Beckman: Lord of Sins (25 page)

“What shall we do with him?” Beck asked. “I can send him back to his Maker, Allie, or I can find somebody in the village going to Portsmouth and put him on an outbound ship.”

North sent him a look that clearly indicated the sharp end of a shovel would be a much simpler solution, but Beck waited for Allie to make up her mind.

“Send him home,” Allie decided. “If he has family, they’ll miss him.”

“Oh, for the love…” North put his fists on his hips and glowered at the snake. “I suppose he’ll need a little snake palace to bide in until his royal barge departs, and a name.” He took the snake from Beck like so much dirty washing. “As the name Boo-boo is taken, and Screech lacks a certain dignity, his name will be Milton, and I will find him a suitably impressive dwelling and take him into the village tomorrow, there to begin his homeward odyssey, about which he will no doubt write at great length, setting a trend among all the fashionable, well-traveled black rat snakes.”

He stomped off, lecturing the snake about getting ideas above his lowly station, while Beck silently applauded a very convincing reestablishment of the status quo.

“Quite an adventure for you.” Beck held out a hand to Allie. “I suppose you want a snake now for your birthday instead of a pony?”

“A pony?” Allie’s eyes grew round, and she began to chatter volubly, completely missing the wink Beck shot Sara and Polly.

The topic of Allie’s birthday figured prominently at the dinner table, with various outlandish suggestions being made regarding her gifts and appropriate activities for the occasion. North joined the group midway through the meal, having constructed a wood and wire cage for Milton.

“He’s taking a nap after his ordeal,” North reported. “He’s been rendered temporarily deaf by a certain young lady’s stunning propensity to summon help, as have I. Ah, I see you left me a dollop of potatoes and three entire green beans. I’m touched.”

Polly rose, smiling. “There’s more.”

North reached over and slid the butter away from Beck’s plate toward his own. By tacit agreement, the adults were not going to discuss the broken axle or the snake at the table, not while Allie remained among them. But when she’d disappeared to take Hildy her scraps, Beck glanced around the kitchen.

“When Allie has found her bed, I’d like the rest of us to convene in my sitting room.”

Sara nodded, resignation and worry reflected in her gaze.

“Sara and I will be doing the dishes tonight, Polly,” Beck said. “You’ve cooked for a legion all week and can use the time to get off your feet.”

“Excellent suggestion,” North said. “Though perhaps you’d take a turn with me in the garden rather than get off your feet?”

A glance passed between them, one Beck didn’t try to parse, though North was a fool to walk away from a woman who looked at him that way.

When Beck was left alone in the kitchen with Sara, he did, indeed, set to clearing the table and washing the dishes.

“You sit too,” Beck said, stacking plates at the table. “I’ll tend to this, and you enjoy a second cup. I wanted to talk with you first, though, before we open discussion with the others.”

Sara rose and slipped her arms around his middle. “I’ve never been so grateful to see another person in my life as I was when you came skidding into that barn, Beckman. That idiot snake kept slipping and slithering off the hay fork and glaring at me and waving his tongue about…”

“You would have gotten him,” Beck assured her, setting down his load of dishes to return her embrace. “He was as upset as you were, though.”

“Polly wanted to get an ax.”

“A shovel would have given her longer reach, but all’s well, even for the snake.”

“You handled it beautifully.” Sara held him a moment longer. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, but, Sara? The broken axle on the wagon today? It wasn’t an accident, and I suspect this snake was purposely put where Allie and Boo-boo like to play.”

“I haven’t asked Allie for the details. I gather the beast was somewhere in the vicinity of the doghouse.”

“It could be coincidence. The snake might have come in on a wagonload of goods shipped into Portsmouth, but I don’t think we can take that chance.”

“What are you saying?”

“If the snake was put here deliberately, then we’ve escalated from malicious mischief toward replaceable property, to a threat of real harm to Allie or you ladies. Even nonvenomous snakes have a nasty bite, Sara. They’re carnivores, and the wound can easily get infected.”

Sara dropped her arms from Beck’s waist and stepped back. “Somebody wants Allie
dead
?”

“Or doesn’t care if harm befalls her, which suggests to me we’re not dealing with a greedy uncle.”

“How do you figure that?” Sara moved off to pour herself a cup of tea, her movements mechanical, her eyes unfocused.

“Why would Tremaine stir up so much trouble to get his hands on a talented artist then put the artist herself in harm’s way?”

“I don’t know.”

She sounded so forlorn, so uncertain. Beck silently cursed whoever had let the snake into the barn. The scare to Allie was likely to be quickly forgotten, not so the scare to her mother.

“I think we need to have a serious talk with one Tremaine St. Michael, Sara. Sooner rather than later.”

“You want us to confront him?”

“I do, but here, where we’ve got some support and we can keep a close eye not just on Tremaine but on Allie as well.”

“You’re determined to invite him here?” Sara worried a thumbnail between her front teeth. “Is that necessary?”

“I think it is. I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

“I could take Allie away somewhere.”

He understood the impulse to flee but understood as well that it seldom resulted in a real solution—and wasn’t that an insight to be pondered some other fine, long day? “And if he was able to find you here, using your maiden name, what will you do when he finds you there too?”

She glowered at her teacup. “I’ll go to America with the damned snake. It’s my job to keep Allie safe, and I’ll go to the ends of the earth to do that.”

She wasn’t arguing, which Beck took as an indication that she was closer to emotional collapse than even she knew, so he took her teacup from her and wrapped her in another hug. “The ends of the earth are not as worthy of inspection as one might think. It’s time to stop dancing around silences and innuendos, Sara. We’ll get St. Michael here, on our turf, and determine his motives. My brother is an earl, my step-grandmother a marchioness, and my pockets are full to bursting. I’m connected to more damned titles than you can count, and I will bend all of my resources to see that Allie stays safe with you.”

“It’s so complicated,” Sara whispered against his neck. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”

“It isn’t complicated. Either St. Michael ceases his nonsense, or I’ll see him behind bars or in the ground.”

Sara cuddled closer, which might have been a sign of progress except for the realization that if Allie were once again safe, then Beck’s greatest leverage for gaining Sara’s hand in marriage would be gone.

The haying was successfully completed, the barns and sheds and even the house sported repaired or replaced roofs, the walls and fences were again sturdy and straight, and the crops matured in the fields. Summer eased past the solstice and into July, hitting the lull between haying and harvest when life should have been sweet.

At Three Springs, since the evening Beck had explained his intent to invite Tremaine St. Michael for a visit, every adult on the property had lived with an underlying sense of tension. The lack of further destructive mischief only made the anxiety greater.

There was good news, at least for Beck, in that Nicholas had reconciled with his new countess.

“You are still determined to leave?” Beck asked as he and North rode in from the eastern barley fields.

North patted Soldier’s dusty neck. “I am. I thought you’d have matters wrapped up by now, and St. Michael has apparently gone to ground.”

“He’s on his way here.”

“He’s on his way…” North’s scowl was thunderous. “This man puts a little girl in harm’s way, he’s on his way here, and you didn’t think to mention this to me? The women will draw and quarter you, and I’ll sharpen their knives.”

“I got his letter in the village today. Seems he’s been walking the Lake District or some such, and he’s happy to grace us with his presence as of the first of next week. You are duly warned, so what will you do about it?”

“Fret prodigiously.”

“Just so, and I appreciate the warning. But you’ll still go.”

“Soon,” North said, his eyes straying to the back of the manor house. “When you’ve routed the enemy, I’ll move along, so you’d best be looking for a new steward.”

“You were going to stay through harvest,” Beck reminded him as they turned their horses into the stable yard.

“I was going to try, but it isn’t working out that way.”

Beck regarded him as closely as one could regard North, given his ability to mask his feelings.

“Is Polly angry with you?”

North swung off Soldier. “She is not, or not as angry as she should be. She’s… brokenhearted, and that I cannot abide. The sooner I’m gone, the sooner she’ll realize I was a complete waste of her sentiments.”

“Gabriel…” How did Beck, of all people, tell another man that leaving didn’t solve anything?

“There is no good outcome for us, Beckman,” North said as he ran up his stirrups. “The most honorable thing I can do is take myself off and let her get on with her life.”

“You aren’t even giving the woman a chance, North. At least tell her the truth of your situation—whatever that might be—before you go, so she has a reason for your departure other than her own failings.”

“God.” Clearly, this possibility had not occurred to North. He rested his arm over Soldier’s muscular neck and bowed his head as if exhausted. “She’ll blame herself, won’t she?”

“The good ones do. The worthy ones.” Just as Beck had blamed himself for his young wife’s decisions.

The realization went through him like a dose of strong medicine. He felt the relief of it, the absolution of it settle into his soul while North stood braced against his horse.

“I sometimes wish I’d gotten on that ship with the damned snake.”

“But you would have left my flank exposed,” Beck said. “So blame your situation on me, but please consider the terms of your parting. What affects Polly affects Sara and Allie, and me as well.”

“You should have been a vicar.” North loosened Soldier’s girth. “Inducing guilt is one of their most highly cultivated skills.”

“You should have been a marquess,” Beck said, letting instinct have free rein.

North shook his head as he took Ulysses’s reins from Beck. “If I’d been a marquess, I would never have met Polly Hunt, never have built my first snake palace, never have soaked away my aches and worries with you and your nancy damned soap. Being a steward has had rewards being the marquess would never have. I’ve brought in crops I saw planted and tended, cared personally for beasts and buildings, and developed an appreciation for the people closest to the land. It hasn’t been all bad, Beck. In fact, in some ways, I’ve been happier here at Three Springs than I ever would have been as Hesketh.”

Hesketh. Hesketh was indeed a venerable, much-respected marquessate. “And you’ll miss it,” Beck warned. “Worse than you miss Hesketh’s holdings.”

“That I will.” North’s eyes strayed to the house again before he led the horses into the barn. In that single glance, Beck had seen a peacefulness in North’s eyes, an acceptance that boded ill for the man’s future. North was going to leave, and there would be no talking him out of it.

Beck’s situation with Sara wasn’t leaving him peaceful in the least. When he kidnapped her to his bed, she was a sweet and passionate lover. She never sought him out at night on her own, though, and in her embrace, Beck felt an increasing desperation. He reminded her of his proposal regularly, and she renewed her promise to consider his offer if ever she believed Allie in danger.

But that was before Beck had an acceptance of his invitation from Tremaine St. Michael. He broached the topic as lunch was finishing up, when he had Sara and Polly to himself in the kitchen.

“Ladies, we’re to have a guest.”

Sara looked up sharply from where she was sorting the silver back into a drawer. “Your brother?”

“Tremaine St. Michael has accepted our invitation to visit, and he’ll be here on the first of the week.” He was looking right at Sara, so he saw her stiffen and close her eyes. Polly set down the plate she’d been scraping into the scrap bucket and muttered an “excuse me” before leaving the kitchen at a fast clip.

“Let her go,” Beck said softly. “She’ll find North, and I’ve already warned him.”

“I was hoping…” Sara bit her lip and took up the plate-scraping Polly had abandoned.

“You were hoping St. Michael had fallen from the face of the earth,” Beck finished for her. “Apparently, so was Polly.”

“Polly is in a difficult position,” Sara said, keeping her gaze on her task.

“Because North is leaving?”

Sara straightened and moved on to the next plate. “That, but also because Tremaine is coming. Polly cares about… all of us.”

“And we care about her, but what aren’t you telling me, Sara?” Because as sure as Gabriel North was a man with problems, Sara was still keeping secrets.

She finished with that plate and reached for the next, then stopped and turned her back to him. His arms were around her before she got her apron untied.

“Talk to me, Sara.” He drew her against him. “For the love of God, no more silences. Please talk to me.”

***

Sara felt Beckman behind her, solid, strong, and secure. Were the issue anything less than Allie’s safety, and were it anybody else demanding Sara’s confidences, she would have gone right on scraping Hildy’s supper into a bucket.

“Please talk to me.”

Sara nodded. He gave her a moment, probably knowing she needed to gather her courage, her wits, her breath.

“There are paintings,” she said, glad he couldn’t see her face. “Tremaine has them. Reynard gave them to him for safekeeping when he fell ill, or Tremaine stole them, I know not which.”

“What sort of paintings?” Beck said, misgiving in his tone beneath the calm.

“Nudes. Of me.”

Nothing about his embrace shifted. Not one thing. “Nudes are acceptable artistic subjects.”

“Nudes of some statue might be. Nudes of mythical gods and goddesses are allowable. Nudes of one’s neighbor aren’t. Nudes of one’s housekeeper aren’t. With those paintings in his possession, Tremaine can ask pretty much anything of me, Beckman, and I’ll comply.”

“Polly feels responsible?”

“She was young and angry and didn’t see the harm. The poses are such that my face isn’t quite visible in any of them.” Nor was it quite obscured.

“How many?”

He had to know one painting was enough to destroy a woman’s life.

“Three.” Sara turned in his arms and laid her cheek against his chest. “They’re good, almost charming.”

“Is this why Polly stopped painting for others?”

“Part of it. Most of it.”

Beck pressed a kiss to her temple. “So we’ll buy the damned paintings.”

“Why should he sell them to you?” Sara asked miserably. “He can have the cow, so to speak, by holding on to those three pictures.”

Beck was quiet for a minute, his hands stroking idly over Sara’s back. “How does he have title to them?”

She went still when he posed the question—a simple question. Or was it? “What do you mean?”

“Provenance is the first thing any reputable collector will want to prove.” Beck took half a step back and led Sara over to the table.

“The dishes…”

Beck was out the back door in three strides, bellowing for Maudie, who came from the carriage house at a trot.

Beck pointed toward the kitchen. “The dishes, my girl. And mind you don’t be getting the lads in trouble.” She bobbed a blushing curtsy and scurried to her task.

When Sara had been escorted to Beck’s sitting room, the door firmly closed behind them, she had the sense the real inquisition was about to begin.

Beck settled beside her on the sofa. “Let us discuss provenance. The painter owns the painting unless paid a commission. In this case, I doubt Reynard commissioned the works.”

And why, in years and years of being mentally dogged and harassed by those infernal paintings, hadn’t Sara once considered this?

“He did not, though he could argue he was owed the paintings for putting a roof over our heads, that sort of thing.”

“He didn’t put a roof over anybody’s head,” Beck shot back. “You did.”

“But what belongs to me belonged to him, as my husband, so he was owed, not me.”

“In the absence of a contract of some sort, that’s at least debatable. Polly is family, but if Reynard sold her paintings in addition to your performances, then she earned her keep.”

“He did, or he sold most of them.”

“We have a situation where you and Polly are both bringing in income, but you think Reynard somehow had title to the paintings Polly created? What sort of man would rely on that reasoning to keep paintings from the women who should have them? And what sort of uncle would use those paintings to control women he ought to have been assisting for the past several years?”

“Reynard’s brother,” Sara said shortly. “Possibly—I don’t know, Beck, but it’s my rosy fundament that will hang in some drawing room if Tremaine decides to be difficult.”

“Is this what has been bothering you?” He phrased the question delicately, though Sara suspected he was asking if this was why she hadn’t accepted his proposal. Proposals, plural.

“It bothers me, yes.” Haunted her, more like. Sara forced herself to ease her grip on Beck’s hand. “It bothers me terribly.”

“Did you pose for these paintings?”

“Of course not, though I could see why you’d ask. Polly was on hand, backstage, before I’d perform sometimes. She and Allie both saw me in all manner of dishabille, and at the coaching inns, quarters were often cramped and privacy limited. No one thought anything of it.”

“But your trust was somehow betrayed. Do you think Reynard put her up to it?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t something we talk about.” One of many things they didn’t talk about, at least until recently.

“I am beginning to think nobody talks about anything on this property,” Beck muttered. “Will Polly confide in North?”

“I don’t know that either. Somebody should explain this to him. He’s family.”

“If she doesn’t, I will.”

“What about the others?”

“They don’t need to know. How much does Allie comprehend of these difficulties?”

“Not much.” Sara chewed a thumbnail. “I hope.”

“Somebody is going to have to explain to her that discussing her art with Uncle Tremaine is not well advised. Her little studio is going to have to be dismantled for the nonce.”

Well, of course, though Sara had been too upset to see even this far ahead. “We can do that. How long do you think he’ll stay?”

“It’s England in the summertime. Who knows? I can summon reinforcements if we need them. Lady Warne might enjoy taking a hand in things.”

Sara stopped mistreating her thumbnail as one more confidence went flying past her common sense. “I’m scared, Beckman.” She pitched against him. “I’m scared for me, Allie, and Polly, and even a little bit for you.”

His arms came around her; his scent tickled her nose.

“Don’t be scared for me, Sara. Get those paints put away and stored somewhere St. Michael won’t find them.”

Sara let Beck go find North. As relieved as she was to have this secret aired, she’d also noted that now—when the respectable suit of an earl’s son might have faced Tremaine down—Beck hadn’t renewed his proposal.

Which was of no moment, really. She still could not have accepted him.

***

“Did Polly tell you about the paintings?”

North glanced up from where he was cleaning his bridle in the saddle room, but his expression was harder than usual to read.

“She did.”

“I can offer to buy them.” Beck lowered himself to sit beside North on the plank bench. “Our womenfolk will do anything to keep those paintings from becoming public, though, and establishing that Tremaine
doesn’t
have title to them will make them public indeed.”

Which, of course, he hadn’t pointed out to Sara.

“Polly says Sara’s face isn’t clear in any of them.” North eyed his reins, which looked perfectly clean to Beck. “Sara’s hair will give her away to anybody who knows the artist.”

“Polly’s upset?”

“Oh, one might say that.” North went silent for a moment. “I’ve never seen her cry before.”

“Christ.” Beck leaned back against the wall. “I will be more relieved when this is over than I was to get home from Virginia.”

“Too many snakes?”

“Slavery, in all its brutal splendor, with no softening fiction I was among Bedouins or South Seas’ cannibals. My father’s chums from school, no less, slaveholding and quoting Scripture to support it at table.”

“Polly and Sara felt like slaves. They don’t want Allie to suffer that fate.”