Chapter 19 #3
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 facade 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—”