Montague had assured her that, together with Stokes and Adair, he would work to see Lady Halstead avenged—to catch and bring her murderer to justice. Placing trust and faith in the words of a man she barely knew would have seemed foolhardy a week ago; it didn’t now. She believed him, had faith in his certainty.
Or was it that his faith fed her own?
Crossing to the chest of drawers, she set down the candlestick. Her thoughts continued to churn, freed, it seemed, by her finally being alone.
The fact that the villain was almost certainly one of Lady Halstead’s children, or their spouses, or possibly one of her grandchildren, was only now fully crystalizing in Violet’s mind. That conclusion hadn’t been stated, not definitively, but the implication, the expectation, had colored the investigation thus far.
What to her was more damning was that it required near-impossible mental contortions to imagine that her ladyship’s murderer could be anyone else; other than her family, Lady Halstead had lived reclusively, increasingly so over the last two years.
Making a mental note to remember to mention that to Montague—or Adair or Stokes—Violet reached up and started unpinning her hair.
After brushing out the thick tresses, she undressed and donned her nightgown, a slight frown on her face, her mind revisiting all she’d ever witnessed of Lady Halstead interacting with her brood. Was there a hint there, somewhere, of which one was to blame?
As she slipped between the sheets, looking inward, she was somewhat surprised to discover a strength, a determination, she hadn’t known she possessed. Despite the shock, despite the fact she wasn’t related to Lady Halstead in any way, she found a core of focused intention—she would see her ladyship’s killer caught.
The realization, the acknowledgment and acceptance of her instinctive commitment, that it was made, that it was there, that it would not waver, didn’t precisely soothe or calm her but rather gave her enough certainty, enough of a foundation on which to stand firm—and close her eyes.
To her surprise, sleep swiftly drew near. She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized.
As slumberous mists rolled into and through her mind, a face formed within them, strong and clear.
Behind him ranged two others, but they were less distinct.
Montague stood sharply etched in her mind’s eye, the assurances he’d uttered in his deep, solid voice echoing in her mind, both comfort and anchor.
Lady Halstead’s murderer would be caught. She would fight for that, and Montague would be by her side.
Stokes found Griselda standing beside Megan’s crib and looking down at their baby daughter, the smile on his wife’s face one he hadn’t seen before Megan’s birth.
A madonna-smile, one only a mother looking at her child could achieve.
The sight made his own lips curve, made his harsh features, the hard face he showed to most of the world, soften.
Sensing his approach, Griselda turned and smiled at him.
A slightly different smile, but one he treasured. It, too, was unique—that smile she reserved just for him.
Coming up beside her, he dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers, then looked down at their daughter.
Griselda leaned against him; he slid one arm around her, lightly held her.
A moment passed, then he murmured, “Do you really want to help with this investigation? Are you really interested?” Angling his head, he met her eyes. “Or are you simply following—supporting—Penelope?”
Lips twitching, Griselda studied his face. “She is something of a force of nature, I grant you, but”—she sighed—“I really do feel a need of a sort to . . . do something. To contribute in however small a way.” Shifting to face him, her arms going around his waist as his settled about her, she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. “I’m happy here, with you, with Megan. It’s not that part of me that needs to be involved. I could, very easily, simply stay at home, keep busy with the shop, and be happy and content, but . . . I have to wonder if, years from now, I’ll look back on that and . . . feel ashamed.”
As if searching for the words to make him understand, her eyes locked with his, she paused, then went on, “I have . . . everything my heart could desire. I have a life that’s not just good but wonderful. The future beckons, and there are no clouds on my horizon. You might say, in a sense, that it’s a way of honoring that—all that I have, all my good fortune—a way of feeling that I deserve it, or perhaps that I’ve earned the right to such happiness, by doing what I can to . . . make the world about me a better place. By helping others.” Her lips softened, lightly lifted. “By helping you, and Barnaby, too, to see justice done.”
He tightened his arms about her, feeling her warmth, the inexpressible trust with which she sank against him, something that, now he’d found it, he never wanted to lose. “I can’t claim not to understand, although I have to wonder if I’ve infected you with my calling.”
She smiled. “More likely it’s a reflection of the people we are—that I’m the right match for you precisely because we do have similar thoughts, wants, and ideals, similar ways of seeing the world.”
His lips tightened, but he forced himself to ask, “So what do you think to do? Involving yourself in all my cases—”
“No—I don’t want, or need, that.” She searched his eyes. “I know that many, perhaps most, of your cases are petty to violent crimes perpetrated by established criminals. Neither I nor Penelope would have useful insights to offer in such cases. But in cases like your current one, there’s considerable scope for us to help—as we did tonight.”
“I can’t, and won’t, deny that. Your explanation of why that family might be as it is will be a real help.” He paused, then nodded. “Very well. Let’s see how this develops.”
“And if there are areas in which we can assist, we will.”
For a long moment they simply looked into each other’s eyes. Then his lips lifted. “There’s one area you might assist me with tonight.”
Her smile deepened, then she stretched up, pressed her lips to his in a swift, challenging kiss, and murmured, “Lead on, Inspector.”
Stokes laughed—softly, so as not to wake the baby. Swiftly stooping, he swept Griselda into his arms, surprising a shocked gasp, then a smothered peal of laughter from her as, leaving the door ajar so they would hear if Megan awoke, he carried Griselda out of the nursery and on into their bedroom down the hall.
He dropped her on their bed. She reached up and pulled him down.
And the warmth they’d found together flared and engulfed them.
They gloried in the heated moments, sharing and giving, relearning again, reminding themselves of the elemental wonder, the effervescent joy.
The sheer, unadulterated glory of physical intimacy.
Sharing again the ecstasy and the bliss, and, at the last, settling, sated and content, to sleep in each other’s arms.
Stokes listened to Griselda’s breathing slow.
Uncertainty hovered, of a sort he’d never encountered before. He felt as if he was embarking on a new and potentially dangerous personal journey, one heading into regions unknown. The implications of what he’d agreed to slid through his mind, flitting like dark shadows. Fears, silly and unfounded, but real nonetheless, that in agreeing to her involvement—not just in this case but in others to follow—he might have opened the door to some fundamental upheaval that would, somehow, threaten this—this splendor, this comfort, this signal joy.
This closeness.
Something he valued more than his life.
Yet he would give her the world were he able, and if she wanted, needed, this . . . then he would stand by her side and they would find a new framework, one that would incorporate all they both required, one built on the foundation they’d already laid.
He would try, as would she, and together they would make it work. Commitment wasn’t something they lacked.
Somewhat reassured, he let sleep have at him.
As he started to sink, the sight of Griselda’s face smiling her madonna-smile filled his mind. That smile carried such a wealth, such a depth, of love, one no other relationship could evoke. No wonder the link between mother and child was held sacred.
So what had happened with the Halsteads?
The thought brought him awake, awake enough to clearly see that in that family’s case, in at least one instance, possibly more, the mother-child link had been broken.
He—they—were investigating a matricide.
So how, or why, had the link broken?
Or had it never been strong in the first place?
He toyed with the questions, accepted that they hinted at avenues he should explore.
Closing his eyes again, he let his lips quirk. Griselda had been more help than she knew.
As sleep finally claimed him, his last conscious thought was a prayer that nothing ever damaged that precious link between Griselda and their children.
Your father described Wallace Camberly as a careful politician.” Clad in shimmering blue silk, Penelope led the way into the master bedroom of the Albemarle Street house. Jewels winked about her throat and dangled from her ears as she swept across the room to set her silver evening reticule on her dressing table.
Barnaby followed her into the room. They’d just returned from a formal dinner at his parents’ London house. After crossing the threshold and being greeted by Mostyn, their first stop had been the nursery, but Oliver was sleeping peacefully and they’d left him to his dreams. “What did the pater mean by ‘careful’—did he say?”
“I asked.” Penelope set to work easing the earrings from her lobes. “He—your father—said that Camberly holds his seat by a good margin and is careful to do nothing to risk that safety. Contrarily, your father also said Camberly was ruthlessly ambitious, but that said ambition was tempered by the aforementioned caution.”
Shrugging off his evening coat, Barnaby grinned. “You’re starting to sound like a politician yourself.”
“Indeed—I blame it on the company.” Setting down her earrings, she glanced at him. “Did you learn anything more about Camberly?”
“Only that he’s expected to advance through the ranks, but not in spectacular fashion.” Barnaby started unwinding his cravat. “I got the impression he and his wife are being watched and assessed with a view to future advancement, possibly into the Ministry.” Glancing across the room, he saw Penelope lay aside her necklace, then reach up to start unpinning her hair. “I didn’t encounter anyone with links to the Home Office. Did you?”
“No, so in the end I fell back on your father again. It took him some time to place Mortimer Halstead. It seems Mortimer holds his position more by seniority than talent. Your father’s term was a plodder, one not expected to rise beyond his present position of assistant to some undersecretary.” Her hair loose, Penelope crossed to stand before Barnaby, presenting him with her back. “If you please . . . ?”
Setting the long ribbon of his cravat on the top of the tallboy, Barnaby grinned and obligingly set his fingers to the row of tiny blue bead buttons marching down the back of her evening gown. One of the duties of a husband he rather enjoyed; given the nature of Penelope’s gowns, it often felt like unwrapping a present.
But as he worked down the long line, his smile faded.
After a moment, he glanced at the section of her profile he could see. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Ferreting out what you could about our suspects.”
She nodded. “Yes, I did. It made an evening embarked on out of duty—out of helping your mother with her numbers—into something much more engaging. Into an evening with purpose.”
Reaching the end of the line of buttons, he set his hands to her sides, slid his palms over and around, easing her back against him.
Obligingly, she sank back, her shoulders across his chest, her head coming to rest in the hollow below his shoulder, her curvaceous derriere against his thighs.
For a moment, he simply held her, savoring the sense of how well she fitted, how well they suited.
Then he found the words and the courage to say, “I’m not all that sure how I feel about this. About you involving yourself in investigations again.”
He’d hoped that Oliver’s birth would put an end to her engaging in potentially dangerous endeavors, yet even as he’d hoped, some part of him had known it was unlikely, had known that her questing mind would need the stimulation he himself found in solving crimes. It was what had brought them together, and their natures hadn’t changed with their baby’s birth.
She didn’t immediately respond, but neither did she stiffen in his arms. After a moment, she raised one hand and drew her gold-rimmed spectacles from her face. Then she tipped her head back and to the side so she could look into his face; at such close quarters she didn’t need her glasses to study his features, to read his eyes. Several heartbeats passed while she did, then she said, “I wasn’t sure about it, either.”
Not knowing how to interpret that, he waited, and after a second’s pause, she went on, “When Oliver was born, I wondered if he would fill my life to the exclusion of all else, certainly of things like investigating. But now . . . I think that that isn’t how it goes. How life evolves.”
She held his gaze. “I feel as if my life has expanded—as if there’s more space to be filled, as if Oliver being born to us created a new field in our lives. I’ve realized that, at least for me, and I hope for you, too, life isn’t fixed, static, of finite girth. But while over the months since his birth I’ve been absorbed with acclimating myself to the new arena that Oliver inhabits, I’ve neglected the other areas of my life. But they’re still there, and I still need them to be. They’re still a part of me, of who I am—a part of what makes me me, and they’re aspects, facets, I still need in order to be me.” She looked questioningly at him. “If that makes sense?”
He looked into her dark eyes. “I’ve followed so far—it’s an interesting hypothesis.”
“Yes, well.” She waved her glasses. “Clearly, having Oliver has changed things for me, and for you, too, although to different degrees and possibly in different ways, and those changes flow through to how we manage in all other areas of our lives.” She paused, then faced forward and settled against him once more. “I feel as if, overall, my life is a trifle out of balance, especially in the area of my other interests, which includes investigating. I need to find a new balance, so to speak, but exactly what that will be . . .” She glanced up and met his eyes again. “I think it’s one of those things one can only determine by trial and error.”
He held her gaze, then murmured, “So we try with this latest case?”
She turned within his hold, raising her arms and draping them about his shoulders, her small hands drifting to his nape. “We try. And if at first we don’t exactly succeed perfectly, we adjust.” Her eyes on his, she tilted her head. “Will you work with me to find our new balance?”
Looking into her face, he realized that, since embarking on this case, she’d been more engaged, somehow more alive in a way he hadn’t known he’d missed until it had returned. His impulse, as always, was to give her anything, agree to anything that contributed to her happiness, her well-being, a compulsion tempered only by his protective instincts.
His protective instincts didn’t like her being anywhere near anything dangerous—like investigations.
Balance.
She had it right.
He nodded. “So . . . trial, possible error, and subsequent adjustment.”
She smiled, a brilliant smile shaded with understanding. “Thank you.”
Stretching up, one hand gripping his nape, the other framing his face, she pressed her lips to his. Any doubt he possessed that she didn’t understand, that she hadn’t understood exactly what thoughts, what considerations and reservations had passed through his mind, was eradicated by that kiss.
That they were together in this, that they would face the challenge side by side, hand in hand,
was underscored by all that followed.
Later, much later, when she snuggled deeper into his arms and they settled to sleep, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Together, we’ll find our way.”
Well! That was much easier than I’d imagined.” He felt slightly giddy—with relief, with satisfaction, with the fading remnants of the illicit thrill of the act; his hand shook as he lit the wick of the lamp in his dressing room.
Once the flame had steadied, he replaced the glass, then looked down at his clothes, examining them carefully in the golden light. It was after midnight; all about him was silent and still. Only he stirred in this time between one day and the next.
Satisfied there were no telltale signs, he set about shedding his clothes.
Along with his conscience.
“There was no help for it, really, not once the old girl had started the ball rolling. I could hardly let it go on. If she’d just let things be, but no—she had to do the right thing and get her affairs in order . . . bah!”
Donning his nightshirt, he checked his face in his shaving mirror, as he did every night.
And as often happened when he did, doubts rose like phantoms in his mind. His eyes locked with those in his reflection, then he murmured, “If she’d spoken to her agent . . . she would have discussed doing so, wouldn’t she?”
After a moment, his features contorted and he straightened. “Damn! I’m not safe yet.”
Chapter 6
There it is.” Montague nodded across Winchester Street at the office of Runcorn and Son.
Beside him, Mrs. Adair—Penelope, as she’d insisted he call her—held up a gloved hand to screen her eyes. “Ah, yes. It looks decently prosperous.” Lowering her hand, she scanned the street. “I haven’t been in this area before. I’m always amazed by how immense London is.”
Striding along on her other side, Adair grinned but said nothing. He, too, was surveying the street, taking note of the area and the office.