Chapter Thirteen
Sebastian spent the evening in his own private hell, unable to shake the image of Rose’s face when she’d seen his scars. The shock in her eyes, the way her hand had flown to her mouth, played over and over in his mind like a cruel refrain.
He’d eaten supper with the others but barely tasted the food. While the rest of the men had moved on to joking about their unexpected encounter with the ladies, Sebastian felt as though his skin had been stripped away, leaving every nerve exposed.
“Reckon Lady Rose got quite an eyeful,” one of the younger gardeners was saying with a nervous laugh. “Think she’ll tell his lordship?”
“Nah,” Thorncroft replied. “Mrs. Blythe says the ladies won’t make trouble for us. We weren’t doing nothing wrong, just cooling off after a hot day’s work.”
Sebastian pushed back from the table. He couldn’t bear to listen to them discuss Rose, couldn’t stand the thought that she might be upstairs right now, disgusted by what she’d seen.
The scars told a story he’d never wanted to share—of helplessness, of being at another man’s mercy, of pain that had marked him inside and out.
“Where you off to, Sebastian?” Thorncroft called.
“Getting some air,” Sebastian muttered, and fled before anyone could follow.
The stables were quiet at this hour, save for the occasional creak of wood and the soft shifting of hooves against straw. Sebastian made his way to Tempest’s stall, desperate for the comfort of his oldest friend.
The stallion nickered softly in greeting, and Sebastian felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Hello, old boy.” He spoke softly, running his hand down Tempest’s sleek neck. “I’ve had better days. How about you?”
He pulled a sugar cube from his pocket, offering it on his palm. Tempest’s warm breath tickled his hand as the horse accepted the treat, and for a moment, Sebastian could almost pretend he was back in Brighton with his brother, that none of this nightmare was real.
“She saw them. All of them. Every mark he left on me.” His throat tightened. “You should have seen her face. The horror in her eyes. How can I expect her to look at me the same way now?”
Tempest nudged his shoulder gently, as if sensing his distress.
“I keep forgetting why I came here,” Sebastian continued, the words tumbling out like a confession.
He continued to speak, only silently, unsure of who might be about to hear him.
When I’m with her, everything else fades away.
James and Sophia, justice for Papa—it all becomes secondary to the way she smiles, the sound of her laugh.
He pressed his forehead against Tempest’s neck.
What kind of man does that make me? What kind of son?
“Sebastian, there you are.”
Sebastian spun around, his heart hammering. Tobias Hale stood in the stable doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
“Christ, Hale. You nearly gave me heart failure.”
“Apologies. I’ve been looking for you.” Hale stepped closer, and Sebastian noticed he carried a folded paper in his hand. “Heard you’d slipped away from the others.”
“Needed some quiet,” Sebastian said, embarrassed to be caught talking to his horse like a madman. “What’s that you have there?”
Hale’s expression grew grim. “Information. About Baron White.” He glanced toward the stable doors, then lowered his voice. “I’ve had a man making inquiries in London. Discreetly.”
“And?”
“It’s worse than we suspected.” Hale unfolded the paper, though he didn’t look at it. “The devil has a history. A long, ugly history that’s been covered up with money and influence.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. “What kind of history?”
“The kind that involves young women. Servants, mostly. Girls with no power, no protection.” Hale’s voice was tight with controlled anger. “My contact found records—payments to families, sudden departures, accidents that weren’t accidents.”
“How many?” Sebastian asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“At least six that we can verify. Probably more.” Hale met his eyes.
“One girl was barely sixteen. Worked at his London house. Got herself with child—his child, most likely—and tried to tell someone about it. A week later, she was found drowned in the Thames. They said it was a suicide but who knows?”
The rage that hit Sebastian was so sudden and fierce it nearly knocked him backward. His hands clenched into fists, and for a moment he saw white at the edges of his vision.
“Easy,” Hale said quietly. “I know. I felt the same way when I read it.”
“We can’t let him have her,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth. “I don’t care what it costs. Rose will not become another name on that list.” He paused, thinking about how to tell Hale about his morning encounter with White. “I had an incident with White this morning. In the rose garden.”
Hale’s eyebrows shot up. “What kind of incident?”
Sebastian told him everything—White’s assault on Rose, the garden shears, the desperate bluff about being Talbot’s spy. With each detail, Hale’s expression grew darker.
“Heaven forbid, Sebastian. You could have been killed.”
“He had his hands on her,” Sebastian said simply. “I would have done worse if necessary.”
Hale was quiet for a long moment. “You know this changes things. White will be watching you now, looking for any excuse to have you removed.”
“Let him watch. I meant what I told him. As long as I’m here and safe, so is he. But if anything happens to me…”
“Then what? You’re bluffing with cards you don’t have.”
Sebastian’s smile was sharp and cold. “Am I? White doesn’t know that. His guilty conscience is doing half the work for me.”
“Still, we’re working on borrowed time now.” Hale folded the paper and tucked it back into his coat. “Which is why I have a proposal. You may not like it.”
“I’m listening.”
“The masquerade ball is in three days. I want you to attend.”
Sebastian stared at him. “As what? A guest?”
“Exactly. I have a contact—Mr. Nathaniel Clarke, son of a wealthy merchant. His family was ruined by White’s business practices, so he’s more than happy to lend us his invitation. You’ll wear his name and a mask that covers your entire face.”
“And do what? Dance the night away while Rose is trapped with that monster?”
“Gather information. These men become loose-tongued when they’re drinking and think they’re among friends. You might overhear something useful.” Hale paused meaningfully. “You’ll be able to keep an eye on Rose. Make sure White doesn’t corner her again.”
Sebastian’s pulse quickened at the thought. To be near her, to speak with her without the barrier of their supposed class difference, even for one night, was a dream too good to be true.
“It’s dangerous,” he said, more to himself than to Hale. “If I’m discovered.”
“You won’t be. Not if you’re careful. The key is to leave before the unmasking at midnight. Like Cinderella, only hopefully without losing a shoe.”
Despite everything, a smile tugged at his lips. “And if this works? If we find what we need to bring them down?”
“Then Rose will be free.” Hale’s expression softened slightly. “She’ll lose everything else—her home, her position, her dowry. She’ll be ruined by association when the truth comes out. But she’ll be alive, and she’ll be free to choose her own path.”
The weight of that settled over Sebastian like a shroud. Even if they succeeded, even if they saved her from White and brought her father to justice, Rose would suffer for it. She would lose everything she’d ever known.
“She’ll hate me,” Sebastian said quietly. “When she learns what I’ve done, who I really am, why I came here—she’ll never forgive me.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’ll understand that you saved her life.” Hale studied him carefully. “You must do what is right and hope for the best outcome for all of us.”
“I didn’t expect to feel conflicted. But Lady Rose? She’s innocent in all of this. I’m about to wreck her life.”
“Lizzie came to me the night Lady Wentworth died. Terrified, sobbing. Said Lady Wentworth told her to go to the constable if anything happened, to tell them to look closely at Lord Wentworth.” Hale’s voice cracked slightly.
“Two days later, she was dead. I should have protected her. Should have gotten her away from here the moment she told me what Lady Wentworth had said.” Hale’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Instead, I let her stay, thinking we were safe, thinking Wentworth wouldn’t dare hurt a servant. I was wrong.”
Sebastian felt his own throat tighten. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s why I’m helping you. Not just for justice, though that matters. But because I couldn’t save Lizzie, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let another innocent woman die on my watch.”
They stood in silence for a moment, united in their grief and their determination.
“The ball, then,” Sebastian said finally. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll have the costume and invitation delivered to my cottage tomorrow. You’ll dress there.” Hale turned to go, then paused. “Faith, Lord Ashford. Have faith.”
After Hale left, Sebastian remained in the stable with Tempest, thinking about how brave he would have to be to go to that ball disguised as another man.
He’d not wanted to play a part in a play but it seemed that was all he did of late.
Pretend to be someone he was not. And at what cost?
To Lady Rose? To himself? To Hale? To all of those hurt by Wentworth?
Would this risky decision be the one to bring redemption or would he hang as his father had?
He’d said he would die trying to clear their family name if it came to that. However, the fervor with which he’d planned his revenge was starting to fade. In its place? Lady Rose’s well-being. How could he possibly reconcile the two when they were in opposing directions?
*
The next morning, Sebastian was up and headed to the rose garden as the sun was rising. He had no idea if Rose would come visit him, but he wanted to be there if she managed to get away.