The magistrate released a heavy sigh and stepped from the cell. Etienne’s fingers twitched as if to narrow the gap between them.
Last night, when the magistrate questioned him, it felt like they were conversing.
Etienne stifled that thought and tilted his head, smirking in the same manner that had made men moan. “Strange, Sir Ambrose never mentioned how impressive his nephew looked.”
Hammerstead frowned. “I’m glad you are feeling better.”
The pain in Etienne’s chest tightened. Hammerstead stepped from the cell. His large hands grabbed the handle of the wooden door and began to pull it shut. The door groaned, the hinges creaked, and Etienne’s heartbeat quickened. He swallowed, his head dizzy. The chains clinked and clanged as he stepped after Hammerstead, tearing at his spirit, their weight pulling him back. Exhaustion bore against him. He wished he were not here. Should Lansdowne need him . . .
“Wait…” Etienne gasped.
Hammerstead paused, and the door creaked. The man raked his hand through his hair. “What?”
“I can show you if you remove the chains.” Etienne bristled. He was good at something. Quite good at something. If the moans from married men, soldiers separated from their wives, and younger men who wanted a different sort of experience were anything to judge by. And moans were just what he should be judged by.
Etienne sighed. For a moment he had allowed himself to think Hammerstead was different. He rose, swiveling his hips. Men liked that. He clutched the iron bars of the cell and in his huskiest voice said, “Perhaps you can give me a suggestion.”
Hammerstead swallowed and swung his head away in a sudden movement.
“It must be hard for you . . .”
“Hard?”
Etienne smirked. “That too.”
He glanced discreetly at a certain area of Hammerstead’s breeches. The man coughed, turned around, and plopped himself into a chair outside the cell, slamming the door behind him. He grabbed a book off the nearby table, placed it open on his lap, and focused his eyes on it.
Etienne peaked through the window of the cell, annoyed Hammerstead had put so much distance between them. “It must be hard for you, now that you’re a magistrate. Now you’re so important.”
Hammerstead flushed, and Etienne pulled the chain across his body. Some people liked that.
“You must long to be touched.” He emphasized this last word.
“Don’t talk like that.” Hammerstead’s hoarse voice echoed in the cell.
Etienne smiled. He knew all about men like him. Men who seemed respectable but who longed for excitement in their lives. I am wonderful at providing excitement.
“I should add this to your file,” Hammerstead said.
Etienne arched a brow. “And draw attention to yourself?”
Hammerstead was silent.
“Maybe they’ll wonder why I chose you to proposition. I’ve heard about you.”
Hammerstead arched an eyebrow.
“You’re all by yourself here, and you’re supposed to be a paragon of society. That must be a very difficult burden. You’re not established enough to look for a wife, and if you did, you would have to go to London. The season is ending, and you can’t afford one.”
“This is ridiculous.” Hammerstead didn’t move, and Etienne allowed himself to imagine the man’s cock throbbing beneath the book. Hammerstead shifted in his chair.
“And you can’t just go to Lyngate to walk along the narrow streets there. It wouldn’t be respectable. How can you arrest the women of the night with a clear conscience if you use their services yourself?”
“And you can help.”
Etienne leaned back, legs spread. “Yes.”
Hammerstead scowled. “That’s enough. With all the smugglers jaunting about this place, I shouldn’t be wasting time on you . . .”
“You know about them?” Etienne straightened.
Hammerstead frowned. “I should have you arrested.”
“I think you’ve already done that,” Etienne said.
The magistrate stepped closer, grabbed Etienne’s chin, and lifted his face to his. His eyes focused on Etienne’s lips as if wondering what they could do. Etienne shivered, and Hammerstead dropped his hand and stepped away. A faint blush lined the magistrate’s cheeks.
“Don’t you think these accommodations are extreme?” Etienne asked.
Hammerstead growled. “You aren’t discussing the furnishings?”
Etienne’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.
“They’re for criminals,” the magistrate stated flatly. “People like you. People who do bad things, who flaunt the rules of society.”
“Sir.” Barnesley poked his head into the room.
“What?” Hammerstead’s voice was sharp as he looked up from his consideration of Etienne.
“The duke is here!”
Hammerstead frowned. “Sebastian Lewis. Probably the smuggling ringleader. Strange things have been happening ever since he became the duke.”
Etienne leaned forward.
“Not him, the old duke,” Barnesley hastened to add, and Etienne allowed himself to smile. Lansdowne was alive, was here. Everything would be fine. “And he wants to see the prisoner.”
“Do you mean that Horace Lewis rose from the dead?” Hammerstead’s eyes widened. “I attended his funeral.”
Barnesley sighed. “Not him.”
Etienne straightened. “I believe Barnesley is trying to tell you that Gregory Lewis, rightful Duke of Lansdowne, is alive. Horace’s son. The heir.”
Hammerstead swung his head around. “But that’s impossible.”
“Not as impossible.”
“But—” Hammerstead pressed a fist to his lips. No man who had just been offered his services should look so distraught.
“His body was never found, remember?” Etienne said. “His Majesty’s forces declared him dead last year.”
“Oh. How do you know all of this?” Hammerstead frowned. “And if he is alive, why would he come here? And why would he want to see you?”
Etienne smiled. “I’m sure His Grace is most capable of explaining that.”
“Indeed I am.” A tall man with auburn hair, his face scattered with freckles, entered the room. Dressed in immaculate clothes, his confidence shone, and Etienne’s lips stretched further upward. The last time he had seen Lansdowne, the man was living in a cave.
“Your Grace.” Hammerstead rose, and his voice trembled. “What a joy to see you.”
The duke waved his hand away. Clearly, Hammerstead was not the first person to tell him that today. “I’ve come for Rivaud.”
“Truly?”
“Here I am,” Etienne called.
“Etienne.” Lansdowne’s footsteps were quick, and in the next moment, his friend was staring at him.
Etienne nodded, his throat dry. He thrust his hands in his pockets, anything to keep calm. Exhaustion swept over him.
“You chained him?” The duke swaggered to the cell. “Release him.”
Hammerstead had the good sense to flush.
“I demand that this man be freed.” Lansdowne’s voice firmed.
The magistrate clenched his fists. “That’s impossible. Not without reason.”
The duke frowned and stepped near him. “You’re disobeying me?”
Hammerstead shifted his feet and steadied his eyes at Lansdowne. “No.”
Hammerstead was contradicting the duke. No one contradicted Lansdowne. The man oozed aristocratic privilege. Lansdowne was well spoken, charming, and a good leader.
“And I wonder . . .” Hammerstead continued, his eyes not flinching from Lansdowne’s glare, “Your Grace, I wonder how you know him. I have spent a half hour with him, and I cannot consider him good company.”
Etienne stiffened. Not good company. The words were harsh, casually spoken to the one man who still bore—misplaced as it was—respect for him.
The duke turned to him, no doubt puzzled—or perhaps not puzzled—t
hat Etienne had already made an enemy.
“I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t want me to release him.”
“Is that so?” Lansdowne’s eyes narrowed. “And just where is your uncle?”
Hammerstead gazed at him. “He will be here.”
“I doubt it,” Lansdowne said. “And you must release this man. Please tell me you are not so bound by false morals that you cannot see a good man when he stands before you.”
Chapter Three
“Search the castle,” Lansdowne raised his voice, and turned to the gathering of servants who had accompanied him.
“What on earth?” Fury coursed through Geoffrey, and he clenched his fists. “You have no authority…”
“I have every authority.” Lansdowne leaned toward him. “Your uncle is a smuggler. We need any information we can about him.”
Geoffrey swallowed hard. “Impossible.”
“Smuggling goods from France. As if the government did not forbid it, as if we were not at war with the country.”
“What proof do you have?” Geoffrey stepped nearer the duke and he narrowed his eyes, conscious of Etienne’s gaze still on him. “That is a horrible accusation to make on anyone. And my uncle is very well-respected.”
The duke shrugged. “Eye witness accounts.”
“Eye witnesses can lie…”
The duke swerved at him, his coat swirling with him, brass buttons gleaming under the glow of torchlight. “One of the eye witnesses is me.”
Geoffrey stilled, and his chin jutted less decisively out. “Oh. Did you capture the goods then? Do you have him in custody? I imagine he thinks the charge is ridiculous.”
The duke averted his eyes. “I’ve asked someone else to handle the investigation. Given your relationship with him…”
“He’s my uncle.”
“Yes.” The duke eyed him. “I would proceed with great caution were I you.”
“I—”
A man in a crimson coat pushed through the door. “Magistrate… I wish we could have met at happier times.”
Geoffrey blinked as the man made a slight bow.
“Please let me present General Hawtrey,” the duke said.
Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he returned the general’s bow. His pulse throbbed as questions soared through him. “Delighted. I did not know the army took an interest in smuggling.”
The general frowned. “I head up the defenses in Sussex. We take the security of our borders with the utmost seriousness.”
Geoffrey’s throat dried. “I do too, but…”
“Then you should be happy that we’ve determined who the ringleader is.”
“My uncle.”
“Indeed.” The general smiled, and something hard flickered in his eyes that made a chill descend down Geoffrey’s spine. “I’m pleased you are following our conversation.”
Geoffrey’s fingers tensed, and he lifted his chin, forcing his voice to remain calm. “This must be a horrible mistake. My uncle will explain everything.”
The duke’s eyes shot down. “You haven’t seen your uncle, by any chance?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “But it is still early, and he was still at the ball when I left him…”
A thought occurred to Geoffrey, and he lifted his head. “Have you told Miss Carlisle of your return?”
Dorothea Carlisle was to be married to Sebastian Lewis, the heir to the Lansdowne dukedom, today. She had once been engaged to the duke who now stood before him.
A smile bounded over the duke’s face, and his eyes softened. “Yes… We’ve reconciled.”
“Oh. That’s—that’s good.”
The duke nodded, his eyes still shimmering.
Geoffrey tilted his head. “And what of Sebastian Lewis?”
Though Geoffrey had never been close to the man, a surge of sympathy struck him. The man had lost both his dukedom and his fiancée in one night.
The duke’s face sobered. “Unfortunately the man has already left Somerset Hall for his home in Yorkshire.”
Geoffrey nodded, unsure why the duke thought it unfortunate that the man his beloved almost wed, had decided to flee.
“So much banter. So delightful,” the general said. “But we really must begin the search.”
“The search?” Geoffrey raised an eyebrow.
“We demand privacy. For all we know you might be harboring him.”
Geoffrey raked his hand through his hair. “And now I’m a suspect? You’re both mad.”
The duke shrugged. “At the moment we have no evidence of your involvement, but should we find…”
“You won’t. And you are mistaken about my uncle.” Geoffrey pressed his lips together and stared hard at the duke.
“You should leave.” The duke’s voice was firm, and he shot a look at Etienne. “And get this man out of the cell.”
*
“Damnation.” Geoffrey scowled as he trampled through the thick fields, a sea of green beneath the ashen sky. He clenched his fists and strode in lengthy paces away from the Ashbury Castle, sweeping through dense grass that clung to his boots.
He kicked his foot against a stone, furious at the duke’s involvement. The duke’s misplaced regard for the imprisoned Frenchman was clear. He burst into Geoffrey’s territory, told him his own uncle—a much revered man—was a master smuggler, and demanded the release of a prisoner, assuming innocence.
Barnesley had found Etienne throwing a bag off the cliff, right where the smugglers were located. Surely that implicated him. Geoffrey didn’t believe in favoritism, and the duke’s assumption that Geoffrey would release Etienne simply because the duke was well acquainted with Etienne infuriated him. Etienne’s past transgressions were significant: theft and poaching. And probably prostitution too.
Still Geoffrey had released Etienne.
Etienne had started propositioning Geoffrey mere minutes after they met, displaying a familiarity and comfort with the practice that appalled Geoffrey, even as he fought to keep his eyes from roaming over Etienne’s well-formed body and chiseled face.
The duke’s death had puzzled Geoffrey, too convenient, even in this age of war, to not warrant skepticism. He had yearned to uncover the man who killed him.
He had not anticipated the duke to make his way out of whatever disaster he’d found himself in and promptly criticize everything. He frowned, wondering why the duke had been so insistent on freeing Etienne. Surely he wouldn’t have availed himself of Etienne’s unique services…
He gritted his teeth. His uncle’s absence seemed timed to create the utmost inconvenience. The man would likely show up tomorrow and scoff at everything; his uncle seemed talented at that.
Geoffrey reached the edge of the field. Thick trees confronted him, their branches jutting out in divergent shapes as their leaves created a barrier from the sky. He lifted his chin and continued, winding through oaks and birches. Moisture swelled the ground. Blast. All this time longing to become a magistrate, and this is what it was. Mud. His boots would be coated in it. Wildflowers protruded from the damp soil, ignorant of the distinct lack of beauty.
Geoffrey vowed long ago to capture criminals and punish them, improving the world as he did so. No part of the plan consisted of sitting around discussing the needs of these criminals. He should not have stayed with Etienne so long, but the man had seemed so frightened.
The man fascinated him. And Geoffrey had pledged never to be fascinated by a man again. He grunted and pressed his lips together, a knot forming in his stomach.
He hurried through the forest, desperate to silence the voices—and urges—inside of him.
He would never find the love the poets raved about, scribbling with rapidly failing quills by the dim light of tallow candles. With exertion, he might, just might, be able to achieve success. He pledged to create a community with less crime, less hardship. That was all he had ever desired.
Not everything.
A firm, masculine body dripping with water rose in his mind. He shook his he
ad. He refused to contemplate that. Or any of the services the man had offered so casually.
As if Etienne—Geoffrey rolled the name over in his thoughts; he had never encountered an Etienne before, but the name suited him—didn’t realize Geoffrey’s job was to imprison people who committed sodomy.
Offering such a thing without any regard to the consequences was not done.
Tension coiled within him, and he tightened his fists. He should have been stricter on the man. So much for upholding the laws of the country.
Perhaps Etienne made such offers to everyone, or perhaps something in Geoffrey had compelled him to make a break with society and law.
Damp drops splashed upon Geoffrey, first silent, but quickly building to a cacophony of sound as they toppled upon the leaves, branches, and rocks, each producing a distinct sound. Geoffrey shoved his hands in his pockets.
Etienne had been wet. The man had been a mess, on the verge of illness. Certainly, of madness. Who waded into a large puddle for a glimpse of this godforsaken countryside? And then lamented the condition of the cell?
The man’s voice remained in his mind. The deep voice—the French accent for heaven’s sake—spoke to Geoffrey in a way it shouldn’t speak to him. Each syllable seemed melodic, imbued with significance.
Rain fell faster now, crushing everything beneath. Geoffrey reversed direction.
And then Geoffrey fell.
His body spun, and he fought to steady himself, but the ground vanished beneath him. He flung his arms out, but his hand touched only clammy dirt as he toppled into a pit.
Geoffrey sprawled on his back and gasped for breath. Everything ached. He attempted to pull himself up, ignoring a sharp pain in his arm and duller pains everywhere else.
Blast.
He brushed his hands against the smooth surface of the steep dirt wall. He heaved himself up, his breath still uneven. Dizziness overcame him, and he focused on the tall, densely packed dirt surrounding him. I need to get out of here. Each time he braced his foot on a stone and attempted to climb up, the stone would plunge deeper into the pit.
He frowned. The situation was ridiculous.
And dangerous.
Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Page 3