The Virtuoso (20 page)

He rapped on the polished bar of The Hung Sheep. “Whiskey, my good man.”

He detested the place, particularly the image of the cheerfully leering ram that swung over the main entrance. Nonetheless, a certain kind of business could be transacted here, and so here he would bide at least for a few minutes.

When his whiskey appeared, Lord Roxbury leaned across to catch the bartender's eye. “Be a good fellow and tell Louise to attend me in the snug.”

The bartender barely nodded before disappearing into the kitchen. A young lady emerged a few minutes later sporting a smile Freddy knew was as false as her truly impressive breasts were genuine.

“Milord.” She beamed at Freddy where he sat frankly ogling her breasts. “May I fetch you another?”

Freddy wrinkled his nose. “It's a pathetic brew, but I've miles to go yet, so yes.”

Her smile slipped a bit, though Freddy wasn't about to admit the drink was both decent and inexpensive.

“So there ye be.” She set the drink down a moment later, not spilling a drop. “What else can Louise get for ye?”

“Answers.” Freddy scowled at the drink. “It's been two weeks, my girl. What news have you for me?”

“Plenty of news.” Louise smiled broadly. “What coin have ye for me?”

Freddy's scowl became as calculating as Louise's smile. For God's sake, she took his coin, and all he asked of her—almost all—was that she pass along to him a few bits of gossip and keep her younger relations' eyes sharp in the same cause.

“I have something for you, Louise,” Freddy said, “but it will have to wait until we can be private. But then, as I recall, the stables are private enough for a woman of your refined tastes, aren't they?” He slid his hand over her wrist and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Talk, Louise, and then you'll walk me to my horse.”

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed tightly. She didn't wince—peasant stock was tough.

“From what Neal's pa says, Mr. Windham is improving up a storm at the old Markham place. The roof is almost done, the floors and windows are all in, the plastering and painting is thundering along, and even the grounds are looking tidy and spruce.”

“How charming,” Freddy drawled. “What about the estate itself?”

“Mr. Windham met with Neal's pa and says he'll look after the place, now he owns it. Mort and Neal and the boys are to clean up the home farm, since Mr. Windham will be setting that to rights too. The hay barn is to get a new roof, but quick-like, as there's already hay in it.”

“Did your cousins set up the kindling where I showed them?”

“They did.” She made another effort to withdraw her hand, which gave Freddy another opportunity to exert his superior strength.

“And the lamp oil?”

“It's there.”

“Where can I find your cousin Dervid now?”

“He'll be in the livery.” Something in her tone suggested the boy might be anywhere but in the livery.

“Then he might want to watch us, hmm?” He was hurting her, but for his coin, she'd endure the hurt and afford him the pleasure of her wide, clever mouth. “Come along, Louise.” Freddy rose to his feet, tossing coins on the table. “And best be loosening that bodice of yours. I wouldn't want to rip it when you earn your coin, would I?”

He'd rip it anyway. Breasts like that begged for a man's attention. Begged for it.

And he was nothing if not a man, after all.

***

Val was smiling when he walked into the Rooster, mentally challenging himself to come up with another twenty terms for the male member. Ellen had laughed so hard the sound had actually filled his ears with music. Light, scampering melodies that would require lightning quick fingers with unerring accuracy—and be great fun to play.

He paid for a pint and some purchases at the Rooster, posted his letters to family, picked up a few for himself, and stopped by the livery, letting the grooms know he'd one more errand before he'd need Ezekiel for his trip back to the estate.

He owed Ellen, and in a way that didn't feel exactly comfortable. She worked on his sore hand diligently at least once per day, usually more. Val himself had been increasingly conservative about using his hand, not quite willing to admit he had grown more hopeful in the past week.

It was never going to be as good as it had been. Never.

But it was better when he didn't use it, better when Ellen worked with it. Better if he was careful not to fall asleep with that hand tucked in its customary spot under his pillow. So Val took himself to the apothecary, there to attempt compliance with more of the medical wisdom David Worthington had dispensed weeks ago.

“Good morning, fine sir,” came a cheery voice from the back of the shop. It was a tidy little place but crammed to the gills with jars and bins and trays and sachets. “Thaddeus Crannock.” A little wizened man appeared to go with the voice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. You'd be Mr. Windham, now, wouldn't you?”

“I have that pleasure.” Val smiled slightly, while Mr. Crannock produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and fitted them over his ears—which were not pointed but perhaps should have been.

“What might I do for you, Mr. Windham?” Mr. Crannock peered at his customer, looking like a turtle in bright sunshine. His neck was a leathery brisket, but his clothes were immaculate, if twenty years behind fashion.

“I'm looking for a particular tea,” Val said, glancing around the shop.

“Teas and tisanes are right here.” Mr. Crannock bustled across the room. “We've dozens of teas, and I can mix them for you in any proportion. The mints are very popular now, as is the chamomile, particularly with the ladies.”

“And willow bark tea? Do you have a quantity of that?”

“Oh, aye.” Mr. Crannock began peering at his glass jars. “When the fevers come in summer, everybody needs their willow bark tea. Bitter stuff, though it does the job.”

“If you mixed the willow bark with this stuff”—Val lifted the lid of a jar at random and took a sniff—“would the willow bark still be effective?”

“Why, yes.” Mr. Crannock looked pleased with his customer. “It would provided you let it steep. And that pennyroyal will soothe a bilious stomach.”

“This is pennyroyal?” Val took another sniff. “It's rather like spearmint, isn't it?”

Mr. Crannock nodded. “Aye, 'tis, but we have the spearmint itself, and peppermint and catmint, as well. Shall I blend some for you?”

“Why don't I take some of each,” Val suggested. “The willow bark and the pennyroyal, and some of this…” He sniffed the jar labeled peppermint. “And some chamomile.”

“We've lemon verbena sachets, as well,” Mr. Crannock offered. “I expect you can procure those from Mrs. Fitz, since she provides the sachets to me.”

“What else does she sell to you?” Val asked, still ambling around, sniffing a jar here and a sachet there.

“Only sachets and soaps,” Mr. Crannock said, weighing out Val's purchases. “I've asked her to grow me some herbs or grind me up some simples and tisanes. She won't do it. Says it's too easy to make an error.”

“Is there really so much danger of making an error?”

“Oh, my.” Mr. Crannock's expression was horror-stricken. “You can kill a man with the wrong potion, Mr. Windham. The digitalis aids the heart, but too much, and the patient expires. Arsenic is just as dangerous. And if you don't know your plants—the belladonna and nightshade, the mushrooms and toadstools—you can do the same again, and it's not a pleasant way to go.”

“So you're sure you've sold me only harmless teas?” Val teased good-naturedly.

“Don't leave the pennyroyal around the womenfolk unless they understand what it is,” Mr. Crannock said. “It can solve certain female problems but cause others.”

Val put his coin on the counter and picked up his purchases. “As I do not suffer female problems, I will not inquire further. Good day to you, and my thanks.”

Mr. Crannock beamed. “Good day. My regards to Mrs. Fitz, if you see her.”

Val left, wondering if that last happy aside was intended as a fishing expedition, a polite nothing, or a reflection of local speculation regarding Val's dealings with Ellen. People, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, always said, were going to do at least two things with unfailing regularity, and one of those things was talk. Val had been nine before St. Just had taken pity on him and explained what the second activity was, though the disclosure had seemed nonsense to a boy enthralled with his piano and his pony.

Val repaired to the livery, finding Zeke tacked up and sporting a small keg trussed behind the saddle. When Val was in the saddle, the groom handed him a covered pie plate, a burden which required that Zeke be kept to a moderate pace.

As Val made his way back to the estate, he found himself considering what the Duke of Moreland might say about Ellen Markham. Much to Val's surprise, the duke had welcomed Anna James into the family on Westhaven's arm, without a peep of protest or bluster.

And what in the bloody, blazing, stinking
hell
, Val wondered as he approached his own lane, was he doing considering Ellen Markham as a marriage prospect? The improvement in his hand was encouraging, yes, but he'd known the woman only a few weeks, and she'd shown no inclination to seek a more permanent union. He'd swived her once—thoroughly and gloriously, true, but only the once. They were a long and difficult way from considering each other as potential spouses.

Which nonetheless didn't put the notion out of his head entirely. He was still pondering possibilities when St. Just met him in the stable yard.

“If we cut this now,” St. Just said, taking the pie from Val before Zeke was even halted, “we can destroy all the evidence before the infidels come back from the home farm. Sir Dewey and Darius are making an inspection of the pond and can help us dispose of the evidence. Ale goes with pie. Put up your pony, Valentine, and we'll save you a little slice.”

“I will tattle to Her Grace,” Val said, swinging down. “I traveled six miles in a sweltering heat, paid good coin, and carried that pie back with my own two hands.”

“Traveling uphill both ways,” St. Just added solemnly, “with a scalding headwind. Last one to the pond is a virgin with a little pizzle.”

“Pizzle,” Val muttered, loosening his horse's girth. “I forgot pizzle. That makes thirteen.”

“You're daft, Valentine. A man doesn't forget his pizzle.” St. Just spun on his heel and headed for the trail to the pond.

When Val—bearing the small cask and some tin cups—joined his brother on the dock, Sir Dewey was sitting on the planks, boots neatly to the side, feet immersed.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” Val asked as he started to work on his own boots.

Sir Dewey shrugged. “Thought the king's man ought to see and be seen. The local lads aren't talking, and Vicar hasn't heard anything of note either.”

They both watched as St. Just set down the pie, straightened, and began to unfasten his breeches. “Tap that keg, why don't you, baby brother? It's hot out here, and we'll need to wash down our pie.” His shirt followed, and he was soon standing naked at the end of the dock. “You have the prettiest pond, Valentine.”

He executed a clean, arcing dive into the water, the movement combining grace and strength.

Darius quickly followed suit, while Val merely swizzled his feet in the wonderfully cool water.

“Are you always so quiet?” Sir Dewey asked.

“I'm hearing a song in my head,” Val mused. “A sort of rollicking, triple meter that men might sing in German.”

“A drinking song?”

“To the Germans, if it's triple meter and rollicking, then of course it's a drinking song. Even if it isn't, enough schnapps and beer, and it will do whether the piano's in tune or not.”

“There's a decent piano in the assembly rooms over the shops,” Sir Dewey said. “The damned thing is sorely in need of tuning, not that anybody seems to care. It would serve for pounding out a drinking song and I'm sure you'd be welcome to use it.”

“Why not get it tuned?”

“Hire a tuner to come work on one instrument?” Sir Dewey scoffed. “Even in the enchanted confines of Little Weldon, the concept of economy is practiced to an art. Each year, I think they'll simply inflict a pair of violins on us at the summer assembly, as the humidity afflicts the instrument badly.”

“Who tunes your piano?” Val asked, swirling his feet thoughtfully. He was grateful, he realized, for the particular pleasure of simply soaking his feet on a lovely summer day while a merry little oom-pah-pah tootled along in his head.

“I've had my piano only a few months, and because you so generously provide that it gets tuned before your delivery crews depart, it still sounds lovely.”

Val looked out over the water. “Why aren't we in the water, earning our pie?”

“You're not going to tune that piano for us, are you?” Sir Dewey observed softly. “Belmont said you hadn't set foot in his music room, either, which is puzzling. You are Lord Valentine Windham, and if there's one epithet attributed to you, it's ‘the virtuoso.' Your musical artistry precedes you even in the rustic circles I frequent.”

Val eyed the pie. Lovely summer day, indeed. “Since when does the cavalry teach reading tea leaves and tramping around in a man's head for a pastime, Fanning?”

“I've heard you play,” Sir Dewey said. “It was at a private gathering at Lord and Lady Barringer's last year. There were the usual diligent offerings and even competent entertainments, but then there was you, and the true art of a genius. I ordered one of your instruments the next day. You have a gift, Windham, and you likely deny yourself as much as you deny those around you when you don't use it.”

“Oh, likely.” Val started working at the cork on the small keg. “We artists are a complicated lot. Are you going in for a swim or not?”