Val thoroughly about the “slight mishap” when they were next private. She’d taken the lane rather than the bridle path to her property, and thus she approached her cottage from the front. As a consequence, she spied for the first time the little pot of pennyroyal on her front steps.
As she yanked the plant from its pot and tossed it on her compost heap, outrage warred with panic. The plant’s presence suggested to her just who might have caused the slates to fall from Valentine Windham’s roof.
Surely she was jumping to an unwarranted conclusion. Not even Freddy would be so stupid as to create havoc like that and leave his damned pennyroyal on her front step like a calling card.
Or would he?
“I notice Mrs. FitzEngle does a brisk business.” Val peered at his mug of summer ale as if it held the answers to imponderable mysteries. “Is she really so dependent on her sales? The property seems prosperous, at least her little corner of it.”
“If you want to know about your tenants’ finances,” Rafe, the bartender and coproprietor of The Tired Rooster said, “you’d best be looking in on Mr. Cheatham. He was the late baron’s solicitor, up in Great Weldon. He’d likely know who’s up to date on the rents, since he handles the banking for most around this part of the shire.”
“Cheatham. Good to know.” Val watched for a moment as Rafe, apron tied over his potbelly, continued to scrub at the gleaming wood.
“I’ll tell you something else good to know.” Rafe’s rag stopped its polishing of the scarred bar. “Them Bragdolls are hard workers, make no mistake, but they work your home farm, and I don’t think they quite have Mrs. Fitz’s permission to do that.”
“Mrs. Fitz?” Val raised an eyebrow and let the silence grow.
“Cheatham comes in for his pint now and again. I know how to keep my mouth shut, contrary to what you might think. Talk to Cheatham.”
“Believe I will,” Val said, finishing his ale. “Save me an entire fruit pie, and I don’t care what you charge me for it.”
“A whole entire pie.” Rafe nodded, good cheer abruptly wreathing his cherubic countenance. “For growing boys and strappin’ lads.”
Val walked out of the tavern into the hurly-burly of a small town on a pretty market day, trying to puzzle out what Rafe had been telling him. Clearly, a visit to Cheatham was in order, but Rafe had almost admitted Ellen had some sort of claim on the land as well.
“I see your goods are disappearing quickly,” Val remarked as he approached Ellen’s wagon where it was parked on the green. “Can you take a break? I’ll have Rafe pull you a lady’s pint.”
“We can manage,” Dayton volunteered. “Can’t we, Phil?”
“We’ll guard your flowers with our lives,” Phil assured her. “Now that Sir Dewey has fortified us with raspberry scones.”
“Sir Dewey?” Val asked.
“John Dewey Fanning. He’s over there.” Ellen gestured with her chin. “Playing chess with Tilden between Rafe’s interruptions. Why?”
“He might have served with my oldest brother. You’ll introduce us?”
“I can.” Though she did not sound enthusiastic about it.
By the time they retrieved a pint for Ellen, Sir Dewey was alone at the chessboard.
“Valentine Windham.” Val introduced himself, though in all propriety, Ellen or even Tilden should have made the introductions. “At your service and overdue to make your acquaintance. I believe we are neighbors.”
Sir Dewey’s smile took in both Val and Ellen. “My good fortune, then. Axel Belmont warned me the Markham place was being refurbished. Here.” Sir Dewey appropriated a spare chair and set it down between the other two. “Shall we sit while you tell me how your progress fares at the Markham estate?”
Fanning was probably five years Val’s senior, tall, blond, and a little weathered, which made his blue eyes look brilliant. He was genial enough, but beneath his country-squire manners, he had a certain watchful reserve, even when he turned to address Ellen.
“Your late husband would have been pleased to see the progress on the estate, I believe.” In the beat of silence following Sir Dewey’s pronouncement, Ellen wasn’t quick enough to hide her surprise from Val.
“You knew my late husband?”
“His term at university overlapped my cousin Denham’s by a year, and Denham and I are very cordial, as were Denham and the baron. By the time I returned from India, Baron Roxbury had gone to his reward. I am remiss for not calling on you.” He shifted his gaze to Val. “Heard you had a bit of mishap on Monday.”
“If you gentlemen will excuse me.” Ellen smiled at them briefly before passing Val her half-empty mug. “I see the boys are in need of assistance and will return to my post.”
“You are fortunate in your immediate neighbors,” Sir Dewey remarked as both men rose to watch Ellen’s retreat. “She’s as pretty as the flowers she grows.”
“Gallantly said,” Val allowed, resuming his seat. “Though I gather you hadn’t previously mentioned her marriage to Roxbury.”
Sir Dewey continued to watch Ellen across the way. “Had she indicated she wanted it acknowledged, I might have taken that for a social overture, but she hasn’t.”
Val watched her as well. “You knew Roxbury?”
“I did, years ago, and not that well. The last baron, that is. The current holder of the title does no credit to his ancestry.”
“I won the place from him in a card game.” Val forced himself to take his gaze from the sight of Ellen laughing at something Day said. “He struck me as a typical young lord, more time on his hands than sense, and ready for any stimulation to distract him from his boredom.”
Sir Dewey cocked his head. “An odd assessment, coming from Moreland’s musical dilettante.”
Val looked over at his companion sharply, only to find guileless blue eyes regarding him steadily. “How is it you come to know of Monday’s mishap?”
Sir Dewey’s attention fell to the pieces on the chessboard, and he was quiet for a long moment before once again meeting Val’s gaze.
“As it happens, the local excuse for a magistrate, Squire Rutland, is off to Brighton with his lady, leaving my humble self to hold the reins in his absence. Mr. Belmont served his turn earlier in the year and is disinclined to serve again. Then too, in the common opinion, I am a retired officer and thus suited to the role of magistrate.”
“Then you have reason to know of our mishap. No doubt you will want to investigate the matter, but I’m going to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“While I am gaining my foothold here in Oxfordshire,” Val said, “I do not use my courtesy title or bruit about my antecedents. I am plain, simple Mr. Valentine Windham, who owns some furniture manufactories and does modestly well as a result.” He picked up a queen, the black one, and studied her. Keyboards were black and white, and if Val were going to accompany this tete-a-tete with Fanning, it would be a piping little piece for fife and drum designed to keep an entire army moving smartly along.
“I own one of your pieces of furniture,” Fanning said, frowning. “Why dissemble when the truth will eventually come out?”
“Have you ever wished you might not be known as the Sir Dewey Fanning who averted wars in India?”
“So you are well informed, too.” Sir Dewey’s gaze went to the chess piece in Val’s hand. “Your brother is Colonel St. Just, correct?”
“I am privileged to answer in the affirmative.”
“I ran into your brother shortly after Waterloo,” Sir Dewey said quietly. “One worried for him.”
Val cocked his head to consider Sir Dewey’s expression and found the soft words bore the stamp of one soldier’s concern for another. “He still has bad days when it rains and thunders, but he’s happily wed now and his countess is expecting a child.”
“That is good news,” Sir Dewey said, smiling at the chessboard. It was a sweet, genuine smile, and as Val put the black queen back down on her home square, he wondered where that smile had been hiding when Ellen was at the table.
