“Another bad hay year,” Nick said, “and you’d lose your tenants.”
“If our culprit is Freddy Markham,” Val said, and there was little if about it, “then he has no more sense of the hay crop than he does of the roster at Almack’s. A collapsed barn is simply trouble, requiring coin to repair, as far as he’s concerned. He wouldn’t think about the loss of a few peasant lives or driving people off their land.”
“A treasure,” Nick said. “A real treasure, and you think he’s been plaguing you all along?”
“I do, though I want to know why. He was hardly likely to invest anything in this estate, and he walked away with half a sizeable kitty instead.”
“All this drama has worked up my appetite.” Nick sauntered back into the barn, retrieved the food and the bottle, and passed it to Darius. “Let’s take this to some safe, shady tree and finish our meal in peace. But where do you go from here, Val?”
“I’ve already sent an invitation to Freddy to join me as my first house guest at my country retreat.” They settled in the grass, Val’s back resting against the tree. “I’ve warned Sir Dewey what I’m about, and he doesn’t endorse it, but neither can he stop me.”
“Did you tell him what happened to Ellen’s cottage?” Darius asked.
“Sent the note yesterday, and we should expect Freddy to call next Wednesday.”
“When Ellen’s at market,” Darius said. “You won’t tell her he’s visiting? Are you going to tell her the bastard almost dropped a barn on the three of us and two splendid horses?”
“Here, here,” Nick chimed in around a bite of sandwich.
“I will tell her about the barn, and I think we need to tell the heathen, as well,” Val said, “but she isn’t to know Freddy’s coming.”
“I can take her to Kent,” Nick reminded Val, “or to the London town house, or even to Candlewick.”
“She’ll know something’s afoot,” Val countered. “And if she bolts, that might tip my hand to Freddy. The gossip mill in Little Weldon turns on a greased wheel, and I’m convinced somebody is feeding Freddy information.”
“And they may not even know they’re passing along anything of merit,” Darius said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“I’ll tell you something of merit.” Nick lay back and rested his head on Val’s thigh. “A nap is very meritorious right now, but maybe another medicinal tot of that bottle first, Dare.” He waggled long fingers, closed his eyes, and took a swig.
“Right.” Darius stretched out, using the food sack as his pillow. “A nap is just the thing.”
Val sat between them, Nick’s head weighting his thigh, an odd warmth blooming in his chest. They’d just risked their lives for him, these two. And now, like loyal dogs, they were stretched out around him, dozing lazily until the next threat loomed. It was a peculiar silver lining, when the threat of death brought with it the unequivocal assurance one was well loved.
Hawthorne Bragdoll sat in his favorite thinking tree and considered the scene he’d just witnessed at the hay barn. The damned building had all but collapsed, held up only by the blond giant—a bloody earl, that one—and Mr. Windham. Windham was big, and gone all ropey and lean with muscle, but that blond fellow—he was something out of a traveling circus, a strong man or a giant, maybe. He put Thorn in mind of Vikings, for all the man did smile.
Especially at women.
Neal had been in a swivet when that tart of his, Louise, had smiled back at the giant. Poor Neal didn’t know Louise Hackett’s mouth did much worse than smile at the occasional handsome, well-heeled fellow, but Thorn didn’t begrudge her the extra coin. Times were hard, and for serving maids and yeomen, they were always going to be hard. Still, coin for services was a long way from this bloody-minded mischief.
Intent on avoiding all the clearing work to be done on Sunday, Thorne had repaired to his second favorite thinking tree in the home wood, only to see a gangling, pot-gutted, nattering dandy strutting around a half-fallen tree right beside Mrs. FitzEngle’s cottage. While Thorn watched in horrified amazement, the dandy had ordered Hiram Hackett and his dimwitted brother Dervid to saw the tree so it fell on the widow’s cottage.
A few weeks earlier, Thorn had seen Hiram and Dervid making trip after trip into the manor house, each time carrying a load of lumber scraps and other tinder. They’d hauled in a couple cans of lamp oil too, and Thorn had been sure he was about to be treated to the sight of the biggest bonfire since the burning of London.
He’d kept his peace, as the house was empty, and Windham was not his friend or his family. But purposely crashing a tree into the widow’s only home…
That, Thorn concluded, was just rotten, even by his very tolerant standards. Mrs. Fitz was an outcast, like Thorn, and he sensed she was a cut above her neighbors, something that won her Thorn’s limited sympathy. Thorn had no sisters, but he had a mother, and someday, given his pa’s fondness for the bottle, his mother would likely be widowed.
And if anybody had dropped a damned tree on his mother’s house… Thorn clenched his fists in imagined rage and then settled back into his tree to do some more thinking.
“Now this is interesting.” Freddy Markham picked up the sole epistle gracing the salver in the breakfast parlor of his London town house. The bills and duns were carefully separated out before he came down each morning, leaving the invitations, or invitation, as the case was, for his perusal over tea, while the less-appetizing correspondence awaited his eventual displeasure in the library.
“My lord?” Stanwick’s tone was deferential, though his eyes were full of a long-suffering, probably related to the tardiness of his wages. The man had no grasp of the strictures of a gentlemanly existence.
“I am invited to be the luncheon guest of Lord Valentine Windham that I might see what progress he’s made with the old estate out by Little Weldon.” Freddy kept the glee from his voice—it didn’t do to show emotion before the lower orders.
“And will you be going, my lord?” Stanwick politely inquired as he prepared Freddy’s cup of tea.
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be taking the curricle, weather permitting, because I don’t want to malinger there. I’ll just tip my hat, wish the man well, and spend a couple nights in Oxford.” With the scholars on summer holiday, the usual bevy of willing women would be more than happy for his custom, come to think of it.
“When shall I have you packed, my lord?”
“The invite is for Wednesday next, so I’ll depart Monday.” Freddy tapped the invitation against his lips. “I say, Stanwick, since when did we stop serving biscuits with our tea? A man could get more than a bit peckish‚ and me a lord of the realm.”
“I’ll see what the kitchen has to offer, my lord.”
Freddy watched him go, confident some sustenance would be forthcoming despite the deplorable impatience of the trades regarding payment of their bills. Good servants understood that a lord of the realm was above such things, and so food would continue to materialize on his table.
He was almost sure of it.
Given the last weekend’s mischief, Val decided he would remain on his estate that weekend. He urged Ellen, Nick, Darius, and the boys to vacate, and offered to hire the Bragdolls to patrol the grounds, but only Darius agreed to go.
And what errands he saw to in London, neither Nick nor Val wanted to ask.
To Val’s surprise, Axel and Abby Belmont decided to come for a visit on Saturday, the stated purpose being for Axel to lend his eye and hand to the addition on Ellen’s cottage—the unstated purpose no doubt being for the man simply to see his sons.