A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  Christian sighed. Why was the woman so damned difficult? Before he could argue, she turned toward the wall of weapons and removed one of the decorative swords from its perch. Did she think to defend herself with that? Christian burst out laughing, though his laughter died away when she brought the point to his throat.

  “You find me amusing?” she asked, her lips curled into a challenging smile that made his blood heat. The Governess as swordsman? Would she ever cease to amaze him? With a grin, Christian dragged the other foil from its place and prepared to put her in her place. Or at least show her a few tricks.

  Flourishing the blade, he bowed low, both his confidence and his excitement high. Abigail chose that moment to hike her skirts so as to widen her stance, and all Christian could do was gape as the gown inched upward. Although the elegant fashions that women wore often hid a wealth of defects, that was not the case here. Abigail’s ankles were small and well turned, and the sight of her shapely calves made Christian break out in a sweat. To some degree he was aware that this glimpse of Abigail’s lower limbs was arousing him far more powerfully than the naked forms of his last three mistresses, but that awareness did not stop him from staring, transfixed, his body responding accordingly.

  Only the slap of her foil against his own jarred him from his stupor. Startled, he looked at her face, finding it flushed and smiling as she lunged, easily knocking aside his nonexistent defense. He rallied even as he admired her skill, her form, her grace, but most of all the expression of triumph on her face, along with something he had never seen there before. Delight. Freedom. Exhilaration. Christian realized he was faltering again, so enamored was he of his opponent, and he struggled to deflect her surprisingly effective attacks.

  She was skilled and aggressive… and distracting. He would give her that. In the end his strength would prevail, but in the meantime he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had never fenced with a woman before, and he found the experience thrilling. And stimulating. Already he was considering the boon he would demand when he eventually won this little match…

  As if well aware of his lack of concentration, Abigail lunged. Damn, but the woman kept him on his toes. And well entertained. Christian laughed in pure pleasure as she repelled a particularly well-placed attack. She was laughing as well, her face flushed a delicate rose, her hair loose about her in a dark, inviting tangle. Christian wanted to throw down his weapon for another, taking her right here on the old dais in a mess of skirts and half-undone clothing. Who was this woman, and why had he never met anyone like her before?

  Christian nearly asked the question aloud. Instead, he said, “Where did you learn to fence?”

  Abigail smiled. “I made my father give me lessons after y—,” she began, only to stop suddenly, as though she had said too much. Her defense faltered, but she came back even more forcefully. “I begged my parents for lessons, and my father, being unable to stand my pestering, finally gave in, although Mother was against it.”

  Christian grinned, diverted from his swordplay by the shared confidence. Somehow he had harbored the notion that she had popped from the womb, full grown, dressed in her dowdy colors and ready to disapprove. But she had been a child once. Christian felt an odd sort of revelation at the notion. He wondered what she had looked like. What kind of girl had she been? He couldn’t imagine her as dainty. More likely she had been a tomboy with a fierce will and passion besides. What had turned her into the Governess?

  Suddenly Christian was filled with a desperate thirst to find out all about her, to know her as he had never known anyone. She had fallen silent, and he prompted her. “You prevailed over the objections, obviously, and received your lessons.”

  “Yes. Mother deemed it unladylike, but I didn’t particularly care to be a lady,” she recalled, a sparkle in her eye and a curve to her lips. Defiance, just as he had surmised, shown quite brightly on her exquisite face. “I wanted to be a…” Again she halted, and just as she was becoming imbued with a delightful animation, her expression faltered and her words trailed off.

  “What did you want to be?” Christian asked.

  “Nothing. A child’s whim, nothing more. We all put away such follies, don’t we?” she asked, her voice suddenly hard.

  As she spoke, Christian thrust, but this time his opponent gave way as though tired of the game. He could hardly crow triumphantly or beg the boon he had imagined would come with his hard-won victory. What had happened? He watched, dissatisfied, as she calmly returned her foil to the wall. And when she turned back to him she was remote once more, as though the two of them had never engaged in either the swordplay or the love play.

  Baffled, Christian could no more explain this transformation than he could the earlier one. All he knew was that he felt bereft—-as if the woman he desired more than any other had left the room. And indeed she had, in spirit. It took only a moment more for her to do so literally.

  “If you will excuse me, I have neglected my duties far too long,” she murmured, as she swung round.

  Christian leaned absently on the foil. “Abigail…”

  He called to her again, but she already was hurrying away, as if she actually feared his pursuit, and so he simply stood there dumbly, wondering what a scholar would do.

  Hell, what would anyone do?

  Pleading a headache, Christian sent his excuses down to dinner. Although he half expected the Governess to come marching up to complain of his apparent sloth, he suspected she would not want to discuss his… condition. Nor was she ever likely to appear at his bedroom door. More’s the pity.

  Still, he set Hobbins to keep the household at bay while he slipped out the rear of the house, hoping that no one except his own groom would know he mounted one of his horses and rode alone to the village to meet his solicitor.

  As instructed, Smythe had secured the private parlor at the inn, and Christian hurried in as quickly as possible to avoid notice. He was counting on the lack of communication between the villagers and the Hall to keep his visit quiet, although he had a story at the ready should his movements be discovered. And even should Miss Parkinson herself burst in upon them, his little outing was well worth the risk. For once, he was actually going to dine on something edible.

  “My lord,” Smythe said with a bow. “It is a pleasure to see you, as always.” Smythe was solid and gray-haired, having started out as a young man working for Christian’s father; he was clever and skilled and devoted to the Reades.

  “Thank you, Smythe. I’m sure you find the surroundings an improvement over this afternoon’s encounter.”

  The solicitor chuckled. “A most unusual assignment, if I may say so, my lord.”

  “You may, as I find it just as… unique,” Christian replied. Motioning for the older gentleman to take a seat, he pulled up a chair to the laden table and took a deep breath of the mingled scents of beef pie, pheasant, and bread, hot from the oven, with honeyed butter. Not as delightful as lilacs, perhaps, but just the thing for a man’s other appetites.

  It was only after Christian had done justice to the landlord’s excellent meal that he was prepared to discuss business. Leaning back, he fixed Mr. Smythe with a direct gaze. “I need you to do a little research for me.” When the old gentleman nodded, Christian continued.

  “Find out anything and everything you can about the former owner of the Hall, Bascomb Averill. Contact the solicitor who handled the estate. Also, I need information on the other three residents, a Mercia Penrod, Colonel Averill, and Emery Osbert, all supposedly relatives of the deceased. I want to know who they are, where they came from, and what sort of stipends they received in the will.”

  Christian paused uneasily. “And see what you can discover about the current owner, a Miss Abigail Parkinson, lately companion to a Lady Holland, also of Devon. Find out what you can about her, as well as her connections to the others and who might be next in line to inherit.”

  “Ah, Miss Parkinson. A very gracious young woman,” Smythe remarked, and Christian had to b
ite his tongue. Of course, she was gracious to Smythe. She thought he was going to buy that monstrosity of a residence. Christian frowned. From the moment of his arrival, his hostess had seemed to disapprove of him, but not the others who took advantage of a good nature he rarely glimpsed. It was almost as though she held a grudge against him. But why? Christian could swear that he had never met her before. But if he had, Smythe would ferret out the truth.

  “You’ll pardon my saying so, but I find such a combination of intelligence and good sense and practicality in a young woman quite refreshing,” Smythe observed.

  Smythe would. He was probably used to seeing the spoiled, grasping ladies of the ton at their worst. Christian knew he himself was. “She was a companion,” Christian heard himself blurt out.

  “Ah. That would explain her fortitude.” Smythe nodded. “That’s a very difficult position, for one is not accepted by the servants and yet is not a member of the family. Belonging to none and yet beholden to all,” he added, shaking his head. “Of course, it all depends on the employer. I’ve seen some who provide a pleasant environment for all their staff, while others work their dependents to the bone.”

  Christian shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with thoughts of Abigail being worked to the bone. But what did he know of her? Something had turned her from a sword-wielding young tomboy into the Governess. What? And when? Christian wondered how long ago her parents had died and how many years she had been toiling as a companion. And just what kind of employer was this Lady Holland?

  Even as he wondered, Christian felt a certain disquiet with his carefree existence. Although his own parents had died, he had not been forced into near servitude. Instead, he had been taken in by his loving grandfather, pampered by a life of luxury and wealth and privilege. The comparison did not cheer him, for Christian had always accepted his place in society as his right, taking for granted his good fortune as easily as the next breath when he owed it all to an accident of birth. The realization made for some very sobering thoughts.

  “That also explains her urgency,” Smythe was saying, dragging Christian out of his introspection. “Miss Parkinson is quite eager to sell the Hall in order to establish her own, far smaller, household. A practical female indeed.”

  Practical. That certainly described Abigail, though Christian had never used the word in reference to someone he lusted after. Either his tastes were changing, or the Governess and her stellar attributes represented just one side of the elusive Abigail.

  “Well, I shall let you know my findings,” Mr. Smythe said, shuffling some papers on which he had been taking notes. “Do you want me to come myself?”

  “No,” Christian said. Even he would find it hard to explain should the solicitor return to the village. And then, for some bizarre reason, Christian felt guilty for his demands, even though he was paying the man well enough. “I’d come to London, but I can’t leave here,” he muttered.

  He didn’t bother to explain, even to himself, why he couldn’t come and go as he pleased or why, despite all, he felt the need to return to the Hall even now. Although he had set Alf to keep an eye on Abigail, Christian preferred to keep his own eyes on her—and anything else he could manage. At that thought, need blossomed in him so hot and fierce that he deliberately stayed, to prove himself its master.

  But it was late, and he had eaten his fill and said his piece, and Mr. Smythe, probably eager for his rest, watched him expectantly. And so Christian took his leave, wishing that the prospect of his own bed did not seem so uninviting.

  * * * * *

  Although Christian wanted to head straight to Abigail’s room, he decided against such a rash action, guessing that he would not be welcome. He realized he could not continue what had developed in the hidden passage, for he had done something to disturb the delightful harmony of the afternoon. He wasn’t sure of the nature of his transgression, but he suspected that swordplay did not qualify as a studious pursuit.

  The realization annoyed him, for although he had set out to prove that any fool could wear spectacles, his plan was working far too well. Although he had gained the attention of his hostess, Christian found that he didn’t care to be admired for attributes that were not his own. Indeed, he was wondering if Abigail’s scorn wasn’t preferable to her admiration gained dishonestly.

  Oddly enough, he felt rather deserving of her scorn, a sensation of which his grandfather would, no doubt, approve. He began to wonder if his entire visit to Sibel Hall was the old man’s idea of teaching him a lesson. If so, he liked the instructress too much, by half. So, why hadn’t he tried to find out more about her? He’d been too busy strutting about and sulking. Gad, what a combination!

  Christian shook his head at his own heedless behavior, then cocked it when he heard a sound ahead. He was approaching Abigail’s room, and he tensed, instantly alert for all manner of intruders. Slipping around the corner, he saw a shadowy form, lounging opposite, then relaxed as it evolved into Alf.

  “There you are, milord! Like to scare the life out of me," the villager whispered as he crossed the corridor.

  “Did you think I was a ghost?” Christian asked, flashing a grin in the darkness.

  “No. Thought you was a dangerous character, and I wasn’t far wrong,” Alf said, with a canny nod.

  Christian grinned again. “Have you seen anyone else?”

  “No. Unless the old specter can float through walls, no one’s come about since the miss herself went in nigh on an hour ago.”

  “Good,” Christian said. If only he could enter as easily. Just to keep watch over his hostess, of course. “Nothing unusual to report?”

  “Not a whit, milord. Boring evening, all around, I’d say. All they did was eat dinner, sit around, and go to bed,” Alf said, his voice heavy with disappointment. Apparently he had envisioned a livelier experience here at the Hall—if not hauntings, perhaps bacchanalian delights. Which reminded Christian…

  “I realize there was some feud between the villagers and the previous owner, but what about before? Surely you can tell me some history of the place?”

  Alf shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not much for history, milord. All that fighting and powermongering. It’s hard to keep track of who’s doing what.”

  “There was fighting over Sibel Hall?”

  Alf looked surprised. “Not that I know of,” he said, and Christian had to bite back a sigh of impatience. Apparently, the young man was talking about history in general.

  “All I know is that some old knight built the Hall way back when, and the owners have always done all right for themselves, without sharing much of it with the townsfolk,” Alf grumbled.

  This was getting him nowhere. “What about your grandfather? Perhaps he has some knowledge of the past?”

  Alf snorted. “Aye, but not the sort of stuff you be wanting, I’ll wager.”

  Christian was ready to throw up his hands, It seemed he’d have better luck ferreting out state secrets than learning anything about this wretched structure.

  “But old man Abbott might know a thing or two,” Alf said. “He knows everyone’s business, though I’m not sure you’ll like what you’ll be hearing. He says those that live up here are balmy, which is why all this talk of ghosts didn’t surprise me any.” Although the two men were alone in a dark corridor while the rest of the household slept, Alf leaned close, as if to impart a vital confidence. “Says madness runs in their blood,” he whispered, nodding sagely.

  Christian didn’t find that prospect too alarming. So far the only resident he might qualify as “balmy” was Cousin Mercia, although he could very well include Emery, just for his own amusement. Abigail, on the other hand, was as far from madness as anyone could get. Christian wondered if old man Abbott was acquainted with the Governess, who undoubtedly would not approve of his description of the household.

  Christian grinned. “Very well. Tomorrow, let’s pay a visit to old man Abbott.”

  With a nod, Alf disappeared into the shadows, off to his ti
ny room below, but Christian remained where he was, deep into the night, watching, waiting… and wanting.

  14

  After spending half the night watching outside Abigail’s door, Christian groggily decided there must be a better way. If only he could stand guard inside her room, then maybe he could get some sleep. But if he were inside her room, he probably wouldn’t be sleeping. He sighed. Either way he wouldn’t be getting much rest.

  His late arrival downstairs guaranteed him no breakfast, so he ducked into the kitchen, where he coaxed an apple from a giggling servant girl. He was just exiting the room when he chanced upon his hostess, who made no effort to hide her displeasure at his tardiness. Or was it simply the sight of him that pained her so? Christian decided her breathless whispers in the secret passage had been the deluded fantasies of a sleep-deprived man. As her gaze slid away from him, presumably in censure, he thought about explaining himself, but the admission that he had lurked outside her bedroom door half the night probably wouldn’t earn him any approval at all.

  Besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing a scholar would do, Christian realized. Even though what little success he could claim with his hostess seemed due to that persona, he was already growing tired of it. He had the nagging sensation that she had been kissing someone else in the passage, some bespectacled, studious sort masquerading under his name.

  Christian shook his head. All this bookish business, false though it might be, was affecting his mind. That’s what happened to people like Emery. Too much thinking made a man not only dull but half mad, as well, Christian decided. He wondered just how far gone Emery was at this point and just what that madness might make the boy do.

  “I am glad to see you abroad at last,” his hostess said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness.

  Christian ignored the rebuke. “I was going to have another look for hides today,” he said before taking a bite of his apple.

  His hostess eyed him strangely, and Christian wondered if he should apologize for eating in front of her or eating standing up—or even eating in general. But his only other option was starvation.