Beckman: Lord of Sins Read Online Free PDF Page B

won’t get a better offer, and the poor man thinks a few towels and rugs will restore his grandmama’s kingdom.”
    Beck kept his seat. “You as well, North. I realize the situation with the land is growing dire, so prioritize accordingly.”
    North sat back down and scowled mightily.
    “The first priority would be sending those four mastodons that hauled your treasures here back where they came from. They eat everything in sight, and the new grass is weeks away.”
    The wagon had been heavily loaded and pulled not by coaching horses but by the largest draft animals Belle Maison could spare.
    “You’re that short of hay?”
    “I’ll show you tomorrow what we have on hand,” North said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s enough for our stock, if spring makes a timely appearance, but not much more. I sold off what we didn’t absolutely need, because last year’s yield was surprisingly good, given the generally miserable yields elsewhere.”
    “The past few seasons have been odd,” Beck said. “I’ve made my requests, and if you’ll all think on it, that’s enough for the present.”
    “We’ll think on it.” Polly rose and caught her sister’s eye. To Beck, the message was clear: Not now, Sister; we’ll talk later. “Allie, I assume you’ll want to scrape out the pan I baked the dessert in before we set it to soaking?”
    Allie kept her seat, bouncing around on it in anticipation. “May I, Mama?”
    “You may, and thank you for not bolting off as if the table caught fire. Did you put Mr. Haddonfield’s clothes on his sofa?”
    Allie looked puzzled. “You didn’t ask me to.”
    Mrs. Hunt smiled at her daughter. “My apologies. I meant to, but then the scent of Polly’s flan tickled my nose, and I must have forgotten. Mr. Haddonfield, if you want to gather your laundry, I’ll light you up.”
    “I’ll meet you in the laundry,” Beck said. “Miss Polly, my compliments on another splendid meal. If you’ll write the recipe down for that flan, I’ll send it along to my father’s cook. The orange zest is a magnificent touch.”
    “Of course.” Polly looked pleased but wouldn’t meet his gaze—though North was looking a bit disconcerted—so Beck contented himself with tweaking Allie’s braid and bidding the child good night.
    Beck cocked a finger-pistol at North. “Scrambled eggs at dawn, Mr. North. Last man out of bed has to clean up and take the scraps to the fair Hildy.”
    “I’ll lie awake all night rather than suffer such a fate.” North bowed with disconcerting elegance and disappeared up the steps.
    Beck fetched an impressive pile of laundry, more than he’d realized a week of living could create. He’d arranged the load in a wicker basket when Mrs. Hunt joined him, a single candle in her hand.
    Beck picked up the basket, lest she attempt to carry both the laundry and her candle. While they were wending their way through the darkened corridors of the house, Beck felt the chill seeping into his bones.
    “I cannot recall a time when I was so desperately looking forward to my bed,” he mused, mostly because his escort did not offer any conversation. “Whatever I expected of this place, it wasn’t immediate exhaustion.”
    “You learn to pace yourself. It wasn’t what I expected here either.”
    “How did you come to be here?” Beck asked, keeping his tone casual.
    “My husband died while we were in Italy,” she said, slowing to navigate a set of stairs. “Lady Warne was touring and had called upon us socially. She heard of Reynard’s situation and offered us passage back here and employment for me. The packet landed in Brighton, and we’ve been here ever since.”
    This recitation struck Beck as a radically abbreviated telling of a more complicated tale. “And that was when?”
    “A few years ago. A month after we got here, the old cook quit without notice, so Polly took over.”
    “She does very well with it,” Beck said as they approached his room. Since