Grace Burrowes: Beckman: Lord of Sins

Every roof on every shed, barn, and outbuilding wanted repair. Every ditch and drain needed to be cleaned and unclogged. Every acre was in want of marling; every fence was sagging. The stone walls were nearly frost-heaved into mere piles of rock; the hedges were grown so high they didn’t merely enclose the fields, they obscured them from view entirely.

The place was teetering on the edge of ruin, if not sliding down into the abyss. Beckman did not allow any metaphors to spring from that observation whatsoever.

North tossed him a bath sheet which was threadbare and scratchy but clean. “I’m listening.”

“I wanted to discuss with you the possibility that we can render the twins productive members of the household. Either that”—Beck turned the towel on his damp hair—“or they’re available for employment more suited to their temperaments.”

“You want to cut them loose?” North drained the bathing tub then fastened it back in place. He was nearly as tall as Beck and dark where Beck was fair, but there was something about the look of Mr. Gabriel North that stirred Beck’s memory. His features were harsh the way a man of the land came to look harsh—sun-browned, wind-scoured, crinkled at the corners, tried by biblical plagues and endless fatigue of the body and spirit.

And yet, women would find him attractive. As many foreign lands as Beck had traveled, women in all of them would have found Gabriel North attractive.

“I want to get Timothy and Tobias’s lazy feet out from under Miss Polly and Mrs. Hunt’s table,” Beck said, shrugging into a shirt. “They take more than they give, by all accounts. If you see it otherwise, I’m willing to listen.”

“They eat like a plague of locusts,” North replied, swirling a large, blunt finger in the water in the warming tub. “And while they are not openly insolent with me, I seldom ask them for the time of day. They regard themselves as house servants and resent mightily that there’s no butler, no male hierarchy placing them above the womenfolk because I refuse to trespass on what would be a house steward’s domain. Sara occasionally inspires them to attempt some task, but they are adept at sabotage and have not enough honor to see that the women deserve their help.”

“They’re gone,” Beck said, yanking his breeches up. “If they can’t see how hard the women work, much less how hard you work, then they’re blind as well as stupid. I can offer them to Lady Warne or just set them loose. God above…” He fell silent as North started calmly shedding clothes.

“I am not so pretty as some,” North said as he tilted the warming tub to fill the bathing tub. “But then, I’ve no need to be.”

“Was that a saber wound?” Beck asked, knowing curiosity was ill-mannered, but God’s toes, North was lucky to be alive. The scar ran from his shoulder blade, across his back, right down to the curve of the opposite hip, thick, red, and ugly.

Few women would find that attractive—if any.

North sighed as he sank into the hot water. “A dirty saber wound, and tomorrow night, I go first and bedamned to your papa’s title.”

“You served King and Country?” Beck guessed, because sabers didn’t commonly find themselves slashing at the backs of English land stewards.

“I did not. I’m going to have to appropriate your nancy damned soap, unless you’re willing to retrieve mine from above stairs while I soak.”

“And my dinner gets cold? Not bloody likely. Here.” Beck proved himself the better man for all time and in all ways by not skipping the tin of soap into the tub, but rather, by handing it to the occupant. “You’re dodging my admittedly rude question.”

“My younger brother served,” North said, his focus seemingly on washing one large male foot. “He was wounded. I went to fetch him home from the field hospital where he was not recovering to my father’s satisfaction. As we made our way back to Portugal, some renegade Frenchmen set upon us, though we were both civilians at the time. The French were convinced they’d found officers out of uniform and were anticipating a fine time extracting information from us. My back was slightly the worse for having to differ with them.”

“Oh, slightly,” Beck allowed, wincing inwardly. A wound like that had to have pained him, had to have hurt like hell when he was tired, overworked, sweating like a beast… “You’ll need my shaving kit too, if you’re truly to make an impression.”

“Needs must.” North accepted the tin very civilly handed to him then studied the label at some length. “I’ll need clean clothes too, damn it all. I came haring in here to heed your summons and anticipated I’d have to wait for my bath.”

“My clothes will fit your scrawny frame,” Beck said. “You needn’t be so miserly with the soap, for God’s sake. I can get more.”

“Millefleurs was ever a favorite scent of mine. Hildegard will find me irresistible.” Beck was waiting with the rinse water when North came up clean.

“You learned this before you got sent down from valet school,” North suggested as he heaved to his feet.

“I learned this in a hundred different inns and hostelries. Cleanliness is a universal concept, often honored more in the breech.” Beck dumped the water over North’s head before he could reply. He’d been tempted to make the water chillingly cold, but as tired and sore as he was, he could only imagine North would have found some diabolical way to get even. “Your towel, such as it is.”

“It’s clean.” North took the proffered towel. “And so, thank God, am I—even if I smell like an expensive whore.”

“And you would be familiar with this scent?”

North met Beck’s gaze then ducked his face back into the towel, and Beck had the satisfaction of knowing a shrewd and private man had just slipped. He’d slipped only a little, not enough to embarrass either of them, but he’d slipped.

“I’ll take those clothes now.” North hung the towel over a drying rack. “Unless you’d prefer I terrorize the ladies as I am?”

“That scar doesn’t disfigure you.” Beck assembled a stack of clothing and passed it to North. “You earned it, and it’s a symbol of courage and bravery under duress. Nobody—no woman—who cared for you would see it as anything else.”

“If you say so.” North’s tone was supremely bored. “Nice material, Haddonfield.”

“Your clothing is just as well-made,” Beck said. “Your boots are Hoby, if quite worn. Your waistcoat is Bond Street, perhaps Weston.”

“Your point?” North wasn’t quite as tall as Beck, but he packed even more muscle, and the clothes fit well.

“I don’t judge a man for wanting some privacy,” Beck said, “but if you’re here under false pretenses, I won’t put up with a threat to my grandmother’s household, either.”

Which might be a threat to the Hunt womenfolk, come to that.

“I’m no threat to anyone.” North’s expression was so bleak Beck had to look away.

“That makes two of us, then. Shall we go perfume the kitchen with our tidy selves?”

“Lay on, MacDuff.” North gestured grandly with one arm, and Beck was struck by just how attractive a clean, well-turned-out Gabriel North appeared.

And how aggravatingly familiar… as he accurately quoted Shakespeare and filled out Beck’s finery to good advantage.

Dinner was another surprisingly delicious meal, served in generous portions but without wine. Beck debated offering a bottle from the stores he’d sent down, but because North had helped him unload the wine crates and didn’t remark it, he held his silence.

Dessert was flan, Polly having gotten her hands on both the oranges and the honey Beck had brought from Kent. Allie in particular made short work of her dessert, but Beck came in a close second.