Captured at the Castle
Alexandra Ainsworth
Sanguinity Press
Captured at the Castle Copyright © 2015 by Alexandra Ainsworth.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Mailing List
Sneak Preview - The Viscount's Duel
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
May 1804
Sussex
Geoffrey Hammerstead stood in the corner of Somerset Hall’s ballroom, wondering if anyone else noticed their hosts had abandoned them. The other guests seemed oblivious, gorging on canapés. Geoffrey sipped his orange and raspberry shrub, the vinegar aftertaste revealing he had taken the nonalcoholic version. He grimaced, the citrus taste and sudden sweetness only heightening his displeasure.
He dangled his coral-colored drink in his hand and searched for a nook where he might discard it with some attempt at discretion. The overlong queue at the punch table had compelled him to seize the first drink he spotted and make a hasty retreat as the ton gossiped over silver bowls of negus and no doubt proper brandy-filled shrub.
The chamber music played on, the brisk tempo of the violinists unbroken as they tackled Mozart and all the greats with fervor. Men and women exchanged smoldering looks as they pressed their hands together in the patterned dances, and the guests’ eyes sparkled with added vigor whenever the violinists played war tunes.
He held back a snort. The ornate marble ballroom could not differ more from war. No cashmere pantaloons and velvet-collared coats there.
Well. They would soon discover this if Bonaparte’s forces made good on their threat to invade.
If he could find his uncle, he would leave at once. The man insisted he accept the invitation, spurting nonsense about improving ties with the new duke. Geoffrey knew the importance of rules, and he didn’t need to meet people beforehand to tell them that.
His face tightened, and Geoffrey slid his unfinished drink behind a vase on the fireplace mantel. He grimaced as his fingers brushed against the half-clothed goddess immortalized in gold adorning the vase.
With a sigh he wove his way through the satin- and silk-dressed crowd. Stout, middle-aged men were commonplace in the ton, and he braced himself for a lengthy search for his uncle amidst the clashing scents of alcohol and tobacco, made no less vile by the heavily perfumed ton and the enormous vases overflowing with all manner of scented flowers. Huge candles perched in ornate candelabras, casting their flickering light over the too hot room.
Geoffrey grunted. Seeing people was overrated. No need to suffer from heatstroke from that dubious pleasure.
He tugged his cravat and cursed his valet’s insistence at attempting a more advanced tie for the occasion. His face likely held the same grimace that earned him an unwarranted reputation for danger, and he crossed his arms against his chest and gritted his teeth.
He grinned as one of the chaperones stopped her charge from gazing at him. His brawny figure, oft-bearded face in a swarm of clean shaven Corinthians, and habitual disregard for society’s niceties made him a potential son-in-law no mother desired.
Still, if his demeanor kept him from fighting off marriage-minded mamas and their doe-eyed daughters, he would not complain. Perhaps he might behave more like a rake if he inclined toward a more conventional manner, but as it was, he remained decidedly honorable. Not that anyone needed to know.
He scoured the ballroom, frowning at the duke’s absence. At last he spied his uncle and strolled over to him.
“Uncle Ambrose!”
His uncle’s eyes flickered with warmth, and for the first time that evening, Geoffrey allowed himself a true smile. “I couldn’t find you.”
His uncle’s lips turned up, and he pulled a strand of his carefully coiled mustache. “Adventure called.”
Geoffrey rolled his eyes. The man’s face was redder than when they arrived, and likely the man had discovered an alcove in which to ravish some busty widow.
Well. Surely the man possessed the sense to find a widow for any such dastardly deed and would refrain from forcing his attentions on one of the many married women or the even more forbidden debutantes. He sighed. His uncle’s eyes had a tendency to drift to Dorothea with worrisome regularity, and Geoffrey rather suspected his uncle preferred the ideal of a young and untarnished chit to the expertise of a widow.
Still, the man’s smile was infectious, and since no teary-eyed chit appeared from behind a curtain, his concern eased.
Uncle Ambrose did not lack intelligence after all. Somehow the man managed to build his wealth, even in these times of war—or threatened war, acquired a castle, and seized the title of baronet.
Geoffrey respected few people, but Uncle Ambrose certainly belonged in that select group.
“I’m afraid I must leave,” Geoffrey said apologetically, half-anticipating a tirade. “I’ll see you back at the castle.”
His uncle drew his eyebrows together. ”I hope you are not returning to your work. Barnesley will contact you if you are needed. We discussed this.”
Geoffrey sighed. Smugglers frequented the coast, and Geoffrey vowed to apprehend them. People paid dearly for French luxuries, even when the French economy should not be supported, and the smugglers themselves were often violent in their efforts to protect their profits.
So far, the stretch of coast Geoffrey handled remained free of mysterious boats, whenever Geoffrey inspected, almost as if the smugglers knew his schedule.
“You can’t search that coastline every night.” Uncle Ambrose glanced at Geoffrey’s empty hand. “You need some brandy.”
Geoffrey shook his head at his uncle’s decisive tone. “I’m simply returning to Ashbury Castle.”
“Oh.” A smile returned to Uncle Ambrose’s face. “Leaving early. You charmer. Always attempting to make me feel young in your presence.”
Geoffrey bit back a smile. Only his uncle displayed him some affection, and though foolish, he could not deny the warmth that spread through him at the friendly tease.
His uncle heaved a sigh, his eyes still sparkling. “Very well. But promise me I won’t find you poring over papers in your study.”
“I promise,” Geoffrey said. His work brought him an unrivaled sense of satisfaction, but perhaps stealing a book on magisterial practices from the library might not void his word.
“Good lad,” his uncle said. “And it would be smart to stay away from the cliffs tonight.”
Geoffrey shot him a puzzled glance. The cliffs bordered Somerset Hall, but they were nowhere near the route to the castle.
“Steep in this rough weather,” his uncle explained. “Wouldn’t want my favorite nephew to come to harm.”
Geoffrey smiled and departed, his feet lighter after the exchange.
Even though living with his uncle hardly constituted glamor, his life made him content. He recently commenced his duties as magistrate, and for once, everything seemed to be going well.
He sauntered past a butler, ignoring the
manner in which the man’s eyebrows darted up, likely shocked at the prospect of someone leaving, when guests still trickled in. Relief filled him as he found himself outside, and he loped by a fountain shooting gushes of water into a pool. Glossy ebony carriages with golden crests lined the outside, but Geoffrey headed behind the marble-facaded manor house to the woodlands.
Moonbeams lit the twisting path through the thicket of trees, making Geoffrey grateful the duke maintained the tradition of holding balls on full moon nights, even if intermittent showers accompanied tonight.
The trees leaned toward him, thrusting gnarled branches heavy with leaves, as Geoffrey headed toward Ashbury Castle. Unlike some people, he favored being alone. Some villagers whispered of a sightless specter, draped in a cobalt cloak, who road through the forest on a galloping white stallion, a bloodied head dangling on his side. Geoffrey saw no reason to believe in ghosts. Too much evil in the world existed to speculate the supernatural.
*
Geoffrey wove his way through the forest and entered the land his uncle owned. Occasionally, an animal would shriek, reminding him other animals were fighting—and losing—their lives. An owl hooted above him, searching for prey to drop upon.
Guilt pricked him. He should never have promised his uncle to abstain from working tonight. The beasts’ natural violence was matched by human violence; Bonaparte’s forces made that clear. Even if he didn’t investigate any cases, perhaps he might make himself somewhat useful tonight.
Rushing footsteps, heading in the direction of the coastline, interrupted his thoughts.
No one should be running. Not on this land. Not when his uncle forbade anyone to be on it.
He scrunched his fists together, and did his best to push the thought from his mind that the ghost was rumored to ride through at this time of night. Ghosts only existed for people with overly developed imaginations.
Some stranger—some intruder was there. The rhythmic crunch of twigs betrayed the person’s presence. Geoffrey halted, and his hand swept against the pistol hidden in his greatcoat.
Geoffrey hid behind the thick trunk of a chestnut tree, its nutty scent wafting down to him. His body tensed, prepared to interrogate the trespasser.
He inhaled and stepped from the tree as the footsteps rounded the corner of the trail. His chest tightened, and apprehension shot through him. “Halt.”
Footsteps paused, and then the person dashed in the other direction.
Geoffrey’s jaw tightened. Most suspicious. “In the name of the King, halt.”
His voice roared over the sound of glow worms and the trickle of a nearby creek.
The person sprinted, speeding over the rough terrain. Geoffrey followed him and panted in the chilly night air. Likely, the man truly was trying to meet smugglers.
His legs were longer than the other man, and he lessened the gap between them. With a huff, Geoffrey lurched, wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders, and tackled him to the ground.
A coil of heat rushed through Geoffrey. The man struggled, and Geoffrey tightened his thighs, feeling firm muscles squirm beneath him. “Who are you?”
Dark, defiant eyes glared at him from a pale, arresting face.
Geoffrey narrowed his eyes and attempted not to let them linger on the man’s perfect features: his slightly upturned nose, his well-rounded jaw, his alluringly full lips, now tantalizingly near his own, twisted into a sneer.
“Let . . . me . . . go.” The man’s words shot out in gasps as he struggled to move his head. “Who are you?”
“Geoffrey Hammerstead. The magistrate.”
“Sir Ambrose’s nephew? Oh. But you’re dressed . . .” The stranger frowned, and his dark eyes swept over Geoffrey’s greatcoat before the man’s cheeks darkened and he swiveled his head away.
“Like a man not planning to arrest anyone?”
The stranger nodded, and a small smile appeared. “You should take better care of your clothes.”
Geoffrey glanced at the muddied seams of his frock coat and his even more muddied breeches and sighed.
The man’s breath steadied, slowing to ever smaller pants.
Geoffrey scowled. “Explain yourself.”
“I am of little interest to you.” A faint French accent flitted through the man’s low voice. The unexpected sound was seductive, conjuring up all things forbidden, all that Geoffrey vowed to relegate to dreams and fantasies.
Procedure.
If only I had handcuffs.
With a smirk, Geoffrey unwound his neckcloth, for once thankful for the excessively long length.
The man’s eyes widened as Geoffrey removed his cravat. The stranger writhed beneath him.
“For goodness’ sake, I’m just going to bind your hands. I don’t trust you not to run again.” Geoffrey grasped the man’s wrist.
The intruder flinched, panic gleaming in his eyes. He swallowed air in noisy spurts as if Geoffrey desired to suffocate him rather than bind his wrists together.
The man flailed beneath him in desperate moves, and a dull ache formed in Geoffrey’s chest.
He wanted to help people, not terrify them. He devoted his life to regulating the rules, ensuring order and working to ensure peace.
“Steady there,” Geoffrey murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
Haunted eyes stared at Geoffrey.
“Let’s see if you can answer my questions first. Stay still and I won’t handcuff you.”
Appraising eyes studied him, and Geoffrey shifted, uncomfortable.
“What were you doing?” Geoffrey repeated.
The stranger pressed his lips together.
Geoffrey stared hard at him. “Are you a smuggler?”
“No!” The man shook his head, and his tousled hair blew in the brisk air.
Geoffrey reminded himself not to smooth over the silky strands. He steadied his voice. “I don’t believe you.”
“Because of my accent?” Stormy eyes blazed up at Geoffrey. “I’ve lived here longer than you.”
“Indeed?”
“Ten years.” The man’s chin jutted up.
“That means nothing.”
“It means I’m not arriving on a boat every bloody week to sell things. Or get things. I’m not a smuggler.”
Geoffrey frowned. “What were you doing?”
The man squirmed. “I went on a pleasant stroll through the woods. Good to take advantage of the full moon.”
“Not when you’ve lived here for ten years and must bloody well know Sir Ambrose allows no one on his property.”
The man exhaled, and sturdy shoulders rolled under Geoffrey. “Look, I accidentally wandered onto the estate. Completely harmless.”
“That’s illegal.”
The man made a frustrated sound.
Tension ran through Geoffrey, his throat parched. “I’m not searching for people to arrest. But if somebody breaks the law—”
“Never mind,” the man interrupted. “I’m allowed to catch things at Somerset Hall, and I mistakingly entered Sir Ambrose’s territory. When I realized my error, I attempted to run away before you threw me to the ground.”
Geoffrey relaxed his grip. That seems possible. He swallowed. “So show me.”
“What?”
“What did you catch?”
The man shifted his eyes away, and his grip on his bag tightened “Nothing yet. It’s dark.”
“I see.”
The man turned to him. “You know what your uncle will do. Please. I didn’t kill any of the animals on your property; all your rabbits are still intact.”
Geoffrey raked his hand through his hair. His uncle despised intruders on his land, and the punishment for poaching was high. In the absence of sufficient forces to coerce people to follow the law, poaching was made a capital crime in an effort to deter property theft. He had interrogated the man; he didn’t need to drag him to the castle for more. He certainly had no desire to have the man hung. “Consider this your warning. If I see you again . . .”
>
“You won’t.” The man smiled, his face transformed, and something in Geoffrey’s chest quivered. “I promise.”
“See to it.” Geoffrey staggered to his feet and turned away, waiting as the sounds of the man’s footsteps vanished. He rubbed his chest. He shouldn’t be suffering from a strange inexplicable attraction to an obvious rule breaker.
*
Etienne dashed toward the cliffs. If only the new magistrate hadn’t decided to be heroic and tackle him. Now he was late.
Sir Ambrose would have explained away Etienne’s presence to his nephew, but Etienne didn’t have time to wait for that.
Rain started again in full force, and heavy clouds covered the moonlight. Etienne hurried over the damp ground, his feet sliding into the soft soil. The land sloped up, and he recognized the steep upward slant of this section of the downs before they dropped off into spectacular white chalky cliffs over the Channel. Not that I can see the sharp edge in this weather.
He swallowed and tread with care.
A torch flashed as if someone were ascending the other side of the hill. He stilled. Gregory Lewis, the true Duke of Lansdowne, wouldn’t do that.
Etienne crept toward the light, silent.
Waves struck against one another below as if waging a battle of their own. Their noise masked the heavy thud of his heart.
He pressed on and clutched his bag against him.
“Etienne Rivaud.” A voice growled at him, and he started.
The torch illuminated a bearded face. Etienne swallowed, and his heart hammered hard against his chest as he recognized Sir Ambrose’s right-hand man, the same one who posed as the baronet’s butler. “Barnesley.”
“I’m supposed to arrest suspicious people loitering here.” Barnesley nodded toward a dark shadow. “Is he suspicious, Potts?”
Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Page 1