The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page B

of illegality attached to it.
    “So in pursuing the matter of these payments, I’m investigating what might reasonably be supposed to be the fruits of some crime.”
    Should he involve the authorities?
    He considered—in particular what he might report—and grimaced. “I can’t yet be certain that there is any crime—I certainly don’t have proof of one.”
    And involving the police wouldn’t, he suspected, endear him to Lady Halstead and Miss Matcham. Not that such a consideration would stop him, but . . .
    He tapped his finger more decisively. “If I had proof of a crime, my way would be clear, but until I do, the possibility exists that there’s some innocent explanation behind this.”
    Scanning the documents splayed across his desk, he sifted through the possibilities of what he might do next. Tracing the payments, if that proved feasible, appeared to be the most direct route forward.
    He had often assisted others with their investigations when said investigations had drifted into financial waters. This, however, was the first time he had initiated such an investigation himself rather than contributing to someone else’s undertaking. Courtesy of those previous, supporting roles, he now had connections, acquaintances who knew a great deal more about investigating than he did, who, he didn’t doubt, would be happy to assist him should he ask for their help.
    “But at present this is an entirely financial matter, and when it comes to investigating finances . . .” He was the best man for the job. That was why, when it came to anything involving money, those others turned to him.
    Huffing out a breath, he sat up and regathered all the documents. As he returned them to the Halstead file, he recalled his earlier restlessness, his wish for some new and more exciting project; apparently Fate had been listening.
    Be careful what you wish for.
    Even though she’d died when he’d been ten years old, he could still remember his mother telling him that.
    On the other hand, his niggling inner voice—the voice of dissatisfaction—had been silent for the past few days, a definite improvement.
    Leaving the Halstead file on his desk, he rose and turned down the lamp, then, by the light thrown through the windows from the flares in Chapel Court, he made his way through the outer office. As he reached for the doorknob, the atmosphere—the anticipation—that filled that particular moment when the others in the office left for the day replayed in his mind.
    Something he observed in others, not something he experienced.
    He felt no happy eagerness as he opened the door, stepped through and locked it, then turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor.
    He had bought the building in Chapel Court, off Bartholomew Lane, behind the Bank of England, over ten years ago, and had converted the floor above his office and the offices to either side into a comfortable apartment. The proximity to his office suited him; if he thought of some question during the evening or night, it took only a minute to check a file, or make a note at his desk. And this section of the City, although humming with activity during the day, grew quiet at night. It wasn’t deserted by any means—what part of London was?—but the denizens who lived in the area were by nature a sober, reserved lot.
    Fishing his key out of his waistcoat pocket, he paused on the upper landing to unlock and open his front door. The apartment was spacious, comprising a small foyer giving onto a long sitting room, with a dining room beyond, a small study he used as a library, and a master suite including a large bedroom, twin dressing rooms, and a bathroom with the latest accoutrements. The apartment also contained a large kitchen and separate staff quarters, which were the domain of his housekeeper, Mrs. Trewick, and her husband, Trewick, who acted as general manservant. The middle-aged couple had been with Montague for nearly twenty years and knew his habits and