Page 2 of When He Was a Duke
“There must be some mistake,” Papa said, and Sebastian heard the careful control in his voice—the tone Papa used when he was furious but trying not to frighten them. “I barely knew Lady Wentworth. I certainly had no reason to harm her.”
“The evidence says otherwise, Your Grace. A bloodied candlestick bearing your family crest was found on your property. Come peacefully. For the children’s sake.”
Papa’s eyes found each of theirs in turn—James’s fierce and frightened, Sophia’s brimming with tears she didn’t understand, Sebastian’s wide with a horror that seemed to age him years in an instant.
“Listen to me,” Papa said, his voice steady despite everything crumbling around them. “I am innocent of this charge. Remember that, no matter what anyone tells you. I love you. Be brave for each other.”
And then the constables led him away, his footsteps echoing through the grand entrance hall until the manor’s heavy door closed behind them with a sound like the sealing of a tomb.
Mrs. Ellsworth gathered Sophia into her arms, the little girl’s sobs muffled against the housekeeper’s shoulder. She motioned for the boys to come close, her own eyes bright with unshed tears.
“You’ll stay with me tonight,” she whispered. “We’ll… we’ll sort everything out in the morning.”
But as Sebastian watched the fire begin to die in the grate, the flames sputtering lower while snow continued its relentless fall outside the manor’s windows, he felt something cold and hard settle in his chest. The twelve-year-old boy who had lounged peacefully on the hearth rug just minutes before was already disappearing, replaced by someone who understood that the world was not safe, that peace could be shattered in an instant, that even dukes could be dragged from their homes in chains.
He would need to become stronger. Harder. Someone who could protect what remained of his family when the adults had failed themso completely.
The fire died to embers, and Sebastian Ashford began his transformation from boy to the man who would one day stand in the shadow of Newgate Prison, promising vengeance on those who had destroyed everything he loved.
*
Six months later,the thick, clammy fog that had settled over London seemed to seep into Sebastian’s very bones as he led his siblings through the narrow, twisting streets toward Newgate Prison. Each cobblestone beneath his worn boots felt like a step deeper into a nightmare from which there would be no waking.
The boy who had once lounged by the fire with a book balanced on his chest was gone. In his place walked someone aged beyond his years, his hand clasped so tightly around Sophia’s that he could no longer feel his fingers. The weight of responsibility sat on his narrow shoulders like a lead cloak. He was all they had now.
Sophia had grown thinner still, whittled down to little more than bird bones and enormous blue eyes. She stumbled beside him, her breath coming in short, frightened puffs that made small clouds in the bitter air. Her free hand clutched the same torn piece of lace—all that remained of the handkerchief Papa had given her on her last birthday, back when their world still made sense.
James walked three paces ahead, his shoulders rigid with a fury that seemed too large for his small frame. His boots struck the cobblestones with deliberate force, as if he could somehow pound his rage into the very stones of London. The boy who had once defended weaker classmates now carried a different kind of fire. One born of injustice and helpless anger.
The stench of coal smoke and the Thames wrapped around them like a burial shroud, mixing with the sour smell of unwashed bodiesand rotting vegetables. As they drew closer to the prison, the crowd thickened—a writhing mass of humanity drawn by the promise of spectacle. Sebastian could hear their eager murmurs, the occasional cruel laugh, the betting on how long the condemned man would dance at the rope’s end.
Their father. Their Papa, who had once lifted Sebastian onto his shoulders to see the Christmas pudding being lit. Who had taught James to fence in the long gallery. Who had called Sophia his “little poppet” and let her fall asleep in his study while he worked.
The day Papa was arrested still felt like a waking nightmare. They’d been having breakfast when one of the gardeners discovered a bloody candlestick hidden under a rosebush—not subtly concealed, mind you, but set at just the right angle to catch the morning light. Papa had sent for the police immediately. They’d arrived with news of Lady Eleanor Wentworth’s murder. Someone had bludgeoned her to death in her own drawing room during the night.
Her husband, Viscount Wentworth, had been quick to name his enemy—the Duke of Ashford—as his wife’s killer. A candlestick that had been in the Ashford family for generations had gone missing, and lo and behold, its match remained on the mantel of the Wentworth drawing room while its pair lay hidden in the Ashford rose garden.
The police might have investigated further. But they hadn’t. They’d been quick to arrest, the courts quick to condemn. Almost as if Viscount Wentworth had undue influence upon the authorities.
He did. Sebastian knew it. Papa knew it too.
During their last visit to the cold, dark prison, Papa had explained the Viscount’s hatred—an old rivalry that went back to their days at Cambridge.
“Your mother chose me, you see. Not the Viscount. He never forgave either of us for it. Emily had never wanted him, but he’d convinced himself otherwise. When she refused his proposal, telling him she loved me, he vowed to make us pay someday.” Papa’s voicehad been hoarse from the damp cell, his usually immaculate beard grown wild and shot through with new silver. “The candlestick, it was planted to entrap me. I’m certain of it. He killed his wife and had the evidence placed in our gardens.”
“Why would he kill her?” James had asked.
“He was a man with little control over his emotions,” Papa had said. “Spoiled. Privileged. Led to believe by his parents and the sycophants around him that he was better than others and therefore could do as he pleased. When we were at school together, he was known as a cheat and a liar. A petty brat who’d never heard the word no. I can only imagine what he would do if someone finally said it to him. Perhaps his wife disobeyed him or challenged him? Maybe they were fighting and he lost control of himself?”
Sebastian’s stomach clenched so hard he thought he might be sick right there in the street. The taste of copper filled his mouth. Lord, he’d been biting his tongue without realizing it. But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t falter. Papa had to see them. Had to know that whatever lies had condemned him, his children believed in his innocence.
“Sebastian.” Sophia’s voice was barely a whisper. “I cannot… I cannot breathe properly.”
He stopped, pulling her into the shelter of a doorway while the crowd surged past them. Her face was pale as parchment, her lips tinged blue with cold and fear. He stripped off his own coat, threadbare now, but still warmer than her thin shawl and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders.
“Listen to me, Poppet,” he said, using Papa’s endearment. “We are Ashfords. We do not break. Not today.”
She nodded, though tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
