The truth of them.
Val gently pushed her head back to his shoulder. “That’s putting it plain enough.” Reassuringly plain.
As they sat in silence, he savored her confession, more glad to hear it than he would have admitted. The money she’d kept was troubling, but it was legally hers, and in her shoes he might have done likewise. Her reticence about it was more troubling still, but in truth he’d been at the estate just about a month.
There were things it had taken his brothers years to confide in him—and he hadn’t been hiding his ducal affiliations from them at the time. That was a sobering, lust-inhibiting thought, thank God. It inspired him to an additional exercise in honesty. “We do have another problem.”
She remained resting against him, a comfort thrown into higher relief by all their guarded honesties. “What problem is that?”
Val’s hand closed over her fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips then pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.
“I should say”—he let out a quiet, tired sigh—“I have a greater problem, as it might be me somebody is hoping to kill.”
Monday morning came around foggy, damp, and chilly. The wagon was again loaded with food, amenities, more food, and a few books, all carefully stowed under tarpaulins.
As were the firearms and ammunition obligingly sent along with the other provisions, the spyglass, and the antique crossbow Day and Phillip’s maternal grandfather had willed to them.
Day and Phillip were dozing in the back, and Abby was making her farewells to Ellen at the wagon. St. Just, however, was checking the girth on his gelding.
“Are we too early for your groom?” Val asked Axel as they watched St. Just adjusting stirrup leathers.
“I sent him off Saturday night on some errands. He should be back posthaste.”
Val glanced at the wagon to see Abby was hugging Ellen, something that hadn’t happened the previous week. “I wish Ellen would stay with you.”
“I thought we agreed we’d stick as much to routine as possible, and that means Mrs. FitzEngle goes back to weeding her petunias and you go back to slave driving.”
“I don’t like it.”
“St. Just will watch your back,” Axel reminded him. “Sir Dewey will drop by, as well. Then too, I’ll be coming around by midweek, and we’ve got the solicitors on the alert in case anybody’s asking questions about the place.”
By means of the post, Val had actually gone further than that but would keep the details of his own tactics private for now. “I guess we’ll see you next week, then, if not before.”
“Before,” Axel assured him then glanced at the sky. “Weather permitting.”
“Right.” Val turned to walk back to the wagon, only to be spun by a hand on his arm—his left arm—and wrapped in a hug.
“Safe journey.” Axel smacked Val once between the shoulder blades and let him go. “You might beat the rain.”
Val climbed up beside Ellen, took the reins in his gloved hands, signaled to St. Just, and urged the team forward. St. Just went ahead to avoid the wagon’s dust, letting the gelding stretch its legs, before also dropping into a relaxed trot. He would have missed the turn up the lane to Val’s property if not for Val’s shout and wave at the estate gates.
“According to Belmont, you’ve gotten a lot done,” St. Just remarked, peering around assessingly as they gained the stable yard. “And in a short time. Best be hiring some staff.”
Val shook his head as he climbed down. “Not yet. The interior has a long way to go, as do the grounds and farms.”
“And he insists,” Ellen said, “on doing most of it himself.” She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Wake up, boys. Your palace awaits.”
“Is it lunchtime?” Day asked, sitting up and peering around.
“It’s unload-the-wagon-and-put-up-the-team time,” Val replied, “and we need to hurry if we’re not to get soaked.”
“Come, me hearties.” St. Just winked at Day and Phil. “We’d best unload our contraband before the excise men come around.”
Val reached up to swing Ellen to the ground. “I’ll be seeing you safely home, and my first priority is installing some locks on your doors.” Ellen merely nodded, retrieving a wicker basket and falling in step beside Val. “What is in that little basket, Mrs. FitzEngle?”
“Apple tarts. Your brother was showing Mrs. Stoneleigh how to make them, and she insisted on sending some home with me, as did your brother.”
“One can never have too many apple tarts in one’s larder,” Val said as they ambled through the wood. “At least if St. Just made them. I hurried through breakfast, so perhaps you’ll save me one when I’m done fitting locks on your doors?”
“Of course.”
Val glanced over at her, wishing he had a hand free to hold hers, but he was toting both her traveling satchel and a toolbox. “I feel as if for all we’ve been plotting and planning this weekend, for all that you and I have cleared the air regarding the rents, we’re still left with a distance between us.”
“Knowing somebody is contemplating arson, at least, and more likely murder, leaves me preoccupied. Mr. Windham.”
“I am sorry,” Val said as they reached her back porch.
“Sorry?”
“I’ve brought this trouble to you,” he said, pushing the door open for her. “You were safe and content here, then I go tearing up your peace, and now you are afraid for your own safety. When we find out who’s behind this, I will hold him accountable for that more than anything.”
“Come in,” Ellen said, stepping back into her kitchen, “and welcome. I don’t believe you’ve been inside before.”
“Except to put Sleeping Beauty to bed in the dark of night.” Val smiled slightly, glancing around. “This is like you. Pretty, tidy, organized, and yet not quite the expected.”
The dominant feature was the large fieldstone hearth, raised to allow feet to be propped on it, socks dried, or water heated. Two insets in the stonework sat ready for dutch ovens or warming pans, and a sturdy potswing held a cast iron cook pot. For those times of year when the fireplace would not be used, a small cast-iron stove stood in a corner of the kitchen opposite the sink. The fireplace opened on two sides, both on the kitchen cum sitting room, and on the bedroom behind it.
There were sachets and scent bowls in corners and on end tables, giving the whole cottage a fresh, floral air.
Ellen stood in her kitchen, arms crossed. “Well?”
“May I peek at your bedroom?”
The room was light and airy with only sheer curtains over the window, and a breeze coming in to flutter those. A shelf built over the bed held books, a wardrobe contained Ellen’s dresses and shoes, and a chest of cedar at the foot of the bed likely her more delicate apparel. The bed, wardrobe, and shelf were pine, a pedestrian wood, but light in color and pretty to the eye.
And the bed… It was probably intended to be a canopy, but stood without the hangings, covered by a worn white quilt gone soft and thin with age. Val entered the room only far enough to stroke a hand over the quilt and inhale the lavender scent of the bed linens.
“Lovely.”
“Humble,” Ellen countered, standing beside him and gazing down at her bed. “It was a guest room set that was being moved up to the servant’s wing at Roxbury. I appropriated it and did not ask permission.”
“It’s pretty and sensible.” Val left off inspecting her personal space and met her gaze. “Like you, and if we don’t leave this room right now, Ellen FitzEngle, I’m going to want you in that bed, naked and panting my name while I make you come so hard you can’t see.”