Westhaven looked up from his correspondence and focused on the chords crashing and thundering through the house.

“He’s happy,” Westhaven said, smiling. “He’s happier than I’ve heard him since Victor died. Maybe happier than I’ve ever heard him… He tends to stay away from Herr Beethoven, but if I’m not mistaken, that’s who it is. My God…”

He put down his letters and just listened. Val could improvise melodies so tender and lilting they brought tears. He could be the consummate chamber musician, his keyboard evoking grace, humor, and elegance. He knew every drinking song and Christmas carol, all the hymns, and folk tunes. This, however, was heady repertoire, full of emotion and substance.

And he plays the hell out of it, Westhaven thought, amazed. He knew his brother was talented and dedicated, but in those moments, he realized the man was brilliant. More gifted than any Windham had ever been at anything, transcendently gifted.

“Jesus Christ, he’s good,” Dev said. “Better than good. My God…”

“If His Grace could hear this,” Westhaven said, “he’d never say another disparaging thing about our youngest brother.”

“Hush.” Dev’s brow knit. “Let’s just listen.”

And they did, as Val played on and on, one piece following another in a recital of exuberant joy. In the kitchen, dinner preparations stopped. In the garden, the weeding took a hiatus. In the stables, grooms paused to lean on their pitchforks and marvel. Gradually, the music shifted to quieter beauty and more tender joy. As the evening sun slanted across the back gardens, the piano at last fell silent, but the whole household had been blasted with Val’s joy.

In the music room, watching Morgan smile up at him, Val had a queer feeling in his chest. He wondered if it was something like what doctors experienced when they could save a life or safely bring one into the world, a joy and a humility so vast they could not be contained in one human body.

“Thank you,” Morgan whispered, smile radiant. “Thank you, thank you.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, and he hugged her back. There were some moments when words were superfluous, and holding her slight frame against him, Val could only thank God for the whim that had made him pick up the tube. He let her go and saw she was holding out the tube to him.

“You keep it,” he said, but she shook her head.

“I cannot,” she said clearly.

“Then let’s leave it in here,” Val suggested. “You can at least use it when we speak or when you want to hear me play.” He put it on top of the piano, puzzled and not a little hurt by her unwillingness to keep the thing. He’d first thought to get her one when he’d seen a pair of old beldames strolling in Brighton, their speaking tubes on chains around their necks like lorgnettes.

Morgan nodded solemnly but put the tube inside the piano bench, out of sight.

“You don’t want anyone to know?” Val guessed.

“Not yet,” she replied, staring at the closed lid of the bench. “I heard once before,” she said, her voice dropping back to a whisper so he had to lean in close to hear her. “We crossed the Penines, and something changed, in here.” She pointed to her left ear. “But the next morning, I woke up, and it had changed back. Can we try the tube again tomorrow?”

“We can.” Val smiled, comprehension dawning. “Your ear opened up because of the altitude. When you descended, it closed up again.”

Morgan looked puzzled and turned her face away.

“Even if I can’t hear tomorrow”—she hunched her shoulders against that terrible possibility—“thank you, Lord Valentine, for today. I will never forget your kindness.”

“It was most assuredly my pleasure.” He beamed at her. “Will you let Lord Fairly take a peek at you?”

“Look only,” she said, her shoulders hunching more tightly still. “No treatments. And you will come with me?”

“I will. Westhaven trusts the man, and that should tell you worlds.”

“It has to be soon,” Morgan said, biting her lip.

“I’ll track him down in the next few days. He’s almost always at home these days, and I run tame around his pianos.”

Morgan nodded and took her leave of him, her joy in the day colored by her recall of Anna’s plans. It had been almost a week since Anna had gotten Grandmama’s letter, and a perfectly pleasant if hot week, too. Morgan knew the earl had something to do with Anna’s lighter moods. Oh, Anna still fretted—Anna was born to fret—but she also occasionally hummed, and she hugged Morgan when no one was about, and she smiled—when she wasn’t staring off into space, looking worried.

Good Lord. Morgan stopped in her tracks. What was she going to tell Anna? When was she going to tell Anna? Not for a day or two, Morgan knew, as improvement could be deceptive. Her hearing sometimes got better during really bad storms, only to disappear when the weather moved. Worse than the loss of hearing, though, was the loss of speech.

She’d never realized how the two were related until she couldn’t hear. She lost her ability to gauge the volume of her voice and found she was whispering—or worse, shouting—when she thought her tone was conversational. Eventually, she’d just given up, until she was afraid to attempt speech again, the patterns not even feeling familiar to her lips, teeth, and tongue anymore.

But that could all change, she thought. If the speaking tube still worked tomorrow, it could all change.

The week had gone so well, Anna thought as she rose from her bed. It was another beautiful—if sweltering—summer day, and she’d enjoyed her efforts to complete the Willow Bend interiors. The earl had chosen surprisingly pretty and comfortable furniture, suited to a country home, and to a country home that wouldn’t be simply a gentleman’s retreat from the city.