A Man Of Many Talents (12 page)

“I say, with or without the fellow’s help, we should try
to find the viscount, shouldn’t we, eh?” the colonel continued.

But Abigail only heard the words from behind her as she hurried to the great hall. Heart in her throat, she regretted all that she had said to the viscount. It seemed apparent now that she had done little except complain about his lordship, at least to herself, and that she had barely been civil to him to his face, let alone grateful for his prompt response to her plea. Perhaps, while awaiting his arrival, she had wished for more, but she could not blame him for her childish fancies. He had come to help her, and she had snapped at him all too often, most especially last night!

Although not an hour before, Abigail had been cataloguing his faults, now the thought of never again looking upon his handsome visage filled her with horror and dread and a sorrow so deep that it dispelled all else. She could barely keep her feet to an even pace while she fought an urge to run, heedless of her skirts, to the cellar door. Her godmother would never have countenanced that, and even her cousins would surely think her mad, but Abigail Parkinson, known as the soul of reason and discretion, was beyond caring.

She was out of breath when she reached the passage behind the fretwork, where the heavy oak door still stood open. Had someone else gone down there? What of the miscreants who had been hammering? What if they had been hiding in some co
rn
er only to emerge and attack an unsuspecting Lord Moreland? Grabbing the lantern she had left behind, Abigail plunged into the darkness.

Behind her, she was dimly aware of the colonel, huffing and puffing and urging her to caution in a breathless voice. He managed to catch up with her, halting her progress at the top of the cellar stairs.

“Let’s see if he answers first, shall we?” the colonel suggested. Without waiting for her reply, he called Lord Moreland’s name more loudly than ever, but his bellow was
swallowed up by the darkness and muffled by the old stone, making even the prosaic Abigail uneasy.

Suddenly the steps that seemed so innocuous this morning appeared positively evil, a dreaded stair leading to some blackened crypt from a gothic novel. Abigail waited as the last traces of the colonel’s shout echoed around them, but as from the depths of a tomb, only silence answered.

8

T
he stillness was
deafening. Above it, Abigail heard only the sound of her own breathing coining loud and fast as panic began to beat a frantic rhythm in her blood. And then, beside her, she heard the colonel clearing his throat.

“Perhaps we should summon the magistrate,” he said.

Abigail turned to stare at him in disbelief. He would wait for some fool from the village? To do what? One glance at his nervous expression told her that the military man might have faced the enemy on foreign battlefields but he was not prepared to brave the cellar of his own home.

Abigail had no such qualms. Right now nothing could keep her from Lord Moreland. Shaking off the colonel’s restraining arm, she hurried downward. Grasping the lantern in one hand and her skirts in another, she was forced to watch her steps, so she did not see the shadowy figure until it loomed up in front of her. Abigail drew back with a gasp, wondering if she had met the phantom at last, but then it
spoke, and not in some high-pitched wail but in the low, heady voice of Lord Moreland.

“Whoa!” he said, grasping her shoulders to steady her, and for one long, dreadful moment, Abigail felt like weeping. She, who rarely showed emotion, who hadn’t cried since the death of her parents, felt the hot pressure rise up in her throat, stinging her eyes. She stood, shaking, seized by a
f
ierce urge to toss down her lantern and throw her arms around his waist, to press herself against him tightly and never let go.

And who could blame her? She was so glad, or rather so thankful, to hear his voice, to see him before her, seemingly unharmed, to smell that wonderful, unique scent that
was his alone, coupled with…
wine? Since she had been sniffing rather fitfully, holding back tears, Abigail could not ignore the distinct, telltale odor. She stepped away from him, her dizzying elation swamped by suspicion.

“What have you been doing? Didn’t you hear us call?” she managed, her voice sharp.

Lord Moreland lifted one well-manicured hand to his tousled hair. “I came up as quickly as I could. You can’t exactly move at great haste down there, even equipped with a lantern.”

“Obviously not,” Abigail said dryly, considering the amount of time he had spent below. “Would you mind telling me what has occupied you all day?” The alarm that had wrung her out like a wet glove now turned to outrage. How could the viscount have caused them all such grief with his thoughtlessness?

“I’ve been exploring,” he said, explaining nothing even as he reached out to escort her up the steps.

Abigail slipped away from his touch. She could walk quite well on her own, thank you, and she demonstrated as much by turning her back on him and stalking up to the little room, where the colonel greeted them both in his usual jovial manner.

“Ah, I see you’ve found him. Good show! I say, we were
a bit worried about you, my lord, when you didn’t appear for dinner,” the colonel said, giving the errant nobleman a hearty slap on the back.

Abigail did not stay to share in the exuberant welcome, but hurried into the great hall. Her heart was still pounding frantically in the aftermath of uncharacteristically violent emotions, and she was tempted to keep on walking all the way to the drawing room. But good manners, along with an urge to give the miscreant a piece of her mind, made her turn and linger. She did not have long to wait, for the colonel and the viscount soon emerged.

As she watched, the latter brushed at his dusty clothes with perfect grace, then straightened to his full, glorious height to appear casually confident and handsome, his tousled golden hair only enhancing his appearance. Abigail, who had a feeling she looked flushed, harried, and untidy, felt a slow surge of resentment. By what miracle of birth and circumstances had he lived in privilege and arrogance, idling away whatever wits and talents he might have, neglecting to pursue any worthwhile occupation of his thoughts or skills, while she had been forced into drudgery, her mind all but dulled by the demands upon her time and person and energy?

He had strolled into Sibel Hall, assuming command, oozing condescension, and ordering her not to consider herself his equal. Fine. She had tried to stay out of his way, hopi
ng that he would conduct his…
business quickly and be gone. But it seemed that at every opportunity he was approaching her, eyeing her, or standing beside her, far too near. And then, last night, he had given her the ultimate insult, disregarding her wishes and her person, tendering her no respect by treating her just as he would any servile, powerless female.

And no matter what heady sensations his actions had produced at the time, there was no denying the pain of her discoveries—not only that he thought so little of her but that he was the type of man who would prey on an unprotected
woman, using the skills he had no doubt honed on many others. Wenching and drinking must be the viscount’s sole areas of expertise, for instead of ridding her house of the specter, he appeared to have spent the afternoon imbibing from the wine cellar.

Abigail made a low sound of disgust. She had never understood the
ton's
penchant for guzzling everything from claret to champagne with gusto, the men bragging about how many bot
tl
es they could drink in one sitting, the women boldly tippling as well. Personally, she held them all in contempt and considered such activities a sign of weakness—or an excuse for ill behavior. More often than not, the only time “gentlemen” noticed the companion was when their breath reeked of alco
hol. And as for her godmother…
Abigail shuddered at the memory of putting the woman to bed, smelly and belligerent, far too many times.

Abigail felt something inside her, some final dream or last lingering hope, disintegrate at the thought that Lord Moreland was no different. The Last Resort? More likely he was no resort at all, an utterly useless rogue who was eating her food and stealing kisses, probably from the servants as well, while accomplishing nothing. She crossed her arms in front of her. “And did you rout the ghost?” she asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Rout him? I never even saw him,” the scoundrel admitted.

And would he have seen any phantoms had they paraded past him, or had he been slumped over a barrel below, drunk and insensible? Abigail pursed her lips. “And just what did you achieve?” she demanded.

He grinned. “I found a lovely old claret. Shall I fetch a bottle for dinner?”

Abigail, who never had been given to bouts of temper, had to restrain herself. “Dinner,” she said through gritted teeth, “is already waiting.” Then, her patience exhausted, she stalked past the arrogant nobleman, not trusting herself to say anything else.

* * *
* *

C
hristian watched the
stiff, retreating back of his hostess and fought an urge to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his room. The impulse had come upon him when he ran into her on the stair, his body bumping up against hers all too briefly, her face flushed and glowing in the lantern’s light with an expression on it that he didn’t recognize. Why was she always on the step above him? Though he wouldn’t mind
her being on top…

Christian sighed. Obviously a day in the cellars had not improved his taste—except in wine. He shook his head, sending up a faint flutter of dust, and decided that late or not, he had better change for dinner.

He found Hobbins waiting for him with a welcome pitcher of water and a basin for washing as best he could. He would have liked to try the plunge bath, but considering the time and his hostess’s mood, that was out of the question. He greeted his valet with a curt smile.

“Ah, there you are, my lord. One of the hall’s residents sought me out, looking for you,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval.

“I see that the possibility of my coming up missing didn’t alarm you,” Christian remarked wryly, with one glance at his valet’s stoic expression.

“Of course not, my lord. I believe you to be eminently capable of taking care of yourself.”

Was that a thinly veiled insult or a compliment? Christian grinned as he began stripping off his coat.

“Taking care of your clothing, however, appears to be a different matter,” Hobbins said, grasping the discarded garment between two fingers and holding it away from him as though it were some sort of rotting carcass.

“But Hobbins, that’s your job,” Christian said, laughing.

“Hmmm. Yes, so I see,” the valet murmured, eyeing the coat and his employer critically. “Apparently the housekeeping here is even more negligent than I thought.”

Christian laughed again. “I was in the cellars all day.”

“Ah,” Hobbins commented, unfazed, as always, by that announcement. “And did you enjoy yourself, my lord?”

Christian paused in the act of removing his waistcoat. “Actually, I did,” he answered, surprising himself. “It’s a fine example of medieval vaulting and still solid except for some odd sorts of tampering at various points in the wall. Although not much of the furniture and stored items is worthy of attention, I found a wine cellar that is beyond price, with the most beautiful champagne from the Abbey of Hautvillers, probably bottled when Dom Pierre Perignon himself was alive.”

Christian sighed at the memory of the taste, a just reward for a day spent below. Or so he had thought. One look at the Governess had shown him that she did not share his opinion. Apparently his efforts, which he deemed quite estimable, were all too easily dismis
sed. Christian frowned in annoy
ance. What did she expect him to do, drag the specter forcibly from the woodwork?

“I take it Miss Parkinson does not share your appreciation of fine wine,” Hobbins said.

Christian glanced at his valet’s impassive countenance and wondered, not for the first time, if the man was omniscient. Perhaps
he
could call
up the ghost? “Yes. She was…
unimpressed.”

“That appears to be her general attitude where you are concerned, my lord,” Hobbins observed. “Rather refreshing, I might add. Probably good for you.”

Christian sent him a look. “Undoubtedly you think a day in a dark, dusty cellar, with no thanks for my trouble, promotes intellectual growth.”

“Hardly intellectual.”

“Ah, spiritual, then?” Christian asked, snorting in amusement.

“So, it’s fawning you want?” Hobbins asked as he laid out fresh clothing.

“No,” Christian said, annoyed. “But I wouldn’t mind a little gratitude.”

“For drinking the champagne?” Hobbins asked.

Christian’s eyes narrowed. Although he was good-natured, he did have his limits, and he was becoming increasingly tired of Sibel Hall and its inhabitants. He wasn’t known for his store of patience, which was rapidly running thin with both the ghost and his hostess, who treated him as if he had some sort of communicable disease that prevented her from coming too close to him. Since the house party was small, that left him with the cousins, a fate from which an afternoon in the cellars had seemed a reprieve.

He didn’t need his valet adding to his troubles. “Perhaps you are overdue for retirement,” he suggested without heat.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Hobbins dipped into a bow that might have been an apology—or a mockery.

“You ought to welcome the chance,” Christian said. “I, for one, am more than ready to leave this wretched place.”

“And forgo your duty, my lord?” his valet asked.

Christian shrugged. “I’m serious, Hobbins. Maybe we should just throw in our hand on this one.”

“Perhaps you are right, my lord. After all, you have given the business your best and, sadly, have failed in this instance. There will be other challenges.” Hobbins spoke with no perceptible inflection. So why did disapproval ring in every word?

Christian glared at his valet, who continued his duties as if he had not used an extremely repugnant word.

“Failure is usually not a pa
rt of my vocabulary, Hobbins.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Hobbins said, appearing not the least bit remorseful. “How would you phrase it?”

Christian mulled that one over. “Well, I certainly tried, but circumstances—mainly a lack of phantoms—have prevented me from completing my mission,” he said, only to frown at Hobbins’s impassive face. Regrettably, no matter how you put it, the end result was the same. If he left now, he would go trailing home having accomplished little beyond retrieving a few tools—and some lovely wine—from the cellars of Sibel Hall.

Of course, Christian couldn’t heed just his own desires in this case. He could imagine the earl’s distress, whether real or feigned, all too clearly as the old gentleman accused him of abandoning a lady in distress. Christian rolled his eyes at that one. He could hardly explain that Miss Parkinson was no lady but some kind of governess, who appeared equal to anyone and anything, including a medieval specter, without any assistance from him.

But despite appearances, she had asked for his help, so if he left now, he would be abandoning her—at least in the earl’s eyes. “Oh, very well, I suppose I can give it a bit longer,” Christian muttered, half to himself and half to his manservant.

But kicking his heels with nothing except a bit of fine wine to keep him occupied wouldn’t do either. He let his valet help him into a fresh coat. “If only I knew why someone is chipping away at the cellar,” he mused aloud.

“I suspect they are looking for something,” Hobbins conjectured.

Christian nodded absently. “But there’s no sign of anything down there,” he murmured. His first thought had been a hidden room, but the cellars had been built before the need for such places arose. There was a chance that the medieval owner had built a hiding
space,
just large enough to store his wealth. Christian had spent some intimate time with the foundation walls, however, and he hadn’t found one single sign of anything beyond the recent tampering.

Again, Christian wished he had the plans or some sort of record of the building. “Tomorrow I suppose I’ll search the library and see what turns up.” He could think of other things he would rather search, primarily his hostess’s person.

That thought carried him through a swift exit from his room down to the dining room, where he found, to his dismay, that the rest of the company had failed to wait upon
him. For an instant he was so outraged that he opened his mouth to protest, but the look on his hostess’s face made him decide not to risk it. And what had he missed, anyway? No doubt the fare was as bad as ever. Just colder. Wincing, Christian excused himself and hurried back to the cellars to fetch a lovely old bottle imported from France by some former resident of Sibel Hall. Since then the line had clearly gone downhill.

So did his evening.

By the time he returned, the wretched meal was stone cold and his hostess colder still. He couldn’t even enjoy the delightful Bordeaux because of the evil looks the Governess sent his way. Christian felt as though he was stealing her wine, especially since she refused even a taste. Only the colonel seemed happy to join him in a glass, slurping so enthusiastically that Christian felt compelled to limit the old fellow’s share.

The conversation was practically nonexistent, and what there was of it proved unpalatable. Christian decided it had reached the absolute nadir when Cousin Mercia asked him about his afternoon’s explorations. At the very question the Governess sniffed.
Sniffed!
Christian could not recall ever having been the object of such censure. It was all he could do to retain some semblance of politesse when he wanted to lunge across the table and wipe away her scowl. Of course, at this point, he was wondering if any man, even a fellow of his previously admired talents, could put a smile on her face.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Emery decried Christian’s every observation about the cellars, including the glaring truth that someone had been down there trying to find something. The boy actually sneered at the facts!

“Next you shall be claiming that Sir Boundefort himself was floating about, chipping at the walls,” Emery mocked, again testing Christian’s resolve not to dive over the dinner settings. But in Emery’s case, his objective would be to draw blood, not a smile.

And just when Christian thought he’d heard it all, Cousin
Mercia seized upon Emery’s sarcastic conjecture as entirely probable, postulating that her knightly ancestor was trying to escape his earthly boundaries by hacking away at the foundations of his own house. She then launched into yet another recitation of her wretched couplets.

Christian stifled a groan.

When the beastly affair was over, he excused himself to seek an early retirement, eager for any escape from the dreadful company. But his room seemed small and stifling, so when all was quiet, he once again left it to prowl around the house during the night, listening for noises that never came. And a hostess who, unfortunately, never appeared in the darkness, clad only in her nightclothes and suffering a change of heart about her gallant rescuer.

Bored and restless and weary of being cooped up inside dreary Sibel Hall, Christian finally trudged back to his bed, which had never seemed emptier.

H
e was growing
irritable. He admitted it. Although not quite as surly as Emery, he reminded himself of one of the earl’s gouty old cronies. And he didn’t particularly care for it. But who could blame him when he was now into his fourth day at Sibel Hall, with little enough to show for his stay except a bad night’s sleep and poor company?

And, in his misguided search for plans to the house, he had been trapped in the dusty old library seemingly forever, which in itself was enough to ruin anyone’s mood. Wasn’t it? Christian slanted a glance at the colonel, cheerfully humming away as he thumbed through moldy old volumes, then toward the governess, who seemed content enough until she caught him staring and glared at him.

Christian sighed. He was not a reader. He never had been, having scraped through his school days by doing as little of it as possible. He had always preferred the out-of-doors, escaping whenever he could, and his tastes had changed little over the years. An afternoon spent surrounded by books at
Sibel. Hall was the stuff of nightmares as far as he was concerned. But what else was he to do? He was the one who had insisted on looking for some clue to the original construction, the so-called treasure, or Sir Boundefort himself.

And so far he had found books on every conceivable subject
except
those. Indeed, there seemed to be a notable dearth of any sort of family history, so notable as to make Christian suspicious. Had someone actually gone through the place and removed any
thing that might be pertinent?
It seemed like a great deal of trouble—and to accomplish what?

Christian shook his head, which was too full of dust and stultifying writings to think clearly. Hell, he could hardly even breathe. He had sneezed twice, yawned innumerable times, and ogled the derriere of his hostess whenever he got a chance. But as much as he enjoyed sneaking those glimpses, Christian found himself growing impatient for some kind of activity that did not involve dry old tomes.

The possibility of a rousing haunting seemed extremely remote at this point, for Christian had come to the conclusion that if there ever had been a phantom, it wasn’t about to show its spectral face when he was around. And if actual corporeal beings were involved in the happenings here, then his discovery of tools in the cellar had effectively scared them off as well. But his family had never been known for their inaction, and Christian had reached the limit of his.

It was time to do something to flush out the fellow.

Replacing an unpromising volume on families of the north country on its shelf, Christian turned around and dusted off his hands purposefully. “I’m going into the village to post a letter. To my grandfather,” he added, to forestall any protest from his slave-driving hostess. She could hardly object to a familial missive, nor could she tell him to send one of the servants, considering the lack of help about the place.