“And what are you going to tell him, my lord?”
Christian glanced at his valet’s impassive countenance, and his own expression hardened with sudden resolve. “I’m going to tell him to have Smythe return immediately with someone—anyone—to pose as a potential buyer.” Maybe that would force the villain’s hand, at least.
Meanwhile, he had a tunnel to explore.
Christian’s meeting with the messenger was brief and uninformative. Smythe was still looking for information on both the Averill family and Abigail’s line, but he had nothing further to report as yet. The clerk did pen a letter, however, at Christian’s directive, in which he claimed that Mr. Smythe’s client was most interested in Sibel Hall and would soon return.
“Post it before you leave the area, and it should arrive this afternoon,” Christian advised. He was standing at the servants’ entrance, bidding good-bye to the fellow when Alf hurried up, looking a bit chary.
“What’s the matter now? Has Mercia been bothering you again?” Christian asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
The villager reddened. “No, my lord. And Emery went off to his rooms, so I got myself a bit to eat. Did you have anything?”
Since when had the fellow been interested in his dining habits? “No. I haven’t had time today. But I’m glad you’re here. I may need your help. Do you know anything about mines?”
When Alf shook his head, Christian explained about finding the tunnel. “It isn’t the most pleasant of passages, but I think it’s sturdy enough. Although I ran into a joist and dislodged a bit of earth, the place didn’t cave in. I’d like to take another look at it, if you’ll keep watch at the entrance.” Alf nodded, though his expression was still oddly wary. “You’re not afraid of going underground, are you?” His fearless villager was turning out to be spooked by everything except ghosts.
But Alf shook his head. “No, milord. I ain’t afraid of a bit of earth or even narrow spaces. If you want, I’ll take a look through the thing, while you keep watch.”
Christian frowned. “No. I’ll go.” He wasn’t about to order someone else into a possibly dangerous situation, while he idly stood by. Besides, he was curious to find out where the tunnel led.
“Well, if you say so,” Alf said, again in a rather nervous tone. “I’ll just fetch some lanterns and meet you there.”
Christian’s brow rose, but he finally decided to ignore the villager’s behavior. Perhaps the canny Alf had an assignation with a housemaid to cancel before manning the tunnel.
With a nod, Christian took his leave, striding out into the gardens that led toward the folly.
When he reached the rock face, he tried not to think of what had happened here not that long ago. But when he glanced at the hillock, he saw the grass matted down, evidence of two bodies entwined in the sunshine, and he swore under his breath. At least Abigail wasn’t here to remind him in person of just what he had given up.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when he saw , her exiting the house and coming toward him, with Alf in tow. What the devil? Christian had worried that their first meeting might be awkward after what had gone between them, but now he didn’t feel awkward. He just felt angry.
“Miss Parkinson, what a surprise!” He greeted her with a nasty smile. “I assume you just happened to run into my friend here when he was getting his lanterns,” he added, inclining his head toward a red-faced Alf.
“No,” Abigail answered without prevarication. She was wearing her determined face, and Christian stifled a groan. “Actually, I had asked Alf to let me know if you recklessly decided to pursue this exploration again.”
Reckless? Christian set his teeth, all attempts at a scholarly demeanor falling by the wayside as he faced off against the Governess. He opened his mouth to argue, but Alf managed to insinuate himself between the two of them.
“Now, milord, don’t take on so. The miss here, well, she, uh, pulled me aside and warned me that I was to tell her if you tried to go underground. She didn’t want you to go in there alone, but she figured you’d want to do just that.” Alf flashed a crooked grin. “All I can say is she knows you well, milord.”
Christian flinched. She didn’t know him at all, and that reminder took the heat out of him. He glared at Alf. “And just what is your excuse? Who pays you?”
“You do, milord, but this is her house.” Alf shrugged. “And she carries a big knife.”
Christian threw up his hands. He was obviously outnumbered, so he gave in as graciously as possible. But there was still the question of who was to explore and who was to stand watch, and since all three wanted to do the former and none wanted to do the latter, an argument ensued. When the Governess swore she was coming with him, Christian explained that Alf was smaller and wiry and fearless.
Abigail was not appeased. “Two men plus danger equal recklessness in my opinion,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her. And for all he knew she had a dagger ready to push her point.
With a sigh, Christian finally had Alf fetch his groomsmen to stand guard, while he, Abigail, and Alf all carefully entered the passage, which wouldn’t be secret much longer. “If we get any more people involved, we’ll have to charge admittance,” Christian grumbled.
This time he was careful to keep his head and shoulders low as he crept through the narrow space. He made his way nearly doubled over, and after a while, his back began to cramp. Instead of thinking about the kind of ministrations he might beg from his hostess, Christian began to question just how long the excavation continued. No wonder the tight-fisted Bascomb hadn’t wanted to pay for all this work.
All during the long trek, Christian noted that despite the tight quarters, the rather moldering smell, and the dirty environs, Abigail never uttered a word of complaint, drawing his admiration yet again. Here was a woman to stand at a man’s back, in dark alleyways and crowded ballrooms alike. And although her stubborn refusal to leave his side had irked him. Christian couldn’t help feel a slow swell of pride—and something else, a determination of his own.
After a mile or so underground, they finally reached the end of the passage, much to Christian’s relief, but Alf cried out in dismay. “Why, it’s nothing but a blind alley, and after coming all this way!”
“A tunnel this long doesn’t just go nowhere,” Christian replied, and he ran his hands over the surface in front of him, as well as the sides and even the timbers. But he found nothing except the rough texture of tree roots encroaching on the passage. Then he looked up, where a bunch of old roots dangled, and grinned. Giving them a hefty push upward, he felt the ceiling give way until he managed to poke his head out of the hole.
But his efforts were met with disappointment, for Christian realized he was in no hide, surrounded by Sir Boundefort’s hoard. Nor was he in a building of any kind. Indeed, he was out-of-doors again, just as he had begun, the only difference being the tall trees that loomed above him. After all that crawling about below, they had not reached any treasure trove that might explain Sibel Hall’s many mysteries. Instead, they appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by old oaks and undergrowth.
“What is it, milord? What do you see?” Alf called impatiently from behind him. Christian glanced around to discover that the exit, such as it was, consisted of an old stump, which had fallen to the side, and he climbed out onto the ground. Reaching back down, he helped Abigail and Alf out, as well, so that all three of them stood in the shade of the ancient trees, taking in their surroundings.
“Why, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Abigail marveled, as she surveyed the area. “Perhaps, like Walpole, Bascomb was enthralled with gothic novels and simply wanted a secret tunnel of his own.”
Christian frowned. A gothic novelist of the last century, Walpole had built himself a castlelike home called Strawberry Hill, which was rumored to house all sorts of nonsense from his books. “Somehow I can’t picture the tightfisted Bascomb spending money for romantic ornamentation.”
“What a minute, milord! I know
where we are,’’ Alf said. “And we aren’t on the Sibel Hall property anymore.”
“What?”
“See the long line of oaks?” Alf noted, pointing west. “They continue all the way up here, behind us and go past us, on the east. That marks the edge of the Averill estate. The trees have been here forever, dating back to the first dispute between the neighbors, or so it’s said.”
Christian glanced around with some surprise. “So the tunnel actually goes between the trees? No wonder there were so many roots pushing at the sides.”
“Look there, you can see Dowsett Manor,” Alf said, pointing once more. Christian followed the line of his arm until he spied a stone structure, its windows glinting in the sun, nestled far below in a green valley.
“But why tunnel all the way here when he could just ride or walk?” Abigail asked.
“Madness. Madness in the blood, I tell you,” Alf muttered. He shook his head before jerking a startled glance toward Abigail. “Beg pardon, miss.”
“She’s not one of them,” Christian pointed out.
“Oh, that’s right! That’s good. Well, then, madness,” Alf repeated. “Madness in the blood.”
It was Abigail’s idea to visit Dowsett Manor, with the hope that the occupants of the house might shed some light upon the tunnel between the two properties. And Christian, always eager to escape the confines of Sibel Hall, was only too glad to join her. Soon, however, he was to regret the outing.
The drive—in his own coach—was pleasant enough. Christian would have preferred to ride, but hesitated to suggest it, since he was unsure of both Abigail’s skills and the state of the stables. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself to be alone with her in the countryside, where they could stop at any moment and make a bed in the grass again.
Trying not to think about what he had given up, Christian vowed to quit sneaking glances at the woman who sat across from him. Such flirtation had always been a part of his liaisons before, so the effort to pretend that nothing had changed between them was giving him a headache, as well as a pain lower down. It throbbed even as he told himself that this was not a liaison. Nor was Abigail like any of those other women.
By the time they reached Dowsett Manor, Christian was pressing his temples, even though he never suffered from the megrims or any kind of discomfort, at least above the groin. If Abigail was going to give him aches higher up, then perhaps he ought to leave while he still could. Unfortunately, he suspected it was already too late.
They were greeted at Dowsett Manor by a butler who took one look at Abigail’s dowdy clothing and lifted his big fat nose in the air. She didn’t even flinch, but since Christian suspected it was because she was used to that kind of treatment, he grew even more annoyed. He lifted his own noble nose in the air, along with his eyebrows.
“Your neighbor, Miss Parkinson, along with Viscount Moreland, to see the residents here,” Christian said, putting the servant in his place. With a flicker of interest, the fellow became more obeisant, showing them to a parlor and assuring them that while Mr. Milner was not at home, Mrs. Milner would be happy to receive them.
Afraid to bring up the topic of their treatment and her past grievances for fear he might lose his temper, Christian set his teeth and put his mind to the task at hand. “Did you tell anyone we were coming?”
Abigail shook her head. “I did ask the colonel, casually, mind you, whether he knew any of the surrounding families, and he was very vague. I admit I find it odd that the three cousins are so reclusive.”
Surely that wasn’t all she found odd about them? Christian bit his tongue because at that moment the mistress of the house rushed into the room in a flurry of silk and feathers. And like a bee to honey, she made directly for where Christian stood.
“My lord! What an honor and a pleasure to have you call upon us! I vow, we are so secluded that the society here and abouts is simply abysmal. However, now that I know that you are in the neighborhood, I shall have to gather a group together for some dancing and cards, of course!” she gushed, engulfing him in a cloud of perfume.
Christian nearly choked, and he felt like choking her. Amid all her chatter, she had never even acknowledged Abigail’s presence. “Mrs. Milner, I presume?” he said, tilting his head.
“Why, yes, of course, my lord,” she simpered. “Such a pleasure! Such a surprise! As I said, we simply must get together. My husband will be so sorry that he missed your impromptu call!”
“I am here with your neighbor, Miss Parkinson, the new owner of Sibel Hall,” he said, sweeping an arm toward Abigail in a gesture that even Mrs. Milner could not ignore.
“Ah, yes,” the woman said, nodding in the briefest of acknowledgments. Before she could launch into another lengthy ramble, Christian took his seat.
“I wonder if you could give us some information about the former owner of the Hall.”
She looked at him blankly.
“A Mr. Bascomb Averill?” Christian prompted.
“Oh, my, no!” she said, fluttering toward the door, where she rather loudly called for tea.
Christian rubbed his temples. He did not want tea—or anything else—from this woman.
“Did you see much of him?” Abigail asked.
Mrs. Milner hesitated, and for a moment Christian thought she would refuse to reply. He half rose from his chair, his anger barely leashed. But whether she suspected his intent or simply feared he might leave, she answered, though she looked at him, not Abigail, when she did so.
“Mr. Averill? Oh, my, no! We had no dealings with the man whatsoever. We found him quite discourteous, even belligerent. Why, he said we had no right to be here!” she said with a sniff. “Can you imagine? Just as though we hadn’t paid good money for the house!”
Money and the position it bought were obviously important to Mrs. Milner, whose husband, Christian suspected, was in trade. He’d seen these social-climbing, grasping females before. He could only be thankful that she didn’t look old enough to have a daughter to throw at him.
“So you recently purchased this property?” Abigail asked.
Again Mrs. Milner hesitated, and Christian didn’t know what irritated him more, her treatment of Abigail or Abigail’s composure in the face of it. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Yes! It was a bit small and out of the way, but Rupert— Mr. Milner, that is—insisted upon a country place,” she said coyly.
“Can you tell us anything about the previous owner of the house?” Abigail asked.
Mrs. Milner didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “Dowsett Manor? Why, no. I’m afraid I know nothing about those… people. I suppose they fell upon hard times.”
“Or bought something larger,” Abigail put in, and Christian had to bite back a laugh at the subtle gibe.
Their hostess appeared startled. “Why, yes, I suppose that’s possible. No!” she said, shaking the feathers in her hair. “Now that you mention it, I believe it was owned by a widow, a Lady Chestleham, who passed on. No one to inherit, I assume. But her misfortune is our gain, so I say.” Mrs. Milner waved a hand in obvious dismissal of the subject.
But Abigail, despite her treatment, was not to be dismissed so easily. “Do you know if this widow was a member of the original family that founded the place?”
This time Mrs. Milner made her displeasure obvious. Turning to Abigail, she lifted her chin and looked down her nose, perhaps in imitation of her own butler. “I have no idea. Whatever personal items that were here were removed and sold at auction, I believe,” she snapped, shuddering as if with distaste. But Christian was willing to bet that some of those things were right here staring him in the face, as well as stuffed in the attics. Unfortunately, he hadn’t the time or energy to go through someone else’s house as well as Sibel Hall.
“Ah, here is the tea at last,” Mrs. Milner said, with a wave of her hand. Turning her shoulder toward Abigail, she gave Christian a long-suffering smile. “Servants are so difficult to find these days, especially in
this rural area. I vow, I don’t know how I shall survive!”
Christian rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t time for tea today,” he said, without any further explanation.
Mrs. Milner practically shrieked in protest. “Oh, but, my lord, you simply must have something!” Another time Christian might have been eager to eat anything not served at Sibel Hall, but right now he didn’t have the stomach for it.
“I’m sorry, but no,” Christian said, turning to Abigail. She had a puzzled expression, presumably because he was leaving without mentioning the tunnel, but he simply shrugged. He could tell Mrs. Milner had no knowledge of the passage and would not be happy to learn of its existence. The first thing she would do was fill it in, and Christian wasn’t about to give her the pleasure.
“But Mr. Milner will want to meet you, and we must arrange for a soiree!” the woman protested, following Christian to the door like a frantic puppy.
“I am staying with a party at Sibel Hall, but I’m afraid I’m too busy with my commission there to have any time for amusements.”
Mrs. Milner looked at him blankly.
“I’m trying to rout the specter that haunts the place,” Christian explained, while Mrs. Milner gaped. He flashed her a smile. “When I do, I’ll try not to send it over this way.” Christian brushed past the butler, then turned on the threshold. “Oh, you are right, Mrs. Milner. Your servants are terrible.”
As he stalked toward the waiting coach, Christian heard the sputtering of the woman he had left behind, as well as a stifled sound from beside him. But even the rarity of Abigail’s laughter could not rouse him from his ill mood, and after helping her inside, he threw himself into the seat opposite with more force than necessary, jarring his throbbing head.
“A pox upon that wretched female!” he muttered, lifting a hand to his temples. “I can’t believe the way she treated you.”
“I’m used to it,” Abigail replied with a tight smile.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 26