“I’ve already sent an invitation to Freddy to join me as my first house guest at my country retreat.” They settled in the grass, Val’s back resting against the tree. “I’ve warned Sir Dewey what I’m about, and he doesn’t endorse it, but neither can he stop me.”
“Did you tell him what happened to Ellen’s cottage?” Darius asked.
“Sent the note yesterday, and we should expect Freddy to call next Wednesday.”
“When Ellen’s at market,” Darius said. “You won’t tell her he’s visiting? Are you going to tell her the bastard almost dropped a barn on the three of us and two splendid horses?”
“Here, here,” Nick chimed in around a bite of sandwich.
“I will tell her about the barn, and I think we need to tell the heathen, as well,” Val said, “but she isn’t to know Freddy’s coming.”
“I can take her to Kent,” Nick reminded Val, “or to the London town house, or even to Candlewick.”
“She’ll know something’s afoot,” Val countered. “And if she bolts, that might tip my hand to Freddy. The gossip mill in Little Weldon turns on a greased wheel, and I’m convinced somebody is feeding Freddy information.”
“And they may not even know they’re passing along anything of merit,” Darius said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“I’ll tell you something of merit.” Nick lay back and rested his head on Val’s thigh. “A nap is very meritorious right now, but maybe another medicinal tot of that bottle first, Dare.” He waggled long fingers, closed his eyes, and took a swig.
“Right.” Darius stretched out, using the food sack as his pillow. “A nap is just the thing.”
Val sat between them, Nick’s head weighting his thigh, an odd warmth blooming in his chest. They’d just risked their lives for him, these two. And now, like loyal dogs, they were stretched out around him, dozing lazily until the next threat loomed. It was a peculiar silver lining, when the threat of death brought with it the unequivocal assurance one was well loved.
***
Hawthorne Bragdoll sat in his favorite thinking tree and considered the scene he’d just witnessed at the hay barn. The damned building had all but collapsed, held up only by the blond giant—a bloody earl, that one—and Mr. Windham. Windham was big, and gone all ropey and lean with muscle, but that blond fellow—he was something out of a traveling circus, a strong man or a giant, maybe. He put Thorn in mind of Vikings, for all the man did smile.
Especially at women.
Neal had been in a swivet when that tart of his, Louise, had smiled back at the giant. Poor Neal didn’t know Louise Hackett’s mouth did much worse than smile at the occasional handsome, well-heeled fellow, but Thorn didn’t begrudge her the extra coin. Times were hard, and for serving maids and yeomen, they were always going to be hard. Still, coin for services was a long way from this bloody-minded mischief.
Intent on avoiding all the clearing work to be done on Sunday, Thorne had repaired to his second favorite thinking tree in the home wood, only to see a gangling, pot-gutted, nattering dandy strutting around a half-fallen tree right beside Mrs. FitzEngle’s cottage. While Thorn watched in horrified amazement, the dandy had ordered Hiram Hackett and his dimwitted brother Dervid to saw the tree so it fell on the widow’s cottage.
A few weeks earlier, Thorn had seen Hiram and Dervid making trip after trip into the manor house, each time carrying a load of lumber scraps and other tinder. They’d hauled in a couple cans of lamp oil too, and Thorn had been sure he was about to be treated to the sight of the biggest bonfire since the burning of London.
He’d kept his peace, as the house was empty, and Windham was not his friend or his family. But purposely crashing a tree into the widow’s only home…
That, Thorn concluded, was just rotten, even by his very tolerant standards. Mrs. Fitz was an outcast, like Thorn, and he sensed she was a cut above her neighbors, something that won her Thorn’s limited sympathy. Thorn had no sisters, but he had a mother, and someday, given his pa’s fondness for the bottle, his mother would likely be widowed.
And if anybody had dropped a damned tree on his mother’s house… Thorn clenched his fists in imagined rage and then settled back into his tree to do some more thinking.
***
“Now this is interesting.” Freddy Markham picked up the sole epistle gracing the salver in the breakfast parlor of his London town house. The bills and duns were carefully separated out before he came down each morning, leaving the invitations, or invitation, as the case was, for his perusal over tea, while the less-appetizing correspondence awaited his eventual displeasure in the library.
“My lord?” Stanwick’s tone was deferential, though his eyes were full of a long-suffering, probably related to the tardiness of his wages. The man had no grasp of the strictures of a gentlemanly existence.
“I am invited to be the luncheon guest of Lord Valentine Windham that I might see what progress he’s made with the old estate out by Little Weldon.” Freddy kept the glee from his voice—it didn’t do to show emotion before the lower orders.
“And will you be going, my lord?” Stanwick politely inquired as he prepared Freddy’s cup of tea.
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be taking the curricle, weather permitting, because I don’t want to malinger there. I’ll just tip my hat, wish the man well, and spend a couple nights in Oxford.” With the scholars on summer holiday, the usual bevy of willing women would be more than happy for his custom, come to think of it.
“When shall I have you packed, my lord?”
“The invite is for Wednesday next, so I’ll depart Monday.” Freddy tapped the invitation against his lips. “I say, Stanwick, since when did we stop serving biscuits with our tea? A man could get more than a bit peckish‚ and me a lord of the realm.”
“I’ll see what the kitchen has to offer, my lord.”
Freddy watched him go, confident some sustenance would be forthcoming despite the deplorable impatience of the trades regarding payment of their bills. Good servants understood that a lord of the realm was above such things, and so food would continue to materialize on his table.
He was almost sure of it.
***
Given the last weekend’s mischief, Val decided he would remain on his estate that weekend. He urged Ellen, Nick, Darius, and the boys to vacate, and offered to hire the Bragdolls to patrol the grounds, but only Darius agreed to go.
And what errands he saw to in London, neither Nick nor Val wanted to ask.
To Val’s surprise, Axel and Abby Belmont decided to come for a visit on Saturday, the stated purpose being for Axel to lend his eye and hand to the addition on Ellen’s cottage—the unstated purpose no doubt being for the man simply to see his sons.
Val woke Saturday morning as he had every morning for the past five, in Ellen’s bed and in her arms. There were other bedrooms ready, enough that Val could offer the Belmonts some genuine hospitality should they be inclined to stay the night, but Val couldn’t bring himself to give up his nights with Ellen.
She was going to bolt. Val could feel it. His two oldest brothers had bolted for the cavalry rather than face Moreland’s insufferable high-handedness. He himself had bolted for Italy. His brother Gayle had bolted into the commercial complexities of a ducal estate in sore financial disarray. When Dev had come home from war, he’d bolted first into the bottle then into the wilds of Yorkshire.
Valentine Windham could sniff an impending departure miles off. Ellen was emotionally packing her bags, and there was not one damned thing he could do to change her mind.
But he was a man, so rather than stew endlessly without result, he eased himself out of Ellen’s bed as the first gray light filtered through the curtains, kissed her cheek, and retrieved his clothes from where he’d tossed them on a chair. He had a long list of things to do, and if he couldn’t resolve his situation with Ellen, he’d at least see about his list.
He was as bad as his father, thinking that passing bills in Parliament somehow comp
ensated for being an inept, overbearing excuse for a papa.
“Val?”
“Here, love.” He returned to the side of the bed and crouched down half-dressed to meet her sleepy gaze. “Back to sleep with you, since I kept you awake for much of last night.”
She leaned out over the edge of the mattress and clamped her arms around his neck.
“What’s this?” he murmured, settling at her hip and smoothing her hair back.
Ellen leaned up, hugging his shoulders. “When will you tell me about your family? Really tell me, not just toss out a few placatory details?”
He was silent, his conscience trying to shout down his sense the time was not right. How would she react? My papa is one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, as well as one of the most determined and the most devoted to his lady. He’ll want legitimate children of us, so let’s make our farewells sooner rather than later.
“When will you tell me what’s really amiss between you and Freddy?” Val said quietly. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, trying to convey he wanted merely to listen, not to judge, but such desolation came into Ellen’s eyes, he regretted his question.
“I’ll tell you. Soon, and when I do, you will wish I hadn’t.”
“Did you betray Francis, then?” Val asked softly, bringing her hand to his cheek.
“Yes,” Ellen said on an unsteady breath, “but not… not the way you mean. I wasn’t unfaithful, though that hardly matters.”
The room was gradually, inexorably growing lighter, but Ellen remained silent.
“We’ll talk when you’re ready,” he promised, pressing another kiss to her neck.
“And you’ll tell me about your family?”
Val smiled sadly. “When I do, I will wish I hadn’t—and you might too.”
***
“All is in readiness,” Darius confirmed as they watched the farm wagon jingle down the lane toward the village early the next Wednesday morning. “Though I can’t like this idea of yours, Val, simply confronting the man, no magistrate about, no one but Wee Nick on hand to enforce the king’s peace.”
“Wee Nick,” said the man himself, “outranks the pusillanimous buffoon, has double his weight, double his reach, and at least five times his brain power. And should my charming presence fail to inspire him to good conduct, you will be waiting in the wings, ready to rescue us.”
“Rescue Val. What will you tell Freddy about Ellen?”
“As little as possible,” Val said. “She should be none of his concern, nor he any of hers. The entire purpose of this meeting is to see that’s the case.”
“At least you’re doing something about him,” Nick pointed out charitably, “though as to that, you’ve gotten a great deal done here in a short time.”
“Good crews,” Val said, glancing around. “Though I have to confess, it makes me nervous, the quiet. I can hear them banging away over at Ellen’s, but not to see scaffolding all over my north wing, not to hear the constant ring of curses and shouts and hammers, it’s unnerving.”
“You never heard much of anything before,” Nick said, “except all the notes in your head. You hear things now.”
“Possibly.” Val considered the notion. It was one thing not to listen, but Nick was accusing him of not hearing. His Grace was the one who never even heard others.
“You don’t get that gone-away look in your eyes as often as you did a couple months ago,” Darius added, “and you don’t make a fat, unhappy fist of your left hand a hundred times an hour.”
“I fisted my hand?” Val asked, staring at the hand in question as he spoke.
“I noticed it, because at first I thought it meant you were angry and ready to plant somebody a facer, perhaps even my charming self. Then I realized you didn’t even know you were doing it.”
Val’s gaze moved from one friend to the other. “It has begun to amaze me that I managed to walk upright and speak English on occasion, such a stranger have I apparently been to myself.”
“Not a stranger to yourself,” Nick corrected him, frowning down the drive, “more a visiting dignitary to those who care about you.”
Val fell silent, wondering what else his friends might have wanted to tell him, but for this tendency he’d displayed to become absorbed in his own artistic world, even while in the company of others. He realized abruptly he was doing it, again, while his friends exchanged a rueful smile.
“Bugger the both of you.” Val shoved them each on the arm. “I’m going to go through the house one more time. If you’d take the outbuildings, Dare, and you the stables, Nick, I’ll feel better.”
“Of course.” Nick strode off, leaving Darius to eye his friend.
“You’ve put the house in order this week,” Darius said. “The place looks good, and I assume you’ll be moving into it when Ellen’s cottage is done.”
“That would make sense,” Val replied, unwilling to voice his reluctance to do just that. Ellen back at her cottage seemed another step closer to him out of her life. If she ended their association, he could not bear to take up residence in the house alone, not with her toiling away in her gardens, one home wood and three universes of stubbornness away.
“So when,” Darius asked gently, “will you set up the piano?”
Val slewed around to stare at his friend. “What piano?”
“The one your papa sent along with the team,” Darius said. “The one that’s been sitting in its crate in the carriage bays for the past week and more.”
Val cringed. “We left a piano in the carriage house?”
“Freddy will expect you to have a piano,” Darius said, his tone merely bored. “And we’ve half the morning to kill before he gets here.”
“And Nick’s considerable brawn to assist us.” He should not even set the damned thing up. What was His Grace thinking, now of all times, to send Val a piano? It was so typical of their dealings, that his father would finally mean well and get the timing so exactly, ironically wrong. Val stared down at his left hand, which looked no different from the right of late. He could always crate up this gift later and send it back from whence it came.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, telling himself no piano should be housed in a damned carriage house, and certainly not in his carriage house.
“If you insist.”
“You going to tune the thing?” Nick asked, draping an arm over Val’s shoulder when they’d gotten the instrument set up in a first-floor parlor. “I know you have your kit with you.”
Val’s lips compressed into a thin line, but Nick was right. He did have his tools with him—he always did.
“Ellen might enjoy playing it,” Darius suggested with devilish innocence.
“Bugger you both,” Val said on a sigh. Except a piano should be kept in tune.
His craftsmen had packed the instrument very carefully—for it was one of his, damned if it wasn’t—and the piano was in fine shape, not even needing much tuning. Val closed the lid and looked around the room for the bench that had been delivered with the piano. He positioned it before the piano and noticed a corner of white paper sticking out from under the seat.
A note in his father’s slashing, confident hand.
Valentine,
You play these things better than I have ever done anything, save perhaps love Her Grace. She picked this one out after trying all that were ready for sale at both of your shops. She said it was particularly lovely in the middle and lower registers, whatever that means. Her Grace will be sending along some of your music, though I told her it would be better for you to come choose what you wanted from Morelands, as an old fellow might get to see his youngest (and only bachelor) son that way, but there is no reasoning with Her Grace on certain points.
You are to keep Sean, if you please. Morelands’s stables are too large and busy for one of his years, but he would not ask for lighter duties. This was Her Grace’s idea; the piano was mine.
I hope you are keeping well, as am I—which you would kn
ow had you had the courtesy to correspond with your own papa from time to time. And polite, chipper little thank you notes to placate your mother do not count.
Moreland
Val had to chuckle at the aggravating blend of what? Officiousness, bashful innuendo, and simple familiarity in the short note. His Grace was never, not in a millennium of trying, going to be a subtle or calming sort of person. He was direct, ruthless, and devoted to his duchess. Since a heart seizure a year ago, there had been some softening, but Val still felt the blatant attempts to manipulate, even in the terse little epistle.
He was to visit his father.
He was to write to his father.
He was to play the piano, though his father had railed at him for years that music was a nancy-pants way for a man to go through life when it went beyond drawing room competence. Never mind the gift of a piano was at complete odds with all those lectures! If His Grace wanted to change his tune, then all other tunes simply ceased to exist—past, present, or future. It was an amazing quality, to alter reality at will. The trick of it was probably the first secret passed along from one duke to the next. He’d have to ask Gayle about it when next he saw his brother-the-heir.
He closed the lid of the piano bench, but not before he noticed one other document—a bill of lading marked “paid.”
It was a beautiful instrument. Val sighed as he regarded the gleaming finish. A grand, of course. His mother would not content herself with less for him. He lifted the lid and sat, vowing to himself he was just testing the tuning.
To keep his vow, he limited his test to the little lullaby he’d composed for Winnie and sent north with St. Just. Winnie was a busy child. She darted around the estate like a small tornado, poking her nose into adult business at will with the canine mastodon, Scout, panting at her heels.
So he’d written Winnie a cradle song to play when Scout was having trouble settling his doggy nerves or when Winnie wanted something quiet and pretty to end her busy days with. It wasn’t the first piece he’d written for her, though it might be the last.
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