The Masterful Mr. Montague Read Online Free PDF Page B

family dinner giving thanks that she had never had brothers or sisters; then again, she doubted most families behaved like the Halsteads. They seemed a law unto themselves.
    Tonight, the conversation had ranged from the importance of the bills currently before Parliament, to the Irish Question and the weightiness of the relevant deliberations taking place inside the Home Office. The former topic was espoused by Cynthia, only daughter and second-born of the Halstead children, in order to call attention to her husband, the Honorable Wallace Camberly, Member of Parliament, and underscore his importance and, by extension, hers.
    A severe-looking matron in an azure satin gown, Cynthia sat on Lady Halstead’s right, opposite Violet. Cynthia’s features were hard, her brown eyes like onyx. Constant bad temper had left her lips pinched and thin; her most frequent expressions were of disapproval and disdain. Very little in life, it seemed, found favor with Cynthia. If blind ambition had a face, it was hers. “Of course,” she declared, “the coronation will soon take precedence over all else. The parliamentary committee to oversee it will shortly be named.”
    Seated down the table on the opposite side, Constance Halstead, wife of Mortimer, who was her ladyship’s firstborn, reached for her wineglass. A tall, large-boned lady with a buxom figure and round features, Constance had an unfortunate fondness for frills and furbelows, and a voice that, regardless of the company, was always pitched too loud. “I daresay,” she stated. “But, of course, it will fall to the Home Office to oversee all the details of the day. Mortimer”—Constance glanced at her husband, seated at the head of the table—“will no doubt be heavily involved.”
    Violet, too, glanced at Mortimer. Of average height and build, Mortimer’s adherence to rigid correctness in every aspect of his dress only served to make him unmemorable, easily overlooked in a crowd. His face, too, lacked distinction, his features held under such absolute control that his expression was usually bland, if not blank. Mortimer had been addressing the excellent roast beef, but now he looked up, his pale eyes going to Cynthia, his expression a stone-faced challenge as he said, “Indeed. There will be a great deal to be organized, and the Home Office will be in charge. There have already been preliminary discussions, although I am not at liberty to divulge any details.”
    All he got out of Cynthia was a smirk, effectively communicating her belief that Mortimer could not reveal any details because he didn’t know any, not actually being involved at all.
    Mortimer’s choler started to rise, but before he could respond to Cynthia, Maurice Halstead, second son and social black sheep—rake, roué, gambler, womanizer, and general profligate—drawled, “So it’ll be you who’ll be consulted as to how many frills will be on Alexandrina’s coronation gown? Oh, no, wait—she’s to be called Victoria, isn’t she?”
    Mortimer narrowed his eyes on Maurice. “The coronation gown will be decided by the Palace, as is proper, and, yes, as even you should have heard, the young queen has declared she will be Victoria.”
    The man seated next to Constance stirred. “What’s she got against the name Alexandrina, then?” William Halstead’s words were fractionally slurred.
    If Maurice was the social black sheep, William was the family’s pariah. Violet was certain he attended Lady Halstead’s dinners in order to get at least one good meal a month, but even more because he knew his presence severely disturbed his brothers and sister, and their spouses, all of whom viewed William much as they would a cockroach, one they could sadly not squash.
    The youngest of the Halstead children, William was always the most soberly dressed, in a plain black suit that was only just passable as suitable attire for a gentry dining table.
    “Actually”—Wallace Camberly spoke for what Violet thought