Christian eyed her quizzically. Why was she skulking in the shadows? The woman was damned peculiar at the best of times, but something about her behavior now roused all of his instincts. He inched toward Abigail, although outwardly he maintained a casual pose.
“Well, perhaps your treasure is in here. Shall we have a look?” Christian asked the older woman. He had hoped to draw her out, but she remained where she was, her sometimes peculiar presence turning downright eerie.
“There is something! It’s a chest!” Abigail announced, obviously unaware of any undercurrents. And perhaps she was right. These last few weeks might have left him overly suspicious. After all, what could a little old lady really do? Christian turned his head to see some kind of trunk secreted inside the opening.
“Drag it out here, and then step back,” Mercia said.
Surprised at the older woman’s demand, Christian swung back around only to gape in shock. Mercia had moved forward finally, but the lantern’s glow revealed that she held something in her hand, specifically a pistol, which she was pointing at them in a rather deadly fashion.
“Mercia!” Abigail cried from beside him. “What on earth are you doing?”
“My dear Abigail, whether you are related to some long dead doxy or not, you have no claim to this treasure. As a true descendant of Sir Boundefort, I am taking my rightful share,” the older woman said.
“What of the others?” Christian asked dryly.
“To the clever—and the persistent—go the spoils,” she said. “I have toadied up to Bascomb all my life, living in near poverty, counting the days until I could come into my own. That day, unfortunately for you, has finally come.”
“Mercia!” The Governess was back in full force, scolding her elder in tones of stunned disapproval.
“I’m sorry, dear, but once I realized that I wasn’t going to get the house, I knew I wouldn’t have the luxury of a lifetime in which to solve the mystery, as Bascomb had,” Mercia said. “I knew the old devil was close to the solution, but I didn’t realize how close. I assumed that I, as his next of kin, would inherit. Alas, he foiled me, even in death, the bastard.”
Christian heard Abigail’s low gasp from beside him, even as he wondered if old Bascomb had died unassisted, or if he’d had a little help from the cold-blooded Mercia.
“I had not counted upon the cousins hanging about, either, but I soon discovered that Emery was quite intent upon finding the treasure, and I trusted to his efforts. Obviously, my faith was misplaced. But you, my lord, have proved yourself beyond anyone’s expectations,” she added, though Christian took no comfort from the compliment.
“Now, if you would please use those underemployed muscles of yours to drag the strongbox into the chapel, I will hold my fire,” she said, her grip on the old pistol surprisingly steady.
Christian studied the weapon, which looked suspiciously familiar. “You surely cannot believe that old firearm from the great hall is still in working order,” he said, hazarding a guess.
“I’m certain it is, my lord, for I keep it primed and at the ready. What better place to hide something than in plain sight? I wouldn’t want to have anything incriminating in my possession, lest anyone search my room, like you did Emery’s,” she explained. “Now, we have wasted enough time. The chest, please.”
Christian moved into the dark cavity, but he gave the contents a wary look. Sir Boundefort might not be able to haunt the place, but he’d been a crafty character, clever enough to keep his hoard out of anyone’s hands for centuries. Christian gave the chest a nudge with his toe, just to make sure it wasn’t covering up some trapdoor or other devilry.
“I said drag it, not kick it,” Mercia called out. She was impatient, obviously, and Christian took heart, for impatient people made mistakes.
But he couldn’t trust to that adage. He needed a plan. And quickly. He couldn’t very well toss the chest at her, for it was too damn heavy. He was just going to have to leap for the pistol, but he’d have to be sure Abigail was out of the line of fire. The old woman could shoot only one of them, and he was going to make certain it wasn’t Abigail.
With deliberate care, Christian pushed the chest forward. He still wasn’t sure that Sir Boundefort was done with his tricks, and he was buying time, as well, time to come up with a better plan. Stepping in front of the piece, he slowly pulled it from its hiding place, across the old stone floor. If he could just get closer to…
“That’s far enough, my lord!” Mercia ordered. “Now, if you would please step backward. You, too, Abigail, dear.” Christian heard Abigail’s gasp of alarm and realized the old woman wasn’t going to shoot them. She was going to shut them up in the hide, and since the brooch was the only way to unlock it, the two of them would be trapped there forever.
“But surely you are going to open the chest?” Abigail said, her voice even despite their circumstances. Once more, Christian could only admire her steady strength, her courage under fire, her intelligence. Only the Governess could reason with a madwoman like Mercia. “I should at least like to see the treasure that Sir Boundefort took such pains to hide, that has been secreted here for centuries,” Abigail said.
The older woman hesitated, but then greed, as it so often does, overwhelmed her caution. Impatient, she stepped forward to kneel before the chest, the pistol still held in one hand. “All right, but don’t make a move, or I’ll shoot.”
She paused to study the chest and ran her other hand over the dusty surface. “There’s no lock.”
Obviously she was pleased by the discovery, but Christian grew more wary. After such an elaborate scheme to hide it, the chest wouldn’t just be open for the taking, would it? He inched closer to Abigail even as he waited for inspiration to strike him—with a new plan. He still held the brooch, a feeble weapon at best, but if he aimed it at Mercia’s hand, he might knock the pistol aside, or at the very least cause her aim to go awry. Never having excelled at ninepins or the like, Christian broke out in a sweat, for he would have only one chance.
The lid of the chest fell back, and in the glow of lantern light Christian saw an empty tray fitted neatly into the top of the opening.
“There’s nothing in it!” Abigail said from beside him.
“Yes, there is, stupid girl!” Mercia answered, excitement rife in her voice. “This comes out. See the finger holes?” she said, pointing to the tray. Still holding the gun in her right hand, she reached into the tray with her left. But as soon as her fingers slipped into the holes, the older woman jerked back wildly. The pistol flew from her grasp, and she began screaming in agony, her cries echoing through the chapel in a horrific wail.
“What on earth?” Abigail said, rushing forward, while Christian retrieved the weapon skidding across the stone floor.
“Help me! Help me, you stupid girl!” Mercia cried.
“What is it?” Abigail asked, bewildered and frantic.
Christian knelt next to the chest. “It’s Sir Boundefort’s last safeguard,” he said, running his hands along the exterior of the chest, searching for the release catch. “The unsuspecting thief reaches into the tray, setting off a spring trap that closes over his fingers, like those set to catch animals in the wild.”
Trying to concentrate amid Mercia’s writhing and shrieking, Christian felt something give and heard a snap. Presumably the tray could be removed now without danger. Either that or the wretched trunk would release darts at them next. Glancing about, Christian searched for something to pry out the tray, but Mercia was already pulling her hand out, bloody and mangled, along with it.
She sank back onto the stone, clutching her injured hand with a wail, just as a shadowy form appeared in the doorway. Christian seized the pistol, determined not to fall prey to either an evil Emery or a crazed colonel. He could not make out the figure, but above the sounds of Mercia’s whimpering and Abigail’s soothing whispers as she bound the injury, he heard the familiar clearing of a throat.
“Yes?” Christian said.
&
nbsp; Hobbins stepped into the light. “I heard a commotion, my lord, and wondered if you were quite well.”
Christian grinned at the sight of his old family retainer, for in his hand the valet held the other pistol from the wall of the great hall. “Thank you, Hobbins. You are well prepared, as always.”
“I try, my lord,” the man said.
“I do believe we need a physician, if you can have one summoned,” Christian said.
“Very good, my lord,” Hobbins replied with a nod. And without comment upon the bizarre sights before him, the valet turned to attend to the matter.
Leaning back against a heavy wood bench, Christian loosed a sigh of relief and decided his ghost-routing days were over, this little adventure having come far too close to an exploration of the other realm, firsthand. Frowning, he glanced toward the space that had nearly been his tomb, only to realize that Sir Boundefort’s chest stood open and seemingly disarmed. But no glint of gold or sparkle of jewels gave hint of the treasure within.
“So what have we here, Sir Boundefort?” Christian asked softly as he leaned forward.
“Don’t you touch it! It’s mine!” Mercia wailed, struggling to sit up despite her wounds.
Abigail kept her still with a restraining arm. “Be careful, Christian,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t worth getting hurt.”
Spying something shiny within, Christian snapped it up. Thankfully, nothing tore off his arm, and he rubbed the object against his sleeve. “A portrait,” he murmured, looking down into the face of a medieval gentlewoman, dark-haired and sad-eyed. “This is Sibel, I’ll wager. Yes! She’s wearing the brooch,” Christian realized, for the circlet at her throat was small but familiar.
Abigail leaned close, and Christian handed the portrait to her. “Your ancestress,” he said, feeling an odd sort of hitch in his chest. Glancing away, he turned back to the trunk, pulling out a small drawstring bag.
“Mine! Mine!” Mercia cried. Proving surprisingly agile, she snatched at the pouch, spilling its contents onto the floor, then shrieking in disgust.
“Dust!” she shouted, outraged at the sight of what looked like brown earth. “Dust! Where is the gold? The jewels? The spoils of the crusaders?” Rummaging wildly in the trunk, she tossed aside a faded piece of cloth with her good hand, grabbed up something else, then flung it down as well.
Christian watched as what appeared to be part of a bone rolled across the stones.
“Tell me that’s not someone’s finger,” Abigail said, eyeing him askance.
Christian grinned. Was there ever such a woman? “Well, at least it’s not the finger of anyone we know,” he said, picking up the piece to study it.
A large chunk of wood followed, nearly striking Christian. “Hey!” he shouted to the frenzied Mercia. But the woman was past all reasoning. Throwing a tooth and several pieces of parchment to the floor, she buried her face in her good hand and wept.
“What does it all mean?” Abigail asked, carefully retrieving the discarded items.
“I’m not sure, but I suspect it is Sir Boundefort’s treasure, all right, just not the kind his ancestors were expecting,” Christian said. “He put his wealth into the building of the hall, but kept hidden that which was most dear to him, his most valued possessions and the spoils of his journeys in the last Crusade.”
Christian picked up the chunk of wood and held it up to the light. “Not every good knight returned with silks and plunder. And those were different times—when other things were revered. Perhaps our pious soul thought this a piece of the true cross?”
He carefully replaced the wood in the trunk, then bent to return as much of the earth as he could to the small sack. “And this might well be soil from the Holy Land,” he said, putting it back in the chest. Unfurling the faded cloth, he saw a cross upon a field of pale green that once must have been vibrant.
“Our man’s device,” Christian said. He tucked it back in place, along with the other items. “Some saint’s tooth? Another’s bone?” he asked, then shrugged. “Perhaps these papers will tell the tale, but I think what we have here is a hoard not of worldly worth but of spiritual.”
“Religious relics,” Abigail said, and silence fell over the chapel but for the muffled weeping of Mercia and the pounding of the rain outside its walls.
Christian nodded. The mystery of Sibel Hall was finally solved, if not to everyone’s satisfaction, at least to his own. His task here was completed beyond any measure of a doubt. But now what?
He glanced toward Abigail and wondered.
20
Abigail looked out over her little garden and sighed, unable to believe that its profusion of blooms would soon fade. Although the days were still warm, summer was waning, and before long it would be giving way to cooler breezes and falling leaves. And then what would she do?
Abigail winced at the question she had been trying to ignore. She had her cottage, finally, her heart’s desire, so naturally she would spend her time in it, enjoying her privacy to the fullest. Cooped up, all alone?
Again Abigail ignored the question, concentrating instead upon the home that meant so much to her. After all those years of yearning and dreaming, she had come into it quite quickly and easily. Once the specter and everything that went along with it had been revealed, Mr. Smythe had been eager to purchase Sibel Hall for a client, though not Mr. Gaylord. And, bless him, Mr. Smythe had even found a delightful property for her in exchange, which left her with far more money than she had hoped.
Abigail sat back on her heels and admired her home, thankful for her good fortune. The cottage itself was lovely, a picturesque bungalow with fresh paint and lots of little windows and a beautiful view of the rear garden, to which she had been adding her own touches. Weeding took time, of course, but Abigail most enjoyed those days she was able to spend out-of-doors tending to growing things, her appreciation of nature fully renewed.
She didn’t have to, of course. She could have paid a gardener, but she liked to do it herself. The work gave her a sense of accomplishment, and without it years of duty made her, well, fidget. Although she treasured her freedom, she was ill prepared for a life of leisure, and when she wasn’t working in the garden, she was somewhat at a loss. Oh, she had her reading and her correspondence, but she still despised needlework, couldn’t play her small pianoforte very well, and grew bored. Restless. Yearning…
With a frown, Abigail wondered if she ought not involve herself more with the neighbors. Things here at the cottage had grown a bit quiet, especially after her day girl complained that she couldn’t sit and chat if she was to be about her work. Obviously, the girl didn’t have the good sense to enjoy her position, for she had even had the temerity to suggest that Abigail hire a companion!
She wasn’t lonely, Abigail told herself even as she cocked her head at the sound of someone in the drive. Rising to her feet, she turned and shaded her eyes, heart racing, pulse clamoring, only to see that one of Farmer Morrison’s cows had wandered away again. The sight of the lumbering beast, walking toward her as if in greeting, made Abigail’s eyes ache with the pressure of unshed tears.
All right. She was lonely. But she didn’t miss her godmother’s household or her cousins who had turned out not to be cousins. Although he was not even a distant relation, she still corresponded with the colonel. He was happily living with one of his old military cronies and had written glowingly of the fellow’s widowed sister. He had even heard from Emery, who might really study with the monies left him in Bascomb’s will. As for Mercia, Abigail had made sure the woman was taken care of, her stipend assuring her a cozy berth with a caretaker who would make sure she was clothed and fed, while keeping all weapons out of her possession.
Abigail couldn’t say she longed for any of them. One person and one person only occupied her thoughts, and she was finally forced to admit that she missed that someone with a desperation that grew ever stronger. The long days of her freedom had given her plenty of time to relive every mom
ent spent with him, including the last—when he had proposed to her.
Like everything else, Christian Reade, Viscount Moreland had offered marriage with a cavalier shrug and a flash of white teeth, hardly the most romantic of gestures. And then, instead of whisking her off her feet, he had told her that he realized she did not want to wed, that she valued her independence and her dream of her own home above all else.
But think about it, he had said. Think about it! You know how to reach me, he had said, just as though she would pen him a polite note admitting that she loved him, passionately, endlessly, helplessly, and, by the way, would he please come for her?
Abigail snorted. She had her pride, and, truth be told, she had clung to her vision of her future, coveting her little house and garden. And, yes, she had to finally admit that she had been hurt when he hadn’t remembered her, had forgotten their initial meeting that, although so long ago, still resonated in her heart. She had stored up a lot of resentment over those years, years spent dreaming of him riding up to her parents’ house and, later, rescuing her from her godmother’s and whisking her off to a life of adventure and freedom and love.
In her naiveté, she had expected too much from their chance encounter. Abigail knew that now. But no matter how she might dismiss it, the painful death of her dreams still haunted her. And when she had penned the letter asking him to rid her of the specter, she acknowledged now that she just might have been thinking of more than his reputation with ghosts.
But even those last tattered hopes had been dashed when he arrived at Sibel Hall and didn’t know her. And Abigail had held that against him, nursing the old grudge back to life. She had told herself she was disappointed that he had accomplished so little in his gilded existence, that he was not the sort of man worthy of admiration, that he was a rake and a liar, when really she only faulted him for one thing: his abandonment of her.
Abigail lifted a hand to her face, shocked to feel the scalding heat of tears. Had she turned into a sour old spinster, without even a real suitor in her past to blame for her bitterness? For how could she hold Christian accountable for a brief encounter in his youth, a boy’s play promise?
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