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.”