The Virtuoso

Val safe from Freddy’s infernal and deadly machinations, and this was the only way to achieve that goal. She had the conviction Valentine Windham, a supremely determined and competent man—son of a duke in every regard— would not take Freddy’s scheming seriously until it was too late.

It was up to her to protect the man she loved, and that thought alone allowed her to remain true to the only prudent course. “You have not mistaken me, not now—not ever.”

“I did not think you’d change your mind.” Val led her back toward the house by the hand. “I have left my direction in the library, and in the bottom drawer of the desk you will find some household money. I know you’d prefer to cut all ties, Ellen, but if you need anything—anything at all—you must call upon me. Promise?”

“I promise,” she recited, unable to do otherwise.

“And Ellen?” Val paused before they got to the stable yard. “Two things. First, thank you. You gave me more this summer than I could have ever imagined or deserved, and I will keep the memories of the joy we shared with me always. Second, if there should be a child, you will marry me.”

“There will not be a child,” she murmured, looking back toward the wood. He was thanking her? She’d cost him a fortune and put his well-being in jeopardy, and he was thanking her? “I do not, and never will, deserve you.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s a child?” Val’s green eyes were not gentle or patient. They were positively ducal in their force of will.

“If there is a child I will tell you.”

“Well, then.” Val resumed their progress. “I think that’s all there is to say, except, once again, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Ellen replied, wishing she’d given him the words so much more often and under so many different circumstances.

“Good-bye, my dearest love.” Val bent and kissed Ellen’s cheek, not taking her in his arms. “Be safe and call upon me if there’s need.”

A final nod as Val slipped a hankie into Ellen’s hand, and then he mounted up and turned his horse, putting Zeke first to the trot then moving the horse up to a brisk canter. Ellen got a final sympathetic glance from Nick, and then he and Darius were off, disappearing down the drive in a clatter of hooves and dust.

And then silence.

She’d had a great deal of silence in the past five years, and for the most part, she’d come to treasure it. But this silence was different, as it wasn’t just the lack of sound, it was also the lack of Valentine Windham.

* * *

“A caller, Lord Val.” David Worthington’s butler, like every member of the staff at David’s townhouse, knew how to give the impression it was his pleasure to serve. Val glanced up from where he was bent over the desk in the music room and blinked.

“Who is it?” Val asked, glancing at the clock. Blazing hell, it was nearly teatime already.

“His Grace, the Duke of Moreland.” The butler didn’t make a face, but in his voice there were pinched lips and pruney expressions.

“No avoiding him,” Val muttered. “Best do the tea and crumpets drill, and he’s partial to creme cakes, if I recall aright. Let’s use the family parlor, since the formal parlor faces the street.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed politely and withdrew, leaving Val to roll down his cuffs and shrug into his coat.

With a longing glance over his shoulder, Val mentally strapped on the familiar armor of indifference and strolled—deliberately—off to the family parlor.

“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 creme 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 tete-a-tete 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.”