Beckman: Lord of Sins (22 page)

“Let her sleep.”

“At least leave the woman a note, Beckman.” North passed him his riding boots. “She’s in your bed, for pity’s sake, and you won’t be here in the morning with any explanations.”

North wasn’t judging Sara’s location, but by his tone he was mightily definite on the obligation Beck had to leave a note. Beck
wouldn’t
be here in the morning. In all likelihood, he would never be here again.

“A note, then.” Beck pulled on his boots, wishing for all he was worth he could stay in that bed beside Sara until morning, wishing she could make this journey with him. What an odd reaction to a very expected death.

He wanted—he needed—to at least see her before he left his rooms, because for all he knew—and quite possibly for all Sara cared—he wouldn’t be coming back.

“I’ll be down directly.” Beck stood and glanced around his room, as if he’d find answers by inventorying his surroundings.

“Get your shaving gear,” North said. “I’ll fetch clean clothes for you from the laundry.” Beck nodded his acquiescence then didn’t want North to go—to leave him alone.

“My thanks, Gabriel.”

“Beck?”

“Hmm?” Beck left off eyeing the door to the bedroom again, torn between wanting to wake Sara up and the greater kindness of letting her sleep.

“The rider in the kitchen,” North said. “He’ll call you my lord, and Lord Reston, and he’ll be wearing a black armband.” He didn’t have to add, because Beck understood clearly, those small ritual courtesies were going to hurt like hell.

“I know that.” Beck let out a breath. “And so it begins.”

“You’ll manage, because you have to, and because your papa expected you would—also because you’ve no bloody choice.” The last was offered with a hint of the typical North dissatisfaction with life, but it gave Beck a ghost of a reason to smile.

North left him alone, without further reassurances, but the warning had been needed and kind. Beck
was
the Bellefonte heir now, complete with courtesy title, and Nicholas, God help him, was the earl.

Beck stayed in his sitting room for maybe five minutes, trying to gather his wits, then gave up. There was no way to go from making love to Sara, sleeping with his arms wrapped around her, to dealing with the earl’s… passing.

His
death
.

“Papa is dead.” Beck said the words experimentally. “Papa is at peace.”

That was true too, he realized, gathering up his shaving kit. “Papa is at peace, and he’s gone. And I never said I was sorry for all the times I let him down.”

He grimaced, because these soliloquies were not fortifying him in the least. He gave one last look at his bedroom door, squared his shoulders, and left the privacy of his chambers. He stopped in the library, thinking to pen Sara a note, but when his candlelight fell over the surface of the desk, he saw somebody had set out the writing paraphernalia already.

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?”