Read Beckman: Lord of Sins for Free Online Page A

instant, felt herself scooped up and deposited on the bed, the scent of lavender bed sachets filling her nose.
    “Head down.” Mr. Haddonfield put a hand on her nape and gently forced her to curl her nose down to her knees. “You stay like that, and I’ll fetch you some water.”
    She complied, not raising her head, the better to hide the ferocious blush suffusing her features. Her cap went tumbling to the floor, and she didn’t try to restore it.
    Mr. Haddonfield lowered himself beside her and let her ease back to a sitting position. “Better?”
    “Better,” Sara said. “I’m all right, really, but sometimes…”
    “Drink.” He wrapped her hand around a cold glass of water, peering at her with concern. “Your color is off.”
    “I’m pale by nature.” Sara sipped the water cautiously.
    “You’re flushed now.” His regard turned to a frown. “Are you coming down with something?”
    “No,” Sara said, handing him back the glass.
    “I see.” And perhaps he did see—possessed as he was of four sisters who each no doubt came down with the selfsame malady Sara suffered every four weeks or so. “I’ve wondered how women cope. Have some more water.”
    Sara stole a peek at him. He wasn’t blushing or studying his fingernails or the ceiling, which was oddly heartening. They must be formidable sisters. “There’s always a tot of the poppy when coping is truly a challenge,” she muttered.
    “I’ve seen my sister Kirsten wrapped so tightly around her hot water bottle you’d think it was her firstborn child. Susannah copes by tippling, and Della rages and breaks things, then gets weepy and quiet.”
    “I was like that,” Sara said, knowing she shouldn’t have this discussion with him. She’d certainly never had it with Reynard. “When I was younger, that is. I hope I don’t rage and break things now, but the water bottle and the tippling sound appealing.”
    “Except you haven’t a water bottle,” he guessed. “And the only thing to tipple is the brandy I see in dusty decanters throughout the house, which might be a bit much.”
    “You’re right, though I can put Madeira on my wishing list, can’t I?”
    “It’s not a wishing list, it’s a shopping list.” He sounded both amused and exasperated. “You’ll come to Portsmouth with me, because I’ve not shopped there in recent memory.”
    “The roads are miserable this time of year,” Sara said, fatigue and the drops of laudanum she’d added to her tea making her eyes heavy. “We’ll be stuck in town overnight, and that costs money.”
    And it would probably rain the entire time. Why did certain times of the month make a woman prone to the weeps?
    “You should know Lady Warne is very well off, Mrs. Hunt. There’s no excuse for her allowing this place to flounder as it has, except she delegated the land management to my father, and he delegated the task in turn to a pack of jackals posing as his London solicitors.”
    Mr. Haddonfield sounded very stern and a little bit far away, though he sat close enough that Sara could see a small J-shaped scar just past his hairline near his temple. She wanted to brush his hair back the better to examine the scar.
    Sara refocused her thoughts to pick up the thread of the conversation. “The Three Springs house finances are still managed by Lady Warne herself. She sends down a quarterly allowance for the household, and separate funds for the kitchen. Polly and I receive salaries directly from her quarterly as well.”
    “So why are things in such poor condition?” Mr. Haddonfield asked. He reached out and brushed her hair back over her ear. The gesture should have startled Sara right off the bed, when instead it made her want to purr.
    Like Heifer, who was probably the happiest member of the household.
    “I’ve told Lady Warne the funds aren’t sufficient as baldly as I might. It’s as if she doesn’t get my letters. Her notes are chatty and pleasant and wish us well, but the funding