Beckman: Lord of Sins

Sixteen

At first Beck thought Sara was stiffening with indignation, but then he realized she’d started to cry, softly, miserably, making him regret the shot he’d taken in the dark. But having gotten a response from her, he decided to press his advantage, though North had already told him Tremaine was Sara’s deceased husband’s brother.

“You must be very upset, Sara”—he stepped around the word frightened—“to be casting me aside like this. Talk to me, and I’ll listen. I promise.”

He kissed her crown and prayed she’d believe him.

“Tremaine is Allie’s uncle,” Sara said, levering up to reach for a handkerchief on the night table. Beck forcibly restrained the urge to take the ripe fruit of her breast into his mouth, because they were—God help them—talking.

“Has he threatened you in some way?” Beck didn’t see any point in subtle questioning, and given the recent events at Three Springs, he was quickly coming to conclusions of his own.

“He has not.” Sara sat back on his lap, and Beck obligingly raised his knees to support her. “Or not overtly. He’s written to inquire regarding Allie’s well-being, and Polly’s and mine, and suggested he’d like to take a more active role in Allie’s upbringing.”

“I’d do the same should Nick’s countess be widowed, but Allie’s been without her father for several years now. What has Tremaine been up to?”

“He says only that he’s been putting the family finances in order.” Sara tossed the handkerchief back to the night table and leaned back against his knees, closing her eyes. “In truth, I think he’s been looking for us, and it took him this long to find us.”

“Tell me about Tremaine St. Michael, love.” Beck smoothed her hair from around her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed to his gaze. That she didn’t notice was a measure of significant upset.

“I wish I could.” Sara rolled off him and tucked herself along his side. “I’ve met him only three or four times, when we came across him on the Continent. He’s like Reynard, and not like Reynard.”

Beck angled an arm under her neck and drew her closer. “Explain.”

“Reynard was wily, conniving, and determined,” Sara said, “but he also had a pragmatic streak. If the prize became too costly, he’d shrug, mutter a curse or a joke, then find some other scheme to focus on. Tremaine is wily too, but he’s… quiet. No Gallic bursts of temper, no little slips or asides to give away his game. He’s cold, Beck. Not just reserved, but cold.”

“And why would such a man take an interest in a niece?”

“Because she’s a prodigy. She paints as well as Polly ever did at her age and even better. She paints too well.”

“He’d exploit that?”

“Reynard would have. He exploited me, and he exploited Polly.”

“So here I am,” Beck said, “trying to get under your skirts while this Tremaine may be trying to take your daughter away?”

“I’m not wearing skirts.” Sara had smiled against his shoulder, thank God. “But yes, should Tremaine decide to impose on us here, I cannot present a picture of maternal devotion while I’m stealing into your bed.”

“And he’s on hand, this Tremaine, to keep track of who’s sleeping where?” Beck brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then her palm, then her wrist.

“He could show up at any point,” Sara said, her cheek heating where it touched Beck’s arm. “I told him we are doing quite well here at Three Springs. I did not tell him I’m looking for a post in the north.”

The hell she was. “Why not invite him here?”

Beside him, Sara went still. “I very nearly have, and now I think he’d like nothing better. He’ll charm Allie and tantalize her—she still recalls our trip to London when she was little more than an infant. Tremaine could take her back there, promise her lessons and ponies…”

Beck shifted to cover her. “Hush. Tremaine has no legal claim on the child, and you are a good mother. A wonderful mother, and Allie will not choose him over you.”

She clung, and she didn’t argue. Beck took both as progress. “Sara?” Beck’s nose was against her temple.

“Beckman?”

“I’d rather he be right here under our noses, where we can keep an eye on him and know what he’s about.”

He’d used the word we, used it as carelessly as another man might have referred to his favorite horse as a he, not an it—then he waited to see if she’d object.

“I honestly don’t know what to do,” Sara said. “If he can be convinced Allie is thriving here, and a lawsuit for guardianship of her would be unavailing, then he might take himself off and at least wait until Allie is an adult to attempt his schemes with her. Polly says female artists are becoming less and less accepted, at least as professionals.”

Beck silently cursed the departed Reynard, because even from the grave, the man’s perfidy was ruining Sara’s happiness. “Sara, you have to have considered that Tremaine could snatch her from under our noses and pack her off to the Continent, claiming she’s his child or that he has guardianship of her. Court orders can be forged. Would he do such a thing?”

Sara was quiet for a moment, likely adding new fears to her already long list. “I don’t know him well enough. I was always too busy getting ready for the next performance or wondering what Reynard was about to fret much over Tremaine when he made his rare appearances. Polly thinks I’m overreacting, but she has her reasons for wanting to minimize the cause for alarm.”

And then it became time to ask a difficult, if obvious, question.

“Do you suspect Tremaine of instigating all the trouble we’ve had here lately?”

She did not hesitate, and that in itself was daunting. “It would serve his interests to unnerve us. It would put us in a frame of mind to believe his promises of providing for Allie, keep us off balance and uncertain.”

This was hardly a ringing endorsement of dear Uncle Tremaine. Beck considered what was at risk and considered how frightened Sara was.

Also, how far away the West Riding lay during its interminable winters.

“You could marry me, Sara.” He brushed her hair back as he spoke. “I’m a match for any damned half-French, agitating, wastrel uncle. Allie and I get on well.”

“Damn you.” Sara’s voice was soft, pained, and barely audible because she’d buried her nose in the crook of his neck. “The heir to an earldom does not marry a housekeeper, Beckman.”

“I’m only an heir in a technical sense. Nicholas will be anticipating a blessed event in no time, mark my words. Besides, this is England, and I can marry whomever the hell I please, assuming she’s willing.”

And not too stubborn for her own bloody good.

“Marriage to protect Allie is a noble offer, but we’ve both been badly burned by holy matrimony, Beckman. Allie will be grown and likely married herself in a few years, and then where will we be?”

“Married.” Beck dipped his head and kissed her. “Hopefully in a bed very like this one, attired as we are now and not wasting time chatting the night away when we could be making our own family.”

She kissed him back, likely to shut him up.

“You’ll at least consider it,” Beck pressed when he eased back from the kiss. “Promise me, Sarabande.”

“Considering guarantees you nothing.”

This was not true. The knowledge that Sara would consider his marriage proposal, even if only to protect her daughter, guaranteed Beck an endless supply of sleepless nights and difficult days.

He turned his head so his cheek rested on hers. “Considering gets me your honest attempt at thinking things over, and I’m after your promise, not your answer.”

“Then, yes.” Sara wiggled so she fit more closely under him. “I will consider your offer as a means of keeping Allie safe from her uncle’s machinations, I promise.

“Good enough,” Beck said, shifting them so he was spooned around her. “Go to sleep, love. We’ll sit down with the entire household in the morning, and things will look brighter.”

“Now you worry about rest.” Sara fitted her bottom to his groin as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “You weren’t so worried about sleep before, Mr. Haddonfield.”

“We needed the other too.” Beck kissed her ear. “And I can guarantee you we’re going to need it again before morning.”

“Is there anything more conducive to producing bodily misery than a solid bloody week of haying?” Beck stretched out his weary body in the lovely heat of the springs, the hotter end of the pool suiting him wonderfully.

“War, perhaps,” North suggested from his spot on the submerged ledge. “Childbirth, one supposes.”

“A hangover I had the first night I landed in Baltimore.” Though Paris made Baltimore look like a romp. “Did we bring soap?”

“You brought it,” North said, but he sloshed his way to the bank and fished it out of their pile of towels and clothes, then tossed it to Beck. “And you’ve grease on your back from trying to prop up the wagon when the axle broke, Hercules Haddonfield.”

“It didn’t break,” Beck said, scrubbing off with the soap. “Or did you see something I missed?”

“I was too busy watching all the help from Sutcliffe flirt with our cook,” North intoned darkly. “You are correct, though, the axle was cut most of the way through, which is a considerable sawing job.”

Beck made thorough use of the soap and lobbed it at North, who caught it one-handed.

“Have you considered sending to your brother the earl for assistance with things here?”

“I have not. Nick is newly arrived to a state of holy matrimony and not coping well with the shock.” He dunked to rinse off rather than admit he’d almost sent word to both Nick and Ethan.

“He’s your family, Beckman,” North said as Beck’s head broke the water. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay, and it isn’t as if you haven’t investigated all of Creation in the interests of the family businesses.”

North’s tone was ominously reasonable.

“Little business projects aren’t quite in the same league with apprehending criminals,” Beck said, though a trip to Budapest or Virginia or the Levant or Stockholm did qualify as more than a little business trip.

North made quick use of the soap then began sloshing toward the bank. “If I stay in here much longer, I’m going to look older than old Mrs. Hibbert at The Dead Boar.”

“An improvement Miss Polly would surely regard with favor,” Beck quipped, but he too was soon drying off with a bath sheet. He’d just gotten his breeches buttoned and pulled on his boots when a piercing scream rent the evening air.

“What in God’s name?” Beck saw confusion and concentration North’s face.

“That’s Allie,” Beck said. The screaming went on, unceasingly, as Beck took off at a dead run toward the manor. He could hear North pounding behind him, but having the advantage of size, he outpaced him by several lengths by the time they’d reached the barn.

Allie stood along the back wall, where Boo-boo’s dog pen had been constructed. The dog sat at her side, looking puzzled, his pink tongue lolling from his mouth. Polly was calmly trying to talk Allie into shutting up, while Sara wielded a long hay fork in the general vicinity of a black snake coiled between the child and the adults.

Beck crossed to the child, picked her up, eased back around the snake, then thrust the child into North’s arms. She quieted immediately, her screams mutating into sobs while she clung to North’s neck like a burr.

“North,” Beck said over Allie’s sobbing. “Hand the child to her mother, and let the ladies go outside, if you please.”

North complied, crooning to the child and patting her back as he handed her off. Sara whisked Allie from the barn, Polly and the dog at their heels.

“Big bugger,” North said when they had some quiet. “Never did fancy snakes.”

“It’s a black rat snake.” Beck eyed the creature, which was writhing slowly in the dirt. “They get even bigger than this, at least in Virginia.”

“What’s an American snake doing here, for pity’s sake? My ears will never recover.”

“It’s scaring the wits out of a little girl,” Beck said grimly. He grabbed the snake behind its head and lifted the thing carefully. “And probably looking for mice and rats to fill its five-foot-long belly. Come along, you,” Beck addressed the snake. “You’ve apologies to make.”

“Coming out.” Beck raised his voice to warn the ladies. “And bringing our new pet with me.”

Allie’s face was still buried against her mother’s neck, so she was unlikely to immediately understand Beck had brought the snake out of the barn.

“Beckman,” Sara spoke very sharply, “can’t you take it away?”

“I will, but I thought Allie might want to see him when he’s not so upset.”

“The snake?” Allie ceased crying long enough to peer at Beck. “Eeeeuuuw.”

“He’s actually quite a fine specimen,” Beck said, not going any closer. “Though I’m sure in India I saw snakes much longer and bigger around than this little fellow. He’s far from home though, and not likely to survive the winter.”

Allie regarded the snake with a blend of revulsion and curiosity. “Where is he from?”

“Virginia, the eastern United States. Sailors sometimes bring them on board ship. They’re keen to eat up all the mice and rats, and unlike cats, they don’t leave scent everywhere they go. This kind is usually shy, but they can bite. Would you like to pet him?”

“No.” Allie stretched out a single finger toward the snake as she spoke. “Is he slimy?”

“Touch him and find out. He’s without any family, if he had ears they’d be broken from your alarum, and he’s far from familiar surroundings. I’d say he’s due a little kindness.”

And damned if Beck didn’t feel a pang of pity for the rubbishing snake.

“I’d say he’s due to be put on a ship back to Virginia,” North muttered, but he must have understood what Beck was about and dutifully stroked his hand over the snake’s black scales. “Shall we name him?”

“He’s smooth,” Allie said, quickly withdrawing her finger then passing it over the snake again. “Mama?”

Sara met Beck’s gaze, a world of conflicted maternal feelings in her eyes, but she petted the snake as North had. “He is smooth, and he catches the light on his scales.”

That bestirred the artist in Allie, and she eyed the snake more critically.

“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.