Val waited, even as he knew the female gears in her brain were whizzing about, perfectly recalling every God’s blessed word he’d ever uttered about making furniture or any other damned thing of the smallest relevance to his latest admission.

“You didn’t lie, exactly,” she said as she slowly resumed walking, “but you prevaricated. Why?”

“What sort of dashing young man makes pianos? And how does the peace of the realm require pianos? Pianos are frivolous extravagances, unlike chairs and tables. Civilized society needs chairs and tables.” To his horror, Val heard echoes of His Grace’s reasoning in his voice, though it had been years since his father had even muttered this sort of logic in Val’s hearing.

“You don’t seriously believe this, do you?” Ellen’s voice held consternation and she was again looking at him.

“Many people do, including, I suspect, my own father.” Val dropped her hand to slip an arm around her shoulders. “Many more people are willing to part with their coin to get their hands on one of my pianos, so I try not to dwell on it.”

“I am still trying to grasp that you make pianos,” Ellen said as they approached the back terrace. “It has to be terribly complicated.”

“It’s wonderful, really.” Val assisted her up the steps from the gardens to the terrace. “All that wood and wire and metal, and from it comes the most sublime sound.”

“Like brilliant, fragrant flowers from simple dirt,” Ellen replied. “There has to be something of divinity in the process. There is no other explanation, really.”

“It’s exactly that,” he said softly, “something of the divine.” In the muted moonshine, he settled for running the backs of his fingers over her cheek and taking her hand in his, but this was part of what he had in common with her. They both had the artist’s need to create beauty, to nurture it, watch it grow and develop, and see it please the senses and the soul.

As they took their places among the others, Val wanted to pull his oldest brother aside and lecture him at length. St. Just had been of the erroneous opinion Valentine lacked common ground with anyone.

Anyone at all.

* * *

“I had thought to part ways with you in Little Weldon,” St. Just said the next morning as they passed through the village, “but given there’s more storm damage here than at Candlewick, I think I’ll just see you safely home.”

“You needn’t,” Val said from atop the wagon. “I’ve Wee Nick to babysit me, Darius is guarding the fort, and the heathen are my extra eyes and ears.”

“Here, here,” Nick said from his perch on his mare. “Heathen?”

“Here,” Dayton chirped.

“And here,” Phil added.

“It’s less than three miles,” St. Just said. “By the time we’ve argued it through, we can be halfway there.”

“Suit yourself.” Val clucked his team forward. To his relief, the lane to his estate was clear except for considerable leaf litter and the occasional small limb. The house looked to be unscathed, and the outbuildings were all standing.

“Guess you were due for some good luck,” St. Just observed. “Heathen, if you’ll take the team, I will make my good-byes to my baby brother.”

While Val assisted Ellen from the wagon, St. Just grabbed each boy, rubbed his knuckles hard across their crowns, and then bear-hugged the breath right out of them. Nick offered his arm to Ellen, insisting that she have escort through the woods to the cottage, but offering St. Just a friendly wave and salute.

“At least he didn’t hug me,” St. Just muttered, smiling at Val. “My final orders to you are to marry the widow, settle down, and get some babies for your as yet unnamed estate. I imparted much the same wisdom to her.”

“She isn’t interested in marriage.” She hadn’t ever said as much, but neither had she pestered Val for his hand, so to speak.

“Change her mind,” St. Just shot back. “She’s a lady with troubles, Val. I can smell it on her the way I smelled it on Anna and on Emmie. Solve her troubles and put a ring on her finger.”

“I still don’t think she’d have me.”

“You ass.” St. Just stepped closer and fisted a hand in the hair at the nape of Val’s neck. “Do you really think without a piano bench under your backside you aren’t worth the ducal associations? Is that what this subterfuge is about? Denying you’re Moreland’s legitimate son because you are only a mere mortal, not a god of the keyboard, due to a simple sore hand?”

Val glanced at his hand. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“You didn’t think I’d noticed?” St. Just growled and shook him a little, as if he were a naughty puppy. “When I came back from Waterloo, you played for hours and hours just so I could sleep. You fetched me home from certain death then played me a lifeline. When I went haring off to York, you spent the damned winter up there just to make sure I was coping adequately. You are the first friend Winnie has made, and when she can’t tell me or Emmie what’s wrong, she bangs at that piano until Scout’s ears hurt. You tucked us in each night with lullabies, you interceded for me with the biddies, you… Damn you.”

“Damn you, too.” Val stepped close, and mostly to give himself a moment to swallow back the lump in his throat, hugged his brother. “Sometimes”—he dropped his forehead to St. Just’s shoulder—“I wonder if it isn’t all just a lot of noise. It’s good to know somebody was listening.”

“I was listening. I heard every note, Val.” St. Just held him a little tighter then let him step back. “Every note.”

St. Just shot him a look then, one that allowed Val to see just a hint of the weary soldier St. Just had been, a hint of the despair and bewilderment that had followed him and so many others home from Waterloo.

“Write,” Val said, unwilling to hold that gaze. “I promise to reply within two years at least.” He walked with his brother over to where the horse was waiting. “Don’t take stupid risks, give Emmie and Winnie all my love, and here.” He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a folded piece of paper. “For Winnie.”

“A letter?” St. Just tucked it inside his own pocket without unfolding it.

“Something like that.” Val smiled a little. “A love letter, maybe. Be off with you, and my thanks for all you’ve done here.”

“My pleasure.” St. Just grabbed him by the back of the neck again, kissed his forehead, and swung up on the horse. “Marry the widow, little brother. She makes you smile.”

Val nodded, saying nothing, as there was a damned lump in his throat again preventing speech. He watched St. Just canter down the lane on his fine chestnut horse and knew the urge to scream at him to turn around, not to go, not to leave him all alone. It was an old memory, of the times when St. Just had come home from the Peninsula on winter leave and enjoyed the holidays with family, only to depart again when the campaigns resumed after the New Year. Bart had come home with him, all jolly swagger and loud stories, and then Bart had never come home again.

But Val also wanted to bellow at St. Just to tell him—just one more time—that the music had meant something. That somebody had been listening.

He blew out a breath and forcibly turned his gaze to the manor house, where his crews had started work for the day. The roof would be completed by the end of the week, and the interior work was moving along nicely. It would soon be time to move in furniture and even people.

How had that happened, and then what would he do with himself all day? Val’s gaze strayed down the empty lane, and the lump in his throat ached almost as fiercely as his hand might have several weeks ago.

“You’re back.” Darius strode out of the house. “Wasn’t sure the roads would be passable after that damned storm. Did St. Just take off without a farewell for me?”

“I’m sure he meant no offense, and we about farewelled him to death.” Even as he said it, Val was convinced Darius had waited in the house on purpose just to avoid the parting scenes. “How was the weekend?”

“The weekend was quiet except for that damned storm. Your home wood is probably a wreck, but I was too busy at the home farm on Sunday to really inspect. Your father sent you the largest crate of something mysterious, by the way. It arrived Saturday, thank the gods, and you’re to keep the team that hauled it in.”

“I’m to keep the team?” Westhaven had sent a team north to St. Just as part of a housewarming. Maybe it was to be a family tradition, and any team was going to be a useful addition, since Axel would need his own back when the boys went home.

“As I live and breathe.” Darius exhaled, his gaze going past Val’s shoulder. “Is that my brother-in-law dragging Mrs. Fitz through the woods?”

“It is.” Nick was not the type to hurry needlessly. “And something is wrong.”

“Valentine.” Nick wasn’t panting, but at his side, Ellen was. “You’d better take a look at Ellen’s property, and you won’t like what we found.”

“Ellen?” Val held out an arm, and she went to his side then turned her face into his neck. He kept his arm around her as they made their way back through the wood, and he noted plenty of damage. One of the old pensioners Ellen had warned him about had crashed to its side, taking down limbs and saplings with it.

Blazing hell. The enchanted home wood had gone and changed on him when he’d been unwilling to deal with the need for change himself.

“Oh, ye gods,” Darius said softly behind him. Val followed his friend’s gaze across Ellen’s back gardens to her lovely little cottage.

Her formerly lovely little cottage. Another tree had toppled, landing mostly in Ellen’s side yard, but clipping the south side of her cottage by just enough that the roof was ruined and the wall sagging dangerously beneath it.