The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex) (18 page)

“Oh, Penelope, you need not be so dramatic,” Sebastian said. “Sussex has an excellent reputation for sunshine. You must be a bit more patient.”

“Please?” Penelope asked, pouting.

Sebastian could not resist gratifying his cousin and soon met her outside after putting on some decent clothes. Others might resist pleasing her, but he found her enthusiasm endearing. He hated the thought of denying her the chance to revisit her childhood home. Lewis would not have done so, he was sure.

The estate did seem nicer in the sunshine. The hills might not hold the same majesty as those in Yorkshire: they were smaller, and the grass might not be quite as green as in his home county, but it was still a vibrant shade of light green. Penelope was right to drag him outside.

He followed her through the gardens, stopping with her as she exclaimed over the lilacs.

“How odd to see such an estate so empty,” Penelope said. “When are you going to get people to look after it?”

“If they fear Bonaparte, I cannot make them work here. I would also feel uncomfortable giving their jobs away to other people. The gardens will survive some neglect. It can be remedied later. These are trying times.”

“Are you afraid of Bonaparte?” Penelope asked him.

Sebastian paused. The peasants of France had chopped the heads off his counterparts there with little warning, in great masses. Lewis had died overseas, his body mangled beyond recognition. And even William, strong William, was wounded.

“I will not let Bonaparte dictate my fears when he has not even crossed the channel. If the news becomes horrible, we can always move to Yorkshire. We are lucky to possess that option. Most people are not as fortunate and do not have a horse and carriage installed at their place which they can draw upon should they need to leave in haste.”

Penelope smiled. “You are a good man, Sebastian.”

They wandered farther into the gardens. A red brick structure peeked between the sturdy trunks of the chestnut trees.

“Is that the old gatehouse?” Sebastian asked.

“Oh, yes. So it is. Before Capability Brown rearranged the garden and created the lake.”

Sebastian nodded. Getting Capability Brown to design the gardens had been a success story for past generations. Though Sebastian preferred the wilder landscapes favored by Italian-influenced landscape designers, he did appreciate the order and idyllic pastoral scenes the Georgians created, even if it meant changing the entrance to the building.

“Let’s go inside,” Penelope said.

Sebastian followed. The gatehouse might make a good temporary hiding space for a thief. “Do you think this is wise, Penelope?”

“Shhh.”

Sebastian possessed little desire to disturb any thieves.

He followed Penelope’s lead, walking to the gatehouse, slowing, setting each heel down as quietly as he could. He crept straight to a window, stepping over plants, not wishing to scare any thief by opening the door. He peered into the old gatehouse, his eyes adjusting to the dark, noticing two chairs and a wooden table with a bowl filled with some apples. A small bed lay near the table.

Everything was quiet. Nobody was there. He stepped back.

“Let’s go, Penelope. There’s nothing here for us.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, and she hurried back after him. “Did you see that?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian. “It didn’t look like anyone was living there. I’m sorry, Penelope. No French spy this time.”

“You must be in jest,” Penelope said.

Sebastian blinked.

“Oh, you are thick sometimes.” Penelope sighed. “Why would a bed be made if the gatehouse hasn’t been used since Capability Brown changed things up here?”

Sebastian pondered the question.

“Exactly. It would not be made. We already know there are no other staff apart from the house staff here. So it cannot be for them. I doubt those sheets have been there since the 1770s.”

“No, I suppose that would be most odd.” His cousin had a point.

“Precisely. And why were there apples on the table? Who would have put them there? Not animals.”

“Let’s go back to the manor house,” Sebastian said. He did not quite fancy living close to such unsavory people. “We should stay away from the gardens in the future.”

“Do you not think we should call the magistrate?”

“And say what? That there are some apples on the table and we do not know how they got there? No, thank you. I would rather blend more into my community. The magistrate has larger things to worry about. But do not, I pray, wander into the gardens alone,” Sebastian said sternly.

“As you wish.” Penelope shivered.

Sebastian realized she would probably be unwilling to return to the gatehouse alone. Penelope might be headstrong, but she was hardly foolish.

Chapter Thirteen

William already regretted venturing on his first excursion since the incident with Sebastian. He drummed his fingers against the lush leather armchair. His brandy remained on the table, taunting him, reminding him of better times. He did not feel like doing anything, even drinking. His feet sank into the thick carpet. If he ignored the pained sensation in his chest, he might claim he was comfortable.

A few men sat scattered about the club, discussing their latest jaunts across Europe, their murmurs about Parisian mistresses and gambling broken by occasional bursts of laughter.

He shifted under their gaze, recognizing some from Harrow. He tended to avoid White’s. Associating with conservative gentlemen of aristocratic origin was not how he preferred to spend his time. Even now his visit was not of his own volition. He sighed. Had his father not proved to be practically bankrupt after his death, he would have felt more at ease there. As it was, his membership to White’s, secured in happier times, endured as one of the few reminders of his father’s legacy. He picked up his drink and glided his fingers over the crystal glass. He imagined the life he never lived, the one his father had envisioned for him, where he would be at the gaming table, telling stories of cavorting with courtesans.

A shadow fell over his seat.

“You have seen better days, my dear captain.” His companion slipped into the chair opposite him.

William’s fists tightened, not quite ready for conversation. “You brought your famed charm, Reynolds.”

Lord Reynolds shrugged. “I merely do not like seeing you so distraught.”

William scowled, his hand touching his cheek, meeting the texture of stubble. The problem with maintaining exceptional grooming for years was that the moment he grew lax in his efforts, everyone commented. “I am hardly shabby looking.”

“The circles under your eyes fail to suggest liveliness. It is obvious you are unwell.”

William’s mind returned to school, where he had first met the lord. He and Reynolds frequented the racquet court, both aggressive. Reynolds still played sports, now donning exquisite clothes in typical Corinthian fashion, his wife by his side. And William was relegated to India, needing his commission to support himself and leaving his sister to fend for herself.

William’s jaw clenched. Undoubtedly Sebastian had been correct to flee from him.

And now Dorothea, the sister he loved, abhorred him.

“Penelope is anxious for the two of us to go to Somerset Hall. She writes that she is finding pleasure hunting for French spies on Sebastian’s new estate.” Reynolds’s eyes misted, his adoration obvious.

William straightened his back in spite of himself at the mention of Sebastian’s name.
Surely Sebastian did not condone this activity?

“But she also is adamant,” Reynolds continued, “that she would like the two of us to join her. As well as Miss Carlisle, of course.”

William considered the offer of visiting Sebastian’s new home. For a moment he lay in Sebastian’s bed again, his legs brushing against Sebastian’s legs, his hands running across Sebastian’s chest, lingering on his nipples and the scattering of hair that surrounded them. For a moment, he was making Sebastian laugh, and everything was wonderful. He shook his head. That vision was impossible.

“I’m afraid I must decline.” William crossed his arms, rankled that Reynolds had persuaded him to meet. He cursed his desperation for news of Sebastian, despising that all Reynolds told him was that
he
did not look well. As if he were unaware. “I am busy here.”

“Doing what? You do not even gamble. I shall be sacrificing a great deal to go down to Somerset Hall at this time of year.”

“I am certain your bank account will appreciate the hiatus,” William said.

“Why does everyone think I do not do well gambling?”

“Are you saying they are vicious rumors?” William asked.

“Something like that,” Lord Reynolds grumbled.

Dorothea wrote Sebastian long letters daily, and from the time she spent poring over the letters she received from him, Sebastian was dispatching her long letters in return. The man had not written William once. Dorothea and Sebastian planned for a large wedding, which from what William could see, merely existed to give Lady Reynolds and Dorothea something to do.

William walked Reynolds to the door and grabbed his coat. Even if he declined Reynolds’s forceful offer for a rest in Sussex, he resolved to leave London. Injury or no injury, he was a soldier. Napoleon might be invading, and he was damned if he was going to hang around Somerset Hall, making puppy eyes at the new duke.

*

William stood in the parlor, fiddling with his gloves.

“You’re leaving?” Dorothea put aside her embroidery and raised her eyebrows. “To go where?”

“Does it matter?” William fidgeted, leaning against the door of the drawing room. He glanced at the letter tray, noting that a new one in Sebastian’s elegant hand had arrived.

William had avoided Dorothea, but he needed to tell her he would no longer be around.

“Don’t say you’re going back to India.”

“Would you miss me if I did?”

Dorothea remained silent. Embracing her fiancé had not drawn them closer. “I couldn’t stand in the way of His Majesty’s army . . .”

“Well, I’m not.” William scowled.

“Oh?”

“I’m not returning to India.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened, and she rushed off the sofa. “You’re not planning to visit Somerset Hall!”

“If you must know,” William said, irritated that that seemed to be her main worry, “I joined the effort to defend Britain at home. They are building a fort in Lyngate.”

“That’s not far from Somerset Hall.”

“Perhaps.” William’s skin flushed. “I don’t know.” Of course he knew. Lyngate lay on the tip of the Sussex coast, right by the South Downs, practically bordering Somerset Hall.

He avoided Dorothea’s assessing eye. “I want to help guard the defense.”

“How noble.”

William nodded. The cause
was
noble. There was nothing—well, almost nothing—he would rather do. He wasn’t against the idea of going back overseas, but he would be most useful closer to home. When one of his fellow officers had mentioned the need to build a Martello tower in Lyngate to secure the region, he had leapt at the opportunity.

Since meeting Sebastian again, his heart soared and plummeted, discovering that life contained more emotions than he ever thought possible. In his darker moments, he had worried he simply did not possess the emotions others did, worried if the absence of emotional entanglement made men appeal to him. Were men like Reynolds simply better men, capable of loving a good woman?

In the past weeks, he had latched on to Sebastian’s innocence, his trustfulness, like a drowning man seizing a buoy. Now that Sebastian had chosen a more honorable life—for what, after all, did buoys have to do with the weight of a depraved man—he could at least serve his country. He could at least aspire to the nobleness Sebastian did, with his dreams of bettering his estate and devoting himself to his family.

“I suppose you will go soon?” Dorothea settled back into her armchair, picking up her embroidery again.

“Yes.” There was no point prolonging the stay.

A few hours later, William sat at the front of a brightly painted stagecoach called
The Sapphire
. Two teams of horses dragged him and a dozen passengers from the lure of London. A guard rode at the back. The crowded experience was hardly worthy of being linked with a precious jewel, though he appreciated the attempt.

The wind brushed against his face as the coach jostled along. The portly coachman was regaling the man next to William, a merchant who had seized the seat next to the driver, likely for the sheer purpose of being entertained. The two men burst into laughter from time to time.

William would not miss London. He longed to immerse himself in a new life, this time on the south coast. Perhaps he approached being in the army all wrong, concentrating on the injustices and indignities of war and the pomp and splendor off the battlefield rather than the noble cause of war itself. How had he fallen so quickly from the ecstasy of being with Sebastian? William sighed. His head ached, exhausted from lack of sleep.

William had thought he would talk everything over with Sebastian later. They had shared something special. At least he found the experience special. Now he struggled to understand what Sebastian thought.

The man had simply vanished. Likely Dorothea found it immensely pleasurable she knew where Sebastian was before he did.

Soft snores from passengers lulled William. Warmth overcame him, his mind soothed by the effects of ale and the distraction of the coach’s regular halts as the driver changed horses and hurried everyone to the coaching inn. The two teams of horses trotted over the gravel road, swaying the coach through the increasingly pastoral countryside.

The grass lengthened and the hedges spilled into the road. A flurry of clouds marched across the sky. A younger William may have searched for shapes in them. Now he accepted never finding a meaning in them, content to watch the colors shift. Blue gaps infiltrated the ashen sky, finally overwhelming it. Pink and orange flecks then sprinkled the heavens until darkness conquered.

The coach passed the village of Hensley and William wondered where Sebastian’s manor house was located. He looked around the village, half expecting to see Sebastian pop out. Every shadow, every tree, every corner was Sebastian. His heart ached at the need to see the other man’s blond hair and blue eyes.