Abigail took a deep breath. She would do well to remember that the viscount, no matter what his behavior, past or present, was a member of the ton, and as such moved in a world apart from the rest of humanity. He was part of the elite of society, wealthy and revered, even though his talents appeared to be limited to womanizing, gambling, and routing ghosts.
Struck by a sudden thought, Abigail turned to her cousins. “Did Lord Moreland discover anything else in the cellars?”
The colonel and Cousin Mercia, who had been immersed in conversation, raised their heads to give her inquiring looks.
“We haven’t seen him, my dear,” Cousin Mercia said.
“I thought he would have reported to you,” the colonel said.
Abigail felt a small twinge of panic. “Perhaps he has gone up to change for dinner.” But it was nearly time for the meal now, she realized, after a quick glance at the clock.
The colonel cleared his throat loudly. “Uh, perhaps I should check with the servants, just to make certain.”
“Yes, perhaps you should,” Abigail said, trying not to appear too concerned about their guest. She told herself that he was probably fine, and yet she couldn’t help thinking of all sorts of disasters that could transpire in the cellars. He could have fallen, or something could have fallen on him. Indeed, right now he could be trapped beneath a heavy timber! Inhaling deeply, Abigail tried to stem the flood of visions produced by an imagination that seemed to be making up for years of inactivity.
With a nod, the colonel made his exit, leaving her to take up the conversation that she had aborted. But she was too busy conjuring possible calamities to think of idle chatter. As if she sensed Abigail’s dilemma, Cousin Mercia smiled reassuringly.
“I’m sure Lord Moreland has not met with any difficulties,” she said.
“If he has, he has only himself to blame,” Emery said.
Her cousin’s callousness so startled Abigail that she turned a furious glare upon him. Even if he harbored no liking for their guest, perhaps he would have a care for his own skin. “I fear that Lord Moreland’s grandfather, the earl of Westhaven, might not agree with you,” she said. “Indeed, I imagine he would be quite distressed should anything happen to his heir.”
Emery blanched as her words struck home. Apparently he was not so lost in his studies as to ignore the power of the nobility and the fate awaiting those who trifled with them.
“I’m sure Sir Boundefort harbors no ill will against Lord Moreland,” Cousin Mercia assured Abigail, just as though the only danger below lay with a specter.
Abigail frowned at that reasoning. “If Sir Boundefort is so particular, I wonder that he didn’t do something about whoever was down there chipping away at his domain,” she said.
“Indeed!” Mercia said. “But perhaps he did. After all, we have discovered no further sign of the trespassers, have we?”
She uttered this rather alarming conjecture with an equanimity that caused Abigail to blink in stunned surprise. It was one thing to claim the ghost chased away potential buyers but quite another to suggest it disposed of unwanted intruders. Abigail had just opened her mouth to protest, albeit politely, when the colonel arrived, huffing and puffing as if he had run all the way from Lord Moreland’s rooms.
“I say, his lordship’s valet claims he hasn’t been seen since late this morning,” he announced.
“Oh, dear,” Mercia said.
By the time the words were uttered, Abigail was already halfway out of her seat.
“I suggested that we have a look for him, but the valet didn’t seem to think much of that. Said it wasn’t his job to search down his lordship!” the colonel said, obviously disgusted by such a show of disloyalty.
Even as he spoke, Abigail was heading out of the room.
“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 corner 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
The 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 fierce 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, hoping 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 bottles 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 alcohol. 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.
* * * * *
Christian 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 dismissed. Christian frowned in annoyance. 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 part 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.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 12