The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens Page B

without her having to explain.
    On his way out of the front door, Stokes paused to tell her, “I’ve left a constable on guard inside the house, and there’s another outside—he’s out of sight, but he’s keeping an eye on the place.” Stokes hesitated, then added, “I meant to go into the kitchen and assure the maid and the cook that neither of them are suspects, not in our eyes. Perhaps you could tell them?”
    Violet nodded. “Of course.”
    Stokes left; with an encouraging look and a salute, Adair followed him down the steps. Realizing Montague had hung back in the hall, Violet closed the door and turned. Gently smiled.
    With a brief, answering smile, Montague went forward. Greatly daring, he reached for one of Violet’s hands, lightly held it. “This has all happened very quickly.”
    He wasn’t simply speaking of Lady Halstead’s death and the consequent happenings of the tumultuous day; he was still coming to grips with his feelings for Violet, with the intensity of his reaction to her being within the orbit of a murderer, and to the implicit, if nebulous, threat hovering over her. He looked into her eyes, studied her expression. “This was the first time you’ve met Stokes and Adair—I wanted to reassure you that you may have every confidence in them. The investigation couldn’t be in better hands. They will work tirelessly to bring Lady Halstead’s murderer to justice.” He held her soft blue gaze. “I know that’s important to you. I understand why. It’s much the same compulsion I experience when one of my clients is harmed, but, I imagine, you feel the need even more keenly, as clearly you were close to Lady Halstead.”
    Violet felt her smile go awry. “She was a dear and didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
    “No. But”—Montague inclined his head in a gesture that was a vow—“I, too, have an interest in this now, and with the four of us devoted to the cause, her ladyship will not go unavenged.” He held her gaze for a moment more, then bowed briefly and released her hand.
    Violet turned to open the door. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m more grateful than I can say.”
    Pausing in the doorway, he met her gaze again, then dipped his head. “I’ll call when we have further news.”
    She inclined her head and watched him go down the steps and out of the gate. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze follow him as he strode down the pavement, broad shoulders square, head held high, solid, masculine confidence in every powerful line.
    When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, Violet sighed, then, feeling the tug of the sadness waiting within, she closed the door and turned away, sternly telling herself that this was neither an appropriate nor useful time to discover she still possessed the ability to dream.
    A fter quitting the Lowndes Street house, Barnaby and Stokes hailed a hackney, and after a brief discussion elected to journey to Stokes’s house in Greenbury Street, in St. John’s Wood, there to mull over their impressions and observations in peace and comfort.
    Through the rocking, rattling trip they kept their private counsels, allowing their minds to freely pick over the accumulated observations, searching for fresh insights to share once they’d gained the quiet of Stokes’s sitting room. But on arriving in Greenbury Street and entering Stokes’s neat abode, they discovered their wives already in possession.
    Both ladies were sitting on the floor, their skirts puffed about them, playing with young Oliver and the slightly younger Megan. Both babies were rolling on their backs, alert and chortling as they batted at toys their mothers dangled over them.
    The sight brought Stokes and Barnaby to a halt in the doorway.
    Barnaby felt as if something—some power—had punched him in the chest. He knew from the sudden stillness, the complete and utter absorption of the man beside him, that Stokes felt the same.
    Penelope and Griselda had heard their