A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  True to form, his hostess bestowed upon him no shining smile at his return. The colonel received a rather reserved one, while Christian got a set of pursed lips and a brief nod before a rather accusatory report that nothing, as yet, had been found in the library and that dinner would be served presently.

  “Oh, we already—”

  Christian managed to elbow the colonel hard enough that he gulped for air, then slapped the old fellow on the back for good measure. “I’m hungry as a horse, and the colonel is as well!” he said in his most disarming manner.

  “Well, I… oof!” the colonel grunted at another soundly placed nudge.

  “And how was the village?” Mercia asked.

  “Delightful!” Christian answered. “You should have joined us,” he added, flashing a grin at his hostess.

  “Some of us have work to attend to,” the Governess replied rather stiffly.

  “And was there much talk of our Sir Boundefort?” Mercia asked.

  Christian assumed she meant the specter, for he didn’t care to contemplate the alternative. “Not really,” he said, hoping against hope that the colonel hadn’t been paying attention when he had interrogated the company at the inn— or, at least, that the old fellow would hold his tongue for once. But whether the colonel feared another poke or simply hadn’t caught his breath from the last one, he wisely kept his mouth shut. Christian was so pleased that he wondered why he hadn’t started elbowing the man days ago.

  “No doubt they were too agog over our visiting nobility,” Emery put in, his tone caustic.

  “Why, yes, of course!” Mercia exclaimed. “I suspect that Lord Moreland was the topic of conversation and all were speculating as to his visit.”

  Not likely, with the colonel around to give away all the details, Christian thought.

  Mercia turned to Miss Parkinson. “Perhaps they think he has come to call upon you, dear.”

  To Christian’s surprise, his hostess blushed and turned her head away. “Foolishness,” she murmured.

  “I don’t see why not,” Mercia said, ignoring Miss Parkinson’s obvious discomfort.

  “Yes, why not?” Christian said, ignoring it just as easily.

  Emery snorted. “Because no one would believe a titled gentleman would search for a bride among the gentry, let alone here at Sibel Hall.”

  His words, true though they might have been, struck Christian the wrong way, perhaps because of the speaker or, more likely, the disparaging tone in which they were uttered. “As far as I know, titled as well as untitled gentlemen can look for their brides wherever they wish,” he said.

  Miss Parkinson swung round at that. “What utter nonsense!” she sputtered, apparently taking umbrage at his words, not Emery’s. “I am not the least bit interested in marrying,” she proclaimed, her color still high. Delightfully so. Luxuriantly so.

  “Oh, really? And why is that?” Christian asked, genuinely curious. He had never encountered any woman, let alone one in the financial straits of his hostess, who rejected wedlock out of hand.

  “If you must know, I see no advantage to a female in such an arrangement—beyond the monetary. And as soon as Sibel Hall is sold, I shall set up my own small household, which is all that I have ever wanted. I have no need of additional funds.”

  Christian grinned. “Surely you can see some advantage beyond the monetary?” he asked, his brows lifted slightly. But if he had hoped to fluster the Governess, he should have known better. Indeed, his provocative question only seemed to harden her expression—and deepen her determination.

  “And if I ever did entertain the notion of taking a husband, it would hardly be a man with a reputation as a… a rake, titled gentleman or not,” she announced baldly.

  Christian winced at the barb, as well as Emery’s snort of derision. “And just what sort of ideal fellow would you consider?” Christian asked, studying her with interest.

  She paused, hesitant, as though she had never even imagined a mate. What an odd creature she was! “Well, he would have to be an upright, serious sort of gentleman,” she said.

  “Like your father,” Mercia put in.

  “Yes,” Miss Parkinson agreed.

  “Who was your father?” Christian asked, suddenly alert.

  “He was a man of science,” Miss Parkinson proclaimed. “A scholar, as was his father before him. Indeed, as I understand it, the Parkinsons have always been thinkers, explorers of knowledge.”

  Christian frowned. His family had been founded by an explorer of another kind, one Black Jack Reade, a genuine pirate who, after being caught in a tight spot, decided to share his spoils with the crown and in so doing won himself a tidy little estate and a barony. In the years since, the Reades, showing a shameless knack for self-aggrandizement and marrying well, had parlayed that small holding into a vast earldom, several lesser titles, and a hefty bit of land.

  They had never lost the craftiness of their ancestors, and Christian had always been grateful for a bit of that tainted blood. But now he rather wished he’d been born to a family a little less cunning and a lot more… studious. If only his dear grandfather had been an inventor or a dilettante or a connoisseur of anything but women. If only his father had spent his youth digging for ancient treasures in Greece and arraying his prizes at the family seat, instead of being a great wit and an even better gambler. Somehow Christian didn’t think either skill would be high on the Governess’s list.

  “Indeed, I could not respect a gentleman who did not devote himself to some sort of study, not necessarily science but perhaps philosophy, literature, the arts,” she was saying. Having grown more confident with the recitation of each holy trait, she seemed to be eyeing Christian directly now. “So many men are idle creatures, devoted solely to gambling and drinking and the, uh, pursuit of feminine companionship.”

  “How right you are, my dear!” the colonel said, with a harrumph of disapproval. At a sharp glance from Christian, he cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Not you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Christian murmured sarcastically.

  Warming to her topic, Miss Parkinson continued her depressing litany of virtues. “He need not be a researcher or experimenter per se, but a man of learning who continues to read and enrich himself.”

  Did she know how much he hated books? Christian wondered.

  “Such a man would have to be scrupulously honest, of course,” she said.

  Christian winced again. Did that mean he should admit he knew nothing about ghost routing? It wasn’t as though he had lied about his experience, not exactly. No one would call him dishonest, really.

  “He would treat me with the utmost respect, a true gentleman in thought, word, and deed,” she said.

  Christian nearly groaned at that one, for her ideal certainly wouldn’t corner her on dark stairs. Hell, the poor sod probably wouldn’t dare touch her, Christian thought sourly. An heir would surely be the result of immaculate conception.

  “He wouldn’t have to be handsome, merely of a pleasant aspect,” Miss Parkinson continued.

  Christian, who had variously been described as “incredibly handsome” and “gorgeous” by swooning females, clearly could not claim to possess a “pleasant aspect.” He scowled.

  Apparently enjoying herself, Miss Parkinson paused, as if mulling over the coup de grace. Then she smiled faintly. “In fact, I would suspect he would wear spectacles, which I find indicative of a man of thoughtful character.”

  Well, that did it. Christian certainly would never qualify as a scholar. He’d frittered away his time at Oxford, totally uninterested in the deadly dull lectures on ancient times. He despised poetry, didn’t care much for literature, and the extent of his reading was usually limited to his correspondence.

  As Christian watched with an admittedly surly expression, Miss Parkinson smiled and calmly excused herself to see if dinner was ready to be served. There was something in the curve of that mouth that annoyed him even more than the ridiculous recitation of v
irtues of her intended. Her imaginary intended, Christian reminded himself. Some fellow too perfect to exist.

  Indeed, he suspected that the wily woman had purposely described characteristics she knew he did not possess, that no one could possess, just to irritate him. Obviously his hostess was totally unimpressed by Christian’s own many stellar qualities, namely his money, lineage, title, and good looks. It was almost as if she had taken pains to quote everything that he was not. Deliberately.

  Christian frowned. At first, he’d thought her… diffidence rather amusing, the justifiable wariness of a woman facing a stranger she had invited into her home. Over the course of his stay, however, he had come to see her manner differently. It wasn’t outright contempt but more of a subtle sneering, as if he were both ineffectual and a fool. Maybe he had spent a few rather aimless years in the typical ton pursuits, which included gambling and a certain appreciation of the ladies, but a lot of the stories that were told about him were pure exaggeration and embellishment, the Belles Corners affair being a case in point. Hell, if he’d done half of what was reported, he would have become prematurely exhausted.

  Perhaps Miss Parkinson believed all the gossip, but even if she assumed the worst of him, it would hardly explain her attitude. It wasn’t as though she treated him rudely, but there was that something, a distance, a look in her eye that told him he didn’t measure up. To what? Some sap from the Royal Society? He’d met some of those fellows, and they were queer cards indeed and not any smarter than he. So, if he joined them, would that make him suddenly more appealing? More deserving of her respect?

  Christian was tempted yet again to quit Sibel Hall for good, leaving Miss Parkinson to her own devices, but instead he was seized with an unusual desire to prove himself, to show her that he wasn’t an empty-headed rogue, though why the Governess’s opinion should matter one whit was a mystery to him. He only knew that it did.

  As he glanced about the room and saw Emery’s smirk, the colonel’s downcast gaze, and Mercia’s vacant smile, Christian’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t normally vindictive, but his hostess had definitely roused some sleeping beast with her little performance. It wasn’t as though he was too vain or arrogant to accept a rebuff, but this had become something else entirely. Miss Parkinson not only had taken off the gloves, she had tossed one in his face. And Christian was never one to resist a challenge.

  “If you will excuse me, I must change for dinner,” he said, abruptly rising from his seat.

  But instead of heading upstairs, he searched out the servants’ quarters, where he found Alf cheerfully ensconced in a tiny but tidy room. If it’s a scholar she wants, it’s a scholar she’ll have, Christian decided.

  “Hello, my lord. I’ve settled in quite nicely, thank you,” Alf said.

  “Good,” Christian murmured. He swung toward the sharp-eyed fellow with a resolution that had nothing to do with the ghost.

  “What shall I do now?” the young man asked. “Take a look around? Spy upon the company? Quiz the servants?” He pounded one fist into the other as though his brand of questioning would involve more force than persuasion.

  “No,” Christian said, shaking his head. “Your first assignment is to find me some spectacles!”

  Abigail fiddled with the sewing in her lap. She knew she ought to be going through her great-uncle’s papers, but she had been reluctant to closet herself away from the others yet again, especially when that would leave Mercia alone in the drawing room. Dinner had been a singularly silent affair, with even the all-too-voluble Lord Moreland strangely quiet. As she picked at her food, Abigail had the odd feeling that everyone was put out with her, though she had no idea why. Except for Lord Moreland, perhaps. But what had she said to him earlier beyond the truth?

  She lifted her chin. If the viscount had not contributed his usual amount of flippant observations and witticisms to the table, the party had not suffered. Rather, dinner had been more peaceful, an atmosphere she preferred. And if the stillness that followed had become positively oppressive, it was only because Emery had gone to his room to study, while the colonel and Lord Moreland had left to continue their search of the library.

  Perhaps she should join them, simply to aid in their efforts, Abigail thought, her heart racing in sudden anticipation. Frowning at her own reaction, she told herself that her obligations as a hostess demanded that she keep Mercia company here, even if she could not share the woman’s love of needlework.

  “Are you so certain you never wish to marry, my dear?” her cousin asked, abruptly breaking the silence.

  Abigail drew a breath of surprise at the unusual topic before she answered. “Yes, quite certain,” she finally said. She knew that men, arrogant beings that they were, could not understand, but Mercia, of all people, surely must.

  “Believe me, I have had enough of waiting upon another person’s whims, and I look forward most fervently to my own household,” Abigail said. “I have always wanted a little house like the cottage I grew up in, the old rectory at Haverfield. Did you know it?”

  “I’m afraid not, dear,” Mercia murmured.

  “It was a lovely place. Peaceful and cozy, with a garden that nearly ran wild every year,” Abigail said, smiling in fond remembrance. “That is my idea of a home.”

  “But with no family to join you there?” Mercia asked.

  Abigail glanced over at her, startled, but Mercia remained engrossed in her sewing. “It would be wonderful to have my family around me once more, but they have been gone many years now,” she said, firmly tamping down the emotions that threatened to surface at that admission.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I knew that. But I was referring to a family of your own.”

  For a moment Abigail was at a loss as to the older woman’s meaning. And then she realized that Mercia was referring to children. Her children. She nearly laughed. She had never even considered the possibility, so busy had she been fending for herself. She could not imagine being responsible for someone else as well, and the youngsters with whom she had come in contact during the last few years had all been such wretched, spoiled creatures! And yet, she did recall her own childhood warmly. If only…

  Abigail paused and drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid children would involve a husband, and I am not interested in acquiring one,” she replied firmly.

  “It sounds like a lonely life to me,” Mercia commented.

  Abigail stiffened, hurt somehow by the aspersion cast upon her dream. “But what of you? You never married.”

  “I never had the opportunity, my dear, and so cannot regret a choice I did not make.”

  “Surely you don’t regret being independent?” Abigail asked, genuinely shocked.

  “There are varying degrees of independence, and few at all for women, as you well know,” Mercia said. “But you are attractive and young yet and could easily garner a proposal.”

  Abigail made a dismissive sound. “Thank you, Cousin Mercia, but I beg to differ. I am firmly on the shelf!”

  “You are not exactly an ape-leader, my dear,” Mercia said with a chuckle.

  Abigail smiled at the compliment, but she knew she was no beauty. Older, with a limited income and no impressive connections, she knew what sort of prospects she could expect on the marriage market: a gentry widower looking for a hard worker to raise his children or a shopkeeper who needed help, perhaps. In other words, she could look forward to a lifetime of toil with little reward. She had already been through that and did not care to undertake it again.

  But Mercia continued, undeterred. “And you have certainly not lost the attention of the gentlemen.”

  Abigail stifled a laugh. “Thank you, but I hardly think conversation with my male relatives qualifies.” She wasn’t even sure she could count Emery as a gentleman or his sullen sulks as civility, let alone attention.

  “I wasn’t speaking of our cousins, but of our dear visitor, Viscount Moreland.”

  The older woman spoke in the same casual tone that she always used, but Abiga
il could not react quite as carelessly. Indeed, she was so startled by Mercia’s comment that she poked herself with the needle she was using and bit back a cry of dismay.

  Mercia, engrossed in her own sewing, must have thought the sound signaled dispute, for she continued blithely, “Now, my dear. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and it is not in the manner of a disinterested man.”

  Against her will, Abigail felt her pulse pick up its pace. Lord Moreland, interested in her? For one giddy moment, she allowed herself to savor Mercia’s words—until she remembered that her cousin also claimed to have seen Sir Boundefort’s specter and believed that an old rhyme held hidden references to treasure. Mercia meant well, but she had a tendency to embroider more than tablecloths.

  “Perhaps you could adjust your rather rigid list of desirable attributes to include Lord Moreland as a possible suitor,” Mercia suggested.

  She and Lord Moreland as a match? Ignoring the sudden fierce pounding of her heart. Abigail told herself that she had never heard a more nonsensical notion. And if there once had been a child who believed in such farradiddle, that dreamer was long grown and wiser in the ways of the world. Indeed, Abigail was hard-pressed to believe that any reasoning adult could imagine such a preposterous connection. Although not suspicious by nature, she glanced at Mercia sharply, seeing a pattern in the course of the household conversation. Perhaps the three cousins—or two of them—had concocted this fantasy to save themselves from ruin, or at least from having to leave Sibel Hall, to which they all seemed unaccountably devoted.

  In this rich piece of whimsy, Lord Moreland, a handsome, wealthy, and powerful viscount, destined someday to be an even wealthier and more powerful earl, takes leave of his senses and offers for a plain spinster, a former companion with nothing to recommend her except a threadbare old manor and a ghost. At which point, presumably, the witless man magnanimously provides for every one of her relatives.

  Someone in the house had been reading too many novels. Now, it seemed, she must nip this absurd scheme in the bud, adding that to all her other responsibilities and concerns. With a sigh of annoyance, Abigail poked herself again, then stared down at her work in disgust. She hated sewing, having taken it up only on the orders of her godmother, who thought every female ought to be usefully occupied.