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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products

of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as

real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is

entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

512 Forest Lake Drive

Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

The Viscount’s Addiction

Cover by Anne Cain

ISBN: 1-59998-619-1

www.samhainpublishing.com

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied

in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2007

The Viscount’s

Addiction

Scottie Barrett

Chapter One

“Out of bed, you filthy rubbish!”

The turnkey’s voice thundered through Ryder’s dreams. He tried to slide back into

sleep to recapture the only blissful moments he enjoyed outside the gates of hell. There

was a sickening cracking sound too near his ear. He lurched into a sitting position. His

head felt as though it had been cleaved in two. It was an all too familiar feeling, a

consequence of his unsavory habit.

His eyes narrowed in response to the thin light that threaded through the grates.

Remnants of furniture were still strewn across the ward from yesterday’s near-riot. A

charming Newgate tradition. A destructive farewell from those being shipped off to

Botany Bay to serve their sentences.

The turnkey paced the ward, brandishing a table leg he had ripped from a ruined

table. Now that Vickers had a makeshift weapon, he only wanted for a victim.

Ryder gave his tattered blanket a shake, scattering the vermin that had shared his bed

for the night. The faint odor of death wafted over from Finch’s mat. Ryder pressed the

back of his hand to his nose. The officials were waiting a bloody long time for a family

member to claim him. Chances were, no one would come for the poor bastard and he’d

be sold for profit and end up on a dissection table in a university.

Ryder reached into his boot and pulled out the small lump of opium and ripped off a

bite. To wash away the bitter taste, he removed the contraband gin he kept stashed under

his mat. Blessed William and his successful trading schemes. Once William had realized

that one man’s shoes were worth another man’s tobacco, then anything, even a comb with

missing teeth, became currency. Size and strength were Ryder’s commodities. While he

wasn’t always clear-headed, he could still break a man’s jaw if the situation called for it.

Thankfully, William was clever enough to appreciate it and made his payments with

liquor. The opium, though, came from a sinister source, but Ryder’s cravings made the

origin unimportant.

www.samhainpublishing.com

The Viscount’s Addiction

With three swallows, he neatly finished the gin. He stared at the empty bottle for a

moment before deciding to fling it across the room. It hit his intended target squarely on

the back of the head. Profanity spewed from the turnkey’s mouth as he spun around to

find his assailant. Vickers’s glare honed in on Ryder.

“Sorry, must have slipped,” Ryder said dryly.

The hulking figure stomped toward him. As the table leg cut the air above his head,

Ryder rolled away onto the filth-covered floor. The club hit the stone wall, and splinters

of wood rained down on his head. Ryder tried to sit up to get his bearings, but something

had hold of him. He reached back and felt the cold fingers of his cadaverous neighbor

caught in his long hair. Nausea shuddered through him as he yanked his hair free from

the lifeless grip. He jumped to his feet, swaying a bit as he waited for the dizziness to

clear. Suppressing the instinct for self-preservation, he made himself an easy mark. He

braced himself for the explosion of pain and wondered fleetingly if a death wish had

prompted him to hurl the bottle at Vickers.

“That’s right, you cocky bastard. You hold still while I pummel you into a heap of

bones and flesh.” The man’s words came with stale breath.

Ryder prayed the oafish bastard would manage it in one swing.

“Vickers! Put that down!” The chief warder’s voice echoed off the walls. “And bring

Blackwood to the governor’s office, now!”

Vickers brought the stick down, slashing it so near Ryder that it stirred his hair.

There were grumbles from his ward-mates, disappointed by the lack of carnage.

Ryder moved past Vickers. “Perhaps next time you will be a little fucking faster.”

The guard’s thin lips pulled back in a malicious smile. “Bloody hell right, there’ll be

a next time.” He prodded Ryder with the jagged end of the table leg. “You heard the chief

warder, now move!” Vickers ground the stick between his shoulder blades. Ryder could

feel the blood trickling down his back as he was spurred past the yards, through the

clanging gates and along the maze of passages. He prayed that he wasn’t being sent back

to Coldbath Fields. A trip to the scaffold was far more to his liking. Last Sunday he’d

attended the Condemned Sermon and stared at the centerpiece of the macabre service, the

empty coffin, with a sort of longing.

Ryder believed he had his viscountcy to thank for having been tried on a lesser

charge than murder and thus spared a capital sentence. He’d been relieved at the time

because it meant he would not forfeit his lands. He’d avoided the noose but not

punishment. Deeming him too dangerous to walk the streets, they’d caged him. However,

Scottie Barrett - The Viscount's Addiction.pdf

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