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 didhe 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.
Chapter Four
After her humiliationof being caught crying by Mr. Thorncroft and the handsome gardener, Rose made her way to the kitchen to meet with Mrs. Blythe. When she entered, she was greeted by the usual bustle of the kitchen staff. They all stopped at the sight of the lady of the house to bow and curtsy.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Please don’t stop your work.” Rose breathed in delightful smells of freshly baked bread, simmering stews and roasted meats, and the fresh herbs one of the kitchen maids was chopping at the butcher block in the corner. “I’m only here to speak with Mrs. Blythe. Is she in her office?” She plucked her bonnet from her head, instantly warm in the hot, steamy kitchen.
“Yes, Lady Rose.” Their head cook, Mrs. Eliza Carter, stepped out from behind the stove. “She asked me to send you in when you were ready.”
Rose had always felt more at home in the kitchen than in her father’s formal dining room. Mrs. Carter had been with the family since before Rose was born, coming with Lady Wentworth when she’d married. Between her and Mrs. Blythe, they’d practically raised Rose after her mother died, filling the cold manor with warmth and affection her father never provided.
Eliza Carter had thick hair that had turned a lovely shade of silver, which she wore in a twisted braid on top of her head, though tendrils always escaped, clinging to her damp skin. She possessed a rosy pinkcomplexion and bright, expressive blue eyes. Her jolly sense of humor permeated the kitchen and the food she made.
“Thank you. I’ve been out for a stroll in the gardens. It’s such a lovely day.”
“I hope you had your bonnet on.” Mrs. Carter was always on her about her bonnet. God forbid Rose got any more freckles. But she didn’t actually mind the woman’s fussing. She’d spent many days down here as a child, doing her schoolwork or reading while the competent staff prepared meal after meal. They’d all doted on Rose, making her feel loved. Even if her father was cold and distant, she had never felt unwanted or in the way. Not in the kitchen anyway.
“I did indeed wear my bonnet,” Rose said. “Most of the time.”
“Dear me, child. Those freckles. And the ball coming up now? You must protect your skin.”
“I will be wearing a mask at the ball.” She gave Mrs. Carter a cheeky grin.
