Danvers rose to his modest height like a hound catching a scent. “More chess sets?”

“Two, one of which might be older than this one.”

The man bounced on the balls of his feet, and though he wasn’t overly short for an Englishman, his enthusiasm made Tremaine feel like a mastiff in the company of some overbred puppy.

“This way, and then I’m going to need a recommendation for somebody who can appraise some paintings for me—somebody very discreet.”

“Of course, sir. I will put my mind to it as soon as we’ve seen the chess sets.”

Even Danvers, though, couldn’t stifle a gasp when Tremaine took him to the storage room at the back of the house. For a man obsessed with chess sets, he spent a long time gazing about at the plunder Reynard had begged, bartered, or stolen from courts all over the Continent.

“You will need more than an appraiser of paintings, won’t you, Mr. Tremaine?”

Tremaine sighed, because Danvers had spoken not with the eagerness of a hound scenting prey, but with something approaching awe. Reynard’s taste had always been exquisite, ruinously exquisite.

So much for discretion. “For now, let’s start with the chess sets, shall we?”

The weather held fair, and Beck’s mood improved for being away from the house and having some time to assess the land itself while the roads dried and the ladies packed a substantial lunch.

The field before them was fallow, but from the looks of the dead bracken, the crop had been thin and the weeds thick.

“What about marling now, before planting, and letting it fallow over the summer, then planting a hard winter wheat in the fall?” Beck was thinking out loud as he slouched in Ulysses’s saddle.

“What is a winter wheat?” North asked.

Beck was learning to read North’s varied scowls, and this scowl connoted skepticism and veiled curiosity.

“When I was in Budapest, the mills were grinding wheat in mid-summer. I asked how that could be, and it was explained to me that on the slopes of the Urals there are strains of wheat you plant in the early fall. They ripen in June or so, and you have two months to harvest and fertilize before you put in another crop. We have plenty enough at Belle Maison to seed this field and several more.”

North’s scowl became more heavily laced with curiosity. “So if we’re not planting until fall, how do you keep the cover from going all to weeds, and is there any corner of the semi-civilized world to which you haven’t wandered?”

“Pen the sheep here,” Beck said, ignoring the second question. “Same as you normally would over winter. Let them eat down the weeds and fertilize while they do.”

“You’ve seen this done?” North’s face conveyed the resignation of the typical man of the land, such fellows being inured to facing multiple variables and having little solid information.

“I’ve seen it done in Hungary. They’re more partial to goats there.”

“I am not raising goats at Three Springs.”

Lest there be a species underfoot more stubborn than North himself? “I’m not asking you to, though they make a respectable poor man’s cow.”

“So if we don’t plant here, where do we plant? The place can’t go a whole year without a crop to sell.”

“We break sod, North.” Beck raised an arm. “There, where the drainage is equally good and the land looks like it’s gone halfway back to heath. It’s fallowed plenty long enough, and the field lies low enough we could irrigate it from that corner if we had to.”

“We could, if we’re to bloody well break our backs digging ditches and serving as plowboys.”

Our backs, because Gabriel North would not permit others to work while he sat on his horse and supervised—any more than Beck would.

“You can’t keep farming the one patch forever without letting it fallow,” Beck argued. “And a better use of the place might be to farm produce and sell it in Brighton.”

“Brighton is a damned long day’s haul, usually two days. Just how many teams and wagons do you think Three Springs owns?”

This was North’s version of taking time to think something over, so Beck did not raise his voice. “Three teams. My four can be worked in pairs, and two wagons, because I’ll not be returning the one to Belle Maison. We can use your old team to haul produce.”

“Why in God’s name are we hauling produce to bloody Brighton?”

Beck grinned, because this was North’s version of enthusiasm for an idea with promise. “Stop whining. Our bloody Regent has nominally finished his bloody Pavilion and must show it off to all his gluttonous, bibulous friends. Your little patch of coast has become frightfully fashionable.”

North’s habitually grim features became even more forbidding. “Brighton is already a horror. The Pavilion will bankrupt the nation so Wales can pretend he’s some Oriental pasha before his drunken guests.”

Beck pulled a doleful face. “You flirt with treason, Mr. North, and a singular lack of appreciation for Eastern architecture.” Beck did not lapse into raptures about Prague or Constantinople, though it was tempting. “We’ll have to broaden your horizons, North.”

“Spare me.” North nudged his horse into a walk. “I’m sufficiently sophisticated for Hildy, Hermione, and Miss Allie, so we’ll leave the broad horizons to you.”

Beck let Ulysses walk on beside North’s mount. “You do not account yourself sophisticated enough for Miss Polly?”

“Stubble it, Haddonfield.” North’s tone was deceptively—dangerously—mild. “Polly Hunt has seen every capital in Europe, converses passably in a half-dozen languages, can out-paint most of the Royal Academy, and out-cook whatever Frog rides the Regent’s culinary coattails. I will never be sophisticated enough for her.” North fell silent while his horse crouched in anticipation of leaping a rill. “But you might be.”

Ulysses chose to wade the little stream. When he was again parallel to North’s mount, Beck studied his companion for a moment before replying.

“Polly Hunt is a lovely lady, but she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you. You matter to her.”

“I matter to her,” North said patiently, “because she is a good Christian woman, and I eat prodigious quantities. You matter to her on the same account, as does Hildegard.”

“How flattering. I am likened to a market hog.”

“Not a market hog, our best breeding sow.”

“Our only breeding sow. North, you are truly obtuse on the subject of Miss Hunt. Don’t compound it by seeing competition where there isn’t any.”

“You are not competition. I’m not sure what you are, but you’re an earl’s son, and Polly deserves at least that.”

“You’re daft.” Beck urged Ulysses up to a trot, and North’s mount smoothly followed suit.

“What?” North cued the beast to a canter. “You’re a picky son of an earl? A woman as accomplished as Polly won’t do for you?”

Beck scowled over at him. “Polly is in every way lovely, but she hasn’t got…”

“She hasn’t got what? No title? No pedigree? No dowry?” They’d gained the lane, such as it was, and North’s voice had gained an edge.

“She hasn’t got the right color hair.”

Beck tapped his heels against Ulysses’s sides, and the race was on.

“I thought you had a thousand things to do today.” Polly set a tea tray down on the low table, clearly intent on a rare late-morning respite.

“Perhaps only a hundred. I can smell that pot of tea from here.” Sara’s nose told her the leaves were fresh, Polly hadn’t skimped, and the blend was heavy on the Assam.

“A bit of bliss, courtesy of Mr. Haddonfield’s Wagon of Wonders.” Polly did the honors, adding cream and sugar to both cups. “Weren’t you going to clean out the carriage house, scrub the floor to the back hallway, change the sheets on the men’s beds, and”—Polly paused to pay homage to the steaming cup of tea she held before her nose—“about eight other things?”