Beckman: Lord of Sins

Four

Like a good housekeeper, Sara—no plain “Mrs. Hunt” kissed like that—closed the door to Beck’s bedroom to keep in the heat. The agreeable result for Beck was that her various homey scents lingered as well. He sat on the bed, canvassing his emotions, trying to find the shame and failing wonderfully.

What he felt was horny.

He also felt relieved—not quite proud—because he had stopped. When she’d asked it of him, he’d stopped. He hadn’t even gotten a hand on one of those magnificent breasts of hers; he’d merely kissed her—and she’d kissed him back.

The wonder of that had him opening the falls of his breeches and extracting his cock from his clothing. He wasn’t given to frequent masturbation, but the erection in his hand didn’t deserve to be ignored. Typically, he refrained from onanism because his imagination wasn’t up to the task of adequately inspiring his body. Recalling images of Sara’s unbound hair glinting in the firelight and indulging in the fantasy of it brushing over his naked body, Beck let himself have his pleasure. When he was thoroughly spent, he stripped, washed, and climbed between the covers, his last thought a bet with himself that Sara wouldn’t wear her cap tomorrow.

Beck took himself down to the kitchen in the morning expecting to find only North, because the womenfolk made a religion out of rising early. To his surprise, he found Sara and Polly both, and the room redolent with the scents of bacon and fresh bread.

“Sleeping Beauty arises,” Polly chirped from where she was taking bread out of the oven.

“It’s getting light earlier and earlier,” Beck improvised, stealing a glance at Sara only to find her stealing a glance at him.

No cap.

Her smile when he caught her eye was like a spring sunrise on a cold morning, slow, sweet, and powerful for pushing back the cold and the darkness both. She winked at him, and his pleasure in the day defied description.

He winked back nonetheless, thinking Nick would have winked first.

“I’ll bring in some wood,” Beck said, for that smile and that wink had parts of his body in need of the cold air.

“Don’t bother.” Polly took another fragrant, golden loaf from the oven. “North has seen to it, and Allie’s helping him.”

“Then I can help Maudie milk the cows.” Beck was off to the back hall before Polly had a rejoinder for that too. He stood on the back porch, hearing the baritone of North’s voice from the woodshed across the backyard and the higher-pitched tones of Allie’s voice in reply.

North emerged, carrying a large armload of wood. “If it isn’t the man responsible for the clearances.”

“Good morning, Mr. Haddonfield,” Allie piped. Her load was much smaller, but her posture copied North’s exactly.

“What clearances? And good morning to you too, princess.”

“The twins are gone.” North paused to let Allie dump her wood into the wood box first. “Must have left after you reminded them of their options. Thank you, Miss Allie.”

She curtsied and grinned. “I’m going to help Maudie.”

“We’ll tell your mama,” North assured her, “and stay out of the stalls until we’ve mucked. You don’t have your boots on.”

She waved that admonition aside and took off for the barn.

Beck frowned at her retreating form. “Cheerful little soul.”

“The women are all in good spirits this morning.” North dumped his load on top of Allie’s smaller offering. “Even Hildy seems to be smiling, which is unnerving from a lady uniformly out of sorts unless there’s a slop bucket in the offing.”

“Maybe there’s a promise of spring in the air.” Beck did not comment on a man who was confessing to reading the moods of a breeding sow.

“Maybe.” North straightened slowly and braced his hands low on his back. “And maybe the ladies were more uncomfortable with a pair of drunken wastrels on the property than I perceived, and for this I feel remiss.”

Remiss was probably North’s term for wanting to beat himself silly. Beck savored that notion in the privacy of his thoughts. “Do you think it’s dry enough to risk a trip into the village today?”

North glanced around, likely seeing a thousand chores that would not complete themselves. “For what purpose?”

“To bring back a load of hay from the livery, to pick up the post, to ask about the twins, and to leave their severance at the posting inn. To lay in a few staples to tide us over until we can make it in to Portsmouth, to get the hell off this muddy patch of earth.”

“Ah, youth.” North loaded a wealth of amused condescension in two syllables.

“You’re at best a few years my senior,” Beck said. “Recall I’ve yet to see this thriving metropolis of a village.”

“There’s a whorehouse, if that’s what you’re not asking.” North stopped on the back porch. “I’m told the ladies are clean and friendly, though it’s not at all what you’re used to.”

“North…” Beck paused, because privacy was one thing, and North’s opinion of him was something else entirely. “You do not know what I’m used to, and I did not ask you for particulars on the vices available close at hand. I am not, nor have I ever been, plagued with the tendencies that make my brother nigh infamous.”

“Your brother?”

“Nicholas, Viscount Reston.” Beck walked over to the porch railing and leaned a hip on it. “He is rather a favorite with a certain stripe of female, with any stripe of female for that matter. For those of questionable virtue and reasonable discretion, he returns their appreciation… or he did. He’s bride hunting now, and one suspects this has curbed his enthusiasm for certain activities.”

“He bride hunts while you rusticate. London’s loss is Three Springs’s gain. Shall we see to our breakfast?”

From North, that amounted to a ringing endorsement of Beck’s chosen task, which North would, of course, serve up as casually as scrambled eggs on toast.

“This is beautiful, Mr. St. Michael. Absolutely… I saw one like it in the villa of a Russian archduke near Sebastopol. It’s likely Persian and worth a great deal.”

Tremaine St. Michael did not let his impatience show by gesture or expression, because commerce was commerce, whether one peddled wool—which he did in great quantity and very profitably—or wanted to know what a very old and ornate amber-and-ivory chess set was worth.

Of course, it was worth “a great deal.”

“Can you appraise it?”

Mr. Danvers, a thin, blond exponent of genteel English breeding, studied the set for a moment, kneeling down to peer at it from eye level. “Only approximately. The surest indicator of value is to hold a discreet auction for those with the means to indulge their aesthetic sophistication.”

Aesthetic sophistication. This was English for greed. Tremaine’s Scottish antecedents would have called it stupidity when it meant significant coin was spent on a game. His French forbearers would likely have called it English vulgarity.

Though it was a pretty game. Where Reynard had found it remained a mystery. Danvers was the English expert on antique chess sets; if he didn’t know its provenance, then nobody would.

Which might be very convenient.

“I have some other pieces I’d like you to look at.”

Danvers rose to his modest height like a hound catching a scent. “More chess sets?”

“Two, one of which might be older than this one.”

The man bounced on the balls of his feet, and though he wasn’t overly short for an Englishman, his enthusiasm made Tremaine feel like a mastiff in the company of some overbred puppy.

“This way, and then I’m going to need a recommendation for somebody who can appraise some paintings for me—somebody very discreet.”

“Of course, sir. I will put my mind to it as soon as we’ve seen the chess sets.”

Even Danvers, though, couldn’t stifle a gasp when Tremaine took him to the storage room at the back of the house. For a man obsessed with chess sets, he spent a long time gazing about at the plunder Reynard had begged, bartered, or stolen from courts all over the Continent.

“You will need more than an appraiser of paintings, won’t you, Mr. Tremaine?”

Tremaine sighed, because Danvers had spoken not with the eagerness of a hound scenting prey, but with something approaching awe. Reynard’s taste had always been exquisite, ruinously exquisite.

So much for discretion. “For now, let’s start with the chess sets, shall we?”

The weather held fair, and Beck’s mood improved for being away from the house and having some time to assess the land itself while the roads dried and the ladies packed a substantial lunch.

The field before them was fallow, but from the looks of the dead bracken, the crop had been thin and the weeds thick.

“What about marling now, before planting, and letting it fallow over the summer, then planting a hard winter wheat in the fall?” Beck was thinking out loud as he slouched in Ulysses’s saddle.

“What is a winter wheat?” North asked.

Beck was learning to read North’s varied scowls, and this scowl connoted skepticism and veiled curiosity.

“When I was in Budapest, the mills were grinding wheat in mid-summer. I asked how that could be, and it was explained to me that on the slopes of the Urals there are strains of wheat you plant in the early fall. They ripen in June or so, and you have two months to harvest and fertilize before you put in another crop. We have plenty enough at Belle Maison to seed this field and several more.”

North’s scowl became more heavily laced with curiosity. “So if we’re not planting until fall, how do you keep the cover from going all to weeds, and is there any corner of the semi-civilized world to which you haven’t wandered?”

“Pen the sheep here,” Beck said, ignoring the second question. “Same as you normally would over winter. Let them eat down the weeds and fertilize while they do.”

“You’ve seen this done?” North’s face conveyed the resignation of the typical man of the land, such fellows being inured to facing multiple variables and having little solid information.

“I’ve seen it done in Hungary. They’re more partial to goats there.”

“I am not raising goats at Three Springs.”

Lest there be a species underfoot more stubborn than North himself? “I’m not asking you to, though they make a respectable poor man’s cow.”

“So if we don’t plant here, where do we plant? The place can’t go a whole year without a crop to sell.”

“We break sod, North.” Beck raised an arm. “There, where the drainage is equally good and the land looks like it’s gone halfway back to heath. It’s fallowed plenty long enough, and the field lies low enough we could irrigate it from that corner if we had to.”

“We could, if we’re to bloody well break our backs digging ditches and serving as plowboys.”

Our backs, because Gabriel North would not permit others to work while he sat on his horse and supervised—any more than Beck would.

“You can’t keep farming the one patch forever without letting it fallow,” Beck argued. “And a better use of the place might be to farm produce and sell it in Brighton.”

“Brighton is a damned long day’s haul, usually two days. Just how many teams and wagons do you think Three Springs owns?”

This was North’s version of taking time to think something over, so Beck did not raise his voice. “Three teams. My four can be worked in pairs, and two wagons, because I’ll not be returning the one to Belle Maison. We can use your old team to haul produce.”

“Why in God’s name are we hauling produce to bloody Brighton?”

Beck grinned, because this was North’s version of enthusiasm for an idea with promise. “Stop whining. Our bloody Regent has nominally finished his bloody Pavilion and must show it off to all his gluttonous, bibulous friends. Your little patch of coast has become frightfully fashionable.”

North’s habitually grim features became even more forbidding. “Brighton is already a horror. The Pavilion will bankrupt the nation so Wales can pretend he’s some Oriental pasha before his drunken guests.”

Beck pulled a doleful face. “You flirt with treason, Mr. North, and a singular lack of appreciation for Eastern architecture.” Beck did not lapse into raptures about Prague or Constantinople, though it was tempting. “We’ll have to broaden your horizons, North.”

“Spare me.” North nudged his horse into a walk. “I’m sufficiently sophisticated for Hildy, Hermione, and Miss Allie, so we’ll leave the broad horizons to you.”

Beck let Ulysses walk on beside North’s mount. “You do not account yourself sophisticated enough for Miss Polly?”

“Stubble it, Haddonfield.” North’s tone was deceptively—dangerously—mild. “Polly Hunt has seen every capital in Europe, converses passably in a half-dozen languages, can out-paint most of the Royal Academy, and out-cook whatever Frog rides the Regent’s culinary coattails. I will never be sophisticated enough for her.” North fell silent while his horse crouched in anticipation of leaping a rill. “But you might be.”

Ulysses chose to wade the little stream. When he was again parallel to North’s mount, Beck studied his companion for a moment before replying.

“Polly Hunt is a lovely lady, but she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you. You matter to her.”

“I matter to her,” North said patiently, “because she is a good Christian woman, and I eat prodigious quantities. You matter to her on the same account, as does Hildegard.”

“How flattering. I am likened to a market hog.”

“Not a market hog, our best breeding sow.”

“Our only breeding sow. North, you are truly obtuse on the subject of Miss Hunt. Don’t compound it by seeing competition where there isn’t any.”

“You are not competition. I’m not sure what you are, but you’re an earl’s son, and Polly deserves at least that.”

“You’re daft.” Beck urged Ulysses up to a trot, and North’s mount smoothly followed suit.

“What?” North cued the beast to a canter. “You’re a picky son of an earl? A woman as accomplished as Polly won’t do for you?”

Beck scowled over at him. “Polly is in every way lovely, but she hasn’t got…”

“She hasn’t got what? No title? No pedigree? No dowry?” They’d gained the lane, such as it was, and North’s voice had gained an edge.

“She hasn’t got the right color hair.”

Beck tapped his heels against Ulysses’s sides, and the race was on.

“I thought you had a thousand things to do today.” Polly set a tea tray down on the low table, clearly intent on a rare late-morning respite.

“Perhaps only a hundred. I can smell that pot of tea from here.” Sara’s nose told her the leaves were fresh, Polly hadn’t skimped, and the blend was heavy on the Assam.

“A bit of bliss, courtesy of Mr. Haddonfield’s Wagon of Wonders.” Polly did the honors, adding cream and sugar to both cups. “Weren’t you going to clean out the carriage house, scrub the floor to the back hallway, change the sheets on the men’s beds, and”—Polly paused to pay homage to the steaming cup of tea she held before her nose—“about eight other things?”

“Morning light is best for fine work.” Sara hitched her embroidery hoop a bit closer for emphasis. All those chores and tasks and duties could wait for a single, perishing hour, couldn’t they?

“You look different today.”

When an artist made that sort of observation, evasive maneuvers were in order. “I’m sitting still for a change, perhaps? With Allie busy sketching, the twins banished, and North and Mr. Haddonfield in the village, it seemed like an opportunity to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”

While pondering the feel of the man’s palm, pressed snug low against her belly, or his lips grazing across the back of her neck.

“You’re not wearing a cap.”

The tea was excellent—stout without a hint of bitterness, fragrant, and perfectly brewed. Sara savored one swallow, then another. “I don’t always wear a cap.”

“You didn’t used to always wear a cap, but lately, you’ve done so more and more.” Polly wasn’t making an accusation, she was reviewing historical facts. The accusations would come soon.

“I approach the age of thirty, and I am a widow in service. A cap is appropriate to my station.”

“A widow who is using her maiden name. If I had hair that color…” Polly muttered.

“Be grateful you don’t. Be grateful you sport dark auburn hair, not this, this… regimental scarlet gone amok.”

Polly’s artistic gaze narrowed, as if she’d launch into a sermon about light, luminosity, and points of interest. Then, “North has teased you about your caps. North seldom teases outright about anything. I was sure he’d flirt you out of them eventually.”

“Polonaise Hunt, you well know the difference between teasing and flirting, and Mr. North never flirts.”

Polly’s gaze shifted to the day outside the window, one leaning a bit in the direction of spring, at least as far as the morning sunshine was concerned. “North flirts with that damned pig. I thought he’d get you to budge on the matter of your silly caps.”

“I am not Hildegard, Polly.”

And North was not Beckman Haddonfield.

The village was a modest little widening in the cow path between the South Downs and Portsmouth. It wasn’t exactly isolated, but it wasn’t aswirl with commerce, either. Beck was comfortable in such places, far more comfortable than in the rarified artifice of Vienna or London. The two years he’d spent mucking stalls had taught him that much, at least.

He left the team at the livery, paid in coin of the realm for a full wagon of hay, and made arrangements for some oats to be loaded on as well, while North took off to do actual shopping for the ladies. By the time Beck had made a circuit of the streets intersecting at the green, midday was closing fast, so he went to find North at the inn.

The innkeeper sized Beck up with a practiced smile as Beck approached the polished plank bar. “What’ll you have, then?”

“Have you a decent winter ale?” Beck detested the dark, hearty quality of winter ale and could trust himself not to drink much of it.

“We do.” The innkeeper got down a pint glass. “Until the first of May, at least. Some years, it seems we’re never without. Will you be having some tucker to tide you over, sir?”

“No, thank you.” Beck turned around and lounged back against the bar. “Have you any mail for a Beckman Haddonfield, Three Springs?” North was nowhere to be seen, but the ladies had wanted a bit of this and that, and depending on custom, Beck could see their errands taking some time.

“Be ye him?”

“I am.” Beck kept his back to the bar. “Decent ale.”

The innkeeper reached under the bar and withdrew a thick packet of mail. “There’s notes in here for them Hunt ladies, too. The best of it’s for ye, though.”

“My thanks.” Beck pushed away from the bar, left a coin, and scooped up his mail, then turned with careful nonchalance. “You haven’t seen Tobias and Timothy since last night, have you?”

“Them two.” The innkeeper’s ruddy features contorted into a scowl. “Me missus done run ’em off the last time yester eve. She had the hostlers and stable boys toss ’em, in a wagon headed for Portsmouth, and their haversacks with ’em as they was sayin’ as they’d been turfed out from Three Springs.”

“I take it they left an unpaid tab?”

The innkeeper nodded. “Missus is right when she says they’ll never pay as much as they drink and carry on.”

Beck passed a small pouch across the bar. “This is intended as their severance, their employment at Three Springs having indeed come to an end. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind keeping it safe for them, for a reasonable period?”

Not by a blink or a twitch did the innkeeper hesitate.

“I’d owe it to ’em as loyal customers.” He slipped the pouch into his apron pocket. “Missus would agree.”

“A woman of discernment, your missus.” Beck smiled pleasantly and took himself, his mail, and his beer to the snug, where he could see the whole room, be seen by few, and have the table space needed to set his correspondence down in private.

Lady Warne had written, her florid feminine hand evident in the largest packet, and Nita had written as well. There was a thin epistle from a location obscured by the rain having gotten to the sender’s direction—Beck supposed it to be from one of his factors on the Continent—and a note from Nick.

Nothing was banded or sealed in black, so the news couldn’t be that awful. That he didn’t yet have to leave Three Springs came as a relief, and not simply because it meant the earl yet drew breath.

Pushing his beer across the table, Beck opened the note from Nick first. Nick was the realm’s largest grasshopper, shifting about from one residence to another, one friend’s holding to another’s, one county to another with a speed and frequency that left his family dizzy.

But he made up for it by being a good correspondent, in two senses. First, he was conscientious, and second, he was to the point.

Becky Dearest,

Am up to my miserable arse in dancing slippers, cravats, and interminable small talk. I do not wish you were here, not when I feel about as comfortable with this charade as the Regent would riding a lame donkey. No countess yet, and I shudder at the potential candidates. They all look as desperate as I feel. If you ever have sons—for I shall not—don’t make them promise to marry until they’re at least forty.

No bad news from Nita. I’ve asked her to keep you well informed while you are in the provinces. Lady Warne is delighted you’re on premises down there, and says to warn you the women on staff are her personal friends—I don’t know if she means you are honor bound to flirt with her collection of relics, or you’re honor bound not to. I know Papa appreciates the effort you’re making, as do I. When the day comes that the title befalls me, the last thing I’ll have time to do is racket around the South Downs, restoring Three Springs.

Don’t let the old dears pinch your tender bottom too hard. If you should make a progress to Sutcliffe and run into Thomas Jennings doing the same, I specifically told him to leave you in peace, but recall, Linden is just a few hours the other side of Brighton if you need reinforcements. He says Loris fares well and is nowhere near as big as a freshening heifer. If you’re going to bide there for a spell—and I encourage you to, the scenery up here being pathetic—then I’ll have Nita send you some pigeons.

Papa would want to hear how you go on, as do I.

Love,

Wee Nick

Beck set the letter aside, vowing to return fire soon. Nita’s letter was equally brief, but reassured Beck the earl was comfortable, if “fading.” Nita’s guess was the old man would hang on until Nick had chosen his bride.

The letter from Lady Warne was indeed accompanied by sealed notes for Polly and Sara, but the tone of Beck’s missive was puzzling.

My dear boy,

Trust I am keeping an eye on that imp of a brother of yours. I will not allow him to indulge in too much folly in the choice before him. Still, one wishes you could be two places at once, because your ability to discreetly manage our Nick would come in handy. Instead, you have been set to checking up on my property, for which I am grateful. Nicholas has hinted all might not be in order with Three Springs, but I have assured him you have my power of attorney and will soon address whatever minor neglect has occurred.

You will please ensure the enclosed are delivered to their respective addressees in person, because there has been a peculiar quality to my correspondence with my staff. While the Misses Hunt are most amiable and competent ladies, I’ve found their attendance to epistolary matters oddly unreliable. They write only sporadically, seldom answer the direct questions I put to them, and often remark on matters of random interest. I’d be concerned, except Mr. North’s quarterly reports arrive timely into the hands of my secretary, who assures me they are current and complete.

When you are done rusticating, you must come up to Town that I may sport about on your arm and be the envy of my friends—and their granddaughters.

Your loving Grandmother

Della, Lady Warne

The letter explained at least one thing: Lady Warne was not reviewing North’s reports herself. She left them in the hands of her secretary, a cheerful, practical little man who’d looked exactly the same since Beck had first been introduced to him fifteen years ago. Three Springs, alas, was falling through the cracks, with the secretary certain the earl was managing it, and the earl comfortable to leave it to his shifty solicitors.

And as for managing Nicholas, Beck attributed that to harmless flattery or willful misdirection on Nicholas’s part.

The other part of the letter, the almost querulous description of communication from her house staff at Three Springs, that bothered Beck, and put him in mind of Sara’s comments regarding Lady Warne’s own letters and notes.

“Whiling the morning away as I work myself to a nubbin.” North grunted as he slid into the snug beside Beck. “Any news?”

“My father lives so you will not yet be rid of me, my brother is not yet married, and Mistress Innkeeper has cashiered the twins into Portsmouth because they were foolish enough to disclose they’d lost their livelihoods.”

North caught the eye of a serving maid. “All in all, a good report. I’ve bought out the shops for the ladies and heard there was a young lord buying up hay at the livery. Big devil, but spoke like a toff.”

“Village life makes up in charm what it lacks in privacy,” Beck said. He slit open the final, flimsy missive and then set it down. “This is not for me.” He flipped it over and eyed the address more closely. The ink was slightly smeared, on both sending and receiving addresses, but it was clearly sent to Three Springs.

“Perhaps”—he slid it over to North—“it’s for you, my lord.”

North eyed the single sheet of paper with distaste. “Bugger all.”

Beck took another sip of his ale and waited in silence. The letter had begun with a florid, obsequious greeting to his lordship, Gabriel, Marquess of… And Beck had folded it back up, lest he read more that he didn’t want to know.

North scanned the letter, scowling mightily, then folded it into an inside pocket as a serving maid approached.

“Your pint, Mr. North.” She set it down and curtsied, her gaze running over North with veiled appreciation.

“My thanks, Lolly. How’re the boys?”

Lolly’s tired countenance lit up. “Growing out of everything they own. Can’t wait until I can turn them loose in the garden and get their noise and rumpus out of the cottage. They’re still learning their letters this winter, and it’s hard for ’em, but Gran and I insist. It’s all their pa asked of me, and I intend to see it done.”

“They won’t regret it,” North assured her. “And neither will you.”

She left the table, a little more bounce in her step, and Beck tilted his head to consider his lordship.

“Tell me this much, North. Is there anybody who will be coming around, out for your blood and uncaring of the welfare of those around you?”

“No.” North was emphatic. “You have a right to be concerned, because the appearances are troubling, but no. I have no enemies who’ve tracked me to Three Springs, and the ladies have nothing to fear.”

“Jolly good for them. You, however, will have a considerable enemy in me if I find whatever game you’re playing threatens harm to them or Lady Warne’s assets. Are we clear?”

“Oh, cut line, Haddonfield.” North’s tone was weary. “I ended up at Three Springs intending to stay only a season or so—that was my initial arrangement with Lady Warne—but the place needed somebody, and I couldn’t leave it to the twins, could I?”

“So you’ll leave it now that I’m underfoot? North, any day, any instant, I may be called away.”

North was quiet, and Beck realized he was deciding the answer in the moment.

“I won’t jump ship until fall, at least. I won’t plan to. We’ll get your Russian wheat in, and that’s as much as I can commit to. If I can’t manage that much, I’ll try to warn you of my departure.”

Beck stared at the murky liquid in his mug, knowing what it was to be far from home without friends or family. “North, is there something to be done here? My family has influence in various spheres, and if it’s a matter of finances, my own assets are not inconsiderable.”

North’s smile was sweet, making his harsh features astoundingly handsome, charming even. “Haddonfield, you are a dear, and I can see why this miserable job was put on your very honorable shoulders, but no. I am not hounded by creditors. There are no angry papas gunning for me. I am not listed on some warrant for murder most foul. It’s a family matter.”

“And those,” Beck said, “are sometimes the most difficult.” His thoughts roamed back to when Nick had hauled him bodily from Paris, and for the first time, he considered what Nick went through, having to scout every brothel and hell in a very sinful city, at a time when an unmistakably large, blond Englishman was risking his life just to be seen on the streets.

“You are kind, Haddonfield,” North said as they walked back toward the livery. “One forgets the aristocracy can produce men like you.” On that cryptic comment, he went ahead of Beck and inspected the hay piled high on the wagon.

By the time they departed, Beck was eyeing the sky, hoping the huge quantity of fodder they hauled wouldn’t get wet.

“You’re quiet,” North said as they gained the last mile.

“I think I’ve puzzled something out.” Beck steered the horses through a badly banked turn. “Who picked up and delivered the mail for Three Springs, North?”

A beat of silence, and then, “The bloody, bedamned, sodding twins, of course.” North shot a disgusted look at Beck. “I’ll bet if we checked, we’d find much of the correspondence from Lady Warne that conveyed household funds never made it into Sara’s hands.”

“And Sara’s letters detailing the extent of the needs here probably got cast aside as well, with only the more social correspondence being allowed to make it through. Your reports, by the way, are falling into the indifferent hands of Lady Warne’s secretary, who is not a man of business. But what of your correspondence?” He steered the wagon onto the Three Springs lane. “Do you get the sense it has been tampered with?”

“That is a possibility,” North said. He took the letter out of his pocket and scanned it again. “It is a distinct possibility.”

He kept his silence all the way to the stable yard, then got down and swung open the barn doors so Beck could drive the team right into the barn aisle. The men spent a hot, dusty hour pitching most of the hay up into the loft, leaving the last of it below for immediate consumption.

“Will that last us?” Beck asked as they unhitched the team.

“Depends when the grass comes in,” North said. “Turn around.” He swatted a quantity of hay from Beck’s clothing and hair, and submitted to the same service in return. Still, they were dirty and sweaty, and minute wisps of hay had insinuated themselves beneath their clothing, necessitating a bracing trip to the cistern.

When they reached the house, North disappeared up the back steps, and Beck realized the man was still preoccupied with his letter. Beck let him go without comment, knowing all too well what it was like to be at an awkward distance from family and friends.

God willing, North would find his way home more successfully than Beck had.