Beckman: Lord of Sins ll-4

by Grace Burrowes

  Ethan nudged Beck with his shoulder. “I’ve never considered there are actual advantages to being the bastard. This business of the succession weighs heavily between you and Nick. Too heavily.”

  “I told him to swive his countess.” Beck raised his glass to take another sip of his drink, then changed his mind and set it aside. “He looked so haunted, Ethan, I about wanted to cry.”

  “He and Leah will sort it out,” Ethan murmured, but Beck knew damned well that was a hope on Ethan’s part, not a prediction. It was Beck’s hope, too. “What will you do about your Sara?”

  “She is not my Sara.” Maybe she was Tremaine’s Sara? “I will find some project or other that requires travel on the Continent, or perhaps head north before cooler weather arrives. Scotland is beautiful in high summer.”

  Scotland, for all its beauty, was also as good a place as any to be miserable, there being a liberal sprinkling of whiskey distilleries amid the glens and valleys.

  “Will you be here in the morning?”

  Would he? Beck did not want to return to Belle Maison, where a bevy of sisters was trying to deal with their father’s passing. He did not want to visit one of Nick’s smaller properties, there to idle about with memories and regrets. He did not want to impose further on Ethan’s hospitality now that the will had been read.

  And he was bloody damned if he wanted to freeze his parts off come grouse season, tramping about on some arctic Scottish moor.

  “I will not. I haven’t paid my respects to Lady Warne, and she should have a full accounting of the state of Three Springs.”

  “You are being stubborn, Beckman.” Ethan tossed back his drink and went to an escritoire over by the windows. “Nita sent some correspondence for you out from Belle Maison. My baby brother has apparently become a man of parts.”

  Beck did not want to deal with his factors, did not want to fashion a reply to the stewards and agents who handled his various commercial endeavors. He wanted to get blind, roaring drunk, though he knew that to be his personal version of the road to hell.

  Ethan passed him a packet of letters. “You’re welcome to stay here, you know, or you could bide a while at Tydings.”

  This was another load of peach trees, another attempt to close a distance that had formed without either Ethan or Beckman willing it. To give himself time to come up with a response—Beck did not want to bide at Tydings, an extraneous uncle to two little boys he’d never met—he sorted through his correspondence, coming to an abrupt halt at the third epistle in the stack.

  A note from North.

  The hope that shot through Beck was pathetic.

  “You’ve had some news?” Ethan asked as he resumed his place beside Beck.

  “Probably a note of condolence.” Beck eyed his drink but didn’t pick it up. He slit the seal rather than wait until he was alone in his guest room. A slashing backhand scrawl took up exactly two lines.

  Reston, get your lordly little arse back here. Trouble’s afoot.

  North.

  PS: Sincere condolences on your loss.

  Seven words: Get your lordly little arse back here. They rocketed into Beck’s awareness from two directions. First, worry suffused him, pushing past the grief and restlessness. If North said trouble was afoot, if North asked for reinforcements, then Sara might be in danger.

  “You looked pleased,” Ethan observed. “Fierce, but pleased.”

  “I am.” The second tangent of Beck’s reaction to the note was more than relief, it was soul-deep satisfaction at the realization that Three Springs was where he wanted to go. The place wasn’t nearly restored to its former glory, and North’s summons—it was nothing less—suggested Beck still had a contribution to make there. “I’ll be heading south again.”

  “I see.” Ethan studied the decanter. “As it happens, I have business south of Town myself. I’ll ride out with you in the morning, and we can call on our new sister-in-law together. You are leaving in the morning, aren’t you?”

  “At the very first light.”

  Fifteen

  “They’re all dead.” North regarded the scattering of feathers and chicken parts at his feet. Old Angus scowled alongside of him and bent to wrap a length of twine around the culprit’s neck.

  “I’ve seen this one in town,” Angus said. “He begs at every door, poor blighter. Somebody set him in the henhouse, knowing he’d be so hungry he’d get them all.”

  The dog’s hide was filthy and matted, crisscrossed with scars and sporting clumps of burrs. The damned beast was as stupid as he was huge, sitting docilely at Angus’s feet, as if he’d no clue what had befallen his dear, late friends, the chickens.

  “You want I should shoot him, Mr. North?”

  The dog seemed to like that suggestion, lapping eagerly at the back of North’s hand and giving a pathetic little woof of enthusiasm.

  “Miss Polly will want him dead. She serves up a chicken regularly,” North fumed. The dog cocked his head, regarding North curiously.

  “Have the boys toss him in the warm end of the pond,” North said. “Scrub the daylights out of him, and brush out those burrs. If we feed him some regular meals, he might turn out to be a decent watch dog.”

  “Save us digging a sizable hole if he can manage that,” Angus said. “I’ll see to the chickens.”

  “And I’ll fetch us more in town this afternoon, but the first time he digs into the coop, he gets taken into the woods, Angus.”

  The dog woofed again and capered around happily, nearly tugging Angus over in the process.

  North aimed his scowl at the chicken coop, which showed no sign of forcible entry, no sign the dog had dug under the fencing, no sign of a loose board or post. Angus had the right of it: somebody had kindly unlatched the door to the coop and set the starving dog among the chickens. And the beast had been in the pen for some time. The water in the chickens’ bowl was gone, most of the eggs in the nests had been broken, and the dog had been resting contentedly among his trophies when North came upon him.

  Sleeping off a chicken drunk, North thought with a reluctant smile.

  His smile faded as he reflected that Beckman Haddonfield had better get himself back to Three Springs, lest the ladies be left defenseless when North departed.

  * * *

  The old earl had been wise to send Beck on far-flung errands, because travel gave a man time to think as nothing else could.

  After spending long, hard hours in the saddle—the Downs were becoming very familiar to him—Beckman concluded he was not simply returning to Three Springs to finish an errand for Lady Warne.

  He also was not resuming the simple dalliance he’d enjoyed with Sara previously. He wanted more, and she likely did not. This put him again in the position of the odd man out, the extra brother, the intemperate son who had to be kept busy elsewhere, the little boy listening at keyholes, hoping for notice from those he loved.

  Beck considered his options and decided those secondary, shabby, minor roles were no longer good enough. He’d offer Sara marriage—again, but without leaving her the option of turning it into a joke—and she would have two choices. She could be his bride, the mother of his children, and most important woman in his future, or she could become a bittersweet memory, one of the happier parts of his past.

  He was virtually certain she’d turn him down again, but he deserved more than the occasional furtive coupling, and—quite relevantly—so did she.

  The question was, could he convince her of that?

  * * *

  “Haddonfield.” Gabriel North approached from the barn, his expression more forbidding than usual. “Glad you’re back.”

  There was an entire lecture in North’s green eyes, but likely because Allie had pelted straight for Beck’s arms and was at that moment barnacled to his back, North mustered his version of discretion. “Polly will want to feed you. I’ll take your horse.”

  But Beck didn’t let him off so easily.

  “I’m glad to be back.”


  This provoked North to a twitch of the lips. “Allie, introduce Mr. Haddonfield to your latest portrait subject. Those of delicate sensibilities shouldn’t come upon such a beast all unawares.”

  Beck lingered with Allie, admiring the enormous brindle-coated canine named Boo-boo, then admiring the filly, who had indeed grown even in Beck’s short absence. He admired the new chickens as well, and paid his respects to Hildegard.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Allie asked, swinging his hand. “We haven’t had a single batch of muffins since you left.”

  Suggestion hung heavily in the air. The sun was dipping closer to the horizon, and there was nothing in the house to dread. A man was entitled to get his bearings though—before facing the woman who held his heart in her hands.

  “I could use some sustenance,” Beck allowed. Allie dropped his hand and headed for the back of the house at a dead run, the dog woofing and bounding along beside her.

  “So you came back.” Polly’s greeting was not what Beck expected. She eyed him up and down, the dispassion in her gaze a trifle unnerving. “I expect you’re hungry, so you’d best wash your hands.”

  She disappeared into the pantry with a swish of her skirts. North came in from the hallway, smelling slightly of horse.

  “She’s gotten more fierce,” Beck said. “One can hardly conceive of it.”

  “She and Sara are feuding over some family issue.” North went to the sink and washed his hands. “And Allie’s birthday approaches, so the household is in a state of high anticipation. Allie has, after all, acquired a puppy, so what other wishes might come true on her birthday?”

  And where was Allie’s mother, so that Beck might endure her less-than-enthusiastic greeting as well?

  Polly emerged from the pantry, bearing a plate stacked with sandwiches. She set it down on the counter then untied her apron. “I’m off to help Allie sketch Boo-boo. Wash up when you’re done, because it’s Maudie’s half day.”

  North watched her depart with the sort of wistfulness that the dog—another simple beast—reserved for its supper.

  “And just how did Allie acquire her adoring friend?” Beck asked, taking the sandwiches to the table.

  North followed, and judging from the way the man took his seat, his back was at least no worse than when Beck had left for Belle Maison.

  “I found him in the chicken coop, nigh insensate from his excesses.” North picked up a sandwich and regarded it for a philosophical moment. “That beast is a force of nature akin to a Channel storm in the form of a dog. He ate all the chickens.”

  Beck paused midreach for his own sandwich. “He ate all the chickens? And you didn’t put a bullet in his canine excuse for a brain?”

  “Considered it.” North chewed thoughtfully. “A dog on the property is not a bad idea.”

  “A chicken-eating dog?”

  “Any dog will eat chickens if he’s starving and enclosed with a sufficient quantity of them.” North offered no further explanation but shot Beck a questioning glance.

  “We’re alone,” Beck said, and wasn’t that just a fine state of affairs when a man traveled two days over hill and dale in the broiling sun on the strength of seven words that had yet to be explained? “Your note—a monument to literary subtlety, by the way—mentioned trouble.”

  North, being North, had to finish chewing then take his bloody damned time selecting the exact perfect next sandwich.

  Beck waited. Even knowing he had yet to face Sara, something in his gut was glad to be… home. To be here, rather, where his lordly arse might be of some use to people he cared about.

  “My note got you back here,” North observed. “The dog wasn’t the first incident. Someone put him in the chicken coop, knowing he was so underfed he’d wreak havoc. Before that, the smokehouse went up in flames, which might have spread, except Angus and Jeff had just drained the cistern to scrub it out, and the entire back side of the barnyard was sopping wet as a result. You know about the harrow that mysteriously loosened its own bolts, and we found a length of tin relieved of its nails on the barn roof.”

  The sandwich was good. A tangy portion of cheddar with mustard and a sweet, smoky slab of ham between two slices of fresh, yeasty buttered bread. Beck set it aside unfinished. “Is there more?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. We’re working on repairing the roof of the springhouse, among others, and had replaced the supports, as the damp got to them, which isn’t unusual in a springhouse. Somebody sawed through the new lumber, such that when Cane climbed up yesterday to start tacking down the shingles, he damned near came a cropper.”

  “And a heavier person would have,” Beck said. “Say, you or I?”

  “Precisely.” And Beck knew what he was thinking. A fall from the roof for a man with a bad back could be tragic, not merely inconvenient.

  “Motive?” Beck asked, frowning in thought.

  “Damned if I know.” North started on his third sandwich. “It can’t be ignored that this difficulty started when you arrived to put the place to rights, Haddonfield. I’ve been here for almost three years, the Hunts for longer, and they can’t recall any of this nonsense happening, much less a plague of it all at once. We get on well enough with the neighbors, and the ladies are well regarded in the parish.”

  “After does not mean because of.”

  North nodded at Beck’s aphorism and kept chewing.

  “I understand we’re haying tomorrow, North?”

  “The fields east of the ponds,” North clarified. “We’ve spent most of your absence cutting and raking, and now it’s time to put up what’s on the ground and cut down what hasn’t been scythed yet. The weather can’t hold fair much longer, and it’s actually a decent crop.”

  “We’re due for some good luck,” Beck said. “And since there are more fields to scythe and rake, I’d say some help from Sutcliffe would be timely on several counts. We should bring over Mrs. Granville too. She’s a favorite with Polly and Sara. But tell me, North, before we’re interrupted, what you make of these happenings.”

  Having demolished three sandwiches, North rose and stretched. “I’ve poked around but can come to no conclusions. Whoever did this is sneaky as hell, but like you, I’m stumped regarding a motive.” North crossed his arms and studied the ceiling beams where Polly’s pots gleamed in precise order of size. “Your family is managing?”

  Now, Beck gathered, when they had no audience, North would bring up the late earl’s passing.

  “We are,” Beck said, rising. “His lordship’s death wasn’t unexpected, but neither was it… entirely anticipated.”

  “And how is the new earl?” North asked as they crossed the backyard to the barn.

  “He’s an idiot.” Beck said, though—curiously—not without affection. He felt a stab of affection for this barn too, where he’d kissed Sara Hunt’s tears and held her as a man holds a woman he desires. That thought damned near had him returning to the house and bellowing his arrival to the lady herself.

  But, no. He would not assume she’d be glad to see him.

  “My brother has decided his marriage must be in name only, though I doubt he’ll succeed at this scheme. His countess will sort him out in short order.”

  “Leave it to a female,” North said, scratching the filly’s silky neck gently. “Our females are feuding.”

  Our females. “You mentioned this. Any idea over what?”

  “You should winkle it out of Sara.” North’s mouth flattened into a saturnine grimness. “I gather it has to do with her late husband’s brother, but that’s not the whole of it. Sara is considering taking another post.”

  “North…” Beck pushed away from the stall door. “Can we walk a bit?”

  North looked uneasy at this request, no doubt because he knew Beck was done with privacy and discretion. It was time for some answers, before North’s reticence got somebody hurt.

  The barn door opened, letting in a shaft of late-afternoon sunshine.

  “Beckman?”

 
Sara stood there in a simple sky-blue dress, her hair catching every ray of sun, her smile tentative but genuine. Peeking from beneath her dusty hem were the toes of the boots Beck had made for her.

  “Mrs. Hunt.” Beck offered her a bow, knowing that despite all good intentions to the contrary, interrogating North would have to wait for another day.

  * * *

  Sara fell into bed exhausted and relieved. Beck had been friendly over dinner, clearly glad to see her—who wouldn’t be glad to put a parent’s funeral behind him?—and willing to take his cue from her.

  Though she’d had no cue to give him. She’d missed him to the marrow of her bones while he’d been gone, and yet now that he was here, he became so much blond, handsome temptation.

  She was tempted, of course, to steal into his bed, and that temptation was hard to resist. She was more tempted, though, to tell him Tremaine St. Michael was asking to come skulking around, threatening to unmask secrets the Hunt womenfolk had long ago agreed never to divulge.

  And yet, Sara was not about to become further entangled with a good man, and Beck was a good man, without revealing her past—all of her past—thus costing her Beck’s regard.

  Her mind whirled with the burden of her tangled loyalties and longings, but weariness dragged her under in short order.

  The next thing she knew, she was being lifted from her bed.

  “Who…?” Her mind tried to grasp what her senses already knew: the clean scent of bergamot, the feel of a big, muscular body, the care in the way she was touched, all told her who it was cradling her against his chest.

  “Hush.” One word in a rumbled whisper, then the fleeting sensation of lips pressed to her forehead. She subsided as Beckman padded with her from her apartment, then out into the kitchen and on to the front stairs. Sara soon found herself deposited on Beck’s bed, her nightgown summarily drawn up over her head.

  Beck tossed off his dressing gown. “Now you may berate me, just as soon as you welcome me home in truth.” He crouched naked over her and commenced kissing her before Sara could formulate a response.