“The one with you at Amery’s?” Dev asked with studied nonchalance.
“The very one.” Westhaven shot him a look that said he wasn’t fooled by Dev’s tone. “What exactly do you want to know that you weren’t able to get out of Val?”
“Where did you find her? I am in the market for same.”
“I lured her to my employ with my endless buckets of charm,” Westhaven said dryly.
“You are charming,” Dev said when they were trotting along. “You just can’t afford to be flirtatious, as well.”
Westhaven aimed a smile at his brother, grateful for the simple understanding and support. His was grateful, as well, for his brother’s continued company throughout the rest of the afternoon, as Dev was well versed in the mechanics of bringing a cargo to or from Ireland, which was the particular focus of Westhaven’s errand.
“I am beyond glad to have that particular situation resolved,” Westhaven said as they trotted into his mews. “I didn’t know you exported your stock to France.”
“Now that the Corsican is properly half a world away, there is a raging demand for horses on the Continent. The French cavalry that galloped off to Moscow in ’12 boasted something like forty thousand horses. As best we can calculate, within a year, there were less than two thousand suitable mounts. If it has four hooves and will take a bridle, I can find a buyer on the Continent.”
“Enterprising of you. What are you doing for dinner?” Westhaven asked as they swung down from their saddles. “In fact, as you are without a housekeeper, what are you doing for the next little while?”
Devlin’s expression closed, but not before the earl saw the shadows clouding his eyes. Dev had been to war and come home, thankfully, but as a veteran of every major battle on the Peninsula, the Hundred Days, and Waterloo itself, Dev had also left pieces of his soul all over the Continent.
“If you’re thinking of a sortie to the Pleasure House,” Devlin said, “I will decline.”
“Not my cup of tea.” Westhaven shook his head. “From what Val tells me, the place has lost a little of its brilliance. I wasn’t suggesting we go carousing, in any case, but rather that you move in with me and Val.”
“Generous of you,” Dev said, pursing his lips in thought. “I have at least three horses needing stabling and regular work if they’re to be sold next spring as finished mounts.”
“We’ve room,” Westhaven said. “I’ll confess to curiosity. Are your beasts so sought after you can live on the proceeds of those sales?”
“Not just those sales,” Dev replied, though it was as personal a question as they’d ever exchanged. “But I’d appreciate having you look over my whole operation sometime, if you’ve a mind to. I am sure, with your more extensive commercial connections, you’ll see efficiencies I’ve overlooked.”
Westhaven glanced over, but Dev was accomplished at keeping his emotions to himself. There was nothing to suggest the idea was anything other than a casual fancy.
“I’d be happy to do that.”
“You might make the same offer to Val, you know,” Dev said as they dismounted. “He imports instruments from all over the Continent and has two different manufactories producing pianos, but he hasn’t wanted to impose on you regarding some of the business questions.”
“Val hasn’t wanted to impose on me? And you, Dev? Have you also not wanted to impose on me?”
Dev met his eye squarely and nodded.
“We do not envy you your burdens. We would not add to them.”
“I see,” Westhaven muttered, scowling. “And is that all you have to offer me? Burdens? Were you not more knowledgeable than I regarding the harbor at Rosslare? The packet schedule to Calais?”
“Westhaven, we think to spare you, not add to your load.”
“My lord?” Anna Seaton stood to one side, her silly cap covering her glorious hair, her demeanor tentative, and it was a measure of the earl’s consternation with his brothers he hadn’t noticed her on the terrace.
“Mrs. Seaton.” Westhaven smiled at her. “May I make known to you my dear brother, Devlin St. Just. St. Just, my housekeeper, florist, and occasional nurse, Mrs. Anna Seaton.”
“My lord.” Anna bobbed a curtsy while St. Just bowed and offered a slight, not quite warm smile.
“I am hardly a lord, Mrs. Seaton, being born on the wrong side of the ducal blanket, but I am acknowledged, thanks to Her Grace.”
“And I have offered him a place in my household,” Westhaven said, meeting his brother’s eye, “if he will have it.”
A beat of silence went by, rife with undercurrents. “He will have it,” Dev said on a grin, “until you toss me out.”
“Val’s playing might take some getting used to,” Westhaven cautioned, “but Mrs. Seaton takes the best of care of us, even in this god-awful heat.”
“Speaking of Lord Valentine?” Anna chimed in.
“Yes?” Westhaven handed off Pericles to the groom and cocked an eyebrow. The cap was more atrocious than silly, he saw, and Anna seemed tense.
“He writes he will be back from Brighton tomorrow,” Anna said, “and warns you might need to have some other task arranged for Mr. Stenson.”
“I’ll take over Stenson,” Dev said. “My former housekeeper had no skill with a needle, so Mr. Stenson can be set to looking after my wardrobe for at least the next few days.”
“That will help. Was there something further, Anna?”
“I assume dinner will be for two, my lord, and on the terrace?”
“That will do, and some lemonade while we wait for our victuals, I think. Which bedroom shall we put my brother in?”
“There is only the one remaining at the back of the house, my lord. We have time to ready it before this evening.”
He nodded, dismissing her but unable to take his eyes off her retreating figure until she was back through the garden gate. When he turned back to his brother, Westhaven found Dev eying him curiously.
“What?”
“Marry her,” Dev said flatly. “She’s too pretty to be a housekeeper and too well spoken to be a doxy. She won’t be cowed by His Grace, and she’ll keep you in fresh linens and good food all your days.”
“Dev?” Westhaven cocked his head. “Are you serious?”
“I am. You have to marry, Westhaven. I would spare you that if I could, but there it is. This one will do admirably, and she’s better bred than the average housekeeper, I can tell you that.”
“How can you tell me that?”
“Her height for one thing,” Dev said as they made for the house. “The peasantry are rarely tall, and they never have such good teeth. Her diction is flawless, not simply adequate. Her skin is that of lady, as are her manners. And look at her hands, man. It remains true you can tell a lady by her hands, and those are the hands of a lady.”
Westhaven frowned, saying nothing. Those were the very observations he had made of Anna while they rusticated at Amery’s. She was a lady, for all her wielding of dusters and wearing of caps.
“And yet she says her grandfather was in trade,” Westhaven noted when they arrived to the kitchen. “He raised flowers commercially, and she bouquets the house with a vengeance. We’re also boasting a very well-stocked pantry and a supply of marzipan for me. The sweet of your choice will be stocked, as well, as I won’t take kindly to your pinching mine.”
“Heaven forefend,” Dev muttered as Westhaven procured a fistful of cookies.
“We are permitted to spoil our dinner, as well,” Westhaven said. “Grab the pitcher, the sugar bowl, and two glasses.”
Dev did as bid and followed his brother back onto the shady back terrace. Westhaven poured them both a tall glass of lemonade, adding liberal amounts of sugar to his own.