Chapter Three #2
As they walked toward the stone building, Thorncroft gave him more details of where he was to sleep and take his meals.
Sebastian was to sleep in the groundskeepers’ bunkhouse with the other gardeners and eat with them.
“The lads are a good lot, if not occasionally a little rowdy for my taste. You’ll know no unkindness.
I do not tolerate hazing or tomfoolery.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I have my own cottage not far from the bunkhouse, but I take my meals with the lads. Mrs. Carter and her helpers are fine cooks. You’ll eat well here.”
Typical hours would start in the early morning and go into the late afternoon, but with breaks and meals to break up the day. He was to earn a modest weekly wage. Much less than he could make working for his brother, but money was not his reason for being here.
“The estate provides all your tools but not clothes,” Thorncroft said. “You’ll need sturdy ones. We’ll supply you with gloves and boots.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“This upcoming party’s going to be a madhouse.
Mrs. Blythe says at least a dozen guests will be arriving for a fortnight stay, which means we’ll have to stay on our toes, anticipating needs, arranging tents and chairs for picnics, cutting flowers for Lady Rose’s arrangements. You’ll need to keep a steady head.”
“Whatever you need, I shall do.”
“This will be a trial, you understand. I’ll assess your work in a few weeks and decide if you’re worth keeping.”
“I’ll do my best to please you.”
“All right, then. Let’s get you settled in the bunkhouse.
It’s nearly time for our midday meal. We’ll get you to work after that.
” Thorncroft paused when they reached the door to the bunkhouse, turning to Sebastian.
“One last thing. I assume you know to keep your distance from Lady Rose and Lord Wentworth. We should remain invisible to them.”
“Of course, sir.”
“This house party will bring chaos. Guests everywhere. Best keep your head down.”
Sebastian nodded. Inwardly, his pulse quickened. Chaos meant opportunity. He would observe, listen, and learn.
“I won’t disappoint you, sir.”
But as Thorncroft began outlining his duties, Sebastian couldn’t quite banish the memory of Rose Wentworth’s face. Elegant, sad, and haunting.
He reminded himself of the mission. The vow he’d made so long ago. The reason he was here.
And yet, her eyes stayed with him.
*
Between the snoring of the other men in the bunkhouse and his own restless thoughts, Sebastian couldn’t sleep. His first day at Wentworth Manor had gone well, but now his mind churned with plans and possibilities. Every creak of the building and shift from a bunkmate only heightened his alertness.
At last, he gave up. Moonlight poured through the small window, silver and sharp. Maybe fresh air would quiet his thoughts.
He dressed in silence, boots in hand to avoid waking anyone.
Outside, the night air was cool on his skin, carrying the damp scent of earth and hay.
Overhead, stars glittered across the sky like diamonds.
He had seen them from trenches in France, from the deck of Channel-crossing ships, and from the window of his childhood room at Ashford Hall.
He meant only to walk the grounds, perhaps check on his horse, Tempest. But as he neared the stables, something caught his eye. A distant glow where no light should be.
Instinct took over, honed by years of war. He doused his lantern and melted into the shadows beside the stable wall.
Far off, near the disused storehouse at the edge of the property, a faint glow spilled from partially open doors.
A wagon stood outside, its wheels thick with dried mud.
The horses stamped and tossed their heads, restless.
Men moved in and out with speed and purpose, hefting wooden boxes with practiced ease.
Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t sanctioned. Not at this hour and not with that level of secrecy.
Sebastian crept forward, keeping to the cover of hedges and outbuildings. His training came back to him. The art of silence. Of watching without being seen. As he drew nearer, a rich, unmistakable scent hit him.
French brandy.
Smugglers on Wentworth’s estate.
Three men handled the crates while a fourth stood apart, overseeing the operation. Even in the dim light, it was clear this one was different. Stocky and well-dressed despite the late hour, he carried himself like a man used to command. A riding crop flexed between his gloved hands.
Sebastian went still. That small, casual motion chilled him to the bone. It reminded him of his childhood. Of Baron Langston. The whippings he and James had endured for any small or innocent infraction.
One of the laborers muttered, the words too low to catch. The overseer’s head snapped up, and even from across the clearing, Sebastian felt the weight of that stare. The man said nothing. He didn’t have to. The worker lowered his head and kept moving.
Sebastian etched every detail into memory. The French lettering stamped on the crates. The overseer’s florid face, puffy and red, his hair dark and slicked back. The crispness of the operation suggested experience. This was not their first shipment.
This was what Sebastian had hoped for. Proof of Wentworth’s crimes, laid out in front of him. If he could document this, tie it to the viscount…
A horse behind him let out a quiet whinny, and his heart leapt. He had moved too close to the wagon team. One of the men looked up sharply.
“What was that?”
Flattening against the storehouse wall, Sebastian held his breath.
The man with the crop stepped forward, eyes sweeping the dark. The tip of the whip tapped his thigh in a slow, steady rhythm.
“Probably nothing. These old buildings creak like bones in a graveyard.” His voice was refined but worn, like a gentleman too long among criminals. “Finish up. We need to be gone before dawn.”
Sebastian stayed frozen until the last hoofbeat faded. Only then did he ease back toward the bunkhouse, every limb wired tight with adrenaline.
His hands trembled, not with fear but with something close to exhilaration. He had seen it. Real evidence. Wentworth wasn’t just corrupt. He was running an operation on his estate, hidden in plain sight.
Inside, the others still snored. Sebastian slid into bed, but his thoughts raced. How could he document what he had witnessed? Who was that man with the riding crop? How often did these shipments occur?
He stared up at the low ceiling. For the first time in twelve years, he felt something like hope. He had found the viscount’s vulnerability. Now he had to exploit it.
But first, he needed to identify the man with the crop. Something about him had seemed familiar, though he couldn’t imagine they had ever crossed paths.