Chapter One
On a quiet July evening, Sebastian Ashford stood at the edge of Brighton’s Lower Town docks, watching the sun bleed gold and crimson across the English Channel. Twelve years of planning, and he was no closer to destroying the man who had murdered his father.
The visit to Ashford Hall that afternoon had left him raw.
Weeds choked the circular drive where carriages had once delivered distinguished guests.
The family crest on the rusted gates was barely visible beneath years of neglect and salt air.
Everything they had been, everything they should have inherited, was rotting away while Viscount Wentworth lived in luxury built on lies.
Sebastian turned from the water, his jaw set with familiar resolve. Time to get back to work. James would need help at the tavern tonight, and Sebastian couldn’t afford to lose himself in bitterness. Not when he still had a promise to keep.
The narrow streets leading back to the Stag & Anchor reeked of rotting kelp and despair.
Sebastian passed the usual collection of drunks and whores, dice games and stolen goods changing hands in shadowed doorways.
This was their world now, not by choice, but by the machinations of a man who should have hanged instead of Papa.
The tavern’s sign creaked overhead as Sebastian pushed through the entrance.
He breathed in the familiar scents of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and damp, salty sea air that had seeped into the bones of the place.
Pipe smoke curled from the mouths of men, drifting up to linger against the soot-darkened beams. Lanterns swung from the ceiling, their golden glow flickering against stone walls that had witnessed decades of Brighton’s rougher trade.
The scrape of chairs on uneven floorboards and the occasional burst of raucous laughter filled the air.
No matter the evening, it was always the same here.
Sebastian might have found solace in the familiarity of it all, but he most decidedly did not.
Although he respected the men who frequented establishments like this, he could not help but feel misplaced.
He’d been meant to be a lord, not one of these roughnecks.
His family’s estate was only miles from here, decaying in the briny air with nothing but ghosts to roam the hallways. Yet here he was.
Tonight, as most evenings, the establishment hosted men who worked with their hands and bodies.
A table of sailors played a loud game of dice, their coins clinking against the crude wooden table.
Hands calloused and scarred from rope work lifted pints or tumblers of rum.
Gamblers and rogues sat in the shadows at the far end of the room, well-dressed in fine waistcoats that didn’t necessarily match their station.
Thievery was as common as gambling here.
A barmaid dressed in a skirt hitched slightly higher than was proper balanced a tray of drinks while sidestepping a man’s attempt to slap her bottom. Sebastian caught the glint of a dagger tucked into her garter. Smart girl.
James stood behind the scarred mahogany bar, sleeves rolled up, golden curls falling over his forehead as he poured drinks with practiced efficiency.
At twenty-two, he’d grown into his strength, but Sebastian could still see the furious ten-year-old who had wanted to fight the whole world on that terrible morning at Newgate.
Sebastian still found it hard to believe that James had won this place in a poker game.
How a man could gamble away his livelihood in such a manner was beyond Sebastian’s comprehension.
If he could have his old life back, he would never risk losing it again.
But James had lucked into a way to make a living when their options were so limited.
Out of nowhere, his brother had a business and they could live in the rough rooms above the tavern.
It had been twelve years since they’d watched their father hang. A lot had transpired in those years, none of which had been good.
They’d been sent to live with Eugenia Langston, a distant cousin of their mother’s.
Living with the Langston’s had not been as they’d hoped.
Far from it. Sophia, at only eight years old, had been banished downstairs to live with the servants and work as a scullery maid.
Sebastian had been sent out to work with the gardeners, living in the bunkhouse with the rest of the outdoor staff.
James had been ordered to live with the horses, forced to muck out stalls, clean hooves, and haul heavy buckets of water in exchange for meager meals.
Somehow James had kept up with the work, despite being so young.
By the time James was fourteen, he was as strong as most men.
By then, both brothers shared scars on their backs from regular whippings. Baron Langston was a mean, vicious man who enjoyed hurting helpless boys. At least those brutal years had taught Sebastian something useful about gardening.
“You’re late,” James said without looking up, sliding a pint across the bar to a waiting sailor.
“Went to see the estate.” Sebastian grabbed an apron and tied it around his waist. “Our estate.”
James’s hands stilled for just a moment. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” Sebastian began wiping down glasses, the familiar routine helping to settle his nerves. “But not our concern tonight.”
They fell into their usual rhythm of pouring drinks, breaking up the occasional fight, keeping the peace among Brighton’s rougher elements.
Sebastian had learned to appreciate these men, even if this wasn’t the life he’d been born to live.
They were honest in their appetites, their anger, their loyalties.
Unlike the aristocrats who smiled while they plotted one’s destruction.
Near midnight, as the crowd began to thin, Sebastian found himself serving two young men at the far end of the bar. Their accents marked them as local workers, and they were deep in their cups, complaining loudly about their troubles.
“Bloody Thorncroft,” the first was saying, a thin man with dirt permanently embedded under his fingernails. “Two years I’ve worked those gardens, and he tosses me out like rubbish.”
His companion, clearly the worse for drink, squinted at him. “Who’s Thorncroft again?”
“Head gardener at Wentworth Manor, you great fool. Been telling you for an hour.” The thin man took a long pull of ale. “Says the aphids on the roses are my fault. Like I can control every bug in Sussex.”
The name Wentworth chilled Sebastian’s blood. He forced himself to continue his work, ears sharpening to catch every word.
“Wentworth Manor,” the drunk one repeated slowly. “That’s the place where the lady got murdered, innit?”
“Aye. And now his lordship’s decided to throw a ball. First one since it happened. Masquerade, they’re calling it.” The thin man’s voice turned bitter. “Thorncroft’s beside himself, needing everything perfect. That’s why he sacked me. Needs proper hands before the fancy folk arrive.”
Sebastian set down the glass carefully, his pulse quickening. A ball at Wentworth Manor. The first since Lady Wentworth’s murder. And they needed a gardener.
“When’s this ball, then?” the drunk asked.
“Three weeks, near enough.”
Sebastian glanced toward James, who was occupied with a group of sailors at the other end of the bar. His brother hadn’t heard the conversation, hadn’t caught the name that still had the power to turn Sebastian’s blood to ice.
Wentworth.
The man who had framed their father. Who had stood in court and wept crocodile tears over his murdered wife while sending an innocent man to the gallows. Who had destroyed their family and stolen their future.
And now Sebastian had a way inside his house.
He knew about aphids. Ladybugs were their natural predator, and a mixture of soap and ash could clear them from rose bushes within days.
Simple enough knowledge for any country-bred gentleman’s son who’d spent years working in the Langston gardens.
Knowledge that could get him past Wentworth’s gates.
The two men finished their drinks and stumbled out into the night, their complaints fading into the general noise of the street. Sebastian continued his work mechanically, his mind racing with possibilities.
A masquerade ball. Dozens of guests, servants running everywhere, the chaos of a grand social event.
And Sebastian would be there, tending the gardens, invisible as all servants were to their betters.
Close enough to watch. To learn. To find the evidence that would finally prove what he’d always known.
That Viscount Wentworth had murdered his wife and framed Lord Ashford.
“You’ve got that look,” James said quietly, appearing beside him with empty glasses to wash.
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re planning something dangerous.” James’s voice was carefully neutral, but Sebastian heard the worry underneath. “What is it?”
Sebastian glanced around the tavern, making sure no one was listening. “Wentworth’s looking for a gardener. And he’s throwing a ball in three weeks.”
James went very still. For a moment, Sebastian saw his brother as he’d been at ten, all fury and helpless rage, wanting to strike back at a world that had torn their family apart. But now there was something else in his eyes. Understanding. Resolution.
“This is it, then,” James said quietly. “The chance we’ve been waiting for.”
“I think so. I can get inside his house, learn his habits, maybe find evidence.”
“Sebastian.” James leaned forward, his voice intense but low. “I know you have to do this. We both know Papa’s memory won’t rest until justice is served. But promise me you’ll be careful.”
Sebastian felt the tension in his chest loosen. He’d expected arguments, pleas to abandon his mission. Instead, James understood what this meant.
“You’re not going to try to stop me?”