A Man Of Many Talents (14 page)

“Are you so certain you never wish to marry, my dear?” her cousin asked, abruptly breaking the silence.

Abigail drew a breath of surprise at the unusual topic before she answered. “Yes, quite certain,” she finally said. She knew that men, arrogant beings that they were, could not understand, but Mercia, of all people, surely must.

“Believe me, I have had enough of waiting upon another person’s whims, and I look forward most fervently to my own household,” Abigail said. “I have always wanted a little house like the cottage I grew up in, the old rectory at Haverfield. Did you know it?”

“I’m afraid not, dear,” Mercia murmured.

“It was a lovely place. Peaceful and cozy, with a garden that nearly ran wild every year,” Abigail said, smiling in fond remembrance. “That is my idea of a home.”

“But with no family to join you there?” Mercia asked.

Abigail glanced over at her, startled, but Mercia remained engrossed in her sewing. “It would be wonderful to have my family around me once more, but they have been
gone many years now,” she said, firmly tamping down the emotions that threatened to surface at that admission.

“I’m sorry, dear. I knew that. But I was referring to a family of your own.”

For a moment Abigail was at a loss as to the older woman’s meaning. And then she realized that Mercia was referring to children.
Her
children. She nearly laughed. She had never even considered the possibility, so busy had she been fending for herself. She could not imagine being responsible for someone else as well, and the youngsters with whom she had come in contact during the last few years had all been such wretched, spoiled creatures! And yet, she did recall her ow
n childhood warmly. If only…

Abigail paused and drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid children would involve a husband, and I am not interested in acquiring one,” she replied firmly.

“It sounds like a lonely life to me,” Mercia commented.

Abigail stiffened, hurt somehow by the aspersion cast upon her dream. “But what of you? You never married.”

“I never had the opportunity, my dear, and so cannot regret a choice I did not make.”

“Surely you don’t regret being independent?” Abigail asked, genuinely shocked.

“There are varying degrees of independence, and few at all for women, as you well know,” Mercia said. “But you are attractive an
d young yet and could easily garn
er a proposal.”

Abigail made a dismissive sound. “Thank you, Cousin Mercia, but I beg to differ. I am firmly on the shelf!”

“You are not exactly an ape-leader, my dear,” Mercia said with a chuckle.

Abigail smiled at the compliment, but she knew she was no beauty. Older, with a limited income and no impressive connections, she knew what sort of prospects she could expect on the marriage market: a gentry widower looking for a hard worker to raise his children or a shopkeeper who needed help, perhaps. In other words, she could look forward to a lifetime of toil with little reward. She had already been through that and did not care to undertake it again.

But Mercia continued, undeterred. “And you have certainly not lost the attention of the gentlemen.”

Abigail stifled a laugh. “Thank you, but I hardly think conversation with my male relatives qualifies.” She wasn’t even sure she could count Emery as a gentleman or his sullen sulks as civility, let alone attention.

“I wasn’t speaking of our cousins, but of our dear visitor, Viscount Moreland.”

The older woman spoke in the same casual tone that she always used, but Abigail could not react quite as carelessly. Indeed, she was so startled by Mercia’s comment that she poked herself with the needle she was using and bit back a cry of dismay.

Mercia, engrossed in her own sewing, must have thought the sound signaled dispute, for she continued blithely, “Now, my dear. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and it is not in the manner of a disinterested man.”

Against her will, Abigail felt her pulse pick up its pace. Lord Moreland, interested in her? For one giddy moment, she allowed herself to savor Mercia’s words—until she remembered that her cousin also claimed to have seen Sir Boundefort’s specter and believed that an old rhyme held hidden references to treasure. Mercia meant well, but she had a tendency to embroider more than tablecloths.

“Perhaps you could adjust your rather rigid list of desirable attributes to include Lord Moreland as a possible suitor,” Mercia suggested.

She and Lord Moreland as a match? Ignoring the sudden fierce pounding of her heart. Abigail told herself that she had never heard a more nonsensical notion. And if there once had been a child who believed in such farradiddle, that dreamer was long grown and wiser in the ways of the world. Indeed, Abigail was hard-pressed to believe that any reasoning adult could imagine such a preposterous connection. Although not suspicious by nature, she glanced at Mercia
sharply, seeing a pattern in the course of the household conversation. Perhaps the three cousins—or two of them—had concocted this fantasy to save themselves from ruin, or at least from having to leave Sibel Hall, to which they all seemed unaccountably devoted.

In this rich piece of whimsy, Lord Moreland, a handsome, wealthy, and powerful viscount, destined someday to be an even wealthier and more powerful earl, takes leave of his senses and offers for a plain spinster, a former companion with nothing to recommend her except a threadbare old manor and a ghost. At which point, presumably, the witless man magnanimously provides for every one of her relatives.

Someone in the house had been reading too many novels. Now, it seemed, she must nip this absurd scheme in the bud, adding that to all her other responsibilities and concerns. With a sigh of annoyance, Abigail poked herself again, then stared down at her work in disgust. She hated sewing, having taken it up only on the orders of her godmother, who thought every female ought to be usefully occupied.

She had brought it with her out of habit, but now she wanted nothing more than to fling it to the floor and stomp upon it. Alarmed at the violence of such feelings, Abigail set the needlework aside carefully and rose to her feet. She felt restless, filled with a sudden inexplicable, reckless yearning. Obviously she was growing impatient for her new home and its freedom from duty.

“Although I appreciate your concern for my future, I am hardly a suitable match for a nobleman, and Lord Moreland is certainly not the sort of man I would consider, should I be thinking about marriage—which I am not,” Abigail said.

“It seems to me, dear, that you are predisposed against him.”

Startled, Abigail glanced at her cousin sharply, but the older woman was still bent over her needlework.

“Considering your circumstances, I suspect it is only natural for you to feel some resentment of the wealthy and privileged,” Mercia added.

Abigail blinked in surprise. Resentment? Certainly not! She was not one of those female philosophers who wished to overthrow the country’s class structure. She had no wish to trade places with the empty-headed, spoiled, vindictive females of the upper orders, and she opened her mouth to say as much. But a niggling sort of doubt, along with a predilection for the truth, made her shut it once more.

Perhaps she did harbor some small bit of prejudice against the very rich. She had seen her godmother’s friends and relatives waste their time and money in idleness, gambling, or drink, an observation that undoubtedly had colore
d her opinions, and not for the
better. It seemed to Abigail that so many of the
ton
had everything handed to them and squandered it, while other worthy people, be they tradesmen or soldiers or churchmen, struggled just to feed their families. It was entirely unfair, she admitted. But was it fair of her to lump all noblemen together when there were some who worked for the betterment of the populace, through Parliament or their own devices?

As if reading her mind, Mercia spoke again. “I hardly think it right to judge the viscount solely on the basis of his position in society, a birthright he can help no more than you or I.”

Abigail frowned. Perhaps she was a bit biased concerning Lord Moreland and had raised her expectations concerning his achievements accordingly. In contrast, Emery hadn’t accomplished much with his life so far, and yet she didn’t belittle and belabor his shortcomings. Unsettled by the idea, Abigail was not sure how to respond.

“Just think about it, dear,” Mercia advised. “His lordship could be your chance for real happiness. Don’t throw that chance away merely because of preconceived notions.”

After years of attending her godmother, it took quite a bit to overset Abigail, but Mercia had managed to do it with a brief, fantastical conversation. Abigail stood there staring at her cousin’s bent head, tom between the urge to laugh out loud at such preposterous nonsense and the urge to weep for
the loss of the girlish dreams that might have let her believe it.

“I think, dear cousin, that you are letting your imagination run away with you,” Abigail finally managed. Straightening her shoulders, she turned on her heel. “Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will look over some accounts.”

Hardly lingering long enough to hear Mercia’s murmured good-bye, Abigail hurried from the room. But even though she had every intention of heading for the study, her feet seemed to travel of their own accord toward the library instead. She ought simply to retire, she told herself. It was growing late, and the gentlemen probably had abandoned their search for the evening. Yet she knew that Lord Moreland kept no regular hours, and for some reason her breath quickened.

She paused to take a deep, calming draught of air, telling herself that she would find the room empty and the object of her unaccountable anticipation applying himself to a bottle in the cellars. Yet she saw the thin glow of lamplight through the doorway that meant someone was still about. Perhaps the colonel had fallen asleep in an armchair there, she thought. It would not be the first time.

When she reached the threshold and looked in, however, both men were still there, awake and occupied with the search. “I say, take a look at this,” the colonel said, pointing to a book he held in his hand.

“Let me see.” The low timbre of Lord Moreland’s voice sent unwanted shivers down Abigail’s back, though she had once thought it as straight and impervious as the rest of her. Apparently not. The tremors seemed to travel throughout her body down to her fingertips even as she paused in the shadowy entrance, like a thief in the night stealing a glimpse of him. Surely she hadn’t been affected by Cousin Mercia’s lunatic suggestions?

Determined to disprove that notion, Abigail lifted her chin and prepared to announce her presence, but at that very moment Lord Moreland, who had walked over to where the
colonel stood, reached into his coat and pulled out a pair
of
…
spectacles! Abigail was held fast, stunned to silence by the sight of him carefully putting them on, then leaning over to study the volume that the colonel tendered.

He wore spectacles? She tried to still the sudden clamoring of her nerves at the revelation. She had never heard that he did, but she was not exactly privy to the habits of the
ton.
And perhaps they were strictly for reading, an activity in which she had never seen him engage. Indeed, in her less charitable moments, she might have suspected him of lacking the skill altogether.

But he was reading now, right there before her eyes, and despite all her efforts to the contrary, Abigail’s heart tripped, her breath caught, and her pulse pounded as she saw him casually, elegantly, lift a hand to the page before him. His features were aglow in the lamplight, his golden hair falling forward, gilded to a burnished sheen, and Abigail was sure she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

When he had asked her what kind of man she would consider marrying, Abigail had deliberately stressed certain attributes just to prove a point—that Lord Moreland’s high opinion of himself was not shared by all and sundry, that other, more important characteristics were valued by discerning people. But now all her heart’s desires coalesced into this one perfect vision. He wasn’t a scholar. She knew that, and yet what did she have to base her judgments upon? Her own prejudices? A Fust impression? Hearsay? Casual manners and a bit of erratic behavior?

All her presumptions seemed to melt away in the heat of the moment, and Abigail felt a soaring feeling in her heart, accompanied by a sinking feeling in her head. Both parts of her recognized that the sight of him here and now had caused some sort of shift in the current of her life. She had been treading water before, trying her best to ignore a certain undertow, but now she was d
rowning. Sunk. Lost forever…

10

C
hristian stared at
the long line of dusty old volumes and tried to appear scholarly. As difficult as it was, his technique must be working, for Miss Parkinson seemed to have thawed just a bit since he had first donned his new spectacles the other night. He had seen her, of course, lurking in the doorway, but it had been his good fortune that the colonel chose that particul
ar moment to point out some use
less bit of information which required him to put on the damn things.

He had practically felt her reaction from the doorway and had tried not to look too smug. Although she hung back, never entering the library that night, Christian noticed the difference, subtle yet delicious, in her manner toward him. She still wasn’t what he would call warm, but her smiles weren’t quite as forced, her expression as disapproving, or her demeanor as forbidding. He liked the idea of thawing things out even more, though he wasn’t quite sure what he would do with an overheated Miss Parkinson.

Christian shuddered as a sudden very real inferno gripped him, and he grabbed a book, any book, for a needed distraction. After a glance at the cover, he paused in surprise. It looked as though he had finally found something interesting, a period piece on how to build a manor house. Just like Sibel Hall.

Leafing through a few pages, Christian admired some exquisite wood-block renderings of late medieval architecture before his attention was caught by the delicate sprawl of old ink. He squinted through the spectacles, which were little more than clear glass, and was delighted to discover handwritten notations in the margins. Some long-ago owner must have felt compelled to comment on the author’s work.

Pushing at the rims perched upon his nose, Christian read, “None at the Hall” next to a reference to oriel windows. At last he’d foun
d an observation, however unen
lightening, about the place!

Christian flipped through more pages, searching now for the elusive script, and he turned the book to see the next one more clearly. “Blocked off after the tragedy,” it said. Tragedy? What tragedy? Against his better judgment, Christian felt the tickle of curiosity. He had just begun reading the small text beside the notation when he heard someone approaching.

In the unlikely event that the noisy arrival might be Emery, Christian quickly tucked the volume behind his back, not willing to share his find with the so-called scholar. He straightened just in time to see Miss Parkinson burst into the room, startling him so that he nearly dropped his prize. The Governess never hurried, never skipped, never danced, and certainly never
burst.
Christian was even more surprised to discover that her face was flushed becomingly and her eyes bright He wanted to ravish her right then.

“There is a buyer interested in the house!” she announced, the cause of her enthusiasm putting a bit of a damper on Christian’s own euphoria.

“I have just received word from a Mr. Smythe of London.
He is in the village and wishes to come at once to have a look!” she said, waving a missive, presumably the one just received, in one hand.

Christian watched excitement—or the closest he had ever seen to excitement—light her face, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Of course, no one here, including his hostess, knew that Mr. Smythe was Christian’s solicitor and that no sale would ever materialize from his viewing Sibel Hall. Christian fought against the odd sensation that he had betrayed the woman, beating it down with a cudgel of good sense. After all, his hand had been forced. As much as he disliked deceiving Miss Parkinson, the ghost had driven him to desperate measures.

Christian couldn’t remain here forever. He had other responsibilities, other tasks awaiting his attention. Yet how could he leave without completing his charge here? And how could he even begin to rid the place of a specter that failed to show itself? Since Sir Boundefort’s past appearances seemed to be connected with potential buyers, presumably for the express purpose of driving them off, the only thing to do was to dangle a buyer before the old haunt. Thanks to Sir Boundefort’s efforts, however, no real purchasers were interested in the place, so Christian had to manufacture one. And just in case anyone in the household might give away his game, Christian had kept his scheme to himself.

When he had written his solicitor, it had seemed a clever enough plan, but he hadn’t counted on the odd feeling of duplicity that nagged at him. Only the knowledge that he was also misrepresenting himself as a scholar and a ghost router saved him from blurting out the truth. He decided that since he was lying about pretty much everything, at least he was consistent.

“Of course, I have sent word that he is most welcome to come at his convenience,” Miss Parkinson said. She sat down hard upon a Grecian sofa, a frown creasing her brow.
“But what about Sir Boundefort? What if he decides to show himself?”

That’s just what I’m counting on, Christian thought. Aloud, he said, “I’ll take care of the specter.”

She glanced up at him, as though startled by his sudden determination, and then paused, her gaze arrested. Christian realized he was still wearing his spectacles, and he had to bite back a grin of triumph. Really, this was all too easy. He said nothing, waiting as she stared at him rather dreamily before catching herself and straightening.

“I don’t suppose you have found anything?” she asked. If the question had a negative ring to it, at least her tone lacked its usual bite.

“I’m afraid not,” Christian said, trying to adopt a scholarly manner. “The library is, uh, very well stocked.” Although he had made a concerted effort to search the shelves, he was too restless to keep at the task for long, and his labors had been interrupted by walks through the house, inspections of the cellars, and the like.

Still attempting his best impression of a studious sort, Christian strolled past his hostess, gesturing at the bookcases, as one of his old instructors often did. “There are many, uh, interesting volumes. But so far we have found no records of the house itself, no history, no plans, no family memoirs.” He paused to shake his head. “That is odd in itself. Where is the family Bi
ble? Where are the deeds and ac
counts and anecdotes of generations? I can’t even find any reports on the village or the area.”

His own family histories, grossly embellished, of course, were ensconced in a favored position in the portrait gallery at the earl’s seat. Christian paused to deliberately furrow his brow, as it seemed the sort of affectation his new persona might adopt. “Is there another place where these things might be stored?”

Miss Parkinson shook her head. “I have no idea. I haven’t run across anything of the sort in the study, but I have yet to go through all the clutter in there. And I haven’t even begun
to inventory the rest of the rooms. Perhaps what you are looking for is scattered about the building or has gone missing long ago.”

Christian rubbed his chin in what he hoped was a thoughtful manner. “That is always possible, but the complete lack of these materials makes me wonder if they haven’t been stored elsewhere. Or if someone else isn’t hoarding them.” Emery and his so-called studies came to mind, and Christian wondered if a search of the scholar’s rooms might be in order.

Miss Parkinson shook her head again, not following his hint. Perhaps she wasn’t as cynical or suspicious as he. Or perhaps she actually trusted that weasel cousin of hers. Christian frowned, unable to comprehend that possibility.

“Have you asked the cousins?” Miss Parkinson asked. “I will, but first I must make certain that all is in readiness for Mr. Smythe’s arrival.” She rose to her feet with sudd
en purpose. Christian was hard-
pressed not to scowl. Although he sensed a certain softening in her attitude toward him these past few days, he still never seemed to see much of her.

He realized that she was busy with Sibel Hall, but it wasn’t as though she could actually do anything to improve the place at this late date, certainly without putting plenty of money into it. Yet, as always, she would not linger in his company, especially when they were alone. It was almost as if she possessed some kind of timing device concealed on her person that rang out a warning after a spare few minutes.

Christian eyed her sharply, tempted to search for it, and to his surprise, her gaze met his and slid away as she lifted a hand to her hair. He paused in surprise. Was the woman actually concerned about her appearance? Christian felt a surge of triumph that waned as soon as he wondered whether her unexpected awareness was connected to him or to the potential buyer. Suddenly he wanted to pound the daylights out of his own solicitor.

But when his hostess excused herself, her eyes downcast,
Christian realized he was still wearing his spectacles. And he grinned.

M
r. Smythe arrived
directly, and Christian made it a point to be in the drawing room to greet him. The three cousins were there, as well, and Miss Parkinson introduced everyone graciously. True to Christian’s instructions, Mr. Smythe pretended ignorance of his employer and all else to do with Sibel Hall. He had a client who was interested in a nice, older property within a certain price range, such as this one, the Londoner explained. And he even made a show of looking forward to touring the dreadful structure, with that client’s interests in mind.

“Well, we are most delighted to meet you,” Miss Parkinson said. “But I’m afraid that the solicitor who is handling the estate is occupied elsewhere and will be unable to join us.” Apparently, the fainthearted fellow could not be induced to return to the Hall on any account, but there was no need to mention that small point.

“Quite understandable,” Mr. Smythe said. “I must apologize for appearing on such short notice.”

“Not at all!” Miss Parkinson protested, most sincerely. Christian had no doubt that she would welcome any interested party who showed up on her doorstep, at any time of the day or night.

“I will, however, be guiding you about myself, and since I haven’t lived here very long, I must beg your indulgence,” Miss Parkinson said. Christian took a moment to wish she would beg
his
indulgence, then glanced around in surprise as all three cousins remained mute.

Apparently the Governess had given them strict instructions not to join the tour, and Christian made a mental note to question her about it, as well as to ferret out the details of the previous showings. Just who had been involved during those instances? He seemed to remember Mercia claiming to have seen a specter on one such visit, but he needed to
know exactly who was where each time. This time, he himself would be there.

“I’ll join you,” Christian said. Flashing a smile at his hostess, he moved forward without giving her a chance to argue. She could hardly do so when the specter might make an appearance at last. Christian practically rubbed his hands together in anticipation, perhaps of getting them around the old knight’s throat.

Smythe proved to be well worth his fees as they trooped through the sprawling structure’s rooms. He was knowledgeable about houses and even managed to point out a few selling points that had escaped Christian’s notice. But despite the man’s enthusiasm, Sir Boundefort remained elusive.

By the time they reached the great hall Christian was growing impatient, particularly since the Governess spent several minutes extolling the virtues of the space when it was clear that she knew nothing whatsoever about its architecture. Having held his tongue as long as he could, Christian was about to break in, even though Mr. Smythe could hardly care one way or the other, when a noise drew his attention to the fretwork.

Alert at once, Christian stepped closer and cocked his head to the side, straining to hear the odd keening sound. It was sort of a whistle or a wail, although why a ghost would make such a curious din, he had no idea. Then again, he was no expert on the phenomeno
n. Glancing covertly at his com
panions, Christian saw that Miss Parkinson continued speaking, while trying her hardest to ignore the interruption, and Mr. Smythe, though politely paying attention to her, kept darting glances toward the fretwork.

Finally, Christian walked directly to the dark partition, hoping to better determine the source of the noise, but the large hall, with its vaulted ceiling, made that task difficult. This time he was fairly sure it wasn’t coming from below, which puzzled him. Where else would the ghost hide except in the cellar—
or in the formerly locked rooms?

Christian hurried behind the fretwork, only to find that someone had closed the door he had left standing open. Reaching for it, he jerked hard to no avail. The damn thing was locked again! He patted his pocket, but the hairpin was long gone, presumably removed by his efficient valet. Muttering a curse under his breath, Christian turned to retrace his steps and beg his hostess for another when he heard Smythe’s gasp.

“What the devil is that?” the solicitor asked, his normally steady voice wavering ominously.

Hurrying now, Christian emerged from behind the partition to see both Smythe and Miss Parkinson still as stones and staring somewhere above his head. The solicitor looked rather white-faced, while his hostess gaped, as if amazed, her luscious lips parted delightfully. Swinging around, Christian glanced upward, unable to see much of anything except the heavily carved wood dissolving into the darkness. For one wild moment, he wondered if the ghost made himself visible only to certain people, himself not among them, then he stepped backward, working his way toward his transfixed companions.