“I did, years ago, and not that well. The last baron, that is. The current holder of the title does no credit to his ancestry.”
“I won the place from him in a card game.” Val forced himself to take his gaze from the sight of Ellen laughing at something Day said. “He struck me as a typical young lord, more time on his hands than sense, and ready for any stimulation to distract him from his boredom.”
Sir Dewey cocked his head. “An odd assessment, coming from Moreland’s musical dilettante.”
Val looked over at his companion sharply, only to find guileless blue eyes regarding him steadily. “How is it you come to know of Monday’s mishap?”
Sir Dewey’s attention fell to the pieces on the chessboard, and he was quiet for a long moment before once again meeting Val’s gaze.
“As it happens, the local excuse for a magistrate, Squire Rutland, is off to Brighton with his lady, leaving my humble self to hold the reins in his absence. Mr. Belmont served his turn earlier in the year and is disinclined to serve again. Then too, in the common opinion, I am a retired officer and thus suited to the role of magistrate.”
“Then you have reason to know of our mishap. No doubt you will want to investigate the matter, but I’m going to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“While I am gaining my foothold here in Oxfordshire,” Val said, “I do not use my courtesy title or bruit about my antecedents. I am plain, simple Mr. Valentine Windham, who owns some furniture manufactories and does modestly well as a result.” He picked up a queen, the black one, and studied her. Keyboards were black and white, and if Val were going to accompany this tête-à-tête with Fanning, it would be a piping little piece for fife and drum designed to keep an entire army moving smartly along.
“I own one of your pieces of furniture,” Fanning said, frowning. “Why dissemble when the truth will eventually come out?”
“Have you ever wished you might not be known as the Sir Dewey Fanning who averted wars in India?”
“So you are well informed, too.” Sir Dewey’s gaze went to the chess piece in Val’s hand. “Your brother is Colonel St. Just, correct?”
“I am privileged to answer in the affirmative.”
“I ran into your brother shortly after Waterloo,” Sir Dewey said quietly. “One worried for him.”
Val cocked his head to consider Sir Dewey’s expression and found the soft words bore the stamp of one soldier’s concern for another. “He still has bad days when it rains and thunders, but he’s happily wed now and his countess is expecting a child.”
“That is good news,” Sir Dewey said, smiling at the chessboard. It was a sweet, genuine smile, and as Val put the black queen back down on her home square, he wondered where that smile had been hiding when Ellen was at the table.
“So what do you make of my mishap?”
“Tell me about it, and I’ll share what I know of the local penchant for mischief.” They were more than an hour at it, with Sir Dewey asking thoughtful questions regarding everything from Val’s business competitors to the terms upon which Roxbury had conveyed the property.
“Would you mind if I came over and had a look around?”
“I would not.” Val rose and extended a hand. “Just don’t expect tea and crumpets in the formal parlor, as we’ve no formal parlor worth the name, much less crumpets, much less china to serve them on.”
They parted, and Val went in search of his tenants.
He found five out of the six enjoying a midday meal at the Rooster, the Bragdolls not having come into town for market. The picture Val derived from his interviews with his tenants was not encouraging, and he couldn’t escape the sense they were all talking past him, exchanging glances that suggested he was being humored.
The visit to Cheatham loomed as something Val would see to sooner, not later.
“So what did you learn from the tenants?” Ellen asked, clucking the horses to a sedate trot when they finally headed home.
“My estate is a mess,” Val said. “The rents are collected, but I don’t gather much is done with them. The six farms ought to be run cooperatively, so they all shear together, hay together, and so forth, but I gather it’s pretty much every man for himself. And because improvements and repairs are not the tenants’ job, they don’t marl; they don’t clean out the irrigation ditches; they don’t trade bulls, stallions, or rams; they don’t fallow on any particular schedule; they don’t mend wall on any schedule; and it’s a wonder the land has held up as well as it has.”
“How does a furniture maker know about marling and irrigation and so forth?” Ellen asked, her gaze on the horses’ rumps.
“My father holds a great deal of land.” Val glanced over at her, gauging the impact of his disclosure. “I don’t consider myself sophisticated when it comes to husbanding the land, but I comprehend the basics, and if I don’t step in and do something, I will soon have several thousand acres of tired, unkempt property.”
“You didn’t need this too in addition to all the work to be done on the house.”
Val peeked behind him to make sure Day and Phillip had nodded off. “I can’t help but think your late husband would not have left the place in poor repair.”
“He didn’t,” Ellen said, swatting a fly buzzing near the brim of her straw hat. “But he died five years ago, and in five years, land can suffer considerable neglect.”
“So Frederick kept the rents and did nothing for his tenants?”
“Less than nothing. When they get sufficiently fed up, they’ll all move on.”
They traveled the rest of the way in silence, but when they trotted up the lane, Val saw an order of crushed shells had been delivered and the back terrace all but finished.
“Day and Phil can put the horses up,” Val told Darius. “I’ll walk Ellen back to her cottage, then I can update you on our exciting day in town.”
“Looks like a tiring day in town,” Darius remarked as Day and Phillip yawned and stretched. He swung Ellen down from her perch on the bench and eyed her critically. “Even the indomitable Mrs. Fitz is looking done in, Val. You’ve taken your slave driving a little too seriously today.”
“Have a piece of the raspberry pie I brought home; then pass judgment on me. Ellen?” Val offered her his arm, which she took without protest, and headed with her toward the woods.
“You really ought to be cleaning this wood up,” Ellen observed as they gained the shade of the bridle path.
“I don’t want to.” Val matched his steps to her leisurely pace. “I’m afraid I’ll offend the piskies.”
“It is beautiful, but if you don’t at least cut up some deadwood, these paths will become useless, and the piskies will be the only ones keeping warm in winter. Then too, there are a couple of old pensioners in here who need to be cut down before they topple, and they’re big enough to land on your outbuildings or mine.”
Val stopped and regarded her in the late afternoon light. “I don’t want to disturb the wood because it’s the first place I kissed you. It’s… magical for me, and I don’t want it to change.”
It was an unplanned disclosure, a truth Val himself hadn’t been aware of until he heard the words coming out of his own mouth.
“Magical.” Ellen’s expression shifted between amusement, sadness, and… wistfulness?
“Silly.” Val glanced around self-consciously. “But there it is.” He could still see in his mind’s eye the way two butterflies had danced around in a sunbeam the day he’d first kissed her, not far from where they stood now. At the time, he’d thought the butterflies absurd.
Ellen shook her head. “Not silly. Sentimental, though.”
“I’m going to kiss you again.” He took her hand in his. “Now, in fact.”
He settled his lips over hers gently, just as he’d done a year ago. And now, as then, he took his time deepening the kiss, tasting her, breathing in her fragrance, letting his hands wander over her arms and shoulders and neck, until she was leaning into him and kissing him back.