The Virtuoso

Fourteen

“Whose idea was it,” Val groused as Nick knotted his cravat for him, “to leave this benighted place the day after the local version of a party?”

“Some duke’s son devised the notion,” Nick replied. “An otherwise fairly steady fellow, but one must make allowances. He’s dealing with a lot at present. Stickpin?” Val produced the requisite finishing accessory, and Nick frowned in concentration as he shoved gold through linen and lace. He patted the knot approvingly. “You’ll do.”

When Val merely grimaced, Nick offered him a crooked smile. “Dare and I will get you drunk, and there will be all manner of eager little heifers panting to take a spin with the duke’s son. Shoulders back, chin up, duty and honor call, and all that. Darius is also waiting for us in the library, guarding the decanter.”

“Suppose we must relieve him.” Val sighed, and met Nick’s eyes. “Heifers don’t pant.”

Nick’s smile was mischievous. “Maybe not after a duke’s youngest son. After a fine new earl like yours truly, turned out in his country finest and sadly lacking his dear countess at his side, they will be panting, or my name isn’t Wee Nick.”

They collected Ellen, who was looking pretty indeed, in a summery short-sleeved blue muslin dress patterned with little roses in a darker blue. She’d tucked her hair back in a chignon and woven some kind of bright blue flowers into her bun. A white woven shawl and white gloves completed her ensemble, and Val was reminded she was, by any standards, still a young woman.

A beautiful young woman.

And she was nervous. Even as a baroness, she’d likely never had quite the escort she had to the Little Weldon summer assembly, with the son of a duke at her side, an earl’s spare, and an earl in train, as well.

Nick handed Ellen into Val’s traveling coach—the only one he’d brought out from Town—and rocked the vehicle soundly when he climbed in and lowered himself beside Darius on the backward-facing seat.

Between Nick and Darius, the conversation stayed light, flirtatious, and even humorous, but as far as Val was concerned, they might have been in a hearse, so low were his spirits. He heard again the dirge, violins over cellos, the mournful bassoon adding its misery to the mix.

He looked up to find Ellen watching him as the coach rolled into the village and Sean brought the team to a halt.

“If you give your supper waltz to anyone else, Ellen,” Val murmured as he handed her out, “I will spank you on the steps of the church.”

“Likewise,” she replied, her smile sweet and wistful. “But look, they’ve set up the dancing outside.”

Sure enough, half the green was roped off, the trees hung with lanterns, and a podium set up for the musicians. Val’s little dowager friend sat in the center of the podium, three stools behind her. Two violin cases rested on the piano’s lid, and a guitar case leaned against one of the stools.

Flowers sat in pots every few feet around the dancing area, and children were shrieking with glee as they darted between adults. Tilden manned a tapped keg across the street outside the Rooster, and young men congregated around him in whatever passed for their evening finery. A punch bowl was set up under a tree, and ladies were gathering there like a bouquet of summer blossoms.

“The assembly itself will be upstairs,” Ellen explained. “There will be food there, and a place to stow hats, shawls, canes, and so forth.”

“Just like a London ball,” Darius quipped. “But with considerably more fresh air.”

As the evening progressed, the good humor and energy of the dancers seem to increase. Rafe’s generously distributed summer ale likely had a great deal to do with the level of merriment, and Val was just about to find Ellen and suggest a discreet and early departure, when the musicians announced that the next dance would be a waltz. A buffet at the long tables set up on the other side of the green would follow the waltz, and the party would then move into the Rooster for the annual summer darts tournament.

A cheer went up, and Val ducked through the crowd to find Ellen standing near the stairs leading up to the assembly rooms.

“May I have the honor of this dance?” He bowed to her as formally as he might have bowed to any duchess, and Ellen dipped an elegant curtsey.

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” she recited, laying her hand on his knuckles and following him across the street.

He didn’t lead her to the dancing area, though, but to the side yard of the livery, which was quiet and heavily shadowed. As the introductory measures drifted out across the summer night, Val was relieved to find it would be an English waltz, the slower, sweeter version of the Viennese dance.

He drew her closer than custom allowed; she tucked against him and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

The little group of musicians made a good job of it, the violins lilting along in close harmony, the piano and guitar accompanying with more sensitivity than Val would have expected. But for once, when there was music played, he didn’t focus exclusively on the sounds in his ears, but rather, spent his attention on the woman in his arms.

“Talk to me, Ellen,” Val whispered as he turned her slowly around the darkened yard. “I leave tomorrow, you promised me answers, and we’re out of time.”

“Not now, Valentine, please. We’re not out of time yet, and all I want in this moment is to have this dance with you.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her, but tucked her more closely to him and wished the dance would never end. When the last notes died away, she stayed right where she was, both arms around his waist, her forehead pressed to his chest.

“Ah, damn.” Val stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Shall I simply take you home, Ellen? I can send the coach back for Nick and Dare.”

She shook her head. “Everybody would remark our departure, and while you leave tomorrow, I have to live with these people.”

Val rested his chin on her crown. “It should reassure me you’re not planning on haring off somewhere and not telling me.”

“Oh, Val…” Ellen’s voice held weary reproach.

“Let me take you home,” Val tried again. “It will give us a chance to talk, and I think we need that.” She owed him that was closer to the truth, in Val’s mind.

She stepped back then, and Val felt a cold, sinking sensation coil in his gut. “Ellen?”

“I know I told you I would explain,” she said, turning her back to him, “but does it have to be now?”

“For God’s sake.” Val ran a hand through his hair. “If not now, then tell me when, please? I will be on my horse leaving for London at first light, and the sun set an hour ago. We are down to hours, Ellen, and bloody few of those.”

“I know, but I don’t want to see your eyes when you learn what I have to tell you. I don’t want to see what you think of me writ plain on your face.”

Val stepped closer to her. “You are being cowardly and asking the impossible of me. You are not a cowardly woman, Ellen Markham.”

“Cowardly.” Ellen winced and crossed her arms. “I am merely asking you for patience. We’re at the local assembly, for pity’s sake.”

“You’ve had weeks, Ellen,” Val shot back, his temper rising through his frustration and bewilderment. “You want to send me off for what amounts to no reason.”

“I can write to you.”

“You won’t, though. Why in the name of all that’s holy can’t you just, in the smallest, least significant way, trust me? There’s nothing you can say or do or think or imagine that will make me stop loving you. It isn’t in me to do that.”

She shook her head, and Val saw the glint of fresh tears on her cheeks.

“Blazing hell.” He crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Ellen. I’m sorry I’ve made you cry, sorry I can’t be more patient, sorry you are so frightened. What can I do to make it better?”

She drew in a slow, shuddery breath. “Let me collect myself. The evening has been long, and we are both exhausted. You find Nick and Darius, and I’ll be along in a minute.”

Dismissed, Val thought darkly. It crossed his mind that the simple truth might be Ellen had tired of him, and out of misguided kindness was allowing him some dramatic fantasy of past bad deeds, skulking relations, and a cruel fate. What did he have to recommend himself, really? His title was a mere courtesy, his wealth garnered in that most unprepossessing of pursuits—trade—and his former abilities as a musician completely unknown to her.

By the time Val worked his way back to the green, he was relieved to see the party was moving into the Rooster. Children were still shrieking and larking about, the laughter and revelry around the punch bowl and keg were louder than ever, but near the musician’s corner, the violinists were packing up.

Bile rose in Val’s stomach as he took in the carnival that had been the summer assembly in Little Weldon. His world was ending, again, and The Almighty was seeing to it this misery befell him in the midst of a bloody party.

Movement by the doors to the stairs caught his eye, and when he discerned what was going on, he started over at a determined trot.

“For God’s sake, be careful!” It came out more loudly and more angrily than he’d intended, and Neal Bragdoll blinked at him in semidrunken consternation.

“We’re movin’ the pianna, guv.” Neal frowned. “Can’t leave it outside all night.” Neal’s brothers nodded agreeably, as if any damned fool could see what they were about.

“You nigh bumped the legs right off of her,” Val shot back. “If you can’t be any more careful than that, you might as well leave her out here for the rain and the dewfall to destroy her more gently.”

“Her?” Neal set his end of the piano down, and a moment later his brothers did likewise with their end. “This is a pianna, not a her.”

“For God’s sake,” Val nearly shouted, “I know that, but it doesn’t give you leave to wrestle it around like damned sack of oats. You neglect her year after year, and still you expect music when you come to do your drunken stomping about, and then you can’t be bothered to take the least care of an instrument old enough to be your grandmother. There’s music in here”—he smacked the lid of the piano. “There’s craftsmanship you can’t even conceive of, there’s… goodness and beauty.” He stopped, and his voice dropped considerably. “There’s… something of the divine, and you just can’t… you can’t take it for granted and endlessly bash it about. You can’t do that, much less again and again and again. You just… you can’t.”

An awkward, very unmerry quiet fell, underscored by the continued sounds of revelry coming from the Rooster. Val looked up from the little piano to see Neal’s slack-jawed confusion mirrored on faces all around him.

“Lads.” Sir Dewey appeared at Val’s side, Nick looming behind him. “Let’s try this again and treat this piano like it was your grannie’s coffin, shall we?” Neal exchanged a look with his brothers, one of whom shrugged and bent to pick up his corner. Nick took the fourth corner, and the procession carefully moved up the stairs.

“You’ll want to see her situated,” Sir Dewey said softly, his hand on Val’s arm.

What Val wanted was for the earth to swallow him up and end this miserable, unbearable day. No music, no Ellen, nothing to fight for but a battered old piano that had been knocked about long before the Bragdoll brothers’ drunken buffoonery.

Still, Sir Dewey was looking at Val with a kind of steadying, level gaze, and what else was there to do, really? Val nodded and followed Sir Dewey up the stairs.

“There’s an ale for each of you gentlemen,” Sir Dewey said when the piano was back in its place. “Tell Rafe to put it on my tab.”

“Thankee.” Neal tugged his forelock, shot a glance at the piano once again sitting on the stage, and left with only one puzzled look at Val.

“You’ll stay with him?” Sir Dewey directed the question at Nick, who nodded and began moving around the room, blowing out candles. “I must return to the Rooster or there will be hell to pay within the hour. Rafe’s special blends are mayhem waiting to happen.”

“My thanks,” Val got out.

“Sir Dewey.” Nick saluted in farewell and went on with his task. Val sank down on the piano bench where it sat along the far wall, facing out so he could watch Nick’s perambulations around the room.

“This looks like a metaphor for my life,” Val said.

“A bit in need of a tidying?” Nick asked as he picked up the last branch of candles and moved to set it on the piano.

“Not on the piano,” Val barked then shook his head. “I beg your pardon. Set it wherever you please.”

Nick put the candles on the floor and budged up next to Val on the bench. “So why is this room like your life?”

“The party is over, meaning Ellen will not have me.” To his own ears, he sounded utterly, absolutely defeated.

“This hurts,” Nick observed, a hankie appearing in his large, elegant hands.

“I thought…” Val looked away from that infernal handkerchief. “I thought losing Bart was the worst, and then Victor was worse yet. I am still mad at them for dying, for leaving. Bart especially, because it was so stupid.”

“You are grieving,” Nick said, folding the hankie into perfect quarters on his thigh. “It hasn’t been that long, and each loss reminds you of the others.”

“I miss them.” Three words, but they held universes of pain and bewilderment. And anger.

“I know, lovey.” Nick scrunched the handkerchief up in a tight ball. “I know.”

“I missed the piano,” Val said slowly, “but not as I thought I would.” He looked up enough to glance into the gloom where the little piano stood. “I saw myself as talented and having something to offer because I could conjure a few tunes on a keyboard.”

“You are talented,” Nick said staunchly. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

Val laughed shortly. “I’m so bloody brilliant I thought if I just played well enough, I might stop…”

“Stop?”

“Stop hurting. Stop missing them,” Val said slowly, then fell silent. “I am being pathetic, and you will please shoot me.”

“Valentine?”

Nick was a friend, a dear, true friend. He’d neither ridicule nor judge, and Val’s dignity had eloped the moment Ellen had made it plain she’d never really intended to confide in him.

What did that leave to lose?

“Being invisible to your father hurts,” Val said. He fell silent, wondering where the words had come from. Growing up, he’d been the runt, too young, too dreamy, too artistic to keep up with his brothers or their friends. As a younger man, he’d been disinclined to academic brilliance, social wit, or business acumen, and denied by ducal fiat from buying his colors. For the first time, he wondered if he’d chosen the piano or simply chained himself to it by default.

Nick shot him a curious glance. “Would it be so much better if you’d ended up like Bart and Victor? If Esther and Percy had to bury three sons instead of two, while you were spared the pains of living the life God gave you? I think the more important question now, Val, is are you invisible to yourself?”

“No, Nick.” A mirthless laugh. “I am not, but just when I realize what a pit I had fallen into with my slavish devotion to a simple manual skill, just when I can begin to hope there might be more to life than benumbing myself on a piano bench, I find a woman I can love, but she can’t love me back.”

“I think she does love you,” Nick replied, remaining seated as Val rose and crossed the room. “And you certainly do love her.”

Val considered Nick’s words. They settled something inside him, in his head—where he planned and worked out strategies—and in his heart, where his music and his love for Ellen both resided.

“I do love her.” Val lowered himself to sit on the little stage enthroning the piano. “I most assuredly do. It’s helpful to be reminded of this.”

“Now I am going to cry,” Nick said with mock disgust as he crossed the room and once again sat right next to Val. “What will you do about Ellen?”

“About Ellen? I agree with you: We love each other. She believes her love for me requires us to part. I believe our love requires us to be together for whatever time the good Lord grants.”

“So you must convince her,” Nick concluded with a nod. “How will you go about this?”

“I have some ideas.” Those ideas were like the first stirrings of a musical theme in Val’s head. Tenuous, in need of development, but they were taking hold in Val’s mind with the same tenacity as a lovely new tune. “God alone knows if my ideas will work.”

Val remained sitting side by side with his friend pondering these ideas as the convivial sounds from the green eventually faded, leaving only the occasional burst of voices from the Rooster, until Darius appeared in the door, Ellen at his side.

“The coach is ready to take us home,” Darius said, “and I am ready to go.”

“You go.” Val rose. “I’m not quite ready. Ellen, pleasant dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.”

There was nothing brittle or dismissive in Val’s tone as he bid her good night. He sounded weary and resigned—kind, even. She’d seen him remonstrating the Bragdolls but not been able to hear exactly what was said.

“I’m not quite ready to go either,” she said, drawing her white shawl more closely around her.

“We’ll send Sean back with the coach, then,” Nick offered, eying them both.

“No need.” Val reached out to tuck the end of the shawl into the crook of Ellen’s elbow. “We can walk, if Ellen’s agreeable. It’s less than three miles, and it’s a pleasant night.”

“I do.” And if all it got her was a few more of those small gestures of caring, she’d count the tears worth the heartache.

“Good night, Ellen.” Darius kissed her cheek and touched her arm. Nick went one better, wrapping her in a careful hug. He kissed her forehead for good measure, then hugged Val and slipped an arm through Darius’s as he took his leave.

The single candle flickered.

Like my spirit, Ellen thought, eyes searching Val’s face for some clue to his mood. He’d been angry after their waltz, and so hurt, and she’d had little to offer him in the way of comfort.

“I have something for you,” Val said, extending a hand to her.

“You must not give me one more thing, Valentine.” Ellen linked her fingers through his. “You’ve given me too much.”

“Things.” Val shrugged. “A few nails and boards, that isn’t much, Ellen.”

“Not just the conservatory.” She used the back of his hand to brush the tears off her cheeks. “You’ve given me much more than that.”

“Barely anything worth mentioning,” Val replied, and his voice held a note of true humor. Ellen studied him closely as he tugged her onto the stage. “There’s one more small token I would leave with you. Forgot the bench.” He smiled at her and hopped down to retrieve a piano bench from against the far wall. His step was light, and Ellen realized the difference now as opposed to earlier in the evening was that he seemed to have gained a measure of peace.

Peace? She hadn’t told him the worst of her secrets yet.

He set the bench down by the little piano and patted the bench. “I do better with an appreciative audience.”

Ellen’s eyes flew to his. “But, Valentine, there are things I promised to tell you, hard, miserable things.”

“Yes, I know.” Val sat and pushed the cover off the keys. “Things to make me hate you until my dying day and wish vile fates upon you nightly.” He patted the bench again and offered her the sweetest smile. “I have made up my mind that I don’t need to hear them, Ellen. If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t need to hear them. If you do want to tell me, then I do need to hear them.”

She all but fell onto the piano bench, so taken aback was she by his words.

“You are not arguing,” he observed. “This is good, for I don’t want to argue. There are other things I must convey—things about myself—but to get them out properly, I will need the assistance of my little friend here. You can sit closer than that, can’t you?”

Cautiously, she moved a little closer, close enough that Val could kiss her cheek.

“Now.” He laid his fingers on the keyboard. “Where to begin?”

Always before, Val had played for others with some secret, suppressed hope somebody was noticing, that they were impressed with his skill, that they would recall the Windham fellow who did so well at the keyboard. Invariably, they did, until all anybody really recalled about the Windham fellow was that he did so well at the keyboard—until it was all he could recall of himself.

For Ellen, he did not play to impress, he played to express. He did not care if she noted his technical skill, his proficiency, or his virtuosic ability. He wanted her to hear his soul, to hear his love and his absolute faith in her. He played for her, but he also played for himself, for the sheer joy of being so fluent in such a beautiful and challenging language. He opened up his heart, not merely his hands, and played and played and played, giving her every good and noble and honest part of himself he could translate into notes and sounds.

The crowd in the Rooster went quiet, gradually shifting out into the street to hear the enchanting music drifting so delicately through the summer night. In the shade oak near the livery, Thorn Bragdoll sat rapt, his fingers twitching with longing for his flute. The old men sharing a last pint on the steps of the bakery stopped drinking and drew out handkerchiefs, and Rafe and Tilden left their bar to join their customers, staring up at the open windows of the assembly room.

And when Valentine let the last tender melody fade up into the stars, he put his hands in his lap and hoped it was good enough for the woman he loved. He shifted to straddle the piano bench and wrapped his arms around Ellen’s waist. She curled up against his chest and held on to him as if she were drowning.

“Damn you, Val Windham,” she breathed against his neck. “Damn you, damn you. All summer…” She stopped and drew in a shaking sob.

He listened, his soul calm enough to absorb any reaction, as long as she was in his arms.

“All summer,” she went on, “you climbed around on the roofs and in the trees, hanging bat houses, mucking stalls, wrecking your hands, when you can… My God, Valentine. My God.”

She was shocked, Val got that much, but he wasn’t sure what the rest of her reaction was.

“I have listened to you,” Ellen said earnestly.

Not, I have listened to you play, or I have listened to your music. I have listened to you. Val heard the distinction and saw it in the urgency on her face. “I have listened to you,” she said again, “and I am grateful for the privilege. More grateful than I can ever say, but now, you must listen to me.”

“I’m here, Ellen.” Val’s arms settled back around her, and he waited until she was again tucked against his chest. “I’m listening.”

“My babies,” Ellen said in soft, heartbroken tones. “Val, I killed my babies.”

“You did not kill your children, Ellen.” Val stroked a hand down over her hair, gently disentangling the flowers she’d woven into her bun earlier. “You will never convince me otherwise. You would never knowingly bring harm to any living thing in your care.” She went still against him, utterly, unbreathingly still. “Love?”

“Oh, Valentine.” She let out her breath. “I do love you. For those few words alone, I love you. Your faith in me warms my soul and brings light to places condemned to shadow. But you’re wrong.”

“I am not, but tell me why you think otherwise.”

“I conceived three times,” Ellen said slowly. “Each time, the child did not live to draw breath.”

“Many women cannot complete their pregnancies,” Val pointed out, his fingers now working on the chignon itself. “It isn’t your fault you miscarried.”

Ellen shook her head. “I did not miscarry. I aborted those babies, Valentine. My actions were what caused those pregnancies to end.”

“You loved your husband. You wanted to give him children, and you loved those children, Ellen. Knowing you, I believe you loved them before they were born.” He pressed his cheek to her temple and knew an urge to take her inside his body, to envelope her with the physical protection of his larger, stronger form.

“I did love them, husband and children both.” Ellen stopped and drew in an unsteady breath. “I could not protect my children. I did not carry easily and suffered endless upsets of digestion. With every pregnancy, even before my menses were late, I was unable to keep my meals down. Francis was distraught, but everybody said it would pass quickly. It never did.”

“You still did not cause those pregnancies to end.”

“My love…” She used the endearment for the first time, though Val had never heard anything so sad. “You are wrong. To treat my upset digestion, I drank teas and tisanes by the gallon. I found one Freddy offered me to be the most soothing and the one that stayed down the best. He was so solicitous, and Francis was pleased to see it, as Freddy was not the most promising young man in other regards. I was grateful for the relief, but then I would lose the child. Three times this happened, the last time just a few weeks before Francis came to grief.”

Three miscarriages in five years, followed by the death of her husband? Val wanted to howl with the unfairness of it, to shake his fist at God and take a few swings at Francis.

“You needed time to heal.” Val began teasing her braid from its coil at her nape. “You should have been given more time to recover.”

“I didn’t want time to recover,” Ellen wailed. “I wanted to provide my husband with his heir, and he accommodated my wishes reluctantly, as it was the only thing I asked of him, and I asked it incessantly.”

“So where in all this very sad tale do you accuse yourself of not caring for your children, Ellen?” Val drew his hand down the thick length of her braid in slow, soothing sweeps. “You were young, and God’s will prevailed.”

“Not God’s will, Val,” Ellen said tiredly. “Freddy’s. That lovely, comforting tea he brought me, the only one that quieted my digestion? It was mostly pennyroyal, though he told me it was a blend of spearmint, and I did not know any better.”

“Pennyroyal?” Val’s memory stirred, but nothing clear came to mind. “Ah, the little plant you tossed aside. You were not happy to see it.”

“Pennyroyal will bring on menses. Ask any midwife or physician. It is an ancient remedy for the unwanted pregnancy, but in a tea or tisane, particularly if it’s mixed with other ingredients, it tastes like spearmint. I eagerly swilled the poison that killed all three of my babies, Val, and it’s my fault they died.”

“But you didn’t know. Freddy should be brought to account for this, and it is not your fault.”

“It is my fault,” Ellen rejoined. “Early in my marriage, Freddy approached me and suggested he and I might be allies of a sort. He was just a boy then, a gangly, spotty, lonely boy, and I found his overture endearing. It soon became clear he wasn’t a nice boy. We had trouble keeping maids when he was visiting in the summers, and then when he was sixteen, he came to live with us.”

“He’s a bully and a sneak and a thoroughgoing scoundrel.”

“He suggested I might want to share my pin money with him,” Ellen went on, “but I’d overheard the footmen discussing Freddy’s gambling losses, and since he was still only a boy, I did not think it wise to indulge him.”

“And you were right.”

“And I was a fool,” Ellen retorted bitterly. “Freddy exploded when I refused him; that’s the only word I can use. His reason came undone, and he said awful things. I had not said anything to Francis about Freddy trying to borrow from me, because I didn’t want Freddy to suffer in his cousin’s esteem. But when Freddy lost his temper like that, I had the first inkling I should have been afraid of him.”

“He would have been only a youth. Francis would have dealt with him sternly.”

“Francis wanted to see only the best in Freddy. That cranky, sullen, lazy, manipulative boy was Francis’s heir and the only other member of Francis’s family. I did not want to destroy Francis’s respect for him altogether.”

“So you made an enemy,” Val concluded. “One willing to stoop to sneaking and poison to get what he wanted.”

“Exactly, and Freddy could be so charming, so convincing in his apologies. When he came bearing tea and sympathy to my sick room, offering to play a hand of cards or read to me, I was touched and tried to forget his terrible tantrum. I should have known better.”

“When did you learn the truth?” Val asked, now drawing his fingers through Ellen’s unbound hair, even as he vowed to kill Freddy by poison and make sure the whelp of Satan knew exactly how he was dying and why.

“After Francis’s funeral,” Ellen said, her voice taking on a detached quality, as if the words themselves hurt her, “the solicitors read the will, and Freddy maintained his composure beautifully, until he and I were left alone in the formal parlor at Roxbury Hall. Then he had another tantrum, quite as impressive as the first.”

“Let me see if I can figure this,” Val said, wanting to spare her the rest of the recitation. “Francis had cut him out of the will, more or less, or at least until he was thirty, but you were well provided for. Freddy told you he would be collecting all your income, lest he reveal you had terminated your pregnancies on purpose, and ruin you socially.”

“He did better than that.” Ellen paused and lifted her arms from Val’s waist to his neck. “He told me my willful behavior—for he would confess I had begged him to procure me that tea, and he just a lad who didn’t know any better—amounted to a serious crime, and if I couldn’t be convicted for that, he’d demonstrate that a woman who would kill three babies might also kill their father.”

“God above. I should have killed the little shite when I had the chance.”

“You are not a murderer,” Ellen said firmly. “Freddy is, and a murderer of innocents, Val.”

“You are not a murderer, either,” Val said, tightening his embrace.

“Nonetheless, I can be very convincingly accused of murder… of my unborn children’s murder, of my husband’s.”

Through the haze of rage and protectiveness clouding his brain, Val tried to remember what he’d read of law. “Firstly, your children weren’t born, so they could not be murdered, not under civil law as I recall it. Secondly, you’ve been investigated regarding your husband’s death and found innocent.”

Ellen dropped her forehead to his throat. “I disobeyed my husband when I terminated those pregnancies, and therein lies a crime. Then too, by virtue of the use of pennyroyal, I am demonstrated to be familiar with poisons, and Freddy will harp on that to have the investigation reopened. He will ruin me and anybody associated with me, and enjoy doing it.”

“He cannot ruin you if you are my wife, Ellen. I won’t allow it, and I flatter myself my family has the influence to send Freddy packing.”

“I will not allow you to put it to the test. He has killed babies, Val, and I have every suspicion he killed Francis, as well.”

“Was he not investigated?” Val asked, mental wheels turning in all manner of directions.

“He had not yet reached his majority and did a very convincing job of being the bewildered youth bereft of his mentor and his only real relation on this earth. He wailed at great length he wasn’t ready to be the baron and did not want to be the baron, and if only one of my children had lived, he would be spared the awful task of filling Francis’s shoes.”

“Then he turned around and promptly drained the income from all three of your estates.”

Ellen’s head came up. “You know about the other two?”

“Francis loved you very much,” Val said gently, “and you told me he’d had two weeks to set his affairs in order. This estate was hardly habitable, so I concluded there were others. Maybe Francis had some inkling Freddy would not deal well with you, or maybe he just wanted you to have all you were due.”

“But you knew.” Ellen cocked her head. “And you said nothing?”

“I just found out recently.” Val tucked her against him again. “I wouldn’t have, except the Markham solicitors were told to keep an eye on you even if you insisted they leave you in peace.”

“Told by whom?”

“Your late husband.” Val kissed her cheek. “They continue to hold him in great respect. As long as you insisted they keep their noses out of your affairs, they could only watch the income come into Freddy’s pockets through the back door. Someday, I’d like to see these estates of yours, Ellen Markham.”

“But you cannot, Valentine. If Freddy knew I’d told you all this, he would feel excused in killing you outright.”

“Why hasn’t he killed you?”

“The life estate here,” Ellen explained. “I get the rents here only as long as I am alive, and these rents are substantial enough I am worth more to Freddy alive than dead. Francis set it up so if I die without issue, the other two estates go his distant relative, Mr. Grey, while this one reverts to a trust Freddy can’t touch for years.”

“Mr. Grey is the theoretical cousin?”

“Unless I remarry and produce children, in which case the properties will pass to them or can be sold by them on my death for equal division—hence Freddy’s reluctance to see me married to anyone before my dotage.”

“This is a lot to consider, Ellen,” Val said, feeling the effects of sitting too long on one hard, little piano bench—which was odd. A year ago, he would never have considered any piano bench too hard. “Shall we discuss it further while we make our way home?”

“Yes.” She let Val draw her to her feet. He settled her shawl around her and drew her unbound hair over her shoulders, then took her hand and led her down the stairs.

The moon had risen, illuminating the deserted green, while laughter and the sound of a harmonica came from the Rooster.

Val and Ellen passed along the lane through the soft summer night, the air fragrant with the scents of honeysuckle growing along the hedgerows. It wasn’t a long walk, not nearly long enough in some regards. When they got to Ellen’s cottage, Val unlocked the door and lifted Ellen into his arms, carrying her across the threshold.

She smiled, probably at the gallantry and symbolism of it, but it was a sad smile. When Val laid her down on the bed and moved off to shed his clothes, she made no protest, though. He undressed her, as well, and tugged her to a sitting position so he might assist her with her nighttime ablutions, then tucked her under the sheet and managed his own washing up with swift dispatch.

He wanted to argue with her, wanted to ravish her, wanted to keep her safe and never leave her side.

In what Ellen no doubt believed to be their final hours together, what Val wanted most, though, was to cherish his lady. He put aside his misgivings, doubts, schemes, and arguments, pulled her into his arms, and stroked his hand over her back until at last, sleep claimed them both.

When he next came to awareness, it was to hear the pretty, fluting morning carol of the birds—an incongruously optimistic sound given what the day held. The cottage was still dark, but dawn was just minutes away.

“You’re still here.” Ellen, sleepy, warm, and precious, burrowed into his embrace.

In the cocoon of drowsiness and trust enveloping them, it occurred to Val to lay his plans before the woman he loved, except she would not agree with the course he’d chosen. They’d argue, and then they’d part in anger.

They’d talked enough, at least for the present, so when Val settled his length over her, he offered her one heartfelt, “I love you,” before allowing his hands and mouth and body to express for him what words could only approximate.

“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, lifting her hips to receive him and closing her arms around him. “I always will.”

He joined them slowly, memorizing every sensation and sound: Ellen’s sighs; the way her body welcomed his into sweet, female heat; the feel of her foot gliding up his calf; the hot glow of pleasure simmering in his groin. He kissed her, grazed his mouth over her every feature, and held still while she returned his explorations. When he moved again, it was with less restraint and more desperation.

“Stay with me.”

Val heard Ellen’s words whispered against his shoulder and understood what she was asking—and what she wasn’t. Not, “Don’t ride away today,” which would have had him singing hallelujahs for the whole shire to hear, but rather, “Share bodily pleasure with me, intimately, completely, one last time.”

A gentleman with any sense wouldn’t. A smart man, out of consideration for the woman and for his own future might not. A wise man certainly couldn’t even entertain the notion, given the timing of the lady’s request.

But Val was her lover, and binding Ellen to him through any means was entirely consistent with his hopes, his dreams, and his heartfelt needs. Even that might not have allowed him to comply with her plea, but he knew her and took it upon himself to know her dreams and needs, as well.

When Ellen locked her ankles at the small of his back, when she was making an odd little keening sound against his shoulder, when slow, deep strokes into her body had Val’s entire being aflame with the pleasure of their joining, he allowed himself to stay with her. He deluged her with pleasure and submerged himself in the same flood, until passion was spent, and the time to part was inexorably upon them.

By the time he rose from the bed, the cottage was growing light, and the birds had gone quiet.

“Valentine?” Ellen struggled up against the pillows banking the headboard.

“Love?”

“Thank you—for everything. And I do love you.”

He offered her a smile, realizing that even in giving him the words, she was confirming her belief that they needed to part. He heard the farewell in her words, though he didn’t want to. The same farewell had been in her smile when he’d carried her over the threshold; the same farewell had been in her entire story when he’d held her on the piano bench in the assembly room, and in her loving just moments earlier.

So he’d leave her and let her—and Freddy—think the game was over. Lord Valentine Windham, musical artist and virtuoso without portfolio, had things to do if he was going to ensure his lady’s peace of mind and safety. If Ellen had to remain here, he’d trust friends, Almighty God, contingency plans, and the good luck he was long overdue to keep her safe until Val himself was once again at her side.