The Virtuoso

Seven

“Where’s your kit?” Axel asked as he and Val repaired to the airy, high-ceilinged guest chamber across the hallway from Ellen’s room.

“Here.” Val tossed a rolled-up shaving kit to Axel as a procession of footmen trooped in carrying the tub, Val’s traveling gear, and steaming buckets of water.

“Shirt off.” Axel stropped a straight razor against a small whetstone. “And sit you here.” He smacked the back of a dressing stool. “I got your note regarding mischief on your roof.”

“I don’t think it was an accident.” Val sat without even trying to put up a fuss about Axel acting as his valet. “Darius has remained behind, essentially to stand guard. And your sons could have been killed.”

“Or you.” Axel dipped a shaving brush into the half-full tub and worked up a lather with Val’s shaving soap. He sniffed the soap and dabbed lather onto Val’s cheeks. “Lovely scent. How do you conclude somebody tampered with your roof?”

“We know there were trespassers.” Val craned his chin up so Axel could lather his throat. “We also know the slates were tight on Friday.”

“You know your roofing crew claims they were tight on Friday,” Axel corrected as he began to scrape the razor along Val’s jaw. “From what you described, it took at least a half ton of fieldstone piled on that scaffolding to loosen the slates. Correct?”

“You don’t think it was mischief,” Val said when Axel swiped the razor clean on a towel.

“I do not. It was too random. Anybody could have been hurt by those stones, or nobody. The weight might have been enough to loosen the slates, and then again it might not. Somebody who really wanted to cause you harm would have taken more predictably troublesome measures to do it—if they had any sense. Hold still.”

Val considered Axel’s reasoning and found it sound. Axel, like his brother, Matthew Belmont, in Sussex, occasionally served as local magistrate. He had experience investigating crimes, and more to the point, he was Day and Phillip’s father. He would not put them at avoidable risk of harm; of that Val was certain.

Axel tossed a clean towel directly at Val’s shaven face. “I think you’ve dropped some weight. Your face is thinner.”

Val shrugged as he stood. “Darius claims the rest of me is thinner, as well. I confess to being indifferent on the matter but not the least indifferent to the thought of that tub of hot water.”

“Cuff links.” Axel waggled his fingers, and Val held out his left hand.

“Ye gods, Windham.” Axel frowned at Val’s swollen joints and reddened flesh. “Did you hit this thing with a hammer? It has to hurt.”

“It flares up,” Val muttered, snatching his hand back as soon as Axel had the cuff link out. “I think I can manage from here.”

“Like hell you can. You either let me unbutton your falls, or I’ll stand here and watch while you attempt it yourself.”

“Axel.” Val scowled at him in earnest.

“What?” He grabbed Val’s breeches by the waistband and scowled right back. “Do you have them made this loose?” He deftly unfastened the buttons while Val stood and suffered the assistance.

“I don’t like them tight.” Val shoved breeches and smalls over his hips. “If you must know, they are a little looser than when they were made.”

“Abby can probably take them in for you.” Axel picked up Val’s discarded clothing and kept further comments on his guest’s leanness to himself.

“Might I have the soap?” Val asked, sinking down into the water with a grateful sigh.

“You might.” Axel rummaged in the satchel brought up with the last of the hot water, fetched a sliver of milled soap, and laid out a complete change of clothes on the bed. “Dunk, and I’ll do the honors.”

In truth, it felt good to let Axel fuss over him just a little, although being scolded for the state of his hand was grating in the extreme. Axel would no doubt alert Val’s family—and dear Nicholas, as well—but they weren’t likely to come haring out to Oxfordshire to pester him personally, not when there were no real accommodations, no social life, and only the barest of provisions. Then too, Val hadn’t sent either of his brothers the exact direction to his latest folly, and they were both busy men.

Westhaven’s letters were full of the wonder—and drivel—that probably characterized all new papas. Devlin’s letters read more like dispatches. They were terse, factual, and few in number. The Rosecroft estate up in Yorkshire hadn’t been in much better shape than Val’s own acquisition, and Devlin was newly married, newly blessed with a stepdaughter, and shortly expecting his own firstborn.

And if Val regretted that his oldest brother was a week’s journey away, at least it was an improvement over the years when the man was leading cavalry charges against the damned French.

But Val rose from the tub, admitting just how much he’d missed his brother Devlin since coming down from the north two months previously. It had been a pleasant winter in Yorkshire with Dev, little Winnie, and Emmie—cozy, almost, and were it not for the condition of Val’s hand…

He looked down at that hand and let out a low oath, as its condition was almost as bad as when David Worthington had examined it. Two things were now certain, though: Rest improved it, albeit at an excruciatingly slow pace; and using the hand for anything like a normal level of activity caused it to deteriorate with appalling swiftness.

Val struggled into his shirt then fumbled at length to get his clean breeches fastened as he realized Ellen had not treated his hand for more than two days. After lunch, he promised himself he would seek her out and beg her assistance. If he had to suffer Axel’s dressing him like a fidgety toddler, it really would send him round the bend.

He was toweling his hair dry when he heard the door to his room open and close. A servant would have knocked, and Ellen was supposed to be at her own bath.

“Axel,” Val muttered from the depths of his towel, “if you’ve come to do me up like a little fellow newly breeched, you can bugger the hell off.”

“Now that’s a fine way to address your host,” growled a deep and familiar baritone. “I’m sure Her Grace will be pleased to know my baby brother’s impeccable manners are serving him in good stead.”

Val tossed the towel aside, and as if his thoughts had conjured the man, there stood Devlin St. Just, Colonel Lord Rosecroft, Valentine’s oldest brother, in the bronzed, healthy, and grinning flesh.

“Dev?” Val was in his brother’s crushing embrace in the next instant, his back being heartily pounded, and his throat suspiciously tight. Val pulled back and assured himself that his eyes had not lied. “What in the hell are you doing away from Emmie and Winnie?”

“I was banished.” St. Just’s grin became sheepish. “Emmie isn’t due for a few more weeks, and she accused me of hovering. I missed those members of the family who were not kind enough to winter with us, so here I am on a lightning raid, as it were.”

“And damned glad I am to see you. Damned glad. How long can you stay?”

“I’ll depart for York by the end of the week, but Oxford is nominally north of Town, so you were on my way.” St. Just stepped back, and Val was treated to the critical appraisal of the brother who was half Irish and all former soldier.

“And Belmont knew you were coming?” Val pressed. “He said not one word to me, and I’ve had his boys underfoot for the past several weeks.”

“Belmont knew I was coming but not exactly when, as he and I have business to transact of a sort, and our wives are connected.”

“Your wives…” Val frowned and recalled that Abby Stoneleigh—now Abby Belmont—had mentioned being related to the late Earl of Helmsley and his surviving sisters.

“I thought the army was the world’s largest village,” St. Just said, “but the English peerage takes that honor. If you’re done with that tub, I’d like to hop in before the water is done cooling.”

“Help yourself, but I’m sure Axel will send up clean water, if you’d prefer.”

“Compared to what was available in Spain”—St. Just was already out of his shirt—“this is sparkling. Smells good too.”

“I’ll leave you some privacy, then.” Val moved toward the door.

“The hell you will.” St. Just shucked out of his breeches. “We’ll have to make polite conversation at table, so stay and take your interrogation like a man. For starters, I’ve seen prisoners of war in better weight than you, Valentine Windham. What has you off your feed?”

Val smiled at the directness, even as he resented his brother’s assumption that answers would be forthcoming—or he should resent it. He watched St. Just settle himself in the tub and noted the signs of good care that married life had left.

“You aren’t answering my question, Valentine,” St. Just chided, soaping a large foot and then dunking it. “Don’t think I won’t leave this tub and beat it out of you.”

“You won’t. I’m busy lately trying to put my property to rights, and provisions are limited.”

“You need a camp cook.” The second foot disappeared beneath the water. “An army marches on its belly, as the saying goes, and cook pots are as important as cannon. Is this your soap?”

“It is,” Val answered, sitting on the bed and watching as St. Just dunked to wet his hair.

“Do the honors. I am going smell like a bordello when I get out of this bath.”

“You will smell like a gentleman.” Val hunkered behind the tub. “This is my only clean shirt until Belmont’s laundresses take pity on me, so splash me at your peril.”

“I’m trembling,” St. Just retorted, only to have Val smack a soapy palm against the back of his head with a firm wallop before working up a fragrant lather.

“How are your womenfolk?” Val asked, feeling a tug at his heartstrings at just the thought of Emmie St. Just so near her confinement.

“Em thinks she’s big as a house. The heat isn’t so bad up north, and that’s a blessing, as she sleeps poorly. This makes me fret, which makes me sleep poorly, and so forth. Winnie is watching closely but doing as well as can be expected. She said to tell you she practices the piano a lot, and while I cannot vouch for the quality of her practicing, I can vouch unequivocally for its volume.”

“Stand,” Val instructed. “We’ll finish you off.” Val sluiced a pitcher of rinse water over St. Just’s tall frame and then passed him a bath sheet.

“I do adore a bath.” St. Just sighed. “One takes them for granted until they’re no longer available. Now, tell me about this monstrosity you’ve acquired in Little Cow Pie. Belmont says it was a disgrace several years ago, albeit salvageable.”

“He would know,” Val said, amazed at how quickly his personal business had been disseminated over the family gossip vine—and amazed at how quickly St. Just was getting back into his clothes. “It needs a lot of work and will likely take me all summer just to make habitable.”

“And what is this I hear about a friendly widow, little brother?” St. Just tugged on his boots and straightened. “Did she convey with the property, rather like a certain daughter of mine?” He settled a fraternal arm over Val’s shoulders and sauntered with him toward the door.

“You must ’fess up,” St. Just teased. “I am the soul of discretion, except that Emmie has all my confidences, and Winnie overhears an appalling amount, and then Emmie corresponds with Anna, and Winnie writes to her cousin Rose, and I am forever getting letters from Her Grace.”

“So do I answer your question or not?”

St. Just opened the door before he replied and stopped in his tracks.

“Little brother.” St. Just’s arm slid off Val’s shoulders. “You had better be glad I am besotted with my dear Emmie, else I’d be tempted to inform you I now behold the physiognomy of my next countess. My lady.” St. Just picked up Ellen’s hand and bowed over it. “Devlin St. Just, the Earl of Rosecroft, your most obedient servant.”

“Valentine.” Ellen glanced at him in cool puzzlement. “How is it you never told me your brother is an earl?”

St. Just kept Ellen’s hand in his. “You mustn’t blame my brother for respecting my modesty.” He tucked her hand over his arm while Val mentally tried to form a more suitable answer. “I am a freshly baked earl, having just arrived to my honors in the last year and under something less than cheering circumstances. I hardly think of myself as Rosecroft, much less demand that my brother do so. Will you allow me to escort you in to luncheon?”

As St. Just continued to flirt and charm his way to the table, Val was left to watch and simply appreciate. Ellen was blushing, but she was also slowly letting St. Just’s Irish wit and charm draw her in and tempt her into flirting back.

It was lovely and dear and sad in a way. Axel and Abby took up the slack in the conversation and left Val time to regard his host and hostess a little more closely. Ellen had been right—they had a closeness between them that put Val in mind of St. Just and Emmie, Gayle and his Anna.

David and Letty.

Nick and Leah.

Blazing hell.

“You’re quiet.” St. Just turned piercing green eyes on his brother. “This has never boded well with you. It means you are hatching up mischief.”

“If I’m hatching up mischief, it’s because Belmont’s scamps have led me astray. Do you suppose I might ask for seconds on the green beans?”

“The ones swimming in chicken broth and slivered almonds?” Axel passed him the bowl. “Noticed yours disappeared in record time, and you aren’t even setting a good example for Day and Phillip.”

“He needs a hothouse.” Abby smiled at her guest as he dug into his vegetables. “I’m sure you have some plans around for something modest, don’t you, Axel?”

“I have plans.” Axel grinned at his wife. “Modest, immodest, and everything in between.”

Abby rolled her eyes at Ellen. “See what I put up with? Let’s leave these reprobates to discuss the state of the realm, Ellen, and take our dessert on the terrace.”

“Splendid notion.” Ellen rose, bringing the men to their feet, as well.

“Abandoned.” Axel sighed. “Well, let them eat cake.”

“The last person reported to say that lost her head rather violently,” Val pointed out.

“I’ve quite lost my head, as well.” Axel leered at his wife’s retreating figure.

Val rolled his eyes. “Open a window. I need some air.” Or perhaps he just needed some privacy with Ellen.

For reasons of his own, Darius Lindsey had made an agreement with himself that he could spend the summer, riding Val Windham’s coattails, hiding here in the wilds of Oxfordshire. He expected there would be an element of penance about the whole thing, even if there was also a much greater element of benefit to him.

To his surprise and chagrin, he was enjoying himself immensely. In some ways, it was turning out to be the most pleasurable summer of his adult life. He swung out of his hammock and stretched slowly, seeing Val’s army of workmen and cleaning ladies were knocking off for luncheon.

No. It was Saturday, so they’d be heading home for the day no later than one of the clock, leaving the premises unoccupied.

By the time Darius had demolished a serving of raspberry pancakes with butter and preserves—Val had taught him how to prepare this meal earlier in the week—each and every laborer had departed for home. The afternoon stretched, perfect for lazing by the pond with a book and dozing in the wonderful silence of a hot summer day.

God bless Axel Belmont, Darius thought as he gathered towels, soap, clean linen, shaving kit, and a jug of cold mint tea.

“Hullo, the house!”

Well, hell. Darius stepped from the springhouse and spied a man on a handsome chestnut gelding. The rider was blond, blue-eyed, sat his horse like he knew what he was about, and wore the kind of ensemble that was comfortable because of its exquisite tailoring and fine fabric.

“Greetings,” Darius answered evenly, towel over his shoulder, shaving kit in his hand. “Darius Lindsey. Welcome to Mr. Windham’s property. And you might be?”

“Just in time for a swim, it appears. Or a bath.” The man swung down uninvited and extended a hand. “Sir Dewey Fanning, at your service, Mr. Lindsey. I believe Mr. Windham might be expecting me. We discussed a call when we met at market on Wednesday.”

“He mentioned it,” Darius said, taking his guest’s hand briefly. “And my swim can wait. Val said you’re serving as magistrate?”

“I have that honor.” They stabled Sir Dewey’s horse and were shortly up the ladder. “So from whence fell your stones?”

Darius showed him around then obliged further inquiries by giving Sir Dewey a tour of the house.

“Francis would be pleased,” Sir Dewey remarked as they reached the kitchen. The counters were being redesigned to accommodate a huge cookstove that sat squat and black in the middle of the room. Glass fronts had already been installed on the upper cabinets, and a new pump graced one end of a long, glazed porcelain sink.

“You knew the late baron?”

“In little more than passing,” Sir Dewey said, running a hand over the smooth surface of the sink. “He’d approve of the restoration of the place and would never have let it get to this state, much less let the farms be mismanaged.”

“Val will set it to rights.” Darius watched as Sir Dewey frowned at the tile floors. They might be replaced once the heavier work was done. For now, sawdust, wood shavings, and the occasional screw or nail littered the floor.

“Are your crews in the habit of working in bare feet?” Sir Dewey asked, squatting by a door leading to the cellars.

“Assuredly not. One rusty nail in the foot and a man’s life might be over.”

“Then you’d better have a look at this,” Sir Dewey muttered. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”

Sir Dewey Fanning presented himself at Candlewick just as Abby Belmont was preparing to preside over tea with her guests. Ellen had disappeared abovestairs, leaving Val with such a sense of untethered restlessness he was almost grateful for Sir Dewey’s arrival.

Until he heard the man explain that he and Darius had found two bonfires laid in Val’s manor house, one in the attics, one in the basement, both surrounded by the dusty imprints of small bare feet, and both with a can of lamp oil tidily stowed nearby.

“So what do you make of it?” St. Just asked the magistrate. “Is somebody recruiting children to do this mischief, or are we dealing with children wandering the property in addition to arsonists and would-be murderers?”

“Hard to say,” Sir Dewey replied. “Belmont, any insights?”

“God above.” Axel ran a hand over his hair. “My only suggestion is that we adjourn to the library and switch to something besides tea. It seems to me the situation is complicated with neither motive nor suspect very clear.”

“The motive,” Val reflected when Axel had put a drink in his hand, “seems to be to discourage me from my project, at least.”

“If not to discourage you all the way to the Pearly Gates,” St. Just groused.

“Probably not quite.” Val took a considering sip of his drink. “As Sir Dewey has pointed out, the fires were laid but not set. The slates that fell from the roof didn’t hit a single person, and the likelihood they’d actually strike me wasn’t great.”

“Could children have loosened those tiles?” Axel asked.

Sir Dewey nodded. “Half-grown boys could easily with the right tools. They could have piled up those scraps of lumber, sneaked about of a night or a Sunday afternoon, and because they frequent your pond, Mr. Windham, nobody would think a thing about it did they see a pack of boys heading up your lane or across your fields.”

“I can’t help but wonder”—Val’s gaze met his brother’s—“if whoever doesn’t want me to proceed also discouraged Ellen FitzEngle from maintaining the place.”

St. Just scowled at his drink. “Interesting point. Why don’t we just get the lady down here and ask her a few very direct questions?”

“Because she’s a suspect,” Sir Dewey said, his voice damnably gentle while his blue eyes pinned Val with piercing clarity. “Isn’t she?”

“Ellen?” Val blew out a breath, trying to balance his heart’s leanings with the facts. “In my opinion, no. She has neither this kind of meanness in her, nor would she hurt others.”

“But using your head?” Axel prompted when no one else spoke up. “What does logic tell you?”

“Logic?” Val pursed his lips, studied his drink, and looked anywhere but at his brother.

St. Just spoke up in the ensuing silence. “Logic says she has a life estate on the property that she neither disclosed nor took care of. Logic says she’s hiding something; logic says if she hasn’t taken an interest in the house so far, what does she care if it burns to the ground or if renovations stop well before they’re completed?”

“That doesn’t tell us her motive,” Sir Dewey pointed out. “It tells us questioning her directly would likely be of little use.”

“So question her indirectly,” St. Just shot back. “Snoop about, get the solicitors talking, and circle around behind her fortifications; exonerate her or see her charged.”

“It seems to me,” Val said, “we’ve convicted the lady of serious crimes without identifying either her motive or her opportunity. She’s been with Day and Phil for most of each day except for when she’s been with me here. She might have stolen about in the dead of night and piled up all that wood, but it’s far-fetched to assume so. It’s equally far-fetched to think she’d collude with the local boys, when she neither trusts nor likes the ones from the village.”

“Good points,” St. Just agreed—which was something. “But somebody means you or your property harm, Val, and she stands to gain if you vacate the premises.”

Val rose and put his empty glass on the sideboard. “She stands to gain more by letting me toil away for months and sink a fortune into that house. By law, she can then waltz in and enjoy all the fruits of my efforts until the day she dies, and I can neither charge her rent nor evict her. The worst I could do is move in with her.”

“This is true.” The idea that Val could spike his brother’s formidable guns was some relief, but St. Just wasn’t finished. “I don’t like it—having somebody to suspect is much easier—but you’re right. Ellen FitzEngle’s interests are not served by torching the house.”

“And we’re forgetting something else.” Val turned to face the other three. “Ellen is the one who is most clearly entitled to live in that house and collect the rents on the tenant farms. I have other places to live, other sources of income, but she likely does not. It could very well be that whoever is up to no good could care less about me; rather, it’s Ellen’s interest they seek to harm.”

Axel eyed the decanter narrowly. “Complicated, indeed.”

“And more complicated still.” Val sighed as he headed for the door. “What do I tell the lady, if anything? And when?”

He left, and silence spread behind him among the other three men.

“Emmie’s confinement waits for no husband,” St. Just said. “Val needs reinforcements, and Westhaven can’t leave his post.”

“I agree,” Axel said, “but Val won’t like it. He won’t like questions about his property or his affairs.”

“I don’t like bonfires laid in my brother’s very house,” St. Just countered. “Send off a few notes and see what reinforcements are available.”

Ellen had dodged tea, pleading fatigue, but she hadn’t been able to lie on her big, fluffy bed and drift away. She was tired, of course—she’d slept little and badly lately—but she was troubled too, and there, sitting so handsome and calm in the breezy shade of the trees, was the cause of her troubles.

No, she remonstrated herself, Valentine Windham had not caused her troubles, though he was certainly catalyzing them, and she needed to clear the air with him. He might be angry—he would certainly cease his attentions to her—but that was better than this growing deception between them. She changed direction and met his gaze, approaching his perch with as much resolve as the roiling in her stomach would allow.

Fear was an old, familiar enemy, and since Francis’s death, she’d never really been free of it. It ebbed and flowed, sometimes bad, sometimes worse, and now it had shifted, expanded to include fear for the man she was about to confront. Bad enough she had made such a conscienceless enemy, but at least she could protect this very decent man from harm before he gained an enemy, as well.

“Hello.” She greeted Val and waited for his acknowledgement. He’d been affectionate company when they were private, but almost as if he sensed she’d withheld information from him, he’d also shown her a certain indefinable reserve.

“Hello.” He took her wrist in his hand to tug her down beside him on the bench under Belmont’s spreading oaks. “You are playing truant?”

“It was too hot to nap and I have much on my mind.” Two truths. Ellen told herself it was a good start.

“You look burdened with weighty thoughts, perhaps.” A neutral enough greeting, but Ellen heard reservations in it. Best get the discussion over with.

“You are going to be disappointed in me.”

“Why is that?” He did not slip an arm around her shoulders.

“I have not been… forthcoming,” Ellen said, wishing she had the courage to take his left hand between her two as she had many times in the past.

“I have never raised my hand to a woman, Ellen,” Val said, allaying her fears not at all. Of course he wouldn’t strike her. “I can’t recall even raising my voice to a woman, not even to my sisters, and there are five of them.”

It was as much reassurance as he’d give her, and Ellen realized that somehow Val must have indeed suspected she’d been prevaricating.

He reached for her hand, and all she could do was watch as he held it between both of his. “I know you’ve been troubled by something in recent days, and I am vain enough to believe it’s not my intimate attentions about which you’re having second thoughts, at least not directly. But if there’s something you need to tell me, Ellen, just say it. We’re rather at a standstill otherwise.”

She risked a glance at him and saw no censure, but rather, a grave, resolved seriousness. He had warned her he wanted more than a romp and a fond farewell, warned her they would be friends if they were to be lovers.

“How is your hand?” she asked, apropos of nothing, but she could hardly think over the pounding of her heart.

“It hurts,” he said simply. “Constantly, but not as badly it did in the spring. Talk to me, Ellen. Please.”

Please.

She was going to miss him, miss him with a sharp, low-down ache that might never fade, and she’d never really had him.

“It’s my fault your estate is in such disgrace.” She stared straight ahead as she spoke. “It was neglected five years ago but salvageable, then we had some big storms and… I let it go.”

Val nodded as if he’d expected this. “And how were you supposed to pay for repairs when you were not the owner and you have no portion, no dower property?”

“It is my dower property,” Ellen said, the words bringing an inconvenient lump to her throat. “Francis knew I liked it because it was quiet and unpretentious and the farms were in better shape than the house. It isn’t entailed, but I hold the life estate, while Freddy had the title in fee simple. He’s younger than me, so it likely would have reverted to the Markham estate if I never remarried.”

“You chose not to put it to rights,” Val summarized. “But what have you done with the rents, Ellen?”

His voice wasn’t angry; it was gentle, almost resigned.

“The rents go in the bank,” Ellen said, reaching the limit of the half truth she was willing to disclose. “If there’s something critical on one of the farms, I’ve told myself I’ll see to it, but I don’t know enough about farming to understand what matters and what is just the tenants’ endless grousing.”

“I see,” Val said, holding her hand passively between his. “Well.”

Beside him, Ellen was still and quiet, as if waiting for him to rain down contumely and criticism upon her.

What Val felt was a vast, sad relief that she’d confessed her mismanagement of the funds. He couldn’t blame her for not putting her fate in Freddy’s hands or for being ignorant of proper land management.

“Well?” Ellen glanced over, and the way she veiled emotion from her eyes tore at him. He dropped her hand, and she bowed her head until he slid his arm around her shoulders.

“Well,” Val said, kissing her temple. “You are being honest and I have to appreciate that. The question becomes, where do we go from here?”

“How can you want to spend time with a woman who has lied to you?” she bit out miserably. “I hate myself for it, and you must hate me too.”

“Must I?” He rubbed his chin on her crown. “Because your trust has been abused by the present baron and you were slow to confide in a stranger trying to get into your bed?”

“You’re not like that.”

Val snorted softly. “All men are like that. I haven’t been exactly honest either, Ellen.” The words were out, a little surprisingly and a little relieving too.

“You haven’t?” She raised her head to peer at him. “Can you be now?”

He could; he wasn’t going to be, not entirely.

“I did see Cheatham. He told me you had kept the rents, and the deed itself cites your life estate in the property. I didn’t really study the deed until I met with him, though he wasn’t willing to tell me much more than I could have inferred from the document itself if I’d only read it carefully.”

“I see.” Ellen’s head returned to his shoulder. “Would you have been… intimate with me, knowing I wasn’t being honest?”

Val was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. “I don’t know. Maybe, eventually. I desire you profoundly and had already divined your reasoning. I haven’t offered you marriage except as a last resort and can’t blame you for looking to yourself and your own interests.”

“I don’t think you would have pursued our dealings with this between us.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t.” Her voice was very quiet. “On that blanket under the willow, you could have. I wouldn’t have stopped you. In the hammock, I wouldn’t have stopped you had you been determined. You are very… persuasive.”

Persuasive.

“We have a larger problem,” he said, hauling back hard on the lust thumping through his vitals like a chorus of timpani.

“What sort of problem?” Ellen lifted her head to regard him again. “I will understand if you are done… flirting with me. We will be neighbors when you complete your renovations, at least until you sell the place.”

“Flirting.” Val frowned. “I am very persuasive, and yet you consider my best efforts at seduction to be worth only the label flirting.”

Ellen’s gaze dropped to her lap. “In any case, I will understand.”

“Good of you.” Val’s frown intensified as he tried to puzzle out what exactly was bothering him. “And am I to understand if you’ve lost interest in me? If you decide a man who seeks some honesty with his lover is a little too much work? If you prefer weeding your daisies to sharing passion in my arms?”

Ellen’s gaze swiveled to meet his.

“I have not lost interest, Valentine. I wish I had, because I don’t understand how you can tolerate the sight of me, and yet I still crave your embrace. I crave the simple scent of you, all cedar and whatever else it is you wear. I crave the texture of your hair against my fingers and the taste of you on my tongue…” She stopped herself, maybe shocked at her own words and the vehemence of them.

The truth of them.

Val gently pushed her head back to his shoulder. “That’s putting it plain enough.” Reassuringly plain.

As they sat in silence, he savored her confession, more glad to hear it than he would have admitted. The money she’d kept was troubling, but it was legally hers, and in her shoes he might have done likewise. Her reticence about it was more troubling still, but in truth he’d been at the estate just about a month.

There were things it had taken his brothers years to confide in him—and he hadn’t been hiding his ducal affiliations from them at the time. That was a sobering, lust-inhibiting thought, thank God. It inspired him to an additional exercise in honesty. “We do have another problem.”

She remained resting against him, a comfort thrown into higher relief by all their guarded honesties. “What problem is that?”

Val’s hand closed over her fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

“I should say”—he let out a quiet, tired sigh—“I have a greater problem, as it might be me somebody is hoping to kill.”

Monday morning came around foggy, damp, and chilly. The wagon was again loaded with food, amenities, more food, and a few books, all carefully stowed under tarpaulins.

As were the firearms and ammunition obligingly sent along with the other provisions, the spyglass, and the antique crossbow Day and Phillip’s maternal grandfather had willed to them.

Day and Phillip were dozing in the back, and Abby was making her farewells to Ellen at the wagon. St. Just, however, was checking the girth on his gelding.

“Are we too early for your groom?” Val asked Axel as they watched St. Just adjusting stirrup leathers.

“I sent him off Saturday night on some errands. He should be back posthaste.”

Val glanced at the wagon to see Abby was hugging Ellen, something that hadn’t happened the previous week. “I wish Ellen would stay with you.”

“I thought we agreed we’d stick as much to routine as possible, and that means Mrs. FitzEngle goes back to weeding her petunias and you go back to slave driving.”

“I don’t like it.”

“St. Just will watch your back,” Axel reminded him. “Sir Dewey will drop by, as well. Then too, I’ll be coming around by midweek, and we’ve got the solicitors on the alert in case anybody’s asking questions about the place.”

By means of the post, Val had actually gone further than that but would keep the details of his own tactics private for now. “I guess we’ll see you next week, then, if not before.”

“Before,” Axel assured him then glanced at the sky. “Weather permitting.”

“Right.” Val turned to walk back to the wagon, only to be spun by a hand on his arm—his left arm—and wrapped in a hug.

“Safe journey.” Axel smacked Val once between the shoulder blades and let him go. “You might beat the rain.”

Val climbed up beside Ellen, took the reins in his gloved hands, signaled to St. Just, and urged the team forward. St. Just went ahead to avoid the wagon’s dust, letting the gelding stretch its legs, before also dropping into a relaxed trot. He would have missed the turn up the lane to Val’s property if not for Val’s shout and wave at the estate gates.

“According to Belmont, you’ve gotten a lot done,” St. Just remarked, peering around assessingly as they gained the stable yard. “And in a short time. Best be hiring some staff.”

Val shook his head as he climbed down. “Not yet. The interior has a long way to go, as do the grounds and farms.”

“And he insists,” Ellen said, “on doing most of it himself.” She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Wake up, boys. Your palace awaits.”

“Is it lunchtime?” Day asked, sitting up and peering around.

“It’s unload-the-wagon-and-put-up-the-team time,” Val replied, “and we need to hurry if we’re not to get soaked.”

“Come, me hearties.” St. Just winked at Day and Phil. “We’d best unload our contraband before the excise men come around.”

Val reached up to swing Ellen to the ground. “I’ll be seeing you safely home, and my first priority is installing some locks on your doors.” Ellen merely nodded, retrieving a wicker basket and falling in step beside Val. “What is in that little basket, Mrs. FitzEngle?”

“Apple tarts. Your brother was showing Mrs. Stoneleigh how to make them, and she insisted on sending some home with me, as did your brother.”

“One can never have too many apple tarts in one’s larder,” Val said as they ambled through the wood. “At least if St. Just made them. I hurried through breakfast, so perhaps you’ll save me one when I’m done fitting locks on your doors?”

“Of course.”

Val glanced over at her, wishing he had a hand free to hold hers, but he was toting both her traveling satchel and a toolbox. “I feel as if for all we’ve been plotting and planning this weekend, for all that you and I have cleared the air regarding the rents, we’re still left with a distance between us.”

“Knowing somebody is contemplating arson, at least, and more likely murder, leaves me preoccupied. Mr. Windham.”

“I am sorry,” Val said as they reached her back porch.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve brought this trouble to you,” he said, pushing the door open for her. “You were safe and content here, then I go tearing up your peace, and now you are afraid for your own safety. When we find out who’s behind this, I will hold him accountable for that more than anything.”

“Come in,” Ellen said, stepping back into her kitchen, “and welcome. I don’t believe you’ve been inside before.”

“Except to put Sleeping Beauty to bed in the dark of night.” Val smiled slightly, glancing around. “This is like you. Pretty, tidy, organized, and yet not quite the expected.”

The dominant feature was the large fieldstone hearth, raised to allow feet to be propped on it, socks dried, or water heated. Two insets in the stonework sat ready for dutch ovens or warming pans, and a sturdy potswing held a cast iron cook pot. For those times of year when the fireplace would not be used, a small cast-iron stove stood in a corner of the kitchen opposite the sink. The fireplace opened on two sides, both on the kitchen cum sitting room, and on the bedroom behind it.

There were sachets and scent bowls in corners and on end tables, giving the whole cottage a fresh, floral air.

Ellen stood in her kitchen, arms crossed. “Well?”

“May I peek at your bedroom?”

The room was light and airy with only sheer curtains over the window, and a breeze coming in to flutter those. A shelf built over the bed held books, a wardrobe contained Ellen’s dresses and shoes, and a chest of cedar at the foot of the bed likely her more delicate apparel. The bed, wardrobe, and shelf were pine, a pedestrian wood, but light in color and pretty to the eye.

And the bed… It was probably intended to be a canopy, but stood without the hangings, covered by a worn white quilt gone soft and thin with age. Val entered the room only far enough to stroke a hand over the quilt and inhale the lavender scent of the bed linens.

“Lovely.”

“Humble,” Ellen countered, standing beside him and gazing down at her bed. “It was a guest room set that was being moved up to the servant’s wing at Roxbury. I appropriated it and did not ask permission.”

“It’s pretty and sensible.” Val left off inspecting her personal space and met her gaze. “Like you, and if we don’t leave this room right now, Ellen FitzEngle, I’m going to want you in that bed, naked and panting my name while I make you come so hard you can’t see.”