Grace Burrowes - The Virtuoso

“Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.”

“Your Grace?”

Ellen heard surprise in Val’s voice, and pleasure.

“I kept trying to haze you off in a different direction, afraid the peasants wouldn’t appreciate you for the virtuoso you are.” The duke sipped his drink, gaze roving the crowd until it lit on his wife standing beside Westhaven. “I was worrying for nothing all those years. Of course they’re going to love you—you are my son, after all.”

“I am that,” Val said softly, catching his father’s eye. “I always will be.”

“I think you’re going to be somebody’s husband too, eh, lad?” The duke winked very boldly at Ellen then sauntered off, having delivered a parting shot worthy of the ducal reputation.

“My papa is hell-bent on grandchildren. I hope you are not offended?”

Ellen shook her head. “Of course not, but Valentine, we do need to talk.”

“We do.” He signaled to Nick, where that worthy fellow stood guarding the punch bowl. Nick nodded imperceptibly in response and called some inane insult over the crowd to Westhaven, who quipped something equally pithy right back to the amusement of all onlookers, while Val and Ellen slipped out the door.

By the light of a single tallow candle, he led Ellen to a deserted practice room. He set the candle on the floor before tugging her down beside him on the piano bench.

“I can’t marry you,” Ellen said, wanting to make sure the words were said before she lost her resolve.

“Hear me out,” Val replied quietly. “I think you’ll change your mind. I hope and pray you’ll change your mind, or all my talent, all my music, all my art means nothing.”

Remember this, Ellen admonished herself. She ordered herself to recall the cedary scent of Val’s shaving soap, the feel of his arm embracing her where they sat on the hard bench, the reassuring heat of his body still warm from the exertion of conducting a major work. To recall the beloved sight of his face, so grave and tired now that the excitement of the debut was ebbing.

Remember this, because it might have to sustain you for a long, long time.

“You need to know,” Val began, “Freddy has left the country, and he is not expected back.”

“Gone?” Ellen’s jaw literally dropped. “Freddy detested travel by anything except curricle.”

“He’s better off on the Continent, believe me. Between Sir Dewey and Benjamin Hazlit, my private investigator, I have sworn statements sufficient to bring charges against Freddy on everything from conspiracy to commit arson, to attempted murder, to breaking and entering, and a host of lesser charges. I have a statement from the herbalist on the Roxbury estate. Freddy bribed her to teach him about poisons and further bribed her to sell him a supply of pennyroyal and to label it spearmint. She didn’t untangle his purpose until your third miscarriage, and by then, it was too late. She suspects Freddy did kill the late baron, but we’ll never know.”

“I wish I could kill Freddy,” Ellen said, staring at Val in shock.

“You won’t have to,” Val assured her. “He’s in debt to so many people from whom one does not under any circumstances borrow, that they’ll hunt him down and gladly make an example of him. Most damning of all, my father uncovered evidence Freddy has sold his vote in the Lords for coin, and that could cost him his title, should Prinny take him into dislike over it. Would you like that?”

“And the regent would benefit?”

“The regent would benefit handsomely.”

Ellen shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair that one of the oldest titles in the land goes into escheat for the regent’s convenience. Freddy has an heir, and he may be a decent enough fellow.”

“He’ll certainly be an improvement over Freddy, but the Roxbury estate is of no moment to me whatsoever. Tell me you’ll marry me.”

“You’re sure he’s gone?” Ellen asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking. “He’ll stay gone? You’re safe from him?”

“I am safe from him.” Val held her gaze. “You are safe from him. I promise you this, Ellen, with my most solemn word. My family owns two shipping companies, and we’d spot him before he disembarked at any domestic port. His ship was headed for Italy by way of Portugal, because he already has enemies in France. He can afford to run for a bit, since he took his personal jewelry with him. Recall, though, that he’s alone, he doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t know the customs, and I have friends who will keep an eye on him in Rome. Will you marry me?”

“You’re going to keep composing, aren’t you?” Ellen peered at him worriedly. “That music, Val. It was… sublime. I could almost hear the frogs croaking and feel the tears on my cheeks—well, I could feel the real tears—and the flowers, I could smell them in the sunshine during that second movement. I think the Belmont boys were there too, and so was Marmalade. You have to keep writing. You have to. Is your hand all right?”

Val sat back and braced one of his hands on each of her arms. “If I promise to keep composing, will you marry me?”

“Yes.” It was a simple word but the most radiant in her vocabulary. Radiant like the notes of his symphony. “Yes. I will marry you, Valentine Windham, and you will write music, and our lives will always have something of the divine in them.”

“Always,” he agreed, hugging her to him.

And in his head, he heard a new tune: sweet, strong, and clear, underpinned by sturdy, driving rhythms and lush, generous harmonies. It was at once merry and profound, and as he bent to kiss his prospective wife, Val knew it might turn into something worthwhile, when he had some time to work on it.

And as it turned out, Valentine Windham was right. The working title of that piece, destined to be just as popular as his debut symphony, became, “Little Weldon Summer Christening.”

Careful readers will note that St. Just explains to Valentine that St. Just’s adopted daughter will hold the title on behalf of her legitimate heirs. This is in contravention of conventional wisdom telling us that adopted children would not have inherited titles. In the usual case, the conventional wisdom would prevail because an adopted child would not meet the criteria in the letters patent for most titles, which typically required the title to pass to “the oldest legitimate male natural issue surviving at the time of the titleholder’s death.”

Titled men could and did adopt children, but having letters patent reworded was a much trickier proposition. His Grace influenced the wording of St. Just’s original letters patent, which put a very different face on the heritability of St. Just’s earldom. Furthermore, in Bronwyn’s case, I can assure my readers that both the Helmsley and Rosecroft earldoms included baronies among their predecessor titles, and among the old baronies, it was not at all unusual for female heirs to be able to hold titles in abeyance, sometimes for centuries. As for whether an illegitimate female might qualify, well, this is, as the scholars say, an area for further research—or a just a touch of literary license I hope the purists will find excusable.

Then, too, we know that Prinny’s brothers and his sister, the Princess Sophia, had among them something like twenty illegitimate children, and I hope The First Gentleman might have found it in his heart to indulge a royal eccentricity on behalf of our dear Bronwyn’s offspring. His Grace, when fixed on a goal, can be very determined and persuasive after all.