by Gina Conkle
“You want to sell racehorses?”
“No,” Samuel scoffed. “Be practical. I don’t have that kind of blunt. I’m talking about horses for hostelries. With the new bridge and all the coaches passing through, no one can keep up with the demand for fresh horses.”
“A business venture.” He let the idea sink in.
“Before you say no, look there.” Samuel pointed west. “We’ve the perfect arrangement with Pallinsburn lands abutting mine.”
Tumbled-down stone implied a property line. The fence could be toy blocks someone had knocked over and never tidied. Marcus followed the fence line to a wooden gate sagging like an old sentry past his prime. His mother’s childhood home had fallen to neglect, left empty for too long. The Duke of Marlborough had got his hands on it, and somehow Pallinsburn had become a pawn in a game between the duke and his brother. The marchioness was all too glad when the deed had been recently restored to her, but the damage was done. The property was in shambles, save the barn.
“Let the horses graze your land and live in your barn,” Samuel said. “My brothers and I will take care of them.”
“I’m only here until North finds a wealthy bride.”
“You don’t have to stay. The land and barn are what’s needed.”
“Then you don’t need me,” he said coolly.
“Of course it’d be better if you stayed. Think of it, man.” Samuel’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm. “Between your knowledge of horseflesh and my connections, we’d have the perfect partnership. Given time, we’d do well.”
“But the fences, the gates. They’re all in bad repair. How do we pay for that?”
Samuel’s head tipped from laughter. “We don’t. We fix them ourselves.” His big hands went up. “With these.”
“Amusing, but I haven’t lived in the rough since we bivouacked in the army.”
“Then getting your hands dirty will be a lively change for you.” Samuel slapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Come. There’s something else you need to see.”
Cornhill-on-Tweed and lively didn’t intersect in Marcus’s mind, but his friend was a rustic born and bred. Northumberland was in his blood, heaven on earth for Samuel.
“The Pallinsburn barn is in excellent repair. Big enough to house all the brood mares with room to spare.” Samuel opened the barn door, speaking over his shoulder. “Be assured, we’d do this right. No bone-setter nags.”
Scents of hay and earth and horses lured Marcus, the aromas headier than a woman’s perfume. Inside, moonlight poured from holes overhead. He followed with cautious steps. Horses poked curious noses over their stalls, snickering at the intrusion.
Samuel patted a stall board, his smile a slash of white in the dark. “For all those brood mares, one good stallion.”
A big bay lifted his head and stomped the ground. The stallion’s composition was difficult to assess without good light, but he was a full hand higher than Khan, boasting powerful haunches.
“A prime blood,” Marcus acknowledged.
Samuel spouted feed projections and increased regional hostelry demands since the bridge was built. They shared a love of the four-legged beasts, both having gotten an equine tattoo in Saint George Town, but become a man of business? For hostelry horses? Fine racing steeds to sell at Tattersall’s was a worthy idea. Not that it mattered. He was leaving once his brother wedded and bedded a wealthy bride.
“If the mares get enough sunlight, we could breed them as early as February or March.” Samuel’s eyes slanted sideways. “If there’s enough land and fodder.”
“We could do this for a time.”
“No.” Samuel moved off the stall and faced him. “This venture requires full commitment.”
Marcus hooked a finger inside his neckcloth. Commitment. The word carried requirements, often followed by phrases like one should do this and one must do that. He craved London’s madness, the press of smoky taverns and willing women. Evenings offered diversions of every flavor. Streets wove one into another, excellent places for a man to lose himself. By morning he’d wash away the night’s revelry in a coffeehouse before finding his way home.
“You say you want to live as you please,” Samuel prodded. “To be free of your brother’s hold on the purse strings.”
“I do.”
“Then what’s your plan? Look for a woman with a fat dowry like the marquis?”
Marcus rested his forearms on the top slat. “To find a wealthy wife or not. The dilemma of a second son.”
Samuel could sneer all he wanted, but the common ploy had fed hungry coffers for centuries…and made miserable marriages. Despite his faults, Marcus wished for true love, a truth he’d not confess to anyone.
Was he a romantic at heart?
His mother, the marchioness, had hinted of marital plans. She’d summoned him to her private salon and, leaning heavily on her cane, had implored him to leave—the same day his brother demanded he go north.
“Go to Pallinsburn. Keep out of trouble until North secures a fine wife,” she’d said, squeezing his arm. “Your scandal at the Cocoa Tree has scared off his better prospects. We can arrange something for you later.”
He’d left of his own accord to keep the family peace and clear his head. Much as he hated leaving London, she was a party to his downfall, a wretched woman preying on his vices. The country would force him to confront the strange plague whiskey and gambling had become. It was one of the few times he and North were in agreement.
Samuel rested his arms on the slat beside him. “You don’t want marriage to a woman to solve your problems any more than I do. You’d be miserable.”
A good point. England swam in a sea of unhappy dynastic marriages. Husbands and wives sailed past each other at social events, coming together only for the sake of creating an heir. It was how his mother and father had lived. The marchioness could line up all the eligible ladies in the realm, but he’d not bite the marriage-of-convenience bait.
He wanted a woman to take him for the man he was, not his place in society or hallowed family name. It was one of the reasons he favored London’s workingwomen. Tavern maids and seamstresses, an actress or two…they all graced him with smiling acceptance, asking little in return. To them, he was simply a man.
He stared at Samuel’s prized bay. “Being with a woman isn’t the problem. Being leg-shackled is.”
“Then do something different, work for what you want,” Samuel urged. “Men of substance sweat the same as the rest of us.”
Samuel stood stalwart as a battlement, blond hair neatly queued, the short curl touching the back of his collar. He had been a perfect fit for the army: routines of discipline and order came naturally to him, as did staunch pride and a sense of responsibility. When his parents had died four years ago, guardianship of Alexander and Adam had fallen squarely on Sam’s wide, capable shoulders, something he’d gladly accepted.
Life hadn’t been easy for Samuel Beckworth, but he was solid as oak. Yet, he lived under the cloud of an incontrovertible truth. A country squire with a paltry holding would have few prospects for himself or his brothers. This venture would give the Beckworth family much-deserved good fortune.
“Pallinsburn isn’t part of the entail. North wouldn’t have much say here,” Marcus reasoned. “Neither do I, for that matter. The land belongs to the marchioness until I inherit.”
Samuel tapped the wooden slat like a patient tutor helping a dull student. “Then what your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“You’ve never been one for an omission of truth.”
“Because I’ve never been this low in the heel.” Samuel’s voice dropped to harsher notes. “I need something. Soon. Or you’ll see me herding sheep for Baron Atal.”
Marcus slipped a hand inside his coat, the comforting habit long ingrained. He sought the smooth metal of his flask, but his hand scraped an earth
en jar. Miss Turner’s healing salve for his chilblains sat in the pocket. He’d left the flask behind for the day, a wise decision considering that a new, intoxicating idea spun wildly in his head.
His balled hand fell to his side. Throat dry, he could be teetering on a cliff. Only a fool would make this leap.
“You’re not saying much.” Samuel toed the bottom slat. “You know we’ll both get something—”
“I’ll do it on one condition.” The words shot out of him, startling the bay. “Miss Abbott. She comes with me.”
“What? She’s not chattel I can trade.”
“She’ll be my housekeeper. I’d pay her the same as you.”
Samuel jammed his hands in his pockets. “Which isn’t much.”
“And when I leave, she returns to her post here,” he said, the idea catching fire. “You said yourself domestics are hard to find. Pallinsburn is in shambles, and I’ve not found any help.”
“Have you tried?”
Marcus stood taller. “Do you want my partnership and the land or not?”
Glowering under the brims of their hats, they could be two brawlers squaring off. Marcus wasn’t going to explain himself. The request was pure impulse; he didn’t fully understand what moved him. Her secrets? Her allure? The need to not be alone at Pallinsburn?
None of that mattered. Miss Turner excited him.
“What am I supposed to do?” Samuel snapped. “Ask Alexander to cook? I may as well eat my shoes.”
“Ask the old housekeeper to come back.”
“Mrs. Green suffers from infirmity. That’s why I hired a new housekeeper in the first place.”
“My apologies to Mrs. Green,” he said sharply. “Now decide. What are you going to do about my offer?”
A muscle ticked in Samuel’s jaw. Outside, an owl swooped past the open barn doors. One horse snorted and then another as though the animals had lost their patience with the late-night disturbance.
With an eye to the door, Samuel stepped around Marcus. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“No.” Samuel’s strides quickened. “I’m her employer. She ought to hear this from me.”
They exited the barn to find twin halos of light bracketing the front door. Such kindness had to be courtesy of Miss Turner. Both of them honed in on the welcoming flames, stiff and silent in the short walk to the cottage. The amber-haired housekeeper from London was a bartered prize this night, a truth not sitting well with either of them.
Samuel pushed open the cottage door, inside brightness flooding his tense features. “What will you do if she says no?”
“Just go ask her.”
Voices sounded from the parlor. A chair scraped the floor. The chess game had to be coming to an end.
Samuel jerked free of his coat and hat, his voice a low rumble. “If she says yes, I’ll bring her ’round tomorrow. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Marcus tucked his spatterdashes under his arm and waited hat in hand in the entry hall. Light and warmth glowed from the parlor. Indeed, the whole cottage did. Its humble welcome bade one to stay, giving succor from the world.
“I won,” Adam crowed. “That makes three in a row for me.”
The snug scene, the brothers playing a game content in the sparsely furnished parlor, all pressed on him like bricks. Adam flashed a smile at Marcus, the lad’s upper lip darkened by fuzz. Samuel would soon teach his youngest brother the manly rite of shaving. The former military man played mother and father to these two, shepherding them in the world.
“Care for a game, Lord Bowles?” Adam asked, motioning to the board.
“You can have my place, milord.” Alexander slapped the chair’s arms and pushed upright. “I don’t have it in me tonight.”
Adam reset the game pieces. His oversize coat sagged off his shoulders, a castoff from his older brother. Square patches covered the breeches where his knobby knees bent. The lad was all limbs.
“It’s getting late. I must take my leave, gentlemen.” Marcus begged off, humbled by their ready acceptance.
Any friend of their brother was a friend of theirs. Thickness clogged his throat. He backed away, unable to meet their honest faces. The ready hospitality…the easy smiles and camaraderie…the jar of salve in his pocket, a gift from Miss Turner for his hands… All were kindnesses he took for granted. Samuel’s steadfast love for his brothers outshone the gentle near poverty in which they lived. With that in mind, Marcus charged through the dining room. There was too much history, too much friendship with Samuel for ultimatums. He’d stop his foolish demand before more damage was done.
Ducking his head under the lintel, he stepped down into the orderly kitchen. A newly stoked fire blazed. Four buckets lined the wall by the water pump. At the far end, Samuel’s broad back filled Miss Turner’s doorway, their hushed conversation coming to a halt. Samuel glanced over his shoulder, and Marcus stopped in his tracks.
Samuel met him grim-faced in the middle of the kitchen. Marcus peered at Miss Turner’s room where a curved, feminine shadow marked the wall. A russet-clad arm reached out and shut the door.
Marcus frowned. “I’ve made a mess of things.”
“Yes, you have.”
“I’m willing to make this up to both of you.”
“I daresay you will,” Samuel ground out. “Two years we watched each other’s backs in the army. Never thought you’d put me over a barrel like this.”
Clean plates had been stacked on the table. Polished forks were lined in a neat row, the utensils poised to spear his self-serving heart. The organ weighed heavy when his friend pushed past him.
“Sam. Wait. I’ll apologize—”
“Don’t bother. You will make amends.” Samuel stopped and put one hand on the doorframe. “To both of us.”
“Forget I ever made the suggestion.”
“Too late. You and I made a devil’s bargain. Now we live with it. Miss Abbott leaves with you tonight.”
Four
Once again, Genevieve journeyed late at night with all her earthly possessions alongside a man she barely knew. Lord Bowles drove a cart Mr. Beckworth had loaned him, his silver-gray horse tethered to the back. The latch on her traveling chest rattled like a scolding maid behind her.
Her plans for a new life kept sinking in a mire of questionable choices. A devil’s bargain. That was what Mr. Beckworth had called this arrangement. How perfect. She’d first crossed paths with Lord Bowles on Devil’s Causeway.
Her employer of three days had presented the facts, framing the decision to stay or go as entirely hers. The power was novel. In the end, pure emotion won. After much throat clearing, it was obvious Mr. Beckworth wanted her to say yes. He yearned for a new business venture to help his family, and she was the linchpin.
Reaching for a better place in the world…this she understood.
Slipping her hand into her apron pocket, the letter crinkled against her fingers. Another condemnation of her decision? Or news that she was truly free?
“Welcome to Pallinsburn,” Lord Bowles said.
She startled when he halted the cart before a dark cottage grander in size than the Beckworth home. Ignoring him, she counted eight sash windows. Taxes on those glass panes had to be outrageous for a cottage inhabited by only one man. Lord Bowles leaped off the cart and lifted a candle lantern from the footboard, studying her beneath the brim of his cocked hat.
“Give me a moment,” he muttered, hoisting her chest from the cart and striding toward the cottage.
Lord Bowles rammed his shoulder against the front door. Warped wood gave way, and he disappeared around the half-opened door. Genevieve pulled her cloak tighter about. Who knew night came in so many shades of black? Stars sprinkled overhead like scattered salt across a table. She’d never seen so many. In London, there was always light som
ewhere…a passing carriage, a tavern door opening, door lamps in better places.
But here? She shivered. The emptiness…
The cottage’s barren windows gaped blank-eyed at the road. A soft glow flickered from the door left ajar. She jumped down and picked her way past weeds sprouting by the doorstep. Sliding around the front door, she stepped onto a carpetless floor. Two sconces cast weak light inside the dark-paneled entry. Cobwebs fluttered from empty coat hooks high on a scratched pine settle. The floor’s center planks were faded, as though someone had left the door open and sunlight had bleached the wood.
Lord Bowles came around a corner, a lit taper in his hand. “Miss Turner. I’d hoped you’d give me a minute to tidy up and light a fire.”
One red-gloved finger skimmed beveled paneling. “And wait out in the cold? I think not. Besides, my purpose here is to do the tidying and lighting of fires.” She gave him a pointed look. “The appropriate fires.”
With his collar flipped high, a black tricorne on his head, and late-day whiskers darkening his jaw, the master of the cottage could be the villain in one of the Goose’s awful plays.
Dust dangled from her fingertip. “By the look of things, I have much work ahead.”
She flicked away the mess and stared past an open door leaning at an angle. A hinge was missing. Beyond the doorway, she glimpsed purple velvet, the rich color and fabric out of place in a country cottage.
“I hoped to make things more comfortable,” he confessed. “I didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow.”
Her gaze shot from the velvet to him. “You planned this?”
“No.” The seam of his mouth parted, but no explanation came. The shine of his friendly visit in the Beckworth kitchen was long gone.
“No need to justify yourself, milord. Men of your ilk rarely do.”
Her blood simmered, cooled somewhat by their nighttime ride. Anger was one emotion she’d wrestled with; disappointment was another. Lord Bowles had proved himself to be the self-serving wastrel after all. That hurt. A single winter was all this sham of an arrangement required. She could endure one cold season with him.