“Your Grace.” Val bowed politely. “You are looking well.” His father looked ever the same—tall, lean, blue-eyed, with a thick mane of white hair, his ensemble impeccable even in the middle of a wet and chilly fall day.
“I am looking old,” the duke shot back, “and tired. I trust you are well?”
“You may tell Her Grace that I thrive,” Val said with a small smile. “Shall we sit?”
“Of course.” His Grace plopped onto a pretty little chintz sofa, one likely reflective of Letty’s influence. “Too deuced miserable to stand around nattering. When will you come see your mother?”
“I did visit Morelands several weeks ago.”
“And you haven’t since,” the duke retorted. “And what kind of visit was that? You spent one night, and then off again to see Bellefonte, and then it’s back to London—and in this bloody raw weather, Valentine?”
“Bellefonte is a very good friend,” Val said, grateful for the interruption of the tea tray. “Now, there’s hot tea, and by purest coincidence, a few crème cakes. I’m not sure how many are on the tray, so I couldn’t possibly report to Her Grace how many you ate.”
The duke’s blue eyes warmed with humor. “Smart lad.”
“Tea or something stronger?”
“Tea with lots of sugar and a dash of whiskey, though the whiskey we’ll find here is probably too fine to deserve such a fate.”
“Fairly’s cellars are to be envied, but you didn’t brave London in this rain to discuss whiskey.”
“I most assuredly did not,” His Grace replied, arranging three cakes on a small plate—it would not hold more. “I got your letters.”
Val sipped his tea—his undoctored tea—and merely raised an eyebrow.
“Took a while.” His Grace demolished a cake in two bites. “Summer, you know, people are rusticating and off to fornicate their way through various house parties. You cannot know how relieved I am Her Grace did not indulge in that folly this year at Morelands.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t left for Yorkshire yet. A new granddaughter must have her in alt.”
“We are pleased.” The duke’s eyes twinkled as he appropriated the royal first person plural. “But we are also getting appallingly old, and St. Just, canny fellow, has hinted he might bring Emmie, Winnie, and the baby south for the winter. Her Grace and I would rather see that—so the entire family can then enjoy St. Just’s visit—than we would like to make a progress of hundreds of miles.”
“I can’t blame you. I’d love to see St. Just again, as well as Win and Emmie, but I am not inclined to make that journey now.”
The duke shrugged, piling more cakes on his now-empty plate. “St. Just is an old campaigner. He’s used to haring about and will probably need to do a fair amount of it for the next few years. His countess comprehends this. Excellent cakes, by the way.”
“I’ll pass your compliments along to the cook.” As long as the sweets held up, it appeared he and his father were going to have a civil visit. “So what do we hear from Gayle and Anna?”
“Not much.” The duke smiled fondly. “My heir is running them ragged, of course. He’ll have his papa’s height, that one. Esther thinks he’ll have her green eyes. But back to your letters. Let’s have a spot more libation, first though, but easy on the tea.”
Val got up, crossed to the decanter, and poured his father two neat fingers.
“Jesus in the manger.” His Grace closed his eyes. “That is decent. That is damned decent. You should enjoy some before you’ve a wife about to begrudge you every pleasure a man holds dear.” His Grace smiled at his tumbler. “Almost every pleasure. My thanks. I always told Her Grace you were too smart to waste your life on a piano bench.”
Val winced—then wanted to wince again because he’d let his appearance of indifference visibly slip. Never well advised, that.
“Oh, for God’s sake, boy.” His Grace set the tumbler down hard. “I pay you a compliment, and you cringe as if I meant it as an insult.” His lips pursed, and he regarded his youngest son while Val stood, half-facing the window overlooking the gardens. “My lack of enthusiasm for your devotion to music was based on reasons, young man, though I don’t suppose much of that matters now. If we’re to have a tête-à-tête over your situation with Roxbury, can’t you at least ring for a little more sustenance?”
Val went to the door and spoke to the footmen. The cakes arrived, along with a selection of chocolates, some marzipan, and some candied violets, and all before His Grace could resurrect the familiar lament over Valentine’s devotion to musical endeavors.
“This is what your mother would call hospitality.” His Grace’s eyes lit up at the sight of the tray. “Now, where were we?”
Val resumed his seat. “Try the violets; they’re St. Just’s favorite.”
“Ah, yes!” His Grace paused in midreach. “That reminds me, as St. Just was most concerned for you in his recent letter. A girl—can you believe it?” His Grace was smiling beatifically. “But as to your letter, here’s what we’ve got.”
He popped some violets into his mouth before going on.
“Bad piece of work.” The duke shook his head. “This Markham fellow is a veritable bird-dropping on the family escutcheon, not at all like his cousin. I knew the previous baron, and he was young but sensible and could be trusted to vote his party’s position unless he had a damned good and well-stated reason to the contrary. Everybody respects that.”
“But the present baron?” Val pressed, forcing himself to attend this topic and not the question His Grace had left dangling in Val’s mind.
His Grace sat back, his expression no longer jovial or paternal in the least. “In the last session, the dirty little rodent sold his vote at least six times.”
“This is not good?”
“This is not good,” the duke said patiently. “The vote is a sacred trust, rather the petite version of the divine right of kings, something given to a man from a much greater power, call it God or the realm or what you will. You trade your vote, of course, judiciously, to gain something of value by giving away something of lesser value, but you do not accept money for your vote.”
“Bad ton?” Val hazarded, as the distinction seemed pretty fine to him.
“Criminally bad ton,” His Grace clarified, “if blatant enough. It implicates both the one selling his vote and the one buying it. Of course, there will be layers of intermediaries in most cases, but Roxbury got himself indebted with the very worst sorts of people, so he was sloppy, and thus left an easy trail to uncover. Corrupt and stupid, never a pretty combination.”
“You have signed statements?”
“Oh, of course.” The duke’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “And not just from the usual unsavory characters but from the bankers and other MPs Roxbury approached about selling their votes, as well.”
“Members of Parliament would testify against him?” Val sat back, relieved beyond telling. And Ellen thought the man was so damned powerful.
“Of course.” The duke cocked his head. “One always wants to appear to be on the side of crusading justice. Shall I explain the documents to you?”
“If you would.” Val nodded, for the first time feeling justified in his hopes.
What followed was something Val could think of only as an etude in parliamentary politics. His Grace patiently elucidated the particulars of six different bills, their strengths and weaknesses, the reasons various factions were in support of them and various other factions were not. The duke described convoluted committee structures and the channels through which Freddy had approached various MPs and committee chairs. While Val tried to concentrate on the ramifications of Freddy’s behavior, His Grace casually enumerated the consequences of each bill being passed or not passed into law, being amended in this or that detail, being sent back to committee for further drafting, or being otherwise modified to suit some particular interest or industry.