Deborah Simmons - The Dark Viscount

Uncertain whether she was being pursued, Sydony raced through the rooms towards 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.

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A former journalist, DEBORAH SIMMONSturned to fiction after a love of historical romances spurred her to write her own, HEART’S MASQUERADE, which was published in 1989. She has since written more than twenty-five novels and novellas, among them a USA TODAY bestselling anthology and two finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s annual RITA® competition. Her books have been published in 26 countries, including illustrated editions in Japan, and she’s grateful for the support of her readers throughout the world.

With thanks to my fellow author Terri Valentine for her support, encouragement, and friendship.

Sydony watched dark clouds skitter across the sky with a wary eye, aware that the approaching storm made for an ominous arrival at their new home. The heavens seemed bigger out here, the elements of nature more powerful, or perhaps it was just the strangeness of the countryside that gripped her as she gazed out the carriage window. Her brother Kit would say she read too many Gothic novels, yet there was no denying that their destination was a far cry from the neat brick house they had called home for so long.

The sad truth was that she and Kit were orphans—not the wretched sort forced into the workhouses, but orphans none the less. Their mother had passed away when they were still young children, and she was remembered fondly, if not well. But their father had died less than a year ago, and the wound was still fresh.

An especially deep rut in the road flung Sydony against her brother, and she was grateful for Kit’s solid presence. They had come to lean on each other more since the accident, by both choice and necessity. Their father had been a scholar—a man of books, not business—and, since his death, they had been forced to tighten their purses.

Although only two years Sydony’s senior, at nineteen Kit had kept a clear head. He had never succumbed to the lure of gambling or drinking to excess that made so many of his peers fools and paupers or worse. He might sometimes tease Sydony that she was their only real asset, a beauty who would fare well on the marriage mart, but they had neither the heart nor the funds for a Season in London.

So they had remained together, continuing to lease the house where they had lived with their father. But not long after his death, the owner pressed them for more money. Apparently, he was leery of two young people running a household, and, truth to tell, their various stipends and resources were stretched thin. But where were they to go?

It was then, when things looked rather dismal, that their sagging fortunes finally took a turn for the better. The news that they had inherited property from a distant relative seemed like a windfall. They sold off their furniture, packed up their belongings, and set out immediately for their new home. But now, as Sydony watched leaves chasing across the bleak landscape, denuded oaks stark against the sky, she wondered whether their circumstances had sunk even lower.

She caught sight of a sprawling stone structure rising in the distance just as the heavens burst. The storm was upon them, and so, now, was their future. Sydony drew a deep breath as she clung to her seat. The rough road that had seemed nearly impassable before was not improved by the downpour.

‘That must be Oakfield! Do you see it?’ Kit said, leaning forward and pointing eagerly.

‘Yes,’ Sydony murmured, squinting into the sheets of rain. ‘Though this hardly seems a promising welcome.’

Ever the optimist, Kit ignored her dismay. ‘Well, at least we’ve found the place before the road washes away.’

‘Now, that’s a lovely thought,’ Sydony said. Their lifelong neighbour Lady Elizabeth Hawthorne had warned them that the site sounded remote, but Sydony had not thought it beyond the reach of modern highways.

Kit laughed, and Sydony set aside her misgivings as the coach halted in a thunder of splashing hooves. Without waiting for the coachman, Kit pushed at the door, but the wind and rain were so fierce that he had to use some force to thrust it open. Heedless of the elements, he leapt down and turned towards her, his hand extended. But when Sydony stuck her head out, she faltered, blinking against the wetness and gaping at the scene before her.

The world outside was thick with the unnatural twilight of the storm, blinding rain making it hard to see beyond the feeble glow of the carriage lantern. But there was no mistaking the hulking darkness of a building that rose behind the figure of her brother, eerily forbidding, and yet somehow familiar, as if Sydony had seen it in dreams…

‘Syd!’ Kit yelled, and she turned her attention back to her brother. By the time her slippers touched the gravelled drive, her cloak was whipping around her andthehoodhad been thrown back from her face. Ducking, she held on to Kit’s hand as they dashed towards an arched entrance.

‘Look! It’s medieval,’ Kit shouted, pointing upwards, and Sydony lifted her face to see a vague outline of battlements. She paused, once again, to stare at the forbidding façade of old stone laced with even blacker shadows. Either it was crumbling to pieces or it was covered in some sort of growth that made for an altogether unpleasant aspect.

‘Hurry, before we’re both soaked,’ Kit urged, dragging Sydony inside.

It was too late for that. Sydony’s gown was already plastered to her legs, the cold and wet seeping into her bones. For once, she found it difficult to share her brother’s enthusiasm. Being male and of an age that sought excitement and new experiences, he viewed the move as a big adventure, while Sydony longed for the familiar and a routine that might have chafed before, but now would be welcomed.

As they stood under the archway, Kit banged upon the door, but there was no answer to their summons. When their coachman Henry deposited a trunk upon the doorstep, Kit waved him away. ‘See if you can find a stable around the back,’ he shouted over the storm.

Henry nodded and hurried back to the coach, obviously eager to locate a dry berth, while the Marchants were left standing before the massive doors, rattling the knocker.

‘Maybe they can’t hear us,’ Kit said.

The thought was no comfort to Sydony, who shivered under the onslaught of rain and glanced around her dismal surroundings. ‘It looks deserted,’ she said.

Indeed, it did, for no lights glowed warmly at the mullioned windows. The walkway was overgrown, as was the grass and shrubbery. The solicitor had written a warning that the house had not been kept up over the past few years and that additional staff would be needed. Now, as Sydony stood in the pouring rain, she pondered the exact meaning of ‘additional’.

Finally, Kit tried the door, which swung open after a brief struggle. Inside, all was dark and quiet, with little light filtering in from outside.

‘Hello?’ Kit called out. His voice echoed in the old-fashioned hall with its stone flags. Although open, the space smelled musty, and Sydony was struck by a vision of their cosy cottage with its wood floors, brightly painted walls and cheerful, airy windows. Despite her father’s dusty piles of books, it had always been filled with the scents of beeswax and flowers, fresh or dried.