Chapter Fifteen
Hale had asked Sebastian to meet him in his private quarters to dress for the ball.
Sebastian’s stomach churned as he approached the small stone cottage near the edge of the orchard.
The modest dwelling sat tucked away from Wentworth Manor’s grandeur, close enough for the steward to be summoned yet hidden from prying eyes.
Ivy curled up the weathered stone walls, and the thatched roof had darkened with age.
He knocked once and waited. Soon, Hale opened the door, glancing left and right before ushering him inside.
“All is well?” Hale asked, closing the door firmly behind them.
“As well as can be expected. The carriages are arriving. I should not tarry long.”
The cottage was practical and orderly, much like Hale himself. A large wooden desk dominated one wall, covered in neat stacks of ledgers and estate maps. A single bookshelf held volumes on land management alongside a few worn novels. The windows stood open, letting in the warm summer evening air.
Hale gestured toward the bed, where fine clothing lay waiting. Sebastian approached slowly, his breath catching as he touched the dark green velvet coat. The fabric was softer than anything he’d worn in years.
“I have not dressed as a gentleman. Ever.”
“Tonight you reclaim what was stolen from you.” Hale moved to his desk and withdrew a wooden box. “This was not easy to commission on short notice, but I know a woodworker who asks no questions.”
He lifted out a mask unlike any Sebastian had seen.
It was carved from dark-stained wood, heavier than expected, with intricate details of leaves and vines that seemed to emerge from the wood itself.
The face bore the squared jawline of a Venetian Bauta, but the organic patterns gave it an otherworldly quality.
“The Green Man,” Sebastian said, recognizing the ancient symbol.
“Precisely. He exists between worlds—neither fully civilized nor entirely wild.” Hale held the mask carefully. “Rather fitting, would you not say?”
“Perhaps too much so?” Sebastian took it, running his thumb along the smooth curves. The eye holes were narrow but functional, and the extended mouthpiece would not only conceal his features but alter his voice as well.
“I have prepared a bath.” Hale gestured toward a tub behind a screen. “Take your time. Call when you are ready.”
Alone, Sebastian stripped away his work-worn clothes and slipped into the tub. The warm water felt like absolution. He scrubbed away the grime of servitude, watching the dirt swirl away with something that might have been his old self.
When he emerged, he felt lighter somehow. Cleaner in more ways than one.
He began with the undergarments, then the black wool trousers that fit as though tailored for him. The white linen shirt was crisp against his skin. A charcoal brocade waistcoat came next, cut to flatter his lean frame.
Then the coat. The forest-green velvet seemed to transform him with its weight and richness.
Dark embroidery traced the lapels like ivy on stone.
He tied the emerald silk cravat, remembering his father doing the same.
Finally, the black leather gloves that would hide the calluses that marked him as a working man.
“Hale,” he called out. “I am ready.”
The steward returned, and his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “Lord Ashford, welcome back.”
Lord Ashford. The man he was meant to be.
Had he found him once again? He moved to the small looking glass and stared at his reflection.
The man looking back was someone he’d not seen as an adult—straight-shouldered, well-dressed, every inch a gentleman.
Yet the eyes held knowledge the old Sebastian had never possessed.
“I had forgotten what it feels like to be dressed in finery,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.
He adjusted his cravat with fingers that trembled slightly.
“These years… they have changed me. Made me into a man filled with rage and thirst for revenge. I can almost remember who I used to be when I see myself now.”
“Like it or not, our hardships define who we are.” Hale handed him the mask. “You understand suffering. Loss. That will make you a better man than you would have been. More compassionate. Generous even.”
Sebastian took the mask, weighing it in his hands. “And if I am discovered?”
“Then we shall face whatever comes. But tonight, you are Nathaniel Clarke—a merchant with money enough to attend but not so prominent that anyone will scrutinize you closely. The real Clarke rarely appears at such events, and the mask will ensure no one looks too closely.”
Sebastian positioned the mask carefully, tying it securely. The transformation was complete. He was neither Sebastian the gardener nor entirely Lord Ashford, but something new. Something dangerous.
In the glass, the Green Man stared back at him. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, Sebastian smiled.
“Shall we proceed?” Sebastian asked. Even through the mask, his voice carried a note of authority he’d thought lost forever.
Hale nodded. “It goes without saying that you must be careful. But I’ll be keeping watch too.”
Sebastian held out his hand and the men shook. “Thank you, Hale. Pray that all goes well.”
*
In his borrowed finery, Sebastian stood in shadow watching carriages arrive at Wentworth Manor’s sweeping drive, steeling himself for what lay ahead.
Though he’d learned to dance as a child, years had passed since he’d attempted such grace.
He hoped his feet would remember what they’d once known.
Tonight, he must not merely blend in. No, that would not be enough.
He must convince the very people who had cast him out that he belonged among them.
From within the grand house, candlelight spilled through tall windows, accompanied by the soft strains of a string quartet.
Sebastian stepped from the shadows and fell in behind a newly arrived couple, checking his mask one final time as they climbed the marble steps.
A footman ushered him through the grand entrance hall, a cavernous space lined with white marble columns, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and elaborate floral arrangements. Flowers from the very gardens he tended. The irony was not lost on him.
Guests gathered in the foyer, removing cloaks and murmuring behind their masks. Sebastian forced his stride to remain confident despite the dampness of his palms beneath his leather gloves. When the doors to the receiving hall opened, he found himself face to face with Lord Wentworth and Lady Rose.
His pulse held steady as he approached.
Lord Wentworth, resplendent in a black coat and gold-trimmed waistcoat, greeted guests with cool politeness. His gilded stag mask suited him perfectly. He would naturally choose the symbol of a creature that ruled the forest through size and antler.
And then there was Rose.
She stood beside her father like a figure from a dream, her gown of gold and silver catching every flicker of candlelight.
A delicate crescent moon mask covered the upper portion of her face, adorned with tiny pearls and starbursts that gave her an otherworldly quality.
Her mouth, left uncovered, was set in a polite smile.
How different she seemed from their stolen moments in the garden. Here, she held herself with practiced grace, but beneath it lay something Sebastian recognized—the careful composure of someone enduring rather than enjoying.
“Mr. Nathaniel Clarke,” the steward announced.
Sebastian stepped forward and bowed. “My lord.”
“Mr. Clarke, welcome,” Wentworth nodded with perfunctory courtesy.
Rose inclined her head. “Welcome to Wentworth Manor, Mr. Clarke.”
Sebastian took her gloved hand briefly, bowing over it without the excessive gallantry a younger man might display. “Lady Rose.”
He released her hand and continued into the ballroom, where another steward announced his arrival. His borrowed name echoed over the chamber, drawing no particular attention. Precisely as intended.
He was in.
The ballroom had been transformed into an enchanted woodland.
Chandeliers overhead were draped with gossamer fabric, casting golden shadows across polished floors.
Garlands of ivy and jasmine wound along the columns, while arrangements of roses—his roses, though he must not think of them as such—stood in sculpted vases throughout the space.
Glass orbs hung like stars above the dance floor, casting shifting patterns on the walls. Tables along the edges held floating flowers, moss-covered branches, and delicate golden moths pinned among the greenery. It was dreamlike, otherworldly. Designed to transport guests into fantasy.
Rose had created something beautiful. If only she could take pleasure in it.
Sebastian positioned himself near a column where he could observe while remaining inconspicuous.
Several minutes later, Rose entered the ballroom, flanked by three companions.
One wore a sleek fox mask that shimmered beneath the chandeliers, another had a cream silk mask painted with delicate fawn spots, and the third was adorned in a striking owl mask, its brown and gold feathers catching the candlelight like burnished bronze.
Now or never. He crossed the room and bowed. “Lady Rose, might I request the honor of a dance, if your card permits?”
Her companions drifted away tactfully, leaving them alone.
“As it happens, there are several openings available, Mr. Clarke.” She untied the silk ribbon securing the parchment card at her wrist.
Sebastian glimpsed the card as she opened it. Nearly every line remained blank save one—Baron White’s name claimed the supper dance in bold, possessive strokes.
The sight answered questions he hadn’t dared ask. Her isolation was not by choice.
“The waltz, if you would honor me,” he said, taking the card to write his name.
“The waltz?”
“Unless you prefer another dance?”