Etienne stiffened. He edged nearer the pit and sank the branch into the soil. The soil was loose, and he pushed the branch into it with ease. “Make sure this is steady. It should take your weight, but . . .”
“Oh.” The magistrate scrambled to the branch. “Is this it?”
“What?”
“What will get me out of here?”
“Just climb up. You can hold onto the knobby bits, and then—”
“I am familiar with the concept of ladders.” The man’s voice was brusque again, and heat rushed to Etienne’s face. The branch creaked beneath Hammerstead’s weight, and the man’s face paled.
Etienne stood as Hammerstead ascended, and he dug his hands into his pockets. He stepped away as the man neared. Hammerstead smelled of a damp meadow and sweat—two very good things in Etienne’s opinion. No good letting the man know just how much he affected him.
Hammerstead stepped closer to him, and his lips parted. He was taller, and Etienne was eye-level with his chest and the exposed chest hair that curled enticingly. Etienne’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed, ignoring the urge to bury himself in the magistrate’s broad arms and nestle his head against the man’s chest.
Hammerstead paused, and a slow smile formed on his face. The rain had halted, and sunbeams illuminated the man’s cheekbones and hair.
Etienne’s breath quickened.
“Thank you,” the magistrate said, his tone gruff.
The spell broken, the magistrate’s discomfort was almost comical.
Etienne sighed. “I’ll let you walk home then.”
Hammerstead scrubbed a hand over his face. “You can join me.”
Etienne blinked.
“I mean . . .” Hammerstead averted his eyes. “Do you have anywhere to go? You must be hungry.”
Etienne’s mouth moistened as Hammerstead shifted his legs before him. The man is handsome. And he invited me back.
Etienne’s muscles stiffened as he became aware of just why Hammerstead wanted him back. Not because of any worry. Etienne knew better than to believe that. He tightened his fists. “I’m of no concern to you.”
Hammerstead wrinkled his forehead.
Etienne turned away, the motion jerky, as if his body craved being near Hammerstead’s side. “Your legs are fine. I don’t need to accompany you.”
The magistrate clenched his hands together, the motion brief. “My legs are in order. I was able to climb a bloody branch.”
Heat rose to Etienne’s face. “It worked.”
Hammerstead raised his hand. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Thank you.”
Etienne paused, uncomfortable with the attention. The only man who ever thanked him was Lansdowne.
Hammerstead scratched his neck. “About what I said earlier . . .”
Etienne hesitated.
“In the cell. If you remember . . .”
“I could never forget.” The cell had proved all his fears were correct, that all the good in his life might wash away, leaving him where he was to begin with.
“You should make money working and then you wouldn’t need to steal from others.”
Etienne stiffened.
Hammerstead stepped closer. His feet rustled the leaves beneath his feet, but Etienne couldn’t pull his eyes from the man’s face. Hammerstead’s warm breath brushed against his cheek. Hammerstead stretched his arm out—
“Don’t touch me.” Etienne’s voice was hoarse. His heart pounded, and he struggled for breath.
Hammerstead whitened, and his eyes widened. “I—”
Etienne swiveled. He had saved the man; no one else would have found him anytime soon, not with Sir Ambrose and his core men gone, but the man had still propositioned him, still relegated him to the position of whore.
“Forgive me—” Hammerstead’s voice was rough.
Etienne blinked, a futile attempt to shut out the pain. He clenched his fists. His heart beat in an uneven rhythm as he raced through the forest.
Hammerstead resembled all the others. Attractive perhaps, but that just amplified his dangerousness.
Chapter Five
The day promised to be sunny, but as Geoffrey traipsed the hallway of Ashbury Castle, floorboards creaking beneath him, little evidence of even daylight existed. Thick Persian carpets were draped over the windows and masked the outside sun. Geoffrey clutched a wax taper, though the feeble light illuminated the crowded corridor unsuccessfully. His uncle’s decor consisted of lavish suits of armor, swords, and sculptures that cast harsh, jagged shadows in the medieval castle. Uncle Ambrose hid the French paintings away, as if the depictions of floral arrangements and daintily clad women frolicking in idyllic landscapes, their bosoms visible as they stretched to pick lavender or lilacs, might taint the impression of power and seriousness.
Geoffrey reached the heavy wooden door, shut and silent to the world. He longed for his uncle to pound on the door, storm through, and berate whatever caused his disappearance. The castle had been searched for evidence of the man’s alleged evil doing, but nothing had been found. Geoffrey still believed a mistake must have occurred and he longed for his uncle to return so that he might be cleared. But a fortnight had passed, and the man’s absence continued, and he was not prone to bouts of vanishing. Geoffrey had organized a search party for him, scrutinizing the area near the cliffs with the utmost vigilance, but his uncle remained undiscovered.
Geoffrey rubbed his face. Perhaps I’ll never see him again. His uncle possessed a torrent of faults, but the baronet was animated, passionate, and the only relative who still spoke to Geoffrey.
He clenched his jaw and allowed himself a glance in an enormous gilded mirror adorning the wall. Lilies and morning glories glistened on the frame, as if to emblazon something remarkable, when the only reflection was himself.
He tugged his waistcoat firmly in place, exited Ashbury Castle, and headed to the stable. Geoffrey pulled at his over-tight collar as he mounted, feeling ill suited on the Spanish Barb. The gelding’s flaxen mane shimmered under the bright sun, trotting comfortably, oblivious to Geoffrey’s unease.
Could he remain without his uncle? His own family did not speak to him. And Cambridge, where he attended university . . . Geoffrey refused to visit again. Any place was better than those clusters of honey-colored buildings, rising over the flat fields surrounding the city. Instructors roamed the town, sweeping their dark robes over the cobblestones like hawks, clutching their research against their chests.
Not that he feared them, though his exam results never shone in quite the same manner as his uncle enthused. His reluctance stemmed entirely from the students.
People lamented the students’ lack of women. Yet for Geoffrey, temptation existed everywhere there. Brawny men like him who were most at ease rolling around a cricket pitch. Slender men who strolled with an ethereal grace. And all the others.
And he resisted. He valiantly resisted when his tutor squeezed Geoffrey’s knee and suggested they shared much in common. He valiantly resisted when Patrick, the hero of the cricket field, attempted to seduce him after a night of brandy and gambling, his lips lingering too near Geoffrey’s.
But when Benedict, his childhood friend, confessed certain emotions, Geoffrey surrendered. Observing anyone in pain distressed him. He only meant to say he understood. But that statement transformed into more.
Into warm embraces and furtive meetings. Into everything he could never do. Not if he desired to impress his family. Not if he longed to defend against evil. Not if he desired to be a magistrate, upholding the rules.
Never truly accepted, he witnessed how even those the ton judged as pleasant bullied others, gossiping about people’s faults over finger sandwiches. And perhaps the ton was correct to find them virtuous; when others bullied, they could turn violent. Perhaps their lack of physical violence sufficed as deserving of praise. Geoffrey had observed the bruises on servants’ faces as a child, and he determined to bring order to his little piece of the world. To protect those in nee
d and punish those who harmed others.
The gelding shook its head, and Geoffrey cast a glance at the turrets that emerged from a sea of enormous oak and chestnut trees. He snorted and grasped hold of the leather reins, urging the horse to Somerset Hall.
No. He would not leave; Ashbury Castle suited Geoffrey. A place so isolated, so without temptation that he had to resort to eyeing the criminals in a lurid manner. Which truly just emphasized the importance of upholding his morals.
He did not deny the unnatural direction of his inclinations, but he refused to abandon everything to pursue a highly illegal practice. If he was asking others to follow the law, he needed to do so himself.
Geoffrey descended from the gelding outside Somerset Hall. He cringed at the right arm bound at his side, the sling brandishing his misfortune. He tended toward the ridiculous at formal gatherings, his brawny figure not suited to the tight breeches and elaborate cravats the occasions required, but now he seemed to have reached the height of absurdity.
He pressed his lips together. The pain that descended on his limbs as he made each movement heightened the unpleasantness of the situation. Every limb ached, his arm clamoring the highest. The doctor had proclaimed him fortunate to be discovered when he was, though the sensation of regret coursed stronger through him than any joy.
He rubbed his chest, pondering the Frenchman. Geoffrey had only desired to assist in finding Etienne employment, but the man assumed Geoffrey wanted Etienne employed in a whole different sort of manner. His fists clenched. No doubt his desire for the other man was visible, even with a throbbing arm to distract him. And even though I could never be with him, nor with any other man.
And Etienne—handsome, playful Etienne—would never want a man such as him. His hasty retreat underscored that.
The whole thing was bloody upsetting. And now Geoffrey had to go to a wedding, of all events, and observe as everyone proclaimed love to be the best thing in the world, even though it was the one thing that would always be denied him.
At least he should be grateful he received an invitation. This would be an intimate affair, just a morning event. Dorothea’s wedding to the former duke, Sebastian Lewis, the man she had been engaged to until Lansdowne rose up from his assumed grave to claim her once again as his, would have been a much grander affair. Now, a couple of weeks later, special license procured, she would marry the man she truly loved, the man she had thought lost forever.
“Geoffrey.” A woman’s voice interrupted his musings. Dorothea’s voice. He swiveled, and his frown disappeared.
Dorothea hurried to him, her white satin slippers padding over the verdant grass, her gloved arms swinging in fluid movements. Her face beamed against her white gown, the satin stitches and knots arranged in floral formations embroidered on the thin muslin.
Geoffrey allowed himself to smile. “You look splendid.”
And she did. Her cheeks glistened pink, and her eyes glowed. The last time they met, her movements had been rigid and controlled, her face masked in heavy makeup, as if applied after a night of tears.
The army had declared Lansdowne dead, and for nearly a year, everyone assumed the validity of that. Lansdowne’s heir, Sebastian Lewis, had moved first to London and then to Somerset Hall. Merely a country squire from Yorkshire, he had pursued his responsibilities with a seriousness Geoffrey ultimately respected. One of those responsibilities, it seemed, included marrying Dorothea, rescuing her from the ton’s rumors of her scandalous closeness with Lansdowne, her then former fiancé.
Her unhappiness had been apparent. Geoffrey attempted calling on her in London, eager to rekindle their friendship, but her brother practically accused her of infidelity. Geoffrey had only wanted to see his old friend, not have an affair with her behind the back of her new fiancé. He sighed, curious what Sebastian Lewis was doing. The man had moved back to Yorkshire directly after Lansdowne’s arrival.
Dorothea stretched out her arm, and he bowed and kissed her gloved hand. “My dearest, I am so delighted for you.”
Her lips turned up. “I wish you could share my joy.”
He smiled. “An impossibility.”
“Yes.” Her face wavered, and her eyes seemed less content than before.
Geoffrey hastened to add, “You’ll just need to be happy enough for both of us. And looking at you—emitting radiance—that will be little problem.”
She took his arm and ushered him toward the church. “I shouldn’t be rushing around greeting people, but I saw your golden horse, and—”
He shut his eyes and groaned. “And the sight prompted such laughter you were compelled to see me in person.”
Dorothea smirked. “It’s been too long. And you are wonderful.”
“Not half as much as you.” He thought of Etienne, and his chest twinged. “And even that is an exaggeration.”
She darted a glance at him, and he hurried to exclaim about the decorations.
Dorothea’s eyes sparkled. “I had no idea decor intrigued you.”
Geoffrey tugged on his collar as heat rose in his cheeks.
A tall uniformed man approached them, trodding over the wildflower strewn lawn. Geoffrey’s muscles tensed. This was her day, and he would not mar it by refusing to make polite conversation with her brother.
The man’s lanky limbs moved less swiftly than Geoffrey remembered.
“Captain Carlisle.”
“Hammerstead.”
They exchanged bows. The captain glowered at him, and Geoffrey returned his gaze, irritated to find himself in a staring match.
Dorothea fluttered her arms, her cap sleeves shimmering. “I must return to my suite, but you too should socialize, William. You’ve been so quiet and—”
“I doubt Hammerstead and I have much in common,” the captain said, his brusque tone startling Geoffrey.
Dorothea darted her eyes between both of them. “That’s not quite true.”
“Geoffrey’s uncle is a criminal.”
Geoffrey flinched, and a surge of anger coiled through him, leaving him clenching his fists.
Dorothea’s dark eyes widened, and she brushed a curled lock behind her ear. “He cannot help that.”
“And yet Hammerstead moved hundreds of miles to live with him.”
Geoffrey coughed. “My uncle is no criminal.” Eccentric perhaps.
“Sir Ambrose was not one of William’s favorite people,” Dorothea explained.
“Ha.” William’s mouth tensed.
Geoffrey gritted his teeth. He hadn’t seen Captain Carlisle since a dinner party at the castle, when his uncle discovered the army captain exploring the hallways on his own during the dinner. “Perhaps it would be courteous to resist criticizing a man not present to defend himself. You depict him as a nefarious villain. At least he doesn’t spy on other people’s property.”
Carlisle gazed at him, his expression unreadable. “You must be mad.”
“Just sensible.” Geoffrey shrugged.
Dorothea twisted her handkerchief together. “I’m afraid I really must return to my suite. Hammerstead, perhaps I might show you to the entrance?”
Geoffrey allowed himself to be pulled away by his friend, conscious of her brother’s eyes still glaring at him.
Dorothea’s voice murmured under the exclamations of the other guests as they congratulated the groom. “Some things about your uncle are most unpleasant. I wish I could tell you about them, but . . . I’ve been asked not to do so.”
Geoffrey’s chest tightened. He lowered his voice. “He’s a rude bastard, but I’m afraid he might be dead.”
The last words sounded rawer than he intended. He imagined a world where his uncle might not be there. The man was unpleasant, but he was his family. And for whatever reason, his uncle always appeared happy with Geoffrey, accosting people at balls to tell them about Geoffrey’s always exaggerated accomplishments. Geoffrey had abhorred that, but having the man no longer exist? He blinked and steeled his expression.
Dorothea bit her
lip, and her eyes darted toward the sound of the other guests, their chattering voices drifting from a window. “Perhaps I should tell you anyway.”
A wave of coldness hit Geoffrey. He rubbed his chest, his fingers pressing uncomfortably into the unfamiliar texture of the coat. The words seemed almost a confirmation. The duke had suggested he search near the cliffs, and his uncle had warned him away from that very region. He shut his eyes, wondering what exactly happened that night Etienne arrived at Ashbury Castle. His heart raced, part of him longing for her to simply reveal her knowledge.
Her jaw was set, her expression firm. Light flickered over the pearl necklace she wore. For her husband.
Geoffrey swallowed around a dry lump in his throat. He clasped his large hand over her slender one. “Not today though. Today, you must be joyful, and I despise myself for dampening it.”
Dorothea nodded and exhaled. “You never could do that.”
They abandoned the subject and parted company. He made his way to the tiny chapel in Somerset Hall, reserved for the inhabitants. Despite Dorothea’s enthusiasm for him to mingle, he favored the chance to sit in a secluded room, removed from the flurry of other guests. He leaned against the rigid wooden pew, light illuminating the bright colors of carved glass. He smoothed his breeches, the austere cross and images of heavenly beings reminding him of his own lack of conformity.
His desire to become a magistrate and administer justice derived from an instinct, he believed, to assist people. But had he accomplished that? Instead everyone viewed him with suspicion, and the biblical characters that adorned the stain glass would be horrified at the urges he strove to ignore.
Perhaps the Bible was correct.
Perhaps Geoffrey simply was flawed, somebody who belonged in a cold, damp cell, instead of presiding over the prisoners.
Perhaps he was every bit the hypocrite the Bible warned of.
He was relieved as other guests entered the chapel and he might distract himself from his musings.
Shortly after, his oldest friend married a man who could scarcely suppress his dislike of Geoffrey. Few guests were in attendance. Though not long ago Dorothea was to have been married in an elaborate wedding to another man; now she was marrying the man she was meant to be with in a small, simple ceremony, and she glowed.
Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Page 5
