Page 44 of The Virtuoso
“And damned glad I am to see you. Damned glad. How long can you stay?”
“I’ll depart for York by the end of the week, but Oxford is nominally north of Town, so you were on my way.” St. Just stepped back, and Val was treated to the critical appraisal of the brother who was half Irish and all former soldier.
“And Belmont knew you were coming?” Val pressed. “He said not one word to me, and I’ve had his boys underfoot for the past several weeks.”
“Belmont knew I was coming but not exactly when, as he and I have business to transact of a sort, and our wives are connected.”
“Your wives…” Val frowned and recalled that Abby Stoneleigh—now Abby Belmont—had mentioned being related to the late Earl of Helmsley and his surviving sisters.
“I thought the army was the world’s largest village,” St. Just said, “but the English peerage takes that honor. If you’re done with that tub, I’d like to hop in before the water is done cooling.”
“Help yourself, but I’m sure Axel will send up clean water, if you’d prefer.”
“Compared to what was available in Spain”—St. Just was already out of his shirt—“this is sparkling. Smells good too.”
“I’ll leave you some privacy, then.” Val moved toward the door.
“The hell you will.” St. Just shucked out of his breeches. “We’ll have to make polite conversation at table, so stay and take your interrogation like a man. For starters, I’ve seen prisoners of war in better weight than you, Valentine Windham. What has you off your feed?”
Val smiled at the directness, even as he resented his brother’s assumption that answers would be forthcoming—or he should resent it. He watched St. Just settle himself in the tub and noted the signs of good care that married life had left.
“You aren’t answering my question, Valentine,” St. Just chided, soaping a large foot and then dunking it. “Don’t think I won’t leave this tub and beat it out of you.”
“You won’t. I’m busy lately trying to put my property to rights, and provisions are limited.”
“You need a camp cook.” The second foot disappeared beneath the water. “An army marches on its belly, as the saying goes, and cook pots are as important as cannon. Is this your soap?”
“It is,” Val answered, sitting on the bed and watching as St. Just dunked to wet his hair.
“Do the honors. I am going smell like a bordello when I get out of this bath.”
“You will smell like a gentleman.” Val hunkered behind the tub. “This is my only clean shirt until Belmont’s laundresses take pity on me, so splash me at your peril.”
“I’m trembling,” St. Just retorted, only to have Val smack a soapy palm against the back of his head with a firm wallop before working up a fragrant lather.
“How are your womenfolk?” Val asked, feeling a tug at his heartstrings at just the thought of Emmie St. Just so near her confinement.
“Em thinks she’s big as a house. The heat isn’t so bad up north, and that’s a blessing, as she sleeps poorly. This makes me fret, which makes me sleep poorly, and so forth. Winnie is watching closely but doing as well as can be expected. She said to tell you she practices the pianoalot, and while I cannot vouch for the quality of her practicing, I can vouch unequivocally for its volume.”
“Stand,” Val instructed. “We’ll finish you off.” Val sluiced a pitcher of rinse water over St. Just’s tall frame and then passed him a bath sheet.
“I do adore a bath.” St. Just sighed. “One takes them for granted until they’re no longer available. Now, tell me about this monstrosity you’ve acquired in Little Cow Pie. Belmont says it was a disgrace several years ago, albeit salvageable.”
“He would know,” Val said, amazed at how quickly his personal business had been disseminated over the family gossip vine—and amazed at how quickly St. Just was getting back into his clothes. “It needs a lot of work and will likely take me all summer just to make habitable.”
“And what is this I hear about a friendly widow, little brother?” St. Just tugged on his boots and straightened. “Did she convey with the property, rather like a certain daughter of mine?” He settled a fraternal arm over Val’s shoulders and sauntered with him toward the door.
“You must ’fess up,” St. Just teased. “I am the soul of discretion, except that Emmie has all my confidences, and Winnie overhears an appalling amount, and then Emmie corresponds with Anna, and Winnie writes to her cousin Rose, and I am forever getting letters from Her Grace.”
“So do I answer your question or not?”
St. Just opened the door before he replied and stopped in his tracks.
“Little brother.” St. Just’s arm slid off Val’s shoulders. “You had better be glad I am besotted with my dear Emmie, else I’d be tempted to inform you I now behold the physiognomy of my next countess. My lady.” St. Just picked up Ellen’s hand and bowed over it. “Devlin St. Just, the Earl of Rosecroft, your most obedient servant.”
“Valentine.” Ellen glanced at him in cool puzzlement. “How is it you never told me your brother is an earl?”
St. Just kept Ellen’s hand in his. “You mustn’t blame my brother for respecting my modesty.” He tucked her hand over his arm while Val mentally tried to form a more suitable answer. “I am a freshly baked earl, having just arrived to my honors in the last year and under something less than cheering circumstances. I hardly think of myself as Rosecroft, much less demand that my brother do so. Will you allow me to escort you in to luncheon?”
