Three

“Having a case of lust at first sight?” Samuel asked.

“What?” Marcus dislodged himself from the parlor doorway.

Samuel frowned and checked his younger brothers. Alexander and Adam were bent over a chessboard by the hearth, firelight gleaming off their polished game pieces. They sat in simple, cushionless ashwood chairs roughly fashioned after a Chippendale piece. Samuel had likely made them in his barn.

“You’ve not heard a word I’ve said.” Samuel faced Marcus, speaking in hushed tones. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you watching Miss Abbott when she served dinner.”

“I told you. We’ve mutual acquaintances in London.”

Marcus had spent the better part of the day in the housekeeper’s company, basking in pleasant conversation. At the first sound of horses in the yard, he’d slipped off to the parlor with his coffee cup like a newly arrived guest. Samuel had apologized about his lateness, but the words had fallen on deaf ears. Marcus regretted playing his friend falsely, yet he couldn’t regret the day with Miss Turner.

At dinner she’d circled the table, a dish balanced on her hip, asking each man in her throaty alto what he wanted. When she stood beside him, her Would you like turnips, milord? sent twinges up his thighs. Turnips!

Samuel crooked his head for a view of the dining room where dishes clanked. “Ah, yes, the mantua-makers my aunt patronizes. How convenient.” His blue stare bounced back to Marcus. “Since you wear breeches, not gowns, care to enlighten me how you know these women?”

Marcus opened his mouth to answer, but Samuel waved him off.

“Never mind. I’m aware of your heathen ways.”

“Heathen? She’s too young by far.” He hesitated, glancing at the dining room. “And her hips…too well fed for my liking.”

“Whatever you say, my friend.” Samuel sauntered to a corner cabinet, his chuckle drifting across the room.

Marcus leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. At the cabinet, Samuel raised a narrow-necked bottle in silent question. He wanted a drink but declined the offer. He’d gone the entire day free of the spirits. Samuel poured the rich brown liquid in a glass for himself, the whiskey sloshing its enticement. Denial was good for a man who’d lived too long with excess.

A man like him.

He was turning over a new leaf and all that, but new leaf or not, he wanted to groan.

Miss Turner’s lush breasts jiggled, the creamy flesh pillowing from her square bodice as she leaned over to wipe the table with energetic circles. A long, honey-colored braid fell forward. Her coffee-colored gaze collided with his as she tossed the braid over her shoulder. She stared back, bold as you please, finishing those cleansing swipes. One admonishing feminine brow rose, her silent message sending a frisson low in his abdomen.

His grin spread. Duly chastised, he didn’t care. He liked that she’d caught him ogling her. She wasn’t cowed by him, nor was she falsely confident. This thing between them enlivened him. The young woman from Tavistock Street snared his fascination. He could pin his interest on lust as easily as he could genuine interest in their budding friendship.

Idling in the doorway, he leaned dangerously toward lust.

Russet skirts swaying, Miss Turner picked up a pile of plates. Her lips bowed in a close-lipped smile, the enigmatic expression warming him better than the sight of her luscious curves, though he could easily debate the merits of her features. All of them.

“Whatever your history with her, I’ll not let you run off a perfectly good housekeeper. Her cooking is decent, if you can forgive the bread she bakes. It’s like bricks.” Samuel chuckled and sipped his drink. “It’s hard to find good domestics. At least she fixes things.”

“What do you mean fixes things?”

Samuel nodded at a table clock sitting by the plain, wooden settle. Slim brass fittings shined from a recent polish. “She repaired it her first day here. Took it to the kitchen that night, and there it was the next morning, working.”

Marcus studied the clock, the kitchen device coming to mind and her awe at watching the cogs and wheels. Miss Turner had shown intricate knowledge of the blunderbuss and the brace on the coach. His backstage miss from the Golden Goose had unusual talents.

“I admit she’s becoming,” Samuel acknowledged before upending his glass. “Alexander makes every excuse to seek her out.”

Across the parlor, young Adam raised a game piece high. “My rook takes your knight.”

Alexander scowled at the board, his big hands gripping his knees. He was about Miss Turner’s age, with shoulders as broad as Samuel’s. Marcus gritted his teeth at the picture of any man dancing attendance on her, but he could find no fault in the lad. A marriage proposal from Alexander Beckworth could complete her bid for a new life…a better circumstance than his paltry friendship offer.

Friendship with Miss Genevieve Turner would never be shallow, but it’d be short-lived. One penitent winter in Cornhill and he’d be back in London.

Samuel set down his glass. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

The hearth blazed. Dishes clinked in the kitchen. Adam talked game strategy, his excited voice cracking, a sign he’d shed childhood soon. Domestic sounds, all of them. Comforting touches enclosed by simple whitewashed walls. It didn’t matter that the wooden settle was chipped and void of cushions, or that Marcus’s Northampton dressing room was twice the size of Samuel’s parlor.

This was…cozy.

He dragged himself into the entry hall where Samuel was sliding his arm into a blue frock coat.

“You want to go outside,” Marcus said mutinously.

“Yes.” Samuel put on his hat and opened the door, blasting Marcus with night air. “Out here I’ll have your full attention.”

Marcus jammed on his hat and donned his redingote as he stepped through the doorway. Waning moonlight washed the Beckworth barn. Holes gaped on its timbered roof. Great swaths of land rolled everywhere, vacant save clumps of trees. Head down, Samuel trod a straight line, pebbles crunching underfoot. They halted at the narrow road edging the front drive, their breaths puffing miniature clouds. Samuel slowly pivoted, tense lines framing his mouth.

Marcus stomped his feet for warmth and tried for levity. “Going to tell me why we’re out here? Or do you plan to freeze my bollocks off?”

Samuel ignored the play for humor, and inhaling deeply, he stretched his arm, marking a spot on the north horizon. “You can’t see it from here, but Coldstream Bridge crosses the River Tweed. Right there.” His hand dropped to his side. “That bridge is gold.”

Gold?

Samuel looked east. “Over there, Baron Atal’s estate. With all his sheep, he devours land. I had to sell a parcel to him last spring.”

The words rolled bitterly off Samuel’s tongue. They heralded loss and news of a cornered man. Marcus understood this and the seed of envy when another man’s prosperity slapped someone in the face. The Atal estate spread as far as the eye could see. On childhood visits to Pallinsburn, he and Samuel hadn’t cared about annual incomes and properties. They’d roved meadows and climbed stone walls because it was fun.

A neat stone fence drew a line between Beckworth land and the grand Atal estate. The baron’s square medieval castle rose in the distance, a formidable black shape.

Marcus scanned the fields in between. “And you’re telling me all this because?”

“Because I want you to join me in a business venture.” Samuel faced him. “I want to breed horses and sell them. You’d be the perfect partner. If you stay.”

“You want to sell racehorses?”

“No,” Samuel scoffed. “Be practical. I don’t have that kind of blunt. I’m talking about horses for hostelries. With the new bridge and all the coaches passing through, no one can keep up with the demand for fresh horses.”

“A business venture.” He let the idea sink in.

“Before you say no, look there.” Samuel pointed west. “We’ve the perfect arrangement with Pallinsburn lands abutting mine.”

Tumbled-down stone implied a property line. The fence could be toy blocks someone had knocked over and never tidied. Marcus followed the fence line to a wooden gate sagging like an old sentry past his prime. His mother’s childhood home had fallen to neglect, left empty for too long. The Duke of Marlborough had got his hands on it, and somehow Pallinsburn had become a pawn in a game between the duke and his brother. The marchioness was all too glad when the deed had been recently restored to her, but the damage was done. The property was in shambles, save the barn.

“Let the horses graze your land and live in your barn,” Samuel said. “My brothers and I will take care of them.”

“I’m only here until North finds a wealthy bride.”

“You don’t have to stay. The land and barn are what’s needed.”

“Then you don’t need me,” he said coolly.

“Of course it’d be better if you stayed. Think of it, man.” Samuel’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm. “Between your knowledge of horseflesh and my connections, we’d have the perfect partnership. Given time, we’d do well.”

“But the fences, the gates. They’re all in bad repair. How do we pay for that?”

Samuel’s head tipped from laughter. “We don’t. We fix them ourselves.” His big hands went up. “With these.”

“Amusing, but I haven’t lived in the rough since we bivouacked in the army.”

“Then getting your hands dirty will be a lively change for you.” Samuel slapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Come. There’s something else you need to see.”

Cornhill-on-Tweed and lively didn’t intersect in Marcus’s mind, but his friend was a rustic born and bred. Northumberland was in his blood, heaven on earth for Samuel.

“The Pallinsburn barn is in excellent repair. Big enough to house all the brood mares with room to spare.” Samuel opened the barn door, speaking over his shoulder. “Be assured, we’d do this right. No bone-setter nags.”

Scents of hay and earth and horses lured Marcus, the aromas headier than a woman’s perfume. Inside, moonlight poured from holes overhead. He followed with cautious steps. Horses poked curious noses over their stalls, snickering at the intrusion.

Samuel patted a stall board, his smile a slash of white in the dark. “For all those brood mares, one good stallion.”

A big bay lifted his head and stomped the ground. The stallion’s composition was difficult to assess without good light, but he was a full hand higher than Khan, boasting powerful haunches.

“A prime blood,” Marcus acknowledged.

Samuel spouted feed projections and increased regional hostelry demands since the bridge was built. They shared a love of the four-legged beasts, both having gotten an equine tattoo in Saint George Town, but become a man of business? For hostelry horses? Fine racing steeds to sell at Tattersall’s was a worthy idea. Not that it mattered. He was leaving once his brother wedded and bedded a wealthy bride.

“If the mares get enough sunlight, we could breed them as early as February or March.” Samuel’s eyes slanted sideways. “If there’s enough land and fodder.”

“We could do this for a time.”

“No.” Samuel moved off the stall and faced him. “This venture requires full commitment.”

Marcus hooked a finger inside his neckcloth. Commitment. The word carried requirements, often followed by phrases like one should do this and one must do that. He craved London’s madness, the press of smoky taverns and willing women. Evenings offered diversions of every flavor. Streets wove one into another, excellent places for a man to lose himself. By morning he’d wash away the night’s revelry in a coffeehouse before finding his way home.

“You say you want to live as you please,” Samuel prodded. “To be free of your brother’s hold on the purse strings.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s your plan? Look for a woman with a fat dowry like the marquis?”

Marcus rested his forearms on the top slat. “To find a wealthy wife or not. The dilemma of a second son.”

Samuel could sneer all he wanted, but the common ploy had fed hungry coffers for centuries…and made miserable marriages. Despite his faults, Marcus wished for true love, a truth he’d not confess to anyone.

Was he a romantic at heart?

His mother, the marchioness, had hinted of marital plans. She’d summoned him to her private salon and, leaning heavily on her cane, had implored him to leave—the same day his brother demanded he go north.

“Go to Pallinsburn. Keep out of trouble until North secures a fine wife,” she’d said, squeezing his arm. “Your scandal at the Cocoa Tree has scared off his better prospects. We can arrange something for you later.”

He’d left of his own accord to keep the family peace and clear his head. Much as he hated leaving London, she was a party to his downfall, a wretched woman preying on his vices. The country would force him to confront the strange plague whiskey and gambling had become. It was one of the few times he and North were in agreement.

Samuel rested his arms on the slat beside him. “You don’t want marriage to a woman to solve your problems any more than I do. You’d be miserable.”

A good point. England swam in a sea of unhappy dynastic marriages. Husbands and wives sailed past each other at social events, coming together only for the sake of creating an heir. It was how his mother and father had lived. The marchioness could line up all the eligible ladies in the realm, but he’d not bite the marriage-of-convenience bait.

He wanted a woman to take him for the man he was, not his place in society or hallowed family name. It was one of the reasons he favored London’s workingwomen. Tavern maids and seamstresses, an actress or two…they all graced him with smiling acceptance, asking little in return. To them, he was simply a man.

He stared at Samuel’s prized bay. “Being with a woman isn’t the problem. Being leg-shackled is.”

“Then do something different, work for what you want,” Samuel urged. “Men of substance sweat the same as the rest of us.”

Samuel stood stalwart as a battlement, blond hair neatly queued, the short curl touching the back of his collar. He had been a perfect fit for the army: routines of discipline and order came naturally to him, as did staunch pride and a sense of responsibility. When his parents had died four years ago, guardianship of Alexander and Adam had fallen squarely on Sam’s wide, capable shoulders, something he’d gladly accepted.

Life hadn’t been easy for Samuel Beckworth, but he was solid as oak. Yet, he lived under the cloud of an incontrovertible truth. A country squire with a paltry holding would have few prospects for himself or his brothers. This venture would give the Beckworth family much-deserved good fortune.

“Pallinsburn isn’t part of the entail. North wouldn’t have much say here,” Marcus reasoned. “Neither do I, for that matter. The land belongs to the marchioness until I inherit.”

Samuel tapped the wooden slat like a patient tutor helping a dull student. “Then what your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“You’ve never been one for an omission of truth.”

“Because I’ve never been this low in the heel.” Samuel’s voice dropped to harsher notes. “I need something. Soon. Or you’ll see me herding sheep for Baron Atal.”

Marcus slipped a hand inside his coat, the comforting habit long ingrained. He sought the smooth metal of his flask, but his hand scraped an earthen jar. Miss Turner’s healing salve for his chilblains sat in the pocket. He’d left the flask behind for the day, a wise decision considering that a new, intoxicating idea spun wildly in his head.

His balled hand fell to his side. Throat dry, he could be teetering on a cliff. Only a fool would make this leap.

“You’re not saying much.” Samuel toed the bottom slat. “You know we’ll both get something—”

“I’ll do it on one condition.” The words shot out of him, startling the bay. “Miss Abbott. She comes with me.”

“What? She’s not chattel I can trade.”

“She’ll be my housekeeper. I’d pay her the same as you.”

Samuel jammed his hands in his pockets. “Which isn’t much.”

“And when I leave, she returns to her post here,” he said, the idea catching fire. “You said yourself domestics are hard to find. Pallinsburn is in shambles, and I’ve not found any help.”

“Have you tried?”

Marcus stood taller. “Do you want my partnership and the land or not?”

Glowering under the brims of their hats, they could be two brawlers squaring off. Marcus wasn’t going to explain himself. The request was pure impulse; he didn’t fully understand what moved him. Her secrets? Her allure? The need to not be alone at Pallinsburn?

None of that mattered. Miss Turner excited him.

“What am I supposed to do?” Samuel snapped. “Ask Alexander to cook? I may as well eat my shoes.”

“Ask the old housekeeper to come back.”

“Mrs. Green suffers from infirmity. That’s why I hired a new housekeeper in the first place.”

“My apologies to Mrs. Green,” he said sharply. “Now decide. What are you going to do about my offer?”

A muscle ticked in Samuel’s jaw. Outside, an owl swooped past the open barn doors. One horse snorted and then another as though the animals had lost their patience with the late-night disturbance.

With an eye to the door, Samuel stepped around Marcus. “I’ll talk to her.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“No.” Samuel’s strides quickened. “I’m her employer. She ought to hear this from me.”

They exited the barn to find twin halos of light bracketing the front door. Such kindness had to be courtesy of Miss Turner. Both of them honed in on the welcoming flames, stiff and silent in the short walk to the cottage. The amber-haired housekeeper from London was a bartered prize this night, a truth not sitting well with either of them.

Samuel pushed open the cottage door, inside brightness flooding his tense features. “What will you do if she says no?”

“Just go ask her.”

Voices sounded from the parlor. A chair scraped the floor. The chess game had to be coming to an end.

Samuel jerked free of his coat and hat, his voice a low rumble. “If she says yes, I’ll bring her ’round tomorrow. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Marcus tucked his spatterdashes under his arm and waited hat in hand in the entry hall. Light and warmth glowed from the parlor. Indeed, the whole cottage did. Its humble welcome bade one to stay, giving succor from the world.

“I won,” Adam crowed. “That makes three in a row for me.”

The snug scene, the brothers playing a game content in the sparsely furnished parlor, all pressed on him like bricks. Adam flashed a smile at Marcus, the lad’s upper lip darkened by fuzz. Samuel would soon teach his youngest brother the manly rite of shaving. The former military man played mother and father to these two, shepherding them in the world.

“Care for a game, Lord Bowles?” Adam asked, motioning to the board.

“You can have my place, milord.” Alexander slapped the chair’s arms and pushed upright. “I don’t have it in me tonight.”

Adam reset the game pieces. His oversize coat sagged off his shoulders, a castoff from his older brother. Square patches covered the breeches where his knobby knees bent. The lad was all limbs.

“It’s getting late. I must take my leave, gentlemen.” Marcus begged off, humbled by their ready acceptance.

Any friend of their brother was a friend of theirs. Thickness clogged his throat. He backed away, unable to meet their honest faces. The ready hospitality…the easy smiles and camaraderie…the jar of salve in his pocket, a gift from Miss Turner for his hands… All were kindnesses he took for granted. Samuel’s steadfast love for his brothers outshone the gentle near poverty in which they lived. With that in mind, Marcus charged through the dining room. There was too much history, too much friendship with Samuel for ultimatums. He’d stop his foolish demand before more damage was done.

Ducking his head under the lintel, he stepped down into the orderly kitchen. A newly stoked fire blazed. Four buckets lined the wall by the water pump. At the far end, Samuel’s broad back filled Miss Turner’s doorway, their hushed conversation coming to a halt. Samuel glanced over his shoulder, and Marcus stopped in his tracks.

Samuel met him grim-faced in the middle of the kitchen. Marcus peered at Miss Turner’s room where a curved, feminine shadow marked the wall. A russet-clad arm reached out and shut the door.

Marcus frowned. “I’ve made a mess of things.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I’m willing to make this up to both of you.”

“I daresay you will,” Samuel ground out. “Two years we watched each other’s backs in the army. Never thought you’d put me over a barrel like this.”

Clean plates had been stacked on the table. Polished forks were lined in a neat row, the utensils poised to spear his self-serving heart. The organ weighed heavy when his friend pushed past him.

“Sam. Wait. I’ll apologize—”

“Don’t bother. You will make amends.” Samuel stopped and put one hand on the doorframe. “To both of us.”

“Forget I ever made the suggestion.”

“Too late. You and I made a devil’s bargain. Now we live with it. Miss Abbott leaves with you tonight.”