Free Beckman: Lord of Sins by Grace Burrowes Page A

because commerce was commerce, whether one peddled wool—which he did in great quantity and very profitably—or wanted to know what a very old and ornate amber-and-ivory chess set was worth.
    Of course, it was worth “a great deal.”
    “Can you appraise it?”
    Mr. Danvers, a thin, blond exponent of genteel English breeding, studied the set for a moment, kneeling down to peer at it from eye level. “Only approximately. The surest indicator of value is to hold a discreet auction for those with the means to indulge their aesthetic sophistication.”
    Aesthetic sophistication. This was English for greed . Tremaine’s Scottish antecedents would have called it stupidity when it meant significant coin was spent on a game. His French forbearers would likely have called it English vulgarity.
    Though it was a pretty game. Where Reynard had found it remained a mystery. Danvers was the English expert on antique chess sets; if he didn’t know its provenance, then nobody would.
    Which might be very convenient.
    “I have some other pieces I’d like you to look at.”
    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.