Sara, he recalled, when he’d come down here looking for a pot of ink.
“Dear Tremaine?”
Who in the bloody hell was Tremaine, and what did he mean to Sara?
Voices drifted up from the kitchen, Polly and North speaking in the quiet tones of people who didn’t want to wake the rest of the household. Beck wanted to crumple up the paper but left it, thinking he’d pass a message to Sara through Polly rather than alert anyone to what he’d seen. Still feeling a sense of unreality, he directed his steps to the kitchen where the buttery, domestic scent of breakfast cooking hit his nose.
“My lord.” The rider, looking haggard and windblown, stood.
“Jamie.” Beck recognized the old groom he’d worked with for two years at the Linden stables in Sussex. When the grizzled former jockey would have bowed, Beck pushed at his shoulder and wrapped him in a hug. “You’re too old to hare across the shires like this.”
Jamie smiled up at him. “Not too old to bring you the good news as well as the bad, Becky, me lad.”
Becky, me lad. The grief and shock eased minutely. “What good news could there possibly be?” Beck eyed the black armband on Jamie’s jacket.
Jamie grinned from ear to ear. “Your wee brother has hisself a countess, Beck. Married a few days past and got word of the deed to your papa before the old earl cocked up his toes.”
Beck rubbed his jaw in wonder. “Nick is married?”
“At your granddame’s town house. Wee Nick wanted it done proper, so the lady’s father couldn’t cry foul.”
“This is… good news. Interesting good news.”
“They’ll be expecting you at Linden by first light,” Jamie went on, “and they’ll have remounts waiting for you. The baroness said you’re to break your fast with her, regardless of the hour, and I’d not vex the lady by ignoring her, were I you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Beck’s mind struggled to keep up with the conversation, even as Polly set a stack of griddle cakes with butter and honey before him.
“Eat,” she said. “You don’t want to, but you need to.”
Her unwitting quote of North had Beck smiling distractedly, and he did as she ordered, not because he wanted to or needed to, but because refusing her efforts would hurt her feelings.
North came in from the laundry, a tightly wrapped bundle in his hands. “Your clothes. Polly, be a love and pack the man a couple of flasks, brandy in one, sweetened tea in the other. He’ll need some comestibles he can eat in the saddle too.”
Polly moved off without a word, but Beck had to wonder what she was thinking.
Did she know who Tremaine was? Was he Polly’s dear Tremaine too? A cousin? An uncle? If the ladies had a relative who could offer them aid—and the relative had declined to do so—Beck was going to…
He wasn’t going to do anything except… except finish his meal and go to his father’s funeral.
North came in from the back hallway just as Beck was taking his empty plate to the sink.
“Horses are ready,” North said, “and you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.”
“Amen to that.” Beck’s eyes went to the stairway, and as if he’d conjured her, Sara appeared, her slipper boots first, followed by the green hem of the velvet dressing gown Beck had given her earlier in the evening.
“Beckman?” Sara’s expression was sleepy and curious, and her hair—her glorious, unbelievably lovely hair—spilled down her back in cascades of fiery beauty.
“I’m off to Belle Maison,” Beck said, holding out a hand to her. Unmindful of Polly and North disappearing to the back porch, he wrapped his arms around her.
“Your father?”
“Gone.” Beck closed his eyes and thanked God for this chance to hold her before he left. She didn’t say anything but held him to her, her arms around him, her face pressed to his collarbone. The great hard knot of loss in his throat eased another fraction. “I wish…” He stopped and swallowed, then soldiered on. “I wish you could come with me.”
Sara leaned back to brush his hair with her fingers. “I wish I could spare you this, go in your place and spare you the loss of your father. And I will remind you to not take chances as you travel, Beckman. One funeral at a time is more than enough.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her cheek, touched by her warning and fortified as well. “Do something for me?”
She nodded, holding his gaze when he would have given anything to hear the words “Must you go?” from her even once.
“Sleep in my bed tonight?”
Another nod, accompanied by a blush. He was relieved he didn’t need to explain or bargain or suffer her refusal.
“I’ll be off, then.”
Before he could turn to go, Sara caught his arm and looped it over her shoulders. “I’ll walk you to your horse.”
“Horses. I’ll lead one, ride the other, and make better time. Linden will provide fresh horses, and I should make the funeral at Belle Maison by Friday.”
“Your half-crazy brother might be completely crazy by then.”
“To say nothing of my sisters.” And Ethan—God above, at least Ethan had been with the earl at his death. That had to count for something.
Beck grabbed his coat, and they reached the back porch. Seeing North patting Soldier over at the mounting block did something to Beck’s insides. The hastily consumed meal threatened to rebel, but just when the question became pressing, Sara slipped her hand into Beck’s.
She squeezed his fingers. “I’ll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.”
“And you will be in mine,” Beck replied, relieved to have some sentiment from her suggesting… what?
That they meant something to each other. Something that would transcend distance and parting. Because this was parting. He’d never represented that it could be anything else, except when he had offered her the entire rest of his life and all his worldly goods.
“Safe journey.” Sara hugged him again, kissed his cheek, and settled back, wrapping her dressing gown around her.
“Godspeed,” North echoed, stepping back to let him climb aboard Ulysses. “If you lose the moonlight, don’t be stupid. Put up until dawn, which will be along soon enough.”
“Yes, Gabriel.” Beck swung up onto his horse and accepted Soldier’s reins from North. He saluted with his crop, blew Sara a kiss, and trotted off into the night.
North watched as Polly sent a pitying look at her sister then turned to get back to the house where she’d, no doubt, be making use of her handkerchief where North had no opportunity to comfort her.
When Sara started to cry, North wrapped his arms around her, tucked his worn handkerchief into her hand, and fashioned a lengthy list of curses that included full moons, elderly earls, stubborn lordlings, and even more stubborn housekeepers.
* * *
“His penmanship is exemplary, and he says the funeral was lovely.” North frowned at Beck’s note. “How can a funeral be lovely, of all the perishing nonsense? His brother’s wife is lovely, his sisters are lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Here.” He thrust the note at Polly, who passed it to Sara. “I have work to do, and you lovely ladies can decipher this. If I’m not back by midday you may assume the piskies have stolen lovely me for their own.”
“Mind you don’t miss the meal,” Polly called as he stalked from the kitchen to the back hallway. She sipped her tea—Sara had flavored this batch with bergamot—while Sara read the note. Gabriel needed to be alone—never had God fashioned a man more suited to being alone—and Sara needed company.
Sara scanned the note and sat back. “It’s as North indicates. Pleasantries and platitudes, but at least Beckman writes those.”
“To North, he can’t really write much else. It hasn’t been a week, Sara. He may write more when the edge of his grief has dulled.”
“I know.” She managed to put a world of loss into two words, though Polly heard the hope Sara would never admit, too. “I wrote to Tremaine.”
About time.
“Good.”
“You don’t know what I wrote.”
“You’re overset,” Polly said gently. “The man you care for has gone to bury his father, likely never to return, and you’re worried for him. You’re also worried for us, and Beckman isn’t here for you to confide in.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Polly.” Sara picked up her teacup, holding it under her nose as if she were sniffing the rising steam. “If Beckman knew what lay in our past, he’d have no choice but to take himself off to his titled life and put as much distance between us as he could. His father dying when he did was a mercy.”
“He was the spare in truth a week ago,” Polly said. “The heir has finally married, and so Beck’s only presumptive now. I truly don’t believe it matters to him, in any case, or he would have married by now.”
“He did.” Sara’s misery was audible. “And she died, and I’m sure he loved her.”
This was news, and likely some of the explanation for how distracted and distant Sara had been since coming back from Portsmouth. “She didn’t die recently.”
Sara shook her head. “Years ago, and he hasn’t remarried or settled down. I believe he’s still attached to her memory.”
“He’s talked about his dead wife with you?” Polly’s protective instincts were stirring, though this was exactly the kind of confidence she might have treasured from Gabriel North.
“I asked. He answered only the questions I put to him, but in what he didn’t say, I can tell he has feelings for her still.”
Polly topped up Sara’s tea when what she wanted was to rail against the lunacy of the male gender generally. “So he has feelings for her, but she’s gone, and it’s you who can’t wait to dive into your green dressing gown each night, and who has started wearing your new bootish things all over the house. It’s you who looks down the drive a hundred times a day, and you who has slept in his bed since the night he left.”
“I want the scent of him—I want even just the scent of him.”
They were probably the most honest and private words Sara had said to Polly in years. Polly wished she didn’t understand them so easily.
“Sara, he could well come back.” Polly did not believe these words, but a loyal sister had an obligation to be kind as well as honest.
That Sara didn’t bother arguing caused more alarm than relief. “Tremaine wants to come for a visit, and I did not wave him off, not exactly.”
“You didn’t?” Polly rose, stalked across the kitchen, whirled, and stalked back. “Don’t you think such a drastic measure called for a little consultation first, Sarabande?” For Tremaine to visit when Beckman—Lord Reston—was not on the premises made no sense if Sara feared Tremaine’s intentions, and yet Beck wasn’t offering to return.
Sara rose as well. “He will not visit. You wanted me to write to him, to assure him all was well, but he won’t believe those assurances unless he hears something approaching a welcome. All is well, Polly, we’re managing now, and Three Springs looks better than it has in decades. I reminded him that a housekeeper hasn’t the authority to invite guests, which is the simple truth. He won’t come, but if he did, now would be the time for him to see we’re not in need of his avuncular resources.”
Polly stopped short and narrowed her eyes on her sister. “You’re bluffing, then.” There was some sense in Sara’s position—they’d bluffed their way through many a daunting circumstance—also some risk. “Did you explain this to Beckman?”
“Explain what to Beckman?” North’s rasping baritone cut through the tension in the kitchen.
“There’s a remote possibility we’ll have company,” Polly said, giving Sara time to form her answer. “Family might drop by, briefly, one hopes.”
“Family?” North’s green eyes narrowed. “I’ve known you ladies for going on three years, and now family pops out of the woodwork? I’m just the steward, so the goings-on here in the house could not possibly affect me, you understand, yet I admit to curiosity. Who is this family?”
Just the steward. Polly wanted to have at him with a rolling pin.
Sara answered with enviable composure. “His name is Tremaine St. Michael, and he’s my late husband’s half brother. He has been writing lately to inquire as to Allie’s well-being, and in his latest letter has suggested he’d like to visit. I said we appreciated his concern but intimated that a visit wouldn’t be appropriate, given our positions here.”
“You hope he won’t visit,” North countered abruptly. He regarded Sara, then Polly, then Sara again, his frown deepening. “Mind you warn the child. I was thinking to take her into the village with me this afternoon, if you ladies don’t object?”
“Of course not,” Sara replied, but she’d glanced at Polly first, and Polly had no doubt that North, being North, had seen that too.
* * *
“I cannot fathom why the earl didn’t fire that lot of vultures.” Ethan handed Beck a drink, which Beck sipped, sighed over, and set down.
“That is fine libation, Mr. Grey.” Though a cup of Polly’s stout black tea would have been finer.
Ethan shrugged. “One grows used to what comforts money can command. Did any of the terms of the will surprise you?”
“Your presence surprised me.” Beck bent forward to tug off his boots. He was staying with Ethan at his London town house, the invitation coming as another surprise in a week full of them. At Nick’s request, both Ethan and Beck had stayed in Town for the reading of the late earl’s will.
“I’ve had some chance to get to know our new sister-in-law.” Ethan’s big feet appeared beside Beck’s on the low table—this was the private lair of a man in charge of a bachelor household, after all. “I think Wee Nick has met his match, and I’m not inclined to wander too far afield until he acknowledges this.”
The new Countess of Bellefonte, Leah, was pretty, kind, smitten with Nick, and very much up to the new earl’s weight in mischief and marital machinations. That alone would have recommended her, but she’d also taken charge of the logistics of the earl’s funeral, so the Haddonfield family could more effectively manage its grief.
Beck leaned his head back against soft leather and listened to the fire crackling in the hearth. What was Sara doing on this cool and cozy evening? Had Allie taken the slop bucket to Hildegard?
“Nick still carps at me to see to the succession.”
Ethan eyed him dispassionately. “You’re a reasonably appealing fellow. A wife solves a few problems.”
“And creates others,” Beck shot back. “Or are you prepared to march back up to the altar yourself, Ethan?”
“As you no doubt know,” Ethan replied evenly, “when a man is lonely for certain pleasures, he need not assuage them with a wife.”
“That isn’t lonely, that’s merely randy, and you well know the difference.” Beck knew the difference too, much better than he had even weeks ago.
“I know the difference, but in my marriage, I was far lonelier than I’ve ever been in the unwedded state.”
Beck peered at his brandy. “I have to say I came to the same conclusion, though I was married just a few months.”
“And I, a few years, but they were long, long years. What happened to your wife?”
This was a question a brother shouldn’t have to ask, not because it was impertinent to inquire, but because a brother—any brother—ought to know these things.
“She was carrying another man’s child when we wed,” Beck said, closing his eyes. “And I did not learn of this until we’d endured our honeymoon and I’d gone up to Town in deference to my new wife’s wishes. She was not… easy in my presence. I wasn’t gone three weeks before Nick told me he’d dropped in on my household, looking for me, and she was entertaining a gentleman in a compromising manner. He didn’t get a look at the man’s face, for which we can all be grateful.”
Though it had fallen to Beck to notify the poor bastard of Devona’s passing—at his wife’s dying request.
Ethan crossed his feet at the
ankle, a man apparently comfortable with secrets Beck hadn’t intended to share with anybody. “And being Nick, he went after the man with guns blazing?”
“Being Nick, he blistered my wife’s ears for all to hear. Until then, she’d thought I was the Berserker of the Bedroom’s younger brother and at no risk for siring the next earl. Nick set her straight, and things went to hell from there.”
“I’m sorry.”
It was the same damned platitude Beck had heard over and over again, but when he glanced at Ethan—a brother and a fellow widower—there was a world of understanding in his blue eyes.
“She didn’t kill herself outright.” Beck stared hard at his drink. “She took steps to make sure she lost the child, but she also lost her life as a consequence. I have not acquainted Nicholas with the specific consequences of his actions, and he has atoned for them in any case.”
And there was peace of a sort in that realization. For years, Beck had assuaged his own guilt by blaming Nick for interfering, blaming Nick for presuming and assuming and generally being Nick.
Bold Nick, stubborn Nick… protective Nick. Nick who now had his own problems and had only been trying to help.
“Atoned by retrieving you from one of your less successful journeys.” Ethan cursed softly in the direction of stubborn idiot younger brothers generally, rose, and refreshed his drink. He cocked an eyebrow at Beck, who shook his head. He’d barely touched his brandy, despite being in the midst of a discussion that might make a man very thirsty indeed.
Ethan dropped down right beside Beck on the sofa. “Did you love her?”
For reasons having to do with red-haired housekeepers and difficult partings, this question had been on Beck’s mind for much of the last week. His first inclination was to offer Ethan a shrug, a platitude, and the sort of smile that would allow the question to remain essentially unanswered. Ancient secrets were one thing; recent revelations were quite another.
“I was young. All young men are romantics in some corner of their souls. I loved her the way an ignorant young man loves a foolish young woman, but in hindsight, I can see it was more that I fancied the notion she would make me an adult and capable of giving Bellefonte his heir. I did not love her—I did not know her—but I loved the idea of her.”
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