Thirteen

When he finished dressing for his caller, Val had an hour left of his morning, so he crossed to the house and made his way to his library. He sat for long minutes at his desk, wondering what he could write to his father that wouldn’t be considered a placatory thank you note—the challenge had been tossed down, and Val wasn’t inclined to ignore a challenge. Not from Moreland, and not given the state of Val’s life.

To His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland, etc,

It crossed my mind if a short, placatory thank you would not count, perhaps a long, effusive, entirely sincere thank you might. At the risk of self-aggrandizement, the instrument chosen for me is truly lovely, and I do appreciate it.

I am pleased to report I even have a music room for your generous gift, though the estate I found here at the beginning of the summer was in sad disrepair and not habitable by other than rodents, vagrants, and bats. All three have been evicted, and the next few weeks will see the manor finished in all its details. Darius Lindsey, Axel Belmont, and Axel’s sons have been particularly helpful in this regard, and now no less than Nicholas, the Earl of Bellefonte, has put his hand to the effort, as well. This has been an enjoyable project, but daunting, for the neglect of the house is only one aspect of the estate’s troubles.

I believe one Frederick, Baron Roxbury, has made a great deal of other difficulty for me here, and I have yet to uncover his motives. As the former owner of the property, he can have no legal interest in the place, and yet he seems to bear ill will toward both me and the late baron’s widow. Any insights Your Grace can offer regarding Roxbury’s situation would be appreciated.

My regards to my sisters and Westhaven, should you see him before I do. We sent St. Just on his way north roughly ten days ago and hope to hear good news from him and Emmie in the very near future.

You remain in my thoughts and prayers,

Valentine

“Beg pardon, Mr. Windham, but your guest is here.”

Val’s only officially hired servant, a footman named Davies, appeared in the doorway. There were women in the kitchen today, because Val had known he’d have company coming, but as for the rest…

“Thank you, Davies.” Val rose, tugged down his waistcoat, and shrugged into his morning coat. “Please show my guest into the formal parlor and have the kitchen send up the tea tray. Does Lord Bellefonte know our guest has arrived?”

“He does, my lord, and is arriving from the carriage house as we speak, by way of the kitchen.”

Val let his features settle into the expression worn by a duke’s youngest son—polite, faintly bored, but benevolently tolerant of his many, many inferiors. When he joined Freddy Markham, Freddy was standing by a window with an upside-down Waterford vase in his lily-white hands.

“Good day, my lord.” Val smiled just a little. “Do I take it your journey from Town was pleasant?”

“Windham.” Freddy grinned and set the vase down. “Spent last night in Oxford seeing the attractions and appreciating the summer ale. Put me in quite good spirits.”

By the slight cooling of his smile, Val let it be known Freddy’s failure to use his host’s courtesy title was not appreciated.

“How pleasant for you,” Val remarked, his tone implying something else entirely. “Shall we be seated?”

“Oh, so we’re to do tea and crumpets. Lovely, but I have to say, you’ve certainly gone to a lot of trouble over the old place.”

Val shrugged. “It has good bones. One hates to see something of value allowed to go to waste for simple lack of attention.” Freddy’s brows rose, but his expression suggested he couldn’t quite put his finger on where in that remark the insult to him lay.

“One does,” he replied, a little less exuberantly. “Shall we have a tour? I haven’t seen the interior for years and years.”

Val lifted one eyebrow. “You’ve seen the exterior, then?”

“Oh, well…” Freddy shot his cuffs and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “If I’m in the neighborhood, I occasionally take a spin out this way just to have a look.”

“And what would there be to look at? I understand from my tenants their farms were of no interest to you.”

“No interest?” Freddy frowned. “What have I got to do with their farms? They’re the farmers, right? And here’s our tea!”

“Allow me to pour.” Val did a creditable job with a teapot. He’d attended any number of his sisters’ tea parties as a child, and it was a skill any mincing dandy—real or impersonated—had to perfect. When he passed Freddy his tea, Val had the satisfaction of seeing Freddy’s hand trembled slightly.

“I say.” Freddy smiled brightly at Val. “Since it’s just we fellows, would there be something we might doctor this with to set the day to rights?”

Val silently passed along to Freddy the decanter of very good brandy Freddy had no doubt spied on the sideboard.

“Am I late?” Nick sauntered in without knocking. “I am, and I beg the pardon of the assemblage. Roxbury.” Nick met the man’s eyes but did not bow, because Nick did, clearly, outrank Freddy.

“You’re Reston.” Freddy rose, all smiles again and stuck out a hand.

“Owing to a recent bereavement,” Val interjected, “he’s Bellefonte now.”

Nick inclined his head and pointedly ignored Freddy’s hand. From his great height, Nick stared down his nose, blue eyes glacially cool, until Freddy bowed in response.

“Tea, Bellefonte?” Val gestured toward the tray.

“Of course.” When Nick spied the brandy, he arched a disbelieving eye. “Lord Valentine, you are not ruining a perfectly good pot of libation with that profane practice of brandying the tea, are you?”

“Of course not,” Val replied pleasantly as he poured Nick a cup.

“Bellefonte was visiting friends at Candlewick,” Val explained to Freddy, “and deigned to grace us with his presence today. We are acquainted through family.”

Val and Nick deftly dropped one titled name after another, until Freddy was all but trying to disappear into his teacup between longing glances at the brandy decanter.

Val rose when the teacups were empty. “We’ve had our tea, and Lord Roxbury did not come all this way to listen to us reminisce. The point of his sortie was to see the progress made with the property, so let’s give him a tour of the house, shall we?”

Val started in the kitchens, and room by room, rattled off the repairs, renovations, and restorations required. He tossed in the work needed on the roof, in the yard, in the outbuildings, and on the grounds. The list was endless, and while it should have made Freddy ashamed, the only visible result was to light a sullen spark of anger in his eyes.

They’d toured all four floors when Lord Roxbury asked for the use of a water closet and was shown to a guest room.

“I’ll be happy to meet you gentleman out front, if you’d like to stroll the grounds now we’ve seen the house?” Lord Freddy offered.

“We’ll await you on the front terrace,” Val replied, not meeting Nick’s eye for even an instant. They walked off, leaving Freddy to ostensibly use the water closet.

“Don’t give him too long,” Nick murmured as they walked, “it’s the work of a moment to nip up the attic stairs and strike a spark on that pile of kindling.” Val nodded as they turned the corner of the corridor and found Darius waiting for them.

“What an insufferable little ass,” Darius whispered, rolling his eyes. A door opened and closed down the hall, then footsteps sounded on the narrow stairs leading into the attics.

“Let’s go.” Nick tugged on Val’s arm, but Val held still, listening to the pattern of the footfalls.

“Now. We’ll leave the door open, Dare.”

They climbed the attic steps silently, pausing at the top to listen. Freddy was jiggling a can half full of liquid, swishing it around, presumably to let some slosh over the lip, then swishing it again. The can was set down, and another silence ensued, during which the distinctive scratch of flint on steel came clearly through the stillness of the attics. Val moved; Nick silently followed.

“Why the hell won’t you light, damn you?” Freddy was muttering at the pile of tinder.

“Because,” Val said, “the wood has been kept quite damp, and you really do not want to swing for arson, Roxbury.”

“Windham!” Freddy rose to his feet, his face turning an interesting shade of red. He slipped the flint back into his pocket and glanced around, as if an excuse would come winging to him from the rafters.

“Downstairs.” Val gestured through the attic doorway. “Now.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Freddy hissed in a low, mean voice. “It will be your word against mine.”

“And mine,” Nick added pleasantly from Val’s elbow.

“And mine,” Darius chirped from Val’s shoulder. “I believe you’ve been invited downstairs, Roxbury?”

Val let Nick and Darius escort an abruptly quiet Freddy back down to the formal parlor. It was a bit of a progress, since they had to cross the house and descend three floors, and in that time, Val wondered why he didn’t feel a greater sense of triumph. His instincts had been right. Ellen’s warning had been accurate—Freddy had been out to destroy the house, but Val still had to wonder why.

And in the next fifteen minutes, he wanted to find out.

Needed to.

“You have one chance,” Nick said when they’d reached the formal parlor, “and one chance only to explain why you just tried to burn Lord Valentine’s property to a cinder.” He pushed Freddy once on the chest, dropping him into a chair. Freddy looked from Nick to Val and back to Nick again.

“I’d spill,” Darius said with a sympathetic shrug. “The man wants the truth, and after all, there was no harm done.”

Freddy huffed out a semblance of an indignant sigh. “There is no need for all this drama. You caught me fair and square, and I’ll take my lumps and go home.”

“Fair and square?” Nick’s tone was laden with menace. “You’re fool enough to lose an estate on a wager, and you think fair and square served when you’re caught trying to torch that same estate, Roxbury? There are servants here, women and girls, who wouldn’t know the attics were in flames until it was too late. And in a house this age, fire would spread even without the lamp oil you so obligingly provided.”

“How did you know it was lamp oil?”

Nick rolled his eyes at Darius, leaving Val to stifle a derisive snort. How could a man this stupid have come so close to achieving his ends?

Nick leaned in, letting his size silently speak volumes. “Talk, Roxbury. Now.”

“Best heed the man,” Darius offered. “He has a devil of a temper, and you’ve threatened his friend. Then too, if you’re thinking of taking your chances in the Lords”—Darius paused and shook his head—“consider that one.” He nodded at Val. “Moreland will take it amiss you disrespected his son, and Moreland has the Lords in his ducal pocket.” Darius offered Nick a small smile. “Not to denigrate your influence, my lord.”

“Of course.” Nick returned the smile but let it die when he turned to Val. “We’re wasting time, my lord. Let me have five minutes with this miserable excuse for dog shite, and you’ll have your answers.”

“Please!” Freddy shot out of his chair as if cued for it in a stage play, only to have Nick’s single, meaty hand shove him right back onto his seat. “I can explain, and it isn’t complicated. I was simply, well, going to encourage you to sell the place back to me.”

“By creating a series of accidents?” Val posited, settling into a comfortable wing chair. “Starting with loose slates on my roof? Including a couple of bonfires in my residence? Continuing on to an attempt to collapse my hay barn while the roof was being restored?”

Freddy’s complexion went from ruddy to sheet white in a moment. “How do you know?”

Val snapped his fingers and rose. “And I forgot! You tried to destroy Ellen Markham’s cottage by dropping a damned tree on it. Fortunately, the lady wasn’t inside, and only her peace of mind, sense of safety, and pitiful savings were obliterated along with her residence.”

“How do you know?” Freddy cried again. “I wasn’t trying to kill anyone; I merely wanted you gone and happy to sell the property back to me for a pittance.”

“Freddy…” Darius shook his head slowly. “If they didn’t know before, they certainly do now.”

“Leave us.” Val spoke to his two friends through clenched teeth.

“Val,” Nick muttered, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Neither do I,” Freddy added, glancing nervously all around the room.

“The windows are locked,” Val informed him, “and my friends will be right outside the door. They will not interfere, however, unless I ask them to.”

“Val.” Darius met his friend’s eye, raised his left hand to his waist, and made a tight fist. “Be careful.”

Val nodded and let the silence build. Nick merely rolled his eyes and followed Darius from the room.

“So what are we about?” Freddy asked, swallowing audibly when the lock clicked shut on the only door.

“We’ll settle this like gentleman.” Val shrugged out of his coat. “And I promise not to kill you, because I understand you’ve only the one heir, and his claim to Markham blood is quite attenuated. Surprises me I’d care about your miserable succession, but I think it would mean something to Ellen.”

“Ellen?” Freddy ran his finger around his neck cloth again. “Is this about her?”

“Coat off, Markham.” Val started rolling back his cuffs. “I’ll even let you take the first swing, and yes, part of this is about Ellen. You are no kind of man if you think preying on your cousin’s widow is acceptable.”

“She’s managing,” Freddy muttered as he struggled to get out of his coat. “She’s the kind of female who will always manage, and how was I supposed to squeak by on a bloody damned allowance like some schoolboy!”

“She manages.” Val removed the signet ring from his smallest finger. “Why couldn’t you?”

“Because a gentleman has needs,” Freddy nearly shrieked. “You should know that.” He extricated himself from his coat and put his fists up.

“It isn’t considered sporting to keep the rings on, old man,” Val said, limbering up his fists.

“It wasn’t stealing,” Freddy retorted, an odd note of genuine relish in his voice. “She owed me, Windham. She will always owe me.” With that, Freddy put up his fives and took up a stance reflective of the scientific approach favored by the bloods who frequented Gentleman Jackson’s salon.

Val, youngest of five brothers, took one look at his opponent, resisted the urge to thank God for small favors, and laid Lord Roxbury out flat with one right-handed punch.

And as disappointing as it was, Val limited his retribution to that one very effective blow.

***

Darius resumed his assigned role as the more sympathetic bystander and assisted Freddy to his feet.

“He drew blood!” Freddy stared at his fingers, touched them to his lips, and found more blood.

“You essentially bit yourself,” Darius said, handing Freddy a glass of water while Nick and Val looked on dispassionately. “I’d offer you some ice, but that amenity is yet in short supply in these rustic surrounds. You might want to use your handkerchief or cravat on that lip, though.”

“But blood leaves an awful stain,” Freddy said, his words slightly slurred. “Stanwick would leave, and then where would I be?”

“Can’t have that.” Darius shook his head. “Have we sent for Lord Roxbury’s equipage?”

“His curricle is in the drive,” Val said. “Sean is walking his team.”

“So that’s it, then?” Freddy rose unsteadily, but Darius did not offer any more support. “You plant me a facer and we call it even?”

“No.” Val let Nick assist him back into his morning coat. “That was simply to address the requirements of honor, and damned unsatisfying it was, Roxbury. I’ll be calling on the local magistrate, and you’ll be hearing from me.”

Freddy’s split lip began to bleed down his chin, but nobody offered him a handkerchief, so he was compelled to use his own. He blotted the blood daintily, eyeing Val all the while.

“The Lords won’t convict me, and I can have you charged with assault. Duke’s son or not, you’re just a commoner, and I hold one of the oldest titles in the land.”

“I didn’t say you’d be charged,” Val replied mildly, “but I will say, before witnesses and men of honor, as well, if you ever try to extort another farthing from Ellen Markham, I will hunt you down and wrap your balls around your scrawny neck until you expire, and then I will feed your carcass to the pigs.”

Freddy’s bloody lips compressed, but then a short, ugly laugh burst from him.

“You won’t have me charged.” He patted the handkerchief against his lip. “You know you’re holding the low cards now, Windham, so I’ll take my leave of you with a little kindly advice: Ellen Markham is capable of murder. Family loyalty prevents me from seeing her tried for the crimes she’s committed, but let me suggest that even if you’re besotted with her, you’d be a fool to trust that woman farther than you can pitch her, much less with the lives of your children. She’s dangerous, and make no mistake. I keep my distance from her for reasons my late cousin would understand only too well.”

He left them on that, and Val went to the window, watching in silence as Sean stepped back from the horses’ heads. When Freddy had tooled off down the lane, Val remained at the window.

“Did he tell you anything during your bout of fisticuffs?” Nick asked.

Val smiled slightly. “He told me he can’t fight worth a bloody farthing. Jackson has been taking his money for nothing.”

“A man must deal as best he sees fit.” Darius took a sip from a glass of whiskey, passed a tumbler to Nick and the third one to Val. “You’re not satisfied with this outcome?”

“I am not. Still, let’s put our statements down for Sir Dewey and see what he makes of it.”

“You are glued to that window, Val.” Nick came to stand at his shoulder. “Whatever for?”

“I don’t want Freddy running into Ellen,” Val said. “I told the boys to keep her in town until at least four this afternoon, but she’s like my father. When she takes a notion, there’s no arguing with her.”

“Rather like you,” Darius murmured, joining them at the window. “And there is Sean with Ezekiel.”

“Gentlemen.” Val passed his glass to Nick. “It has been a pleasure, of a sort. You have my eternal gratitude. I’m off to town.”

“Of course you are,” Darius said. “At a hand gallop, at least.”

“Canter,” Nick decided, “owing to the heat.”

Val left with Darius’s final shot ringing in his ears.

“Dead gallop,” Darius bet Nick. “Owing to the heat.”

***

To Val’s relief, Ellen was enjoying a lady’s pint outside the Rooster when a quick cross-country gallop got him to town. Her wagon had sold out again, but Phil and Day—clever, clever lads—told her they wanted to shop at some of the other vendors’ booths and stop in at the lending library.

“Sir Dewey.” Val nodded at Ellen’s companion. “A pleasure. Ellen, your day has gone well?”

“It has.” She smiled at him, and Val felt his heart trip on the next few beats. Good God, she was lovely. Just sitting here outside the Rooster, cradling her mug in her hands. A little dusty, a little tired, but in her warm, earthy dark-eyed way, she was beautiful. “I think Mr. Belmont should be warned his sons are turning into regular charmers,” Ellen went on. “The ladies adore buying their posies and sachets from those two.”

“Belmont also has a certain charm with the ladies,” Sir Dewey said, “but if you will excuse me, Mrs. Fitz, I see the boys approaching and will ask Mr. Windham to accompany me to the livery.”

“Oh?” Ellen frowned slightly. “Are you to discuss the situation at the estate?”

“No.” Sir Dewey added just the smallest smile to support what Val took for a lie. “I am going to importune him, again, to tune the piano in the assembly rooms before we gather for our summer revelry.”

“You can tune pianos?” Ellen asked, cocking her head at Val.

“I can,” he admitted, wanting to skewer Sir Dewey. “It isn’t that difficult once you have the tools and know what to listen for.”

“You really must pitch in, then,” Ellen told him. “Even at the end of the evening, when all have appreciated Rafe’s special ales at some length, that poor piano is not a welcome addition to the orchestra.”

“Two fiddles and a tambourine.” Sir Dewey rolled his eyes. “Maybe a guitar, possibly a flute, until Thorn Bragdoll gets bored watching his brothers tromp on women’s toes.”

“Which one is Thorn?”

“The one who is too smart to get caught where there’s hard work to be done,” Sir Dewey replied. “The runt, for now, though if he grows into his feet, he’ll be the pick of the litter. Mrs. FitzEngle, it has been a true pleasure.”

The gentlemen took their leave of Ellen as the Belmonts came bounding up with a few purchases.

“Well, now you’ve done it,” Val groused as they ambled toward the livery.

“Put you into a neat corner,” Sir Dewey said, congratulating himself. “You don’t really mind?”

“That I have to tune a piano? I guess not. I tuned one earlier today and survived more easily than I’d thought I would.”

“And is that all you accomplished?” Sir Dewey asked, stopping in the shade of a venerable oak where they would not be overheard. Val filled him in as succinctly as he could, ending with Freddy’s admonition regarding Ellen.

“That is disturbing,” Sir Dewey said. “I’ve already sent for the reports regarding Francis Markham’s death—Belmont suggested I might have need of them—and there is nothing to indicate Ellen was responsible. Her husband was on the mend, and she was observed by all to be devoted to his care and very properly so. Do you know you use her first name in company, by the way?”

“I had not realized.”

“She did not seem offended. Perhaps you should be encouraged.”

“Not likely. I’ll bring over the statements regarding today’s doings, and you can let us know if they need revision.”

“That will serve.” Sir Dewey fished in his pocket. “If you’re going to tune that piano, you’ll need this key. The assembly rooms are above the shops on that side of the green.” He pointed over Val’s shoulder. “The door is between the bakery and the apothecary.”

“Suppose I have no choice now.” Val stuck the key in his pocket without looking at it.

“None at all.” Sir Dewey grinned as he spoke. “I’ll be waiting for those statements, and when you drop them off, perhaps you might be willing to take a certain juvenile canine back with you?”

Val blinked in confusion.

“A puppy? Mr. Lindsey suggested you might take a puppy off my hands at some point. Favor for favor, don’t you think?”

“What favor?”

“I spent the entire day watching every handsome swain in the shire tease and flirt with your lady, and that I consider a substantial favor.”

“She doesn’t see it.” Val watched as Neal Bragdoll paused to pass the time of day with Ellen. He was a handsome man, big, strong, and capable in matters of the land… and still single.

Sir Dewey shifted to watch Ellen as Val did. “What doesn’t she see?”

“She doesn’t see that she matters here. She thinks she’s invisible.”

“Or maybe,” Sir Dewey suggested, “she wants to believe she is. Talk to her, and come get your puppy. Fair is fair.” Sir Dewey left to fetch his horse, and Val started across the green, only to have his blood run cold.

Freddy Markham was steering his curricle around the square, scanning the market-day crowds as his horses walked along. He stopped just outside the Rooster, bringing his vehicle near the outside table where Ellen sat with the Belmont brothers.

“Why if it isn’t my dearest cousin-in-law,” Freddy declaimed, his attempt at a sneer distorted by his split lip.

“Leave her alone.” Val’s voice rang out decisively, silencing the crowd gathering at the sight of such a conveyance. “Put your whip to that team, Roxbury, and don’t ever show your face here again.”

Ellen’s head slewed around at his tone and his words. “Valentine?”

“Lord Valentine,” Freddy corrected her, “but don’t get any ideas, Lady Roxbury, he’s far above your touch, just as my cousin was. Still, your secrets are safe with me, as I account myself a gentleman, unlike some.”

He had the sense to depart on that note, leaving the crowd to buzz and murmur until Rafe came out, barking they’d best be coming inside to eat or clearing the street so his customers could see his front door. As the onlookers began to disperse, Rafe speared Val with a look.

“I knew it,” Rafe muttered. “I told Tilden, I did. Said you was a lord. Always figured Mrs. Fitz for a lady.”

As people began to eddy and swirl around them again, Val turned to the boys. “Fetch the team and my horse, if you please.” They scampered off, leaving Val seething with a need to do violence—further violence—to Freddy Markham.

“Lord Valentine?” Ellen’s voice was low, insistent, and unhappy.

“Not here, though we need to talk.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

The trip home passed in silence, with Val on Ezekiel and the boys dozing in the back of the wagon. They took both Zeke and the wagon when Val helped Ellen down, leaving Val and Ellen regarding each other in wary solitude on the front steps.

“I don’t want to have this discussion where we can be overheard,” Val said, taking Ellen by the wrist. She’d been so silent, and without a word, Val felt her withdrawing, curling into herself, seeking the only safe place she’d found.

“Where, then?”

“Your cottage.”

“It will be private,” Ellen allowed, but she didn’t seem pleased.

Val chose to walk her home through the wood, which had been gradually cleaned up as time from other tasks allowed. As it had the afternoon he’d met her, sunlight slanted enchantingly through the trees, birds sang, and a breeze sent the sturdy, spicy fragrance of the woods into the nose and the imagination.

“I want to kiss you,” Val said, tugging Ellen to a sudden stop. They’d reached the place where he’d kissed her more than a year ago. He wanted to trap her in their woods, shut out the world, shut out the march of time, shut out the impact of the truths bearing down on their future.

To his great relief, Ellen stepped into his arms when he turned to face her.

“You will listen?” Val asked, breathing in the scent of her.

Ellen nodded against his neck. “I promise I will listen.”

They completed their journey with their arms around each other’s waists, and Val had the impression Ellen didn’t relish this truth-telling any more than he did. When they reached her cottage, she sat him on the swing and brought them each a mug of cider.

“I love you,” Val began, wondering where in the nine circles of hell that had come from. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry; that came out… wrong. Still…” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s the truth.”

Ellen’s fingers settled on his nape, massaging in the small, soothing circles Val had come to expect when her hands were on him.

“If you love me,” she said after a long, fraught silence, “you’ll tell me the truth.”

Val tried to see that response as positive—she hadn’t stomped off, railed at him, or tossed his words back in his face. Yet. But neither had she reciprocated.

“My name is Valentine Windham,” he said slowly, “but you’ve asked about my family, and in that regard—and that regard only—I have not been entirely forthcoming.”

“Come forth now,” she commanded softly, her hand going still.

“My father is the Duke of Moreland. That’s all. I’m a commoner, my title only a courtesy, and I’m not even technically the spare anymore, a situation that should improve further, because my brother Gayle is deeply enamored of his wife.”

“Improve?” Ellen’s voice was soft, preoccupied.

“I don’t want the title, Ellen.” Val sat up, needing to see her eyes. “I don’t ever want it, not for me, not for my son or grandson. I make pianos, and it’s a good income. I can provide well for you, if you’ll let me.”

“As your mistress?”

“Bloody, blazing… no!” Val rose and paced across the porch, turning to face her when he could go no farther. “As my wife, as my beloved, dearest wife.”

A few heartbeats of silence went by, and with each one, Val felt the ringing of a death knell over his hopes.

“I would be your mistress. I care for you, too, but I cannot be your wife.”

Val frowned at that. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. A conditional rejection, that’s what it was. She’d give him time, he supposed, to get over his feelings and move along with his life.

“Why not marry me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

She crossed her arms too. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“Fair enough.” Val came back to sit beside her and searched his mind. “I play the piano. I don’t just mess about with it for polite entertainment. Playing the piano used to be who I was.”

“You were a musician?”

Val snorted. “I was a coward, but yes, I was a musician, a virtuoso of the keyboard. Then my hand”—he held up his perfectly unremarkable left hand—“rebelled against all the wear and tear, or came a cropper somehow. I could not play anymore, not without either damaging it beyond all repair or risking a laudanum addiction, maybe both.”

“So you came out here?” Ellen guessed. “You took on the monumental task of setting to rights what I had put wrong on this estate and thought that would be… what?”

“A way to feel useful or maybe just a way to get tired enough each day that I didn’t miss the music so much, and then…”

“Then?” She took his hand in hers, but Val wasn’t reassured. His mistress, indeed.

“Then I became enamored of my neighbor. She beguiled me—she’s lovely and dear and patient. She’s a virtuoso of the flower garden. She cared about my hand and about me without once hearing me play the piano, and this intrigued me.”

“You intrigued me,” Ellen admitted, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “You still do.”

“My Ellen loves to make beauty, as do I.” Val turned and used his free hand to trace the line of Ellen’s jaw. “She is as independent as I am and values her privacy, as I do.”

“You are merely lonely, Val.” Ellen bent a little over their joined hands but then looked up and frowned slightly. “Lord Valentine.”

“Not to you, Lady Roxbury.”

Her frown became considerably more fierce. “What was Freddy doing in Little Weldon?” she asked, straightening.

“I invited him ostensibly to see the progress on the estate,” Val said, watching a battle light come into Ellen’s eye. “He confessed to setting the various traps on the property and did so before witnesses. I also treated myself to landing a single blow on his ugly face and made sure he knew I did so in your name.”

“You did what?” Ellen shot to her feet, dropping Val’s hand as if it were diseased. “You struck Freddy? You confronted him?”

“I did. His mischief was deadly, Ellen. And his only motivation was to regain possession of the estate. He thought he could scare me off by creating accidents and setbacks, then buy the place back for a pittance, probably to sell for considerably more.”

Ellen shook her head. “He wants the rents. It’s about the money, and with him it will always be about the money.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Val rose to stand behind her where she stood looking out over her gardens. “Ellen?” But she shook her head and remained unyielding when Val slipped his arms around her waist. That, more than any words, alarmed him.

“Ellen,” Val spoke quietly, “Freddy won’t be bothering you anymore. I’ve seen to it.”

“No.” She huffed out a breath. “No, you have not, Valentine. You have merely waved a red flag before a very angry and powerful little bull. Freddy will go off, tend his wounds, and plot his moves. He sulks and fumes and skulks about, but he does not learn his lesson.”

“You’re keeping secrets.” Val rested his forehead against her nape. “Why in God’s name won’t you trust me, Ellen?”

“If I tell you, will you leave?”

It was Val’s turn to be silent, to consider, to weigh what was in the balance, and where, if anywhere, lay the path of hope.

“I’m not going anywhere until the house and farms are completely functional,” he said. “That will take a few more weeks.”

“Weeks.” Ellen stood very straight in his arms. “And then you’ll go?”

“If that’s still what you want and you’ve told me the reasons why by then,” Val said, tossing his entire future into the hands of a fate that hadn’t dealt with him very kindly of late. “And until I go?”

“I will be your mistress,” Ellen said, her posturing relaxing.

“No.” Val turned her in his arms and tucked his chin against her temple. “You will be my love.”

***

What followed for Val was a period of peculiar joy, mixed with acute sorrow. He respected Ellen’s choice as one she felt compelled to make, not easy for her, but necessary.

He also hoped when he heard her reasons, he could argue her past them, and the hoping was… awful. Hope and Val Windham were old enemies.

Best enemies.

He’d hoped his brother Victor would recover, but consumption seldom eased its grip once its victims had been chosen.

He’d hoped his hand wasn’t truly getting worse, until he couldn’t deny that reality without losing use of the hand entirely.

He’d hoped his brother Bart would come home from war safe and sound, not in a damned coffin.

He’d hoped St. Just might escape military service without substantial wound to body or soul, but found even St. Just had left part of his sanity and his spirit at Waterloo.

He’d hoped he might someday do something with his music, but what that silly hope was about, he’d never been quite sure.

And now, he was hoping he and Ellen had a future. The hope sustained him and tortured him and made each second pass too quickly when he was with her. But he couldn’t always be with her, because Ellen insisted she have time to tend her gardens and set up her little conservatory.

Val sent Dayton and Phillip back to Candlewick, with hugs and thanks and best wishes all around. He hired a few servants and commissioned the wily Hazlit to complete a few more errands. He wrote to his brother Gayle, who controlled both the Windham family finances and the Moreland exchequer, and he wrote to David and Letty Worthington, and not just about bat houses and vegetable plots. He wrote a long letter to Edward Kirkland and sent missives to several other musical friends.

He retrieved the damned puppy from Sir Dewey, dropped off the sworn statements, and spent a long, pretty afternoon exhorting Sir Dewey over drinks to look after Ellen’s safety in the event Val was unable to.

As Val mounted up later that afternoon, he recalled his original purpose in departing his estate had been to tune the piano in the Little Weldon assembly rooms. How he’d ended up at Sir Dewey’s was a mystery known only to lovelorn fellows at loose ends, among whom Val would not admit he numbered.

On that sour note, Val turned his attention to the task he’d set for himself, slipping off Zeke’s bridle and saddle before turning him out in the paddock on the village green.

To Valentine Windham, each piano developed a particular personality. It wasn’t always possible to tell as a piano left his shops what the personality might be, but he could usually make an educated guess by playing the instrument at length.

So Val approached the assembly rooms, wondering who awaited him abovestairs. He found a little brown instrument sitting to the side of what passed for a stage at one end of the room—a piano, but likely some venerable forerunner to the small upright pianos growing popular for cottage use. It sat in shadows and a layer of dust, giving Val the impression of a little old dowager, forgotten in the corner, her lace cap askew, her fichu stained, and the light in her eye growing vague.

It took hours. She’d forgotten where most of her pitches were and wasn’t inclined to be reminded too sternly all at once. Val had to compromise with her on more than one occasion, for he could break a wire, strip a screw, or even—heaven help him—crack the sound board if he demanded too much too abruptly. So he coaxed and wheedled and badgered and begged, and eventually, she began to boast something close to a well-tempered tuning. Her tone quality was as gracious and merry as Val had suspected it would be, and he was pleased for her, that she could once again demonstrate her competence as she deserved.

“You’ve some music left in you yet.” Val patted the piano before putting away his tools. It was tempting—so terribly tempting—to try just a few tunes and see how she liked them, but he resisted. The entire village would hear him playing this piano, and it was bad enough they knew he could tune such an instrument.

So he put away the rags he’d used to clean it, the felt and tools he’d used to tune it, and carefully closed the lid over the keys. As he left the assembly rooms, he looked back and saw the little piano on the empty stage. No longer dusty, no longer quite so shopworn. It was the least he could do for a friend.

And to his surprise, leaving the piano to rejoin Ellen at his home was no more effort than that.

***

“Valentine?” Ellen’s sleepy voice called from her bedroom.

“Of course it’s Valentine,” he replied, not lighting a lamp. In the past week, he’d learned to navigate her little cottage in pitch darkness, because, while Ellen would not share the manor house with him, he would share the cottage with her. “And as soon as I get this damned thing unknotted, I will be there in that bed with you. I’ve missed you the livelong day,” Val went on as he made quick use of the wash water, “and not just at lunch. God spare me from London solicitors.”

“Were they here on your commercial business?”

“There’s always plenty of that. I gain more sympathy for my father as I age. Neither he nor I have any patience for the hours of meetings solicitors seem to think make civilization progress.”

“Francis abhorred that, as well,” Ellen observed on a yawn. “Are you ever coming to bed?”

“I am here.” Val climbed into the bed. “So what are you doing over there?” His arms came around her and drew her close. “I love you, Ellen Markham.” He kissed her cheek. “When are you going to tell me you love me?”

“How can you be sure I do?”

Val hiked a leg across her thighs. “First, you are sending me away. This is proof positive you love me, for you are trying to protect me from some sort of grave peril only you can perceive.”

Ellen’s breathing hitched, and Val knew his guess had been right. Gratified by that success, he marched forward.

“Second”—he slipped a hand over her breast—“you make love with me, Ellen. You hold nothing back, ever, and are so passionate I am nigh mindless with the pleasure of our intimacy.” He punctuated this sentiment by dipping his head and suckling gently on her nipple. She groaned and arched up toward him.

“I make my point.” Val smiled in the dark and raised his head. “Third, there is the way I make love with you.”

“And how is that?” She sounded more breathless than curious.

Val shifted his body over hers. “As if I trust you. I know you are human, and you will do what you think best, but you do it with my interests in mind, Ellen. I don’t have to watch myself with you, because you love me, truly. I know it. It isn’t the way my siblings love me, though they are dear. It isn’t how my parents love me, which is more instinct than insight. It isn’t the way my friends love me, though they are both dear and insightful.”

“So how is it?” Ellen asked, slipping her legs apart to cradle him intimately.

“It’s the way I want and need to be loved,” Val said quietly, resting his weight against the soft, curving length of her. “It’s perfect.”

“But I am sending you away,” Ellen reminded him, her fingers at his nape.

Val levered up on his forearms and began to nudge lazily at her sex with his erection. “So you’re running out of time to tell me the things that matter, aren’t you?”

If she was going to use words to answer, Val forestalled her reply by kissing her within an inch of her soul. Her response was made with her body, and to Val’s mind she told him, as emphatically as any woman ever told her man, she did, indeed, unequivocally love him.

And always would.

“What has you sighing?” Val asked as his hand stroked over her hair when they were both sated. “Missing me already?”

“Of course I’m missing you.” Ellen hitched herself more closely to him. “I will always miss you.”

“You might trust me instead,” Val said softly.

She remained silent, and for the hundredth time that day, his heart broke, and he battled back despair. “Ellen?” He kissed her crown. “The assembly is this Saturday. I’ll be leaving the next day, as will Dare and Nick.”

She nodded, offering neither protest nor argument.

Lying beside her in the darkness, Val heard a slow, mournful dirge in his head. It soared, keened, regretted and lamented, a soul-rending, grief-stricken blend of tenderness, discord, resolution, and heartache. It went on and on, hauntingly sad, and still, neither his musical skill nor his artistic imagination nor all his ducal determination was adequate to bring it to a peaceful, final cadence.