A Man Of Many Talents (26 page)

Then he held her close for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” Christian muttered.
“I
…
lost control of myself.” With a rather embarrassed murmur, she accepted his apology at face value, never imagining his true meaning. He was sorry, all right, sorry for having to stop, sorry for all his lies, sorry for everything.

Surely he was the sorriest man on earth.

17

C
hristian sat still
in a straight-backed chair while Hobbins poured alcohol into his cut with what seemed like inordinate zeal. He flinched. “Do you have to be so coldblooded about it?”

“The wound must be cleansed,” Hobbins intoned even as he attempted to rub the flesh raw. Christian remained skeptical. After all, his shoulder hadn’t hurt like this when Abigail tended it.

Abigail. Christian set his teeth against the memory. Flinch? He felt like kicking himself when he thought of what he had given up. Hell, he couldn’t even think about what he had given up without growing painfully hard and throbbing, as if his prick
wanted to flog him for his mis
judgment.

“I found your, ahem, spectacles, I presume?” Hobbins said, carefully setting the lenses on a nearby chamber table.

Christian glanced at the hated accoutrement and frowned, then jerked backward. “Ouch!” he said, pulling away from
Hobbins, who appeared to be amputating
his arm with a binding cloth. “
Take that thing off me.”

“Very well, my lord,” Hobbins replied.

“One would think you care more about my clothes than my person,” Christian commented, blowing out a breath in exasperation.

“My responsibility is to your wardrobe, my lord,” Hobbin
s replied, gathering up the bottl
e and the linens.

Ignoring his valet’s gibe, Christian flexed his arm in relief, then glared at the spectacles, hating the man who wore them until he realized that he’d become jealous of himself, of his own success with them. He hadn’t been wearing them this morning, Christian told himself, trying to take comfort in that fact. Yet there was no denying that every other piece of evidence pointed to his hostess’s preference for that other man, the one who pretended to like books and who reined in his piratical impulses. At least until today.

“I assume you are endeavoring to entice Miss Parkinson with that bogus accessory?” Hobbins asked in a disdainful voice.

Christian frowned. He hated when his own valet passed judgment on him. “It was a bit of a lark,” he mumbled. Sort of like his entire visit to Sibel Hall.

“I see, my lord,” Hobbins said, in a tone that declared he did not. “You were, in effect, mocking someone else’s hopes and dreams.”

Christian glanced at his valet in startlement. “No,” he said, though he supposed one could view his actions in that light, especially if one were his hostess. He scowled. Perhaps he originally had acted out
of
…
a fit of pique, but he had meant to prove a point, that spectacles did not make the man. Unfortunately he was now caught in a coil of his own design, for he had succeeded all too well. He had made his hostess fall for the man she thought him, but not for
him.

Meanwhile, Christian had been taking a bit of a tumble himself. His initial wish for her affections may have been misguided, but now he was deadly earnest about it. Every
time he saw her, it seemed as though he discovered some new delight about her, some additional facet to rouse his interest—and his passions. When she confessed that she had never danced, in that soft admission Christian had heard a world of hurt that tore his heart out. He wanted to give her the waltz, to give her everything she had ever missed, everything she had ever wanted.

But his new persona, indeed, all his lies, stood in the way. What would happen when she found out he was a fraud—no scholar, no wearer of spectacles, not even an expert on ghosts? Christian shuddered. For the first time in his life he felt a twinge of fear, and he didn’t care for it. He couldn’t go on like this, getting himself in deeper and deeper, with no end in sight.

“Perhaps you should take to your bed and rest from your
…
injury,” Hobbins suggested in a dry tone that bordered on sarcasm.

Christian ignored it. “I can’t. Smythe’s messenger is coming today, and I have to meet with him.” He hoped the fellow would have some information that might aid his investigation, which was still proceeding at a snail’s pace. Despite all his discoveries about the house, Christian was no closer to unmasking the specter than the day he had arrived. He scowled.

“And what are you going to tell him, my lord?”

Christian glanced at his valet’s impassive countenance, and his own expression hardened with sudden resolve. “I’m going to tell him to have Smythe return immediately with someone—anyone—to pose as a potential buyer.” Maybe that would force the villain’s hand, at least.

Meanwhile, he had a tunnel to explore.

C
hristian’s meeting with
the messenger was brief and uninformative. Smythe was still looking for information on both the Averill family and Abigail’s line, but he had nothing further to report as yet. The clerk did pen a letter,
however, at Christian’s directive, in which he claimed that Mr. Smythe’s client was most interested in Sibel Hall and would soon return.

“Post it before you leave the area, and it should arrive this afternoon,” Christian advised. He was standing at the servants’ entrance, bidding good-bye to the fellow when Alf hurried up, looking a bit chary.

“What’s the matter now? Has Mercia been bothering you again?” Christian asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

The villager reddened. “No, my lord. And Emery went off to his rooms, so I got myself a bit to eat. Did you have anything?”

Since when had the fellow been interested in his dining habits? “No. I haven’t had time today. But I’m glad you’re here. I may need your help. Do you know anything about mines?”

When Alf shook his head, Christian explained about finding the tunnel. “It isn’t the most pleasant of passages, but I think it’s sturdy enough. Although I ran into a joist and dislodged a bit of earth, the place didn’t cave in. I’d like to take another look at it, if you’ll keep watch at the entrance.”
Alf nodded, though his expression was still oddly wary. “You’re not afraid of going underground, are you?” His fearless villager was turning out to be spooked by everything
except
ghosts.

But Alf shook his head. “No, milord. I ain’t afraid of a bit of earth or even narrow spaces. If you want, I’ll take a look through the thing, while you keep watch.”

Christian frowned. “No. I’ll go.” He wasn’t about to order someone else into a possibly dangerous situation, while he idly stood by. Besides, he was curious to find out where the tunnel led.

“Well, if you say so,” Alf said, again in a rather nervous tone. “I’ll just fetch some lanterns and meet you there.”

Christian’s brow rose, but he finally decided to ignore the villager’s behavior. Perhaps the canny Alf had an assignation with a housemaid to cancel before manning the tunnel.

With a nod, Christian took his leave, striding out into the gardens that led toward the folly.

When he reached the rock face, he tried not to think of what had happened here not that long ago. But when he glanced at the hillock, he saw the grass matted down, evidence of two bodies entwined in the sunshine, and he swore under his breath. At least Abigail wasn’t here to remind him in person of just what he had given up.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he saw , her exiting the house and coming toward him, with Alf in tow. What the devil? Christian had worried that their first meeting might be awkward after what had gone between them, but now he didn’t feel awkward. He just felt angry.

“Miss Parkinson, what a surprise!” He greeted her with a nasty smile. “I assume you just happened to run into my friend here when he was getting his lanterns,” he added, inclining his head toward a red-faced Alf.

“No,” Abigail answered without prevarication. She was wearing her determined face, and Christian stifled a groan. “Actually, I had asked Alf to let me know if you recklessly decided to pursue this exploration again.”

Reckless? Christian set his teeth, all attempts at a scholarly demeanor falling by the wayside as he faced off against the Governess. He opened his mouth to argue, but Alf managed to insinuate himself between the two of them.

“Now, milord, don’t take on so. The miss here, well, she, uh, pulled me aside and warned me that I was to tell her if you tried to go underground. She didn’t want you to go in there alone, but she figured you’d want to do just that.” Alf flashed a crooked grin. “All I can say is she knows you well, milord.”

Christian flinched. She didn’t know him at all, and that reminder took the heat out of him. He glared at Alf. “And just what is your excuse? Who pays you?”

“You do, milord, but this is her house.” Alf shrugged. “And she carries a big knife.”

Christian threw up his hands. He was obviously outnumbered, so he gave in as graciously as possible. But there was still the question of who was to explore and who was to stand watch, and since all three wanted to do the former and none wanted to do the latter, an argument ensued. When the Governess swore she was coming with him, Christian explained that Alf was smaller and wiry and fearless.

Abigail was not appeased. “Two men plus danger equal recklessness in my opinion,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her. And for all he knew she had a dagger ready to push her point.

With a sigh, Christian finally had Alf fetch his groomsmen to stand guard, while he, Abigail, and Alf all carefully entered the passage, which wouldn’t be secret much longer. “If we get any more people involved, we’ll have to charge admittance,” Christian grumbled.

This time he was careful to keep his head and shoulders low as he crept through the narrow space. He made his way nearly doubled over, and after a while, his back began to cramp. Instead of thinking about the kind of ministrations he might beg from his hostess, Christian began to question just how long the excavation
continued. No wonder the tight-
fisted Bascomb hadn’t wanted to pay for all this work.

All during the long trek, Christian noted that despite the tight quarters, the rather moldering smell, and the dirty environs, Abigail never uttered a word of complaint, drawing his admiration yet again. Here was a woman to stand at a man’s back, in dark alleyways and crowded ballrooms alike. And although her stubborn refusal to leave his side had irked him. Christian couldn’t help feel a slow swell of pride—and something else, a determination of his own.

After a mile or so underground, they finally reached the end of the passage, much to Christian’s relief, but Alf cried out in dismay. “Why, it’s nothing but a blind alley, and after coming all this way!”

“A tunnel this long doesn’t just go nowhere,” Christian replied, and he ran his hands over the surface in front of him, as well as the sides and even the timbers. But he found nothing except the rough texture of tree roots encroaching on the passage. Then he looked up, where a bunch of old roots dangled, and grinned. Giving them a hefty push upward, he felt the ceiling give way until he managed to poke his head out of the hole.

But his efforts were met with disappointment, for Christian realized he was in no hide, surrounded by Sir Boundefort’s hoard. Nor was he in a building of any kind. Indeed, he was out-of-doors again, just as he had begun, the only difference being the tall trees that loomed above him. After all that crawling about below, they had not reached any treasure trove that might explain Sibel Hall’s many mysteries. Instead, they appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by old oaks and undergrowth.

“What is it, milord? What do you see?” Alf called impatiently from behind him. Christian glanced around to discover that the exit, such as it was, consisted of an old stump, which had fallen to the side, and he climbed out onto the ground. Reaching back down, he helped Abigail and Alf out, as well, so that all three of them stood in the shade of the ancient trees, taking in their surroundings.

“Why, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Abigail marveled, as she surveyed the area. “Perhaps, like Walpole, Bascomb was enthralled with gothic novels and simply wanted a secret tunnel of his own.”

Christian frowned. A gothic novelist of the last century, Walpole had built himself a castlelike home called Strawberry Hill, which was rumored to house all sorts of nonsense from his books. “Somehow I can’t picture the tightfisted Bascomb spending money for romantic ornamentation.”

“What a minute, milord! I know where we are,’’ Alf said. “And we aren’t on the Sibel Hall property anymore.”

“What?”

“See the long line of oaks?” Alf noted, pointing west. “They continue all the way up here, behind us and go past us, on the east. That marks the edge of the Averill estate. The
trees have been here forever, dating back to the first dispute between the neighbors, or so it’s said.”

Christian glanced around with some surprise. “So the tunnel actually goes between the trees? No wonder there were so many roots pushing at the sides.”

“Look there, you can see Dowsett Manor,” Alf said, pointing once more. Christian followed the line of his arm until he spied a stone structure, its windows glinting in the sun, nestled far below in a green valley.

“But why tunnel all the way here when he could just ride or walk?” Abigail asked.

“Madness. Madness in the blood, I tell you,” Alf muttered. He shook his head before jerking a startled glance toward Abigail. “Beg pardon, miss.”