“St. Michael is not in his bed,” Beck said, anxiety in his eyes, “so you ladies take the lantern, and I’ll find North. You will remain on the back porch, though, until you see my signal. If you fear I’ve come to harm, you lock yourself in the carriage house with Angus and send Jeff for help on foot.”

He turned to go, but Sara stopped him with a hand on his arm. All the years she’d been married, all the years she’d been a mother, she’d felt a lack. Men had desired her; men had paid money to hear her perform. They’d offered her pretty compliments, some of them even sincere.

But no man had put himself at risk of harm for her or for her daughter. For Beckman to walk into certain danger for her or for Allie was an awful blessing, much harder to accept than Sara would have guessed.

“Be careful, Beckman. Please, for the love of God, be careful.”

He kissed her soundly on the mouth and slipped out into the darkness.

* * *

Beck’s slipper boots made a noiseless approach easy in the thick summer grass, but as he neared the barn, he heard voices murmuring. First, Allie’s light tones drifted through the darkness, relaxed and curious, though her words were indistinct. Then came the peculiar rumble of Tremaine’s bass burr. Their conversation was clearly amiable, and Beck was calculating how best to get closer, when North stepped from the shadows, a finger to his lips. He gestured toward the barn, and Beck nodded.

By slow increments, they stole nearer, until they were in the dense shadows of the first empty stall, close enough to hear every word.

“Do you know what my papa looked like?”

“A lot like you,” Tremaine said. “His hair was not as reddish, but more brown, and his eyes were not as… they weren’t as pretty. But in here”—he paused—“there it is. I brought this in case you might want it.”

“That’s my papa?” Allie’s voice was wondering. “He looked just like that, too.”

“I think your aunt might have painted it. It’s good enough to be her work.”

“Aunt is very talented with portraiture,” Allie allowed absently. “He looks happy.”

“He generally was. He tried to paint too, you know, when he was young.”

“I didn’t know.” Allie’s tone was arrested. “Why did he stop?”

“Hard to say. The times were very difficult in France—they still are—and lessons and materials were not easy to come by. Then too, he was never satisfied and felt anybody else’s work was better than his.”

“It’s hard,” Allie said, “to be the student and feel like you always botch it up. Aunt says I have to be patient, and I’m getting better, but I’m not supposed to talk about my painting with you.”

“Whyever not?”

North would have risen then, but Beck stopped him with a shake of his head. Instead, he indicated they should shift a few feet closer, so the child and her uncle were in view.

“Because you might try to make me paint for money,” Allie said, “the way my papa made money from Aunt’s work and Mama’s music. It wasn’t well done of him.”

“They’ve told you about that, have they?”

“No.” Allie’s voice shifted as she rummaged in the trunk. “I sleep in a little alcove, and they often think I’m asleep when they’re up late, talking. When I ask, they always say nice things about my papa, but they won’t look at me when they do. At night, when it’s dark, they half-say things to each other about him, and he wasn’t very nice sometimes.”

“He wasn’t. Nobody’s nice all the time, though, Allemande. I tell myself he was doing the best he could.”

Allie fell silent, and Tremaine, hunkered before the trunk with her, was apparently going to leave her to her thoughts.

“What else do you have in this trunk, Uncle?”

“A few things I thought your mama or your aunt might want,” Tremaine said. “There are three little paintings your papa sent me right before he died, some perfume he bought in Venice, an inkwell with a bear on it—I think he bought that with you in mind—a little decorated teapot. Sundries, I suppose, but these things caught my eye when I was packing.”

“They’re for us?” Allie’s voice was muffled as she went diving again for treasure.

“I believe they are yours. Yours, your mama’s, and your aunt’s, but certainly not mine.”

“Don’t suppose you use lady’s perfume,” Allie muttered. “My goodness, I remember these…”

“Allie…” Tremaine’s tone held amusement. “I meant to bring this trunk out sometime when your mother could supervise dispersal of the contents, but the moment never presented itself. Why don’t we get you back to bed, and we’ll make a project of it in the morning?”

“Yes, Uncle, but you should know I get up quite early.” The lid of the trunk came down, and Tremaine hefted Allie to his hip.

“If you get your sheets dirty because you tromped around the yard tonight, you’ll get us both in trouble.”

“Tremaine.” Beck stepped into the light, having surprised Allie at least.

“Mr. Haddonfield.” Allie grinned from her perch on Tremaine’s hip. “Hullo.”

Beck smiled at her. “Hullo, princess. My lecture about not leaving the house alone after dark must have slipped your memory.”

“But I’m not alone.” Allie hugged her uncle, who was looking chagrined and protective of his niece.

“No harm done,” Tremaine said. “I’ll just take Allie back to her apartment and make apologies all around.”

“And explanations,” Beck suggested, reaching for Allie and transferring her to his own hip.

“Beckman?” Sara’s voice sounded from the barn door. “Is everything all right?”

“So much for my lectures about staying on the porch. In here, Sara, and you needn’t worry. Allie is merely having a midnight chat with her uncle.”

“Hullo, Mama.” Allie’s grin dimmed. “Hullo, Aunt. Is Mr. North coming too?”

“I’m here.” North emerged from the shadows. “Though I believe I’ll be seeking my bed.”

“Not so fast.”

Five adults and one child turned to survey the figures coming down the ladder from the hayloft. The going was difficult, because each man was clambering down while trying to keep a double-barreled pistol trained on the assemblage.

“Tobias?” Polly spoke for the group, her voice laden with incredulity. “Timothy?”

“Hold yer tongue, Miss High and Mighty,” Tobias spat. “We’ll just be taking the girl here. Set her down, mate, and back away from her.”

“Not on your miserable, craven, cowardly lives.” Beck turned so Allie was shielded by the sheer bulk of his body. “Murder me before these women and this child if you like, but I’m twice your size, and I take a lot of killing.”

“As do I,” North echoed, smiling evilly.

“And then there’s the girl’s uncle,” Tremaine chimed in, “who has years of neglecting her circumstances to atone for.”

“There’s three of ’em,” Timothy noted, apparently for the first time.

“We got four shots atween us, Tim,” Tobias said. “They’ll not do a thing.”

From the corner of Beck’s eye, he saw Boo-boo regarding the scene with sleepy puzzlement.

“A stray dog could kidnap the child more effectively than you two,” Beck scoffed, catching North’s eye. North nodded ever so slightly and shifted his position.

“Where are you going?” Tobias waved his pistol between North and Beck.

“I’ve seen enough of this farce,” North began in his most scathing tones. “You two are the most imbecilic, ridiculous…”

“Boo-boo!” Beck literally threw Allie into North’s arms. “Treat! Boo-boo, treat!”

The dog started baying and jumping around, Tremaine grabbed the women and hustled them from the barn on North’s heels, and Beck put himself between the twins and those they had held at gunpoint.

“Make the dog shut up, Toby!” Tim fired his gun at Boo-boo, who thought the noise was great fun indeed, barking louder than ever, until Tim discharged his second bullet in desperation, then pitched the gun at the dog.

Beck wrenched Tobias’s gun from his hand and cocked the hammer.

“Both of you hold still.” Hearing Beck’s voice, Boo-boo fell silent as well, tilting his head as if to ask why the game had been suspended.

“The dog is still hungry enough to snack on whatever’s to hand.” Beck picked up Tim’s spent weapon without taking his eyes off the twins. “As much as I’d like to let him have at you, for your own safety, get in the empty stall.”

Tim eyed the dog. “Do as he says, Tobe. That beast didn’t like us none when we brung him here.”

“Hush, you!” Tobias hissed. “We never seen that damned dog. Never.”

“You were seen with the dog in the village,” Beck improvised. “Your boots, doubtless, will match the prints found near our burned smokehouse. You will not be able to account for yourselves on the days when trouble befell us here, and I’m sure, if I ask around on the docks in Portsmouth long enough, I’ll find somebody who sold you a black rat snake, traded you for it, or lost it to you in a card game.”

“Tobe…” Tim was already in the stall. “He knows about that snake. I told you the snake was a bad…”

“Shut up!”

“In the stall, Tobias,” Beck said. “Now. My finger itches worse with each moment I consider the harm you did a helpless old woman’s property, much less the scare you put into the ladies who never did you any wrong.”

Tobias was inspired, perhaps by the absolutely genuine menace in Beck’s voice, to join his brother in the stall. “You never paid us our wages,” Tobias sneered. “Your hands ain’t clean.”

“Your wages were left at the posting inn,” Beck said, closing both the top and bottom halves of the stall door and bolting them. “If you owed a prior balance there, you might have taken it up with the innkeeper. What, no witty riposte, gentlemen? You disappoint me, as does my own unwillingness to murder you outright. Be warned, I will shoot you should you give me the slightest provocation. The very slightest.”