A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  Abigail frowned, prepared to defend Lord Moreland, no matter if he was her last resort, but she had to admit that his knowledge of burglary skills had shocked her. And there was no denying the possibility that he might have gained access to the doors before today. But why? Although Emery’s suggestion that he wanted to appear effective sounded absurd, much of Lord Moreland’s behavior made no sense to her.

  As they reached the great hall, Abigail was forced to abandon her conjectures and Emery his argument, for the colonel and Cousin Mercia crowded close, eagerly bombarding them with questions.

  “Well, what happened? What did you find?” the colonel bellowed.

  “Did you see Sir Boundefort?” Mercia whispered eagerly.

  Abigail was surprised, as usual, by the older woman’s enthusiasm. She only wished she herself took such delight in the specter, or anything else, for that matter. Catching the tenor of her thoughts, Abigail rebuked herself. Soon, when Sibel Hall was sold, she would have her heart’s desire, her own household, and then she would delight in her garden and her peace and quiet each and every moment.

  “No,” Emery grumbled. “It was a useless venture, just as I predicted. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to my room to engage in some real scholarship, not idiotic, and might I add highly suspect, theories!” He stormed off in a petulant fit, but since the others, presumably inured to Emery’s sometimes rude behavior, ignored him, Abigail made no attempt to call him back.

  Instead she turned toward her other cousins, who were, for all their eccentricities, far better behaved. “Lord Moreland found some tools that he thinks may have been used to make the noises we heard in the evening,” Abigail explained. “From the looks of it, someone was hammering at the cellar walls,” she added, though the explanation sounded feeble even to her own ears. Doubt crept into her thoughts again. After all, what did she really know of the viscount? Could he be trusted? He had already demonstrated an alarming tendency to ignore her wishes, and even his own decrees.

  “Hammering at the walls? Whatever for?” the colonel exclaimed.

  “Lord Moreland suggested they were looking for the treasure that you spoke of in the, uh, legend,” Abigail said.

  The colonel, a dear old fellow, looked so dumbfounded that Abigail had to bite her lip. “Odd business, indeed! I have lived here for years and never heard tell of any of this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “That is because you have never been interested in the family history,” Cousin Mercia said. “Perhaps Sir Boundefort is determined that someone at last should discover his riches! It is fortunate that we need not suspect Lord Moreland of seeking out our hidden hoard.”

  Abigail turned to stare at Mercia in surprise. Of course her cousin was right. A rich nobleman would hardly have designs upon some mythical cache, and yet… The colonel had a point, too. Everything seemed to have come to a head at once—right after Lord Moreland’s arrival. Suspicion surged through her, driven by her own doubts about her guest.

  But her innate logic quickly asserted itself. How could Lord Moreland have been below, pounding on the walls, when he was with her in the great hall? Even a man of the viscount’s dubious charms could hardly be in two places at once. But what if he had directed someone else to do the chore—such as his valet? Abigail frowned at that far fetched notion. She had seen his lordship’s body servant, and the thought of that stiff gentleman picking away at the foundation of the house was ludicrous. She was letting her imagination get the better of her, an imagination that had been nonexistent until her arrival here at Sibel Hall, home to ghosts, legends, and fanciful relatives.

  “Well, I don’t like the idea of anyone down in the cellar, let alone someone chipping away at the foundation,” the colonel said. “Perhaps we should call in the authorities.”

  Abigail stifled a smile at the thought of what the local magistrate would have to say about a mysterious chiseler below Sibel Hall. “I doubt they would take us very seriously. All we can say for certain is that we found some tools that might have been used the night before to hammer at the walls.” She refrained from mentioning the specter, which could only hurt any case they might attempt to make.

  “Yes, well, I see your point,” the colonel muttered. “Although I still don’t like it. Perhaps we ought to set one of the servants to watch down there.”

  Sometimes Abigail wondered if she was the only resident of the hall in touch with reality. Between Emery’s outlandishness and Mercia’s flights of fancy, she had thought the colonel the most firmly grounded of the cousins, but even he often seemed blind to the facts. Who did he think would take on such a task?

  “I fear that Sir Boundefort, or at least the rumor of him, has driven away all but a few desperate young women, hardly the sort to guard against housebreakers,” she said. “But perhaps you might find some hardy lad in the village—unless you wish to take on the task yourself?”

  The colonel appeared startled by the suggestion, then laughed loudly. “Oh, I think not, my dear! My days of keeping watch are over.” He cleared his throat, then lowered his voice, as though to confide in her. “Though I would dearly love to be of use, these old bones can’t stand the damp, which I fear must surely be the case below.”

  Abigail took pity on the old fellow. He really was sweet, if a bit loud. “It is probably just as well, for we should miss your company, wouldn’t we, Cousin Mercia?”

  “Indeed! No one tells a story quite as well as the colonel,” Mercia said.

  Stepping around the fretwork, Abigail felt a small measure of relief to be out of the darkness and in the airy great hall once more, but Cousin Mercia and the colonel were slow to follow. When they finally joined her, they looked puzzled.

  “Are you going to leave him down there, by himself?” Mercia asked, as if astonished by the notion.

  “Yes, that seems rather, uh, unaccommodating to our guest,” the colonel added.

  Abigail tried not to frown in response. “Lord Moreland is not simply a guest. He is here to do a job.” A job, she might add, to which he seemed to devote precious little attention. “He felt it would be beneficial to his… inquiry to search the cellar.”

  “Alone? Hardly seems fitting,” the colonel muttered.

  “You are welcome to join him,” Abigail said.

  “Oh, no, not I! Dampness,” he said with a shudder. Abigail eyed the old fellow and wondered, not for the first time, if he was afraid of the ghost he professed not to believe in. “And I suppose you ladies don’t want to be mucking about down there!” he added with a loud chuckle.

  Abigail pursed her lips. It wasn’t the specter or the prospect of mustiness or even the dreadful clutter that kept her from returning below. She had no intention of joining Lord Moreland, especially in a darkened cellar. Why, the very thought— Abigail reached for her throat as an unwelcome frisson of excitement coursed through her.

  “Well, I’m sure that his lordship will inform us of any interesting finds,” Cousin Mercia said.

  “Yes,” Abigail agreed aloud. “I’m sure Lord Moreland will keep us abreast of his discoveries.” And yet, always wary, Abigail wondered. Was her Last Resort actually applying himself to his task, or was he pursuing another investigation entirely his own?

  Knowing such thoughts could reach no logical conclusion, Abigail tried to put the viscount out of her mind. Excusing herself, she retreated to the study, where she continued sorting out all the bills and correspondence her great-uncle had left behind. But the room that had once served as her refuge from her well-meaning, yet sometimes overwhelming cousins no longer gave her the solace it had. She could see him here, ostensibly searching for keys but more likely caught gazing out the window.

  There! Abigail seized upon the memory with something approaching desperation, for didn’t it prove her poor opinion of the viscount? That was just the sort of behavior she expected from a pampered nobleman who had accomplished nothing during his gilded existence. He had made such a fuss about the keys when in the end he hadn’t need
ed them at all. Meanwhile, he had demanded that everyone drop all other responsibilities to look for them, yet he had barely glanced about the room. In fact, his eyes, more often than not, had seemed to be upon Abigail herself.

  The recollection of that particular conduct, though just as damning as his habit of staring out the window, somehow produced a different reaction in Abigail. Flushing with an unaccountable heat, she snatched up some papers from a nearby stack and sat down hard in her chair. Still, she felt a surge of dizzying euphoria, presumably at the notion that the man was looking at her more than he ought. Oh, folly! Abigail tamped down the errant sensation and set herself to work. Well accustomed to disciplining herself and her thoughts, she welcomed the normally distasteful chore of sorting Bascomb’s papers with quiet determination.

  And as for the viscount… he was relegated to last place in her set of well-ordered priorities.

  * * * * *

  It was only when the shadows began to lengthen that Abigail leaned back and put a hand to her aching neck. And just as quickly as she realized that she had finished for the day, anticipation swept through her, making her heart beat faster and her face flush. She told herself that she was relieved to be finished going through quite a bit of material and that after spending so many hours in solitude, she could hardly be blamed for looking forward to joining her cousins, no matter how eccentric they might be.

  It was certainly not Lord Moreland that made her pulse quicken so. If she harbored some expectation in connection with her guest, it was simply that of the successful completion of his task. With that fact firmly established, Abigail rose and smoothed her skirts. It was an automatic action, but when she caught herself reaching up a hand to pat her hair, she stopped abruptly. She had never fussed over her appearance, and she was not about to start now. Dismissing an unbidden wish that she might change for dinner, she headed toward the drawing room, deliberately keeping to a modest pace.

  Abigail had barely stepped into the room when the colonel boomed out a greeting, surprising her, as always, with his welcome. He was standing beside Mercia, who was seated and working on her ever-present needlework. The older woman nodded in response to Abigail’s greeting, but Emery, slumped nearby over a book, barely glanced up from his reading. Obviously, she was still out of favor with him, for she caught a glimpse of the same sullen expression he had worn ever since Lord Moreland’s arrival.

  Lord Moreland. Abigail’s gaze swept the room, but her guest was not present. The happy bubble of anticipation that she had refused to acknowledge now deflated, and instead of being relieved she felt perversely annoyed. Frowning, she told herself that his lordship’s perpetual tardiness was a good thing, for such bad habits did well to remind her of his irresponsible nature.

  No doubt rakes spent an inordinate amount of time preening before the mirror, which made them late for their appointments, Abigail surmised. That righteous observation didn’t have its intended effect, however. Instead she became oddly tantalized by the image of Lord Moreland standing before a mirror, his handsome form reflected in all its beautiful detail… perhaps while he changed for dinner. Or bathed… Taking in a swift breath, Abigail reached toward the neck of her gown, nervously touching the brooch beneath as she tried to put such thoughts out of her head.

  “So, did you have a good rest, my dear?” the colonel asked.

  Abigail blinked at him stupidly, then berated herself for her inattention. It was a recent fault, for usually she was awake on every suit. A companion needed to be in order to follow the politics of a large household and anticipate the demands of those she served. Of course, Abigail no longer served anyone exactly. Still, there was no cause to let her mind wander. It was impolite, as well as an exhibition of poor self-discipline.

  Abigail cocked her head toward the colonel. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Did you have a good rest, dear?’ he repeated, so loudly that Abigail cringed. She wasn’t hard of hearing, simply distracted.

  And what did he mean by “rest”? The old fellow seemed to be under the impression that she did nothing but lie about, her life one of leisure. Abigail gently corrected him. ‘‘Actually, I’ve been going through some of Bascomb’s correspondence and bills.”

  The colonel cleared his throat. He didn’t approve of discussing finances and was quite comfortable ignoring the truth of the current situation and continuing on as always. Although the solicitor had told her that all three of the cousins were left small stipends in the will, they remained here, availing themselves of the room and board to be had at Sibel Hall. Abigail didn’t complain, for she enjoyed the company, but she alone seemed concerned for the future.

  She had tried to explain that the household could not carry on indefinitely with no real income to support it, but no one was willing to listen.

  What kept them here? Habit? Camaraderie? Abigail could see they might be attached to what had been home, to the colonel at least. Perhaps it was a place of memories. Not being the romantic sort, she found that rather hard to understand. Or they might have become accustomed to the larger house, with its amenities, though she failed to see many of those in the rather gloomy atmosphere, the threadbare furnishings, and the lack of servants.

  Abigail would much prefer a cozy little cottage, and as soon as the thought entered her mind, the dormant longing rose up in her, fresh and fierce. Years of lost hope had beaten it down, but now it was revived, stronger than ever. Indeed, sometimes it seemed more important to her than breath, this wish that she could have a place of her own, tiny and tidy and blissfully peaceful.

  The house need not even be as large as her childhood home. Her father, the younger son of a younger son, had come into a piece of property that was not at all grand, nothing like Sibel Hall, but it had enabled him to marry and to raise his daughter in comparative contentment while pursuing his interest in the sciences.

  Abigail’s mother had made the house a cheerful place, and the little family had existed in a warm, loving atmosphere full of books and ideas and experiments. Unfortunately, the property had been entailed, and since he died without a son, it had gone to another relative.

  Abigail sighed at the memory, but she knew she could not recapture the world of her childhood. A few simple rooms would suit her, with a garden and no servants beyond a day girl. Perhaps she would even have a cat or a little dog to keep her company, Abigail thought, smiling wistfully. There she would relish a life with no one to cater to or wait upon except herself—and no guests beyond the occasional visitor.

  As soon as the idea formed, Abigail scolded herself. Compared to her godmother, her three cousins were no trouble at all. It was just that she yearned for some privacy, a bit of space and time to call her own, without having to concern herself with another’s needs or wants or fancies. She felt obligated, as owner of the Hall, to serve as hostess. And having been displaced herself, she harbored a bit of guilt over her inheritance, which made her do her best to please them all, as well as to help them plan for the future.

  She had tried to broach the subject, if only to suggest that the colonel, at least, should be looking for a place to let. Emery, she assumed, would return to school, and Mercia to her own household. Presumably they could still visit each other, so the breakup of the party should not be so wrenching. And, with their stipends, no one would be left out in the cold, as she had been after her parents’ death.

  But Abigail’s efforts had yielded no fruit. Someone always managed to change the subject. She had quite given up trying to discuss the matter, putting things off until the sale of the house, which now seemed delayed indefinitely. And so they continued, the four of them. Abigail had to admit that most of the time she was grateful for her cousins’ presence in the rambling old house. And if they departed, she would be quite alone… with Lord Moreland.

  The thought came to her with sudden startling intensity, and she flushed, trying not to remember what had happened the last time the two of them had been together… unchaperoned. Abigail could f
eel her face flame and cursed her pale complexion. Someone of her advanced years should not be blushing at the memory of a simple kiss. But it had not been simple at all. Complex, sweet, passionate, giving, taking, it had been unique.

  Of course, Abigail’s experience had mostly consisted of encounters with so-called gentlemen who had visited her godmother and thought to importune the help. Although initially she had placed Lord Moreland in that group, her experience with him was not at all similar to those horrid, sloppy attempts. Instead, the touch of his lips against hers had resembled some kind of ignition, a wholly, new scientific discovery of spontaneous electrical combustion occurring between two people.

  Abigail had been so startled she had gasped, only to feel his tongue invading her mouth. And it wasn’t the sickening, thick thrust of mucus that Lord Randolph’s nephew had forced upon her. Rather, Lord Moreland’s mouth was warm and rich and tantalizing, reminding her with vivid intensity of one other kiss, which she had long ago dismissed as a product of youthful imagination and childish romantic nonsense.

  And yet hadn’t she recaptured that sensation of rightness, of joy, of destiny? Oh, folly! Abigail shook her head, determined to discourage such fancies. Nor should she be belaboring, even in her own mind, that moment of sheer madness on the stairway. At the time she had been so stunned she had nearly fainted, despite her famous fortitude. And when he had held her close, she had nearly given way to him, which would have been disastrous.

  Not only would her capitulation have fed Lord Moreland’s already excessive confidence, but she knew better than to succumb to any nobleman’s advances, especially in the darkness of night. There in the shadows, did he even know whom he kissed? The thought, however fleeting, had been piercing enough to awaken her from her daze.

  And Abigail was glad of it. Else where would she be now? Tucked up in his bed like some doxy? No longer mistress of this house, she would be mistress to a man? Having managed to hold on to her virtue for the long, dull years of her near servitude, Abigail had no intention of giving it away now that she was free, not even to Lord Moreland. Especially not to Lord Moreland.