A Man Of Many Talents (20 page)

14

A
fter spending half
the night watching outside Abigail’s door, Christian groggily decided there must be a better way. If only he could stand guard inside her room, then maybe he could get some sleep. But if he were inside her room, he probably wouldn’t be sleeping. He sighed. Either way he wouldn’t be getting much rest.

His late arrival downstairs guaranteed him no breakfast, so he ducked into the kitchen, where he coaxed an apple from a giggling servant girl. He was just exiting the room when he chanced upon his hostess, who made no effort to hide her displeasure at his tardiness. Or was it simply the sight of him that pained her so? Christian decided her breathless whispers in the secret passage
had been the de
luded fantasies of a sleep-deprived man. As her gaze slid away from him, presumably in censure, he thought about explaining himself, but the admission that he had lurked outside her bedroom door half the night probably wouldn’t earn him any approval at all.

Besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing a scholar would do, Christian realized. Even though what little success he could claim with his hostess seemed due to that persona, he was already growing tired of it. He had the nagging sensation that she had been kissing someone else in the passage, some bespectacled, studious sort masquerading under his name.

Christian shook his head. All this bookish business, false though it might be, was affecting his mind. That’s what happened to people like Emery. Too much thinking made a man not only dull but half mad, as well, Christian decided. He wondered just how far gone Emery was at this point and just what that madness might make the boy do.

“I am glad to see you abroad at last,” his hostess said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness.

Christian ignored the rebuke. “I was going to have another look for hides today,” he said before taking a bite of his apple.

His hostess eyed him strangely, and Christian wondered if he should apologize for eating in front of her or eating standing up—or even eating in general. But his only other option was starvation.

“I wonder that you have anywhere else to look,” she said, in a sort of breathy whisper.

“Oh, I suspect there might be one or two more surprises in the old place yet.”

A long silence followed, in which, no doubt, she was judging his abilities or his devotion to duty, and he was coming up wanting. “And just what do you hope to find in all these places?” she murmured.

The girl you once were, the woman I glimpsed yesterday, Christian thought, but he didn’t say it aloud, for he realized that she was staring at him, rather intently and most specifically at his mouth. He licked his lips, catching a bit of errant juice, and watched her eyes grow wide and her cheeks flush. Perhaps Abigail was somewhere in there, after all, straining to get
out of her Governess costume…

“Care to join me?” he invited, as casually as he could with his body straining his breeches.

Unfortunately, the giggling servant girl chose that moment to hurry past, and as though recalled from some spell, the sultry seductress disappeared once more behind the stiff facade of his hostess.

“No, I, uh, I don’t think that would be
…”
she
trailed off, blinking as though dazed, and then recovered he
rself. “I have things I
must do. Please excuse me.”

With that she turned and fled like a frightened rabbit. Interesting. Christian had half a mind to pursue her, but that was not the role of a scholar, he thought, frowning. Later, he promised himself, as he turned to stroll through the house, looking for another secret passage into which he might lure his hostess.

Really, she was such a unique and infuriating being, Christian mused as he took a bite of his apple. His attraction to her, so mystifying at first, was beginning to make a bit more sense. She was no frivolous, empty-headed, grasping young female of the
ton
, but
an individual, a genteel, well-
mannered, honest woman with a backbone of steel and a clear head in any situation.

He had always been drawn to strong, independent women, choosing his mistresses accordingly. It was a preference that probably went back to his mother, a beautiful creature who had managed to hold her own against a Reade male. Christian smiled fondly. He remembered his parents sparring, but never actually fighting. There had been a lot of shouting, but even more laughing and loving. Theirs was a different sort of marriage than what he saw today. Perhaps it had always been different.

Christian’s father had claimed he knew the moment he saw her th
at she was his. “You’ll know, s
on. You’ll know,” he always said with a laugh. Christian frowned. Maybe that was why he had never married. None of the ladies he’d met had ever struck him like that, and so he kept waiting, for something that
seemed just out of reach…

Popping out a side door in order to toss away the apple core, Christian realized he hadn’t inspected any of the outbuildings, and so he headed toward the first one that he saw, which appeared to be an old chapel or perhaps a parish church, long abandoned.

Interesting. It looked as if it had been built after the original hall, which was unusual. More often the chapel had been part of medieval dwellings. Christian tried the door and was glad to find it unlocked. He had returned Abigail’s hairpin to her and would have to get another. Just in case. The place was small and dusty, apparently untouched for years, but there was a lovely window at the one end, which Christian paused to admire. Otherwise, the space was unremarkable.

Or so Christian thought until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. Then he noticed that the plaster walls on either side of the narrow seating area were unusual, to say the least, for they appeared to be decorated with some sort of carvings. Christian walked to the wall on the left and stopped to examine it, only to shake his head in bafflement. Across the surface were scattered several circles of various sizes and designs. Lifting a hand to one, Christian ran his finger over the indentations. This one was plain, but others were more elaborate. He squinted at some writing, Old English or some kind of runes, but he could make no sense of it.

Tilting back his head, Christian saw that along the top were faded figures, painted cherubs frolicking, perhaps. He crossed to the other wall and found it much the same, except aligned above the circles here were saints, or so he assumed because of their halos and lack of wings.

Odd. Was this the striking bit of architecture his grandfather had eluded to? Christian doubted it. The earl probably had never even been here. No, it looked to Christian as if he had stumbled across the only thing of interest at Sibel Hall. Excluding its owner, of course. Grinning, he walked around the inside of the small building, but he could find no clue to
the purpose of the strange carvings. Perhaps it was some old Celtic tradition he knew nothing about or a bit of whimsy Boundefort had carried back from the Crusades. Yet Christian felt the nagging sensation that he was missing something.

With a shrug and a sigh, he moved on to the stables and the gardener’s shed and what appeared to have once been a dog kennel. Christian decided that the estate, although neglected, could be refurbished. His explorations did not reveal any further hides, however, and he finally wandered back to the library, where he hoped to find some book to prop in front of his face while he took a
na
p. Perhaps that was what Emery did behind all those thick covers.

Christian found the room deserted. Apparently the others had given up their search for any mention of the Hall’s history. He could hardly blame them. He walked over to where he had found the volume with the notations in the margins. Now, what had he done with that? With a shrug, he tugged a large tome off the shelf, only to reject it. After all, he had to at least look like he was reading.

His next choice, a book on classical design, was a definite improvement. In fact, Christian was thoroughly engrossed in the text before he remembered to don his spectacles. Slipping them on, he dropped down onto an old damask-covered chair and opened the book again, feeling once more that familiar surge of interest in his pet passion.

After his parents’ accidental death, Christian had spent several aimless years playing at being the typical Regency buck, but he soon had found the life sadly lacking. He’d never thought of himself as particularly talented or intellectual. Although he had enough sense to keep the family fortunes going, juggling businesses or entering politics left him cold. But after Bexley Court burned down, Christian’s initial horror had turned into something else. As he pored over blueprints and sketches and spoke with builders, he discovered that all facets of the planning interested him in a new and stimulating way. Here, at last, was an endeavor that held
his attention far more than jumping fences, turning cards, or tipping bottles. And he had enjoyed it.

At least until now.

Christian grinned. Although Sibel Hall was an abysmal example of form and structure, there was something uniquely satisfying about the place. And with that thought, he turned the page and settled in to read.

A
bigail found him
there, his head tilted back, his spectacles slipping over his elegant nose, the open book upon his lap, and she thought her heart would melt. She had peeked in earlier to find him so engrossed in his reading that he never even noticed her presence.

She lifted the volume from his fingers and set it aside. Architecture. So that was what interested him. And she was well aware of his expertise after listening to him talk about where to find secret places in the house. Unable to help herself, Abigail reached a hand toward his brow, but snatched it away before she actually touched him.

Why was he so tired when he slept so late? Was he up each night wandering the rooms, searching for clues to the hauntings? The thought of him walking past her chamber in the late hours made Abigail’s heart trip. Only strength of will had kept her abed last night instead of heeding her own wanderlust, her desperate yearning to seek him out in the darkness.

Stifling a sigh, she sat down, hard, on the Grecian sofa, unable to deny the truth any longer. She was lost. Totally lost. Sunk. Drowned. Beyond all hope of rescue. For no matter what, she wanted to see him, to be with him, to touch him with a feverish intensity that frightened her. This morning she had found excuses to linger around the dining room, eager to catch a glimpse of him, and when she did she had to fight the urge to throw her arms about him in fervent greeting. She could barely trust herself to talk with him, for
when he took a bite out of his apple, it was all she could do not to take his face in her hands and eat from his mouth.

Abigail stared helplessly at his sleeping form, admiring the hard line of his cheekbone, the soft curve of his lashes, the golden sheen of his hair. She studied the broad arc of his shoulders, the wide expanse of chest and the long line of muscular thighs, and drew in a sharp breath. Was there ever any man more exquisite?

Although never one to indulge in drink, Abigail felt like one of those fellows who, after one sip, returned night after night to the bottle, unable to stay away. Her desire for the viscount, for his presence, for his voice, for the sight of him, was like some kind of compulsion. He had unleashed something in the hidden passageway that could not be reined in, and it rose up in her, needy and wanting, driving her here to his side.

But how would she ever appease it?

A
s it turned
out, old man Abbott was visiting his sister, so Christian was left with nothing to do but kick his heels at Sibel Hall, waiting for some news from Smythe. The days passed in dismal monotony with poor food and even poorer progress—with either the ghost or his hostess.

After a particularly disappointing dinner, Christian slipped away to meet with Alf, hoping that the villager had fared better than he, but one look at the young man’s face disabused him of that notion. Before Christian could reach his side, Alf was hurrying forward and shaking his head.

“I don’t know if I can stand another day of it, milord.”

“What? The boredom?”

Alf scowled. “Some of us aren’t bored, milord, but suffering from a bit of the shivers,” he said, shuddering as if to illustrate his condition.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the specter?” Christian asked, incredulous.

Alf shook his head with a snort, his pride obviously warring with his unease. “It’s not him, but
her,
milord!”

“Her?” Christian might allow that the Governess was a bit intimidating, but he would hardly deem her the sort to frighten a hardened young man like Alf.

“Aye, milord,” Alf said, leaning close to lower his voice. “It seems like every time I turn around, there she is!”

“Abigail?” Christian asked, startled. “I mean. Miss Parkinson?”

Alf snorted again. “Not the young miss, milord. The old one! She’s as queer as Dick’s hatband,” he whispered.

Christian was hard-pressed not to laugh. He tried to school his features to solemn concern, but his lips kept twitching, a circumstance that Alf, no doubt, noticed.

“You might think it funny, milord, but I swear that
she
is spying on
me.
”