“Hello? Sir Boundefort? Are you there?” Christian bit back a groan at the sound of Cousin Mercia’s quavering voice. He was tempted to stay where he was, but Abigail was already slipping from his arms and brushing her skirts. And he supposed it might be awkward to be caught in the act (or as close to it as possible) with his hostess should someone actually venture into the darkened room.
Without bothering to cover the opening to the minstrel’s gallery, Christian followed Abigail into the great hall, where he saw an eager Mercia with a sour Emery, and a rather nervous Colonel lagging behind.
“Hallo? Oh, it’s just you two!” the old fellow bellowed, sounding relieved.
“I told you it was nothing,” Emery snapped.
“The little maid—Becky, I believe—came to the drawing room, fussing and wailing that the ghost was abroad. Said it chased off one of the servants, then set about torturing people in the great hall. Said she could hear your screams!” the colonel said, shaking his head in disgust. Then he paused. “You weren’t screaming, were you?”
“Certainly not,” Abigail replied in her most prim tone. Christian loved it. He wanted her to use that tone just before he made her scream with pleasure.
“I was calling for assistance, however,” Abigail said. “We saw something behind the fretwork and found a way up to the minstrel’s gallery, but someone blocked our exit, trapping us up there.” She pointed toward the area in question.
The colonel and Mercia made the appropriate noises of distress, while Emery just looked disgruntled. “However did you manage to escape?” Mercia asked.
“Oh, his lordship is quite… resourceful,” Abigail said, making Christian’s heart hammer in his chest and other body parts stir as well. He flashed her a grin, grateful for both her praise and her discretion. He didn’t want anyone tampering with the fretwork, just in case he needed to climb it again.
“But, I say, what is this minstrel’s gallery?” the colonel asked, moving toward them. “I have no knowledge of it.”
“Apparently it was blocked off years ago,” Abigail explained.
“Oh, my, yes,” Mercia piped up. “I do recall something about someone falling or being pushed from the ledge.”
Christian exchanged glances with his hostess over this bit of information. “You knew about the minstrel’s gallery?” Abigail said, in a sharper voice than usual.
“Why, yes, dear,” Mercia said.
“Why didn’t you say anything about it?” Abigail asked.
“Why, I didn’t think it was important,” she answered.
“But that’s right where the ghost…” Abigail trailed off, either afraid of saying too much or aware of the folly of reasoning with the older woman.
The colonel cleared his throat. “Well, let’s all have a look, shall we?”
All three cousins crowded into the shadowy room to view the ragged hole in the wall that covered the stair, though none actually braved the opening. Presumably, the colonel was too leery, Mercia too delicate, and Emery… well, no doubt Emery knew exactly what the gallery looked like, Christian thought darkly.
“It’s all part of the family history and the legends of Sibel Hall,” Mercia said, as everyone trooped back out into the great hall. “I believe it was Sir Boundefort’s wife or lover who fell to her death. Perhaps he threw her off in a fit of rage, and that’s why his soul is not at rest. And he might not like you trespassing upon his domain,” she added.
“It wasn’t Sir Boundefort, but someone alive and hardy who trapped us up there,” Christian corrected, with a sidelong glance at Emery.
“Well, I warned you about the dangers of the Hall,” the so-called scholar said. “I think you got whatever you deserved, wandering about uninvited.”
Christian stopped to turn toward the boy. “And who should be invited, if not the owner? Why shouldn’t she go wherever she wants in her own house?”
In the face of Christian’s implacable questioning, Emery sputtered, and perhaps they might have had a reckoning at last, but Christian felt Abigail’s hand upon his arm, restraining him. Presumably she did so out of civility, something Christian thought highly overrated, especially after what had happened there today.
Although Christian hadn’t felt particularly endangered in the minstrel’s gallery, the incident put all his instincts on alert. What if he and Abigail had been trapped somewhere else, like the secret passage? As much as he enjoyed her company, the threat of being buried alive with her would definitely damper his enthusiasm.
The villain was growing bolder—of that there was no doubt. Just how desperate was he? What might he do next? Would he target Abigail in particular? And if so, how was Christian going to keep her safe?
Although Christian remained on alert, nothing out of the ordinary occurred, and he was again reduced to kicking his heels—until Alf hunted him down to say that Mr. Smythe and the “buyer” had arrived. The news filled him with a rather unholy glee, for he was certain the specter would make an appearance. And this time Christian was going to catch him. If by doing so he proved to Abigail that he could accomplish his task better than any of her men of science, then that would suit him just fine.
Alf in tow, Christian strode toward the great hall, determined to take out all of his many frustrations upon the specter that had haunted his existence for far too many days and nights. He found Abigail already there with Mr. Smythe and a short, rotund man in a garish waistcoat, who was smiling much too avidly at her. Couldn’t Smythe find a buyer who wasn’t a lecher? Christian wondered, setting his teeth.
“Ah, Lord Moreland! How nice to see you again,” Smythe said. Christian nodded curtly in greeting, ignoring the flicker of surprise in the solicitor’s eyes.
“My lord, I would like you to meet Mr. Gaylord, a man with a fine eye for a property,” Smythe said.
“Gaylord,” Christian muttered, barely acknowledging the fellow, who seemed to have an eye for the ladies as well.
“Mr. Gaylord is quite pleased with the house,” Smythe remarked, though from the looks of him Gaylord was more interested in its owner. Christian ground his teeth. He tried to insinuate himself between the interloper and Abigail, but Gaylord refused to move. Christian was about to knock him aside forcibly, when he realized that the fellow had gone rigid. His lips worked, but nothing came out as he stared upward.
Following his stricken gaze, Christian looked toward the fretwork, and there it was, a pale, formless thing floating in the upper air, weaving and wailing. Sibel Hall’s specter had just made his latest—and last, Christian vowed—appearance.
“Alf! Cover the exit to the minstrel’s gallery,” Christian yelled. He heard his man rush into action even as he bounded forward and grabbed hold of the fretwork.
“Christian, no!” He heard Abigail’s shout of distress, but ignored it. She was too far away to catch him, and this time no one was going to hold him back. He climbed the now familiar carved wood with confidence, his eye on the specter above. It continued floating and wailing, apparently unaware of his movements directly below, and he hurried onward until he was right beneath it.
Then, before it could move, Christian reached up, grabbed hold of the thing and pulled. It gave way instantly and, thrown off balance, he nearly fell. Vaguely he heard Abigail’s cry ring out through the hall, but he righted himself, clinging to both the fretwork and what he clutched in his hand as he began his descent. Although it was an awkward business, Christian managed to hang one-handed from the partition while making his way down.
When he dropped to the floor, Abigail rushed toward him, her face pale and stricken. He had the feeling that she might have struck him—or kissed him—if not for their audience. Instead she simply stared at him wide-eyed as Christian held out his prize.
“Here’s your ghost,” he declared, shaking out the bundle that he carried. Stripped of its seeming ability to float upon the drafts high in the hall, the specter didn’t look very frightening. Indeed, it didn’t look like much of anything at all. Christ
ian realized it was nothing but strips of old, nearly transparent linen, sewn together haphazardly and attached to a pole. A pole long enough to reach from the minstrel’s gallery through the fretwork.
“Mr. Smythe, Mr. Gaylord, would you please keep a watch back here?” Christian commanded as he hurried behind the partition. Although he didn’t think anyone except himself had ever climbed it, he didn’t want whoever was up in the balcony to escape it the way he had.
Mr. Gaylord remained immobile, but Smythe and, of course, Abigail, followed him, positioning themselves at either end of the screen. Christian shook his head at her stubbornness, but he didn’t have time to argue. He rushed into the small room behind, where Alf was standing by the cabinet, watching it rattle and inch forward.
At a nod from Christian, Alf pushed the furniture away from the opening while Christian stepped into the breech. He was just in time, for the piece had barely moved when he was nearly knocked over by someone intent on fleeing the stairs at all costs. But Christian wasn’t about to be struck aside. He had spent far too much time with Gentleman Jackson and other boxers less inclined to follow the rules. With a few well-placed blows, he had the miscreant gasping and doubled over.
Locking an arm around the fellow’s neck, Christian dragged him out of the buttery, past a startled Abigail and into the great hall. But he didn’t need the light from the tall windows to know with whom he had struggled. Throwing the fellow down into a straight-backed chair, Christian kept him there with a firm grip upon his shoulders.
“Emery!” Abigail cried as she hurried toward them. “What on earth were you doing?”
“Nothing,” the young man muttered, still sullen despite a lip that was beginning to swell.
“Nothing except scaring off potential buyers,” Christian said sarcastically.
Emery squirmed in the chair. “I didn’t do any harm.”
“But why? Why would you do such a thing?” Abigail asked.
“It was just a jest,” Emery mumbled, trying to shrug beneath Christian’s grip.
“But why?” Abigail repeated.
Emery slunk down in his seat. “I just wanted to stay here. That’s all.”
His explanation was so patently false that Christian grabbed him by the neck, ready to wring the truth from him, but a gentle hand on his arm restrained him. Abigail, looking stricken, obviously didn’t want him to beat the facts out of the boy. Why? Because he was a scholar? Christian blew out a breath of exasperation. He was betting that Emery had never even been to school.
Turning toward Alf, Christian nodded at his prisoner. “Would you do the honors?” he asked, stepping aside.
With an evil grin, the young villager took his place.
“Where are you going?” Abigail asked.
“I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago,” Christian declared. “I’m going to go to search his room to see just what sort of studying he does up there.”
Ignoring Emery’s shout of protest, Christian strode from the great hall, Abigail on his heels. Although he had a feeling that she didn’t approve of his tactics, he was determined to prove that her faith in the weaselly youth, who wasn’t even her cousin, was misplaced. Kneeling before the boy’s door, he picked the lock and swung it open.
It was a mess, a jumble of clothes and books and papers that made even Christian wrinkle his nose. Obviously, the boy had been reading something, but what? He stepped over to a heavy writing desk, piled high with several volumes, and smiled smugly. Turning to Abigail, he gestured to the titles.
“What is it?” she said.
Christian smiled grimly. “The missing family histories.”
19
Abigail found dinner to be an odd, rather uncomfortable business, for she presided over a table with an empty place, that of the young man she would always think of as her cousin Emery. Christian had insisted that the boy leave, and though she still felt a certain guilt over her inheritance of the house, Abigail had reluctantly agreed to his ouster.
She and Christian had spent hours going over the materials in Emery’s room, evidence that his elaborate hoax had been more than a prank. Indeed, he had deliberately forestalled the sale of the building while he searched for that ridiculous treasure supposedly mentioned in the family rhyme. Although Abigail was inclined to forgive his foolishness, Christian pointed out that he had locked them in the minstrel’s gallery and with his motives unmasked, he might be driven to more desperate measures.
So he was gone, and now Abigail faced the other two cousins, abuzz with questions, and Christian himself, who had succeeded beyond her expectations. She drew in a shaky breath at the thought. Seeing him this afternoon, leaping into the fray, clever and handsome and bold, had only strengthened her feelings for him.
As always, Abigail had tried to reason with her treacherous heart, and this time she had a definite grievance. He had lied to her. Well, not lied outright, perhaps, but through the sin of omission. Yet Abigail found it hard to be angry with the man who had brought her back to life, who had introduced her to a world of freedom and adventure and pleasure, carrying her away until she was a hairbreadth from surrendering herself to him. That she hadn’t was not due to her own good sense but to his gendemanly withdrawal, for the man she had often thought heedless had possessed the wherewithal to call a halt to what she had started.
If he wasn’t an authority on ghosts, what did it matter? Abigail had never considered such expertise a great achievement anyway. What was more important was that he was gentle and kind and bold and reckless and… Abigail frowned, amending her thoughts. He was gentle and kind and studious… and he wore spectacles.
And when he had swung from the fretwork, nearly falling to his death or injury, all the misunderstandings, everything he was or was not, didn’t seem to matter anymore. Once he was back on his feet, Abigail had nearly thrown her arms around him in relief, her heart overflowing. The viscount might have accepted her invitation under false pretenses, but he had solved the mystery and more. He was her hero.
“I still can’t understand it!” the colonel boomed out from his place at the head of the table. “Why an intelligent boy like that would waste his time chasing after an odd bit of poetry, and disrupting the whole household to boot, is inconceivable. I would never have believed it!”
“And you say that you found all the family histories, everything relating to the legend in his room?” Mercia asked.
“Yes,” Abigail answered. It had all been there, the plans to the house, the elimination of the old kitchens, the blocking up of the minstrel’s gallery, and the intriguing story of Sir Boundefort himself, told in bits and pieces tucked away in records and letters and diaries.
Abigail drew a deep breath. “According to the accounts we found, our ancestor was in love with a young lady but hadn’t the resources to marry her. So he went on the Crusade and returned a wealthy man, knighted, only to find that the young lady’s brother had forced her to marry another.”
“How despicable!” Mercia said. “What happened?”
“She was a widow, so he still had hopes of marrying her,” Abigail said. “He bought this land, next to where she lived with her brother and her daughter, and he built the Hall as a paean to her. Her name was Sibel,” she added.
“He even named his house after her!” Mercia said. “How romantic!”
“Yes, well, he also built it to show off to her brother the mistake he’d made,” Christian noted.
“Do go on,” Merica urged.
Abigail frowned. “There are varying opinions on what happened next, but apparently they met in secret and he lavished her with gifts, but the brother found out. He was spying on them from the minstrel’s gallery and was discovered, so Sir Boundefort confronted him there. They fought, and the young widow tried to intervene.”
Abigail sighed, still shaken by the sad tale. “Some say she fell to her death, others that the brother deliberately threw her over the ledge. But whatever the true circumstances, she struck her
head on the tiles and died. Mad with grief, Sir Boundefort killed her brother.”
“That was probably when the stairs to the gallery were closed off,” Christian mused.
“And no doubt that was when he made up the rhyme, as some sort of tribute to his lost love, not as a clue to lost treasure,” Abigail pronounced, quite firmly.
“Isn’t there some line in that thing about singing?” Christian asked.
“ ‘ ’Neath the angels singing fair,’ ” Merica quoted, eyeing him curiously
“Obviously Emery discovered the minstrel’s gallery, where musicians played and songs were sung, and thought to find the treasure below it,” Christian said.
“That explains why the room where the steps are hidden is in such a jumble. He must have been searching there as well,” Abigail added.
“And that’s probably why he was digging around in the cellar, too, below that whole area. “ ‘ ’Neath the angels singing fair,’ ” Christian muttered thoughtfully.
For a moment Abigail thought he might offer up a solution to the rhyme. She would not put it past him, for hadn’t he single-handedly accomplished almost everything else? Gazing across the table at him, she smiled in heady admiration of her guest, certain that she could continue to do so indefinitely. But the thought brought her up short, for she realized then what she had been too busy this afternoon to notice. Her smile fled, and with a gasp of dismay Abigail faced the truth.
Having routed the specter of Sibel Hall, just as she had requested, Lord Moreland had no reason to remain.
Christian stalked the dark rooms of Sibel Hall, listening for signs not of the specter but of its perpetrator. He didn’t trust Emery as far as he could throw him, and although he had put the boy on a mail coach, he was concerned that the so-called scholar might return. He was all too aware that nothing could prevent the angry young man from coming back with a new pick to attack the foundation—or the owner.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 28