Читать книгу The Dark Viscount - Deborah Simmons - Страница 8

Sydony returned to the house with a new purpose. Soon she was searching each room that looked over the rear of the property, but every window was either shuttered or boarded over. Even the doors in the drawing room that led to the crumbling terrace had been blocked. She could wait until Kit returned, but was too impatient for a glimpse of what lay beyond the gardens. Although the maze was nothing except a mass of tall shrubbery at ground level, from higher up in the house, she should be able to view the pattern itself.

Turning on her heel, Sydony decided to look for a crowbar or some tool that she could use to pry free the wood panels. But when she reached the stairs, she remembered that last night Kit had pointed out battlements, rooftop outlooks that were not uncommon in medieval dwellings. A giddy excitement rushed through her at the prospect of standing above with the entire labyrinth laid out before her, its secrets finally revealed.

Although Sydony glanced about for a way upwards, the main staircase did not resume its path, and a quick reconnoitre revealed no other steps. There had to be a way to reach the roof from inside the house, and such a stair should have an opening on every floor, yet all Sydony could find was a door that might or might not take her to the top. And it was locked.

Her new search for a key sent her back down to the ground floor, where she discovered two more locked doors. She was hot and dusty by the time she wandered into what looked like a library—without the books. The room was dark, heavily panelled and lined with shelves, but they were bare, much to Sydony’s disappointment.

With a sigh, she told herself she had no time to read any way. In fact, she ought to be cataloguing the contents of the house or taking a broom to it instead of chasing after phantoms. And, yet, as new owners, shouldn’t she and Kit be able to view every facet of the building, including whatever was closed off?

With that thought in mind, Sydony renewed her search for keys and tugged at the drawers of a tall secretary that was one of the few furnishings in the room. At first glance, they appeared to contain only old letters and receipts. Still, she checked every nook and cranny, digging through the papers until her fingers brushed against metal. With a cry of delight, Sydony pulled out a ring of keys that had probably been carelessly tossed into the drawer.

She stood, intent upon hurrying upstairs at once, but fought against the compulsion. Logic dictated that she try the nearest doors first, so she sought out those on the ground floor. And if one opened on to a servants’ stair that led all the way to the battlements, so much the better.

Unfortunately, it was not that simple. As Sydony stood in front of the first door, trying key after key, her impatience grew. But just as she was tempted to turn aside, she heard the click of the lock that heralded her success. Still, she had to struggle with the door, which seemed to have swollen in the wet weather. Putting all her weight behind her efforts, she leaned back and pulled until the heavy wood swung open with a banging and knocking sound that seemed to ring throughout the house.

Sydony peered into the gaping dark as the smell of cool, damp air greeted her. But just as she leaned forwards, something else rushed out of the blackness, and she fell back with a shriek. Even as she told herself that the thing was probably only a bird, her dislike of the other distinct possibility—that it was a bat—sent her running as far away as possible. Uncertain whether she was being pursued, Sydony raced through the rooms toward the front of the house, flung open the door, and, without even blinking, launched herself at the man who was standing there.

‘Barto!’

Halted by his tall form, Sydony breathed his name against the soft lapel where she buried her face. A vague memory of security blossomed into a reassuring sense of safety. It was no wonder, for the hard body she clung to was as strong and solid as an oak. It smelled good, too, like horses and leather and something else. She had never noticed Barto’s scent before, but then, she hadn’t been this close to him in years.

And with that thought, Sydony realised just how stiffly her rescuer was standing beneath her grip, his chin lifted and his arms rigid at his sides. Far from giving her comfort, he was uncomfortable himself, a discovery that sent embarrassment knifing through her. Sydony stepped back, away from him. Yet even as she loosed her hold, Sydony felt a pang, as though she were letting go of something vital and precious.

Or perhaps one night in this medieval monstrosity had completely unhinged her mind. It had certainly affected her behaviour. Trying to regain her good sense, Sydony drew a deep breath of autumn air that bespoke recent rain and dead leaves, instead of Bartholomew Hawthorne.

‘Pardon me,’ she said, though her behaviour was unpardonable. It might have been accepted, or at least tolerated when she was a small girl tagging after her brother and his best friend. But that friend had drifted away and had grown into a man. And not just any man, mind you, but a lord of the realm: Viscount Hawthorne.

Sydony could feel her face flame. ‘Something gave me a fright, a bird probably,’ she muttered. But even as she spoke, she knew how ridiculous that must sound to someone who had once known her well. She had been resolutely fearless in her younger years, and now she was running from a bird?

Barto’s cool gaze flicked over her, making Sydony raise a hand to her hair. Something had flown at her, for it was in disarray that no amount of surreptitious smoothing could remedy. Under her visitor’s impas-sionate scrutiny, she realised just how unkempt she must appear. Her simple day gown was mussed and dirty, and smudges marred her skin. All she needed was an apron to complete her impersonation of a scullery maid. Still, there was no need for Barto to look at her in such a condescending fashion. Stung, Sydony raised her chin.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked baldly.

Instead of appearing dismayed by the question, Barto simply lifted a dark brow, as though remarking on her poor manners. When had he become so aloof? Sydony wondered. Even more disconcerting, when had he become so attractive? Barto had always been handsome, but then, so was Kit. Girls had always gaped at them, but Sydony had taken little notice. Until now.

Had he grown into his face, maturing into this masculine beauty, or had familiarity blinded her to his looks? If so, that familiarity was long gone. Sydony had seen him at her father’s funeral and at his father’s, as well, but only for brief moments, and before that, it had been years since she and her brother had spent long, careless days in his company.

He was tall now, towering over her, despite her own height, and his shoulders were wide. His deep brown hair was burnished and well cut, although a little too long to be fashionable. But it was his face, at once known and yet different, that made Sydony’s heart beat faster. Unfortunately, its dark perfection was marred by the mocking tilt of his lips, which told her he was well aware of her study.

‘My mother said that you had moved. She misses you, of course, and was naturally concerned that your new home be as you’d hoped,’ he said, finally, in answer to her question.

‘Well, it isn’t,’ Sydony said, irritated by the glint in his eye. Barto probably knew all too well just how handsome he was, and she refused to flatter him with any further study.

‘The residence is deserted, with no staff at all, so we could hardly provide the hospitality to which you are accustomed, my lord Viscount,’ Sydony noted. She had intended to scorn his fine title, but the oddness of addressing Barto by his father’s name took the force from her words.

Barto’s dark brows lowered, and Sydony remembered his temper, although she saw no crack in his elegant façade. ‘I assure you that I am not made of spun sugar,’ he said, coolly. ‘Nor will I melt away without the benefit of luxuries.’

Sydony doubted that. Once upon a time, she had fed this man mud pies, but now he was used to the best of everything, and she could not even offer him biscuits. If she had seen some hint of her former companion, Sydony would have given little thought to the change in circumstances, but there was no warmth in this meeting. And if he treated her so coldly, what if he looked down his aristocratic nose at Kit, flush with excitement over his property?

‘I’m sorry, Ba—my lord,’ Sydony swiftly amended. ‘We are not at home to visitors, as yet. But do give your mother my greatest regards and tell her that we are well and arrived safely.’

Sydony tendered a terse smile, but Barto obviously would not be dismissed on the threshold like some tradesman. Again, though the exterior remained unchanged, Sydony saw the flash in those dark eyes, and she was tempted to shut the door, rather than face his displeasure. Yet she stood her ground, her own temper flaring at the untenable position he had put her in. A gentleman would take her rebuff with good grace.

But Barto had never been a gentleman.

Well mannered when he chose, he was too used to getting his own way to have the natural charm of someone like Kit. And right now the set of his mouth made her suspect he was going to argue with her, rather than give way. She was wondering how on earth to get rid of him when the decision was taken out of her hands.

Indeed, they had been so intent upon each other that neither one had noticed Kit’s approach. But now Sydony heard the sound of a team driven a little too fast. No doubt Kit was concerned to see her alone with a visitor, for he slowed as soon as he neared Barto’s coach, the crest clearly visible. Jumping down from the carriage, he bounded up the walkway with an grin of delight. Sydony tried to catch his eye, to warn him against effusive greetings, but it was too late.

‘Barto!’ Kit exclaimed, reaching out to thump the new viscount on the back in the friendly gesture of boon companions. ‘This is a welcome surprise!’

Good-natured Kit probably took no notice, but Sydony saw the stiffness in Barto’s stance, as well as his blank expression, and she bristled. If he had no intention of pursuing an old acquaintance, then why did he not take his leave? Surely his mother would demand no more.

‘I’d invite you to stay, but I’m afraid we’re a bit at sixes and sevens here,’ Kit said.

‘So your sister explained.’

‘But I stopped by the solicitor’s, and he is to follow shortly,’ Kit said, turning to Sydony. ‘I insisted he come out here as I didn’t want to leave you alone any longer than necessary.’

Barto shot her a strange look. ‘You were here alone?’

‘I told you the place was deserted,’ Sydony snapped.

A dark brow lifted, perhaps a signal of astonishment; in the world of Viscount Hawthorne, ‘deserted’ probably meant a staff of twenty.

Ignoring the exchange, just as he had their past squabbles, Kit continued, ‘And he has the household goods we sent on ahead, which he didn’t think should be stored here.’

‘Certainly not when the door is open to all and sundry,’ Sydony said.

‘And you here alone,’ Barto said, his lips curving downwards. He eyed Sydony in a manner that disconcerted her, but went unnoticed by her brother.

‘Ah, well, you know these country folks,’ Kit said, with a shrug. He turned to Barto. ‘Come in. I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything, but you must see the palatial estate since you are here.’

Not trusting herself to witness Barto’s disdain, Sydony hurried off to make herself more presentable. She refused to change her gown, but she shook out the skirt, washed off the smudges, and fixed her hair. It would have to do.

Exiting her room, Sydony found the two men before the locked door on the first floor. ‘See here, Syd,’ Kit said. ‘We were hoping this might lead up to the battlements,’ he added, although Barto looked as though he harboured no such desire.

Having been distracted by the viscount since his arrival, Sydony abruptly remembered her earlier preoccupation with the maze, and her excitement returned. ‘I found a set of keys,’ she said, pulling the ring from her pocket with a flourish.

Barto raised a dark brow yet again, which probably meant her enthusiasm was unladylike. But Sydony ignored him and turned to her brother. ‘In fact, I had begun to try them on the locked doors when a bat flew out of the cellar at me.’

Aware of her irrational fear, Kit eyed her closely. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, having long since stopped tormenting her with creatures, both real and fake.

‘Yes. Luckily, our guest arrived to rescue me,’ Sydony said, her tone laced with sarcasm. She declined to elaborate on the circumstances, which could only cause her renewed embarrassment. But, hopefully, Barto realised that she had not run into his arms in avid greeting or with hopes of pursuing their acquaintance.

While the two men watched, Sydony began trying the keys in the lock, one by one, but none fit. ‘How odd,’ she murmured, struck once more by the peculiarities of their new home.

Meanwhile, Kit took the ring from her and attempted the task himself, in the manner of males everywhere. Since brute strength was not required, Sydony thought his efforts wasted, but said nothing. After all, he was her brother and much beloved.

‘The place has been shut up for a long time,’ he noted, when his attempts failed, as well. ‘For all we know, some rooms might be blocked off for a reason.’

‘Such as an infestation of bats?’ Sydony suggested.

Kit grinned, but she didn’t bother to glance at Barto, whose circle probably outlawed smiles as beneath them.

‘The solicitor will have a full set,’ Kit said, handing the ring back to her.

‘Not if it’s the same one he used to lock up the house.’

As usual, Kit ignored her dry comment, but Barto gave her a studied look. Perhaps, if she truly offended his arrogant sensibilities, he would leave. Momentarily diverted, Sydony considered ways in which to do so, but she was hard pressed to come up with something worse than what she had already done—running into his arms to clutch at him like a long-lost lover.

Lover? Sydony froze. She had no idea why that word came to mind. She had run to him just as she would have her brother or her father or perhaps even the younger version of Barto—for comfort from a fright. Any other interpretation was ludicrous.

Her face suddenly flushed, Sydony turned and headed down the staircase. To her relief, when she reached the open area, the solicitor had arrived, and she had a good excuse to avoid her old neighbour as she and Kit adjourned to the library.

As Kit led them inside, Sydony glanced curiously at Mr Sparrowhawk, who looked more like a sparrow than a hawk, except perhaps for his large hook nose. Otherwise, he was small and bony and rather drab. He also appeared to be nervous, his dark little eyes behind spectacles darting about, as if he expected something to jump out of the shadows towards him at any moment.

Maybe he knew about the bats.

Sitting down on the very edge of a straight-backed chair, his hands clutching the satchel in his lap, the solicitor cleared his throat. ‘Well, obviously, you found the place without any problem,’ he said.

Or assistance, Sydony wanted to add.

‘As I made clear in our correspondence, as your father’s son and heir, you, Mr Marchant, are now the owner of the property of Oakfield, which includes a manor house, stables, various outbuildings, gardens, orchards and a substantial amount of acreage, formerly in the possession of one Elspeth Marchant. Here is a complete list, as well as the various accounts available to you.’

The solicitor presented papers for Kit’s signature, impatiently tapping a finger while her brother read through them all. He seemed intent upon concluding his business rapidly; when he gathered up the documents, Sydony leaned forwards.

‘Do you have a set of keys for us?’ she asked.

Mr Sparrowhawk looked startled, whether by the question or Sydony’s presence, she could not guess.

‘The building was unlocked and unattended when we arrived, and since you are holding some of our goods, I thought you might have a set of keys, as well,’ she explained.

‘I do,’ he replied, as if her words had reminded him of the fact. Reaching into his satchel, he handed over a heavy ring to Kit, seeming glad to be rid of it.

Mr Sparrowhawk then cleared his throat. ‘I apologise for missing your arrival,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I confused the time.’ He glanced down, as though unable to look at them, and Sydony wondered just how successful the man could be.

‘And the servants?’

Mr Sparrowhawk eyed his knuckles intently. ‘I did make an effort to find you some staff, but without knowledge of your circumstances and needs, I hesitated to—’

Sydony cut him off. ‘We need someone immediately, Mr Sparrowhawk, two housemaids, at least, and a cook.’

‘And a groomsman,’ Kit added.

‘It is a rather remote location,’ the solicitor muttered, shaking his head.

‘But I assume it was staffed before? What happened to the former employees?’ Sydony asked.

Mr Sparrowhawk frowned. ‘I’m not certain, but I shall make inquiries.’

‘As well as send on the rest of our household goods?’

He nodded tersely, moved even closer to the edge of his chair, as though anxious to make his escape, then paused. ‘I do have some other business to present to you,’ he said. ‘As your solicitor, I am bound to report that I have received an offer on the property.’

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.