The Virtuoso

“Good morning, fine sir,” came a cheery voice from the back of the shop. It was a tidy little place but crammed to the gills with jars and bins and trays and sachets. “Thaddeus Cra

“I have that pleasure.” Val smiled slightly, while Mr. Cra

“What might I do for you, Mr. Windham?” Mr. Cra

“I’m looking for a particular tea,” Val said, glancing around the shop.

“Teas and tisanes are right here.” Mr. Cra

“And willow bark tea? Do you have a quantity of that?”

“Oh, aye.” Mr. Cra

“If you mixed the willow bark with this stuff”—Val lifted the lid of a jar at random and took a sniff—“would the willow bark still be effective?”

“Why, yes.” Mr. Cra

“This is pe

Mr. Cra

“Why don’t I take some of each,” Val suggested. “The willow bark and the pe

“We’ve lemon verbena sachets, as well,” Mr. Cra

“What else does she sell to you?” Val asked, still ambling around, sniffing a jar here and a sachet there.

“Only sachets and soaps,” Mr. Cra

“Is there really so much danger of making an error?”

“Oh, my.” Mr. Cra

“So you’re sure you’ve sold me only harmless teas?” Val teased good-naturedly.

“Don’t leave the pe

Val put his coin on the counter and picked up his purchases. “As I do not suffer female problems, I will not inquire further. Good day to you, and my thanks.”

Mr. Cra

Val left, wondering if that last happy aside was intended as a fishing expedition, a polite nothing, or a reflection of local speculation regarding Val’s dealings with Ellen. People, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, always said, were going to do at least two things with unfailing regularity, and one of those things was talk. Val had been nine before St. Just had taken pity on him and explained what the second activity was, though the disclosure had seemed nonsense to a boy enthralled with his piano and his pony.

Val repaired to the livery, finding Zeke tacked up and sporting a small keg trussed behind the saddle. When Val was in the saddle, the groom handed him a covered pie plate, a burden which required that Zeke be kept to a moderate pace.

As Val made his way back to the estate, he found himself considering what the Duke of Moreland might say about Ellen Markham. Much to Val’s surprise, the duke had welcomed A

And what in the bloody, blazing, stinking hell, Val wondered as he approached his own lane, was he doing considering Ellen Markham as a marriage prospect? The improvement in his hand was encouraging, yes, but he’d known the woman only a few weeks, and she’d shown no inclination to seek a more permanent union. He’d swived her once—thoroughly and gloriously, true, but only the once. They were a long and difficult way from considering each other as potential spouses.

Which nonetheless didn’t put the notion out of his head entirely. He was still pondering possibilities when St. Just met him in the stable yard.

“If we cut this now,” St. Just said, taking the pie from Val before Zeke was even halted, “we can destroy all the evidence before the infidels come back from the home farm. Sir Dewey and Darius are making an inspection of the pond and can help us dispose of the evidence. Ale goes with pie. Put up your pony, Valentine, and we’ll save you a little slice.”

“I will tattle to Her Grace,” Val said, swinging down. “I traveled six miles in a sweltering heat, paid good coin, and carried that pie back with my own two hands.”

“Traveling uphill both ways,” St. Just added solemnly, “with a scalding headwind. Last one to the pond is a virgin with a little pizzle.”

“Pizzle,” Val muttered, loosening his horse’s girth. “I forgot pizzle. That makes thirteen.”

“You’re daft, Valentine. A man doesn’t forget his pizzle.” St. Just spun on his heel and headed for the trail to the pond.

When Val—bearing the small cask and some tin cups—joined his brother on the dock, Sir Dewey was sitting on the planks, boots neatly to the side, feet immersed.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” Val asked as he started to work on his own boots.

Sir Dewey shrugged. “Thought the king’s man ought to see and be seen. The local lads aren’t talking, and Vicar hasn’t heard anything of note either.”

They both watched as St. Just set down the pie, straightened, and began to unfasten his breeches. “Tap that keg, why don’t you, baby brother? It’s hot out here, and we’ll need to wash down our pie.” His shirt followed, and he was soon standing naked at the end of the dock. “You have the prettiest pond, Valentine.”

He executed a clean, arcing dive into the water, the movement combining grace and strength.

Darius quickly followed suit, while Val merely swizzled his feet in the wonderfully cool water.

“Are you always so quiet?” Sir Dewey asked.

“I’m hearing a song in my head,” Val mused. “A sort of rollicking, triple meter that men might sing in German.”

“A drinking song?”

“To the Germans, if it’s triple meter and rollicking, then of course it’s a drinking song. Even if it isn’t, enough schnapps and beer, and it will do whether the piano’s in tune or not.”

“There’s a decent piano in the assembly rooms over the shops,” Sir Dewey said. “The damned thing is sorely in need of tuning, not that anybody seems to care. It would serve for pounding out a drinking song and I’m sure you’d be welcome to use it.”

“Why not get it tuned?”

“Hire a tuner to come work on one instrument?” Sir Dewey scoffed. “Even in the enchanted confines of Little Weldon, the concept of economy is practiced to an art. Each year, I think they’ll simply inflict a pair of violins on us at the summer assembly, as the humidity afflicts the instrument badly.”

“Who tunes your piano?” Val asked, swirling his feet thoughtfully. He was grateful, he realized, for the particular pleasure of simply soaking his feet on a lovely summer day while a merry little oom-pah-pah tootled along in his head.