When He Was a Duke (The Duke’s Legacy #1)

Prologue

Ashford Estate, one week before Christmas…

Before the clock struck nine that December evening, the Ashford children would find themselves quite alone in the world, though at half past eight they concerned themselves only with the likelihood of suitable sledding weather.

Snow adorned the topiaries in the garden beyond the tall windows of Ashford Manor’s grand drawing room, where the scent of cinnamon biscuits lingered, mingling with the crackle of a warm fire.

Sebastian lounged on the hearth rug, the rough weave scratching against his elbows as he balanced a book on his chest. Sophia lay beside him, half asleep, her silky hair tickling his arm as she shifted closer, one hand clutching the soft ear of her favorite stuffed rabbit.

James, always restless, stood at one of the drawing room’s impressive windows, his breath fogging the glass as he peered out at the falling snow across the estate’s vast grounds. “Think it’ll stick enough for sledding tomorrow?”

“Only if it keeps falling,” Sebastian said without looking up from his book.

Their father chuckled from his leather armchair, though Sebastian noticed him glance toward the window with a slight frown before returning to his newspaper.

Papa had seemed distracted all evening, his usual easy laughter coming a beat too late, his fingers drumming against the chair’s worn leather arm.

“You boys will find any excuse to ruin your trousers,” Papa said.

“Ruin them gloriously,” James replied with a grin.

This was their sanctuary—the one hour each evening when Papa set aside his duties to simply be with them.

Other fathers of his station left their children entirely to nurses and governesses, but Papa had insisted upon this ritual ever since Mama’s death.

Sebastian had always felt safe here, surrounded by familiar warmth and the sound of Papa’s voice reading aloud or answering their endless questions about everything from Latin conjugations to why stars shone.

Papa set down his newspaper and leaned forward, carefully adjusting Sophia’s stuffed rabbit so its worn velvet ears lay just so against her cheek. “You’ll catch a chill, poppet.”

Sophia stirred, nuzzling deeper into the rabbit’s fur. “M’not cold. Just sleepy.”

“I’ll put you to bed soon,” Papa said, his voice soft as worn silk.

A sharp knock echoed through the manor’s grand entrance hall. Then another. Louder, more insistent.

Papa’s hand stilled on Sophia’s hair. The drumming of his fingers against the chair arm stopped entirely.

The children all looked up at once. Mrs. Ellsworth appeared in the doorway, her face drained of color, her usually steady hands trembling as she clutched her apron.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice stretched thin as wire. “There are constables at the door. They say they must speak with you immediately.”

Sebastian watched his father’s face carefully. Papa’s expression remained outwardly calm, but Sebastian caught the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders went rigid. As if he’d been expecting this.

“Did they say why?” Papa asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

Mrs. Ellsworth shook her head. “Only that it’s urgent, Your Grace.”

Papa rose slowly, his movements deliberate and controlled. He smoothed his waistcoat with hands that barely trembled, then looked at his children with eyes that held too much knowledge, too much sorrow.

“I’ll return shortly,” he said, but the words sounded hollow even to Sebastian’s young ears.

The moment Papa stepped out, the peace of their evening shattered like ice on a pond. James pressed his palms against the cold window glass, his breath coming faster. Sophia curled tighter against Sebastian’s side, her rabbit’s fur growing damp with sudden tears she couldn’t name.

Sebastian lay frozen on the hearth rug, his book forgotten, listening to the muffled voices from the entrance hall. Papa’s voice, measured and careful. Other voices, harder, more demanding.

Then a clatter. A sharp, angry shout that made Sophia whimper.

The drawing room door burst open with such force that it struck the wall.

Their father stood in the doorway, flanked by two uniformed constables. His face was pale as the winter sky, his shoulders rigid with barely contained emotion. One constable held a piece of official parchment; the other kept his hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his weapon.

“By order of the Crown,” the first constable declared, his voice cutting through the room’s warmth like a blade, “Edward Ashford, Duke of Ashford, you are under arrest for the murder of Lady Eleanor Wentworth.”

It was as if ice water had been thrown in his face. Sophia bolted upright with a strangled cry that seemed to tear from her very soul. James spun from the window and stepped protectively in front of his siblings, his young face twisted with confusion and dawning rage.

Sebastian went utterly still, his book sliding forgotten to the floor with a dull thud. The fire’s warmth no longer reached him. The scent of cinnamon biscuits turned sour in his mouth.

“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 them so 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 bodies and 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.