“Twenty minutes, then.” The earl took his leave, going up to his bedroom, where he’d no doubt Stenson was attempting to address more than a week’s worth of others making shift with his responsibilities.

“Mr. Stenson?” The earl strode into the room without knocking—and why would he?—and caught the fellow actually sniffing the cravat discarded over the edge of the vanity mirror. “Whatever are you doing in my quarters?”

“I am your valet, my lord.” Stenson bowed low. “Of course I must needs be in your quarters.”

“You will stay out of here and busy yourself with Lord Val and Colonel St. Just instead.”

“Mr. St. Just?” Stenson might as well have said: That bastard?! But Dev would have great good fun putting Stenson in his place, so Westhaven added a few more cautions about the bad form exhibited by the lower orders when they couldn’t be bothered to knock on closed doors, and took his leave.

When he returned to the library, he did not immediately begin to list the furniture he’d ordered for Willow Bend. He instead wrote out an order to have all the interior locks above stairs changed and only two sets of keys made—one for him and his brothers, one for his housekeeper.

Sniffing his cravat, for God’s sake. What on earth could Stenson have been about?

The question faded as Westhaven spent two hours arguing good-naturedly with his housekeeper over matters pertaining to Willow Bend. That was followed by an equally enjoyable dinner with both of his brothers, during which he realized he hadn’t dined with them together since Victor had died months before.

“Will you two help me with my horses?” Dev pressed when they were down to their chocolates and brandy.

“If you insist.” Val held his snifter under his nose. “Though coming up from Brighton has left me honestly saddle sore.”

“I’ll be happy to pitch in, as Pericles can use light duty in this heat, but if I’m to be up early”—Westhaven rose—“then I’d best seek my bed. You gentlemen have my thanks for keeping Mr. Stenson busy, though I don’t think he was exactly pleased with the reassignment.”

“My shirts will be pleased,” Dev said. “It’s mighty awkward having to always wear one’s jacket and waistcoat because one’s seams are all in jeopardy.”

“And I found every mud puddle between here and Brighton just to make sure Mr. Stenson was gainfully occupied.”

“I am blessed in my brothers,” Westhaven said, leaving them with a smile.

“So tell me the truth,” Dev said, pushing the decanter at his youngest brother. “You are willing to ride with us because you think it would be good for Westhaven. Just like his housekeeper has been good for him.”

Val smiled and turned his glass around on the linen tablecloth. “It will be good for all of us, being together, living here, even if it’s only for a little while. I find, though, that I’ve sat too long here in the evening breezes.” He got to his feet and quirked an eyebrow at his oldest brother. “Shall we stroll in the moonlight?”

“Brother”—Dev grinned—“I have heard rumors about you.”

“No doubt,” Val said easily as they moved off. “They are nothing compared to what one hears about you.”

“And that gossip is usually true,” Dev said with no modesty whatsoever as they neared the mews. “Now why are we out here stumbling around in the night?”

Val turned and regarded his brother in the moonlight. “So I can remind you not to make disparaging remarks about Mrs. Seaton or her situation with Westhaven where anybody could overhear you. You know what the duke tried to do with the last mistress?”

“I’d heard about Elise. Then you are aware of a situation between Westhaven and Mrs. Seaton?”

“He’s considering marrying her,” Val said. “Or I think he is. They’re certainly interested in each other.”

“They’re a bit more than interested,” Dev said, rubbing his chin. “They were all but working on the succession when I came upon them in the library last night.”

“Ye gods. I came upon them in her sitting room this afternoon, door open, all hands in view, but the way they look at each other… puts one in mind of besotted sheep.”

“His Grace will be in alt,” Dev said on a sigh.

“His Grace,” Val retorted, “had best not get wind of it, unless you want Westhaven to immediately lose all interest.”

“Gayle wouldn’t be that stupid, but he would be that stubborn.” Dev tossed a companionable arm around Val’s shoulders. “This will be entertaining as hell, don’t you think? I’m not sure Westhaven’s wooing is entirely well received, and he has to go about it in stealth, winning the lady without alerting the duke. And we have front-row seats.”

“Lucky us,” Val rejoined. “Doesn’t working on the succession comport with welcoming a man’s suit?”

Dev’s grin became devilish. “That, my boy, is a common misunderstanding among the besotted male sheep of this world. And the female sheep? They like us befuddled, you know…”

“It’s a speaking tube,” Val explained. Morgan quirked an eyebrow at him, and he smiled reassuringly. “A lot of invalids take the sea air in Brighton,” he went on, “so the medical community is much in evidence there. I discussed your loss of hearing with a physician or two, and I’ve brought it up with Fairly, as well. He’d like to examine you, though he isn’t a specialist in the field of deafness.”

Morgan tried to keep her emotions from her eyes, but it was difficult, when her eyes were so used to conveying what words could not. She was more than a little infatuated with this man, with his kindness and generosity of spirit, his acceptance of her disability, his care for his brothers and sisters. He was what a brother should be—decent, selfless, thoughtful, and good-humored.

“Will you let me try it?” he asked, holding up the tube. It was shaped like an old-style drinking horn, conical and twisted. He gently turned her by the shoulders and pushed her hair aside. Morgan felt the small end of the tube being anchored at her ear.

“Hello, Morgan. Can you hear me?”

She whirled on him, jaw gaping.

“I can hear you,” she whispered, incredulous. “I can hear your words. Say more.” She turned and waited for him to position the speaking tube again.

“Let’s try this with the piano,” Val suggested, and she heard his words, or much more of them than she’d heard before. She couldn’t see his mouth when he used the speaking tube, so she must be hearing him. It felt like a tickling in her ear and like so much more.

“I remember this.”

“You remember how to speak,” Val said into the tube. “I thought you might. But come, let me play for you.”

He grabbed her by the hand, and she followed, Sir Walter Scott forgotten in the hay as they ran to the house. He led her straight to the music room, shut the door, and sat her down on what she’d come to think of as her stool. It was higher, like the stools in the ale houses, and let her lay her head directly on the piano’s closed case. Val took the tube and put it wide end down on the piano. He leaned down as if to put his ear to the narrow end of the tube.

“Try it like that.”

Morgan perched on the stool and carefully positioned the tube at her ear. Val moved to the piano bench and began a soft, lyrical Beethoven slow movement, meeting Morgan’s eyes several measures into the piece.

“Can you hear?”

She nodded, eyes shining.

“Then hear this,” he said, launching into a rollicking, joyous final movement by the same composer. Morgan laughed, a rusty, rough sound of mirth and pleasure and joy, causing Val to play with greater enthusiasm. She settled in on the stool, horn to her ear, eyes closed, and prepared to be swept away.

She’d been wrong. She wasn’t infatuated with Val Windham; she was in awe of him. He’d brought her music and the all-but-forgotten sensation of a human voice sounding in her ear. All it had taken was a simple metal tube and a kind thought.