The Virtuoso

Six

“Dare! Above you!”

Darius barely had time to glance up in reaction to Val’s warning bellow before grabbing each Belmont brother by the collar and hauling them back beneath the overhang of the eaves.

Four heavy pieces of slate hit the terrace, followed by a rain of fieldstone plummeting four stories from the roof. An eerie silence followed, broken by Val’s voice raised in alarm.

“Bloody, blazing Jesus!” He was across the terrace in four strides. “Tell me you’re unharmed, the lot of you.” He grabbed first Day then Phillip, perusing them frantically for signs of injury.

“They’re all right, Val,” Darius said, gaze trained upward.

“Whoever’s on the roof,” Val called, “secure your tools and get yourselves down here, now!”

“You saw the slates coming down?” Darius asked, still glancing up warily.

“I did. Talk to me, lads. Now is no time to stop your infernal chatter.”

“We’re fine,” Day said, though his complexion had gone sheet white, while Phillip was flushing a bright red. “Phil?”

“Right as rain.” Phillip nodded just before sinking to the ground. “A bit woozy, though.” Day’s gaze strayed to the terrace a few feet from the eaves, where the slates had broken into myriad small pieces, and fieldstone lay scattered about.

“Believe I’ll join you,” Day muttered, sliding down the wall beside his brother. “That was perilously close.”

“Too close,” Darius muttered, eyes narrowing. “Let’s take note of who is coming down that ladder, shall we?” In response to Val’s command, the roof crew was making its way to the ground and crossing the yard to peer at Day and Phillip.

“Be the lads a’right?” Hancock, the foreman asked.

“They’re fine,” Val said. “A bit shook up. Hancock, who built that scaffolding?”

“The scaffold what holds the chimbly stone?” Hancock asked. “Built it m’self, just afore we broke on Saturday past. Spent this morning piling up that old chimbly onto it so it could be rebuilt proper.”

“You built it on loose slates,” Val said between clenched teeth.

“Beg pardon.” Hancock widened his stance and met Val’s gaze. “I did not.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I been working high masonry for nigh thirty years, Mr. Windham.” Hancock put massive fists on his hips and leaned forward to make his point. “If the chimbly is in poor shape, the whole roof is suspect. I checked them slates and they were solid tight to the roof on Friday.”

“I seen him do it, Mr. Windham,” another man volunteered. “Nobody wants to work on a rotten roof, particularly not with heavy stone. The slate on the north side is coming loose, but the south side is tight as a tick.”

Val blew out a breath and exchanged a look with Darius. “Then I spoke in haste and apologize, which leaves us with a mystery.”

Hancock nodded, his expression grim. “We had no wind nor rain atween Friday and today, and yet the slates is got somehow loose.”

“They did. Nobody up on the roof until I’ve checked it over. Your crew can finish out the day cleaning up the terrace and laying slate down here. Boys, I need to borrow Darius for a moment, but you’re free to take a swim, or repair to your tent, if you’d rather.”

“Swim,” Day said. “But we’d best check the pond for monsters first.”

Val and Darius found nothing to indicate the damage went beyond the four loose slates, but before descending, Val sat on the peak of the roof and frowned at Little Weldon visible on the horizon.

“The only logical conclusion is somebody was here over the weekend and thought it might be fun to loosen a few roof tiles,” Val said. “That is a level of mischief bordering on criminal.”

“Not bordering.” Darius’s voice held banked violence. “That’s trespassing, at least; malicious mischief, destruction of property, certainly; attempted murder, possibly. If this is what the local boys consider fun, then you might not want to move in. And I am almost certain you had trespassers here while you were at Belmont’s.”

“How can you know that?”

Darius explained about his gelding’s water bucket, and Val’s expression became thoughtful. “What would a bunch of boys want with a water bucket? And how would they have the expertise to loosen slate tiles?”

“You have a half-dozen masons working on your roof. All it would take is a son or cousin or nephew of one of those men, and the boy would undoubtedly know enough to loosen tiles.”

“But why? Somebody—you, Day, Phil—could have been killed, and I would have been responsible, and it’s not as if most of the local families aren’t benefiting from our work here.”

“You’re right. Who would want to sabotage this project?”

“I don’t know.” Val scanned the bucolic view. “But the scaffold to hold the old chimney stones was built on Friday, and the slates were tight then. Anybody with any powers of observation could see the next step in the task was to pile the fieldstone up on the scaffolding. They loosened the slates, knowing the load on them would increase dramatically as soon as work on the chimney began.”

“Causing the slates to fall and the piled rock to come down with them.” Darius blew out a breath. “Nasty, nasty business.”

“Dangerous.” Val straightened to stand on the peak of the roof. “I’m wondering if we should send Day and Phil back to the professor.”

“They won’t want to go,” Darius said, pursing his lips. “Why don’t you send a note along to Belmont, and he can make the decision. It’s possible Hancock was mistaken and the slates were looser than he thought. It’s also possible this was an isolated incident of mischief by children who could not foresee the dire consequences.”

“I might be overreacting,” Val allowed. “You don’t think so; neither do I.”

“So what now?”

“We take precautions.” Val gave Darius a hand up. “Not the least of which should be a guard here on weekends when the place is deserted.”

“I can stay here. Or we can take turns, or you can hire somebody.”

“I appreciate your willingness to remain, but whoever stays here alone will be at risk and I can’t ask that of you. The locals will be less inclined to hurt one of their own.”

“We can argue about this all week.” Darius began a careful progress toward the ladder. “Right now it appears your neighbor is coming to see what’s amiss.” He nodded in the direction of the wood, and Val saw Ellen emerging from the trees into the yard below.

“God almighty.” Val followed Dare toward the ladder. “And what if she’d been coming to call fifteen minutes ago? Let’s go down. I’d rather she hear it from us, and I’d rather she see for herself we’re unharmed.”

Val presented the situation to Ellen as a mishap with no real harm resulting, but his words were for the benefit of their audience. When he had her to himself, he’d explain the matter more completely and hopefully talk her into staying with the Belmonts until the manor house was restored. Not that he wanted her several miles distant… But he would be visiting on weekends at Candlewick.

Religiously, if she bided there.

Ellen was unwilling to impede the afternoon’s work further with her fretting, but she was determined to grill Val thoroughly about the “slight mishap” when they were next private. She’d taken the lane rather than the bridle path to her property, and thus she approached her cottage from the front. As a consequence, she spied for the first time the little pot of pennyroyal on her front steps.

As she yanked the plant from its pot and tossed it on her compost heap, outrage warred with panic. The plant’s presence suggested to her just who might have caused the slates to fall from Valentine Windham’s roof.

Surely she was jumping to an unwarranted conclusion. Not even Freddy would be so stupid as to create havoc like that and leave his damned pennyroyal on her front step like a calling card.

Or would he?

“I notice Mrs. FitzEngle does a brisk business.” Val peered at his mug of summer ale as if it held the answers to imponderable mysteries. “Is she really so dependent on her sales? The property seems prosperous, at least her little corner of it.”

“If you want to know about your tenants’ finances,” Rafe, the bartender and coproprietor of The Tired Rooster said, “you’d best be looking in on Mr. Cheatham. He was the late baron’s solicitor, up in Great Weldon. He’d likely know who’s up to date on the rents, since he handles the banking for most around this part of the shire.”

“Cheatham. Good to know.” Val watched for a moment as Rafe, apron tied over his potbelly, continued to scrub at the gleaming wood.

“I’ll tell you something else good to know.” Rafe’s rag stopped its polishing of the scarred bar. “Them Bragdolls are hard workers, make no mistake, but they work your home farm, and I don’t think they quite have Mrs. Fitz’s permission to do that.”

“Mrs. Fitz?” Val raised an eyebrow and let the silence grow.

“Cheatham comes in for his pint now and again. I know how to keep my mouth shut, contrary to what you might think. Talk to Cheatham.”

“Believe I will,” Val said, finishing his ale. “Save me an entire fruit pie, and I don’t care what you charge me for it.”

“A whole entire pie.” Rafe nodded, good cheer abruptly wreathing his cherubic countenance. “For growing boys and strappin’ lads.”

Val walked out of the tavern into the hurly-burly of a small town on a pretty market day, trying to puzzle out what Rafe had been telling him. Clearly, a visit to Cheatham was in order, but Rafe had almost admitted Ellen had some sort of claim on the land as well.

“I see your goods are disappearing quickly,” Val remarked as he approached Ellen’s wagon where it was parked on the green. “Can you take a break? I’ll have Rafe pull you a lady’s pint.”

“We can manage,” Dayton volunteered. “Can’t we, Phil?”

“We’ll guard your flowers with our lives,” Phil assured her. “Now that Sir Dewey has fortified us with raspberry scones.”

“Sir Dewey?” Val asked.

“John Dewey Fanning. He’s over there.” Ellen gestured with her chin. “Playing chess with Tilden between Rafe’s interruptions. Why?”

“He might have served with my oldest brother. You’ll introduce us?”

“I can.” Though she did not sound enthusiastic about it.

By the time they retrieved a pint for Ellen, Sir Dewey was alone at the chessboard.

“Valentine Windham.” Val introduced himself, though in all propriety, Ellen or even Tilden should have made the introductions. “At your service and overdue to make your acquaintance. I believe we are neighbors.”

Sir Dewey’s smile took in both Val and Ellen. “My good fortune, then. Axel Belmont warned me the Markham place was being refurbished. Here.” Sir Dewey appropriated a spare chair and set it down between the other two. “Shall we sit while you tell me how your progress fares at the Markham estate?”

Fanning was probably five years Val’s senior, tall, blond, and a little weathered, which made his blue eyes look brilliant. He was genial enough, but beneath his country-squire manners, he had a certain watchful reserve, even when he turned to address Ellen.

“Your late husband would have been pleased to see the progress on the estate, I believe.” In the beat of silence following Sir Dewey’s pronouncement, Ellen wasn’t quick enough to hide her surprise from Val.

“You knew my late husband?”

“His term at university overlapped my cousin Denham’s by a year, and Denham and I are very cordial, as were Denham and the baron. By the time I returned from India, Baron Roxbury had gone to his reward. I am remiss for not calling on you.” He shifted his gaze to Val. “Heard you had a bit of mishap on Monday.”

“If you gentlemen will excuse me.” Ellen smiled at them briefly before passing Val her half-empty mug. “I see the boys are in need of assistance and will return to my post.”

“You are fortunate in your immediate neighbors,” Sir Dewey remarked as both men rose to watch Ellen’s retreat. “She’s as pretty as the flowers she grows.”

“Gallantly said,” Val allowed, resuming his seat. “Though I gather you hadn’t previously mentioned her marriage to Roxbury.”

Sir Dewey continued to watch Ellen across the way. “Had she indicated she wanted it acknowledged, I might have taken that for a social overture, but she hasn’t.”

Val watched her as well. “You knew Roxbury?”

“I did, years ago, and not that well. The last baron, that is. The current holder of the title does no credit to his ancestry.”

“I won the place from him in a card game.” Val forced himself to take his gaze from the sight of Ellen laughing at something Day said. “He struck me as a typical young lord, more time on his hands than sense, and ready for any stimulation to distract him from his boredom.”

Sir Dewey cocked his head. “An odd assessment, coming from Moreland’s musical dilettante.”

Val looked over at his companion sharply, only to find guileless blue eyes regarding him steadily. “How is it you come to know of Monday’s mishap?”

Sir Dewey’s attention fell to the pieces on the chessboard, and he was quiet for a long moment before once again meeting Val’s gaze.

“As it happens, the local excuse for a magistrate, Squire Rutland, is off to Brighton with his lady, leaving my humble self to hold the reins in his absence. Mr. Belmont served his turn earlier in the year and is disinclined to serve again. Then too, in the common opinion, I am a retired officer and thus suited to the role of magistrate.”

“Then you have reason to know of our mishap. No doubt you will want to investigate the matter, but I’m going to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?”

“While I am gaining my foothold here in Oxfordshire,” Val said, “I do not use my courtesy title or bruit about my antecedents. I am plain, simple Mr. Valentine Windham, who owns some furniture manufactories and does modestly well as a result.” He picked up a queen, the black one, and studied her. Keyboards were black and white, and if Val were going to accompany this tête-à-tête with Fanning, it would be a piping little piece for fife and drum designed to keep an entire army moving smartly along.

“I own one of your pieces of furniture,” Fanning said, frowning. “Why dissemble when the truth will eventually come out?”

“Have you ever wished you might not be known as the Sir Dewey Fanning who averted wars in India?”

“So you are well informed, too.” Sir Dewey’s gaze went to the chess piece in Val’s hand. “Your brother is Colonel St. Just, correct?”

“I am privileged to answer in the affirmative.”

“I ran into your brother shortly after Waterloo,” Sir Dewey said quietly. “One worried for him.”

Val cocked his head to consider Sir Dewey’s expression and found the soft words bore the stamp of one soldier’s concern for another. “He still has bad days when it rains and thunders, but he’s happily wed now and his countess is expecting a child.”

“That is good news,” Sir Dewey said, smiling at the chessboard. It was a sweet, genuine smile, and as Val put the black queen back down on her home square, he wondered where that smile had been hiding when Ellen was at the table.

“So what do you make of my mishap?”

“Tell me about it, and I’ll share what I know of the local penchant for mischief.” They were more than an hour at it, with Sir Dewey asking thoughtful questions regarding everything from Val’s business competitors to the terms upon which Roxbury had conveyed the property.

“Would you mind if I came over and had a look around?”

“I would not.” Val rose and extended a hand. “Just don’t expect tea and crumpets in the formal parlor, as we’ve no formal parlor worth the name, much less crumpets, much less china to serve them on.”

They parted, and Val went in search of his tenants.

He found five out of the six enjoying a midday meal at the Rooster, the Bragdolls not having come into town for market. The picture Val derived from his interviews with his tenants was not encouraging, and he couldn’t escape the sense they were all talking past him, exchanging glances that suggested he was being humored.

The visit to Cheatham loomed as something Val would see to sooner, not later.

“So what did you learn from the tenants?” Ellen asked, clucking the horses to a sedate trot when they finally headed home.

“My estate is a mess,” Val said. “The rents are collected, but I don’t gather much is done with them. The six farms ought to be run cooperatively, so they all shear together, hay together, and so forth, but I gather it’s pretty much every man for himself. And because improvements and repairs are not the tenants’ job, they don’t marl; they don’t clean out the irrigation ditches; they don’t trade bulls, stallions, or rams; they don’t fallow on any particular schedule; they don’t mend wall on any schedule; and it’s a wonder the land has held up as well as it has.”

“How does a furniture maker know about marling and irrigation and so forth?” Ellen asked, her gaze on the horses’ rumps.

“My father holds a great deal of land.” Val glanced over at her, gauging the impact of his disclosure. “I don’t consider myself sophisticated when it comes to husbanding the land, but I comprehend the basics, and if I don’t step in and do something, I will soon have several thousand acres of tired, unkempt property.”

“You didn’t need this too in addition to all the work to be done on the house.”

Val peeked behind him to make sure Day and Phillip had nodded off. “I can’t help but think your late husband would not have left the place in poor repair.”

“He didn’t,” Ellen said, swatting a fly buzzing near the brim of her straw hat. “But he died five years ago, and in five years, land can suffer considerable neglect.”

“So Frederick kept the rents and did nothing for his tenants?”

“Less than nothing. When they get sufficiently fed up, they’ll all move on.”

They traveled the rest of the way in silence, but when they trotted up the lane, Val saw an order of crushed shells had been delivered and the back terrace all but finished.

“Day and Phil can put the horses up,” Val told Darius. “I’ll walk Ellen back to her cottage, then I can update you on our exciting day in town.”

“Looks like a tiring day in town,” Darius remarked as Day and Phillip yawned and stretched. He swung Ellen down from her perch on the bench and eyed her critically. “Even the indomitable Mrs. Fitz is looking done in, Val. You’ve taken your slave driving a little too seriously today.”

“Have a piece of the raspberry pie I brought home; then pass judgment on me. Ellen?” Val offered her his arm, which she took without protest, and headed with her toward the woods.

“You really ought to be cleaning this wood up,” Ellen observed as they gained the shade of the bridle path.

“I don’t want to.” Val matched his steps to her leisurely pace. “I’m afraid I’ll offend the piskies.”

“It is beautiful, but if you don’t at least cut up some deadwood, these paths will become useless, and the piskies will be the only ones keeping warm in winter. Then too, there are a couple of old pensioners in here who need to be cut down before they topple, and they’re big enough to land on your outbuildings or mine.”

Val stopped and regarded her in the late afternoon light. “I don’t want to disturb the wood because it’s the first place I kissed you. It’s… magical for me, and I don’t want it to change.”

It was an unplanned disclosure, a truth Val himself hadn’t been aware of until he heard the words coming out of his own mouth.

“Magical.” Ellen’s expression shifted between amusement, sadness, and… wistfulness?

“Silly.” Val glanced around self-consciously. “But there it is.” He could still see in his mind’s eye the way two butterflies had danced around in a sunbeam the day he’d first kissed her, not far from where they stood now. At the time, he’d thought the butterflies absurd.

Ellen shook her head. “Not silly. Sentimental, though.”

“I’m going to kiss you again.” He took her hand in his. “Now, in fact.”

He settled his lips over hers gently, just as he’d done a year ago. And now, as then, he took his time deepening the kiss, tasting her, breathing in her fragrance, letting his hands wander over her arms and shoulders and neck, until she was leaning into him and kissing him back.

“All day today,” Val said as he wrapped his arms around her, “I watched you being so brisk, efficient, and businesslike. You have the knack of the friendly transaction, and you part with your produce willingly enough. But your flowers.” He paused to kiss the side of her neck, a spot she seemed to particularly enjoy. “When you sold your posies,” Val went on, kissing his way out to her shoulder, “each time, you didn’t want to let them go. Your heart broke a little, sending them off that way, for coin.”

“Hush. Flowers aren’t kisses to be given away…” She buried her face against his shoulder.

“What?” He slid a hand to her nape and began massaging gently. “Your moods are hard to read today, love.”

“I’m just tired,” Ellen said, offering him a smile. “And cranky and probably in need of my bed.”

“I can understand fatigue.” He stepped back and took her hand as they started toward her gardens. “It has been a long and challenging day.”

“You made progress, though. You met with Sir Dewey, whom Phil says is standing in for Squire Rutland as magistrate, and you met with your tenants. You were also a considerable help to me, so I expect you to behave with docile submission when I declare it time to treat your hand again.”

“Docile submission?” Val shot her a puzzled look. “You’ll have to explain this term to me, or better still, demonstrate its meaning.”

She gave him an amused smile that put Val in mind of the smiles Her Grace often bestowed on Val’s father, then disappeared into her cottage. When she emerged, she handed him a tall glass of cider and took a seat on her swing. Val lowered himself beside her, setting the thing to swaying gently with his foot. While Ellen worked salve into Val’s hand, they discussed Sir Dewey Fanning and Val’s physician friend, Viscount Fairly, and his good friend Lord Nick—Darius’s brother-in-law—who was also a mutual friend of the Belmonts.

“You did not do this hand any favors today.” Ellen frowned at the offending appendage. “But you did let me drive out from town.”

“I rested my hand as well as I could.”

“But you tormented the poor thing yesterday and the day before,” Ellen chided as she spread salve over his knuckles. “You are not going to heal quickly at this rate.”

“I’m not getting worse,” Val replied, closing his eyes. “And if you’ll attend me like this, I have an incentive for making only the slowest of recoveries. With respect to the estate, though, I feel daunted. It feels like a quagmire, one that will consume every resource I throw at it and still demand more.”

“Like a jealous mistress,” Ellen murmured, kissing his knuckles.

“Yes, though I can’t say I’ve experienced one of those in person—at least not recently. The farms are nearing disgrace, the house is a ruin, somebody is bent on criminal mischief, and my own health isn’t one hundred percent.”

“Your hand will get better if you rest it.”

“You’re going to send me off now,” Val predicted. “We visit and we hold hands and we even cuddle, Ellen, but you’re still shy of me, and I can’t tell whether I should be flattered or frustrated.”

“Valentine.” She set his hand on his thigh. “I am not… I am indisposed.”

“Ah, well.” Val brushed his hand down her braid. “That explains it, then. As I myself am never indisposed, except perhaps when my seed is all over my belly and chest, I’m sweating with spent lust on a blanket beneath the willow, and my wits are abegging too.”

“You are shameless.” A blush rose up her neck and suffused her cheeks.

Val looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. “And you are very dear. Shall we go swimming tonight?”

“You are being outrageous. Trying to shock me.”

“Trying to seduce you,” Val corrected her, pulling her in so he could kiss her temple. “Without apparent success, but I’m the patient sort and you won’t be indisposed much longer, will you?”

She shook her head.

He stayed with her for a long while after that, rocking the swing gently, holding her, and watching darkness fall over the garden. When she began to doze against him, he carried her through the darkened cottage to her bed and tucked her in.

Leaving Ellen to wonder as she drifted off to sleep how it was her furniture-merchant neighbor rubbed elbows with not one title but several, and, were she a different kind of widow in a different life, if he’d be courting her—and if she’d be allowing him to.

Val retrieved his horse from the Great Weldon livery, feeling as if his interview with Cheatham had been just the kick in the arse he needed to be completely out of charity with life. He was still disgruntled and puzzled when he returned to the estate at midday.

Darius greeted him on the driveway. “Just in time for lunch.”

Val quirked an eyebrow at his friend, who had foregone cravat and waistcoat in deference to the building heat. “You’re in dishabille.”

“And soon I’ll be romping the day away at the pond in all my naked glory, like our pet savages. What did you learn in that beehive of commercial activity known as Great Weldon?”

“Nothing positive,” Val said, leading Ezekiel to the stables. “The lane looks good.”

“The Ostrogoths about bloodied their paws getting the shells raked out for you. Make it a point to compliment them.”

“I take it they’ve had their meal?” Val put his horse in the cross ties and heaved the saddle off its back. He ignored the familiar pain shooting up his left arm and put the saddle down on its customary rack.

Darius took a seat on the only bench in the barn aisle. “Hand bothering you?”

“Hurts like blazes,” Val said easily, but what he’d learned in town hurt worse. “It was pointed out to me today by the estimable William Cheatham, Esquire, that Ellen FitzEngle has a life estate on that property known as, et cetera, until such time as she dies, remarries, or loses privileges of citizenship, whichever shall first occur, et cetera.”

Darius frowned. “A life estate?”

“Life estate, as in the right to dwell unmolested and undisturbed, free of any interference and so forth, right here, for the rest of her life, with all the blessings attendant thereto.”

“All the blessings?” Darius asked as Val groomed his horse briskly, the brush held firmly in his right hand. “As in the rents?”

“Rents, crops, and benefits not including the right to sell fixtures. This was to be her dower property, Dare. I don’t understand it.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Ellen has been collecting the rents here through Cheatham for the past five years, but she has Cheatham put the money into one of the Markham accounts in a London bank. Not a penny of it has gone into the estate.”

“That doesn’t seem in character with a woman who dotes on her own land. Your horse is about to pass out with the pleasure of your efforts.”

Val glanced at Ezekiel, who was indeed giving a heavy-lidded, horsey impression of bliss.

“Hopeless.” Val scratched the horse behind the ears with his right hand. “At least Zeke doesn’t prevaricate on estate matters.”

“Did you ever ask the lady where the money is going?”

“I did not,” Val said, tucking Zeke into a stall. “But you put your finger on the contradiction I couldn’t quite name: Ellen treasures her ground and takes better care of it than some women do their newborn children. It doesn’t make sense she’d let the rest of the estate go to ruin.”

“No sense at all. Maybe she doesn’t have a choice.”

Val fetched a rag to wipe off his bridle and boots. “The deed is clear. I now own the place in fee simple, but she has a life estate. Freddy didn’t lie exactly, he just implied title was held in fee simple absolute when it wasn’t—quite.”

“Ellen’s tenancy, or life estate, is probably a detail to him in the vast whirlwind of empty pleasures constituting his life.” Darius got off his bench and extended a hand to Skunk in the stall next to Ezekiel. “One has to wonder if this is what the previous baron intended.”

Val hung his bridle on a peg and laced the throatlatch around the headstall and reins. “No, one doesn’t. Ellen is to have those rents, the use of the hall, and so forth, but she’s to make improvements, alterations during her life as she sees fit. She wasn’t intended to toil away in a simple cottage, getting her hands literally dirty to earn her daily bread.”

“This bothers you, not just because the place is a wreck but because she isn’t getting her due.”

“It bothers me.” Val took the bench Darius had vacated. “For those reasons but also because she hasn’t told me any of this. I am the new owner and I’ve been here several weeks. If Freddy has Ellen on some sort of reduced stipend, I can certainly set that to rights.”

“And if he has her on no stipend at all?” Darius wondered aloud.

Val sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back while Darius came down beside him. “She’s lied to me, Dare.”

“Not outright. Family situations are complicated, as we both know. She might have her reasons, and things might not be as they seem. Maybe she’s hoarding her rents because she doesn’t trust Freddy, and you can’t blame her for that. Have a talk with her, discuss how matters will go on from here, and clear the air.”

“You’re like her.” Val rose as he spoke. “You have this direct, brisk way of thinking things through that yields simple answers to complicated problems.”

“Maybe the problem isn’t so complicated. Maybe you just need to eat some decent food, talk to the widow, and come to an understanding.”

And Darius, damn the man’s skinny, handsome, genteelly impoverished ass, had been right. With a full belly, Val’s sense of upset had faded to something more manageable, until it occurred to him sabotaging his efforts at the manor might not have been aimed at victimizing him.

In some convoluted way, scaring off the new owner, with his deep pockets, London connections, and titled family, could be a way to further erode what little financial security the widowed baroness had attained at Little Weldon.

In other words, Ellen FitzEngle Markham might have enemies willing to go through Val to bring her harm.

He kept that alarming thought silent and lectured himself sternly about jumping to conclusions, overreacting, and leaping to the worst case. Though his mental lecture lasted the entire time it took him to assist with glazing the new windows on the north side of the house, he was still pondering the possibility when the crews left, dinner with Dare and the boys was a noisy memory, and evening shadows stretched over the terrace.

“Don’t stay out too late,” Darius warned as they stowed the hamper in the springhouse. “The boys have remarked on your late-night wanderings. And your wretched ugly self and your wretched ugly hand are in need of beauty sleep.”

“Yes, Mother.” Val sauntered off toward the woods. “Don’t wait up.”

Val took his time ambling along the bridle path, not sure what he wanted to accomplish on this visit with his neighbor. He wasn’t ready to broach the subject of the rents and her life estate, but he wanted to see her.

Blazing hell, he wanted to bury himself in her body and forget all about rents and life estates—and sore left hands and glaziers and roofing slates and all of it.

But she wasn’t on her porch when he emerged from the trees, and so Val was left with a quandary: Did he knock on her door or take her absence for an indication he wasn’t to impose? Did he come back in half an hour? Lie down on her bed and close his eyes among the pillows and linens that bore the scent of her?

And where was she, anyway?

“Valentine?”

Ellen’s voice came from the yard behind him, and as his eyes scanned the darkening tree line, he saw a pale patch that hadn’t been there previously. He crossed the gardens, the flowery fragrances teasing at his nose, until he could make out a hammock slung between two sturdy hemlocks.

“Good evening.” He gazed down at her lying in her hammock and realized she had already changed into her bedclothes.

Well, well, well…

“Is there room for two in that hammock?” he asked, still not quite sure of his welcome.

“I don’t know, but let’s try it, and if we end up on the ground, we’ll know there isn’t.”

Not exactly a rousing cheer, but the boys had said she was in a mood today. Val hopped around, pulling off his boots and stockings, and surveyed the challenge before him. “You roll up that way and hold to the edge, and I’ll climb aboard.”

The hammock dipped significantly, and it took some nimbleness on Val’s part, but he was soon ensconced wonderfully close to Ellen, the hammock pitching them together by design.

“We need a rope,” Val murmured into Ellen’s ear, “attached to one of the trees, so I can set this thing to swinging for you.”

“There’s a breeze tonight.” She turned so her cheek rested on Val’s arm. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Val nuzzled her hair, loving the scent and softness of it. “Because the boys are still making a racket at the pond?”

“I hoped it was our boys and not those other rotten little brats. You shoo them away, and they’re like flies. They just come buzzing back.”

“Are they truly rotten?” He worked an arm under her neck, drawing her closer. “I was a boy once. I hesitate to think all regarded me as an insect merely on the strength of my puerile status.”

“You were a good boy.” Ellen’s voice held the first hint of a smile. “They are not good boys. They are little thugs and worse. I’ve been trying to think up a name for your estate, and I keep thinking it should have to do with the lilies of the field.”

“The lilies of the field?” Val cast back over his dim command of scripture.

“It’s about what seems useless to us being worth the Almighty’s most tender regard.”

“I thought it was about flowers being pretty,” Val said, nuzzling at Ellen’s ear. “Roll over on your side. I would like to cuddle up with someone who is exceedingly pretty and worth some tender regard.”

“So I might be inspired to whisper confidences to you?” Ellen asked, shifting carefully in the hammock. Val waited for her to get situated then rolled to his side and began stroking his hand over her shoulders, neck, and back.

“The boys said you were not your most sanguine today.” Val felt the tension particularly across her shoulders, exactly where his own usually ached when he’d finished a good round of Beethoven. “Have you confidences to share?”

“I do not. You will put me to sleep if you keep that up.”

“Then you can dream of me, and I will dream of you—and vegetables.”

“Vegetables?” Ellen quirked a glance at him over her shoulder.

“Green beans, tomatoes, peppers, you know the kind.” Val kissed her nape. “Fruit helps, but I am beside myself with longing for vegetables. I could write a little rhapsody to the buttered green bean, so great is my torment.”

“I understand this torment.” Ellen rolled her shoulders. “By the end of June, I am practically sleeping in my vegetable patch, so desperately do I want that first bowl of crisp, ripe beans. Mine are almost ready.”

“And what about you?” Val kissed her nape again. “Are you ready?”

His cock had risen in his breeches to subtly nudge at her derriere, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. Rather than answer him, she reached behind her and tugged his hand around her middle.

“I’ll take that for a maybe,” Val whispered in her ear then rested his cheek over hers. “Are you afraid of something, Ellen? Afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” She scooted around a little. “Of course you’ll hurt me.”

“Blazes.” Val went still behind her. “That answer doesn’t encourage a fellow, love. Whatever do you mean?”

“You will offer me the sort of oblivion widows can discreetly enjoy, Valentine, and some sweet memories, but we both know nothing can come of it. When you are no longer interested, or you sell the property, you’ll move along with your life, selling your furniture, maybe restoring another estate, and I’ll still be here weeding my bed. My beds.”

He was silent, letting the slip of the tongue pass and considering himself responsible for her conclusion that nothing could come of their dealings. He’d all but assured her such was the case, and as his left hand throbbed mercilessly, he couldn’t really rescind his statement. He was aware, though, some part of him was unhappy with her brutal evaluation of the situation.

“Would you want more if I could offer it?” he asked, stroking his hand up to brush over her breast.

“I cannot want more.” She closed her hand over his and pressed his fingers more snugly around her breast.

It wasn’t an answer, but Val was too absorbed with the balance needed to shift her body over his in the swaying hammock to argue with her. When she was straddling him, he levered up to brush a kiss over her mouth.

“Your mood is distant. Where have you gone, Ellen?”

“Hold me.” She twined her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his shoulder. He complied, cradling her head in his palm, resting his cheek against her temple, but wondering how a woman could be clinging to him so tightly and yet be so far away at the same time.

“Are you looking forward to visiting Candlewick this weekend?” Val asked, his hands stroking slowly over her back. “I think Day and Phil are counting the hours.”

“I worked them without mercy at market yesterday.” Ellen tucked her nose against Val’s throat. “How is it you smell so good when you’ve been working all day?”

“We towel off in the springhouse before every meal,” Val replied, content to let Ellen’s conversation hop around like a pair of breeding hares at sunset. “Dare and I do. Day and Phil are becoming otters, and if Axel hasn’t a pond for swimming, he’d better dig one soon.”

“He does. Abby and I went for a stroll, and she showed it to me.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you looking forward to the weekend?” Val purposely maintained the easy rhythm of his caresses, but he felt Ellen’s breathing pause nonetheless.

“I am and I’m not.”

“Tell me.”

“I am because they are dear people and very gracious to their guests. I gather they’ve been through a lot, and it has made them sensible, easy to be with.”

“But?”

“But they are so happy with each other,” Ellen said softly. “It destroys some of my illusions, and that is hard.”

“Which illusions, love?”

“I have several illusions,” she said, shifting so she more closely straddled his hips. “I tell myself I was happy with Francis, and I was.”

“But Axel and Abby are happier,” Val guessed. “They were each married before, and it makes them appreciate each other.”

“Maybe.” Ellen’s tone was skeptical. “Francis was married before, and he didn’t look at me or touch me or talk about me the way Axel Belmont regards his Abby.”

“So you and Francis were miserable? What a relief to know he wasn’t actually canonized in the pantheon of saintly husbands.”

“We weren’t miserable.” Ellen found his nipple and bit him through the fabric of his shirt. “But we weren’t close, not like the Belmonts are.”

“I think few couples are, but you said they disabused you of several illusions.” Val made no move to dissuade her from her explorations—for that’s what they were. “The first being they reminded you your marriage was not perfect.”

“The second being that I am happy here in my gardens with no social life, no real friends, and only a trip to market or church to mark the passing of my days and weeks and years.”

“You are lonely.”

“Lonely.” Ellen sighed against his throat. “Also just… inconsequential.”

“We’re all inconsequential. The Regent himself can drop over dead, and the world will keep spinning in the very same direction, but I know something of what you mean.”

“You can’t know what I mean,” Ellen muttered, unbuttoning enough of his shirt that she could lay her cheek on his bare chest. “You have employees at your manufactories, you’ve mentioned brothers, Mr. Lindsey is attached to you, and the Belmonts are your friends. You talk about this Nick fellow, and your viscount physician friend and his wife. You have people, Valentine, lots and lots of people.”

“I’m from a very large family. Lots and lots of people feels natural to me.” But as he reflected on her words, Val realized he hadn’t been quite honest. For all he did have a lot of people, he still felt as Ellen did, isolated and marginal. While he pondered that paradox, he felt Ellen’s fingers undoing his shirt further, until her thumb brushed over his nipple and her cheek lay over his heart.

“Ellen FitzEngle Markham, you are too young and too lovely not to have some pleasures in your life. Your entire existence can’t be about flowers and beans and waving off the nasty boys with your broom.”

“And your entire existence can’t be about slates and shells and bills of lading.”

“Which is why”—Val hugged her close—“we will be pleased to accept the Belmont’s hospitality this weekend, right?”

“Right.” Ellen capitulated with only a hint of truculence in her tone. But then she drew back, peering at Val’s features in the moonlight. “How did your visit to Great Weldon go today?”

“Oh, that.” Val closed his eyes. “Cheatham wasn’t in, and I’m not sure what he’d have to tell me of any use, as his loyalties will clearly lie with Freddy and the Roxbury estate.”

Ellen said nothing but subsided into his embrace. Val gradually drifted off to sleep, leaving Ellen to ponder his answer as the crickets chirped and the breeze stirred gently through the trees. She’d dreaded asking the question and feared to hear his answer. Depending on Cheatham’s discretion, she might have been revealed in the very worst possible light.

But her fears had been for naught. Val had learned nothing, and so she had a reprieve. Maybe in the little time fate had given her, she’d somehow find the courage to tell the man the truth, for surely somebody in the shire—the tenants, the local boys, the well-meaning gossips at the Rooster, somebody—would tell him the woman in his arms was a liar, a cheat, and a thief intent on stealing from him until she had no other choice.