Chapter One
London, 1830
Beckett didn’t havetime for Timothy Rincon, but Timothy Rincon had set his sights on making Beckett happy. It was perhaps the most annoying thing about his friend, even more than the fact that Timothy had grown into his buckteeth and now had a winning, toothsome grin that made an appearance far too often. Timothy had attached himself to Beckett in their school days, and while they had lost touch for the length of a season here or there, Timothy had rebounded into their acquaintance with a force that Beckett found bewildering. He considered that Timothy may have sustained brain damage during his continental Grand Tour.
But his belief that he could make Beckett’s life better was only one piece of the irritating puzzle. Timothy had a full-time occupation of his father’s lapdog, and their congenial relationship was downright nauseating. Beckett had not had a poor relationship with his father, but it was an aloofness that was common in their circles. After the age of seven, he saw his father quarterly, until he reached the age of thirteen, when he was permitted to dine with his father during quarter-termbreaks. Their conversation during those meals were of the same ilk any man had with a stranger.
Beckett: How has the estate fared since [whatever season it happened to be]?
Father: Fine. And how was your term?
Beckett: Fine.
Father: Good.
End Scene.
And Beckett’s conversational skills had not improved past this point, as there was never more to say to anyone. Had Beckett been nearby for his father’s death, no doubt his last words would have been:
Father: I am dying now.
Beckett: Are you in pain?
Father: I’m fine.
Beckett: Good.
Father: [dies]
Beckett inherited the estate, and a title, and an adequate income for the times. He had a sister, with whom he was no less polite than his father, and she had a son, who was Beckett’s heir. As far as Beckett was concerned, he needed only to not ruin the estate or besmirch the title overly much, and then he could die whenever the moment seemed opportune.
Not for some years yet, of course, as his nephew was but a child. But Beckett had no need of marrying or begetting an heir when the lineage of the earldom was secure. Then his adorable nephew whose name was likely to be…Bartholomew? He couldn’t remember. Anyhow, once his nephew was of age,he too would go off to school, learn how to be an earl, and then Beckett could kick off at his convenience. It was a solid plan.
“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!” Timothy cried one night, which only cemented Beckett’s belief that dark rum was the devil’s own spit. Never had Beckett said such things aloud before, and certainly not to Timothy bloody Rincon.
The fair-haired, blue-eyed man was so confounded that any reasonable passerby would have thought him the village idiot. Sadly, Timothy Rincon, in addition to housing the most irritating of good natures, was also the owner of a prodigious mind. Though, it never occurred to Timothy to bend it towards criminal escapades, interpersonal manipulation, or wooing women. He was the most virtuous, kind, smart arsehole that walked the planet. Which was the third most annoying thing about his person.
“You can’t possibly mean ‘at your convenience’ about dying. That sounds like suicide!” Timothy took another drink from his cup, only to discover that there was nothing left in it.
“I’m not interested in suicide,” Beckett explained, believing in his head that he sounded his usual bored, adroit self, but knowing that he was likely slurring his words and listing to the side. “I’m merely explaining that I have a plan in place that doesn’t require me. It’s a simple relief, is all.”
“We’ve got to get you a wife, man,” Timothy said, reaching across the small table and clapping his hand on Beckett’s shoulder.
“What for?” Beckett asked. He had never wanted one. He didn’t need an heir, so what was the point?
“What for, he asks me.” Timothy also indulged in the lunatic habit of speaking as if he were in a play. At some point, Beckett was going to have to break him out of an insane asylum. That is, if he hadn’t gotten him committed in the first place.
“To give you something to live for!” His friend gesticulated wildly in front of Beckett’s face.
“I can’t live for someone who I don’t think has a reason to exist.”
Timothy reared back. “Who doesn’t have the right to exist?”
“My wife.”
“You have a wife?” Timothy’s eyes were wide again, looking exactly like a simpleton.
Beckett squinted across the table. “I do not have a wife. I’m saying that any future wife I had.”
