Page 5 of When He Was a Duke
They’d been sent to live with Eugenia Langston, a distant cousin of their mother’s. Living with the Langston’s had not been as they’d hoped. Far from it. Sophia, at only eight years old, had been banished downstairs to live with the servants and work as a scullery maid. Sebastian had been sent out to work with the gardeners, living in the bunkhouse with the rest of the outdoor staff. James had been ordered to live with the horses, forced to muck out stalls, clean hooves, and haul heavy buckets of water in exchange for meager meals. Somehow James had kept up with the work, despite being so young. By the time James was fourteen, he was as strong as most men.
By then, both brothers shared scars on their backs from regular whippings. Baron Langston was a mean, vicious man who enjoyed hurting helpless boys. At least those brutal years had taught Sebastian something useful about gardening.
“You’re late,” James said without looking up, sliding a pint across the bar to a waiting sailor.
“Went to see the estate.” Sebastian grabbed an apron and tied it around his waist. “Our estate.”
James’s hands stilled for just a moment. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” Sebastian began wiping down glasses, the familiar routine helping to settle his nerves. “But not our concern tonight.”
They fell into their usual rhythm of pouring drinks, breaking up the occasional fight, keeping the peace among Brighton’s rougher elements. Sebastian had learned to appreciate these men, even if this wasn’t the life he’d been born to live. They were honest in their appetites, their anger, their loyalties. Unlike the aristocrats who smiled while they plotted one’s destruction.
Near midnight, as the crowd began to thin, Sebastian found himself serving two young men at the far end of the bar. Their accents marked them as local workers, and they were deep in their cups, complaining loudly about their troubles.
“Bloody Thorncroft,” the first was saying, a thin man with dirt permanently embedded under his fingernails. “Two years I’ve worked those gardens, and he tosses me out like rubbish.”
His companion, clearly the worse for drink, squinted at him. “Who’s Thorncroft again?”
“Head gardener at Wentworth Manor, you great fool. Been telling you for an hour.” The thin man took a long pull of ale. “Says the aphids on the roses are my fault. Like I can control every bug in Sussex.”
The name Wentworth chilled Sebastian’s blood. He forced himself to continue his work, ears sharpening to catch every word.
“Wentworth Manor,” the drunk one repeated slowly. “That’s the place where the lady got murdered, innit?”
“Aye. And now his lordship’s decided to throw a ball. First one since it happened. Masquerade, they’re calling it.” The thin man’s voice turned bitter. “Thorncroft’s beside himself, needing everything perfect. That’s why he sacked me. Needs proper hands before the fancy folk arrive.”
Sebastian set down the glass carefully, his pulse quickening. A ball at Wentworth Manor. The first since Lady Wentworth’s murder. And they needed a gardener.
“When’s this ball, then?” the drunk asked.
“Three weeks, near enough.”
Sebastian glanced toward James, who was occupied with a group of sailors at the other end of the bar. His brother hadn’t heard the conversation, hadn’t caught the name that still had the power to turn Sebastian’s blood to ice.
Wentworth.
The man who had framed their father. Who had stood in court and wept crocodile tears over his murdered wife while sending an innocent man to the gallows. Who had destroyed their family and stolen their future.
And now Sebastian had a way inside his house.
He knew about aphids. Ladybugs were their natural predator, and a mixture of soap and ash could clear them from rose bushes within days. Simple enough knowledge for any country-bred gentleman’s son who’d spent years working in the Langston gardens. Knowledge that could get him past Wentworth’s gates.
The two men finished their drinks and stumbled out into the night, their complaints fading into the general noise of the street. Sebastian continued his work mechanically, his mind racing with possibilities.
A masquerade ball. Dozens of guests, servants running everywhere, the chaos of a grand social event. And Sebastian would be there, tending the gardens, invisible as all servants were to their betters. Close enough to watch. To learn. To find the evidence that would finally prove what he’d always known.
That Viscount Wentworth had murdered his wife and framed Lord Ashford.
“You’ve got that look,” James said quietly, appearing beside him with empty glasses to wash.
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re planning something dangerous.” James’s voice was carefully neutral, but Sebastian heard the worry underneath. “What is it?”
Sebastian glanced around the tavern, making sure no one was listening. “Wentworth’s looking for a gardener. And he’s throwing a ball in three weeks.”
James went very still. For a moment, Sebastian saw his brother as he’d been at ten, all fury and helpless rage, wanting to strike back at a world that had torn their family apart. But now there was somethingelse in his eyes. Understanding. Resolution.
