The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex Book 1)

by Alexandra Ainsworth

  If Sebastian noticed he had been slighted, he did not show it. “When was it built?”

  “The fifteenth century.” Sir Ambrose’s chest stuck out like a peacock. The man practically strutted with pride.

  William inclined his head, examining the Tudor ceiling. He shuddered at the exposed dark wooden beams. Compared to Somerset Hall, the place felt heavy and constricting.

  He avoided Sir Ambrose’s abominable nephew who was casting worried glances at him. Lord and Lady Reynolds were quiet; he was not the only person whom Sir Ambrose exasperated.

  “My dear Miss Carlisle,” Sir Ambrose said, turning to Dorothea. “Does not this castle seem fit for a queen?”

  “Certainly, Sir Ambrose.” Dorothea paled.

  “One who understands the value of a place like this,” their host continued, gazing at Dorothea. His eyes ran over her body, drinking her in. He licked his lips.

  William’s chest tightened.

  Lady Reynolds laughed nervously. “I’m sure many people would appreciate the value of this place. How nice that somebody thought it important to build a castle here.”

  Sir Ambrose smiled. “I do appreciate living in such a place of defense. Sussex’s joys lie partly in its unsavory past.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened. “How convenient for you. Tell me, Sir Ambrose, do you mean to return to London for the end of the season? There are still many eligible young ladies there.”

  Sir Ambrose smiled. “Not this year. My attentions are directed elsewhere.”

  “To running your estate?” Lord Reynolds asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You must need a large staff to run it.”

  “I prefer to keep a smaller, loyal crew. Perhaps, were I to marry, I might be convinced to undertake its care differently.”

  “But surely the previous owner must have had a large staff,” Sebastian said, drawing closer.

  Sir Ambrose shrugged. “I did not keep them on.”

  Sebastian’s eyes grew larger.

  “You need not look so shocked. Many people are under the impression the French will attack at any moment. Why should I keep them here?”

  “Do you not think the French will invade?” William asked, joining the conversation.

  Sir Ambrose eyed him. “You also subscribe to that notion, do you not, my dear Captain Carlisle? All the effort you spend on your Martello tower in Lyngate?”

  William flushed under the scrutiny.

  “My brother is doing important work,” Dorothea said. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

  Gratitude that his sister would defend him rushed through William. Perhaps she would learn to forgive him.

  “Of course, we do know about Captain Carlisle’s desire to be heroic. Why, you forget my home used to border his, back in Lancashire. The days he spent leaping about the yard, playing a medieval knight.” Sir Ambrose laughed, turning to the others. “You should have seen him. He was always quite eager to help the grooms as well.”

  Hammerstead’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.

  William clenched his jaw.

  Dorothea narrowed her eyes as she regarded Sir Ambrose.

  Before William could ponder his sister’s reaction, the muscular manservant reappeared, carrying a tray of drinks. The others expressed gratitude, the men sipping their glasses of brandy eagerly, happy to concentrate on the strong taste, while the women worked on their lemonades.

  “I must apologize, Lady Reynolds,” Sir Ambrose said. “But I do not permit women to drink alcohol in my house. You must find me very old-fashioned.”

  “Not at all,” Lady Reynolds said, her eyes widening. “Do people think I need to drink alcohol?”

  “Hush,” her husband said.

  Sir Ambrose simply smiled at the scene.

  “How long have you had this property?” William asked, forcing himself to be polite.

  “You would not believe it if I said it had been in the family?” Sir Ambrose asked.

  “No,” William said, thinking of the cottage Sir Ambrose had called home in Lancashire. “I must confess I heard it was a recent purchase.”

  Sir Ambrose smiled. “The war, or rather the threat of war, has allowed some people to be, how should I say—more easily influenced.”

  “And you are happy to influence them?” Dorothea turned toward their host.

  “I find it an enjoyable occupation. People like being told what to do, and fortunately, I like telling them. It is a most agreeable combination.” He smiled. “Come, let us dine now.”

  Submitting himself to Sir Ambrose’s food tastes worried William. He hoped the lack of gardening did not indicate a lack of food. The sight of trays of food, carried in by swarthy young footmen, eased him. In fact, the men all seemed peculiarly muscular. Perhaps Sir Ambrose wanted his staff to be able to carry heavy things.

  The black-painted dining room retained a sense of space through a series of large mirrors with gold baroque frames. A dark chandelier hung in the middle of the room over the dining room table, and the crystals reflected the guests. Everything was elegant, but William felt as if he were under scrutiny surrounded by the mirrors. They would make it difficult for him to sneak out of the room without his host noticing.

  Sebastian and Sir Ambrose chattered about the local area, and the others focused on the rabbit dish served to them, their faces glum.

  William surveyed the room. He swallowed. Now was his chance. If his premonitions about his host were correct, he would not take kindly to the idea of being investigated.

  He inhaled deeply. He was not going to leave the table without attracting some speculation. He took a bite of rabbit and pretended to choke, covering his mouth with his hands.

  Sebastian and Sir Ambrose halted their discussion. Sebastian’s eyes widened and he rose. For a moment, William thought he might leap across the table.

  “Some fresh air,” William hastened to say in what he hoped were his most apologetic tones.

  Sir Ambrose raised an eyebrow, turning to the others. “I am afraid rabbit may have been too challenging for some members of the company to eat. Soldiers cannot be used to that delicacy. Personally, I am quite fond of them. Definite pleasure comes with eating things which run wild on one’s estate.”

  William rose and left the room. The man was horrible. How could he be worse each time they met? And why did nobody except Dorothea seem to notice it?

  He closed the door behind him, finding himself in dark and silence. The doors and walls must be very thick. William knew the room he had just left had been noisy, yet he heard nothing. All sounds of conversation and the scraping of utensils vanished. He scanned the hall with trepidation, aware that anyone could be behind any one of the doors, and he would have no idea. Hopefully, at least they would not be able to hear him.

  William walked through the darkened hallway, turning into another hallway the butler had not taken them through. He had no candle with him, but the moonlight illuminated the room through the stained-glass windows, casting colored shadows.

  Men like Sir Ambrose always thought they were very clever and were not as careful as they should be. He had learned that in the army. Still, he needed to find something to incriminate him. He set off in search of the library.

  He took long strides. Whenever the floorboards creaked, indicating either an approaching person or the advanced age of the castle, he paused before the painting or sculpture nearest him. Many paintings and sculptures lined the hallway. In fact, the room was quite crowded, and though William did not imagine himself to have artistic gifts, the art seemed remarkable.

  What was Sir Ambrose doing with so much art? And why was he hiding it in a darkened hallway?

  William would have thought a prideful man like Sir Ambrose would insist on showing it to his guests.

  William looked at some of the signatures on the art work: David, Fragonard, Vien. He stopped. These were all French names. And Sir Ambrose professed to abhor the French.

  “I see you
have a taste for art.”

  William jumped. He pivoted, dreading seeing the person behind him.

  It was indeed Sir Ambrose.

  “Not really.” William shrugged his shoulders, doing his best to feign disinterest.

  “I find that hard to imagine. An intelligent man like you.”

  “You never called me intelligent before.”

  “I am not here to ply you with your compliments. I am not your father. Or do you miss your father? Do you wish he were here now to give you such praise? Or did he not do that the last time you saw him? He packed you up to Harrow, didn’t he? You probably didn’t even say a proper good-bye.” He laughed.

  William clenched his fists. What did Sir Ambrose know about his sudden arrival at Harrow? “You left the dinner.”

  “Are you insulting my skills as a host?” The baronet approached, whispering in his ear, “I rather think your skills as a guest might be lacking. Leaving the dining room, going to corridors you have no business visiting.”

  “Was I not supposed to visit here?” William looked around, maintaining a neutral expression. “I do apologize. I must have taken a wrong turn. This is my first time here.”

  “And it will be your last,” Sir Ambrose said. “You are a soldier. You would not get lost. Not by accident.”

  William was silent, wondering if Sir Ambrose held a higher opinion of him than he had shown all these years. “You have many paintings here.”

  “So you are interested?” Sir Ambrose smirked.

  “I do not remember you having an interest in art.”

  “I am a nobleman,” Sir Ambrose said. “You are not. I have a duty to think about culture. Somebody needs to do that.”

  William had little interest in engaging Sir Ambrose in a philosophical conversation about the place of aristocrats in society. He had other concerns.

  “I have more of an interest in espionage,” William said, forcing his voice to sound calm.

  “You want to become a spy?” Sir Ambrose sounded amused. “You know secrecy is a necessary requisite for that?

  “It is a way of serving one’s country, is it not?”

  “In as honorable a fashion as eavesdropping. I would have expected more of you,” Sir Ambrose said, frowning.

  “Indeed? To tell the truth, I am more interested in the practice of espionage. I want to know why some people do it. And then disappear.”

  Sir Ambrose appeared unruffled by William’s statements. He sighed heavily.

  “I do believe you are missing the war,” Sir Ambrose said. “All that fighting. It does make you long for more, doesn’t it?”

  “More?” William raised an eyebrow.

  “Danger.” Sir Ambrose laughed. “Perhaps that accounts for your unnatural tastes.”

  William flushed and shifted his weight. William strove to be everything that was proper and righteous, unless, just possibly Sir Ambrose had alluded to his bedroom tastes. They could be classified as unnatural. William did not like it, but they could be. Some people, many people, would describe them as such.

  How had Sir Ambrose learned this?

  “It’s written all over your face,” Sir Ambrose said. “You crave him. You long for him. I can see it.”

  He knew.

  William opened his mouth, but no words came out. What would be appropriate to a comment such as that?

  “You know it’s against the law. You could hang. You would deserve to hang.” Sir Ambrose leaned toward him. “You know, it might be my duty to tell people about your interests. Perhaps your commanding officer in Lyngate? The general? He might find it very interesting. Or should I go straight to my nephew, the magistrate? In the interest of public safety?”

  “What nonsense you speak.” William cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “Just because I am not married. Plenty of men are not married at my age. You have no proof of what you claim.”

  “You need not worry about me,” Sir Ambrose said. “Finding proof is a challenge I accept. I enjoy games.”

  Nausea overwhelmed William. His knees trembled, and he struggled to keep himself upright. What had led Sir Ambrose to act so abominably? And then it occurred to him. “Dorothea refused you.”

  Sir Ambrose flinched.

  “Is that it? You wanted to marry her, even though she’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  Sir Ambrose’s face darkened. William was certain he was correct.

  Footsteps echoed in the dark corridor. Likely the strange butler had come to defend his master. William sighed, turning around.

  Sebastian stood a few feet behind them. He bit his lip, watching them. His eyebrows drew together. “I trust you have recovered?”

  William gazed at him. How worried he looked. But he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be so adorable in front of Sir Ambrose, particularly not after what he just said.

  Sir Ambrose looked at him. “If I were you, I would be keeping your fiancée company, not looking after this man.”

  “I was worried.” Sebastian seemed to notice where they were for the first time. “What lovely paintings. Is that a Fragonard? He’s quite hard to get a hold of—”

  “Come, let us go back to the dining hall,” Sir Ambrose said, his voice sharp. “Captain Carlisle does not appear to be choking anymore.”

  William had never needed fresh air more, but he nodded, following Sir Ambrose back into the dining room, away from the magnificent French paintings and sculptures. His heart beat rapidly, and he struggled to maintain a sense of composure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sir Ambrose served chocolate cream for his last course. Rather than savoring its sweetness, the dessert tasted heavy and pasty in Sebastian’s mouth. He pondered the strange meeting with his host and William in the hallway.

  Sebastian no longer asked Sir Ambrose about the local area, spending the remainder of the evening mulling over what he had encountered. William’s withdrawness persisted, and Sebastian fixed his eyes on him. The host prattled on to Dorothea, oblivious to her short answers and the lack of conversation around them. Even Hammerstead, so aggressive the first time they met, seemed taciturn, exchanging smiles with Dorothea on occasion.

  Sebastian smiled in relief when they thanked their host and prepared to depart. The crisp air hit them as they exited the castle. They piled into the carriage, and this time Penelope expressed no worry about seating arrangements. The ride home was subdued, though Sebastian only allowed himself to relax his shoulders when the carriage pulled closer to the muted ivory manor.

  “I’ll go off to Lyngate now,” William said. “Might I borrow a horse?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t go. It’s so late now,” Penelope said. “There are plenty of rooms at the manor, isn’t that so, Sebastian?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sebastian said, distracted.

  The prospect of spending the night at the manor house did not seem to appeal to William, for he shook his head.

  Sebastian needed to speak with him. What had happened between Sir Ambrose and William? “I will take some air.”

  The others nodded and said good night. Dorothea’s lips were pale, and she entered the manor quickly.

  Clouds covered the sky; they were alone, not even the stars kept them company. He breathed in William’s scent: pine needles again. Beads of sweat gathered on his neck, and his knees trembled. The air seemed thick with tension.

  “What on earth happened at the castle?” Sebastian asked once he was certain the others had left.

  “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.” William shuffled his feet, avoiding his gaze.

  Sebastian sensed his apprehension and resisted the urge to comfort him.

  “You know what I mean. Sir Ambrose. Why were you gone so long? How long does it take to recover from choking?”

  William sighed. “Sir Ambrose has always been belligerent. Granted, he seemed even more vicious than normal.”

  Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “And why should
I? You’ve made it clear you don’t want anything to do with me. You didn’t even say good-bye to me in London.”

  Sebastian sighed. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I am worried about you. I always worry about you. Living in Lyngate. You don’t have to do any of that. You can stay here until you get called away after your arms heals. I would have you here, you know.”

  “I don’t like being useless,” William grumbled.

  “You don’t need to be a hero all the time.”

  “Oh, fine. I suppose the matter concerns you as well. I might as well tell you. You must promise not to share this with anyone. Not even Lady Reynolds, whom you seem so close with.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sebastian said, growing even more curious.

  “Excellent. We can add it to the things you wouldn’t dream of doing,” William said sharply.

  Sebastian’s eyes widened; he felt as if he had been struck in the stomach.

  William relented. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me.”

  Sebastian nodded.

  “If you must know, I have reason to believe Sir Ambrose is behind the strange happenings on the estate.” He sat down on a bench, and Sebastian joined him.

  “Until tonight, I would have dismissed your claims. Though he does seem to have something against you.”

  “You can tell, can’t you?” William smiled bitterly. “He’s never struggled to come up with the right phrase to belittle me. I did not enjoy growing up next to him.”

  “But you have nothing to do with the estate. I don’t see what he would gain by terrifying the people in the village.”

  William shrugged. “I think he’s quite smitten with Dorothea. I also should think he automatically doesn’t like you.”

  “I imagine he didn’t favor Lewis much either.”

  They were silent, thinking of the person whose place Sebastian seemed to have taken so fully.

  “I wonder if the thief is somebody employed by Sir Ambrose to scare you,” William said.

  “He hasn’t been that scary.”

  “He’s taken food from the house and clothes out of your room. You cannot claim he is pleasant.”