“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.”
“Splendid notion.” Ellen rose, bringing the men to their feet, as well.
“Abandoned.” Axel sighed. “Well, let them eat cake.”
“The last person reported to say that lost her head rather violently,” Val pointed out.
“I’ve quite lost my head, as well.” Axel leered at his wife’s retreating figure.
Val rolled his eyes. “Open a window. I need some air.” Or perhaps he just needed some privacy with Ellen.
***
For reasons of his own, Darius Lindsey had made an agreement with himself that he could spend the summer, riding Val Windham’s coattails, hiding here in the wilds of Oxfordshire. He expected there would be an element of penance about the whole thing, even if there was also a much greater element of benefit to him.
To his surprise and chagrin, he was enjoying himself immensely. In some ways, it was turning out to be the most pleasurable summer of his adult life. He swung out of
his hammock and stretched slowly, seeing Val’s army of workmen and cleaning ladies were knocking off for luncheon.
No. It was Saturday, so they’d be heading home for the day no later than one of the clock, leaving the premises unoccupied.
By the time Darius had demolished a serving of raspberry pancakes with butter and preserves—Val had taught him how to prepare this meal earlier in the week—each and every laborer had departed for home. The afternoon stretched, perfect for lazing by the pond with a book and dozing in the wonderful silence of a hot summer day.
God bless Axel Belmont, Darius thought as he gathered towels, soap, clean linen, shaving kit, and a jug of cold mint tea.
“Hullo, the house!”
Well, hell. Darius stepped from the springhouse and spied a man on a handsome chestnut gelding. The rider was blond, blue-eyed, sat his horse like he knew what he was about, and wore the kind of ensemble that was comfortable because of its exquisite tailoring and fine fabric.
“Greetings,” Darius answered evenly, towel over his shoulder, shaving kit in his hand. “Darius Lindsey. Welcome to Mr. Windham’s property. And you might be?”
“Just in time for a swim, it appears. Or a bath.” The man swung down uninvited and extended a hand. “Sir Dewey Fanning, at your service, Mr. Lindsey. I believe Mr. Windham might be expecting me. We discussed a call when we met at market on Wednesday.”
“He mentioned it,” Darius said, taking his guest’s hand briefly. “And my swim can wait. Val said you’re serving as magistrate?”
“I have that honor.” They stabled Sir Dewey’s horse and were shortly up the ladder. “So from whence fell your stones?”
Darius showed him around then obliged further inquiries by giving Sir Dewey a tour of the house.
“Francis would be pleased,” Sir Dewey remarked as they reached the kitchen. The counters were being redesigned to accommodate a huge cookstove that sat squat and black in the middle of the room. Glass fronts had already been installed on the upper cabinets, and a new pump graced one end of a long, glazed porcelain sink.
“You knew the late baron?”
“In little more than passing,” Sir Dewey said, running a hand over the smooth surface of the sink. “He’d approve of the restoration of the place and would never have let it get to this state, much less let the farms be mismanaged.”
“Val will set it to rights.” Darius watched as Sir Dewey frowned at the tile floors. They might be replaced once the heavier work was done. For now, sawdust, wood shavings, and the occasional screw or nail littered the floor.
“Are your crews in the habit of working in bare feet?” Sir Dewey asked, squatting by a door leading to the cellars.
“Assuredly not. One rusty nail in the foot and a man’s life might be over.”
“Then you’d better have a look at this,” Sir Dewey muttered. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
***
Sir Dewey Fanning presented himself at Candlewick just as Abby Belmont was preparing to preside over tea with her guests. Ellen had disappeared abovestairs, leaving Val with such a sense of untethered restlessness he was almost grateful for Sir Dewey’s arrival.
Until he heard the man explain that he and Darius had found two bonfires laid in Val’s manor house, one in the attics, one in the basement, both surrounded by the dusty imprints of small bare feet, and both with a can of lamp oil tidily stowed nearby.
“So what do you make of it?” St. Just asked the magistrate. “Is somebody recruiting children to do this mischief, or are we dealing with children wandering the property in addition to arsonists and would-be murderers?”
“Hard to say,” Sir Dewey replied. “Belmont, any insights?”
“God above.” Axel ran a hand over his hair. “My only suggestion is that we adjourn to the library and switch to something besides tea. It seems to me the situation is complicated with neither motive nor suspect very clear.”
“The motive,” Val reflected when Axel had put a drink in his hand, “seems to be to discourage me from my project, at least.”
“If not to discourage you all the way to the Pearly Gates,” St. Just groused.
“Probably not quite.” Val took a considering sip of his drink. “As Sir Dewey has pointed out, the fires were laid but not set. The slates that fell from the roof didn’t hit a single person, and the likelihood they’d actually strike me wasn’t great.”
“Could children have loosened those tiles?” Axel asked.
Sir Dewey nodded. “Half-grown boys could easily with the right tools. They could have piled up those scraps of lumber, sneaked about of a night or a Sunday afternoon, and because they frequent your pond, Mr. Windham, nobody would think a thing about it did they see a pack of boys heading up your lane or across your fields.”
“I can’t help but wonder”—Val’s gaze met his brother’s—“if whoever doesn’t want me to proceed also discouraged Ellen FitzEngle from maintaining the place.”
St. Just scowled at his drink. “Interesting point. Why don’t we just get the lady down here and ask her a few very direct questions?”
“Because she’s a suspect,” Sir Dewey said, his voice damnably gentle while his blue eyes pinned Val with piercing clarity. “Isn’t she?”
“Ellen?” Val blew out a breath, trying to balance his heart’s leanings with the facts. “In my opinion, no. She has neither this kind of meanness in her, nor would she hurt others.”
“But using your head?” Axel prompted when no one else spoke up. “What does logic tell you?”
“Logic?” Val pursed his lips, studied his drink, and looked anywhere but at his brother.
St. Just spoke up in the ensuing silence. “Logic says she has a life estate on the property that she neither disclosed nor took care of. Logic says she’s hiding something; logic says if she hasn’t taken an interest in the house so far, what does she care if it burns to the ground or if renovations stop well before they’re completed?”
“That doesn’t tell us her motive,” Sir Dewey pointed out. “It tells us questioning her directly would likely be of little use.”
“So question her indirectly,” St. Just shot back. “Snoop about, get the solicitors talking, and circle around behind her fortifications; exonerate her or see her charged.”
“It seems to me,” Val said, “we’ve convicted the lady of serious crimes without identifying either her motive or her opportunity. She’s been with Day and Phil for most of each day except for when she’s been with me here. She might have stolen about in the dead of night and piled up all that wood, but it’s far-fetched to assume so. It’s equally far-fetched to think she’d collude with the local boys, when she neither trusts nor likes the ones from the village.”
“Good points,” St. Just agreed—which was something. “But somebody means you or your property harm, Val, and she stands to gain if you vacate the premises.”
Val rose and put his empty glass on the sideboard. “She stands to gain more by letting me toil away for months and sink a fortune into that house. By law, she can then waltz in and enjoy all the fruits of my efforts until the day she dies, and I can neither charge her rent nor evict her. The worst I could do is move in with her.”
“This is true.” The idea that Val could spike his brother’s formidable guns was some relief, but St. Just wasn’t finished. “I don’t like it—having somebody to suspect is much easier—but you’re right. Ellen FitzEngle’s interests are not served by torching the house.”
“And we’re forgetting something else.” Val turned to face the other three. “Ellen is the one who is most clearly entitled to live in that house and collect the rents on the tenant farms. I have other places to live, other sources of income, but she likely does not. It could very well be that whoever is up to no good could care less about me; rather, it’s Ellen’s interest they seek to harm.”
Axel eyed the decanter narrowly. “Complicated, indeed.”
“And more complicated still.” Val sighed as he headed for
the door. “What do I tell the lady, if anything? And when?”
He left, and silence spread behind him among the other three men.
“Emmie’s confinement waits for no husband,” St. Just said. “Val needs reinforcements, and Westhaven can’t leave his post.”
“I agree,” Axel said, “but Val won’t like it. He won’t like questions about his property or his affairs.”
“I don’t like bonfires laid in my brother’s very house,” St. Just countered. “Send off a few notes and see what reinforcements are available.”
***
Ellen had dodged tea, pleading fatigue, but she hadn’t been able to lie on her big, fluffy bed and drift away. She was tired, of course—she’d slept little and badly lately—but she was troubled too, and there, sitting so handsome and calm in the breezy shade of the trees, was the cause of her troubles.
No, she remonstrated herself, Valentine Windham had not caused her troubles, though he was certainly catalyzing them, and she needed to clear the air with him. He might be angry—he would certainly cease his attentions to her—but that was better than this growing deception between them. She changed direction and met his gaze, approaching his perch with as much resolve as the roiling in her stomach would allow.
Fear was an old, familiar enemy, and since Francis’s death, she’d never really been free of it. It ebbed and flowed, sometimes bad, sometimes worse, and now it had shifted, expanded to include fear for the man she was about to confront. Bad enough she had made such a conscienceless enemy, but at least she could protect this very decent man from harm before he gained an enemy, as well.
“Hello.” She greeted Val and waited for his acknowledgement. He’d been affectionate company when they were private, but almost as if he sensed she’d withheld information from him, he’d also shown her a certain indefinable reserve.
“Hello.” He took her wrist in his hand to tug her down beside him on the bench under Belmont’s spreading oaks. “You are playing truant?”
“It was too hot to nap and I have much on my mind.” Two truths. Ellen told herself it was a good start.
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