A Man Of Many Talents (27 page)

“She’s not one of them,” Christian pointed out.

“Oh, that’s right! That’s good. Well, then, madness,” Alf repeated. “Madness in the blood.”

I
t was
Abigail’
s
idea to visit Dowsett Manor, with the hope that the occupants of the house might shed some light upon the tunnel between the two properties. And Christian, always eager to escape the confines of Sibel Hall, was only too glad to join her. Soon, however, he was to regret the outing.

The drive—in his own coach—was pleasant enough. Christian would have preferred to ride, but hesitated to suggest it, since he was unsure of both Abigail’s skills and the state of the stables. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself to be alone with her in the countryside, where they could stop at any moment and make a bed in the grass again.

Trying not to think about what he had given up, Christian vowed to quit sneaking glances at the woman who sat across from him. Such flirtation had always been a part of his liaisons before, so the effort to pretend that nothing had changed between them was giving him a headache, as well as a pain lower down. It throbbed even as he told himself
that this was not a liaison. Nor was Abigail like any of those other women.

By the time they reached Dowsett Manor, Christian was pressing his temples, even though he never suffered from the megrims or any kind of discomfort, at least above the groin. If Abigail was going to give him aches higher up, then perhaps he ought to leave while he still could. Unfortunately, he suspected it was already too late.

They were greeted at Dowsett Manor by a butler who took one look at Abigail’s dowdy clothing and lifted his big fat nose in the air. She didn’t even flinch, but since Christian suspected it was because she was used to that kind of treatment, he grew even more annoyed. He lifted his own noble nose in the air, along with his eyebrows.

“Your neighbor, Miss Parkinson, along with Viscount Moreland, to see the residents here,” Christian said, putting the servant in his place. With a flicker of interest, the fellow became more obeisant, showing them to a parlor and assuring them that while Mr. Milner was not at home, Mrs. Milner would be happy to receive them.

Afraid to bring up the topic of their treatment and her past grievances for fear he might lose his temper, Christian set his teeth and put his mind to the task at hand. “Did you tell anyone we were coming?”

Abigail shook her head. “I did ask the colonel, casually, mind you, whether he knew any of the surrounding families, and he was very vague. I admit I find it odd that the three cousins are so reclusive.”

Surely that wasn’t all she found odd about them? Christian bit his tongue because at that moment the mistress of the house rushed into the room in a flurry of silk and feathers. And like a bee to honey, she made directly for where Christian stood.

“My lord! What an honor and a pleasure to have you call upon us! I vow, we are so secluded that the society here and abouts is simply abysmal. However, now that I know that you are in the neighborhood, I shall have to gather a group
together for some dancing and cards, of course!” she gushed, engulfing him in a cloud of perfume.

Christian nearly choked, and he felt like choking her. Amid all her chatter, she had never even acknowledged Abigail’s presence. “Mrs. Milner, I presume?” he said, tilting his head.

“Why, yes, of course, my lord,” she simpered. “Such a pleasure! Such a surprise! As I said, we simply must get together. My husband will be so sorry that he missed your impromptu call!”

“I am here with your neighbor, Miss Parkinson, the new owner of Sibel Hall,” he said, sweeping an arm toward Abigail in a gesture that even Mrs. Milner could not ignore.

“Ah, yes,” the woman said, nodding in the briefest of acknowledgments. Before she could launch into another lengthy ramble, Christian took his seat.

“I wonder if you could give us some information about the former owner of the Hall.”

She looked at him blankly.

“A Mr. Bascomb Averill?” Christian prompted.

“Oh, my, no!” she said, fluttering toward the door, where she rather loudly called for tea.

Christian rubbed his temples. He did not want tea—or anything else—from this woman.

“Did you see much of him?” Abigail asked.

Mrs. Milner hesitated, and for a moment Christian thought she would refuse to reply. He half rose from his chair, his anger barely leashed. But whether she suspected his intent or simply feared he might leave, she answered, though she looked at him, not Abigail, when she did so.

“Mr. Averill? Oh, my, no! We had no dealings with the man whatsoever. We found him quite discourteous, even belligerent. Why, he said we had no right to be here!” she said with a sniff. “Can you imagine? Just as though we hadn’t paid good money for the house!”

Money and the position it bought were obviously important to Mrs. Milner, whose husband, Christian suspected,
was in trade. He’d seen these social-climbing, grasping females before. He could only be thankful that she didn’t look old enough to have a daughter to throw at him.

“So you recently purchased this property?” Abigail asked.

Again Mrs. Milner hesitated, and Christian didn’t know what irritated him more, her treatment of Abigail or Abigail’s composure in the face of it. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Yes! It was a bit small and out of the way, but Rupert— Mr. Milner, that is—insisted upon a country place,” she said coyly.

“Can you tell us anything about the previous owner of the house?” Abigail asked.

Mrs. Milner didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “Dowsett Manor? Why, no. I’m afraid I know nothing about those
…
people. I suppose they fell upon hard times.”

“Or bought something larger,” Abigail put in, and Christian had to bite back a laugh at the subtle gibe.

Their hostess appeared startled. “Why, yes, I suppose that’s possible. No!” she said, shaking the feathers in her hair. “Now that you mention it, I believe it was owned by a widow, a Lady Chestleham, who passed on. No one to inherit, I assume. But her misfortune is our gain, so I say.” Mrs. Milner waved a hand in obvious dismissal of the subject.

But Abigail, despite her treatment, was not to be dismissed so easily. “Do you know if this widow was a member of the original family that founded the place?”

This time Mrs. Milner made her displeasure obvious. Turning to Abigail, she lifted her chin and looked down her nose, perhaps in imitation of her own butler. “I have no idea. Whatever personal items that were here were removed and sold at auction, I believe,” she snapped, shuddering as if with distaste. But Christian was willing to bet that some of those things were right here staring him in the face, as well as stuffed in the attics. Unfortunately, he hadn’t the time or
energy to go through someone else’s house as well as Sibel Hall.

“Ah, here is the tea at last,” Mrs. Milner said, with a wave of her hand. Turning her shoulder toward Abigail, she gave Christian a long-suffering smile. “Servants are so difficult to find these days, especially in this rural area. I vow, I don’t know how I shall survive!”

Christian rose to his feet. “I’m so
rr
y, but we haven’t time for tea today,” he said, without any further explanation.

Mrs. Mi
ln
er practically shrieked in protest. “Oh, but, my lord, you simply must have something!” Another time Christian might have been eager to eat anything not served at Sibel Hall, but right now he didn’t have the stomach for it.

“I’m sorry, but no,” Christian said, turning to Abigail. She had a puzzled expression, presumably because he was leaving without mentioning the tunnel, but he simply shrugged. He could tell Mrs. Milner had no knowledge of the passage and would not be happy to learn of its existence. The first thing she would do was fill it in, and Christian wasn’t about to give her the pleasure.

“But Mr. Milner will want to meet you, and we must arrange for a soiree!” the woman protested, following Christian to the door like a frantic puppy.

“I am staying with a party at Sibel Hall, but I’m afraid I’m too busy with my commission there to have any time for amusements.”

Mrs. Milner looked at him blankly.

“I’m trying to rout the specter that haunts the place,” Christian explained, while Mrs. Milner gaped. He flashed her a smile. “When I do, I’ll try not to send it over this way.”
Christian brushed pa
st the butler, then turned on th
e threshold. “Oh, you are right, Mrs. Milner. Your servants are terrible.”

As he stalked toward the waiting coach, Christian heard the sputtering of the woman he had left behind, as well as a stifled sound from beside him. But even the rarity of Abigail’s laughter could not rouse him from his ill mood, and after helping her inside, he threw himself into the seat opposite with more force than necessary, jarring his throbbing head.

“A pox upon that wretched female!” he muttered, lifting a hand to his temples. “I can’t believe the way she treated you.”

“I’m used to it,” Abigail replied with a tight smile.

“Well, I’m not,” he retorted.

“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail said, and all traces of laughter faded away, to be replaced by the Governess, in full form.

Christian frowned at both her transformation and her dismissal of the subject. It
did
matter, and he wanted to protest her acceptance of such treatment with a shout, raging at the injustice. But, of course, that would not be very scholarly, an observation that made him even angrier. He felt like snatching the spectacles from his pocket and smashing the damn things beneath his foot. They were probably what had given him the headache.

Christian set his teeth. Suddenly he was furious—with that idiot woman, with Abigail for her steadfast composure, and with himself because he could do little except return Mrs. Milner’s rudeness. Yet even as he fought against his frustration he realized that there was something else he could do.

He could make sure that Abigail never received another cut like that one. He could make her his viscountess, his future countess, take her to court, lavish her with jewels and fine clothes and servants to grant her every whim, and build her a house, the most beautiful, tasteful, mode
rn
house ever created. And then let anyone disparage her!

Yet instead of easing his frustration the plan only pained him, for Christian knew Abigail would never agree to such a proposal. She didn’t care about any of that and didn’t want to marry anyone, least of all him.

* *
* * *

W
hen Alf heard
about Christian’s disappointing trip to Dowsett Manor, he snorted. “Of course the owner’s not going to know anything!” he said, shaking his head. “You have to go to the people in the know, the ones who wash the dirty linen, if you get my meaning. Let me pay a visit to the servants’ hall, and I’ll find out more than a dozen calls upon the witless gentry will get you.”

Christian took him up on the offer and was not disappointed. When the villager returned a few hours later, he had a satisfied grin on his face. “The house has changed hands several times over the years, so there’s no sense looking for any more of the bad blood between the original families.” Alf paused, to grin wickedly at Christian. “In fact, our Bascomb didn’t seem to have an aversion to his old neighbor. Quite the opposite.” When he leaned close and lowered his voice dramatically, Christian hoped whatever he had to impart didn’t involve any more mention of madness in the blood.

“I heard from an old stablehand who’s been there since he was a lad. Lady Chestleham used to go out riding, always to the line of oaks near the edge of the property. And she didn’t want anyone to attend her. Well, our man being curious, one time he followed her and found nothing but her horse standing there, the rider nowhere in sight.

“Well, he fussed and worried and didn’t know what to do, but knowing he wasn’t supposed to follow, he didn’t say anything. He went back to the stables, and lo and behold, the lady of the house rode right up later that day. Knowing his betters, or at least human nature, our man figured she was meeting someone up there, and he was glad that he didn’t come upon them, doing the deed right there in the woods!”

Christian frowned.

“You see?” Alf asked, as though he were dense. “Lady Chestleham was meeting old Bascomb, going through the tunnel he had specially made for her. Probably had that bath put in for just that sort of dallying, too!” Alf winked.

Christian held up a hand to stop the flow of information
from the villager. He had no interest in the affairs of the neighbors. Nor did the report of their antics help him in the slightest. Instead, he felt the now familiar swell of aggravation at the knowledge that the tunnel seemed totally unrelated to the haunting, as well as yet another waste of his time.

For a man who had once pursued life with ease, Christian found himself facing a whole slew of disappointments. Although the whole house was abuzz with the prospect of a buyer returning with Mr. Smythe, the specter had not shown itself, making Christian’s effort to force the villain’s hand unsuccessful. He cursed under his breath. The days were passing, each more frustrating than the last.

Sensing his mood, Alf slipped away, leaving Christian alone near the servants’ hall, where he remained lost in thought until a small, stout female in an apron and cap came barreling into the room. At first he thought Alf was chasing her in some misguided romantic pursuit, but she was too hysterical for that, wailing and jabbering nonsensically. Christian tried to stop her, but she flailed like a wild thing, knocking him aside on her way to the door. She flung it open with a screech, then fled, and it was only then that Christian made sense of her screaming.

It was something about a ghost.