The Virtuoso

by Grace Burrowes

  When Val rose, kissed her cheek, and slipped away through the trees, Ellen remained on the bench, recalling as many precious details of this first, new happy memory as she could. Hope notwithstanding, the memory might have to last her a long, long time.

  Her peace was destroyed not ten minutes later when Val’s warning shout sliced through the woods like a rifle shot, followed by the unmistakable sound of something very heavy shattering into a thousand pieces.

  Six

  “Dare! Above you!”

  Darius barely had time to glance up in reaction to Val’s warning bellow before grabbing each Belmont brother by the collar and hauling them back beneath the overhang of the eaves.

  Four heavy pieces of slate hit the terrace, followed by a rain of fieldstone plummeting four stories from the roof. An eerie silence followed, broken by Val’s voice raised in alarm.

  “Bloody, blazing Jesus!” He was across the terrace in four strides. “Tell me you’re unharmed, the lot of you.” He grabbed first Day then Phillip, perusing them frantically for signs of injury.

  “They’re all right, Val,” Darius said, gaze trained upward.

  “Whoever’s on the roof,” Val called, “secure your tools and get yourselves down here, now!”

  “You saw the slates coming down?” Darius asked, still glancing up warily.

  “I did. Talk to me, lads. Now is no time to stop your infernal chatter.”

  “We’re fine,” Day said, though his complexion had gone sheet white, while Phillip was flushing a bright red. “Phil?”

  “Right as rain.” Phillip nodded just before sinking to the ground. “A bit woozy, though.” Day’s gaze strayed to the terrace a few feet from the eaves, where the slates had broken into myriad small pieces, and fieldstone lay scattered about.

  “Believe I’ll join you,” Day muttered, sliding down the wall beside his brother. “That was perilously close.”

  “Too close,” Darius muttered, eyes narrowing. “Let’s take note of who is coming down that ladder, shall we?” In response to Val’s command, the roof crew was making its way to the ground and crossing the yard to peer at Day and Phillip.

  “Be the lads a’right?” Hancock, the foreman asked.

  “They’re fine,” Val said. “A bit shook up. Hancock, who built that scaffolding?”

  “The scaffold what holds the chimbly stone?” Hancock asked. “Built it m’self, just afore we broke on Saturday past. Spent this morning piling up that old chimbly onto it so it could be rebuilt proper.”

  “You built it on loose slates,” Val said between clenched teeth.

  “Beg pardon.” Hancock widened his stance and met Val’s gaze. “I did not.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I been working high masonry for nigh thirty years, Mr. Windham.” Hancock put massive fists on his hips and leaned forward to make his point. “If the chimbly is in poor shape, the whole roof is suspect. I checked them slates and they were solid tight to the roof on Friday.”

  “I seen him do it, Mr. Windham,” another man volunteered. “Nobody wants to work on a rotten roof, particularly not with heavy stone. The slate on the north side is coming loose, but the south side is tight as a tick.”

  Val blew out a breath and exchanged a look with Darius. “Then I spoke in haste and apologize, which leaves us with a mystery.”

  Hancock nodded, his expression grim. “We had no wind nor rain atween Friday and today, and yet the slates is got somehow loose.”

  “They did. Nobody up on the roof until I’ve checked it over. Your crew can finish out the day cleaning up the terrace and laying slate down here. Boys, I need to borrow Darius for a moment, but you’re free to take a swim, or repair to your tent, if you’d rather.”

  “Swim,” Day said. “But we’d best check the pond for monsters first.”

  Val and Darius found nothing to indicate the damage went beyond the four loose slates, but before descending, Val sat on the peak of the roof and frowned at Little Weldon visible on the horizon.

  “The only logical conclusion is somebody was here over the weekend and thought it might be fun to loosen a few roof tiles,” Val said. “That is a level of mischief bordering on criminal.”

  “Not bordering.” Darius’s voice held banked violence. “That’s trespassing, at least; malicious mischief, destruction of property, certainly; attempted murder, possibly. If this is what the local boys consider fun, then you might not want to move in. And I am almost certain you had trespassers here while you were at Belmont’s.”

  “How can you know that?”

  Darius explained about his gelding’s water bucket, and Val’s expression became thoughtful. “What would a bunch of boys want with a water bucket? And how would they have the expertise to loosen slate tiles?”

  “You have a half-dozen masons working on your roof. All it would take is a son or cousin or nephew of one of those men, and the boy would undoubtedly know enough to loosen tiles.”

  “But why? Somebody—you, Day, Phil—could have been killed, and I would have been responsible, and it’s not as if most of the local families aren’t benefiting from our work here.”

  “You’re right. Who would want to sabotage this project?”

  “I don’t know.” Val scanned the bucolic view. “But the scaffold to hold the old chimney stones was built on Friday, and the slates were tight then. Anybody with any powers of observation could see the next step in the task was to pile the fieldstone up on the scaffolding. They loosened the slates, knowing the load on them would increase dramatically as soon as work on the chimney began.”

  “Causing the slates to fall and the piled rock to come down with them.” Darius blew out a breath. “Nasty, nasty business.”

  “Dangerous.” Val straightened to stand on the peak of the roof. “I’m wondering if we should send Day and Phil back to the professor.”

  “They won’t want to go,” Darius said, pursing his lips. “Why don’t you send a note along to Belmont, and he can make the decision. It’s possible Hancock was mistaken and the slates were looser than he thought. It’s also possible this was an isolated incident of mischief by children who could not foresee the dire consequences.”

  “I might be overreacting,” Val allowed. “You don’t think so; neither do I.”

  “So what now?”

  “We take precautions.” Val gave Darius a hand up. “Not the least of which should be a guard here on weekends when the place is deserted.”

  “I can stay here. Or we can take turns, or you can hire somebody.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to remain, but whoever stays here alone will be at risk and I can’t ask that of you. The locals will be less inclined to hurt one of their own.”

  “We can argue about this all week.” Darius began a careful progress toward the ladder. “Right now it appears your neighbor is coming to see what’s amiss.” He nodded in the direction of the wood, and Val saw Ellen emerging from the trees into the yard below.

  “God almighty.” Val followed Dare toward the ladder. “And what if she’d been coming to call fifteen minutes ago? Let’s go down. I’d rather she hear it from us, and I’d rather she see for herself we’re unharmed.”

  Val presented the situation to Ellen as a mishap with no real harm resulting, but his words were for the benefit of their audience. When he had her to himself, he’d explain the matter more completely and hopefully talk her into staying with the Belmonts until the manor house was restored. Not that he wanted her several miles distant… But he would be visiting on weekends at Candlewick.

  Religiously, if she bided there.

  ***

  Ellen was unwilling to impede the afternoon’s work further with her fretting, but she was determined to grill Val thoroughly about the “slight mishap” when they were next private. She’d taken the lane rather than the bridle path to her property, and thus she approached her cottage from the front. As a consequence, she spied for the first time the little pot of pennyroyal on her f
ront steps.

  As she yanked the plant from its pot and tossed it on her compost heap, outrage warred with panic. The plant’s presence suggested to her just who might have caused the slates to fall from Valentine Windham’s roof.

  Surely she was jumping to an unwarranted conclusion. Not even Freddy would be so stupid as to create havoc like that and leave his damned pennyroyal on her front step like a calling card.

  Or would he?

  ***

  “I notice Mrs. FitzEngle does a brisk business.” Val peered at his mug of summer ale as if it held the answers to imponderable mysteries. “Is she really so dependent on her sales? The property seems prosperous, at least her little corner of it.”

  “If you want to know about your tenants’ finances,” Rafe, the bartender and coproprietor of The Tired Rooster said, “you’d best be looking in on Mr. Cheatham. He was the late baron’s solicitor, up in Great Weldon. He’d likely know who’s up to date on the rents, since he handles the banking for most around this part of the shire.”

  “Cheatham. Good to know.” Val watched for a moment as Rafe, apron tied over his potbelly, continued to scrub at the gleaming wood.

  “I’ll tell you something else good to know.” Rafe’s rag stopped its polishing of the scarred bar. “Them Bragdolls are hard workers, make no mistake, but they work your home farm, and I don’t think they quite have Mrs. Fitz’s permission to do that.”

  “Mrs. Fitz?” Val raised an eyebrow and let the silence grow.

  “Cheatham comes in for his pint now and again. I know how to keep my mouth shut, contrary to what you might think. Talk to Cheatham.”

  “Believe I will,” Val said, finishing his ale. “Save me an entire fruit pie, and I don’t care what you charge me for it.”

  “A whole entire pie.” Rafe nodded, good cheer abruptly wreathing his cherubic countenance. “For growing boys and strappin’ lads.”

  Val walked out of the tavern into the hurly-burly of a small town on a pretty market day, trying to puzzle out what Rafe had been telling him. Clearly, a visit to Cheatham was in order, but Rafe had almost admitted Ellen had some sort of claim on the land as well.

  “I see your goods are disappearing quickly,” Val remarked as he approached Ellen’s wagon where it was parked on the green. “Can you take a break? I’ll have Rafe pull you a lady’s pint.”

  “We can manage,” Dayton volunteered. “Can’t we, Phil?”

  “We’ll guard your flowers with our lives,” Phil assured her. “Now that Sir Dewey has fortified us with raspberry scones.”

  “Sir Dewey?” Val asked.

  “John Dewey Fanning. He’s over there.” Ellen gestured with her chin. “Playing chess with Tilden between Rafe’s interruptions. Why?”

  “He might have served with my oldest brother. You’ll introduce us?”

  “I can.” Though she did not sound enthusiastic about it.

  By the time they retrieved a pint for Ellen, Sir Dewey was alone at the chessboard.

  “Valentine Windham.” Val introduced himself, though in all propriety, Ellen or even Tilden should have made the introductions. “At your service and overdue to make your acquaintance. I believe we are neighbors.”

  Sir Dewey’s smile took in both Val and Ellen. “My good fortune, then. Axel Belmont warned me the Markham place was being refurbished. Here.” Sir Dewey appropriated a spare chair and set it down between the other two. “Shall we sit while you tell me how your progress fares at the Markham estate?”

  Fanning was probably five years Val’s senior, tall, blond, and a little weathered, which made his blue eyes look brilliant. He was genial enough, but beneath his country-squire manners, he had a certain watchful reserve, even when he turned to address Ellen.

  “Your late husband would have been pleased to see the progress on the estate, I believe.” In the beat of silence following Sir Dewey’s pronouncement, Ellen wasn’t quick enough to hide her surprise from Val.

  “You knew my late husband?”

  “His term at university overlapped my cousin Denham’s by a year, and Denham and I are very cordial, as were Denham and the baron. By the time I returned from India, Baron Roxbury had gone to his reward. I am remiss for not calling on you.” He shifted his gaze to Val. “Heard you had a bit of mishap on Monday.”

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me.” Ellen smiled at them briefly before passing Val her half-empty mug. “I see the boys are in need of assistance and will return to my post.”

  “You are fortunate in your immediate neighbors,” Sir Dewey remarked as both men rose to watch Ellen’s retreat. “She’s as pretty as the flowers she grows.”

  “Gallantly said,” Val allowed, resuming his seat. “Though I gather you hadn’t previously mentioned her marriage to Roxbury.”

  Sir Dewey continued to watch Ellen across the way. “Had she indicated she wanted it acknowledged, I might have taken that for a social overture, but she hasn’t.”

  Val watched her as well. “You knew Roxbury?”

  “I did, years ago, and not that well. The last baron, that is. The current holder of the title does no credit to his ancestry.”

  “I won the place from him in a card game.” Val forced himself to take his gaze from the sight of Ellen laughing at something Day said. “He struck me as a typical young lord, more time on his hands than sense, and ready for any stimulation to distract him from his boredom.”

  Sir Dewey cocked his head. “An odd assessment, coming from Moreland’s musical dilettante.”

  Val looked over at his companion sharply, only to find guileless blue eyes regarding him steadily. “How is it you come to know of Monday’s mishap?”

  Sir Dewey’s attention fell to the pieces on the chessboard, and he was quiet for a long moment before once again meeting Val’s gaze.

  “As it happens, the local excuse for a magistrate, Squire Rutland, is off to Brighton with his lady, leaving my humble self to hold the reins in his absence. Mr. Belmont served his turn earlier in the year and is disinclined to serve again. Then too, in the common opinion, I am a retired officer and thus suited to the role of magistrate.”

  “Then you have reason to know of our mishap. No doubt you will want to investigate the matter, but I’m going to ask a favor of you.”

  “A favor?”

  “While I am gaining my foothold here in Oxfordshire,” Val said, “I do not use my courtesy title or bruit about my antecedents. I am plain, simple Mr. Valentine Windham, who owns some furniture manufactories and does modestly well as a result.” He picked up a queen, the black one, and studied her. Keyboards were black and white, and if Val were going to accompany this tête-à-tête with Fanning, it would be a piping little piece for fife and drum designed to keep an entire army moving smartly along.

  “I own one of your pieces of furniture,” Fanning said, frowning. “Why dissemble when the truth will eventually come out?”

  “Have you ever wished you might not be known as the Sir Dewey Fanning who averted wars in India?”

  “So you are well informed, too.” Sir Dewey’s gaze went to the chess piece in Val’s hand. “Your brother is Colonel St. Just, correct?”

  “I am privileged to answer in the affirmative.”

  “I ran into your brother shortly after Waterloo,” Sir Dewey said quietly. “One worried for him.”

  Val cocked his head to consider Sir Dewey’s expression and found the soft words bore the stamp of one soldier’s concern for another. “He still has bad days when it rains and thunders, but he’s happily wed now and his countess is expecting a child.”

  “That is good news,” Sir Dewey said, smiling at the chessboard. It was a sweet, genuine smile, and as Val put the black queen back down on her home square, he wondered where that smile had been hiding when Ellen was at the table.

  “So what do you make of my mishap?”

  “Tell me about it, and I’ll share what I know of the local penchant for mischief.” They were more than an hour at it, with Sir Dewey askin
g thoughtful questions regarding everything from Val’s business competitors to the terms upon which Roxbury had conveyed the property.

  “Would you mind if I came over and had a look around?”

  “I would not.” Val rose and extended a hand. “Just don’t expect tea and crumpets in the formal parlor, as we’ve no formal parlor worth the name, much less crumpets, much less china to serve them on.”

  They parted, and Val went in search of his tenants.

  He found five out of the six enjoying a midday meal at the Rooster, the Bragdolls not having come into town for market. The picture Val derived from his interviews with his tenants was not encouraging, and he couldn’t escape the sense they were all talking past him, exchanging glances that suggested he was being humored.

  The visit to Cheatham loomed as something Val would see to sooner, not later.

  “So what did you learn from the tenants?” Ellen asked, clucking the horses to a sedate trot when they finally headed home.

  “My estate is a mess,” Val said. “The rents are collected, but I don’t gather much is done with them. The six farms ought to be run cooperatively, so they all shear together, hay together, and so forth, but I gather it’s pretty much every man for himself. And because improvements and repairs are not the tenants’ job, they don’t marl; they don’t clean out the irrigation ditches; they don’t trade bulls, stallions, or rams; they don’t fallow on any particular schedule; they don’t mend wall on any schedule; and it’s a wonder the land has held up as well as it has.”

  “How does a furniture maker know about marling and irrigation and so forth?” Ellen asked, her gaze on the horses’ rumps.

  “My father holds a great deal of land.” Val glanced over at her, gauging the impact of his disclosure. “I don’t consider myself sophisticated when it comes to husbanding the land, but I comprehend the basics, and if I don’t step in and do something, I will soon have several thousand acres of tired, unkempt property.”