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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?’
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? Kit’s arrival? His subsequent plans to stay? Or was it something more sinister?
Barto’s expression hardened at the reminder of his mission, and he turned his full attention to Hob. ‘We’re going to need some help…’
To Sydony’s surprise, they soon had more supplies and the crates that had been shipped ahead, as well as a cook, a maid and a man to help with unloading, lifting and general repairs. Throughout the afternoon and evening, Sydony hurried from one task to another, consulting with the new servants and doing what she could to make the place more presentable, but her mind kept drifting back to one thing. And it wasn’t the maze.
Try as she might to dismiss him from her mind, Barto lingered in her awareness, drawing her attention like a nasty boil of which she could not be rid. It seemed that everything she did made her consider his reaction, which only annoyed her further. She was torn between her desire to improve the house, so that he not disparage it, and a wish that he be as uncomfortable as possible, so that he would leave.
Even Sydony recognised the impulses as contradictory.
She acknowledged that the manor had begun to look better already. Cleaning and airing and light did much to improve the place, though Kit would not hear of removing the ivy that clung to the exterior. He claimed the vines added character, while Sydony thought they just made the building dark and eerie.
Barto said nothing. For Kit’s sake, Sydony had hoped that the easy familiarity that once existed between the neighbours would return, but that had not happened. The friendship of two boys who seemed to share each other’s thoughts had been replaced by a mannered distance imposed by Barto.
He stalked around the their home with a coldness and arrogance that Sydony found unbearable. Although she told herself that she was outraged on Kit’s behalf, she was more angry with herself, for noticing the man at all.
Indeed, far from cheering her, the presence of their former neighbour seemed only to heighten the sensation of being cut off from all she knew, the servants, friends and villagers, the country dances and small social pleasures of her former life. Although remotely situated in their new location, Sydony was surprised they had received no invitations from the local gentry or welcoming visits from neighbours. But for Mr. Sparrowhawk and the arrival of the servants, it was as if the Mar-chants were alone.
And now, as they sat in the hastily cleaned dining hall, Barto’s presence cast a pall over the table, making her tense and aware of all her shortcomings, or, rather, the house’s shortcomings.
Oblivious to any undercurrents, Kit chatted away about the place, while Barto contributed his opinions. To Sydony’s surprise, he appeared to be very knowledgeable about managing property. When had he come to care about drainage and tenant farmers and enclosure laws? Although he probably could use all that information to run the family seat, she thought he’d lost all interest in his future responsibilities when he went off to school. Were the rumours of him being sunk in dissipations in London just that, ill-founded gossip?
‘Are you living at Hawthorne Park, then?’ she asked.
Barto’s dark gaze skimmed over her, as though he had forgotten her very existence. ‘Yes. I have been home for some time.’
His cursory response irked her, and Sydony was tempted to ask why he had not paid them a visit before they moved. But the maid entered the room at that moment with another course.
‘The cook is to be commended,’ Kit said, as he dug into a piece of boiled beef. He was happy with simple fare and lots of it. Although he was nearly as tall as Barto, Sydony swore he was still growing. ‘I think she will do nicely for us.’
‘But she won’t stay above a month,’ Sydony said. ‘She is moving away to live with her daughter.’ Or, at least, that’s what she had told Sydony when pressed. The woman was terse and uncommunicative, so Sydony could only hope for someone more agreeable in the future.
‘Have you talked with all of them, the new servants?’ Barto asked.
‘Of course,’ Sydony said. Did he think her a useless henwit? Or did he imagine that Kit had suddenly developed an interest in running a household? As the sole female, she had been in charge of their home for years.
Barto did not glance her way when she answered, but looked to Kit. ‘It appears that Mr Sparrowhawk was not exaggerating his difficulties, for they seem rather reluctant to be here.’
‘The servants?’ Kit asked, with a look of surprise.
Sydony frowned. ‘That is not true. The maid is fresh and eager for her first position.’
‘Perhaps because she does not know the house, but the other two are less enthusiastic,’ Barto said.
Sydony blinked at him. Had he always been so obnoxious, or had he acquired the habit when living in London? Perhaps it was his newly elevated rank that made him an expert on every subject, even her own staff.
‘I don’t know about the cook or the maid, but I talked to the fellow, Newton, and he did seem a bit peculiar,’ Kit admitted. ‘When I said we needed someone to clear brush, he was quite adamant in refusing any outside work.’
‘Perhaps he has an aversion to fresh air,’ Sydony said.
Barto ignored her jibe, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Apparently, there’s some sort of history to the house, but I can’t discover exactly what. No one is very talkative.’
Although Barto’s words confirmed her own suspicions, Sydony did not want him ruining Kit’s pride of ownership with vague insinuations. ‘I think I should appreciate a house that has been talked about,’ she said.
‘Most definitely, especially if there is a delicious scandal attached,’ Kit said with a wicked grin. ‘Perhaps an illicit affair.’
Sydony nearly choked at the thought of Great-aunt Elspeth being involved in something so tawdry, but she fell in with the spirit of the moment. ‘I think I would prefer a duel,’ she suggested.
‘Or orgies along the lines of the Devil’s Club.’
‘Kit!’ Sydony sputtered in shock, while her brother laughed at her outrage. But Barto didn’t join in the play. Apparently, he was too dignified to engage in such silliness, because he looked annoyed, if not affronted, by their amusement. But he said nothing further on the history of the house, and Sydony was glad when the conversation veered in another direction.
She couldn’t help wondering just what Barto had discovered, but even if there were some sort of story to the house, what could they do about it? They could not sell, except at a great loss, so they must live here and make the best of it.
And they did have the maze, Sydony thought as she remembered the mysterious labyrinth that Aunt Elspeth had so disliked. Suddenly, Sydony wondered if the hired man’s aversion to exterior jobs had any relation to the overgrown hedges behind the house. At the thought, she drew in a sharp breath, and was glad to see that her brother was too deep in conversation with Barto to notice. Of course, if she suggested such a thing, Kit would say her imagination was running wild, a result of reading too many Gothic novels. But didn’t they always have a dark, mysterious villain?
Sydony glanced surreptitiously at Barto. Handsome, cool and stiffly polite, he was too elegant and collected to qualify. No doubt, he would be at ease even in the finest circles, which made her wonder what was he doing in their dining hall. Why did he insist on staying? And why would a nobleman concern himself with another’s servants at all, let alone question them about the house he was visiting?
Sydony frowned, unable to piece together the puzzle that was Viscount Hawthorne, but she had the feeling, just as she’d had with the solicitor, that there was something their old friend wasn’t saying.
Although it was late by the time Sydony heard Kit come to bed, she drew him into her room for a private conversation, their first real chance to talk since he had left the house this morning. Pulling him over to a seat by the windows, she listened as he spoke enthusiastically about his plans for the property and Barto’s suggestions. But at the mention of the new viscount, Sydony studied her brother closely.
‘Don’t you think it odd that he arrived here immediately after we did when he hasn’t approached us for years?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Kit said. Leaning back in the upholstered chair, he crossed his arms behind his head and stretched out his long legs. ‘He’s been busy. And you heard him—his mother had only just informed him of our move.’
‘But common courtesy requires that a visitor, especially an uninvited one, wait until their hosts are settled into the new residence.’
