Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(75)

His trudge grew easier when the castle wall loomed up at his side. The slope kept the surface drier. He passed through the great gates, which he’d never seen closed, and under the stone arch into the stable yard. Here, he was startled to find two men with lanterns standing beside a horse.

“She came up lame miles from here,” said one, sounding younger than his inches suggested. “I had to walk her. That’s why I’m so damned late.”

The other leaned down, shining his light on the horse’s near foreleg. He was one of the castle grooms, Sebastian saw. “I can’t see nothing, my lord. We’ll get her in a stall and take a closer look.”

“Right, thanks.”

No one had mentioned visitors, but it was none of Sebastian’s affair. He edged along the wall toward the house as the groom led the animal away.

“Who’s there?” asked the newcomer. He held up his lantern and peered across the yard.

Sebastian was revealed in all his muddy glory. He sighed and started to respond.

“Here, fellow, you can’t just walk in off the road,” said the other man. “I know it’s a filthy night, but this isn’t an inn. Everyone’s abed.”

He must look even worse than he’d feared, Sebastian thought. “I didn’t…”

“I suppose you can sleep in the hayloft,” the man interrupted in a more sympathetic tone. “I’ll tell them. Mind you wash at the pump first. In the morning, go around that way.” He pointed to a low entrance on the other side of the stable yard. Sebastian hadn’t noticed it before. “They’ll feed you in the kitchen before you go on your way.”

The last was said firmly, rather the way Sebastian would have spoken to a homeless rambler who showed up at Langford. Who was this? He appeared to be only a few years beyond boyhood, but he spoke with easy authority. There was something familiar about him, but Sebastian couldn’t put a finger on what it was. How he wished he could simply slip by him and escape to his bedchamber. “I’m Gresham,” he said instead.

“What?” The man raised his lantern higher and stared.

“Sebastian Gresham.”

There was a pause. “The fellow who’s engaged to Georgina?” the other said incredulously then. “The duke’s son?”

“That’s the one.”

“What are you doing out here at this time of night? Covered in mud?”

“I went for a walk.” Sebastian was well aware that this sounded idiotic.

“A walk?” He stared. Sebastian waited for more questions. Instead the younger man said, “Has my father overwhelmed you?”

“Uh, er.” Who was his father? What the deuce was going on?

“I’m Georgina’s brother, you know.” The newcomer came over and held out a hand. “Edgar Stane. Came up from university for the wedding.”

Now Sebastian got it. The young man resembled his mother. He had the same round face, glossy brown hair, and slightly prominent blue eyes. He was above middle height, however, and burly like his father. Sebastian showed him his mud-caked palm.

“Ah.” Stane’s hand dropped. “Come, let’s go in. I’m soaked, and you’re… Whatever have you been doing?”

“Slipped and fell,” said Sebastian. They walked in side by side. Sebastian tried to keep the bits of mud falling from his coattails to a minimum.

“So, ah, is all well here?” asked his companion. He sounded like a man who wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but felt duty bound to inquire.

“It was,” answered Sebastian bitterly. “Until Miss Byngham convinced them to hold this blasted ritual.” He was too tired to dissemble. Or to explain very clearly, he realized.

Edgar Stane stopped just inside the castle entry. “Ritual? What sort of…? Does this have something to do with my father’s latest studies?”

“It’s not Hindu. Mitra says definitely not.”

“Mitra is the scholar from India? Papa wrote me about him. But what does Joanna Byngham have to do with it?”

“You may well ask,” replied Sebastian gloomily. He was suddenly tired and very cold. He just wanted to get upstairs and out of his muddy evening clothes.

The younger man eyed him. “It seems a good deal has been happening.”

“You have no idea.”

“Right. Well, best I get one, eh?” He seemed remarkably unworried.

Sebastian headed for the stairs.

“I’m going to raid the kitchen larder,” Edgar Stane added. “Strictly forbidden. But it’s always easier to ask forgiveness than permission, isn’t it? Care to come along?” His grin was engaging.

Sebastian liked his attitude. He wondered if he had found a possible ally. “There might be some hot water in the kitchen,” he ventured.

“Reservoir beside the stove, if I remember correctly.”

It would keep the mud out of his bedroom. Sebastian gave a nod and followed the heir of Stane into the back premises. He’d let Sykes explain his master’s filthy garments in a pile on the kitchen hearth, he decided. His valet was endlessly inventive.





Seventeen


When he came downstairs to breakfast the following morning, Sebastian discovered that no one was going to ask him if he intended to play his part in the ritual. Everyone simply assumed that he was. Indeed, all questions and objections had apparently been overborne by the manic energy of the event’s proponents. Or forgotten in the excitement surrounding the arrival of Edgar Stane.