A Man Of Many Talents (23 page)

“No wonder they’re none too eager to leave,” Alf said.

“No wonder, indeed,” Christian mused. “The colonel has made no secret of the fact that he has lived here for some time, but Emery was supposedly down from school, yet Mr. Smythe has found no record of him at Oxford or Cambridge and is now searching the rolls of lesser institutions. And as for Mercia, he can’t trace her at all. The address the solicitor had was a room that is now otherwise occupied.”

Christian tapped the paper against his chin and stared out the window. Had the older woman actually claimed she had her own household? He couldn’t remember. He would have to ask Abigail. Lowering the sheet once more, Christian read the last few lines through fully, then again, in disbelief.

“Now what?” Alf asked.

Christian glanced up, his brows furrowed. “Surely this is the oddest thing of all. Mr. Smythe can’t find any record of Abigail’s—Miss Parkinson’s—relationship to Bascomb Averill.”

Alf’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the miss ain’t who she says she is?”

“No.” The answer came from his gut.

“Well, that’s a good thing, seeing as how she’s as dangerous a female as I’ve ever come across. I’m telling you,
the woman pulled a knife on me!” Alf said, his tone a mixture of awe and outrage. “I was fair scared out of my wits! After all, it’s not as though I could give the lady a bruiser, now, is it?”

“Certainly not,” Christian replied. He had heard all this before, including Alf’s claim that should his village cronies hear of him being bested by a woman, he would never be able to show his face there again.

Before Alf could work himself into a froth over the incident yet again, Christian broke in. “Thankfully, you need not worry about any future threat from our hostess. Mr. Smythe says she is the Miss Parkinson named in the will, which even mentions her employment as Lady Holland’s companion. However, he cannot discover her relationship to old Bascomb, through either her father’s or her mother’s side. Odd,” Christian murmured, tapping the paper against his chin again.

“Beg pardon, milord, but maybe she’s a by-blow, bo
rn
on the wrong side of the blanket, if you get my meaning,” Alf said in a hushed voice.

It would be difficult not to understand Alf’s bald suggestion that Abigail was illegitimate. “I believe that Mr. Smythe has the wherewithal to explore all avenues,” Christian said dryly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Alf said, looking a bit perplexed.

Straightening, Christian stepped away from the windows and pulled a coin from his pocket, which he gave to the grateful messenger. “I have no reply, except that I wish you would return, whether you have any additional news or not, just in case I have any information of my own to share.”

Nodding in agreement, the young man was gone, and Christian was left with more questions than before his arrival. With a sigh, he turned away from the door and went off in search of Abigail, in the hope that she might provide him some answers.

* *
* * *

H
e found her
in the study, dark head bent over a stack of papers, and he was surprised by the swell of feeling that coursed through him at the sight of her. He wanted to cross the expanse of carpet and step behind her, to lean over her and breathe in her scent. He wanted to remove her hairpins, one by one, and release the heavy mass of her hair into his hands. He wanted to lure her from her work, to show her the delights to be found in play, to lay her across the desk, to seat her upon his lap, to take her in every way a man can.

But he hadn’t the right.

The knowledge came to him, unbidden and unwanted, for surely a scholar would not be so bold. Christian scowled. Not being himself, he hadn’t the right to do anything, his new persona standing in the way as surely as another man would have. He had donned it in a fit of temper, but the guise could not be as easily shed. Now he felt trapped by it, ensnared in lies of his own making.

Christian bit back an oath at the bitter reality that he was consigned to playact at being some meek milksop, while Abigail was thrust into the role of aggressor. Although he had no objection to the latter, particularly, he was ready to take matters into his own hands, both figuratively and literally. But those hands were tied.

Christian cleared his throat in a scholarly effort that came out sounding disgruntled instead.

“Oh, Chri—
Lord Moreland, you startled me,” Abigail said, flushing delightfully. Then those delicate brows of hers lowered. “Did you knock?”

“Of course,” Christian lied. “I need to speak with you about something important.” He advanced toward the desk.

Although she drew back warily, she nodded her head, game, as always. Christian spared a moment in admiration of the fact before he took his seat across from her. He had her attention now, and he was tempted to tell her all, but somehow he didn’t think an admission of his numerous falsehoods would further his cause. He pictured a return of
the Governess, stiff and disapproving, and he shut his mouth.

“Yes?” she prompted.

Christian sighed and tried to appear studious. “In the course of my, uh, investigation, I have asked for some assistance outside Sibel Hall, so that I could devote all my time and energies here.” To you. “As you know, I have been most interested, concerned even, with the fate of the other residents should you succeed in selling the building.” Abigail nodded her encouragement, apparently pleased to hear he was doing anything at all, so he continued. “Therefo
re,
I asked my
solicitor to look into the back
grounds of those residents, and I must admit that what he found out disturbs me.”

“What is it?” Abigail asked, leaning forward.

Christian leaned forward as well. “None of them has any other residence or income as far as he can deduce.” He held up his hand to forestall any argument. “Now I know that the colonel has made his home here for some time, but Emery’s background is a mystery, as is Mercia’s.” Christian slanted Abigail a glance. “Did she actually say she had a place of her own?”

Abigail paused to consider the question, then shook her head. “I’m not really sure. Perhaps I simply assumed so when I should not have. But where was she living, and, oh, dear, where will she go?”

Christian shrugged.

“This is a dreadful coil. Sometimes I wish I’d never inherited the Hall,” Abigail murmured.

“Then you could not fund your dream.”

Abigail eyed him in surprise. “Quite so. But why on earth does it have to be so difficult and complicated?” Christian shook his head. “I don’t know, but it gets more difficult and complicated, or at least more odd. Sm
—
uh, my solicitor said he can’t find any record of your relationship with Bascomb Averill.”

“But he’s my great-uncle,” Abigail protested.

“On your mother’s or your father’s side?”

Abigail looked pensive. “I’m not sure. I thought he was one of Mother’s relatives.”

“Did she ever talk of him?”

Abigail paused, as if in thought. “No,” she finally said, her expression clouded. “In fact, the first I heard of him was when he approached me at my parents' funeral. He introduced himself as my great-uncle Bascomb. Although we had little contact with my father’s relations, they had arrived to take over the house, so I met most of them at that time.

“I guess I just assumed Bascomb was Mother's relative. He wasn’t very pleasant, so I certainly didn’t wish for further acquaintance with him. He told me I would have to make my own way in the world, which I did.”

“What about the cousins? What did they say? Were they with him?”

Abigail’s brows furrowed. “No. None of the cousins were there. I had no idea they even existed until the solicitor told me about Sibel Hall. He introduced them as cousins, so I thought we were all related. And they called me their cousin as well.”

Christian frowned. “Let’s not bring up the subject with them just yet,” he suggested, meeting Abigail’s eyes. For once she nodded in agreement. At last they were working together, but toward what? Christian had come seeking answers but found only more questions.

C
hristian was dreaming,
vivid visions of the Governess shedding both her guise and her clothing and coming to him, all soft and round and passionate. Had he once been unable to imagine such a thing? Now he could picture her in all her glory, for he had touched her, molded her body with his hands
, rocked himself against her…

“Milord! Milord!”

Why wasn’t she calling him by name, as she had in the passageway? “Christian,” he corrected, reaching for her.

“Milord!”

With a start, Christian awoke to come face-to-face not with the delectable Abigail but with Alf Kendal, a quizzical expression on his pinched face. Christian sat up abruptly, nearly bumping heads with the man.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“You were dreaming, milord,” the fellow observed.

And a man’s not allowed to? Dreams were all that Christian had. And spectacles. “Well, I’m not now,” he grumbled.

“No, milord.” Alf cast a critical eye over the neglected state room, far from the occupied part of the house, then turned back to Christian. “What are you doing here? It took me forever to find you.”

“Obviously, I was sleeping,” Christian answered, as he swung his feet to the floor and tugged at his cuffs. The ornate couch had wrinkled his coat, a fact that would irritate his valet no end.

Alf’s curious look told him that the boy wondered what he had been doing to exert himself to exhaustion. “I’m still keeping watch during the night, without Miss Parkinson’s knowledge, so keep that information to yourself,” Christian explained before the lad jumped to any conclusions.

Although Christian got little enough rest, he had Hobbins wake him early, so no one, especially his clever hostess, would be the wiser. Then, during the day, he sought some secluded spot within the rambling structure to take a nap.

“Ah.” Alf shook his head as if the habits of the
ton
were too baffling for his comprehension.

“What is it?”

“What’s what, milord?”

“Why were you looking for me?” Christian asked impatiently. He had been driven from his dream for this?

“Ah, that! Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you about
something suspicious that’s been going on, that I’ve been keeping my eye on.”

“Yes?”

“It’s that scholar fella, that Emery,” Alf said, leaning close.

Christian straightened, suddenly alert. “Yes?”

“I’ve been watching him pretty regular, and I’ve been noticing him skulking outside.”

“Yes?”

“Around the plunge bath.”

“Around the plunge bath,” Christian repeated, dully, his initial interest dampened. Undoubtedly the boy was availing himself of the amenities of the house while he still could. What was so suspicious about that?

“It is refreshing. I’ve used it myself,” Christian told him. On those days when it didn’t rain, the summer weather turned hot and sultry, making the outdoor facility a pleasant experience—indeed, one of the few to be had at Sibel Hall. Christian paused in thought, his brows furrowing. Then, again, Emery di
dn’t look particularly clean…

“I didn’t say he was using it, milord.”

Christian stiffened. “He’s not spying on Ab
—
Miss Parkinson, is he?” If so, Christian would be happy to crush the little weasel once and for all.

But Alf shook his head. “No, milord. That Emery, he only goes out there by himself, but he doesn’t use the water at all.”

Christian lifted his brows. “What does he do?”

Alf leaned close again, as if to impart a confidence. “Well, that’s the suspicious part, milord. He sometimes goes into the bath, but he never puts any water in it, just knocks about the walls of the thing.”

Understanding dawned at last on Christian, who could be excused for being half asleep. “Damn! Does he stay in the bath or look around the whole area as well?”

“He’s all about the place, milord.”

“But he hasn’t found anything, has he?” Like the secret passageway?

Alf shook his head. “Not as far as I can see, and I’ve been keeping a pretty close watch on him.”

Although Christian had dismissed the passage as an old priest’s route, it wouldn’t hurt to examine it again. And, no matter its significance, he certainly didn’t want Emery to find it. The idea of the scholar spying on him in the bath made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The idea of him spying on Abigail made Christian surge to his feet.

“I think I’ll take a look out there myself. You keep an eye on Emery and let me know if he heads my way.”

“Aye, milord. I’d rather stay away from there, if I can.”

Christian looked askance at his stalwart villager, who was proving to fear eccentric old ladies, young ladies with knives, and now plunge baths. “Why the devil? Are you afraid of a bit of a wash? These cold baths are supposed to be medicinal.”

Alf seemed insulted. “I ain’t scared of any old water,” he mumbled.

Christian’s brows inched upward. “What, then? Do you think it’s haunted? Have you seen anything odd out there?”

Chagrined, Alf shook his head. “Now, milord, you know I don’t believe in any of that ghostly business. It’s just that there’s bad blood out there. That’s what caused the feud, you know.”

“Between Averill and the villagers?”

“Aye. He hired a lot of ’em to do the excavation work for that whole fancy bathing place and thereabouts, then never paid them what he rightly promised,” Alf explained.

Christian felt the blood rush from his head. “Excavation work?”

“Yes, milord. You know, digging.”

Christian muttered an oath. “Do you have any idea where they did all this digging?” he asked, his voice rising.

Alf shrugged. “But one of the older men might.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. Old man Abbott.” Christian
groaned. He doubted he h
ad the patience for another go-
round with that grim fellow. “Why don’t you just ask your granddad?”

“Will do, milord!” And with a nod Alf was gone.

But Christian wasn’t about to wait for an answer from the village. The excavation work Alf mentioned might simply refer to the hole that was dug for the plunge bath and the surrounding landscaping, no mean feat to carve out of the countryside.

Or it might mean something else altogether.