Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Read online

  “Yes, sir.” A deep voice spoke, and Etienne turned in the direction of the sound. Another one of Sir Ambrose’s servants stepped from the darkness. He was oafish, though his vertical striped waistcoat signified his position as a groom.

  Barnesley scowled. “Hand over that bag.”

  Etienne gripped the satchel closer. Some of the materials Barnesley would recognize, but not all of them… The papers, routine documents from the general that nonetheless proved Lansdowne’s existence—Barnesley must never see those. Etienne worked for Lansdowne, and Barnesley did not need to know the man was alive. Everyone believed the duke to be dead, even his onetime fiancée.

  He gritted his teeth, ignoring his quickening heartbeat, and hurled the bag off the cliff.

  “You idiot,” Barnesley growled. “Well. I’m afraid I must arrest you now.”

  Etienne narrowed his eyes. “I’m allowed to wander here.”

  “You destroyed possible evidence at a crime scene.”

  “What do you mean?” Etienne swallowed hard. Is Lansdowne safe?

  “Apparently, smugglers were here.” Barnesley lowered his chin and glared.

  “You know I’m not involved.” Etienne scowled back at the man who knew everything about the smugglers, because he coordinated the whole operation. Not that the man would admit it. “Sir Ambrose will vouch…”

  Barnesley tilted his head. “And why would you think Sir Ambrose could do that? Surely you don’t think he’s involved?”

  Etienne gritted his teeth. “I think you know who is more likely to be involved…”

  “I think you do.” Barnesley’s voice firmed, and the man’s dark eyes blazed into him.

  Etienne shivered, and his muscles curled with tension.

  “I saw nothing . . .”

  “You’re a known nuisance in this area. Thievery and worse. And you just threw something off the cliff. I’m guessing evidence.” Barnesley laughed. “Let’s go. Smugglers were here. And now you are. I was told to arrest anyone suspicious.”

  Etienne squirmed beneath the man’s grasp and winced at the firm, icy hold of the handcuffs. “You cannot arrest me… Sir Ambrose will vouch for me.”

  Barnesley’s mouth tightened and his eyes flickered pain before they hardened into a stern expression. “Don’t jest with me, Etienne.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “You betrayed him. He fell off the cliff, Etienne. It’s all because of you.”

  “Sir Ambrose?”

  “Yes.” Barnesley forced his gaze away, his lips curled into a sneer. “You deserve to die. Prison is too good for you.”

  Etienne bit his lower lip. “Tell me what happened.”

  “An intruder, Captain Carlisle in fact, interrupted a certain operation.”

  The smuggling.

  “You betrayed Sir Ambrose,” Barnesley growled.

  “I didn’t.” Etienne squirmed under the tight lock.

  “Tell me what you were carrying, Etienne.”

  Etienne stiffened.

  Barnesley nodded to the dark shadow again, and a steel handcuff snapped over Etienne’s wrist. He tried to pull away, but a greasy hand stopped him. His breath constricted, and he was dragged forward. Wind rustled through his thin clothes, gathering force as the brutes ushered Etienne away from the hill, away from the ocean, and away from any chance of seeing Lansdowne again.

  *

  Rain slashed against the trees as the men paused. Strong arms yanked Etienne forward, and he toppled onto the hard cobblestones.

  He swallowed as the sharp angles of the turrets pierced the fog.

  Ashbury Castle.

  The prison.

  “I can explain,” Etienne said.

  Barnesley yawned, the motion languid. “Some things are best handled in the morning.”

  “Then I can go?”

  “Nonsense.” Barnesley pulled Etienne toward the back of the castle, over slimy reeds that bent onto the ground. “You’re a criminal. A night in the dungeon will do you good.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Barnesley studied him, and Etienne’s heartbeat quickened.

  “Inside.” Barnesley nodded at the driver. “Take him. He’s being difficult.”

  Barnesley and Potts dragged Etienne over the moat and down narrow stairs that hugged the castle. Potts unlocked a door on the side of the castle and pulled him inside.

  The stench of mold hit him. The men heaved Etienne through a narrow corridor, the walls looming beside him. Dark red and orange rays from the torch illuminated the crumbling stones. Pain shot through Etienne’s head and pressed against him.

  His shoulders sagged, the corridor transforming into another, unforgettable one. His stomach cramped, his mouth dried; only the headache beat on.

  “Please,” Etienne gasped. “I can’t—can’t be here.”

  “I thought you didn’t beg.” Barnesley smirked.

  “I’m begging now,” Etienne shouted, his voice echoing in the dark chamber, the end of the corridor still unexplored. Who knows what are in those rooms?

  “Excuse me?” Barnesley asked. “Your accent is appalling. Thick and French sounding. Vile.”

  Etienne grimaced and clenched his fists.

  “Please. Please.” The words echoed in the corridor, and Barnesley stopped. Etienne swallowed, hope, despite everything, still present.

  A large grin appeared on Barnesley’s face. He waved an iron key in his hand.

  Etienne swallowed, forcing himself not to give up hope. “Please . . .”

  Barnesley stopped. His eyes bored into Etienne, and he spoke, his voice cold, “How amusing.”

  Etienne’s heart stopped.

  “Everyone knows who you are and where you belong.” Barnesley leaned toward him and pushed him into the dark space.

  Etienne stumbled on the loose ground and fell.

  “Really, I would have thought a criminal would have better balance.” Barnesley followed him into the cell. “All that effort to remain surreptitious. Didn’t work tonight, did it?”

  Etienne stiffened. Dampness seeped into his clothes. He forced his head up. The torch contrasted against the overwhelming darkness, and he focused on the flames. Tall shadows covered the room. A small wooden door was the only link to the outside, and Barnesley stood before it.

  Etienne tensed and smashed his fist against Potts. Etienne’s hand smarted as Barnesley grabbed hold of him and twisted his wrist.

  Barnesley gestured to the servant. “Shackle him.”

  Etienne’s eyes widened as Potts rubbed his jaw, bent down and pulled a leg iron toward him. A thick chain clanked behind it.

  Etienne scrambled away and lurched for the narrow opening. If I can just rush out! His head ached, and brawny arms halted his escape. Etienne cried out as Barnesley held him and the servant shackled him to the ground, chained him to the castle wall.

  The door slammed shut, the lock turned, and Etienne was alone in the darkness. Trapped. Just like before.

  Chapter Two

  The sliver of light shining from the narrow window should not have denoted anything extraordinary, yet Etienne already worshipped it.

  No matter that the removed placement of the window hid the view. Etienne knew what the view should be, were it not masked by red bricks, slimy from England’s frequent rainfalls. A musty scent pervaded the cell. Etienne huddled in the corner, pressed against the damp wall, avoiding the large puddles of water strewn over the floor. He refused to compete with the insects and rodents for the sodden, bedraggled bed of straw. The heavy leg iron that clutched his ankle impeded movement; thick marks covered his boot, reminders of where his skin scraped against the uneven metal the last time he had attempted to pace the cell. Every limb ached, and shivers racked his body. He bit his cheek.

  He longed for his cloak now. Last night, he’d flung his garishly-colored disguise and a certain other incriminating item from the cliff when Barnesley and Potts surrounded him. He hoped the churning sea had taken care
of the rest. His ears still rang from the clatter of water smashing against stones.

  The stones were icy to his touch. He would appreciate sleeping outside after this. The grass-covered ground would seem luxurious.

  No sound penetrated the thick walls: no rustling as leaves brushed against one another; no chirps from robins or wrens as they started their dawn chorus; no sound to distract Etienne from the knowledge he was alone in the world.

  Light continued to descend from the window, illuminating the cell and casting a sheen over a slice of the flooded ground.

  He tilted his head toward the weak sunbeam. At least he had destroyed the papers. At least he had destroyed his costume. Disguises were a capital offence, but now he would avoid prosecution.

  Hopefully.

  Rain had fallen through the window the entire night, the fierce winds driving the water with vigor, a fact the lack of a change of clothes emphasized. No matter his clothes were drenched when Barnesley shoved Etienne into the oppressive space. For all the castle’s wealth and array of sumptuous rooms, no estate manager had ever thought to protect the occupants of the cells from the elements. Etienne dabbed his foot into the water. The urge to see outside overcame him. He staggered up and ignored the rush of pain from his stiff joints, shoving himself nearer the wall. Soggy linen clung to his figure, hugging his muscles in a way that could not be deemed respectable. But a lack of respectability was familiar, wasn’t it? He almost smiled.

  Time spent clambering over cliffs, riding through forests, and leading his life outdoors bestowed him with a well-developed figure women and men ogled despite his habit of covering himself in shabby clothing.

  The room darkened, perhaps a cloud had flitted above the sky, and his stomach clenched. He inhaled. This is not then. He had escaped from that life. And he would be released from this soon. He needed to be.

  He pulled off his tattered boots, laying them in the corner, and inched his legs closer to the window. The iron chain grated against the stone floor, splashing against the water as he edged farther. Frigid water flowed over his bare skin, sending a tremor through his body. The chain pulled against his ankle, and Etienne shuddered against the heavy shackle.

  Etienne smiled as he reached the other side. His fingers touched the window frame, the view within reach.

  He kept his leg steady, stretched his body up and—

  He smiled, relief soaring through him: there was a view.

  Underneath thin strips of gray fog, a verdant field glistened with mist. Spotted cows stood amid patches of clover, their heads thrust downward, engrossed with their food. Lucky beasts. His stomach growled. The animals barely moved, concentrating on their task, unknowing and comfortable in their freedom, unconstrained by walls or chains.

  No glimpse of a lake or a soaring mountain, but it was enough. Etienne clung to the rough stone window frame, his heartbeat slowing.

  The castle sat in a valley, flanked by fields. A forest lay behind, and gardens were to the front, placed to best impress the few guests who visited. A thin moat encompassed the castle, designed more to be imposing than to offer protection. Each view from the castle held advantages, and were the window of a more generous size and placed nearer to the ground, Etienne would be able to see the field with ease.

  Perhaps Sir Ambrose thought it beneficial that anyone escaping would need to dart across the grass, kept short by the regular influx of cows and sheep from the neighboring farms. No thorny bushes or massive trunks to hide behind there, and the livestock might even assist in protecting the castle, charging forward, if they saw somebody scurry through their territory.

  Etienne sighed. Even animals might consider him dangerous; certainly, no fluffy creature would leap to his defense, white horns pointed at the enemy. Watching them needed to do for now. He tried to focus on them, and not the fact Barnesley had hauled him into jail after another night working for Sir Ambrose.

  “What in the Lord’s name are you doing?” a deep voice bellowed, and the forceful sound caused Etienne to stumble. His feet wavered, and he dropped down, the view lost. Etienne slid on the watery floor and winced as his bare feet cut against the jagged floor stones.

  “Most people wear boots.” The voice seemed to smirk with amusement.

  Etienne frowned and made sure his chains made a loud splash as he finished turning.

  And then he swallowed.

  It was him.

  The magistrate stood before him, taller than Etienne remembered, his wide shoulders filling out his frock coat. The shaft of light from the window shone on him, and the drab interior faded in his presence.

  Leather Hessians clung to tight navy-colored breeches, and he wore a simple neckcloth. The golden hue of his skin spoke of time enjoying the outdoors, an anomaly amongst the ivory-skinned ton members striding primly Etienne had seen in London. A burly arm grasped a torch, further illuminating him and revealing strands of copper and maple in the man’s dark, tousled hair.

  Etienne stepped back, an unusual urge to run his hands through the glossy strands overwhelming him. Large granite eyes, spaced far apart, stared at him. They were firm, the color of the stone walls that imprisoned Etienne, and Etienne’s stomach spun, reminded that this man meant no good. Etienne stepped farther away, his back scraping against the uneven wall.

  He shrugged, feigning nonchalance as his heart hammered in his chest, like a medieval army seeking to break into the castle with a battering ram. Or prisoners seeking to escape. He pulled his gaze from the towering man before him, and his eyes darted about the cell, over the bloodstained wooden door and the long rows of lines scraped on the stone, some man’s attempt at counting the days imprisoned.

  “I recall you telling me I wouldn’t see you again.” The magistrate picked up a piece of paper. “Etienne Rivaud. Known thief, suspected poacher, and now caught loitering right where the smugglers were. Apparently, you tossed a bag off the cliff.” He arched an eyebrow. “Hiding evidence?”

  “I haven’t stolen in years. And I mostly took food.”

  The magistrate waved his hand in the air in an irritated fashion, as if seeking to swat Etienne away like a pesky mosquito. “You must have gone straight to the cliffs after leaving. You lied.”

  Etienne’s nostrils flared, and he placed his hands at his waist.

  “What on earth are you doing in there?” The magistrate lumbered closer.

  Something clenched in Etienne’s heart as the magistrate neared him. He drew in a breath and glanced at the water still swishing around his ankles.

  “Explain yourself,” the man said.

  Etienne paled, and the pain in his head strengthened, the precariousness of the situation clear. If I can’t convince him to release me . . . He lifted his chest, deciding to be honest. “I wanted to see the view.”

  “The view?” the magistrate snorted. “The concept of prison seems to be above your capacity to understand. Perhaps you lack the requisite intelligence.”

  Etienne bristled under the man’s glare.

  The magistrate shrugged. “There’s no reason to release you. I’m leaving.”

  Nausea hit Etienne, and the world blackened, consisting only of his rapid breaths and the man’s more somber ones. The chains burned his ankles, and he fought to maintain his breathing. He blinked, willing the world to return. It’s not then. His chest clenched, and he gasped.

  Hammerstead continued, “The whole point is for you to stay here.”

  The stern words carried him to a place he thought he had escaped.

  Alone, trapped.

  His legs gave way, and he fell, stone cutting him, water soaking his clothes further. His body chilled, the cold water washing over him.

  “Blast,” Hammerstead cursed.

  A click sounded and heavy footsteps approached him, splattering through the water. Warmth touched Etienne’s forehead, and a sigh echoed in the chamber. A woody scent filled his nostrils, a sliver of normality in Etienne’s turmoil that he grasped on to with all the effort of clambering
up one of the steep cliffs that lined the Channel.

  “Can you hear me?” the magistrate asked, his voice gruff.

  Something warm and pleasant—Hammerstead’s hands—cupped his head and lifted it from the water.

  “Open your eyes.” Hammerstead’s voice thickened, and warm fingers brushed away Etienne’s hair.

  Etienne inhaled the scent and forced his breath to calm. He needed to leave, even if he gave up his entire moral code to do so. He would leave. I can do this.

  He blinked, the face of the magistrate peering at him came into view. Etienne’s eyes focused on Hammerstead’s stubble-lined face. His legs wobbled as he rose, and the magistrate’s eyes widened. Etienne’s head ached, but he forced himself to lean against the wall, his demeanor relaxed.

  “I should let you rest.” The magistrate’s eyes darted to the door.

  Conscious the magistrate might depart, Etienne forced himself not to display any fear. He needed to be free, and the only one who could arrange that was Hammerstead. I need to seduce the man.

  He smiled and stretched, knowing that a sliver of bare skin would be revealed where his untucked shirt parted from his breeches. Hammerstead’s eyes followed the move. Good. He made his voice sound light. “Apparently, this side has a view as well.”

  Hammerstead’s face remained stony.

  Etienne winked.

  Hammerstead scowled. “I will not tolerate impertinence.”

  “It’s not impertinence if it’s true.” Good Lord, did the man not understand a wink? Etienne ran his fingers through his hair. The trick was to move slowly and not resemble a nervous schoolboy. He was confident his hair looked good. It always did: the rain would have emphasized each curl, and those were fashionable now. Even poorly dressed men could sense that. The navy breeches and tan coat were an imperfect combination, and he doubted Hammerstead paid attention to the world of fashion. He smiled as he remembered Hammerstead ruining his clothes last night. Concentrate. Etienne made eye contact and bit his lower lip.

  He paused, wondering whether he should wink again.