“Morning light is best for fine work.” Sara hitched her embroidery hoop a bit closer for emphasis. All those chores and tasks and duties could wait for a single, perishing hour, couldn’t they?

“You look different today.”

When an artist made that sort of observation, evasive maneuvers were in order. “I’m sitting still for a change, perhaps? With Allie busy sketching, the twins banished, and North and Mr. Haddonfield in the village, it seemed like an opportunity to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”

While pondering the feel of the man’s palm, pressed snug low against her belly, or his lips grazing across the back of her neck.

“You’re not wearing a cap.”

The tea was excellent—stout without a hint of bitterness, fragrant, and perfectly brewed. Sara savored one swallow, then another. “I don’t always wear a cap.”

“You didn’t used to always wear a cap, but lately, you’ve done so more and more.” Polly wasn’t making an accusation, she was reviewing historical facts. The accusations would come soon.

“I approach the age of thirty, and I am a widow in service. A cap is appropriate to my station.”

“A widow who is using her maiden name. If I had hair that color…” Polly muttered.

“Be grateful you don’t. Be grateful you sport dark auburn hair, not this, this… regimental scarlet gone amok.”

Polly’s artistic gaze narrowed, as if she’d launch into a sermon about light, luminosity, and points of interest. Then, “North has teased you about your caps. North seldom teases outright about anything. I was sure he’d flirt you out of them eventually.”

“Polonaise Hunt, you well know the difference between teasing and flirting, and Mr. North never flirts.”

Polly’s gaze shifted to the day outside the window, one leaning a bit in the direction of spring, at least as far as the morning sunshine was concerned. “North flirts with that damned pig. I thought he’d get you to budge on the matter of your silly caps.”

“I am not Hildegard, Polly.”

And North was not Beckman Haddonfield.

The village was a modest little widening in the cow path between the South Downs and Portsmouth. It wasn’t exactly isolated, but it wasn’t aswirl with commerce, either. Beck was comfortable in such places, far more comfortable than in the rarified artifice of Vienna or London. The two years he’d spent mucking stalls had taught him that much, at least.

He left the team at the livery, paid in coin of the realm for a full wagon of hay, and made arrangements for some oats to be loaded on as well, while North took off to do actual shopping for the ladies. By the time Beck had made a circuit of the streets intersecting at the green, midday was closing fast, so he went to find North at the inn.

The innkeeper sized Beck up with a practiced smile as Beck approached the polished plank bar. “What’ll you have, then?”

“Have you a decent winter ale?” Beck detested the dark, hearty quality of winter ale and could trust himself not to drink much of it.

“We do.” The innkeeper got down a pint glass. “Until the first of May, at least. Some years, it seems we’re never without. Will you be having some tucker to tide you over, sir?”

“No, thank you.” Beck turned around and lounged back against the bar. “Have you any mail for a Beckman Haddonfield, Three Springs?” North was nowhere to be seen, but the ladies had wanted a bit of this and that, and depending on custom, Beck could see their errands taking some time.

“Be ye him?”

“I am.” Beck kept his back to the bar. “Decent ale.”

The innkeeper reached under the bar and withdrew a thick packet of mail. “There’s notes in here for them Hunt ladies, too. The best of it’s for ye, though.”

“My thanks.” Beck pushed away from the bar, left a coin, and scooped up his mail, then turned with careful nonchalance. “You haven’t seen Tobias and Timothy since last night, have you?”

“Them two.” The innkeeper’s ruddy features contorted into a scowl. “Me missus done run ’em off the last time yester eve. She had the hostlers and stable boys toss ’em, in a wagon headed for Portsmouth, and their haversacks with ’em as they was sayin’ as they’d been turfed out from Three Springs.”

“I take it they left an unpaid tab?”

The innkeeper nodded. “Missus is right when she says they’ll never pay as much as they drink and carry on.”

Beck passed a small pouch across the bar. “This is intended as their severance, their employment at Three Springs having indeed come to an end. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind keeping it safe for them, for a reasonable period?”

Not by a blink or a twitch did the innkeeper hesitate.

“I’d owe it to ’em as loyal customers.” He slipped the pouch into his apron pocket. “Missus would agree.”

“A woman of discernment, your missus.” Beck smiled pleasantly and took himself, his mail, and his beer to the snug, where he could see the whole room, be seen by few, and have the table space needed to set his correspondence down in private.

Lady Warne had written, her florid feminine hand evident in the largest packet, and Nita had written as well. There was a thin epistle from a location obscured by the rain having gotten to the sender’s direction—Beck supposed it to be from one of his factors on the Continent—and a note from Nick.

Nothing was banded or sealed in black, so the news couldn’t be that awful. That he didn’t yet have to leave Three Springs came as a relief, and not simply because it meant the earl yet drew breath.

Pushing his beer across the table, Beck opened the note from Nick first. Nick was the realm’s largest grasshopper, shifting about from one residence to another, one friend’s holding to another’s, one county to another with a speed and frequency that left his family dizzy.

But he made up for it by being a good correspondent, in two senses. First, he was conscientious, and second, he was to the point.

Becky Dearest,

Am up to my miserable arse in dancing slippers, cravats, and interminable small talk. I do not wish you were here, not when I feel about as comfortable with this charade as the Regent would riding a lame donkey. No countess yet, and I shudder at the potential candidates. They all look as desperate as I feel. If you ever have sons—for I shall not—don’t make them promise to marry until they’re at least forty.

No bad news from Nita. I’ve asked her to keep you well informed while you are in the provinces. Lady Warne is delighted you’re on premises down there, and says to warn you the women on staff are her personal friends—I don’t know if she means you are honor bound to flirt with her collection of relics, or you’re honor bound not to. I know Papa appreciates the effort you’re making, as do I. When the day comes that the title befalls me, the last thing I’ll have time to do is racket around the South Downs, restoring Three Springs.

Don’t let the old dears pinch your tender bottom too hard. If you should make a progress to Sutcliffe and run into Thomas Jennings doing the same, I specifically told him to leave you in peace, but recall, Linden is just a few hours the other side of Brighton if you need reinforcements. He says Loris fares well and is nowhere near as big as a freshening heifer. If you’re going to bide there for a spell—and I encourage you to, the scenery up here being pathetic—then I’ll have Nita send you some pigeons.

Papa would want to hear how you go on, as do I.

Love,

Wee Nick

Beck set the letter aside, vowing to return fire soon. Nita’s letter was equally brief, but reassured Beck the earl was comfortable, if “fading.” Nita’s guess was the old man would hang on until Nick had chosen his bride.

The letter from Lady Warne was indeed accompanied by sealed notes for Polly and Sara, but the tone of Beck’s missive was puzzling.