The Virtuoso (25 page)

“Come.” Val took her by the hand and laced his fingers with hers, not caring who saw, what they thought of it, or what ribbing they might try to give him later. When he and Ellen left the springhouse, he put an arm around her waist and tucked her close to his body. That she went willingly, despite all the eyes on them, alarmed Val more than her fatigue or her quiet.

He dropped his arm to usher her into the house. “What's really wrong?”

She paused, and if he hadn't been watching her with close concern, he might have missed the effort she made to compose her features.

“My cottage was all I had. It was my home, my refuge, where I grieved, and where I healed. It has been violated.”

He regarded her in silence then led her up the stairs to her bedroom. In a single day, it had gone from being an empty chamber to a cozy, inviting nest. Embroidered pillows from the cottage told Val whose nest it was, and the fluffy bed tempted him beyond endurance. He led her out to the balcony, which sported two wooden rockers padded with embroidered cushions.

“We need to talk,” Val said, settling her in one rocker. It took all his willpower not to scoop her into his lap and just hold her, but that wouldn't solve anything, except maybe the vague, relentless anxiety he'd been feeling since Axel had pulled him into the library a couple nights ago.

“I am really quite tired,” Ellen replied, but Val saw more than fatigue in her eyes.

“You are really quite sad,” he countered, “and upset. We're going to repair your cottage in no time, and it will be better than new. What is the real problem, Ellen?”

He wanted her to tell him and before he opened that packet from Hazlit, or received any others.

She just shook her head.

“You pitched the pennyroyal out the window. You would never harm something growing, much less growing and tender.”

“God.” She clutched her arms around her middle but shook her head again.

“Ellen…” Val's voice was low, pleading. “I stink like a drover two hundred miles from home, or I'd come hold you, but you have to tell me what's going on.”

“I can't.” She still wouldn't meet his eyes.

“You won't,” Val countered tiredly. “I did not want to tell you this, but if you look closely at the tree that fell on your cottage, you'll see it toppled partway but then was cut at the base—in essence, it was pushed onto your roof. Maybe whoever did it knew you were from home, maybe not. Somebody, it appears, has succeeded in scaring the hell out of you, Ellen, and that scares the hell out of me.”

He could not stand one more moment of her silence, so he stood and passed a gentle hand over the back of her head. “The house is entirely secured on the first floor. I'll come check on you later.”

She clutched his hand and tucked her forehead against his thigh but said nothing, leaving Val to stroke his hand over her hair once again then depart in silence. He made his way through the darkened house, careful to lock the front door behind him, and then found himself on the path toward the pond. He changed his mind, doubled back, and retrieved Hazlit's packet, taking it to the sleeping porch on the second floor of the carriage house to read by lantern light.

When Nick and Darius returned from their swim, Val was still sitting in the shadows, Hazlit's missive open on his lap.

“Bad news?” Nick asked, sinking down to rest his back against the porch railing.

“Here.” Darius waved a bottle before Val's eyes. “This is bad news too, but not until tomorrow morning, and only if Nick and I let you get drunk.”

Val took a hefty pull of the bottle and passed it to Nick. Darius lowered himself to the hammock but used it as a seat, keeping his feet on the floor.

“Somebody cut the tree,” Darius said, “and that was after they laid bonfires in the very house. There's no telling what other mischief we're going to have to endure. What does Hazlit add to this puzzle?”

“The rents are dutifully deposited in a Markham general account,” Val said in a hollow voice. “One that Ellen could withdraw from, but she doesn't.”

“So there should be a pile of money there,” Nick concluded, passing the bottle to Darius.

“There's nothing but a token amount. Frederick Markham has withdrawn every cent in the account regularly for the past five years.”

“So the good baron is bleeding his widowed cousin dry.” Nick frowned into the gathering darkness. “Bad form. You might have to call the blighter out.”

Val nodded agreement. “I might. Ellen would frown on that. It gets worse.”

Darius passed the bottle back to Val. “What could be worse than stealing from your cousin's widow, forcing her to grub in the dirt for necessities and live out here like a social leper?”

“The rents should consist of the amounts due from the six tenant farms,” Val said. “But for the past five years, there have been seven individual deposits from seven different sources. Freddy has been charging Ellen rent on her own damned land.”

“You going to kill him?” Nick asked. “I know all manner of ways to end a life, Valentine.”

“Nick…” Darius chided, “don't put ideas in Val's head he'll come to regret.”

“I am not going to kill him,” Val said taking another hefty swig. “I might, though, make him wish he were dead.”

Nick accepted the bottle from Val. “What do you have in mind?”

“I'm going to invite him here as my very first guest, to show him what a gift he passed to me when he lost that hand of cards. I'm going to keep my friends close and my enemies closer.”

“Never should have let you spend that time in Italy.” Nick shook his head and passed Darius the whiskey. “Citing Machiavelli, plotting dark deeds when a simple cudgel to the back of the idiot's head would do the job.”

Val smiled thinly. “It may come to that. For now, I want to refine my plans, post a note to His Grace, finish my house, and wash the filth of this day from my person.”

“We know.” Darius waggled the bottle resignedly. “Don't wait up for you.”

***

“Did you lock the door?” Ellen murmured, cuddling closer to the man who'd just joined her in her bed. She'd left only the sheet over her body, and in the evening breeze, she'd taken a slight chill. Val gave off heat like a toasted brick, and reassurance and warmth that had nothing to do with the physical.

“I did.” He kissed her cheek. “Rest. We'll talk in the morning.”

“Val?”

“Beloved?”

Beloved?
Oh, ye gods and little fishes, that was more than adored, desired…

“You shouldn't say such things, but I want you to know something,” Ellen said, glad for the darkness.

“It can wait until morning.”

“I'll lose my nerve.” Her voice broke as she wrapped an arm around his lean waist. “And you'll hate me.”

“I'll never hate you,” Val said, tucking her face to his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It's Freddy. All the attempts to sabotage your work here. It's him.”

“I won't ask how you know, but I agree with you. It's Freddy.”

“So what will you do?” Ellen let her grip on him slacken.

“Don't run off.” Val gathered her back against him. “For now, I'm going to hold you and rest and consider options. You are not to worry about this, Ellen.”

“I do worry. You don't know what he's capable of.”

“Arson? Destruction of property, attempted murder?”

“He must have known I was from home,” Ellen said, though Freddy was absolutely capable of taking a life—of taking three lives or even four. “Freddy is an opportunist. He probably stopped by to plague you or see how your progress was coming and realized the storm had left him a way to further torment me.”

“He's been tormenting you for a while now, hasn't he?”

“Since the accursed day I met him.” She couldn't keep the bitterness from her tone. “You'll be careful?”

“With you?” Val kissed her temple. “Very. With him, even more so. Now sleep, and let me do the fretting.”

As she dropped off, Val lay beside her, staring at the ceiling and then at Ellen's face in the moonlight pouring through the curtains. She slept, finally, lulled by his caresses and his warmth. She'd offered him something, at least, and he was encouraged by that but also wary: Why would she offer only part of the story, unless she intended to take the rest of it with her when she left?

“What a bloody perishing mess,” Nick observed, looking up at the roof of the hay barn. “And the damned thing would be half full.”

“We have more hay,” Val said. “It's stored elsewhere, under tarpaulins, in sheds, and so forth. The good news is it looks like we're in for a stretch of decent weather, and the supplies are on hand. Tell the men to bring in the rest of the hay now, and we'll shift them to the roof this afternoon. If they work quickly we'll have the hay here and the roof on by week's end.”

“That's ambitious,” Darius cautioned.

“But not impossible. The first hay crop is off the fields; the foals and calves and lambs are on the ground; the vegetable plots are producing. This is the lull in midsummer, when the rest of the corn is ripening and there's no land to be worked daily. I'll get the word to my tenants. You manage the crews.”

“And I?” Nick arched an eyebrow. “I'm to scamper back to Kent and take your dear Ellen with me?”

“Not yet,” Val said, not sure why he was hesitating. “You and Dare know more about estate management than I, and if you can spare another few days, I'd appreciate it.”

“I can stay.” Nick went back to studying the roof. “As you say, the land is quiet this time of year, and it's easy to travel. Besides, I like seeing what you're up to.”

Val's smile was sardonic. “So you can report it to my family.”

“Speaking of which.” Darius pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Devlin gave this to the boys to give to you after he'd left. They were too busy yesterday, and last night…”

“Right. I told you not to wait up for me.”

Val took the missive with him back through the trees, reading while he walked. Nick was silent at his side, while Darius departed for the Bragdolls' farmstead to start rounding up the labor needed to move the rest of the hay crop to the barn.

“What does he say?” Nick inquired as they reached the pond.

Val stopped and looked out across the water. “He says it took him two years to sleep through the night after Waterloo, and I've given my hand only a couple months. I am not to… despair.”

“Your hand?” Nick peered at Val's right hand, which was holding the letter.

“This one.” Val held up his left hand.

“It appears to have all its parts.” Nick took Val's hand in his and examined it. “Unfashionably tan, maybe a little callused, but quite functional.”

Val looked at his hand in surprise then flexed it. “It was sore. It's been so sore I couldn't play.”

Nick dropped his hand. “It doesn't look sore, but not all hurts are visible.”

“No.” Val stared at his hand. “They aren't. But this one was, quite visible, and now it's… not.”

“Does it feel better?” Nick asked, puzzlement in his expression.

“It does,” Val said softly. “It finally does. I've still got twinges, and it will hurt worse by day's end, but the mending seems to be progressing.”

“Country life agrees with a man.” Nick slung an arm around Val's shoulders. “So does a certain aspect of nature best enjoyed on blankets by the side of streams.”

“What?” Val stopped and glared at his friend.

“St. Just and Axel both saw you on Saturday, enjoying the shade with your Ellen,” Nick said, grinning. “What a lusty little beast you are, Val. I am pleased to think I've set a good example for you.”

“Blazing hell.” Val dropped his eyes, a reluctant smile blooming. “I suppose I ought to be grateful they didn't come running over the hill, bellowing for the watch.”

“Suppose you should, but really, I think there's a lot to be said for the healing power of some friendly, uncomplicated swiving.”

“You think there's a lot to be said for any kind of swiving.”

“I do.” Nick's expression was dead serious. “More to the point, you were overdue, Valentine, and not just for some romping.”

“Maybe.” Val resumed walking, and Nick dropped his arm. “I was, probably. But one doesn't always find what one needs when one needs it.”

“One doesn't, but you're doing a fine job improvising.”

Val glanced at him, seeking hidden meaning in Nick's use of a musical term, but Nick's handsome face was schooled to innocence.

By Tuesday afternoon Val had informed all of his tenants of the plans for the week and put both teams to work moving hay. The crews on the barn roof started to replace worn trusses and move material from the manor to the hay barn.

Val found Ellen at midday, arranging a bouquet in what would likely be his bedroom. She'd chosen red roses and bright orange daylilies.

“Interesting combination,” Val murmured, coming up behind her and inhaling her floral scent. “I like seeing you in this house, Ellen.” She went still, and Val knew a gnawing sense of stealing moments before time ran out.

“Hold me.” She leaned back against him. “I shouldn't like being here so much, but I do.”

“Here in my arms”—Val tightened his embrace—“or here in my house?”

“Both.” She turned and slipped her arms around his waist. “And you shouldn't be sleeping with me, either.”

“I'm protecting you.” Val dipped his head to kiss the side of her neck.

Ellen angled her chin. “As if locks won't do that job.”

“They won't, entirely.” He stepped back and took her hand. “Mama Nick has demanded our presence in the springhouse. What Nick demands, Nick gets.”

“He's an odd man, but I like him.”

“His size sets him apart,” Val said as they moved through the house, “and I think he's just used to being his own man as a result. I'm glad you like him—he can be overwhelming.”

Ellen shot him another look, and Val stopped and met her gaze. “What?”

“That man…” Ellen waved a hand toward the springhouse. “The one who so blithely hitched a team to the tree on my house, he's an
earl
, Valentine. Your brother is an
earl
, and your friend Dare is an earl's spare. What is the nature of your family that you associate so closely with so many titles, and your brother, of all the men who served long and loyally against the Corsican, was given an earldom for his bravery? Sir Dewey stopped entire wars, and he was only knighted, for pity's sake.”

“What are you asking?” Val dodged behind a question, ignoring the insistent voice in the back of his head: Tell her your papa is a duke, tell her your other brother is an earl, as well, tell her,
tell
her
the
truth
.

“I hardly know you,” Ellen said in low, miserable tones. “I don't know who your people are, where you've lived, how you come to be a builder of pianos, what you want next in life.”

“My name is Valentine Forsythe Windham.” He stepped closer, unwilling to hear Ellen talk herself out of him. “My family is large and settled mostly in Kent. You've met my oldest brother, and I will gladly describe each and every sibling and cousin to you. I learned to build pianos while studying in Italy and thought it made business sense to start such an endeavor here. What I want next in life, Ellen Markham, is you.” He drew her against him, daring her to argue with that.

“FitzEngle,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Ellen FitzEngle.”

“Why not Markham?”
Hell, why not Ellen Windham?

She would run, fast and far, that's why, so he kept his mouth shut and held her on the porch of the carriage house for a brief, stolen moment. “We've been summoned.” Val smiled down at her, trying not to let a nameless anxiety show on his face. “But, Ellen, please promise me something?”

“What?”

“If you have questions, you'll ask me, and I'll answer. When we've caught our culprit, I want to talk with you. Really talk.”

“If you are honest with me, you will expect me to be honest with you,” she said. “I want to be, I wish I could be, but I just… I can't.”

“You won't,” Val reiterated softly, “but when you're ready to be, I will be too, and I promise to listen and listen well.”

She nodded, and just like that, they had a truce of sorts. Val cursed himself for his own hypocrisy but took consolation in the idea Ellen might someday be ready to tell him her secrets. It was a start, and she'd already warned him about Freddy.

That was encouraging, Val told himself—over and over again. And if a truce sometimes preceded a surrender and departure from the field, well, he ignored that over and over again, too.

The next day, Ellen took the boys to market with her, leaving Val, Darius, and Nick to assist with the roof to the hay barn. At noon, Darius called for the midday break, and the crews moved off toward the pond, there to take their meals.

“Shall we join them?” Darius asked.

“Let's stay here with the horses,” Nick suggested. “Doesn't seem fair everybody else gets to take a break and the beasts must stay in the traces.”

“Wearing a feed bag,” Val said. “It's cooler inside the barn, and I could use some cool.”

“I'll second that,” Darius said, “and a feed bag for my own face.”

They took their picnic into the lower floor of the barn, the space set aside for animals. At Val's direction, it had recently been scrubbed, whitewashed, and the floors recobbled to the point where it was as clean as many a dwelling—for the present.

“I like this barn.” Nick looked around approvingly. “The ceiling isn't too low. What's for lunch?”

Darius passed each man a sandwich and watched while Nick took a long pull from the whiskey bottle.

“Save me a taste, if you please.” Darius snatched the bottle back, leaving Nick to wipe his mouth and grin.

“Damned good,” Nick allowed, leaning back to rest against a stout support beam running from floor to ceiling.

The beam shifted, and that small sound was followed by an instant's silence. Nick's quietly urgent “You two get the hell out” collided with Val's equally insistent “Dare, get the team.”

Val darted to Nick's side and added his weight to Nick's, holding the beam in place.

Dare got the team into the barn and wrapped a stout chain around the upper portion of the beam. While the horses held it in place—no mean feat, given the delicate balance required—Val and Nick fetched trusses to provide the needed support.

When they were all outside the barn, the horses once again munching their oats, Val turned to frown at the structure.

“Somebody was very busy with a saw on Sunday,” Val murmured. “I thought you were over here much of Sunday, Dare?”

“Sunday morning.” Darius scrubbed a hand over his chin while he eyed the barn. “Sunday afternoon I accompanied Bragdoll's sons to help clear some trees off the other tenant farms.”

“So the hay barn became an accessible target. Who knew we'd be restoring the roof so soon?”

“Bragdolls for sure,” Nick said. “What they didn't know was you'd be stuffing all the rest of the first cutting into the barn this week, as well. Without that added weight, the center beam might have held until some unsuspecting bullock tried to give itself a good scratch.”

“More sabotage,” Val muttered, grimacing. “I wasn't planning on moving animals in here until fall.”

“So perhaps,” Darius said slowly, “the idea was to let the thing collapse once the new roof was on, thus imperiling your entire hay crop and the lives of the animals inside the barn.”

“Another bad hay year,” Nick said, “and you'd lose your tenants.”

“If our culprit is Freddy Markham,” Val said, and there was little
if
about it, “then he has no more sense of the hay crop than he does of the roster at Almack's. A collapsed barn is simply trouble, requiring coin to repair, as far as he's concerned. He wouldn't think about the loss of a few peasant lives or driving people off their land.”

“A treasure,” Nick said. “A real treasure, and you think he's been plaguing you all along?”

“I do, though I want to know why. He was hardly likely to invest anything in this estate, and he walked away with half a sizeable kitty instead.”

“All this drama has worked up my appetite.” Nick sauntered back into the barn, retrieved the food and the bottle, and passed it to Darius. “Let's take this to some safe, shady tree and finish our meal in peace. But where do you go from here, Val?”

“I've already sent an invitation to Freddy to join me as my first house guest at my country retreat.” They settled in the grass, Val's back resting against the tree. “I've warned Sir Dewey what I'm about, and he doesn't endorse it, but neither can he stop me.”

“Did you tell him what happened to Ellen's cottage?” Darius asked.

“Sent the note yesterday, and we should expect Freddy to call next Wednesday.”

“When Ellen's at market,” Darius said. “You won't tell her he's visiting? Are you going to tell her the bastard almost dropped a barn on the three of us and two splendid horses?”

“Here, here,” Nick chimed in around a bite of sandwich.

“I will tell her about the barn, and I think we need to tell the heathen, as well,” Val said, “but she isn't to know Freddy's coming.”

“I can take her to Kent,” Nick reminded Val, “or to the London town house, or even to Candlewick.”

“She'll know something's afoot,” Val countered. “And if she bolts, that might tip my hand to Freddy. The gossip mill in Little Weldon turns on a greased wheel, and I'm convinced somebody is feeding Freddy information.”

“And they may not even know they're passing along anything of merit,” Darius said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“I'll tell you something of merit.” Nick lay back and rested his head on Val's thigh. “A nap is very meritorious right now, but maybe another medicinal tot of that bottle first, Dare.” He waggled long fingers, closed his eyes, and took a swig.