The information flowed from His Grace’s fertile brain in a tidy, well-orchestrated presentation, not a note out of place, not a phrase out of balance.
As the candied violets met the same fate as the crème cakes and chocolates, insight struck Valentine Windham with the force of a particularly well-aimed mule kick: His father was a parliamentary prodigy, a political virtuoso whose composition of choice was nothing less than a substantial influence on British affairs in the present age.
The attributes of virtuosity were all there: A towering commitment to the subject of choice; a fluency gained through long, dedicated years of study; and a generosity about sharing the wisdom gained in those years, that came across as nothing less than art.
“There is another favor I would ask of you, Your Grace,” Val heard himself say when the duke’s exposition was complete.
His Grace sat back and grinned at Val over the remains of the tray of sweets. “This is my lucky day. Say on, my boy.” Val explained, the duke laughed softly, nodded, and rose to take his leave.
“Your Grace.” Val paused with his hand on the parlor door. “Why did you object to my interest in music?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You said you had reasons for objecting to my obsession with the piano,” Val reminded him. “Might I know why?”
His Grace frowned mightily. “I could not help you.”
“Could not help me?” What was this? “You made sure I had the best instructors, the best instruments, plenty of opportunity to play with talented ensembles; you talked Her Grace into letting me go to Italy in very uncertain times; you suggested to Kirkland I’d make a decent substitute conductor. How didn’t you help me?”
Until that moment, Val hadn’t for himself admitted how much his father had supported him. He’d attributed those measures to his mother’s influence, but even a duchess had limited reach when it came to matters financial and political.
“Money is not help,” the duke said. “Of course you were going to have the best—you are my son. I would no more allow you to practice on an inferior instrument than I would have sent you to the hunt meet on a lame pony. What I mean is that I could not help you. St. Just and Bart were off to the cavalry, and I certainly had useful advice for them both and enough influence that they didn’t end up going directly to the worst of the fighting. Gayle is the family merchant, meaning no disrespect, and I’ve seen enough business transacted I can chime in knowledgeably from time to time if he asks for an opinion. Victor loved the social and political scene, and I’ve decades running tame through those halls. I had the perfect pocket borough picked out for him.
“But you… When you sat down on that piano bench, I felt as if you were alone in a little rowboat, no oars, no rudder, just waves and weather all around you, and I had no way to swim out and keep you safe. I know nothing about music—not one damned thing beyond ‘God Save the King,’ to which, mind you, I mostly just move my lips. I often wondered though, if you didn’t choose music for that reason.”
“What reason?”
“You did not want to be like me,” His Grace said simply. “So you went where I could not follow. Not the least subtle, but appallingly effective. Fortunately, your mother could keep her eye on you, but it hasn’t been easy, Valentine. But then, few efforts worth undertaking are, or so your mother has told me on many occasions, generally when the topic is her enduring devotion to me.”
“Few efforts worth undertaking are easy,” Val agreed, understanding perfectly where he’d gotten his determination and his willingness to maneuver boldly with little thought to the consequences.
“And hasn’t this been the most interesting little chat?” The duke smiled at his son. “So how’s the hand? And I will not peach on you to your mother.”
“Better.” Val held up his left hand and flexed it. “Much, much better. I just have to pace myself with it now.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m working on a little project. Would you like to see it?”
“D’you think Worthington’s staff is up to putting us together an actual meal?” His Grace tried to look indifferent, but his eyes gleamed like those of a man who’d waited nigh thirty years for his baby boy to invite Papa to see his toys.
“Beef roast is on for this evening. We can take trays in the music room, if you like.”
“Well, why not? The rain might eventually let up, and I’ve always wondered whether Fairly has naked cupids plastered on every ceiling of his residence.”
“Just in the bathing room,” Val allowed, straight-faced.
“Don’t suppose…?” His Grace let the thought trail off.
“Of course,” Val replied, smiling openly now. “And then to the music room.”
Ellen was using the last of a pretty afternoon to separate a bed of irises along her springhouse—staying busy was supposed to help her forget a certain green-eyed, handsome man with talented hands, a beautiful voice, and a stubborn streak worthy of a duke. A man who dwelled in her heart, just as she lived under the roof he’d provided.
The extra iris roots were, of course, saleable, but she’d had good markets over the entire summer and had no real need of additional coin.
Val had seen to that.
“Lady Roxbury?”
The voice, so like Val’s, caused her heart to skip a beat, but as she raised her hand to shield her view from the sun, her caller’s face and form registered, as well. For an instant—a joyful, unbelievable instant—she thought it was Val, but then her senses took in the different muscling, the lighter hair, the more austere cast to the features.
“Lord Westhaven.” It had to be he, for he’d sent along a little warning note two days previous. Ellen was faced with having to rise so she could curtsey. Westhaven surprised her utterly by dropping to his knees beside her.
He nodded at the flowerbed. “Irises, I’m guessing. Can you spare a few? My wife and her grandmother adore them, and our house is not yet landscaped. Anna wants to do it herself, but there just hasn’t been time this summer.”
“You have a new baby, don’t you? They can be very demanding, and of course I have more than enough here to send some along to your countess.”
He asked her to show him how to separate the roots and soon had Ellen chatting about bulbs and tubers and offering to send some of the daffodils she’d separated, as well. She invited him in to tea, surprised at how comfortably the time had passed.
He was a less vibrant version of Valentine but a man Ellen felt an inherent ability to trust. He had Val’s instinctive sense of timing, too, as he steered her deftly but unerringly back to innocuous topics until the tea tray was delivered and the door to the parlor closed by the departing maid.
“How do you like your tea, my lord?”
“Later,” Westhaven said quietly. “I like my tea later, though feel free to indulge if you’re inclined. I think you’d rather hear what I came to say, though.”
“I would.” Ellen agreed, setting the pot down. “Or I hope I would.”
“He loves you, you know.” The earl frowned at her, an expression of considerable displeasure. “Valentine does. He hasn’t said that to me, but I am to note your dress, your appearance, any evidence of ill health or poor spirits. I am to question the help while I’m here and wangle an invitation to spend the night—propriety and my countess’s sensibilities be hanged—so I might reassure my brother the doors are conscientiously locked every night and the halls patrolled by a footman until dawn, and on and on.”