do say yes.” Penelope’s expression conveyed a hint of incipient desperation. “God alone knows what I might be forgetting these days—I do so need you, someone I trust, to take charge of things.”

Violet smiled and closed her other hand over Penelope’s, lightly squeezed. “Then of course I’ll remain in the post—I’d be delighted to continue working with you.”

“Excellent.” Penelope beamed, then looked up the table at her husband. “But why did you want to know that?”

“Because,” Barnaby said, “I wanted to suggest that, in support of yours and Griselda’s reemergence into more active investigating, having Violet add her particular expertise would bring yet another dimension to our team.”

“Of course!” Griselda turned an approving gaze on Barnaby. “How very insightful of you, Barnaby dear.” Leaning forward to address Penelope and Violet, Griselda said, “Do agree, Violet—if you join us, we’ll have an excellent base from which to understand all the victims and villains likely to come our way.” Griselda waved. “Penelope knows all about the aristocracy, and I know all about the middle and working classes, but neither Penelope nor I have all that much understanding of the social layers that lie between.”

“The gentry.” Penelope had been nodding eagerly. “Indeed.” She met Violet’s eyes. “Do say yes, again, Violet—we truly would welcome your input into our investigations.”

Her smile growing deeper, Violet looked from Barnaby, to Griselda, then to Penelope. “As your secretary, I hadn’t imagined sitting in the parlor and writing your letters all day. I had rather assumed I would join you—indeed, I’m not sure how you might manage to keep me away.”

“Wonderful!” Penelope beamed up the table, meeting Barnaby’s blue gaze and letting her very real appreciation of his tack—his suggestion—show. Having Violet join them was the perfect way to support and assist Penelope and Griselda in maintaining the new balance to which they were still making minor adjustments. The perfect way to set everything in place so they could go forward into the future with confidence.

Sitting back, letting her gaze travel the table, seeing Violet and Griselda talking about hats, and Barnaby, Stokes, and Montague exchanging comments about a recent political scandal, Penelope felt happy satisfaction well, then overflow. Reaching for her glass, she raised it. The action caught the others’ eyes and they looked at her inquiringly even as they, too, reached for their glasses.

“I have a toast, too.” So saying, Penelope raised her glass high. “To our new investigative team—may our future be bright!”

The “Hear, hears!” and echoing “To our futures!” were heartfelt and strong.

Looking up the table, Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, tipped her glass to him, and drank deeply.

They left the table for the drawing room, where the talk went on for some time. Despite their differences in station, they faced many of the same personal hurdles and shared many of the same aspirations, the same dreams, not just for themselves and their families but for wider society as well.

Eventually, Stokes raised his head, listening. “The rain’s finally here.” The clouds had been massing all afternoon, and from the drumming on the glass and the gurgling in the drains, had finally decided to spill their contents liberally over the city. Looking at Griselda, Stokes smiled, fondness and more in his eyes. “We’d better get on, my love, before the traffic slows even more.”


Griselda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Heavens, yes! Look at the time.”

Ten minutes later, Violet stood beside Heathcote, with Barnaby and Penelope near, all four hovering just inside the front door as they laughed and waved at, and called good-natured suggestions to, Stokes and Griselda, who, with Megan bundled up and hugged close in Griselda’s arms and Hettie huddling near, were escorted by Mostyn and two footmen, all holding large umbrellas high, to Stokes’s carriage, waiting at the curb. The rain was teeming down, drops glinting in the lamp-beams as they pelted to the ground.

Montague sniffed the air. “By tomorrow morning, the City will be washed clean.”

A sudden gust of wind and a flurry of rain had the four hurriedly retreating back into the hall.

Leaving the door almost closed, Barnaby turned to Montague and held out his hand. “I sent a footman down to Piccadilly to find you a hackney. Can’t have you going out in this and catching your death.”

“Or drowning.” Grasping Montague’s arm, Penelope stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for saving my secretary—she’s only been with me a short time, but already I don’t know what I would do without her.”

“More accurately,” Barnaby said, “you do know, and that only makes you more determined to keep her.” He smiled at Violet and took her hands in his. “If I may?” He bent and brushed a kiss to her cheek. Then he released her and, taking Penelope’s hand, stepped back toward the stairs as he nodded to both Violet and Montague. “Good night to you both.”

“Indeed.” Allowing Barnaby to draw her up the stairs, Penelope sent an air-kiss winging Violet’s way. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow sometime, Violet dear.”

Violet watched the pair disappear up the stairs. As she turned to Heathcote, the two footmen came back through the front door and walked on down the hall.

One nodded to Heathcote. “Mr. Mostyn said as the hackney will be just a few minutes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Montague waited until the pair had passed through the swinging door at the rear of the hall, then, turning to Violet, taking her hands—hands she readily surrendered—he looked into her face.

Her well-beloved face.

She looked up at him; the same hopes and expectations that were burgeoning in his chest were shining in her lovely eyes.

He smiled, gently, then raised one of her hands and brushed his lips to her fingers. “We need to talk—we have so much to say, to discuss.” He searched her eyes. “To decide.” He drew a deeper breath and faintly grimaced as the sound of the rain drumming outside increased—as if to remind him he needed to go. He sighed. “Sadly, however, this is clearly not the right time or, indeed, the right place.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like, if you agree, to call on you tomorrow. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you. To show you.”

Her smile was all gentle understanding. “Of course. I’ll be here, waiting for you. At what time will you call?”

His smile deepened. “I would say as early as possible, but . . . shall we say ten o’clock? At least that seems somewhat civilized.”

Her smile broke into a soft laugh. “Dear Heathcote—ten o’clock sounds perfect.” She held his gaze and quietly said, “I would wait for you for forever, but I’d really rather not. I’ve waited all my life for you, and now you’re here . . .”

He nodded and pressed a more heated kiss to her other hand. “Indeed. Now we’re here, we both want to get on.”

On a waft of wet wind and a flurry of raindrops, Mostyn looked around the door. “Carriage is here, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Releasing Violet’s hands, Montague lifted his hat from the nearby stand. His eyes still on her, he nodded, then forced himself to turn to the door, set his hat on his head, and stride away, out into the night and the rain.

Alone, but not for long.

Slumping back in the dark of the hackney, Montague felt expectation well and realized he was grinning.

Griselda settled Megan in her crib, then, straightening, looked down at her sleeping cherub and smiled.

Standing alongside his wife, Stokes dipped his head and, glancing into her face and savoring the madonna-like quality of that smile, felt something inside him ease, and settle, too, just like his sleeping child. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the plunge and murmured, “You’re content with this, aren’t you?”

Faint surprise in her face, Griselda looked at him, studied his eyes, then her lips curved again, reassuring and calming. “You mean being a mother, being a milliner, being the lady of this house, being Penelope’s and now Violet’s friend, and being an investigator, too, and working to somehow make everything fit?” Placing a hand on his arm, she steered him out of the nursery and toward their bedroom next door.

He nodded. “Yes—that. All of that.”

Her fingers found his and twined, and she drew him into their room, paused to let him shut the door, then she went into his arms. “Yes.” She met his gaze. “I’m content. It’s not easy, and probably never will be, but the rewards are great.”

Then she tilted her head, her eyes still searching his, a coy smile spreading across her face. “You didn’t notice, but I left something out.”

“You did?” Her list had sounded fairly comprehensive to him . . . his hands firming about her waist, he replayed her words, but he couldn’t see it. “What?”

Her sultry chuckle reached to his bones as, stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and smiled, all wifely indulgence, up at him. “I omitted to mention the best thing of all—the one that makes all the others worthwhile. Not because it’s less than all the rest but because it’s more—because it’s the foundation all the other parts of my life stand upon.”

Something in him quivered as he read the truth in her eyes, but he had to, needed to, hear it from her. To hear the words on her lips. “And that something is?”

Her smile turned radiant. “Being your wife.”

She drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Stokes tightened his arms about her, drew her tight.

And decided that, after all, everything was, and would be, all right.

After checking on Oliver, then retreating to their bedroom, Penelope and Barnaby spent the next hour enthusiastically celebrating in their own private way.

Finally spent, her breasts still rising and falling deeply as she waited for her breathing to even out, her hair spread about her in tangled disarray, Penelope lay on her back and stared at the moonbeams playing fitfully across their ceiling. Slumped beside her, Barnaby lay on his chest with his face half buried in the pillow beside hers, one heavy arm flung across her waist.

His breathing was even more labored than hers—hardly surprising, given his recent performance.

The downpour had finally petered out, but the sense of everything outside having been washed and made new remained; the coming day held infinite promise.

She sighed, the sound redolent with happiness. “I’m so glad we didn’t turn away from this chance—that we faced the challenge, rather than let it slide. We’ve worked our way through, to this—to my new state of equilibrium. And as we’ve done it once, we know we can do it again—that no matter what comes, we can adjust, find our new path, and go on. Together.”


And in that, she felt she should give credit where credit was due. “I’m proud beyond words of you—and of Stokes, too. You both came through the challenge with colors flying.” Lifting a limp arm, she gestured widely, if weakly. “You assimilated the changes and adjusted as necessary.”

Stirring, Barnaby snorted, the sound muffled by the pillow. Shifting his head slightly, he said, “If you don’t by now know that to keep you happy—to keep you engaged, enthused, and challenged, as I know you need to be—I would alter the way the moon revolves about the earth, then you need new spectacles.”

She laughed. Turning to him, she stroked a hand down his naked side, and when, in response, with a groan he turned over and shifted his arm, she snuggled closer, resting her head where she preferred it to be, in the hollow beneath his shoulder. Relaxing as he draped his arm around her, she pressed a kiss to his chest. “I have noticed, but, in all fairness, I should admit that you don’t—and won’t—need to go to the trouble of interfering with any celestial bodies. You just need to stand by me as you have in this. You just need to keep being you.”

Lifting the hand she’d spread on his chest, Barnaby pressed a warm kiss to her palm before settling that palm once more over his heart. “That,” he murmured, “I can do.”

A second passed, then she murmured, “I love you, too.”

Eyes closed, he smiled, and decided he could live with that.

Forever.

The next morning, Montague arrived in Albemarle Street at precisely ten o’clock. Leaving the hackney waiting, feeling oddly nervous, he ascended the steps to the Adairs’ front door. He raised his hand to knock—and the door swung inward.

Mostyn grinned at him. “Been keeping an eye out.” The majordomo stepped back, and Violet swept through.

Her gaze locked on Montague’s face; she nodded to Mostyn without taking her eyes from Montague’s. “Thank you, Mostyn. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

In light of her smile, in light of her words, Montague felt like a conquering hero. Offering his arm, he said, “You look lovely.” To his eyes, she was radiant.

Her smile deepened. “Thank you. I have to admit that I did sleep well.”

Guiding her down the steps, he dryly murmured, “Not having the threat of a murderer hovering over you must have been a great relief.”

She glanced at him, then, smiling, allowed him to hand her into the carriage. He followed and, shutting the door, settled beside her. When the carriage rattled into motion, she reached for his hand and settled her fingers in his. “If you must know, it wasn’t relief that the murderer was caught that made it so easy to fall asleep—it was happiness, pure and simple, at knowing what today would bring.” Turning her head, she met his eyes. “I felt like a child waiting for Christmas morning.”

The words warmed him; lightly pressing her fingers, he quietly said, “I hope what comes lives up to your expectations.”

Her fingers tightened on his, returning the pressure. “Trust me, it will.” After a moment, she said, “Tell me—were you born in London?”

As they rattled through the town, he told her of his past—of the parents he’d been close to despite the fact they’d been getting on in years before he was born, of the evolution of his business from the more conservative services his father had supplied to the more varied activities he now pursued. “I was the Son in Montague and Son—as figures and money always fascinated me, I started working alongside my father when I was fifteen. Eventually, my father drew back from the business, gradually passing his clients into my hands.” Montague met Violet’s gaze. “By the time he died, I was the de facto principal of the business and had been for several years.” He shrugged and looked ahead. “Some might say I came to my position easily, that it was handed to me—and there’s some truth in that.”

Smiling, Violet shook her head. “No—the opportunity might have been laid before you, but what you did with it? That was all you.” She met his gaze. “What you are now, the businessman, the man, is entirely due to you.”

She thought he blushed, but then he glanced away. “And what of you?” he asked. He looked back at her. “Are you a Londoner, too? Or . . . ?”

“Not. I was born in Caversham, just north of Reading. My father was the vicar of Woodborough, and he held the living there until his death. My mother had died several years before, so I was left to find my way.” The carriage rolled around a corner, and she briefly met his eyes. “I was lucky enough to find a position with Lady Ogilvie in Bath, and when she died, I moved to London to take up my post with Lady Halstead. She and Lady Ogilvie had been acquainted.”

She looked ahead, but his gaze remained on her face.

“You were happy with Lady Halstead.”

Statement, not a question, but after a moment she replied, “Not happy—now I know what happy is, I realize I haven’t been that way in a long time.” Lips lifting, she glanced at him. “But I was content—satisfied with my lot, certainly. I can make no complaints over those years—as with you, some might say I had it easy, too.”

He returned her regard. “But life is, indeed, what you make of the opportunities that come your way.”

The carriage slowed and they both glanced out. The familiar fa?ade that included the narrow door that led up to Heathcote’s office appeared, and the jarvey brought his horses to a halt.

Violet blinked, wondering; she looked about her as Heathcote handed her down.

Montague paid off the jarvey, then, taking Violet’s elbow, he steered her across the narrow strip of pavement to the green-painted door with its inset window bearing the words Montague and Son, Agents of Business, in gold letters. Fishing in his pocket, he drew out his keys. As he found and fitted the right key in the lock, he noticed Violet glancing interestedly about.

“It’s Friday,” he said, nodding at the general bustle in the court. “In this area, that means it’s extra busy as everyone rushes to get their week’s financial transactions completed. Although most businesses open on Saturday, the major banks and the Exchange are closed.”

“Ah.” She nodded. Turning back to him, she said, “I hadn’t really paid attention on the previous occasions I came here—I was too exercised by events.” Swinging to face the door as he set it wide, she noticed the small Closed sign at the bottom of the window. “As you said, it’s Friday, but it appears your office is neither open nor busy.” Arching a brow, she entered.

He followed, closing the door and relocking it before turning to look at her. “In celebration of our success with the investigation, I gave my staff the day off—Lord knows, they earned it. Every one of them contributed in some way.”

She smiled, turned, and started up the stairs. “That was nice.”

“Perhaps,” he said, following her, “but also necessary.” When she threw a questioning glance at him, he said, “I told you I wanted to show you something.”

Reaching the first-floor landing, she halted before the door to his outer office and turned an inquiring face his way. Joining her, he shook his head and waved her up the next flight. “My apartment’s one flight up.”

Her expression cleared as she remembered what he’d told her; flashing a fascinated look his way, she eagerly headed up.


“My parents,” he said, following, “had a house north of Finsbury Square. When they died, I sold the house and bought this building instead—not just my offices but the whole block. It seemed a wiser investment. I rent out the rest of the space other than my offices.” He looked ahead. “And the upper floor.”

Joining her on the small landing before his apartment door, he selected the right key, then fitted it to the lock. Reaching for the brass doorknob, he met Violet’s gaze. “This is where I live—where I’ve lived for the last ten years.”

He set the door wide and watched as she looked into the small foyer. Then she walked in and he followed, shutting the thick door behind him.

Violet took note of the simple, plain, but high-quality finishes, immediately recognized the sound solidity of Heathcote Montague reflected in his home. Glancing back at him, she asked, “Do you live here alone?”

“I have a couple—Mrs. Trewick keeps house and cooks, and Trewick performs the duties of a general manservant. They have separate quarters off the kitchen.”

Walking through the archway into what proved to be a long sitting room, Violet nodded. She paused to take in the furnishings and get her bearings, then asked, “Are they in—the Trewicks?”

Setting his hat on the hall stand, Heathcote looked faintly uncertain. “Ah . . . no. I gave them the day off, too.”

Violet let all she felt inside invest her smile; delighted, she turned to him and met his eyes. “Good.”

Faint relief showed in his face as he came to her. “I hoped you wouldn’t think it too—”

Stepping into his arms, she placed her fingers across his lips, cutting off his words. “It isn’t too anything.” She trapped his gaze with hers, looked deep into his hazel eyes. “This is our time to talk, to discuss, to decide—all you did was ensure we have the privacy to do that, and for that . . .” As she removed her fingers, her gaze lowered to his lips. “I can only be glad.” She breathed the last word as she stretched up and set her lips to his.

A wanton act, perhaps, but to her mind, he and she had already stepped past the social boundaries. The polite barriers no longer applied. Here, now, it was just her and him—a man and a woman, a gentleman and a lady. Here, in this private space, only the personal, what existed between them, remained.

Apparently, he agreed; she’d barely had a chance to kiss him before he took over and kissed her back.

His arms closed around her, drawing her close, not hesitantly but definitely. That warm, safe, reassuring cage made of his muscles and bones, and even more her reaction to it, told her where she stood. To her, this man was safety, security, a safe harbor through any storm—and more. With him, she could be . . . the woman she’d been born to be.

Opportunity.

She reached for it—without hesitation pressed closer, deeper into his embrace; sliding her arms over his shoulders, locking her hands at his nape, she held him to her. And when he tested her lips, she parted them and, boldly, without any guile, invited him in.

And delighted in his acceptance.

Never before had she communed with a man thus. She’d been kissed before, yes, but not like this—not when the exchange became a dialogue, a communication that passed back and forth, wordless yet so descriptive, silent yet deeply, profoundly evocative.

Meaningful.

Promise, and commitment.

Both were there in that kiss—him to her and her to him, and beyond that to what might be, to what they together might create and share.

Their exchange shaped the vision, enshrined it in their minds.

A clear statement—and they both wanted it.

Yearned for it.

Desired it.

Heat of a kind she’d never felt before rose and spread, heavy and lush, beneath her skin, a compulsive surge that for all its unfamiliarity she recognized instinctively. Rich and potent, it lured and beckoned, and she answered—and so did he.

Gently, with a reluctance that resonated within her, he drew back and broke the kiss.

He looked into her eyes, and she looked into his and saw him—the man she loved—clearly.

One large hand cradling the back of her head, his gaze traveled her face, her eyes, her lips, as if in wonder, then he brought his gaze back to her eyes. “I’m a simple man, Violet—I don’t have fancy words. All I know is that I need you to make my life whole. All I know is that I want you as my wife, and that I will move heaven and earth to win you.”

Her answer leapt to her curving lips. She held his gaze as she gave it. “I don’t want heaven. I don’t even want earth. I do want you—and I do, more than anything else in life, want to fill the position of your wife.”

“So you’ll marry me?”

“Yes.” Even she heard the joy in that word. “I’ll marry you, and be your wife, and have you as my husband—nothing, simply nothing, could make me happier.”

He captured one of her hands and raised her fingers to his lips. “I swear you will never regret accepting my suit.”

“I know I won’t”—she held his gaze—“because I love you.”

She felt the ripple of reaction that passed through him, as if those simple words had turned some key and unlocked . . . something within him.

It felt as if shackles fell, as if her words had released some long-ago binding, one he’d placed on himself and had forgotten, or had never truly realized was there. His commitment to his work had been that absolute, that demanding. But now . . . he felt free—free to speak, to say, to admit, “Love”—he searched her eyes and saw that emotion shining—“is too simple a word for what I feel for you. Admiration, adoration, worship—all that, and more.”

Slipping her fingers from his, she laid her palm against his cheek. “You don’t need more—you just need to be you, and to continue to love me as I love you.”

“But . . . I want so much.” He felt his lips wryly curve. “The businessman within me will never die—my heart seems such a paltry thing when placed in the scales.”

She laughed. “Never that. You have the heart of a lion.”

“But I want . . .” He couldn’t, it seemed, stop himself from making a bid to have it all, all he now knew his soul yearned for. Craved. “You, by my side, and a family—if we’re blessed.” At the arrested look in her eyes, he hurried to explain, “I’ve already got the business, the position, the station—the wealth, the acquaintances, even the close friends. I have all the appurtenances of a successful life, but without a wife, and even more a family, all the rest means little.” He held her gaze. “I know we’re neither of us in the first flush of youth, yet . . .” He hesitated, then forced himself to say, to ask, “If you’re willing . . . ?”

The smile that slowly bloomed on her face transcended joy. Her eyes shone with the same all-encompassing emotion. “You said it yourself before—we are our own people, you and I. We can be whatever we wish to be. Lovers, spouses, parents—we can, if we choose, have it all.”

As he drew in a huge breath, she stretched up and, just before her lips touched his, she stated, “And we do so choose.”

Then she kissed him, acceptance, agreement, and commitment reaffirmed—passionately—in the caress.

Without conscious direction, his arms closed around her and he gave her the same in return.


And let the moment lead him—and her—as it would.

When he lifted his head—separated their lips by a heated breath—and glanced at the door to his left, then arched a brow at her, her smile only deepened.

And she whispered against his lips, “Yes.”

Violet didn’t need to say more.

Not to him—the man who looked at her with love and passion in his eyes, solid and true and unwavering.

She could never question the rightness of this—could not doubt the sense of falling in with destiny as she let him lead her into his bedroom and close the door.

What followed . . . was a reflection of them, of who they were, the straightforward, honest, and true people they knew no other way to be. They offered themselves up—to each other, to the glory that erupted and swept through them.

In the soft sheets of his bed, in the soft light of a long, autumn afternoon, they found each other, and discovered themselves.

Discovered a wider view of all they could be—of all they could aspire to claim.

Passion and joy, heat and desire, and the culminating cataclysm of ecstasy—they found them all on that golden afternoon, found, seized, and made them theirs.

And when, at the end, Violet settled in his arms—a Violet unbridled, her lustrous hair rippling in a silken mass over his chest and arms—he smiled. On his back, eyes drifting closed, he recalled an earlier thought. “Before I met you and all this”—with a slight wave, he indicated them and their togetherness—“came about, I never thought of myself as a man of action. But courtesy of you, and all that’s followed, I’ve discovered that when the need is there—”

“You very much rise to the occasion.” She chuckled, soft and low.

He could feel the curve of her lips against his chest. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.”

“That’s why I said it—I knew you wouldn’t.” She shifted; lifting her head, she looked into his face. Smiled. “You haven’t surprised me—I saw you, your potential, clearly from the first. You’re the man I’ve been waiting all my life to find, and now I’ve found you and claimed you . . .” Stretching up, she touched her lips to his. “I’m never going to let you go.”

As she eased down again, into the hollow by his side—a space, it seemed, perfectly fashioned for her—he tightened his arms around her. “Just as well, because you’re everything to me.”

Settling, she sighed happily, then spread her hand over his heart and lightly patted. “My Heathcote.”

He smiled. Through the last hours, she’d said his name several times—gasped it, moaned it, sighed it . . .

Nestling his cheek against her hair, he closed his eyes.

Hearing her call him by his given name had already become his most treasured dividend.





Read on for a preview of


Loving Rose

The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair



the next intriguing mystery in

The Casebook of Barnaby Adair

from New York Times bestselling author

STEPHANIE LAURENS

Available in print and e-book August 2014

from Avon Books





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 Thomas’s 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 he’d 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 had been 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 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 he 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.

Washed and dressed in fresh clothes, Thomas made his way down the stairs to the drawing room, reaching it with five minutes to spare. He amused himself by examining the room; he hadn’t used it often in the past, but as far as his recollections went, nothing had changed.

The door opened, and Mrs. Sheridan stood revealed in the doorway. “If you’ll come through to the dining room, sir, dinner is waiting.”

He nodded. Leaning heavily on his cane—managing the stairs had proved a challenge, one he was determined to conquer—he crossed to the door and, with a wave, gestured for her to precede him. He followed her across the hall. The lamp there and those in the dining room cast a steady, even light, illuminating his mysterious housekeeper and allowing him to see her more clearly than he previously had; as he limped to the head of the table and sat, from beneath his lashes he watched her go to the sideboard on which serving platters were arrayed. Her gown was of some dark brown material, of decent quality, but severely, indeed, repressively cut, with a high collar and long, tight sleeves. Her hair, thick, lustrous locks of rich walnut-brown, was restrained in a knot at her nape.

She picked up a soup tureen and turned, and he fixed his gaze on his plate. He already knew her eyes were a soft mid-brown, fringed by lush lashes and well set beneath dark, finely arched brows. Her complexion was fair, cream with a tinge of rose in her cheeks; her features were delicate, her face heart-shaped, with a gently rounded chin.

He’d already noted her straight, no-nonsense nose and her full lips of pale rose, but as she leaned across to offer him the tureen, he saw that, as before, those lips were compressed into a tense line.

The sight . . . displeased him, which, on one level, he found curious. He rarely cared about how others were feeling, at least not spontaneously.

“Thank you.” Availing himself of the ladle, he served himself.


As he picked up his soup spoon, Mrs. Sheridan ferried the tureen back to the sideboard, then turned and, clasping her hands before her, took up station at the end of the sideboard, ready to serve him the subsequent courses.

He took a mouthful of the soup while debating how best to say what he wished to convey. In the end, he said, “This soup is delicious. My compliments to the cook.”

“Thank you.”

“If I might make a suggestion, there’s no reason for you to wait on me, Mrs. Sheridan. If you place all those platters on the table where I can reach them, you might then go and take your meal with your children.” Sidelong, he cast her an inquiring glance. “I presume the pair are dining in the kitchen as we speak?”

From the look on her face, he knew he’d guessed aright. Six o’clock was standard dinnertime in the country, especially in gentry houses. And he was fairly certain both she and her children were gentry-born.

She hesitated, and for a moment he wondered if what he’d suggested might in some way be construed as an insult, but then he realized she was wrestling, in two minds.

Inwardly smiling, he said, “I really don’t mind.” And I find having a lady standing while I’m seated off-putting. He swallowed the words before they escaped, but . . . that was, he realized, how he felt, and wasn’t that revealing? His facility for gauging people, especially their social standing, had always been acute; it might be a trifle rusty from disuse, but it was clearly still functioning.

“If you truly don’t mind, sir . . . ?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I did.”

“Very well.” Turning, she picked up two of the covered platters and carried them to the table. Two more trips back and forth and he had everything he needed, including condiments, within easy reach.

Still, she hovered, as if unsure if he truly was capable of serving himself.

Fleetingly irritated—he might be a partial cripple, but he wasn’t incapacitated—he dismissed her with a wave. “Thank you, Mrs. Sheridan. That will be all.”

She stiffened at his tone. She started to turn away, then remembered and paused to bob a curtsy. Then she left.

Leaving him to slowly finish his soup, his mind already toying with various scenarios that might explain who she was and why she was there—pretending to be a housekeeper in an isolated country house.

He’d finished the soup and had moved on to a second course of lamb collops before the relative silence impinged. Once it had, with every passing minute he grew more restless, less settled, less content. He wasn’t alone in the house, but only by straining his ears could he detect any sound from the kitchen—a clink, a muted sentence. Regardless, his awareness shifted and fixed on it, on there . . . it took him a few minutes to identify his problem, to understand what was wrong.

The solution was obvious, yet he hesitated—he knew how the man he once had been would have behaved, but he was no longer that man, and, apparently, the man he now was had different needs.

Surrendering to the insistent impulse—and, after all, it wasn’t the Gattings, who would have been more shocked—he quickly gathered his plate and all else he deemed necessary for the rest of his meal. Piling everything on the big tray Mrs. Sheridan had left on the sideboard, then, hefting the tray in one hand—something he’d learned to do at the priory—and gripping his cane in the other, he headed for the kitchen.

They heard him coming, of course.

He pushed past the green baize door at the rear of the front hall, then went along the short corridor to the kitchen. When he appeared in the archway giving onto the good-sized room, he saw the table sited squarely in its center; all three occupants seated at the board, knives and forks in their hands, had turned surprised and, at least on the children’s part, frankly curious faces his way.

Seated at the far end of the table, Mrs. Sheridan set down her cutlery and pushed back her chair, preparing to rise.

“No.” He answered the question in her face as he limped out of the shadows into the lamplight. “There’s nothing whatever amiss with the food.” Halting at the nearer end of the table, he lowered the tray to the scrubbed surface. “The truth is that, through the last five years of convalescing in a monastery, I’ve grown accustomed to taking my meals in the refectory, surrounded by lots of monks.” Raising his gaze, he met Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes. “I’ve just discovered that I find eating alone somewhat unsettling, and I wondered if you would object to me joining you here and taking my meals in your company.”

That was the truth, just not the whole truth; he was also insatiably curious about the small family he’d discovered living under his roof.

Sinking back onto her chair, Rose stared at him and swiftly weighed her options. His request was outlandish, entirely outside the norm, yet he owned the house, so how could she deny him? She needed this place, this position—the safety of this house—for herself and even more for the children; she wouldn’t risk that over such a minor matter. Moreover, he had explained his need for company, and that she fully understood. How many years had it been since she had conversed with another adult? Yes, she understood that craving for company, yet . . . she glanced at the children.

They had lived there for four years, and their story was established and sound. Homer, three years older than six-year-old Pippin, understood enough to be careful, and Pippin simply didn’t remember enough to pose any real risk of exposure.

She looked up at Glendower, fleetingly studied him anew, confirming the presence that, despite his infirmities, still shone clearly. Still had an impact. She consulted her instincts, yet, as before, they remained undisturbed; no matter the circumstances, she sensed no threat from him. She nodded. “If you wish it, then, indeed, you are welcome to join us.” She glanced at Homer. “Homer—please fetch the other chair for Mr. Glendower.”

An eager smile lighting his face, Homer leapt up and brought the fourth chair from its place by the wall.

Glendower took it from him with a smile and a nod of thanks, set the chair, then sat, facing her down the short length of the table. He glanced at Homer. “Homer, is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Glendower,” Homer brightly replied. “That’s me.”

“As we’re to share a table, Homer, you may call me Thomas.” Glendower’s gaze passed on to Pippin, who had been equally eagerly, but rather more shyly, regarding him. Glendower smiled, an easy expression that, despite the damage to one side of his face, remained unimpaired in its charm. “And you are?”

Rose waited to see if Pippin would deem Glendower worthy of her words.

After eyeing him for several seconds, during which Glendower simply waited, unperturbed by her scrutiny, Pippin made her decision and beamed and piped, “I’m Pippin—like the apples.”

Glendower’s smile deepened. Gravely, he inclined his head. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Pippin. And please, call me Thomas.”

“I will,” Pippin assured him.

Glendower’s gaze moved on to Rose; before it reached her, she made a show of studying what he had brought in on his tray. “Do you have everything you need there?” Raising her gaze, she met his hazel eyes.

His easy expression in place, Thomas held her gaze for a long moment, but she gave no sign of wavering. No first names between them, it seemed. Glancing down at the tray, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so.” It wasn’t in his best interests to annoy or irritate her. He started to lift the various platters and plates from the tray, setting his plate before him and spreading the platters along the table, clearly inviting Homer, Pippin, and the curiously haughty and reserved Mrs. Sheridan to partake of the dishes.


Everyone returned their attention to their plates.

Thomas waited. The little girl, Pippin—six or seven years old?—had the same color and fine texture of hair as her mother, and similar eyes, too. The girl’s features were younger echoes; between the two females, the resemblance was strong. The boy had darker hair, more sable than walnut, and dark blue eyes, somewhat differently set in a broader face, but while his features in general were stronger, the resemblance to his mother was there.

Thomas had had very little to do with children, yet he did remember what being a boy was like. His money was on Homer, and the boy didn’t disappoint.

“Did you really live in a monastery for five years?” Homer’s big blue eyes overflowed with curiosity.

Mrs. Sheridan opened her mouth—no doubt to quell the imminent inquisition.

Thomas spoke before she could. “Yes. It was up by the Bristol Channel.” He’d long ago learned that the best way to invite confidences from others was to offer information first.

“Was it old and ruined, and were there ghosts?” Pippin asked.

Thomas smiled encouragingly. “No—it was only built about thirty years ago. The monks came over from France during the . . .” Terror. “ . . . upheavals there, about fifty years ago now.”

Now the gate had been opened, both children came barreling through, posing question after question about life in the monastery; both possessed what Thomas considered healthy curiosities, and he was entirely willing to indulge them.

Still alert, still wary, Rose watched her employer charm the children, but there was nothing in his manner that struck her as worrisome; indeed, time and again, he stopped and thought before he answered. She’d already noticed that about him; his responses were, more often than not, considered.

As for the children, as he’d all but invited their questions, she was content to let them pose them—so she, too, could learn the answers.

She was as curious, if not more so, than they.

When she’d first opened the door to him, she’d instinctively catalogued his clothes, his hairstyle, his deportment, his manners, his diction, and all the rest—all the telltale signs of class—and had pegged him as upper-range gentry, perhaps with a knighthood or a baronetcy in the family. That also fitted what she’d gathered about Thomas Glendower. Now, however, as the conversation between him and the children continued, steady and unforced, and she had time to study the clothes he’d donned for the evening and his more polished appearance, had time to note his precise diction delivered in that faintly raspy voice, and the manners and assurance that seemed an intrinsic part of him, she had to wonder if his origins weren’t a rung or two higher.

Somewhat to her surprise, the meal passed in unexpectedly and uniformly pleasant fashion.

And at the end of it, he set the seal on her approval by offering, and then insisting, albeit with consummate grace, on helping her and the children to clear the table, and to wash the dishes and put them away.

“It’s only fair if I’m to share your meals.” He made the comment to the children, but then looked up, questioningly, at her.

When she didn’t look convinced, he added, with a suggestion of a grin, as if he understood her position perfectly, “Put it down to my years in the priory—there, everyone helps with the chores.”

With the children looking on, it was impossible to refuse him, so the four of them worked together to clear, clean, and tidy the kitchen.

When all was done, the children went up to their rooms to read. She fetched her sewing basket and set it down beside her chair. When she looked up, Glendower was watching her. In response to her questioning look, he inclined his head.

“I’ll be in the library should you need me.”

She nodded, then asked, “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

“Later.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Perhaps sometime after nine?”

She nodded again. “I’ll bring it in to you.”

He turned away and, using his cane, gimped toward the archway, but then he paused and glanced back at her. “I daresay it will take a little time for me to adjust to life outside the priory. I would appreciate it if you could see your way to humoring what might occasionally seem my rather eccentric ways.”

She met his gaze, held it, and equally directly replied, “As long as those ways hold no harm for the children or myself, I see no reason we won’t be able to reach an accommodation.”

His lips curved in that peculiarly engaging smile he had. Inclining his head, he turned and left her.

Unwillingly intrigued, Rose watched him go and wondered at the conundrum that was Mr. Thomas Glendower.