Eleven

“You have something against titles?” Val kept his tone excruciatingly neutral as they strolled along.

“I am titled,” Ellen said, “so no, I don’t have anything in particular against titles. I do not hold them in any great esteem either, however. When Francis died, I was surrounded by titles at his funeral, and they all said kind things and murmured the appropriate platitudes. They even sent letters of condolence, but I can tell you, Valentine, not a one of those kind, caring titles has bothered with me since.”

“That is certainly plain speaking. Nick would agree with you.”

“Lord Reston,” she said again, very firmly.

“He’s the Earl of Bellefonte now. Viscount Reston was his courtesy title. The old earl died only a few weeks ago and the loss is quite fresh. How well do you know Nicholas?”

“Not well.” Ellen’s tone relented a little. She kicked a pebble out of her path. “We were introduced twice, a couple years apart. I do not believe he recognized me, but he leaves an impression.”

Of course he did. Between Nick’s great height and his gorgeous, blond, blue-eyed appearance—and his outrageous flirting—Ellen would probably recall meeting Nick Haddonfield when she couldn’t recall her own name.

“Nick dropped out of sight for a few years because he did not want to be forced to marry,” Val said. “He traveled to Sussex and took a position as a groom, then as stable master on a rural estate.”

“He worked with his hands?” There was grudging curiosity in her tone.

“With a muck fork, more likely. That was the time I got to know him. He was just Wee Nick to me, an occasional companion to sport about Town with. If I omitted his title, it was an oversight, but Nick did not correct me.”

“He did not,” Ellen agreed, and some of the starch seemed to go out of her. She leaned a little more on Val’s arm, her weight welcome and even comforting. “And are you in the habit of having him check up on you?”

“He moves around a lot and checks up on most of his friends,” Val explained. He did not want to defend Nick—Nick needed no defending—but he wanted Ellen to understand why Val considered the man a friend. “This spring I moved in with him for a few weeks during the Season. I’d come down from the north and was at loose ends and was most assuredly not willing to dwell in one of my parents’ residences.”

“Hence the appeal of your new acquisition,” Ellen concluded. “You are taking more than a passing interest in it.”

“I am.” Val smiled at the observation. “Home was anywhere there was a decent piano.”

“You were that serious?”

“I was; then this happened.” He held up his left hand. “One must make a different plan sometimes, and really, spending the rest of my life on a piano bench wasn’t much of a plan.” To his surprise, he could make this honest observation without any rancor.

“But you make furniture,” Ellen protested. “That must take up some of your time.”

“I make pianos, Ellen,” Val said, feeling a curious relief to have this truth revealed. “Or my employees do. It’s very lucrative, at least for the present.”

“Pianos?” Ellen stopped in the middle of the path, cocked her head, and regarded him.

Val waited, even as he knew the female gears in her brain were whizzing about, perfectly recalling every God’s blessed word he’d ever uttered about making furniture or any other damned thing of the smallest relevance to his latest admission.

“You didn’t lie, exactly,” she said as she slowly resumed walking, “but you prevaricated. Why?”

“What sort of dashing young man makes pianos? And how does the peace of the realm require pianos? Pianos are frivolous extravagances, unlike chairs and tables. Civilized society needs chairs and tables.” To his horror, Val heard echoes of His Grace’s reasoning in his voice, though it had been years since his father had even muttered this sort of logic in Val’s hearing.

“You don’t seriously believe this, do you?” Ellen’s voice held consternation and she was again looking at him.

“Many people do, including, I suspect, my own father.” Val dropped her hand to slip an arm around her shoulders. “Many more people are willing to part with their coin to get their hands on one of my pianos, so I try not to dwell on it.”

“I am still trying to grasp that you make pianos,” Ellen said as they approached the back terrace. “It has to be terribly complicated.”

“It’s wonderful, really.” Val assisted her up the steps from the gardens to the terrace. “All that wood and wire and metal, and from it comes the most sublime sound.”

“Like brilliant, fragrant flowers from simple dirt,” Ellen replied. “There has to be something of divinity in the process. There is no other explanation, really.”

“It’s exactly that,” he said softly, “something of the divine.” In the muted moonshine, he settled for running the backs of his fingers over her cheek and taking her hand in his, but this was part of what he had in common with her. They both had the artist’s need to create beauty, to nurture it, watch it grow and develop, and see it please the senses and the soul.

As they took their places among the others, Val wanted to pull his oldest brother aside and lecture him at length. St. Just had been of the erroneous opinion Valentine lacked common ground with anyone.

Anyone at all.

***

“I had thought to part ways with you in Little Weldon,” St. Just said the next morning as they passed through the village, “but given there’s more storm damage here than at Candlewick, I think I’ll just see you safely home.”

“You needn’t,” Val said from atop the wagon. “I’ve Wee Nick to babysit me, Darius is guarding the fort, and the heathen are my extra eyes and ears.”

“Here, here,” Nick said from his perch on his mare. “Heathen?”

“Here,” Dayton chirped.

“And here,” Phil added.

“It’s less than three miles,” St. Just said. “By the time we’ve argued it through, we can be halfway there.”

“Suit yourself.” Val clucked his team forward. To his relief, the lane to his estate was clear except for considerable leaf litter and the occasional small limb. The house looked to be unscathed, and the outbuildings were all standing.

“Guess you were due for some good luck,” St. Just observed. “Heathen, if you’ll take the team, I will make my good-byes to my baby brother.”

While Val assisted Ellen from the wagon, St. Just grabbed each boy, rubbed his knuckles hard across their crowns, and then bear-hugged the breath right out of them. Nick offered his arm to Ellen, insisting that she have escort through the woods to the cottage, but offering St. Just a friendly wave and salute.

“At least he didn’t hug me,” St. Just muttered, smiling at Val. “My final orders to you are to marry the widow, settle down, and get some babies for your as yet unnamed estate. I imparted much the same wisdom to her.”

“She isn’t interested in marriage.” She hadn’t ever said as much, but neither had she pestered Val for his hand, so to speak.

“Change her mind,” St. Just shot back. “She’s a lady with troubles, Val. I can smell it on her the way I smelled it on Anna and on Emmie. Solve her troubles and put a ring on her finger.”

“I still don’t think she’d have me.”

“You ass.” St. Just stepped closer and fisted a hand in the hair at the nape of Val’s neck. “Do you really think without a piano bench under your backside you aren’t worth the ducal associations? Is that what this subterfuge is about? Denying you’re Moreland’s legitimate son because you are only a mere mortal, not a god of the keyboard, due to a simple sore hand?”

Val glanced at his hand. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“You didn’t think I’d noticed?” St. Just growled and shook him a little, as if he were a naughty puppy. “When I came back from Waterloo, you played for hours and hours just so I could sleep. You fetched me home from certain death then played me a lifeline. When I went haring off to York, you spent the damned winter up there just to make sure I was coping adequately. You are the first friend Winnie has made, and when she can’t tell me or Emmie what’s wrong, she bangs at that piano until Scout’s ears hurt. You tucked us in each night with lullabies, you interceded for me with the biddies, you… Damn you.”

“Damn you, too.” Val stepped close, and mostly to give himself a moment to swallow back the lump in his throat, hugged his brother. “Sometimes”—he dropped his forehead to St. Just’s shoulder—“I wonder if it isn’t all just a lot of noise. It’s good to know somebody was listening.”

“I was listening. I heard every note, Val.” St. Just held him a little tighter then let him step back. “Every note.”

St. Just shot him a look then, one that allowed Val to see just a hint of the weary soldier St. Just had been, a hint of the despair and bewilderment that had followed him and so many others home from Waterloo.

“Write,” Val said, unwilling to hold that gaze. “I promise to reply within two years at least.” He walked with his brother over to where the horse was waiting. “Don’t take stupid risks, give Emmie and Winnie all my love, and here.” He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a folded piece of paper. “For Winnie.”

“A letter?” St. Just tucked it inside his own pocket without unfolding it.

“Something like that.” Val smiled a little. “A love letter, maybe. Be off with you, and my thanks for all you’ve done here.”

“My pleasure.” St. Just grabbed him by the back of the neck again, kissed his forehead, and swung up on the horse. “Marry the widow, little brother. She makes you smile.”

Val nodded, saying nothing, as there was a damned lump in his throat again preventing speech. He watched St. Just canter down the lane on his fine chestnut horse and knew the urge to scream at him to turn around, not to go, not to leave him all alone. It was an old memory, of the times when St. Just had come home from the Peninsula on winter leave and enjoyed the holidays with family, only to depart again when the campaigns resumed after the New Year. Bart had come home with him, all jolly swagger and loud stories, and then Bart had never come home again.

But Val also wanted to bellow at St. Just to tell him—just one more time—that the music had meant something. That somebody had been listening.

He blew out a breath and forcibly turned his gaze to the manor house, where his crews had started work for the day. The roof would be completed by the end of the week, and the interior work was moving along nicely. It would soon be time to move in furniture and even people.

How had that happened, and then what would he do with himself all day? Val’s gaze strayed down the empty lane, and the lump in his throat ached almost as fiercely as his hand might have several weeks ago.

“You’re back.” Darius strode out of the house. “Wasn’t sure the roads would be passable after that damned storm. Did St. Just take off without a farewell for me?”

“I’m sure he meant no offense, and we about farewelled him to death.” Even as he said it, Val was convinced Darius had waited in the house on purpose just to avoid the parting scenes. “How was the weekend?”

“The weekend was quiet except for that damned storm. Your home wood is probably a wreck, but I was too busy at the home farm on Sunday to really inspect. Your father sent you the largest crate of something mysterious, by the way. It arrived Saturday, thank the gods, and you’re to keep the team that hauled it in.”

“I’m to keep the team?” Westhaven had sent a team north to St. Just as part of a housewarming. Maybe it was to be a family tradition, and any team was going to be a useful addition, since Axel would need his own back when the boys went home.

“As I live and breathe.” Darius exhaled, his gaze going past Val’s shoulder. “Is that my brother-in-law dragging Mrs. Fitz through the woods?”

“It is.” Nick was not the type to hurry needlessly. “And something is wrong.”

“Valentine.” Nick wasn’t panting, but at his side, Ellen was. “You’d better take a look at Ellen’s property, and you won’t like what we found.”

“Ellen?” Val held out an arm, and she went to his side then turned her face into his neck. He kept his arm around her as they made their way back through the wood, and he noted plenty of damage. One of the old pensioners Ellen had warned him about had crashed to its side, taking down limbs and saplings with it.

Blazing hell. The enchanted home wood had gone and changed on him when he’d been unwilling to deal with the need for change himself.

“Oh, ye gods,” Darius said softly behind him. Val followed his friend’s gaze across Ellen’s back gardens to her lovely little cottage.

Her formerly lovely little cottage. Another tree had toppled, landing mostly in Ellen’s side yard, but clipping the south side of her cottage by just enough that the roof was ruined and the wall sagging dangerously beneath it.

The sight was ominous, and to Val, somehow profane, as well.

“We’ll fix it,” he said, tipping her chin up so he could see her eyes. “Your conservatory was going in on that side, and this will just speed up construction. Dare, get my crews over here to clear this mess. Nick, we’ll be needing the team for sure. Day and Phil can go through the outbuildings and find a suite of bedroom furniture, then pick out a room in the house that’s close enough to done we can move Ellen into it.”

He braced a hand on either side of Ellen’s neck. “You are going to let me take care of this and no argument, please. God”—he hugged her to him—“if you’d been home, puttering at your embroidering, putting up jam…”

She nodded, eyes teary, and let him hold her.

“Ah, look there.” Val pointed to the base of the fallen tree. “Your greatest treasure is unscathed.” Marmalade sat on his fluffy orange backside, washing a front paw as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“I want…” Ellen stretched out a hand toward the cat, who pretended not to notice.

“I’ll fetch him for you.” Val kissed her nose and made for the cat, who strolled back a few paces closer to what had been the bottom of the tree. Val reached for the beast then froze and looked more closely at the tree. He tucked the cat against his middle and stole another glance around at the surrounding trees before taking Marmalade back to Ellen.

Val handed her the cat. “He says you have abandoned him shamelessly, and for your sins, you must allow him to accompany you up to the manor, where all his friends, the mice, are waiting to welcome him.”

“Oh, Val.” Ellen managed a watery smile but leaned against him as she clutched her purring cat. “I’m so glad he’s unharmed. You’re a good kitty, Marmie. A very good, brave kitty.”

“He’s also a very heavy kitty.” Val said, taking him from her grasp. “Let’s move him up to the manor, where I’m sure we can find him a dish of cream and you a cup of tea.” Or something stronger. He certainly needed something stronger—to think she could have been killed, or worse.

The thought gave him pause, for even if she were maimed, Val would be grateful she was alive and no less interested in her company. It flummoxed him, that twist in his thinking, but he set the thought aside on the growing pile of things to consider later when he had peace, quiet, and solitude. He settled Ellen in the kitchen of the manor, putting a mug of brandy in her hand. He also scrounged up paper and pencil and had her make a list of what she wanted immediately from her cottage.

The rest would be moved as needs must into the outbuildings. For the present, getting her settled upstairs was going to take most of the day.

“May I leave you here while you finish your list?”

“You may,” Ellen said. “I shouldn’t be so dramatic. Trees have fallen all over the shire, and I live among a wood. You are kind to offer me your house.”

“Kind.” This talk of kindness made him want to bellow and throw fragile objects against the hearthstones. “There’s nothing kind about it, Ellen. If you think…” He caught himself and let out a breath. “We can talk more about that later, my love. For now, steady your nerves, pet your cat, and we’ll have your things moved in no time.” He hugged her tightly, kissed her, and made himself go find Darius and Nick.

Nick was easy to spot, of course, by virtue of his golden hair and striking height. Then too, he was walking the new team—the one sent by Moreland—down the lane toward Ellen’s cottage. No matter what had possessed the duke to make such an extravagant gift, the timing was more than fortunate, and Val would have to write and thank the old boy lest Her Grace chide Val for forgetting his manners.

“Nick!” Val hailed him and caught up easily, for the horses were nothing if not deliberate in their paces. “How’d you get them hitched up so fast?”

“They came with a groom,” Nick said. “Your papa sent along old Sean, and you’re to keep him as long as you can stand his cursing and grumbling.”

“Sean’s here?” Val’s brows rose. Sean was one of the most senior grooms at Morelands.

Nick shrugged. “Sean said foaling is done in Kent, and His Grace didn’t think you’d hired talent adequate for these two yet.”

“His Grace has spoken and I suppose I’m to make a go of this place.”

“Or maybe,” Nick suggested gently, “he simply wants to be helpful, Val.”

“Maybe.” Val nodded, unwilling to waste time arguing. “Let me show you something before you start hauling away next year’s firewood.”

Nick signaled the horses to stand and followed Val around the side of the cottage.

“Look closely at the stump, Nick.”

“Well, bugger all, would you look at that,” Nick growled, eyes traveling upward. “That tree fell into its neighbor, there.” He pointed to another stout tree in the hedgerow, one sporting a bright, pale gash in its bark several feet long at a height of maybe thirty feet. “And probably caught fairly snugly until someone sawed through what remained of the trunk at the base. Bloody hell, Val. You’ve got problems.”

“And Ellen has, too,” Val rejoined. “What if she’d been home, sleeping or working at her books? Baking?”

“We have to hope whoever did this took long enough to comprehend she wasn’t home,” Nick said. “Sawing green wood, even a few inches of it, makes noise.”

“You think I want to risk Ellen’s life on a hope?” Val spat bitterly. “The hell of it is, I can’t determine if it’s her enemies or mine doing this. Axel told you about the bonfires?”

“He did. Which just means we have to be careful, and at the least, you are the target. Burning down the house would not harm Ellen.”

“And wrecking her cottage would not harm me. So maybe it’s the combination of me and Ellen someone objects to.” He paced off a few feet, staring at the ruined cottage. “She loved her little house, Nick. I think it was all she had and the only place she felt really safe. Would you take her to Kent? Or to David and Letty?”

“Of course. Leah would love some civilized company. But let’s get this mess cleaned up and put our heads together later. For now, you have a widow to console.”

***

“This is the last of it,” Day said as he and Phil came in, arms full of the details Ellen hadn’t realized she’d miss until she was in the middle of making her bed: She spied in Phil’s arms some embroidered pillows, her old quilt, her favorite mug, and her brush and comb. She took each item from Phil then stopped and drew in a breath when she saw Day holding out a plant to her.

“What is that, Dayton?”

“It was sitting on your counter. I didn’t know if you’d want it, but it looked lonely and will need watering.”

“You found this weed on my counter?” Ellen took the plant, trying to keep the outrage from her voice.

“I can take it back, Mrs. Fitz,” Day offered as she snatched the plant from his hand.

“God damn him to hell,” Ellen muttered as she hurled the plant, pot and all, out an open window. “Thank you, gentlemen, I’d like some privacy now.” Her back was to them, as thorough a dismissal as she could imagine.

“Mrs. Fitz?” Phil’s voice was tentative. “Shall we send Mr. Windham to you?”

“No thank you,” Ellen said quickly enough that they both beat a hasty retreat. Ellen waited to make sure they’d gone, closed her door, sat on the bed, and cried.

Again.

Out in the yard, Phil and Day crossed paths with Val and Nick, who were returning from an afternoon hauling, sawing, and patching on Ellen’s cottage.

“Are we due for a swim?” Val asked his younger assistants. “Or do we attack the hampers first, and what is this doing in my tidy yard?” He knelt to pick up a badly cracked clay pot, a crumpled plant still housed within.

“We found it on Mrs. Fitz’s counter,” Day replied. “I thought it might be a house plant or one she’d like for her room, so I brought it to her. She pitched it out the window and said it was a weed.”

Val’s brows arched in consternation. “Ellen pitched a plant out her window? You saw her do this?”

“We both did,” Phil said, “but it isn’t a weed; it’s pennyroyal. It makes a nice tea and soothes the digestion like peppermint.”

Nick reached out a long arm and pinched off a leaf.

“Phil’s right,” Nick said, bringing the leaf to his nose. “Pennyroyal can be confused with spearmint because the scent and flavor are similar, but it’s pennyroyal all right.”

Val frowned, trying to recall what the apothecary had said about pennyroyal. “Why don’t you repot it? We’ll take it to your father on Saturday. He can find a use for it, but meanwhile I’d keep it out of Ellen’s sight.”

“Right.” Day nodded. “So dinner or a swim?”

“I vote dinner,” Nick said. “The swim will settle the meal and cool us off before bed.” The boys concurred and struck out for the springhouse.

“Which reminds me,” Val turned to regard Nick as the boys moved off, “where will we put you, my friend? The cots in the carriage house are too small for me and Dare, but they would torture you.”

“I have a bedroll.”

“Would you be willing to take a hammock? Ellen has one that is quite sturdy and she won’t miss it.”

“A hammock would be lovely, but how is it you vouch for the sturdiness of this hammock?”

“Shut up, Nicholas.”

“Valentine?”

“What?”

“There is another use for pennyroyal.” Nick’s tone was thoughtful. “It settles the digestion, true, but women use it to bring on their menses.”

“Why would a woman want to do that?” Val asked as they headed toward the carriage house. “Seems to me the ladies are always complaining about the cramps, the mess, and the inconvenience of it all.”

“Let me put this less delicately. Women use it to bring on menses that are late, sometimes very late.”

“To abort?” Val shot a curious glance at his friend. “Lord above, Nick, the wicked things you know will never cease to appall me. Is this an old wives’ tale or documented science?”

“I don’t know as science had gotten around to considering the subject, but I know of many women who swear by it, if used early in the pregnancy. I also know of one who died from overusing the herb too late in her pregnancy.”

“So this plant is a poison. Just what we need.”

“What do we need?” Darius asked from the porch of the carriage house, “and where are our pet heathen?”

“Laying out supper,” Val replied. “Somebody left a poison plant on Ellen’s counter.”

“Pennyroyal,” Nick added. “And she pitched it out the window while Day and Phil watched.”

“Ellen pitched a plant? She was offended, I take it? I didn’t know the stuff was poison. I thought pennyroyal was for bringing on menses and settling the digestion.”

Val rolled his eyes. “Does everybody but me know these things? Let’s go get dinner before the locusts devour all in their path. And Nick, I elect you to go fetch Ellen.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Nick bowed extravagantly and spun on his heel, while Darius—the lout—guffawed loudly.

Dinner was good, the hampers having been prodigiously full, owing to the addition of Nick to the assemblage. Ellen didn’t say much, but she did eat, mostly because Nick pestered and teased and dared her into taking each bite. Val sat back and watched, wishing he could do something besides feed the woman and put a roof over her head. Those were necessities, things Freddy Markham should have been doing out of sheer duty, things Francis had intended Ellen never want for again.

Hoof beats disturbed the meal, and Val got up and went to the door of the springhouse. A rider was trotting up the lane on a winded, lathered horse. The man swung down and approached Val directly.

“Are you Valentine Windham?” He was a grizzled little gnome, and he looked vaguely familiar.

“I am Windham.”

“This be fer you.” The man thrust a sealed envelope into Val’s hands. “I’m to wait for a reply, but I’ll be walking me horse while I do. Poor blighter’s about done in with this heat.”

“There’s water in the stable.” Val eyed the envelope—no return address, but he recognized the hand. “We’ve a groom who can walk the beast. Yell for Sean and then hold your ears while he cusses a blue streak. When you’ve seen to the horse, come to the springhouse, and we’ll find you some tucker.”

“Obliged.” The man nodded once and led his horse toward the stables.

“We have callers?” Darius asked, emerging from the springhouse.

“A courier from Hazlit.” Val eyed the packet dubiously.

“The snoop? I didn’t know you used him.”

“Needs must.” Val tapped the edge of the envelope against his lips. “And he’s an investigator, not a snoop. Moreover, he was critical in securing your sister’s safety, so have some respect.”

“Val?”

He glared at Darius in response.

“Ellen is safe now,” Darius said gently. “I know you want to break somebody’s head, but how about not mine, at least not until I’ve updated you on your home farm?”

“This is not good news, I take it?”

“Not good or bad. The storm did us the courtesy of removing most of the roof remaining on the hay barn. The Bragdolls and I spent Sunday morning getting it tarpaulined, but another steady blow, and that won’t serve.”

Val closed his eyes—would nothing go right this day? “We will pull crews from the house to work on the barn.”

“Makes sense. You’ve got an entire wing under roof now here, and the other wing isn’t in immediate danger of disintegration.”

“Tomorrow I’ll look over the hay barn with you first thing, and we can make a more detailed plan. For now, I want to get Ellen off her feet, dunk my stinking carcass in the pond, then find some sleep.”

“Long day,” Darius said. “Maybe there will be some good news from your investigator.”

“Fuck you, Lindsey,” Val replied with a weary smile.

“So many wish they could.” Darius swished his hips a little as he strode off, and Val felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He set the envelope on his cot in the carriage house and returned to the springhouse just as the boys were clearing the table.

“You.” Val put a hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “Remain seated. Your day has been busy enough. How is your room?”

“Lovely. It’s as big as my entire cottage, though.”

“So enjoy it. Have you wash water there?”

“Phillip and Dayton made sure I have every possible comfort.” She gave him a semblance of a smile, but her eyes were tired, and Val found it just wasn’t in him to force small talk on her.

“Come.” Val took her by the hand and laced his fingers with hers, not caring who saw, what they thought of it, or what ribbing they might try to give him later. When he and Ellen left the springhouse, he put an arm around her waist and tucked her close to his body. That she went willingly, despite all the eyes on them, alarmed Val more than her fatigue or her quiet.

He dropped his arm to usher her into the house. “What’s really wrong?”

She paused, and if he hadn’t been watching her with close concern, he might have missed the effort she made to compose her features.

“My cottage was all I had. It was my home, my refuge, where I grieved, and where I healed. It has been violated.”

He regarded her in silence then led her up the stairs to her bedroom. In a single day, it had gone from being an empty chamber to a cozy, inviting nest. Embroidered pillows from the cottage told Val whose nest it was, and the fluffy bed tempted him beyond endurance. He led her out to the balcony, which sported two wooden rockers padded with embroidered cushions.

“We need to talk,” Val said, settling her in one rocker. It took all his willpower not to scoop her into his lap and just hold her, but that wouldn’t solve anything, except maybe the vague, relentless anxiety he’d been feeling since Axel had pulled him into the library a couple nights ago.

“I am really quite tired,” Ellen replied, but Val saw more than fatigue in her eyes.

“You are really quite sad,” he countered, “and upset. We’re going to repair your cottage in no time, and it will be better than new. What is the real problem, Ellen?”

He wanted her to tell him and before he opened that packet from Hazlit, or received any others.

She just shook her head.

“You pitched the pennyroyal out the window. You would never harm something growing, much less growing and tender.”

“God.” She clutched her arms around her middle but shook her head again.

“Ellen…” Val’s voice was low, pleading. “I stink like a drover two hundred miles from home, or I’d come hold you, but you have to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t.” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You won’t,” Val countered tiredly. “I did not want to tell you this, but if you look closely at the tree that fell on your cottage, you’ll see it toppled partway but then was cut at the base—in essence, it was pushed onto your roof. Maybe whoever did it knew you were from home, maybe not. Somebody, it appears, has succeeded in scaring the hell out of you, Ellen, and that scares the hell out of me.”

He could not stand one more moment of her silence, so he stood and passed a gentle hand over the back of her head. “The house is entirely secured on the first floor. I’ll come check on you later.”

She clutched his hand and tucked her forehead against his thigh but said nothing, leaving Val to stroke his hand over her hair once again then depart in silence. He made his way through the darkened house, careful to lock the front door behind him, and then found himself on the path toward the pond. He changed his mind, doubled back, and retrieved Hazlit’s packet, taking it to the sleeping porch on the second floor of the carriage house to read by lantern light.

When Nick and Darius returned from their swim, Val was still sitting in the shadows, Hazlit’s missive open on his lap.

“Bad news?” Nick asked, sinking down to rest his back against the porch railing.

“Here.” Darius waved a bottle before Val’s eyes. “This is bad news too, but not until tomorrow morning, and only if Nick and I let you get drunk.”

Val took a hefty pull of the bottle and passed it to Nick. Darius lowered himself to the hammock but used it as a seat, keeping his feet on the floor.

“Somebody cut the tree,” Darius said, “and that was after they laid bonfires in the very house. There’s no telling what other mischief we’re going to have to endure. What does Hazlit add to this puzzle?”

“The rents are dutifully deposited in a Markham general account,” Val said in a hollow voice. “One that Ellen could withdraw from, but she doesn’t.”

“So there should be a pile of money there,” Nick concluded, passing the bottle to Darius.

“There’s nothing but a token amount. Frederick Markham has withdrawn every cent in the account regularly for the past five years.”

“So the good baron is bleeding his widowed cousin dry.” Nick frowned into the gathering darkness. “Bad form. You might have to call the blighter out.”

Val nodded agreement. “I might. Ellen would frown on that. It gets worse.”

Darius passed the bottle back to Val. “What could be worse than stealing from your cousin’s widow, forcing her to grub in the dirt for necessities and live out here like a social leper?”

“The rents should consist of the amounts due from the six tenant farms,” Val said. “But for the past five years, there have been seven individual deposits from seven different sources. Freddy has been charging Ellen rent on her own damned land.”

“You going to kill him?” Nick asked. “I know all manner of ways to end a life, Valentine.”

“Nick…” Darius chided, “don’t put ideas in Val’s head he’ll come to regret.”

“I am not going to kill him,” Val said taking another hefty swig. “I might, though, make him wish he were dead.”

Nick accepted the bottle from Val. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m going to invite him here as my very first guest, to show him what a gift he passed to me when he lost that hand of cards. I’m going to keep my friends close and my enemies closer.”

“Never should have let you spend that time in Italy.” Nick shook his head and passed Darius the whiskey. “Citing Machiavelli, plotting dark deeds when a simple cudgel to the back of the idiot’s head would do the job.”

Val smiled thinly. “It may come to that. For now, I want to refine my plans, post a note to His Grace, finish my house, and wash the filth of this day from my person.”

“We know.” Darius waggled the bottle resignedly. “Don’t wait up for you.”

***

“Did you lock the door?” Ellen murmured, cuddling closer to the man who’d just joined her in her bed. She’d left only the sheet over her body, and in the evening breeze, she’d taken a slight chill. Val gave off heat like a toasted brick, and reassurance and warmth that had nothing to do with the physical.

“I did.” He kissed her cheek. “Rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Val?”

“Beloved?”

Beloved? Oh, ye gods and little fishes, that was more than adored, desired…

“You shouldn’t say such things, but I want you to know something,” Ellen said, glad for the darkness.

“It can wait until morning.”

“I’ll lose my nerve.” Her voice broke as she wrapped an arm around his lean waist. “And you’ll hate me.”

“I’ll never hate you,” Val said, tucking her face to his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Freddy. All the attempts to sabotage your work here. It’s him.”

“I won’t ask how you know, but I agree with you. It’s Freddy.”

“So what will you do?” Ellen let her grip on him slacken.

“Don’t run off.” Val gathered her back against him. “For now, I’m going to hold you and rest and consider options. You are not to worry about this, Ellen.”

“I do worry. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Arson? Destruction of property, attempted murder?”

“He must have known I was from home,” Ellen said, though Freddy was absolutely capable of taking a life—of taking three lives or even four. “Freddy is an opportunist. He probably stopped by to plague you or see how your progress was coming and realized the storm had left him a way to further torment me.”

“He’s been tormenting you for a while now, hasn’t he?”

“Since the accursed day I met him.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone. “You’ll be careful?”

“With you?” Val kissed her temple. “Very. With him, even more so. Now sleep, and let me do the fretting.”

As she dropped off, Val lay beside her, staring at the ceiling and then at Ellen’s face in the moonlight pouring through the curtains. She slept, finally, lulled by his caresses and his warmth. She’d offered him something, at least, and he was encouraged by that but also wary: Why would she offer only part of the story, unless she intended to take the rest of it with her when she left?