The Dark Viscount

Sydony’s opinion of the man rose immediately. If someone was interested in the house, she and Kit might take the money from the sale and return home, or at least to their old neighbourhood, where they could buy or lease something else. Sydony leaned forwards, hardly daring to hope, but when Mr Sparrowhawk named an amount, she slumped in her seat.

‘Why, that’s not half the worth of the house, let alone the property,’ Kit said.

‘Yes, well, I am only reporting it.’

‘Perhaps if we formally put the place up for sale, we might get a more reasonable offer,’ Sydony suggested, without glancing at Kit.

Mr Sparrowhawk cleared his throat. ‘As you can see, Oakfield isn’t quite what it used to be. And yet, as you say, it is still worth a goodly amount. But there aren’t many buyers around here with that kind of money.’ His bony hands gripped the satchel tightly.

There was something he wasn’t saying, Sydony could tell. ‘Is there anything wrong with the house?’

The solicitor appeared flustered by the direct question. ‘Well, um, there are many old stories, as I’m sure you’ll hear. I wouldn’t pay them any mind. You are young and just may turn the place around.’

‘From what?’ Sydony asked.

She could hear Kit stir beside her. ‘From a bit of neglect, which I’m sure we can remedy,’ he said, his firm tone obviously meant to silence her.

Sydony ignored it. ‘Can you tell me why all the windows facing the gardens have been secured, either with boards or shutters that have been nailed shut?’

Mr Sparrowhawk’s beady eyes looked as though they might pop from his head, and for a moment Sydony thought he would not answer at all. But after a long pause, he cleared his throat. ‘Did you know Miss Marchant well?’ he asked.

Sydony shook her head. They had rarely seen their father’s Aunt Elspeth, though she sent them religious tracts, rather…well…religiously on their birthdays.

‘She seemed a very pious woman,’ Kit noted.

‘Yes. Quite devout,’ Mr. Sparrowhawk said, looking down at his hands. ‘But she was also getting on in years and developed some peculiar notions.’

Sydony eyed the man expectantly.

He lifted a finger to loosen his collar. ‘Yes, well, as to the windows, I understand that Miss Marchant didn’t care for the maze. She claimed she saw lights bobbing about in it and did not want to look upon it. She was a superstitious woman.’

‘But why would she be superstitious of a maze?’ Kit asked, obviously bewildered.

‘As I said, she developed some peculiar notions,’ the solicitor repeated. ‘I understand that she thought someone was breaking into the house, though she reported no thefts. And there was talk of her wanting to burn all the books, though I don’t know whether she did or not.’

With that, Mr Sparrowhawk stood, apparently having said all he intended on the subject. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to conduct this afternoon.’

He slipped out of the library quite neatly, but was prevented from reaching the door by Barto, who stood as though waiting for an introduction.

The change that came over the bird-like fellow at the mention of Barto’s title annoyed Sydony, even though she should have expected as much. In childhood, there had been little distinction among the three companions, except for their treatment by some of the servants. But now the gulf between them was obvious as the formerly reticent solicitor fawned over Barto in a manner Sydony could only term sickening.

‘Mr Marchant was just showing me through his new acquisition, but since you were in charge of the estate, I’m sure you’ll want to go through the house with him to make sure that all is as it should be,’ Barto said.

Mr Sparrowhawk looked as though he would like nothing less, but dared not refuse a viscount. And so all four of them began trudging through the residence, the solicitor glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone else to appear. A member of the nonexistent staff, perhaps? Sydony was beginning to wonder whether prolonged association with Oakfield directly affected the mind.

Her own was a muddle of annoyance with the general state of things, worry over staffing the large house, and homesickness. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to clear her thoughts as she followed after them, listening to Barto ask the questions of a knowledgeable property owner.

Just when the solicitor seemed on the verge of escape, the viscount held him up with another pointed question concerning the dearth of servants. Red-faced and bowing, Mr Sparrowhawk dutifully promised to send someone out immediately.

‘Very good. I shall hold you personally responsible, then?’ Barto asked, in a tone that Sydony barely recognised as his. It was not loud or forceful, but ripe with the expectation of having his wishes fulfilled. Unsaid, but implicit, was the promise of swift and merciless retribution, should he not be obeyed.

That silent vow she remembered from her childhood, as his will and her stubbornness had often clashed. Not without her own resources, Sydony’s revenge had often involved public embarrassment of the young peer, the recollection of which made her flush with mortification.

Now, however, she was sullenly grateful for his expertise. There was no denying that Barto got things done. He had power, but that was not all of it. He was more determined than Kit, who had a casual outlook on life. Why demand a trip through the house? her brother would ask, if she pressed him. What did it matter? It really didn’t, but still, she was grateful to the viscount.

Anyone who could find her servants was someone to be reckoned with. But why had Barto gone out of his way to help them? Sydony could not think it kindness that drove him or even any pledge to his mother. What, then?

As if reading her mind, he turned toward her and Kit. ‘I’ll have my groomsmen stable the horses. And my valet can ready a room, with your permission?’

Sydony could only gape while Kit agreed.

‘You’re staying?’ she said.

Barto nodded, a dark brow lifting at her question.

‘But there isn’t any staff or foodstuffs!’

‘Actually, I did bring some supplies in from the village,’ Kit said, turning to follow Mr Sparrowhawk out the door.

Sydony was left standing with a smug-looking Barto. The curve of those full lips was slight, but enough to remind her of his small victories over her in their youth. Sydony’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well. I hope you are comfortable, my lord,’ she said.

‘Surely it can be no worse than the time we spent lost in the wilds of Sherwood Forest,’ he said, that lovely mouth quirking at the corner.

Sydony blinked, first in confusion, and then with recognition as the long-forgotten incident returned to her mind. That was when Barto was going through his Robin Hood spell. Having read all that he could upon the subject, he gathered his small band together for excursions into the vast tracts of wood that were part of his birthright.

Sydony never wanted to be Maid Marian, so she took up a variety of roles, including Friar Tuck. That day, Kit had twisted his ankle, and so Little John had limped home, but Barto and Sydony had gone on. He had dared her to follow, and she would not refuse a challenge.

He never admitted they were lost, of course. And when darkness fell, he made them a bed of leaves and told her that this time she was Maid Marian, captured and forced to spend the night with the brigands, but she was not to worry as he would keep her safe. And Sydony had never felt so secure as with the boy she fought with and tagged after, unwanted.

Suddenly, Sydony wanted to weep for that boy and for a sweet memory that the man he was now had ruined. But she would not allow how much it had meant to her, would not give him that further triumph, and so she again blinked, banishing the moisture that threatened her eyes.

‘Indeed, for at least we shall have a roof over our heads,’ she said. The words came out brittle and hoarse, with more emotion than she intended. And just as if they were children again, Sydony was seized with an urge to push him hard for his taunt. She could happily imagine knocking him to the stone floor, his elegant garb damaged along with his pride.

But, besides the fact that she was too old for such behaviour, Sydony suspected that he would not be so easy to move these days. And something else made her wary of touching him again, something that ran far deeper than her battered emotions: a fear that this time she might not let go.

Chapter Three

Bartholomew Hawthorne, sixth Viscount Hawthorne, waited until his former neighbour was well out of sight before slipping off to the stables, where he found Hob keeping watch. Ostensibly, Hob was a groomsman, but his expertise went far beyond handling horses. His shadowy background of pugilism and military service, rumoured to include some spying for his Majesty’s government, was just what Barto wanted after recent events.

‘Well, my lord?’ Hob asked, from a darkened corner of the old stables.

‘Well, indeed,’ Barto said, looking around at the building that was even more neglected than the house. ‘Would you like a room in the servants’ quarters, though I dare say they aren’t much better?’

‘No. I’d prefer to keep to myself, me and Jack,’ Hob said, referring to the man who was sorting through some old tack. Jack had been part of the hire, as Hob didn’t want anyone else aware of his movements. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘Not much,’ Barto said. ‘If they’ve come into a fortune, it certainly isn’t visible.’

‘Hmm. The fellow’s an open sort. What about the lady?’