The Virtuoso (27 page)

A note in his father's slashing, confident hand.

Valentine,

You play these things better than I have ever done anything, save perhaps love Her Grace. She picked this one out after trying all that were ready for sale at both of your shops. She said it was particularly lovely in the middle and lower registers, whatever that means. Her Grace will be sending along some of your music, though I told her it would be better for you to come choose what you wanted from Morelands, as an old fellow might get to see his youngest (and only bachelor) son that way, but there is no reasoning with Her Grace on certain points.

You are to keep Sean, if you please. Morelands's stables are too large and busy for one of his years, but he would not ask for lighter duties. This was Her Grace's idea; the piano was mine.

I hope you are keeping well, as am I—which you would know had you had the courtesy to correspond with your own papa from time to time. And polite, chipper little thank you notes to placate your mother do not count.

Moreland

Val had to chuckle at the aggravating blend of what? Officiousness, bashful innuendo, and simple familiarity in the short note. His Grace was never, not in a millennium of trying, going to be a subtle or calming sort of person. He was direct, ruthless, and devoted to his duchess. Since a heart seizure a year ago, there had been some softening, but Val still felt the blatant attempts to manipulate, even in the terse little epistle.

He was to visit his father.

He was to write to his father.

He was to play the piano, though his father had railed at him for years that music was a nancy-pants way for a man to go through life when it went beyond drawing room competence. Never mind the gift of a piano was at complete odds with all those lectures! If His Grace wanted to change
his
tune, then all other tunes simply ceased to exist—past, present, or future. It was an amazing quality, to alter reality at will. The trick of it was probably the first secret passed along from one duke to the next. He'd have to ask Gayle about it when next he saw his brother-the-heir.

He closed the lid of the piano bench, but not before he noticed one other document—a bill of lading marked “paid.”

It was a beautiful instrument. Val sighed as he regarded the gleaming finish. A grand, of course. His mother would not content herself with less for him. He lifted the lid and sat, vowing to himself he was just testing the tuning.

To keep his vow, he limited his test to the little lullaby he'd composed for Winnie and sent north with St. Just. Winnie was a busy child. She darted around the estate like a small tornado, poking her nose into adult business at will with the canine mastodon, Scout, panting at her heels.

So he'd written Winnie a cradle song to play when Scout was having trouble settling his doggy nerves or when Winnie wanted something quiet and pretty to end her busy days with. It wasn't the first piece he'd written for her, though it might be the last.

Gently, he laid his hands on the keys, the familiar cool feel of them sending a wave of awareness up his arms and into his body.

“I've missed you, my friend,” he told the piano quietly, “but this is just a visit.”

The notes came so easily, drifting up into the soft morning air and out across the yard. Simple, tender, lyrical, and sweet, the piece wafted through the trees and flower baskets, through the beams of sunshine, and out over the pond. On the balcony of the carriage house, Nick and Darius exchanged a smile as the final notes died away.

“It's a start,” Nick said quietly. “A modest start but a good one.”

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.”