The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex) (31 page)

He would not steal Sebastian: the man had made his choice. Even if Lewis succeeded in convincing Dorothea to break her betrothal, and William was not certain he could, Sebastian had clearly indicated his preference: he desired a marriage, whether romantic or not. The pleasures William might bring him, and he did not doubt Sebastian’s inclinations in that respect, did not compare to those a woman bestowed by her very sex. Sebastian needed a public companion. William could never be that person.

The mystery. He needed to think of the mystery. If he could ascertain Sebastian’s safety, perhaps William might one day be able to find some contentment.

The thundering of a galloping horse in the fields below halted his thoughts. He nestled nearer the bush, the rough leaves prickling and piercing his hands.

“Captain! Captain!”

He swiveled, his heartbeat escalating and his eyes widening, seeing the person on foot before him. “Joshua. You scared me.”

“Me? Frighten a captain?” Joshua laughed.

William joined in, distracted. His heart still thumped a faltering rhythm.

“Have you seen the ghost?”

“I’m beginning to long for the sight.” William gestured at his dirty clothes. “The knowledge I have not ruined my uniform fruitlessly would bring me great pleasure.”

Joshua rolled his eyes. “As if you mind, Captain.”

William smiled. Joshua was correct: the state of his uniform did not plague him, but he was not about to admit a lack of reverence to a militiaman.

They relaxed, their breaths steadying. Wind brushed through the ferns and long strands of grass and hawkweed. A gust parted the ferns and revealed delicate bluebells, protected by the taller plants.

A streak of white flashed past, and everything changed.

William sank to the ground, flattening himself as much as he could. He pulled Joshua with him, his face frozen. He nodded at his companion, and they rolled into the bushes. From between the leaves, William spotted a man riding a white horse, his cobalt cape contrasting with the pale hide. The rider headed straight for them, and William’s chest clenched.
Had they been seen?

The stallion’s silver mane swayed in the wind as it continued its gallop, pulling its legs forward in long, even strides.

A hood covered the rider’s head, and as he leaned forward, he appeared almost headless. Almost, but not quite.

The rider swerved and held up a bloodied, disembodied head in his hand. William inhaled, his breath caught in his chest. The horse galloped nearer, its mighty legs pummeling the earth.

William longed to recoil, to shut his eyes and return to the blissful world of bluebells and Sebastian. He forced his gaze to remain on the macabre face splashed with crimson.

The horse advanced, and the morbid scalp became ludicrous as the object’s material was displayed: wood. And the blood was merely paint.

“The head,” Joshua whispered. He exhaled as if disappointed.

The horse trampled over the field and disappeared into a wooded area near the main road.

The clouds gathered, and the wind gusts grew colder. Rain began to trickle down again, and the stars faded, vanishing into the night.

Why did the rider strive so hard to scare everyone? What did he want to hide?

“How far do the tunnels extend?” William asked.

Joshua shrugged. “Wandering underground in dark tunnels never intrigued me. Too much like the hell father always warns about in his sermons.”

William tapped his fingers on a branch. Possibly the tunnels extended to Sir Ambrose’s house. He gazed at the sloping field, at the bottom of which, the baronet resided. He hurried to the trees, following the horse and rider. The branches would provide some shelter from the increasing rain.

It was the sort of night where the only men out were those who needed to be: wild riders scaring passersby to keep an area protected, men spying on the wild rider, and smugglers sailing from France, seeking a particular cove because that was the only safe place for them.

The wild rider protected the area on two days, not one. Of course.

“Let’s go down to the cove,” William hollered.

Joshua looked back at the shelter of the forest. “As you wish, Captain.”

William nodded, rushing toward the cliff’s edge. The cave was just a storage place. Maybe tunnels connected it to Sir Ambrose’s property, maybe building the tunnels was what kept Sir Ambrose’s men so muscular.

He grasped the taller, sturdier plants as he clambered down the now-slippery rocks to the cove, his back to the ocean. Thorns slashed his hands. Rain drenched him; his clothes stuck to him and water from his hair dripped into his eyes. Salt water splattered from the waves, made mightier from the sudden downpour. Dirt and grime seeped into the cuts as he slid down the muddy slope, burning his hands.

Joshua followed him down.

William’s feet hit the pebbled ground, and he smiled. This part at least was complete.

Joshua reached the landing and jumped down beside him.

He hesitated, pondering whether to go for the larger cave with its complex caverns and tunnels or the smaller one which would at least serve as a place for the smugglers to hide their cargo. He headed for the smaller one; Joshua had found French wine there once.

He started to run, the wind smashing against his face.

“The boat is coming to shore,” Joshua called between huffs.

He groaned. They were late. They should be hiding in the cave. Not on the open beach. If they were caught . . .

William turned to Joshua. “You go. I’ll stay here.”

“Never. You’re my captain.”

William groaned. Joshua didn’t seem to realize he was only in the militia. But the danger existed all the same.

He continued forward and scrambled into the cave. He exhaled as he entered, shielded from the heavy rain.

Joshua followed William, and they picked their way over the uneven ground. He ushered Joshua to a cavity in the cave that offered some protection. He might be safe there.

French accents filled the cave, and Joshua and William froze, their breaths suspended in the echoing chamber.

Well, mostly French— one voice had a peculiar accent that sounded more like an English tourist before the war.

The men hoisted crates over their backs, and the English-sounding man directed them in the cave.

The bandits’ gazes returned often to the cave entrance and the glimmer of moonlight that pierced the murky hollow, lit now by a single torch. The weather worsened outside, and the men dropped the crates onto the cave ground.

The French murmurs filled the cave, ricocheting off the narrow walls.

“Faites attention.”
The Englishman waved his hands, ordering them with the enthusiasm of an orchestra conductor. He stepped into the light, and William shivered.

Sir Ambrose.

He clenched his fists, a wave of fear stiffening his back.

And was that the butler? And the footman? They pried the crates open, inspecting vases and sculptures. Finally Sir Ambrose expressed satisfaction, and the Frenchmen departed, returning to the stormy sea.

Sir Ambrose remained with a few other men. They worked near William, unloading the crates into manageable packs.

William shrank farther back into the nook, pressing into the cave’s cold and wet surface, desperate for the shadows to protect him.

But it was all over.

A cold, round object pressed into him. The hair on William’s neck rose, and his muscles tensed, prepared to flee, still optimistic that he might save himself.

“Look what I have here,” a deep voice broke through the darkness.

“What is it, Barnesley?” Sir Ambrose asked, and William’s heart and stomach fell.

Sir Ambrose’s feet crunched against the rocky interior, stopping inches before William.

Sir Ambrose stood before him and smirked. “I see you found my scheme.”

Sweat prickled William’s back and his heart raced. He stepped into the light, away from Joshua, who was still undiscovered.

“No movement,” Barnesley grumbled.

Sir Ambrose laughed. “There’s no hope of escape for him. To think that he came to me.”

“Then you have no excuse.” William gestured at the vases and paintings the men had brought to shore.

“I don’t need one. You are going to be dead soon!” Sir Ambrose stepped nearer, the scent of his cologne pervading the air, incongruous in this setting.

Sir Ambrose gave a curt nod to Barnesley. William winced at the pain in his shoulder blades as the butler’s thick fingers dragged him into the open.

Sir Ambrose laughed. “You didn’t expect to be caught, did you?

William’s heart hammered.

“You thought you caught me red-handed.” Sir Ambrose’s eyes shone.

He laughed again, as if regaling a dinner party. “You’re just like your father. He also underestimated me. And look what happened to him!”

William’s stomach hurt and he struggled to inhale. He forced his words to be steady. “What happened to him?”

“Oh, you’re interested in that now, are you? Wasn’t that way when you were little. You sodomite. It was all ‘pitiful me, I favor men.’”

William bit his lip. He hadn’t discussed his preferences with anyone.

“What happened to my father?” William repeated. His chest tightened, as if it knew he was on the precipice of a terrible disclosure.

“It was all so easy. You never questioned it. I worried, but really I shouldn’t have.”

Energy surged through William, and he pushed Sir Ambrose against the edge of the cave, his hands clasped around the baronet’s neck. He shook him, longing to see some fear in the man’s eyes. Sir Ambrose’s hat toppled to the ground. “What did you do?”

The muscular butler pulled William off.

Sir Ambrose brushed his trousers and sneered. “You want details?”

“Yes!” William’s voiced echoed in the cavern.

Sir Ambrose turned. “Barnesley, go to the crates. Start moving them.”

“Are you certain?” Barnesley’s eyes darted to William’s.

Sir Ambrose removed a silver pistol, pointing it at William. “Out.”

The butler disappeared. William waited, unsure what the baronet would do.

Sir Ambrose directed William to exit the cave and start climbing the cliff, following after. They trudged up the rocky terrain, William ever conscious of the gun pointed at him.

Finally they paused under the deserted sky.

“I do want you to enjoy the last fifteen minutes of your life,” Sir Ambrose said. “I will tell you about your father. You see, I really am a nice person.”

“You are the devil himself.” William crossed his arms.

“You don’t agree? Perhaps not.” Sir Ambrose sighed and leaned against a slab of rock. “But you see, I could have been a nice person. If only your mother had let me.”

“My mother?”

“Bianca.” Sir Ambrose smiled and his eyes glazed. “She was so pretty. I adored her. A prettier version of Dorothea. Though Dorothea will do. Perhaps after Sebastian is dead, I will marry her.”

William was conscious of little else than his heartbeat pounding away. First he would die, and then Sebastian? Sweet Sebastian who had never done a thing wrong in his life except perhaps choosing not to live in a way that made him happy? Sir Ambrose had loved his mother? And he was determined to marry his sister? He scanned the horizon. Perhaps he could stop Sir Ambrose in some way. The man waved his pistol, and William feared it would fire even before he pointed it at him. Perhaps that would be a manner in which to discharge bullets, but William found the tactic imperfect.

“I am going to have you climb until you reach the top of the cliff.” Sir Ambrose pointed to William’s right. “And then I am going to shoot you. I have little desire to shoot you near the cave.”

“You cannot get away with it.”

Sir Ambrose smirked. “I have gotten away with many things in my life. I will certainly get away with killing you. Smugglers are, after all, a very big problem in Sussex. Surely you can understand how they might panic and shoot you. Such a tragedy.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Or perhaps I should blame it on French spies? That worked last time.”

William tightened his fists. “What did you say about my father?”

The clouds parted, and moonlight shone on them. William’s last minutes would be spent in clarity. The shadows from the few trees extended in jagged shapes over the Downs.

“I wouldn’t miss sharing it with you for the world.” Sir Ambrose’s eyes flashed. “I have long despised him. It brought me great pleasure to destroy him, and it will bring me even greater pleasure to destroy you, you molly.”

The last words were little more than a hiss. William wished he had not heard them, but there was little use denying them. Sir Ambrose knew his preferences.

“You brought such shame on your mother. Dear Bianca.” He stroked his gun, its iron ridges gleaming under the moonlight.

“You told them,” William said. “About the groom. I didn’t tell. Henry didn’t tell anyone. It was you.”

“I was your neighbor,” Sir Ambrose said. “I wanted to be close to your mother. I loved her. If nothing else, I wanted to be near her. Get invited to parties. As her nearest neighbor, she could hardly not invite me. It would have been unseemly. So I got to see her. And that was wonderful. She was so beautiful. Some people thought Bianca was too affected a name, but I found it the loveliest name in the world.”

Sir Ambrose laughed bitterly.

“And then she had you and Dorothea. William. Such a vile name. Your father’s name. No imagination in it. I hated you at once. Do you know about William the Conquerer?”

William nodded.

“He landed his boats just a bit farther down this coast. And then did despicable things to the populace and declared himself the King of England, even though the Saxons already had a perfectly good king. Well, at least until William’s men shot him in the eye with an arrow.” He paused. “Maybe I should shoot you in the eye. With a gun. Wouldn’t that be fitting? I could definitely say the French must have gotten hold of you.”

William thought French spies would not go around shooting people in the eye. Only lunatics did that, and Sir Ambrose most certainly seemed lacking in sanity.