A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  Frowning, she told herself she would not need any spurious entertainments, for she would at last have her heart’s desire, her cozy cottage, peaceful and private. But somehow the recitation of her lifelong dream didn’t cheer her as it once had. Dismissing that thought, she turned and headed toward the snippet of melody, uncertain of what she would find and even more uncertain of what she hoped to find.

  Abigail entered the music room warily, but she saw no formless phantom, only Cousin Mercia and… Christian. Drawing in a sharp breath, she tried to throttle the rush of pure pleasure she felt at the sight of him. Now that she had seen for herself that no specter pounded the keys, Abigail knew she ought to leave, but like a drunk eyeing a bottle, she moved forward, unable to help herself.

  “Cousin Abigail, hello!” Mercia called out, and Abigail knew a terribly impolite wish that her cousin would disappear, at least for the moment. To make up for such traitorous thoughts, she greeted the older woman twice as warmly.

  “I was on my way to the drawing room when I heard the pianoforte and had to come investigate,” Mercia said. “I must admit that I hoped to catch a glimpse of Sir Boundefort.”

  “Alas, it was only me, tapping the keys,” the viscount said.

  He wore his spectacles, and Abigail wondered if he was a musician as well, such talents often being the outlet of a creative mind. Her gaze met his warm one, then slid away, and she cursed the blush that rose in her cheeks. Her hands moved restlessly, and she lifted her fingers to the brooch that hung inside her gown.

  “Oh, but we are always pleased to see you, your lordship. Aren’t we, Abigail?” Cousin Mercia said.

  Abigail could only nod stupidly, emulating the foolish young ladies of the ton she so despised. Perhaps she had better slink back to the study.

  “Do you play, my dear?” Mercia asked.

  It took Abigail a moment to realize the older woman was talking to her, and she blinked, uncomprehending.

  “The pianoforte,” Mercia said.

  “Oh, no!” Abigail exclaimed, with no little alarm. She had a rudimentary knowledge of the instrument, to be sure, but questions like Mercia’s were usually followed by requests for a demonstration.

  “Surely you are being modest,” Mercia said, obviously surprised at the lack in Abigail’s education.

  “Miss Parkinson has other… skills,” the viscount said, and Abigail glanced toward him with mingled disbelief and gratitude. “But perhaps we can induce you to play for us,” he added, flashing one of his heartstopping grins at Cousin Mercia.

  Apparently the older woman wasn’t immune to Christian’s charm, for after a few protests she took a seat and began to play a lovely waltz. Smiling in encouragement, he turned and bowed to Abigail.

  “May I have this dance?”

  Abigail stared at him wide-eyed. Was he mocking her? He stood awaiting her answer, one hand outstretched, just as though he were inviting her on some new adventure. But Abigail shook her head, unable to join him.

  Christian stiffened, his handsome face losing its open, lighthearted expression, and Abigail drew a deep breath. “I’ve never actually waltzed, just watched,” she explained, though it pained her to do so.

  He smiled slowly, but it was not a smile of amusement at her expense. It was a gentle, impossibly seductive invitation to join him, to learn from him, to become a part of his world, just as though she had been born to it. And Abigail was helpless to refuse.

  Without waiting for her demur, he reached for her hand, taking it in his own. This was no formal ball, so neither of them wore gloves, and Abigail reveled in the warmth of his skin against hers. He put her other hand on his shoulder, then rested his upon her waist, making her remember all too vividly the other occasion when he had touched her—and the way he had touched her. Her face flamed, and her breath came short.

  “Easy,” he whispered, bending his head close. “Now, take a step back.”

  Abigail blinked, then looked down at her feet and obeyed.

  “To the side,” he prompted. “And then forward.” When she followed his movement, he murmured his approval. “One, two, three. See how easy it is?”

  Abigail disagreed, for she found it hard to concentrate on her steps when Christian was this close, his hands upon her, his face so near to hers, his body only an arm’s length from her own. But she followed as best she could. At first he counted out the steps in a low voice, then, as she grew more confident, he simply took her with him, sweeping her about the room as if they were born to dance together.

  All awareness of her surroundings faded away, and the music seemed to swell beyond Mercia’s pianoforte to a full orchestra, playing inside her heart. Abigail felt breathless and giddy as he whirled her round and round, across the floor, then slowed his steps until they were barely moving at all. She glanced up at him in question and saw the heat in his eyes. It passed between them, ignited an answering warmth in her body, and Abigail wondered, dizzily, if he was going to kiss her, at last.

  She waited, breathless with anticipation, for the first touch of his lips, but as she watched, his expression changed gradually until he looked… uncomfortable. With a sinking heart, Abigail realized that the man she had thought a rake was too much a gentleman to act upon his impulse. Frustration rose up inside her.

  What was the matter with a few kisses? She had experienced little enough enjoyment in her life. Why not seize this small pleasure? But seize it she would have to, for they had completely stopped now, and in a moment her opportunity would pass, just like the one in the kitchen when he had taken the apple from her. Helplessly, Abigail realized that if she wanted to be kissed, she was going to have to do it herself, taking the bull by the horns, so to speak.

  Eyeing her partner with new purpose, Abigail drew in a deep breath and lifted her hands to his face. She saw surprise cross his face at her touch, but she didn’t hesitate. Pulling his head down even as she stretched up onto her toes, Abigail brushed his lips with her own. It was easy, really, she noted, before surrendering all thought to the white-hot taste of his open mouth upon hers as he drew her into his welcome embrace.

  “Shall I play another?”

  The sound of Mercia’s voice, rising above Abigail’s thundering heartbeat, must have caught Christian’s attention, for he pulled away and stepped back, shielding her with his body. “Yes, do play something else. A minuet, perhaps?” he said over his shoulder, his easy tone revealing none of Abigail’s agitation.

  He was going to ask her to dance again, but Abigail could not. Had Mercia seen them? She was all too aware that she had no one to blame but herself for her indiscretion. Face flaming, she whispered her excuses and fled.

  Christian fully intended to follow Abigail and… do what? Say what? He wasn’t sure, but she had looked so stricken that he felt he ought to do something. But Mercia chose that moment to query him about his investigation and to extol the virtues of her cousin, just in case Christian hadn’t already noticed them. By the time he managed to escape, Alf was waiting outside the music room with a message for him.

  “There’s a fellow at the back of the house, milord. Says he’s got a letter for you, and he won’t hand it over to anyone but you personally.”

  At last Smythe must have something to report, Christian thought, with no little elation. He had told the solicitor not to use the post, for fear any information directed to him might fall into the wrong hands, ghostly or otherwise, and so had instructed him to send a messenger.

  Hurrying to the servants’ entrance, Christian found a young man waiting just inside the door whom he recognized as one of Smythe’s young clerks. The fellow obviously knew Christian as well, for he swiftly handed over the missive.

  “Shall I wait for a reply, my lord?”

  “Yes, but give me a moment to have a look,” Christian said. The servants’ hall was deserted, so he walked toward a tall bank of windows and shook open the foolscap. His eyes scanned the page, and he grunted at the information contained there.

  “
What is it, milord?” Alf asked, suddenly at his elbow.

  “Well, it isn’t good,” Christian muttered. He glanced up from the letter. “All three of the cousins receive stipends in the will,” he said, mentioning the amount to gauge Alf’s reaction.

  The young man whistled. “Wish some wealthy uncle would leave me that! It’s not a fortune, but a man could get by on it,” the canny fellow observed.

  “Perhaps, but with much smaller accommodations than those available at Sibel Hall,” Christian noted. He read further, only to swear under his breath. “And not one of the three now living at the hall has any accommodations at all to return to, as far as Mr. Smythe has been able to discover.”

  “No wonder they’re none too eager to leave,” Alf said.

  “No wonder, indeed,” Christian mused. “The colonel has made no secret of the fact that he has lived here for some time, but Emery was supposedly down from school, yet Mr. Smythe has found no record of him at Oxford or Cambridge and is now searching the rolls of lesser institutions. And as for Mercia, he can’t trace her at all. The address the solicitor had was a room that is now otherwise occupied.”

  Christian tapped the paper against his chin and stared out the window. Had the older woman actually claimed she had her own household? He couldn’t remember. He would have to ask Abigail. Lowering the sheet once more, Christian read the last few lines through fully, then again, in disbelief.

  “Now what?” Alf asked.

  Christian glanced up, his brows furrowed. “Surely this is the oddest thing of all. Mr. Smythe can’t find any record of Abigail’s—Miss Parkinson’s—relationship to Bascomb Averill.”

  Alf’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the miss ain’t who she says she is?”

  “No.” The answer came from his gut.

  “Well, that’s a good thing, seeing as how she’s as dangerous a female as I’ve ever come across. I’m telling you, the woman pulled a knife on me!” Alf said, his tone a mixture of awe and outrage. “I was fair scared out of my wits! After all, it’s not as though I could give the lady a bruiser, now, is it?”

  “Certainly not,” Christian replied. He had heard all this before, including Alf’s claim that should his village cronies hear of him being bested by a woman, he would never be able to show his face there again.

  Before Alf could work himself into a froth over the incident yet again, Christian broke in. “Thankfully, you need not worry about any future threat from our hostess. Mr. Smythe says she is the Miss Parkinson named in the will, which even mentions her employment as Lady Holland’s companion. However, he cannot discover her relationship to old Bascomb, through either her father’s or her mother’s side. Odd,” Christian murmured, tapping the paper against his chin again.

  “Beg pardon, milord, but maybe she’s a by-blow, born on the wrong side of the blanket, if you get my meaning,” Alf said in a hushed voice.

  It would be difficult not to understand Alf’s bald suggestion that Abigail was illegitimate. “I believe that Mr. Smythe has the wherewithal to explore all avenues,” Christian said dryly.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course,” Alf said, looking a bit perplexed.

  Straightening, Christian stepped away from the windows and pulled a coin from his pocket, which he gave to the grateful messenger. “I have no reply, except that I wish you would return, whether you have any additional news or not, just in case I have any information of my own to share.”

  Nodding in agreement, the young man was gone, and Christian was left with more questions than before his arrival. With a sigh, he turned away from the door and went off in search of Abigail, in the hope that she might provide him some answers.

  * * * * *

  He found her in the study, dark head bent over a stack of papers, and he was surprised by the swell of feeling that coursed through him at the sight of her. He wanted to cross the expanse of carpet and step behind her, to lean over her and breathe in her scent. He wanted to remove her hairpins, one by one, and release the heavy mass of her hair into his hands. He wanted to lure her from her work, to show her the delights to be found in play, to lay her across the desk, to seat her upon his lap, to take her in every way a man can.

  But he hadn’t the right.

  The knowledge came to him, unbidden and unwanted, for surely a scholar would not be so bold. Christian scowled. Not being himself, he hadn’t the right to do anything, his new persona standing in the way as surely as another man would have. He had donned it in a fit of temper, but the guise could not be as easily shed. Now he felt trapped by it, ensnared in lies of his own making.

  Christian bit back an oath at the bitter reality that he was consigned to playact at being some meek milksop, while Abigail was thrust into the role of aggressor. Although he had no objection to the latter, particularly, he was ready to take matters into his own hands, both figuratively and literally. But those hands were tied.

  Christian cleared his throat in a scholarly effort that came out sounding disgruntled instead.

  “Oh, Chri— Lord Moreland, you startled me,” Abigail said, flushing delightfully. Then those delicate brows of hers lowered. “Did you knock?”

  “Of course,” Christian lied. “I need to speak with you about something important.” He advanced toward the desk.

  Although she drew back warily, she nodded her head, game, as always. Christian spared a moment in admiration of the fact before he took his seat across from her. He had her attention now, and he was tempted to tell her all, but somehow he didn’t think an admission of his numerous falsehoods would further his cause. He pictured a return of the Governess, stiff and disapproving, and he shut his mouth.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  Christian sighed and tried to appear studious. “In the course of my, uh, investigation, I have asked for some assistance outside Sibel Hall, so that I could devote all my time and energies here.” To you. “As you know, I have been most interested, concerned even, with the fate of the other residents should you succeed in selling the building.” Abigail nodded her encouragement, apparently pleased to hear he was doing anything at all, so he continued. “Therefore, I asked my solicitor to look into the backgrounds of those residents, and I must admit that what he found out disturbs me.”

  “What is it?” Abigail asked, leaning forward.

  Christian leaned forward as well. “None of them has any other residence or income as far as he can deduce.” He held up his hand to forestall any argument. “Now I know that the colonel has made his home here for some time, but Emery’s background is a mystery, as is Mercia’s.” Christian slanted Abigail a glance. “Did she actually say she had a place of her own?”

  Abigail paused to consider the question, then shook her head. “I’m not really sure. Perhaps I simply assumed so when I should not have. But where was she living, and, oh, dear, where will she go?”

  Christian shrugged.

  “This is a dreadful coil. Sometimes I wish I’d never inherited the Hall,” Abigail murmured.

  “Then you could not fund your dream.”

  Abigail eyed him in surprise. “Quite so. But why on earth does it have to be so difficult and complicated?” Christian shook his head. “I don’t know, but it gets more difficult and complicated, or at least more odd. Sm—uh, my solicitor said he can’t find any record of your relationship with Bascomb Averill.”

  “But he’s my great-uncle,” Abigail protested.

  “On your mother’s or your father’s side?”

  Abigail looked pensive. “I’m not sure. I thought he was one of Mother’s relatives.”

  “Did she ever talk of him?”

  Abigail paused, as if in thought. “No,” she finally said, her expression clouded. “In fact, the first I heard of him was when he approached me at my parents' funeral. He introduced himself as my great-uncle Bascomb. Although we had little contact with my father’s relations, they had arrived to take over the house, so I met most of them at that time.

  “I guess I just assumed Bascomb was Mo
ther's relative. He wasn’t very pleasant, so I certainly didn’t wish for further acquaintance with him. He told me I would have to make my own way in the world, which I did.”

  “What about the cousins? What did they say? Were they with him?”

  Abigail’s brows furrowed. “No. None of the cousins were there. I had no idea they even existed until the solicitor told me about Sibel Hall. He introduced them as cousins, so I thought we were all related. And they called me their cousin as well.”

  Christian frowned. “Let’s not bring up the subject with them just yet,” he suggested, meeting Abigail’s eyes. For once she nodded in agreement. At last they were working together, but toward what? Christian had come seeking answers but found only more questions.

  Christian was dreaming, vivid visions of the Governess shedding both her guise and her clothing and coming to him, all soft and round and passionate. Had he once been unable to imagine such a thing? Now he could picture her in all her glory, for he had touched her, molded her body with his hands, rocked himself against her…

  “Milord! Milord!”

  Why wasn’t she calling him by name, as she had in the passageway? “Christian,” he corrected, reaching for her.

  “Milord!”

  With a start, Christian awoke to come face-to-face not with the delectable Abigail but with Alf Kendal, a quizzical expression on his pinched face. Christian sat up abruptly, nearly bumping heads with the man.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “You were dreaming, milord,” the fellow observed.

  And a man’s not allowed to? Dreams were all that Christian had. And spectacles. “Well, I’m not now,” he grumbled.

  “No, milord.” Alf cast a critical eye over the neglected state room, far from the occupied part of the house, then turned back to Christian. “What are you doing here? It took me forever to find you.”