“I am considering a lady,” the earl replied, scrounging under his bed for the second boot.
“And frowning. What seek you under the bed, Westhaven? The lady?”
“My damned boot,” Westhaven said, extracting the missing footwear. “I sent Stenson off to Brighton with Val, to assure myself some privacy, but the result is I must look after my own effects.” He pulled on the boot, sat back, and smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”
“Val commissioned me to keep an eye on you,” Dev said, plopping down on the end of the bed. “Said he was decoying Stenson, so the state of your health would not become common knowledge in the ducal household.”
“I am still very obviously recovering from the chicken pox,” the earl admitted. “At least, it’s very obvious when I am unclothed; hence, Stenson was sent elsewhere.”
“His Grace came by to interrogate me.” Dev leaned back on his elbows. “Knowing nothing, I could, as usual, divulge nothing. He looked particularly choleric to me, Westhaven. Are you and he at outs?”
“I don’t think he tolerates the heat well,” Westhaven said, glancing around the room for his cravat. He’d ring for his housekeeper, who seemed to know where his clothing got off to better than he did, but with Dev on the bed, that wasn’t an option.
“He’d tolerate the heat better if he unbent a little in his attire,” Dev said. “He was in full regalia at two in the afternoon on a sweltering day. I’m surprised Her Grace lets him go about like that.”
“She chooses her battles,” Westhaven said, spying a clean pair of cravats in his wardrobe. “Do me up, would you? Nothing fancy.” He held up the linen, and Dev rose from the bed.
“So where are you off to? Chinny up.” He whipped the linen into a simple, elegant, and perfectly symmetric knot in moments.
“The wharves, unfortunately,” Westhaven said, now seeking his waistcoat.
“Why unfortunately?” Dev asked, watching his brother root around in the wardrobe.
“The stench in this heat is nigh unbearable,” Westhaven replied, extracting a lightweight green and gold paisley waistcoat from the wardrobe.
“Hadn’t thought of that. And here I thought being the heir was largely a matter of dancing with all the wallflowers and bellowing His Grace into submission every other Tuesday.”
“Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” Westhaven asked, his goal now to locate a suitable pin for his cravat.
“I have lived these thirty and more years,” Dev said, plucking a gold pin from the vanity, “without experiencing the olfactory pleasure of the wharves on an unbearably hot day. We must remedy my ignorance. Hold still.”
He deftly dealt with the cravat and stood back to survey the results.
“You’ll do.” He nodded. “If you attempt to wear your coat before we arrive, I will disown you for lunacy.”
“You can’t disown me. You’ve been formally recognized.”
“Then I’ll tattle to Her Grace,” Dev said, grabbing his own coat, “and tell her you’ve been ill.”
“For God’s sake, Dev.” Westhaven stopped and glared. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Fairly reports that a serious bout of chicken pox in an adult male has been blamed for a loss of reproductive function in rare cases. His Grace will have me stripped and studied within an inch of my most private life.”
“No, he will not. You’ll not allow it, neither will I, neither will Val.”
“I do not put the use of force past him,” Westhaven said as they traversed the house. “You think he appears choleric, Val, and I think he’s become less constrained by appearances.”
“He’s afraid of dying,” Dev suggested, “and he wants his legacy assured. And, possibly, he wants to please Her Grace.”
“Possibly,” Westhaven allowed as they reached the stables. “But enough of that depressing topic. How fares your dear Bridget?”
“Alas.” Dev rolled his eyes. “She has taken me into disfavor or taken another into greater favor.”
“Well, which is it? One wants the dirty details.”
“Unbeknownst to me”—Devlin rolled his sleeve down then right back up—“my Bridget had a potential Mr. Bridget waiting for her in Windsor. One cannot in good conscience thwart the course of true love. She lacked only for a modest dowry.”
“You dowered your doxy, thus proving you are a Windham,” Westhaven said. “Though you do not bear the name, you yet have His Grace’s inability to deal badly with a woman you care for.”
“Perhaps his only redeeming feature,” Dev said. “Hullo, sweetheart.” Morgan was walking out of the stables, a kitten in her hand. She offered them a perfunctory curtsy but went on her way, keeping her customary silence.
“Is she simple?”
“Not in the least.” Westhaven mounted Pericles and waited while Dev used the mounting block in his turn. “She does not speak, or not clearly, and can hear only a little, or so Val says. But she works hard and is a favorite of the older staff. She arrived with my housekeeper several months ago.”
“The one with you at Amery’s?” Dev asked with studied nonchalance.
“The very one.” Westhaven shot him a look that said he wasn’t fooled by Dev’s tone. “What exactly do you want to know that you weren’t able to get out of Val?”
“Where did you find her? I am in the market for same.”
“I lured her to my employ with my endless buckets of charm,” Westhaven said dryly.
“You are charming,” Dev said when they were trotting along. “You just can’t afford to be flirtatious, as well.”
Westhaven aimed a smile at his brother, grateful for the simple understanding and support. His was grateful, as well, for his brother’s continued company throughout the rest of the afternoon, as Dev was well versed in the mechanics of bringing a cargo to or from Ireland, which was the particular focus of Westhaven’s errand.
“I am beyond glad to have that particular situation resolved,” Westhaven said as they trotted into his mews. “I didn’t know you exported your stock to France.”
“Now that the Corsican is properly half a world away, there is a raging demand for horses on the Continent. The French cavalry that galloped off to Moscow in ’12 boasted something like forty thousand horses. As best we can calculate, within a year, there were less than two thousand suitable mounts. If it has four hooves and will take a bridle, I can find a buyer on the Continent.”
“Enterprising of you. What are you doing for dinner?” Westhaven asked as they swung down from their saddles. “In fact, as you are without a housekeeper, what are you doing for the next little while?”
Devlin’s expression closed, but not before the earl saw the shadows clouding his eyes. Dev had been to war and come home, thankfully, but as a veteran of every major battle on the Peninsula, the Hundred Days, and Waterloo itself, Dev had also left pieces of his soul all over the Continent.
“If you’re thinking of a sortie to the Pleasure House,” Devlin said, “I will decline.”
“Not my cup of tea.” Westhaven shook his head. “From what Val tells me, the place has lost a little of its brilliance. I wasn’t suggesting we go carousing, in any case, but rather that you move in with me and Val.”
“Generous of you,” Dev said, pursing his lips in thought. “I have at least three horses needing stabling and regular work if they’re to be sold next spring as finished mounts.”
“We’ve room,” Westhaven said. “I’ll confess to curiosity. Are your beasts so sought after you can live on the proceeds of those sales?”
“Not just those sales,” Dev replied, though it was as personal a question as they’d ever exchanged. “But I’d appreciate having you look over my whole operation sometime, if you’ve a mind to. I am sure, with your more extensive commercial connections, you’ll see efficiencies I’ve overlooked.”
Westhaven glanced over, but Dev was accomplished at keeping his emotions to himself. There was nothing to suggest the idea was anything other than a casual fancy.
“I’d be happy to do that.”
“You might make the same offer to Val, you know,” Dev said as they dismounted. “He imports instruments from all over the Continent and has two different manufactories producing pianos, but he hasn’t wanted to impose on you regarding some of the business questions.”
“Val hasn’t wanted to
Dev met his eye squarely and nodded.
