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,
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
“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.
Sara blushed, a hot flooding of color no housekeeper ought to be blushing. “I saw both of the men today. When I was scrubbing the windows in the carriage house, they bathed in the cistern behind the barn, and God’s nightgown, Polly… Your pencil would be smoking, did you sketch what I saw.”
Polly stabbed her needle into a hoop of linen but didn’t pull the thread through. “How is Gabriel’s scar?”
Sara was too consumed with the images in her head to sit, and yet, the little parlor hardly allowed room to pace. “I don’t know if it’s the cold or the passage of time, but I thought it somewhat faded compared to last summer. In any case, it didn’t seem to inhibit his movement. But, Polly, I also saw Beck—Mr. Haddonfield. Would to God I had seen such a man as a young lady, and I would have been utterly bored with Reynard’s silk-and-lace affectations.”
She’d seen him
“Lace affectations were only part of Reynard’s charm,” Polly reminded her, setting the embroidery aside. “I don’t have to guess at Mr. Haddonfield’s appeal in the nude. He’s taller than Gabriel but more sleek, without any lack of brawn. My fingers itch to sketch him. I envy you, Sister.”
Sara shook her head, though her lips curved in recollection. “Don’t envy me. They were magnificent, the pair of them, but the sight of them will keep me up nights for many a week to come.”
“Is there anything you miss about Reynard?” Polly asked.
Sara paused in her circumnavigation of the parlor, hearing the careful delicacy of the question—delicacy they should have been long past.
“Not one thing. He was not a good man, Polly, and his dying when Allie was young was divine justice.”
