Chapter 25
BECKETT
When Beckett arrived at Jack’s house in Sevennis and barged his way into Jack’s study, the only one he found there was Nolan.
Jack, Nolan informed him, had gone to Greylag to visit his husband, and if Beckett had any decency, he’d—
“I don’t,” Beckett said, and walked out.
He decided to leave Tib in the mews to be fussed over by the stable lad who’d come running the moment he set eyes on the big horse and had, he told Beckett, missed him something fierce. The way Tib kept rubbing his face on the old beta’s shirt, making him laugh, said that the feeling was mutual.
Beckett requested another mount be made ready while he saw to getting some food packed for his onward journey, and no one so much as batted an eye; not in the stables or the kitchen.
He ran up to the servants’ quarters for a quick wash, a change of clothes, and to use the privy, and when he came back down to collect a satchel of food from the kitchen, Nolan was lying in wait.
“Don’t start,” Beckett said and brushed past the dapper little secretary.
Nolan trotted after him. “You do not give orders to me,” he said.
“No?” Beckett stopped suddenly and turned.
Nolan bounced off him. He righted himself with an irritated hiss. “No. ”
Give the beta credit, he didn’t back down. He wanted to, Beckett could tell by the quiver of his eyelids, but he held Beckett’s gaze.
“All right.” Beckett sighed and shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. Fuck. He could do this. “I apologise,” he said stiffly. “What do you need?”
There, Marl. I’m taking the high ground. Hope you’re proud.
Nolan held out a large, tan leather portfolio. “I need Jack’s signature on these documents as soon as possible. There are also some Council bills I want him to have at least skimmed before he gets back. And tell him that Lord Crewe is dragging his heels on the Quinton purchase. Again.”
Beckett took the portfolio and tucked it under his arm. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.” Nolan nudged Beckett towards the kitchen and walked with him.
“I expect Jack back in two days, three at most. These are the only things that can’t wait.
” He hovered while Beckett thanked the scullery maid who handed over an enormous satchel of food, and trailed after Beckett to the mews.
Beckett stopped and looked down at him. “You don’t have to worry,” he said with only a hint of impatience. “I’m fixing things.”
“I truly hope that you can.” Nolan frowned. “You know that it’s been eating at Jack, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Me, an’ all. I won’t hurt the duch again.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I meant it’s been eating at Jack that he hurt you, though. That he didn’t get to tell you face to face that he was marrying the duch. That he didn’t even get to introduce you.”
“He explained it all in those letters, though, didn’t he?” Beckett still hadn’t read them. He would. One day, when he’d got him, Jack, and Arden all sorted.
Nolan held his hands out, palms up. “I’ve told him that a hundred times. Doesn’t seem to make him feel any better.”
“Ah, well. He’ll get over it when he sees that I have.”
Nolan gave him a firm nod. “Good.” He reached out and tapped the portfolio Beckett had under his arm briskly. “Don’t lose that. It’s important.”
Beckett knew what was important, thanks.
Nolan strode back into the house, leaving Beckett to strap his luggage behind the saddle and head out.
The stolid bay mare trudged through the busy city streets and perked right up as soon as they reached country lanes.
She was fresh and eager and they made excellent progress.
They still had to stop overnight, although since the moon was a waxing quarter and the sky was clear, Beckett pushed on after dark until the mare started to flag.
He bedded her down in the poky little stall attached to an inn not twenty miles from Greylag, and spent a restless night on a rough, straw-filled pallet under the eaves of the rickety old building.
He already knew that arriving unannounced wasn’t the best idea in the world. He didn’t give a shit.
He needed to see Jack.
Jack first, and then Beckett could get the lie of the land with regards to Arden.
He wasn’t going to just barge in on the duch without warning.
He had to honour the space that Arden had put between them by running away.
It would drive him mad, knowing his omega was close but not going after him. Still.
He’d honour it.
And if Jack told Beckett that Arden didn’t want to see him?
It would make fixing things a hell of a lot harder, but Beckett would come up with something.
He was good on his feet.
It would be fine.
It all went tits up almost as soon as he made it to Greylag.
He’d had the right intentions. That had to count for something.
He arrived a couple of hours past dawn, trotting up a back lane to the rear of the stable block and hollering for a stable lad. Taking his bags with him, Beckett found his way to the kitchen and charmed a big breakfast out of the cook, even though the man was already working on lunch.
Beckett didn’t have to try too hard. Just like the stable lad, who’d given Beckett a knowing grin the moment he heard Beckett’s name, the cook knew who he was.
Servants gossiped, even between estates.
Maybe a few years ago, Beckett would have cared.
He didn’t anymore. He had more important things to worry about.
Besides, he’d take the sly looks all day long if it got him served food of this portion size and quality—and so he told the cook, which got him a second plate.
Once he’d eaten his fill, he sat back to drink his mug of tea, and inquired as to where His Grace was this morning.
“Far as I know, His Grace the duke is stuffing his face in the breakfast parlour,” the cook said, spooning dark red jam into the small, daintily crimped pastry cases lined up the length of the kitchen table.
“His Grace the duch,” he continued with pinched disapproval, “is no doubt picking at his one coddled egg and piece of toast.”
Beckett cocked a brow.
The cook leaned in. “Been pining the whole time he’s been here,” he said with a knowing nod. “For his alpha.”
His alphas. Beckett didn’t correct the man.
And if Arden wasn’t pining for him, Beckett, along with Jack, then he’d just have to make sure he did, next time they were separated.
“He’s a picky eater,” Beckett said. He’d driven Cook at Avendene into fits, too. She was always trying to tempt him to eat more, while Arden had insisted politely on nothing but the simplest of food.
“Nursery food!” Cook had bellowed, banging her pots and pans around and scowling. “I can make him meals worthy of a duch! And he wants toast and honey! Apple crumble and custard! Rice pudding with nutmeg! A coddled egg!”
Beckett had been dismissive at the time, thinking that the little mouse was most likely too scared to ask for what he wanted.
He wasn’t wrong. But Arden did like things simple, and if Beckett had to wager on it, he’d lay his savings on Arden genuinely wanting toast and honey for his supper, rather than a roasted stuffed peacock with all the trimmings, or whatever it was duches were supposed to eat.
“You need directions to the breakfast parlour?” Greylag’s cook said, once Beckett had finished his tea and caught the man up on all the gossip from Avendene. “Oi, Cabot, take Beckett up to Their Graces!”
“Nah,” Beckett said easily. “I’ll find ‘em myself. He can take me up to the dormitory to drop my bags.”
“Suit yourself.” The cook handed him over to Cabot, who chattered up at Beckett the whole way up to the dormitory, the whole way back down, and would have followed him out into the walled kitchen garden, still chattering, had Beckett not suggested he get on with his usual duties.
The flirty little beta pouted but scampered off, leaving Beckett to his thoughts.
His head was always clearest when he was outside and surrounded by growing things.
Even though he’d spent his formative years in the slums, he’d had an affinity for gardens since he was a toddler playing in his mam’s tiny courtyard, picking slugs and snails out of the old barrels she’d stuffed full of plants.
She was a right treasure, was his mam.
She’d turned a miserable little patch of grey into a sanctuary of herbs and flowers, packed in around the more practical vegetables. Made a tidy sum selling any spare to folk on their street, too.
It struck him that she was the kind of beta Jack had wanted for Arden.
Well. Arden got her son. Beckett reckoned it was close enough.
He made his way over to a narrow wooden bench tucked against a brick wall lined with espaliered pear trees.
Leaning back against the sun-warmed stones, he took out the small piece of bread and square of cheese that he’d swiped from the kitchen and broke it into crumbs.
He gave a low, piping whistle, and was rewarded all of five seconds later with the whirr of wings from a nearby gooseberry bush and a beady pair of black eyes fixed on his from three feet away.
You could always count on a robin to show up for grub.
He tossed the cheese and breadcrumbs onto the path, noticed some weeds doing their best to poke through the small paving stones, and slid easily to his knees.
This was habit as much as carrying a little something for the birds.
He wiggled his fingers between the crack, grasped the herb-robert seedling close to the root, and teased it out.
He spotted another, and moved on to that. May as well, since he was down here, he thought—and broke off to huff a quiet laugh at himself, remembering the last time he’d said that to Jack.
Jack had been on his knees and one elbow, attempting to rescue a stocking from under the bed, which Beckett was sitting on.
He’d abandoned the stocking, knee-walked his way between Beckett’s spread legs, and made Beckett all but scream when, in retaliation for the cocky suggestion, he’d playfully gnawed the sensitive skin of Beckett’s groin.