Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Tags: #Historical Romance
He did as he was bid and with his son in his arms retreated from the mayhem as the ladies descended in a flock upon the bed.
Standing before the fireplace, he looked into his son’s face. He wondered what color his eyes would be—his bright blue or Penelope’s dark brown? And what would his temperament be like? Like hers, or his, or somewhere between? How would they all get on? Would his son have the same comfortable relationship with his father as Barnaby had with the earl—a relationship built on understanding and shared interests?
How long he stood staring at his sleeping son’s face and pondering the future he didn’t know. About him, the ladies ebbed and flowed. His father came in briefly to be introduced to his latest grandson and to kiss Penelope’s cheek, then the earl bore away Barnaby’s mother after reminding her that she had a luncheon engagement that day, at which she would doubtless wish to share the news of the latest addition to her already large brood of grandchildren. The countess had duly kissed the baby’s cheek, then kissed Barnaby’s, and gone.
Shortly after, Emily, Anne, and Portia also took their leave. Penelope’s mother, Minerva, would be remaining in Albemarle Street for the next week at least; after confirming that Penelope had all that she required, Minerva, too, came to kiss the baby’s cheek, smile mistily at Barnaby before kissing his cheek, too, then, trailing her usual cloud of draperies, Minerva left them.
And, finally, there was just them—the three of them.
From across the room, Barnaby felt Penelope’s gaze on his face, but for several minutes, she seemed content to simply watch him holding their son.
Eventually, however, she stirred. “So…who did it?”
Barnaby heard her, but her words made no sense. Lifting his head, he looked at her blankly, his mind floundering…he had no idea what she was asking about.
She stared at him, read his complete and utter befuddlement, and on a bubbling, laughing snort, she explained, “The case. Who killed Fletcher?”
“Ah.” Barnaby blinked. The answer was there, the events of the past days clear enough in his mind, but it was as if they had occurred in a different age…they really weren’t important anymore. As he turned his attention back to his son, he answered, “The butler did it.”
EPILOGUE
I
n the matter of the violent murder of Gordon Fletcher, Thomas Riggs was found guilty and hanged.
Lord Finsbury declined to bring charges against Katherine Mallard for her part in the temporary removal of the Finsbury diamonds from his safe. As the diamonds were back where they belonged, and the principal perpetrator of the scheme, namely Fletcher, had reaped a sentence far worse than any the law would have handed him, Stokes saw little benefit in further pursuing Kitty. Given her patently genuine attachment to Fletcher, Stokes doubted she would return to the game with any other man. Released from police custody, Kitty slipped away into London’s teeming streets.
* * *
A
n announcement appeared in
The Times
in early January informing the world of the nuptials of Mr. Frederick Culver and Miss Gwendolyn Finsbury, only daughter of Godfrey, Lord Finsbury, and the late Maude Finsbury. The wedding was celebrated at the church in the village of Hampstead, which was noted as being the local church for both the Finsbury and the Culver families. The newly-weds had eschewed any travel in favor of settling into the large house Mr. Culver had inherited from his late parents.
Despite the formal wording, the announcement managed to convey a sense of deep and widely held satisfaction.
* * *
I
n the middle of January, as the culminating event of the lengthy Christmas and New Year family celebration the Countess of Cothelstone had insisted was her due, Oliver Lucas Barnaby Adair was christened in the chapel of Cothelstone Castle.
Later, as part of a much more private celebration, Barnaby presented Penelope with a black velvet case containing her very own diamond necklace, designed and executed to Barnaby’s order by Aspreys of Bond Street.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Tugging the necklace from its case, Penelope literally leapt off the bed and dashed to the cheval mirror to don the heavy string and admire how it sat.
As she happened to be naked, Barnaby lay back on the pillows and enjoyed the display.
Penelope danced, turning this way and that, admiring the way the light fractured and sparkled in the heavy stones. “These are absolutely stunning!”
Swinging around, she raced back to the bed and all but flung herself on Barnaby.
Laughing, he caught her; holding her above him, he looked into her dark eyes. “Happy?”
Her face lit with the smile—that new smile that held such a deep contentment it never failed to strike to his heart. Holding his gaze, her hands on his shoulders, she replied, “I had no idea it was possible to
be
this happy.”
As content as she, he let her roll to his side. She squinted down, fingering the bright stones. “Is it similar to the Finsbury necklace?”
“Yes and no. As per your instructions, I drew my inspiration from the Finsbury diamonds.” Barnaby raised a hand and, with one finger, traced the links gracing her throat, then he met her eyes. “These, however, are better. These are real.”
Penelope laughed and he laughed with her—then Oliver cried and she dashed to the crib and brought their son back to join them in the bed, and all was right—deeply, assuredly, and incontrovertibly right—in their world.
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COMING on APRIL 29, 2014
The next fascinating installment in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair
THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE
Volume 2 in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Series
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 Violet had expected—this man is compelling, decisive, supportive, and strong—everything she 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
H
eathcote 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—”