Sybille's Lord

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 smiled. 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.”