The Virtuoso (14 page)

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Axel.” Val scowled at him in earnest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So do I answer your question or not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

David and Letty.

Nick and Leah.

Blazing hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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