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The Dark Viscount. Deborah Simmons
Читать онлайн.Название The Dark Viscount
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Автор произведения Deborah Simmons
Издательство HarperCollins
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?’
Barto thought about Sydony with something akin to chagrin, a sensation that rarely visited him. Of course, he had stepped out of the bounds of good taste by mentioning the night he had spent with her, no matter how young they had been at the time. But the look on her face when he mentioned that night had startled him. He had not meant to draw blood with the reference, merely prove that he could survive without the usual comforts.
‘She seems to think I can’t do without my luxuries,’ Barto said, a tinge of asperity creeping into his voice. Did she think him a pampered, fat, titled buffoon, like the Prince Regent himself? The contempt lurking in her green eyes had managed to pierce his usual aplomb, making him want to respond in kind.
But the contempt hadn’t always been there. When she rushed from the house, Barto had seen a flash of surprised recognition and pleasure before she threw herself at him. For a moment, the years melted away, and Barto knew an urge to gather her to him and weep—both with the joy of reunion and with a grief that he had not even revealed to his mother.
The feelings were wholly unexpected, but when Sydony Marchant put her arms around him, Barto wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her embrace. It had taken all his discipline not to keep her close, but his will had held. He was thankful for that discipline when he considered what had followed: a complete turn of mood that culminated in her apparent disapproval of his plans.
‘It could be that she doesn’t want me to stay here,’ Barto mused aloud.
‘Any idea why?’
Barto shook his head. She had turned and stalked away without the slightest attempt at gracious excuses, leaving him to watch the slight sway of her hips, a sure indication that Sydony Marchant had grown up. Although he had glimpsed her at the funerals, he’d been too sunk in his own misery to notice. But now, in much closer quarters, the changes were very apparent.
Sydony had always been boyish, a smaller, more delicate version of Kit. Although she was still slender, she could not be mistaken for a lad with those round breasts, gently curved hips, and that luxurious mop of hair. Mop was right, as her tomboyish ways still left her looking more dishevelled than any proper female should. So why did he feel a sudden interest in seeing her even more dishevelled?
Barto frowned at the thought, which he found both repugnant and vaguely incestuous. Although they had no blood ties, a childhood spent in close contact with Sydony Marchant made her seem like a relation, which would explain his fury over her being here alone and unprotected.
He glanced at Hob. ‘Did you find anyone else around?’
‘No, sir. Not a soul, and it looks like the place has been abandoned for a while.’
Had Barto known of their solitude when she threw her arms about him…But he hadn’t, and he had been chased by too many females intent upon the promise of a comfortable living and a title not to wonder whether Sydony would presume upon their old acquaintance to secure her future. The idea seemed laughable now, after the abrupt change in her attitude, but what had caused the change? His failure to return her embrace?