Sybille's Lord

by Raven McAllan

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Raven McAllan

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-493-7

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To EP, especially the 'J's. JoAnne and Jay—you rock.

  To the Ravdor Chicks. Without you, I'd still be wondering what this book was going to be called.

  SYBILLE’S LORD

  Cursed Treasure, 2

  Raven McAllan

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Voices surrounded her, as they vied for her attention. All were familiar, bar two. They were the ones that worried her the most. Both spoke the same words but in oh so different tones.

  “We need to restore the family’s fortunes.” She could accept that. It was nothing less than the truth.

  “There is no such thing as a curse.” This statement bothered her, somewhat. After all her family had suffered so much bad luck.

  “Pay the price. The heart of ye child to be liftin’ the curse. Dare ye risk it?

  That she acknowledged was the crux of the matter. Dare they? With so much at stake.

  “Each of us must play our part.” Oh how she agreed. If only she could…

  “Sweet Sybille give yourself to me and all will be well...”

  That was the problem statement. Two voices. Different tones, different emphasis, and, she was sure, different endings. If only she could be certain what each offered. One might be familiar… but no… it couldn’t be him.

  “You won’t get away you know…”

  “Nooooo.” Sybille Birch sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding, her skin clammy and spots swam in front of her eyes. That dratted dream again. Why?

  Why now, when all she wanted was time to think. Time to decide what to do, to get out of the awful mess she was in.

  Sadly, Sybille knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. With a sigh, gusty enough to move the filmy drapes around her bed, she plumped up her pillows, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.

  Why me?

  Downstairs, in the main hallway of her parents’ town house, the old grandfather clock chimed five in the morning. As it had announced three o’clock when she climbed into bed, it was no wonder she was tired and irritable. Even the sweet scented bath her maid Maybelle had drawn for her hadn’t helped. Nor did the herb and lavender pomander Maybelle put under her pillow each night. Nothing seemed to help or to dispel her dreams, which, like a malevolent presence, teased and taunted her.

  Sybille gave up any notion of sleep and pondered the thought always uppermost in her mind. How she could help her family. She’d made a poor hand of it so far. In more ways than one.

  Damn Bankfoot. Not that she could only blame him. She was old enough to be responsible for her actions. No one had persuaded her to interact with Cornelius Bankfoot—well, except Bankfoot himself. And she could have, and should have said no. She was old enough, and ton-wise enough. No green girl in her first season.

  Sadly not confident, or forceful enough. Combined with which, Sybille had thought him to be an honorable man, and herself clever enough to hold her own. Now she knew better. She’d gambled and lost, and the upshot was she had to somehow pay the price or get out of the mess she’d landed herself in. Suddenly restless, she threw back the covers and went to her desk. She’d fought against it, but realistically she knew she had no other option. Sybille now understood what the romantic poets meant by a heavy heart.

  Mind made up, she dipped the quill into ink and began to write…

  ‘Dear Sir,

  I am writing to you to accept your generous offer.’

  With a sigh loud and heavy enough to make the candle flame flicker, Sybille put her pen down and cradled her head in her hands. Had it really come to this?

  ****

  Thomas Harold Omston, Lord Jeavons, passed his hat, cape, coat and cane to the smiling doorman and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows as he strolled into the boxing salon. Several of his fellow peers looked up from their sparring and hailed him as he passed them. Thomas, known as Thom to some of his closest friends, answered them absently. He had a lot on his mind, and hoped a sparring session with ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson might clear his mind. Or at least make him have his wits about him. There were so many things to ponder.

  Half an hour later he allowed the clarity had not happened. His ears rang and he was damned sure he’d have a bruise on his shoulder where Jackson had clipped him.

  “You’re away in another world, my lord,” Jackson told him as they toweled down. “I could have done you a serious injury if I’d been of a mind to. Never box when your attention is engaged elsewhere.”

  “True.” Thom rubbed his face with a pristine linen cloth and handed it to the attendant with a smiled word of thanks. “I had hoped to clear my mind, not confuse it.”

  “Ah, well, you gentlemen are all the same. Rush all over the place and never stop to smell the daisies, or the leather of a glove.” Jackson waved one of the gloves used in practice and training in the air, perilously near Thom’s face. Both knew if he had wanted to he would have hit the skin before Thom realized his intentions.

  “Nothing like this in your face to sharpen your wits,” Jackson said as he dropped the glove back into the ring. “Makes you remember that in your next fight it’ll be a knuckle in the mouth.”

  “I’d rather a steak.” Thom retied his cravat and let the assistant help him into coat. “Medium rare, and get my mouth bloody that way. Never mind, next time I‘ll get under your guard.”

  Jackson laughed and clapped him on the back. “You go on believing it, my lord.”

  Thom chuckled back and took his leave of Jackson, his helpers and his peers. The numbers of young bucks, who tried to get under Jackson’s guard and ‘pop a facer’ on him was legendary. As yet, no one had succeeded. Thom knew he never would. It didn’t bother him. He just needed a way to keep fit while parliament sat, and he resided in the capital. The pursuits available to gentlemen in the city were limited under the eagle eyes of the matriarchs of the ton. Riding sedately in the park, which he abhorred, was acceptable. Therefore any other amatory indulgences tended to be secret—or at least not spoken of openly. Thom could flirt and dally with the best of them, had in his time housed several mistresses, although only ever one at a time, and just ended one very successful liaison with a young widow. Now he had no interest entering into any arrangements, apart from with one lady, and that wouldn’t be underhand, or illicit—a task he acknowledged would not be easy. So far he hadn’t received any encouragement.

  I need a way to figure out my next move.

  He walked along St. James towards White’s, nodding to those passersby he knew. At this time of the day, most gentlemen were usually out of bed—even if not necessarily their own—riding on the Row, or catching up with the news in their clubs. The former bored him: that all too brief gallop was not enough for him. However, he hoped to do the latter. Only in his case it was one specific piece of news he wanted.

  He reached White’s, climbed the steps to the entrance and gave the usual pleasantries to the doorkeeper. “Morning Alberts. Is Lord Mitcham in residence?”

  “Came in not five minutes ago, m’lord.” The doorman smile
d. It was well known he approved of Thom, ever since Thom had offered Albert’s youngest a job as a stable lad at Comperly Hall, the Jeavons’s ancestral seat. “He said if you arrived he was in the library.”

  That suited Thom. The library at this time of day should be nigh on deserted.

  It was. Apart from Arthur Mitcham, the only other occupant was an elderly baronet, who sat at a table on the far side of the library from Mitcham, perusing a newspaper. The man harrumphed at regular intervals as he wrote copious notes.

  “What’s up with Caterham?” Thom asked as he pulled up a chair next to Arthur and accepted the brandy a footman offered him. “They’ll be charging him for ink next. I’ve never known him write more than a few lines in his life. Is he bosky?”

  “No, bothered about the Apocatharies Act, or some such thing. You know what an old woman he is.” Arthur glanced across the room. “He thinks if he fusses people will listen. He forgets you need to have something necessary to say and he doesn’t. Nor will he be interested in us. According to his muttering before you entered, everyone under thirty-five is a young whippersnapper with no mind nor sense.”

  Thom smiled. He was under the specified age and possessed both mind and sense. And the ability to run a large estate successfully, which he did. Luckily Caterham and his idiosyncrasies didn’t bother him.

  I have a little news,” Arthur informed his friend. “Not much, but a little. Sybille is as closed mouthed as a…a well, whatever is closed mouthed about what is going on. But believe me, something is worrying her. She is not herself. Why, Dare put a dead spider on her dinner plate and she just plucked it off and deposited it in a spare napkin. Normally she would have waited and put it in his soup, or worse.”

  That was so true. Sybille, in fact all the Birch women, easily stood up for themselves. Sybille’s attitude lately had been diametrically opposite.

  “I understand only too well. She plays her cards close to her chest, she always has. Pity. I’d like to know more about her state of mind.” Thom sipped his drink and enjoyed the fiery taste. Was it him who bothered her, or someone else? “No matter, I’ll find out and decide how to progress. Where are they later today?”

  Arthur was a confidant of all the Birch family.

  “Mijo and Sybille are at Jacqueline Grey’s musical nonsense this afternoon, Amalia is at a picnic with the Rowells, and Marielle, indisposed—allegedly. Tessa at the museum I believe, with the Aitken sisters and Cecily is still at her godmother’s. Then tonight, it’s Almack’s. Even Dare is forced to go, along with Theo. Dare says it is unfair, as every husband-hungry deb will make a beeline for him. Theo of course will do whatever Mijo asks.” Arthur ran through the activities of the Birch family rapidly. “I don’t know where Theo is.”

  Thom groaned. “Theo and Mijo are a perfect couple.” Who support me in my endeavors. “The only problem with them, is that their children know that their companionship and harmony is what a relationship should be and do not believe any one of us can give it to them.” He sipped his drink and wondered if a flagon would help him accept his evening entertainment. He thought not. “Lord, not Almack’s, heaven forbid. Gossiping biddies and encroaching mamas. Hopeful and silly debs and inferior entertainment. A night from purgatory. Ah Arthur, I’m sorry to put you through that.”

  “Eh? Me?” Arthur sputtered into the goblet he’d just picked up. “Oh, no, not me. I’m for cards at Watier’s.” He looked anywhere except at Thom. “Meldon is expecting me.”

  “After,” Thom said in an exorable manner. “Almack’s, weak orgeat and stale cakes. If you still have the will to live. Meldon will wait.”

  “Oh come on Thom, why?” Arthur groaned and went red, white and red again. “I have no skills with the ladies.”

  Thom grinned. “Except the Birch ladies.”

  “They aren’t interested in me. Therefore I can relax.”

  “So, if you can relax in their company, they are comfortable with you.” Thom sat back and crossed his legs. “That is to my benefit.”

  Arthur nodded. He now seemed resigned to where he would be spending his evening. “I hope you lose your fortune on ‘change. Or in Watier’s.”

  “Unlikely. I concentrate.”

  “True.”

  Arthur raised his eyes to look at the ceiling in mock exasperation. At least Thom hoped it was mock. They’d known each other long enough to always watch the other person’s back, and do it gladly. He hoped this wasn’t one demand too far.

  “You know?” Arthur said. “Even my mama gives me peace when I say I’m off to Birch House. I think she still harbors hope I will offer for one of them.”

  “Would you?” As long as it’s not my lady.

  Arthur blinked and burst out laughing. “Not an earthly chance. The Birch ladies are far too overpowering for my liking. If, or when I marry, I want a comfortable wife. One who puts me first, looks after my interests and my family. And who doesn’t overpower me. Any one of the Birch girls would do just that. Even Amalia, at her tender age. No, I’m happy to be their friend and their champion, to be the arm they lean on at balls, and the man who tools his curricle to a picnic. I do not want to be one of their husbands.”

  “Sadly, although I agree with most of your pronunciation, I do.”

  “Do what? You’ve lost me.”

  “I do want to be one of their husbands.”

  Arthur dropped his glass—luckily empty—onto the floor as he gaped at Thom.

  “You…are, er, what? Oh lord, I need more brandy.” Arthur looked around for another glass, filled it and drained it in one long swallow. “Do you have any idea what that would entail?” He ran his hand through his hair and mussed up the Brutus style Thom guessed would have taken many minutes to perfect.

  “Of course.” Thom grinned. “Sort your hair, you look like a heathen.”

  “Eh?” Arthur stared and then must have caught sight of himself in a mirror. “Oh Lud, McKenna will have a fit if anyone sees me like this.” McKenna was his valet. “He’ll say it reflects badly on him.” He patted his head. “That will have to do.”

  “Vanity, thy name is Mitcham. Yes it will do. Come on, I’ll invite you to lunch.”

  Arthur snorted. “Thank you for that, I think. It will do indeed. You are supposed to tell me I worry for nothing.”

  “Why? You have good reason to worry. To upset your valet is a dangerous business. Good day Caterham.” He nodded to the older man as they passed him.

  “Wha…?” Caterham sat up and looked at them myopically. “Oh it’s you two. What do you think of the Apothecaries Bill eh? Eh?”

  “Too much to discuss it without further thought,” Thom said emphatically.

  Caterham nodded. “Too true, ah well.” He turned back to his notes.

  “Continue,” Arthur said as the exited the room and made their way back into St. James. “Go back to your earlier statement. You intend? Elucidate.”

  “To be one of their husbands.”

  “I thought that was what you said.” Arthur shook his head. “I thought you liked the single life? What about Lady Wood?”

  “I did and I do. Lady Wood and I have parted ways.”

  “I’ll wager she wasn’t happy. I’ve heard you fed her well in every manner possible.”

  Thom shrugged. “She began to demand too much. Why is it that certain women think they can change the parameters? She knew the limits and agreed to them. I had no intention of marrying her, and she knew it. Now this other lady? I’ve been waiting for long enough for her to notice me in the right way.”

  “Has she?” Arthur asked, his eyes alight with interest.

  “I’m not sure, but circumstances dictate I make a move.” Thom grimaced. “Oh don’t worry, Arthur, I only have one of them in mind. And I don’t believe in droit du seigneur either. Or mistresses tucked away in a side street. I will be a loyal and faithful husband. Once she learns to trust me.”

  “Who?” Arthur stood up. “If I have to accompany you to Almack’s…”

&n
bsp; “And Madame Grey’s,” Thom said with a smile. He ignored the repeated query, ‘who?’

  Arthur rocked on his feet. “Now come on, Thom, that is asking too much. Not La Grey’s. She reminds me of a spider ready to cast her web round any unsuspecting male who stands still within her vicinity.”

  “Don’t stand still then,” Thom said implacably. “I’ll pick you up at four.” He smote his friend on his back and set Arthur rocking again.

  “I wish you’d stop doing that without letting me know,” Arthur said plaintively as he used his cane to steady himself. You don’t know your own strength.”

  “I do. Which is why you’re still standing. Until four.” Thom tipped his hat and hailed a passing hackney.

  “But the bloody thing starts at two.” Arthur raised his voice as Thom hauled himself into the hackney cab.

  “And ends at four. We’ll arrive just as the ladies depart. No need to set foot indoors.”

  “I like your style,” Arthur said as Thom closed the door behind him, and stuck his head out of the window.

  “I thought you would. ‘Tis a small thing but my own.” Thom rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Grosvenor Square, cabbie.”

  Chapter Two

  “I hate music, I hate Madame Grey and I really hate men,” Sybille Birch muttered under her breath. Maybelle, her personal maid, twisted Sybille’s blonde hair into a complicated knot, and let a few tendrils escape to frame her face. Sybille twisted her head to look at Maybelle’s work and nodded in satisfaction.

  “Lovely. I just wish it was dressed for a different reason, not an awful musicale. If Mary Tully is torturing the cat gut of her violin bow, I need cotton in my ears,” Sybille said gloomily as she stood up and let Maybelle help her into her dress and pull the laces tight. “And Almack’s tonight? It’s more than a woman should need to bear.”