“I wonder that you have anywhere else to look,” she said, in a sort of breathy whisper.
“Oh, I suspect there might be one or two more surprises in the old place yet.”
A long silence followed, in which, no doubt, she was judging his abilities or his devotion to duty, and he was coming up wanting. “And just what do you hope to find in all these places?” she murmured.
The girl you once were, the woman I glimpsed yesterday, Christian thought, but he didn’t say it aloud, for he realized that she was staring at him, rather intently and most specifically at his mouth. He licked his lips, catching a bit of errant juice, and watched her eyes grow wide and her cheeks flush. Perhaps Abigail was somewhere in there, after all, straining to get out of her Governess costume…
“Care to join me?” he invited, as casually as he could with his body straining his breeches.
Unfortunately, the giggling servant girl chose that moment to hurry past, and as though recalled from some spell, the sultry seductress disappeared once more behind the stiff facade of his hostess.
“No, I, uh, I don’t think that would be…” she trailed off, blinking as though dazed, and then recovered herself. “I have things I must do. Please excuse me.”
With that she turned and fled like a frightened rabbit. Interesting. Christian had half a mind to pursue her, but that was not the role of a scholar, he thought, frowning. Later, he promised himself, as he turned to stroll through the house, looking for another secret passage into which he might lure his hostess.
Really, she was such a unique and infuriating being, Christian mused as he took a bite of his apple. His attraction to her, so mystifying at first, was beginning to make a bit more sense. She was no frivolous, empty-headed, grasping young female of the ton, but an individual, a genteel, well-mannered, honest woman with a backbone of steel and a clear head in any situation.
He had always been drawn to strong, independent women, choosing his mistresses accordingly. It was a preference that probably went back to his mother, a beautiful creature who had managed to hold her own against a Reade male. Christian smiled fondly. He remembered his parents sparring, but never actually fighting. There had been a lot of shouting, but even more laughing and loving. Theirs was a different sort of marriage than what he saw today. Perhaps it had always been different.
Christian’s father had claimed he knew the moment he saw her that she was his. “You’ll know, son. You’ll know,” he always said with a laugh. Christian frowned. Maybe that was why he had never married. None of the ladies he’d met had ever struck him like that, and so he kept waiting, for something that seemed just out of reach…
Popping out a side door in order to toss away the apple core, Christian realized he hadn’t inspected any of the outbuildings, and so he headed toward the first one that he saw, which appeared to be an old chapel or perhaps a parish church, long abandoned.
Interesting. It looked as if it had been built after the original hall, which was unusual. More often the chapel had been part of medieval dwellings. Christian tried the door and was glad to find it unlocked. He had returned Abigail’s hairpin to her and would have to get another. Just in case. The place was small and dusty, apparently untouched for years, but there was a lovely window at the one end, which Christian paused to admire. Otherwise, the space was unremarkable.
Or so Christian thought until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. Then he noticed that the plaster walls on either side of the narrow seating area were unusual, to say the least, for they appeared to be decorated with some sort of carvings. Christian walked to the wall on the left and stopped to examine it, only to shake his head in bafflement. Across the surface were scattered several circles of various sizes and designs. Lifting a hand to one, Christian ran his finger over the indentations. This one was plain, but others were more elaborate. He squinted at some writing, Old English or some kind of runes, but he could make no sense of it.
Tilting back his head, Christian saw that along the top were faded figures, painted cherubs frolicking, perhaps. He crossed to the other wall and found it much the same, except aligned above the circles here were saints, or so he assumed because of their halos and lack of wings.
Odd. Was this the striking bit of architecture his grandfather had eluded to? Christian doubted it. The earl probably had never even been here. No, it looked to Christian as if he had stumbled across the only thing of interest at Sibel Hall. Excluding its owner, of course. Grinning, he walked around the inside of the small building, but he could find no clue to the purpose of the strange carvings. Perhaps it was some old Celtic tradition he knew nothing about or a bit of whimsy Boundefort had carried back from the Crusades. Yet Christian felt the nagging sensation that he was missing something.
With a shrug and a sigh, he moved on to the stables and the gardener’s shed and what appeared to have once been a dog kennel. Christian decided that the estate, although neglected, could be refurbished. His explorations did not reveal any further hides, however, and he finally wandered back to the library, where he hoped to find some book to prop in front of his face while he took a nap. Perhaps that was what Emery did behind all those thick covers.
Christian found the room deserted. Apparently the others had given up their search for any mention of the Hall’s history. He could hardly blame them. He walked over to where he had found the volume with the notations in the margins. Now, what had he done with that? With a shrug, he tugged a large tome off the shelf, only to reject it. After all, he had to at least look like he was reading.
His next choice, a book on classical design, was a definite improvement. In fact, Christian was thoroughly engrossed in the text before he remembered to don his spectacles. Slipping them on, he dropped down onto an old damask-covered chair and opened the book again, feeling once more that familiar surge of interest in his pet passion.
After his parents’ accidental death, Christian had spent several aimless years playing at being the typical Regency buck, but he soon had found the life sadly lacking. He’d never thought of himself as particularly talented or intellectual. Although he had enough sense to keep the family fortunes going, juggling businesses or entering politics left him cold. But after Bexley Court burned down, Christian’s initial horror had turned into something else. As he pored over blueprints and sketches and spoke with builders, he discovered that all facets of the planning interested him in a new and stimulating way. Here, at last, was an endeavor that held his attention far more than jumping fences, turning cards, or tipping bottles. And he had enjoyed it.
At least until now.
Christian grinned. Although Sibel Hall was an abysmal example of form and structure, there was something uniquely satisfying about the place. And with that thought, he turned the page and settled in to read.
Abigail found him there, his head tilted back, his spectacles slipping over his elegant nose, the open book upon his lap, and she thought her heart would melt. She had peeked in earlier to find him so engrossed in his reading that he never even noticed her presence.
She lifted the volume from his fingers and set it aside. Architecture. So that was what interested him. And she was well aware of his expertise after listening to him talk about where to find secret places in the house. Unable to help herself, Abigail reached a hand toward his brow, but snatched it away before she actually touched him.
Why was he so tired when he slept so late? Was he up each night wandering the rooms, searching for clues to the hauntings? The thought of him walking past her chamber in the late hours made Abigail’s heart trip. Only strength of will had kept her abed last night instead of heeding her own wanderlust, her desperate yearning to seek him out in the darkness.
Stifling a sigh, she sat down, hard, on the Grecian sofa, unable to deny the truth any longer. She was lost. Totally lost. Sunk. Drowned. Beyond all hope of rescue. For no matter what, she wanted to see him, to be with him, to touch him with a feverish intensity that frightened her. This morning she had found excuses
to linger around the dining room, eager to catch a glimpse of him, and when she did she had to fight the urge to throw her arms about him in fervent greeting. She could barely trust herself to talk with him, for when he took a bite out of his apple, it was all she could do not to take his face in her hands and eat from his mouth.
Abigail stared helplessly at his sleeping form, admiring the hard line of his cheekbone, the soft curve of his lashes, the golden sheen of his hair. She studied the broad arc of his shoulders, the wide expanse of chest and the long line of muscular thighs, and drew in a sharp breath. Was there ever any man more exquisite?
Although never one to indulge in drink, Abigail felt like one of those fellows who, after one sip, returned night after night to the bottle, unable to stay away. Her desire for the viscount, for his presence, for his voice, for the sight of him, was like some kind of compulsion. He had unleashed something in the hidden passageway that could not be reined in, and it rose up in her, needy and wanting, driving her here to his side.
But how would she ever appease it?
As it turned out, old man Abbott was visiting his sister, so Christian was left with nothing to do but kick his heels at Sibel Hall, waiting for some news from Smythe. The days passed in dismal monotony with poor food and even poorer progress—with either the ghost or his hostess.
After a particularly disappointing dinner, Christian slipped away to meet with Alf, hoping that the villager had fared better than he, but one look at the young man’s face disabused him of that notion. Before Christian could reach his side, Alf was hurrying forward and shaking his head.
“I don’t know if I can stand another day of it, milord.”
“What? The boredom?”
Alf scowled. “Some of us aren’t bored, milord, but suffering from a bit of the shivers,” he said, shuddering as if to illustrate his condition.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the specter?” Christian asked, incredulous.
Alf shook his head with a snort, his pride obviously warring with his unease. “It’s not him, but her, milord!”
“Her?” Christian might allow that the Governess was a bit intimidating, but he would hardly deem her the sort to frighten a hardened young man like Alf.
“Aye, milord,” Alf said, leaning close to lower his voice. “It seems like every time I turn around, there she is!”
“Abigail?” Christian asked, startled. “I mean. Miss Parkinson?”
Alf snorted again. “Not the young miss, milord. The old one! She’s as queer as Dick’s hatband,” he whispered.
Christian was hard-pressed not to laugh. He tried to school his features to solemn concern, but his lips kept twitching, a circumstance that Alf, no doubt, noticed.
“You might think it funny, milord, but I swear that she is spying on me.”
“A turnabout that would be enough to unnerve anyone,” Christian said in a sober fashion.
“Aye, that it is, milord. That it is,” Alf muttered. “I’m telling you, there’s something unnatural about that old woman.”
“Yes.” Anyone could see that Mercia was short a sheet, but hers was a harmless eccentricity, certainly nothing to make a grown man quail. Keeping that observation to himself, however, Christian cleared his throat. “Have you noticed anything suspicious, anything else, that is?”
Alf shook his head. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, milord, nobody here seems to do anything, except the young miss, of course.”
Of course. “Well, try to stay out of Mercia’s way and keep an eye on Miss Parkinson, especially today while I’m off to see this old man Abbott of yours,” Christian said. As much as he enjoyed his few escapes from Sibel Hall, he didn’t really like being away from Abigail. Just for her protection, of course.
“Aye, milord.”
Although nothing untoward had occurred as yet, Christian didn’t like the situation one bit. He paused to stare at Alf directly. “I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
The villager balled his hands into fists, as if to prove his resolve. “Anyone what wants to get to her will have to go through me first,” he said, striking a threatening pose.
“Good,” Christian said, trusting to the young man’s mettle.
“I can even keep guard later, if you want me to, milord,” Alf added.
Christian shook his head. “I’ll take the night watch.”
“Same time tonight, then, milord?”
Christian nodded and slipped away, a new alertness about him as he took his leave. Just in case Mercia was lurking about, he didn’t care to have her reporting his actions to his hostess.
Old man Abbott was a grizzled elderly fellow with an observation about everything. He was both a gabster and a gossip, but he wasn’t stupid, and Christian enjoyed listening to him talk. That proved to be a good thing because it was extremely difficult to steer Mr. Abbott to the subject in question and keep him there.
After a good half hour of hearing about assorted shopkeepers and their various failings, Christian gamely tried again. “I’m puzzled by the fact that I can’t find any histories of Sibel Hall or even the area. Do you know where I might find any?”
Old man Abbott shook his head. “Never did learn to read. Highly overrated, if you ask me. My sons and grandsons, even my daughters, can, but where does it get them? Worked up over the latest broadside or paper.”
“Well, then, perhaps you can tell me what you know of the building’s history?”
Old man Abbott sighed. “If I were you, I’d hightail it away from that place, my lord, and its people. Never been liked, those Averills, nor the ones that came before ’em.”
“And why is that?”
“A bad bunch, full of tempers and passions and misdealings, which is to be expected, considering that the place was built upon the blood of others,” he said, nodding sagely.
“And whose blood would that be?” Christian asked, wondering if some other family had owned the land upon which the Hall was constructed.
“Those heathens, them that the Crusaders went all that way to kill!”
Nodding slowly, Christian refrained from mentioning that most of the country was stained with someone’s blood, whether Celt or Viking or Saxon. “But surely that counted as war.”
Eyeing his guest meaningfully, Abbott declared, “That old knight killed, and not just in foreign lands. He murdered his neighbors! Lover’s quarrel, I gather. Did her in whilst in a jealous rage and then her brother as well!”
Now the old fellow had Christian’s attention. “Really? What neighbors? What happened?”
But apparently Abbott had shared the extent of his knowledge. To all further queries he simply shook his head, professing no knowledge of the details. “I’m just telling you what I heard, and I’m not surprised to learn of more ill doings at the Hall.”
“And why is that?”
Old man Abbott leaned forward dramatically. “The Hall is tainted, and all the blood of its owners is tainted as well,” he whispered.
Christian shook his head too, even as he decided that the old fellow would make a great addition to the house party. Between the two of them, old man Abbott and Mercia could surely conjure up enough doom and gloom for several hauntings.
* * * * *
Abigail turned her head to glance back along the dim corridor, but she saw nothing moving in the shadows. Why, then, did she feel as though someone was behind her? She frowned. Lately, she had felt the presence of someone or something. At first she had thought Sir Boundefort was finally making contact, but with a growing sense of unease, she wondered if a very real person was following her about the house, watching her secretly, perhaps with evil intent.
But who? One of her cousins? One of the servants? Some nameless person who had snuck into the rambling building and was roaming its rooms in comparative freedom? Abigail realized that this was not her godmother’s home, where a huge staff kept the place not only running smoothly but well protected. They were isolated here, with their few maids and rumors
of a specter driving away all visitors and tradesmen.
When Christian had asked her if she could handle a weapon, she hadn’t believed in any threat, but now she wasn’t so sure. The memory of that day gave her pause, and Abigail drew in a deep breath. She had not lied about her skills—or her fortitude. She had faced her intemperate godmother, importune gentlemen, and a specter. She wasn’t going to quail in the face of some unknown lurker who didn’t have the courage even to show his face.
Squaring her shoulders, Abigail turned and headed toward the great hall—and its wall of weapons. She knew exactly what item she wanted, and she hurried into the hall, keeping her back toward the way she had come as she surreptitiously removed the piece from its place. Sliding it into the sleeve of her gown, she then crept back toward the entrance and waited.
It wasn’t long before she heard the faint rustle of movement, then saw a face peeking out from around the corner. Without hesitating, Abigail stepped forward to confront her pursuer, a nine-inch blade in her hand.
* * * * *
Christian wandered down too late for breakfast yet again, his stomach already protesting the small portions and ill servings to be had at Sibel Hall. He knew he ought to seek out Alf, having missed him the night before. Indeed, he had been surprised to arrive at his post in time to see Abigail retire for the night, and he had wondered what had kept her up so late. But his stomach was growling, so he turned his steps toward the kitchen, hoping to catch the same giggling maid he had yesterday.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t there, Christian realized as soon as he entered the room. In fact, the only person occupying the large space was his hostess. Drat! Caught out again! No doubt she was here to prevent him pilfering from the larder. Since her back was to him, Christian was about to duck out, but she spoke before he could make his exit.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 21