“I’m surprised she hasn’t left for Yorkshire yet. A new granddaughter must have her in alt.”
“We are pleased.” The duke’s eyes twinkled as he appropriated the royal first person plural. “But we are also getting appallingly old, and St. Just, canny fellow, has hinted he might bring Emmie, Winnie, and the baby south for the winter. Her Grace and I would rather see that—so the entire family can then enjoy St. Just’s visit—than we would like to make a progress of hundreds of miles.”
“I can’t blame you. I’d love to see St. Just again, as well as Win and Emmie, but I am not inclined to make that journey now.”
The duke shrugged, piling more cakes on his now-empty plate. “St. Just is an old campaigner. He’s used to haring about and will probably need to do a fair amount of it for the next few years. His countess comprehends this. Excellent cakes, by the way.”
“I’ll pass your compliments along to the cook.” As long as the sweets held up, it appeared he and his father were going to have a civil visit. “So what do we hear from Gayle and Anna?”
“Not much.” The duke smiled fondly. “My heir is running them ragged, of course. He’ll have his papa’s height, that one. Esther thinks he’ll have her green eyes. But back to your letters. Let’s have a spot more libation, first though, but easy on the tea.”
Val got up, crossed to the decanter, and poured his father two neat fingers.
“Jesus in the manger.” His Grace closed his eyes. “That is decent. That is damned decent. You should enjoy some before you’ve a wife about to begrudge you every pleasure a man holds dear.” His Grace smiled at his tumbler. “Almost every pleasure. My thanks. I always told Her Grace you were too smart to waste your life on a piano bench.”
Val winced—then wanted to wince again because he’d let his appearance of indifference visibly slip. Never well advised, that.
“Oh, for God’s sake, boy.” His Grace set the tumbler down hard. “I pay you a compliment, and you cringe as if I meant it as an insult.” His lips pursed, and he regarded his youngest son while Val stood, half-facing the window overlooking the gardens. “My lack of enthusiasm for your devotion to music was based on reasons, young man, though I don’t suppose much of that matters now. If we’re to have a tête-à-tête over your situation with Roxbury, can’t you at least ring for a little more sustenance?”
Val went to the door and spoke to the footmen. The cakes arrived, along with a selection of chocolates, some marzipan, and some candied violets, and all before His Grace could resurrect the familiar lament over Valentine’s devotion to musical endeavors.
“This is what your mother would call hospitality.” His Grace’s eyes lit up at the sight of the tray. “Now, where were we?”
Val resumed his seat. “Try the violets; they’re St. Just’s favorite.”
“Ah, yes!” His Grace paused in midreach. “That reminds me, as St. Just was most concerned for you in his recent letter. A girl—can you believe it?” His Grace was smiling beatifically. “But as to your letter, here’s what we’ve got.”
He popped some violets into his mouth before going on.
“Bad piece of work.” The duke shook his head. “This Markham fellow is a veritable bird-dropping on the family escutcheon, not at all like his cousin. I knew the previous baron, and he was young but sensible and could be trusted to vote his party’s position unless he had a damned good and well-stated reason to the contrary. Everybody respects that.”
“But the present baron?” Val pressed, forcing himself to attend this topic and not the question His Grace had left dangling in Val’s mind.
His Grace sat back, his expression no longer jovial or paternal in the least. “In the last session, the dirty little rodent sold his vote at least six times.”
“This is not good?”
“This is not good,” the duke said patiently. “The vote is a sacred trust, rather the petite version of the divine right of kings, something given to a man from a much greater power, call it God or the realm or what you will. You trade your vote, of course, judiciously, to gain something of value by giving away something of lesser value, but you do not accept money for your vote.”
“Bad ton?” Val hazarded, as the distinction seemed pretty fine to him.
“Criminally bad ton,” His Grace clarified, “if blatant enough. It implicates both the one selling his vote and the one buying it. Of course, there will be layers of intermediaries in most cases, but Roxbury got himself indebted with the very worst sorts of people, so he was sloppy, and thus left an easy trail to uncover. Corrupt and stupid, never a pretty combination.”
“You have signed statements?”
“Oh, of course.” The duke’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “And not just from the usual unsavory characters but from the bankers and other MPs Roxbury approached about selling their votes, as well.”
“Members of Parliament would testify against him?” Val sat back, relieved beyond telling. And Ellen thought the man was so damned powerful.
“Of course.” The duke cocked his head. “One always wants to appear to be on the side of crusading justice. Shall I explain the documents to you?”
“If you would.” Val nodded, for the first time feeling justified in his hopes.
What followed was something Val could think of only as an etude in parliamentary politics. His Grace patiently elucidated the particulars of six different bills, their strengths and weaknesses, the reasons various factions were in support of them and various other factions were not. The duke described convoluted committee structures and the channels through which Freddy had approached various MPs and committee chairs. While Val tried to concentrate on the ramifications of Freddy’s behavior, His Grace casually enumerated the consequences of each bill being passed or not passed into law, being amended in this or that detail, being sent back to committee for further drafting, or being otherwise modified to suit some particular interest or industry.
The information flowed from His Grace’s fertile brain in a tidy, well-orchestrated presentation, not a note out of place, not a phrase out of balance.
As the candied violets met the same fate as the crème cakes and chocolates, insight struck Valentine Windham with the force of a particularly well-aimed mule kick: His father was a parliamentary prodigy, a political virtuoso whose composition of choice was nothing less than a substantial influence on British affairs in the present age.
The attributes of virtuosity were all there: A towering commitment to the subject of choice; a fluency gained through long, dedicated years of study; and a generosity about sharing the wisdom gained in those years, that came across as nothing less than art.
“There is another favor I would ask of you, Your Grace,” Val heard himself say when the duke’s exposition was complete.
His Grace sat back and grinned at Val over the remains of the tray of sweets. “This is my lucky day. Say on, my boy.” Val explained, the duke laughed softly, nodded, and rose to take his leave.
“Your Grace.” Val paused with his hand on the parlor door. “Why did you object to my interest in music?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You said you had reasons for objecting to my obsession with the piano,” Val reminded him. “Might I know why?”
His Grace frowned mightily. “I could not help you.”
“Could not help me?” What was this? “You made sure I had the best instructors, the best instruments, plenty of opportunity to play with talented ensembles; you talked Her Grace into letting me go to Italy in very uncertain times; you suggested to Kirkland I’d make a decent substitute conductor. How didn’t you help me?”
Until that moment, Val hadn’t for himself admitted how much his father had supported him. He’d attributed those measures to his mother’s influence, but even a duchess had limited reach when it came to matters financial and political.
“Money is not help,” the duke said. “Of course you were going to have the best—you are my son. I would no more allow you to practice
on an inferior instrument than I would have sent you to the hunt meet on a lame pony. What I mean is that I could not help you. St. Just and Bart were off to the cavalry, and I certainly had useful advice for them both and enough influence that they didn’t end up going directly to the worst of the fighting. Gayle is the family merchant, meaning no disrespect, and I’ve seen enough business transacted I can chime in knowledgeably from time to time if he asks for an opinion. Victor loved the social and political scene, and I’ve decades running tame through those halls. I had the perfect pocket borough picked out for him.
“But you… When you sat down on that piano bench, I felt as if you were alone in a little rowboat, no oars, no rudder, just waves and weather all around you, and I had no way to swim out and keep you safe. I know nothing about music—not one damned thing beyond ‘God Save the King,’ to which, mind you, I mostly just move my lips. I often wondered though, if you didn’t choose music for that reason.”
“What reason?”
“You did not want to be like me,” His Grace said simply. “So you went where I could not follow. Not the least subtle, but appallingly effective. Fortunately, your mother could keep her eye on you, but it hasn’t been easy, Valentine. But then, few efforts worth undertaking are, or so your mother has told me on many occasions, generally when the topic is her enduring devotion to me.”
“Few efforts worth undertaking are easy,” Val agreed, understanding perfectly where he’d gotten his determination and his willingness to maneuver boldly with little thought to the consequences.
“And hasn’t this been the most interesting little chat?” The duke smiled at his son. “So how’s the hand? And I will not peach on you to your mother.”
“Better.” Val held up his left hand and flexed it. “Much, much better. I just have to pace myself with it now.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m working on a little project. Would you like to see it?”
“D’you think Worthington’s staff is up to putting us together an actual meal?” His Grace tried to look indifferent, but his eyes gleamed like those of a man who’d waited nigh thirty years for his baby boy to invite Papa to see his toys.
“Beef roast is on for this evening. We can take trays in the music room, if you like.”
“Well, why not? The rain might eventually let up, and I’ve always wondered whether Fairly has naked cupids plastered on every ceiling of his residence.”
“Just in the bathing room,” Val allowed, straight-faced.
“Don’t suppose…?” His Grace let the thought trail off.
“Of course,” Val replied, smiling openly now. “And then to the music room.”
***
Ellen was using the last of a pretty afternoon to separate a bed of irises along her springhouse—staying busy was supposed to help her forget a certain green-eyed, handsome man with talented hands, a beautiful voice, and a stubborn streak worthy of a duke. A man who dwelled in her heart, just as she lived under the roof he’d provided.
The extra iris roots were, of course, saleable, but she’d had good markets over the entire summer and had no real need of additional coin.
Val had seen to that.
“Lady Roxbury?”
The voice, so like Val’s, caused her heart to skip a beat, but as she raised her hand to shield her view from the sun, her caller’s face and form registered, as well. For an instant—a joyful, unbelievable instant—she thought it was Val, but then her senses took in the different muscling, the lighter hair, the more austere cast to the features.
“Lord Westhaven.” It had to be he, for he’d sent along a little warning note two days previous. Ellen was faced with having to rise so she could curtsey. Westhaven surprised her utterly by dropping to his knees beside her.
He nodded at the flowerbed. “Irises, I’m guessing. Can you spare a few? My wife and her grandmother adore them, and our house is not yet landscaped. Anna wants to do it herself, but there just hasn’t been time this summer.”
“You have a new baby, don’t you? They can be very demanding, and of course I have more than enough here to send some along to your countess.”
He asked her to show him how to separate the roots and soon had Ellen chatting about bulbs and tubers and offering to send some of the daffodils she’d separated, as well. She invited him in to tea, surprised at how comfortably the time had passed.
He was a less vibrant version of Valentine but a man Ellen felt an inherent ability to trust. He had Val’s instinctive sense of timing, too, as he steered her deftly but unerringly back to innocuous topics until the tea tray was delivered and the door to the parlor closed by the departing maid.
“How do you like your tea, my lord?”
“Later,” Westhaven said quietly. “I like my tea later, though feel free to indulge if you’re inclined. I think you’d rather hear what I came to say, though.”
“I would.” Ellen agreed, setting the pot down. “Or I hope I would.”
“He loves you, you know.” The earl frowned at her, an expression of considerable displeasure. “Valentine does. He hasn’t said that to me, but I am to note your dress, your appearance, any evidence of ill health or poor spirits. I am to question the help while I’m here and wangle an invitation to spend the night—propriety and my countess’s sensibilities be hanged—so I might reassure my brother the doors are conscientiously locked every night and the halls patrolled by a footman until dawn, and on and on.”
He stopped, and Ellen realized her amiable companion from the iris patch had been just a well-crafted façade. This man was going to be a duke and was comfortable with both the authority and the power that entailed. He was a gentleman, but he was Val’s brother and prepared to preserve his brother from heartache or folly at any cost.
Any cost.
Ellen added cream and sugar to the single cup of tea. “Then you must tell me, is he well? Is he sleeping? Has his hand continued to heal, and please—if you tell me nothing else—is he happy?”
The teacup began to shake minutely in her hand, and she just managed to set it down before it would have shattered against the table when it slipped from her grip.
“He’s miserable,” Westhaven said slowly, his eyes narrowing on the teacup. “He’s busy as hell, his hand is fine, but he’s perishing miserable; so you, my lady, are going to accept my invitation.”
Having spent weeks growing increasingly lonely and her nights increasingly convinced she’d made the worst mistake of her life, Ellen listened as carefully as she could to the earl’s next words then nodded her assent. If it was what Valentine Windham asked of her, she would have accepted an invitation to garden in hell.
If she hadn’t already.
***
“Mustn’t gawk,” the Earl of Westhaven whispered in Ellen’s ear. “You look quite the thing, and you’re in the ducal box. The entertainment is that way.” He discreetly pointed to the stage and cordially seated her to his left.
“So is this Val’s widow?” A jovial male voice sang out from the back of the box, and because she was watching her escort’s every move, Ellen saw Gayle Windham almost roll his eyes.
“Percy!” A soft, female voice chided. “Really. Lady Roxbury is Valentine’s friend and was his neighbor in Oxfordshire. My lady, Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Valentine’s mother, and this scandalous old reprobate is His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland.”
Ellen would have fallen on her backside had Westhaven not had her hand tucked firmly on his arm. She curtsied, murmuring something polite, her mind whirling at the august personages before her and the casual manner in which they’d introduced themselves.
Maybe Val hadn’t known his parents were using their box tonight, she reasoned. This whole trip to Town had been so odd, with Westhaven explaining only that Val wanted her to attend the opening night of the symphony’s fall season. She’d been whisked to Town, spent the night in one of the most elegant townhouses she’d ever seen, present
ed with a peculiarly well-fitting bronze silk evening gown and all the trimmings, and now here she was.
“They’re growin’ ’em almost as pretty as my duchess out in Oxfordshire, I see,” the duke said, beaming at Ellen.
Did dukes beam? Something in the mischief of his smile tickled her memory.
“You and Val have the same smile,” she informed the duke. “And Your Grace”—she turned to the duchess, a stately, slender lady whose hair was antique gold—“Val has your eyes.”
The duchess leaned close to whisper, “But I think Valentine has your heart, hmm?” She straightened and took her husband’s arm. “Shall we be seated, Percy? One doesn’t want to disappoint the crowds.”
Westhaven stepped back, so it happened Ellen was seated between the duke and duchess, feeling nervous, excited, and thoroughly off balance. Where was Val? And why had he summoned her? Was this simply an outing for her? Was it a demonstration to Freddy that the Moreland consequence was being put in Ellen’s corner?
The first half of the program started off in a blur as Ellen’s mind continued to race and whirl from one thought to the next. She tried, in the dim lighting, to look around and see if Val might be watching her from a different box. Gradually, though, the music seeped into her fevered brain, and she began to calm. Maybe Val just wanted her to hear this music. The orchestra was in fine form, and Val’s family was treating her with great cordiality.
Westhaven took her arm at the interval and informed her they would be strolling in the corridor. They barely escaped the confines of the ducal box when Ellen heard a familiar baritone rumbling behind her.
“If it isn’t my favorite little gardener,” Nick Haddonfield pronounced. “Give a lonely fellow a kiss, my lady, and I won’t complain when you pinch me.”
“Nick…” She smiled up at him, not realizing how much she’d missed him too, until that moment. When he wrapped his arms around her, there in the theatre corridor with half of polite society looking on, Ellen felt tears welling. “I’ve missed you.”
“As well you should.” Nick nodded approvingly. “Women of discernment always miss me, though I’ve missed you, as well, lovey. You did not answer my letters.”
The Virtuoso Page 31
