A Man Of Many Talents

LOSI
NG HIS SPIRIT

Christian Reade, heir to the earldom of Westhaven, is tired of ghosts. It's his own fault for debunking a haunted house in Belles Corners as the work of two silly pranksters. Now the practical "ghost-hunter"
—
inundated with reports of apparitions
—
is trying to get away from it all with a long-overdue stay with his grandfather. Unfortunately, Christian's reputation has followed him. But this time, the request for his services is
irresistible…
as it comes from the enigmatic Miss Parkinson of Sibel Hall.

WINNING HER HEART

She claims that a phantom is disrupting her plans to sell her gloomy home. But upon Christian's arrival, he's met with all-too-human antagonism from the resid
ents, from the servants, and—especially surprising—
from Miss Parkinson as well. What dire predicament is really unfolding at Sibel Hall after the sun goes down? The intriguing puzzle
—
and the fetching beauty who wants it solved
—
have sparked more than curiosity in Christian. But first he must solve the mystery of the sed
uctive Miss Parkinson herself…

PROLOGUE

S
hrieks, loud and
shrill, echoed through the old hall, sending Abigail up from her chair in an instant. She knew they could mean only one thing.

The specter was out and about.

Hurrying in the general direction of the shrieks, now joined by the sound of running footsteps, Abigail entered the foyer just in time to see Mr. Wiggins, the prospective buyer of the property, rush past her toward the doors.

“Mr. Wiggins! Please, wait!” Abigail called, but the gentleman only glanced in her direction, his face pale, his expression one of absolute terror. Although she suspected there would be no reasoning with him, Abigail was not about to concede defeat.

“Mr. Wiggins!” she called again. Stepping outside, she gave chase, but encumbered by her skirts, she stood little chance of reaching the man at the speed he was going. Pausing to retrieve his fallen hat also slowed her, so that by the
time she finally neared him, he was already climbing into his carriage.

Abandoning all decorum, Abigail flung herself at the window of the conveyance. “Mr. Wiggins, if I might have a word with you about the property,” she said a bit breathlessly.

“I have no interest in a—a haunted house!” he sputtered, out of breath himself. “Do you know what I saw in there?”

“Well, I gather—” Abigail began.

Mr. Wiggins cut her off. “It—it was a ghost, a disembodied spirit swooping through the air right toward me! Why, it nearly attacked me!” No doubt that explained his headlong flight from the place, as well as his shrieks.

Although Abigail tried once more to gain his attention, Mr. Wiggins turned his head away and shouted for his driver. She had just a moment to thrust the man’s hat through the open window before the carriage rolled into motion, leaving her standing in the drive.

“He was not attacked! Why, what nonsense!” A female voice, sounding rather bemused, came to her ears, and Abigail turned to find her cousin Mercia behind her. The elderly woman had been giving Mr. Wiggins a tour of the house, but obviously was unable to keep up with him, for she only now reached Abigail’s side.

“Sir Boundefort simply made contact with us,” Mercia said. “It was quite thrilling! Why, Mr. Wiggins ought to feel privileged. I certainly don’t know why he left so suddenly.”

“And at such speed,” Abigail remarked dryly.

“Yes, he did seem to be in quite a hurry, didn’t he?” Mercia said. “Perhaps he had some other pressing appointment.”

No doubt his next stop would be an angry meeting with her solicitor, Abigail thought as the vehicle carrying away her hopes raised a cloud of dust before disappearing into the distance. For a moment she was disheartened, but she swiftly banished the sensation. If only she could banish the specter as easily, she mused, and the thought gave her pause. “This situation cannot continue,” she said aloud. Unfortunately, today was not the first instance in which a grown man had run past her, out the door, and away in broad daylight, but she vowed that it would be the last.

Ever since her arrival at Sibel Hall, Abigail had heard rumors of a mysterious specter, supposedly the spirit of some long-dead ancestor rising from his grave to make an appearance. The ghost, apparently manifesting itself as a wispy white form, had already driven off most of the servants, the solicitor, and another interested party.

But the fright’s reign of terror, or at least its reign of annoyance, was soon to end. Abigail didn’t care whether the thing was a relative or not, she was in desperate straits. She needed to sell Sibel Hall, and she had suffered enough interference from its resident haunter. Any further dallying on her part would only result in the property’s acquiring an adverse reputation, making its eventual sale impossible. Therefore she must act, before it was too late.

“What do you intend to do, dear?” Mercia asked.

Abigail’s mouth tightened. Having already exhausted nearly all potential avenues of dealing with the problem, she knew that only one possibility remained.

It was time for the Last Resort.

1

H
e was sick
to death of ghosts.

In fact, Christian Reade, Viscount Moreland, heir to the earldom of Westhaven and a man who could hold his own in any situation, had gone to ground at the family seat in order to avoid them. Or rather, to avoid the invitations that bombarded him to variously observe, debunk, or verify them.

Much to Christian’s annoyance, the general public viewed him as an expert on the phenomenon, thanks to friends who had dragged him on a lark to the fa
mous haunted house in Belles Corn
ers. Of course, the so-called ghost had been nothing more than a couple of poor sods hoping to profit from their antics, and in an action he had begun to rue, Christian had been the one to prove it. As a result, he was inundated with reports of specters, apparitions, appearances of the dead, and assorted haunted objects, including bells, drums, and stones, as well as spirits of animals, which apparently manifested themselves most often as fiery-eyed dogs.

None of them interested him in the slightest.

The only good thing to come of the situation was that in an effort to escape such pleas he had returned to his childhood home for a long-overdue stay with his grandfather. Having arrived too late the night before to spend much time with the elderly earl, he was looking forward today to a cozy visit—and a respite from all things ghostly.

After a leisurely breakfast, Christian wandered the familiar rooms of his youth, coming finally to the long gallery, where portraits of his ancestors lined the walls and the earl was ensconced in a comfy chair by the fire.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Chris
tian said with an affection born
of both blood and respect. But his smile was tempered by unease as he watched his grandsire rise unsteadily to greet him. Only force of will kept Christian in his place, along with the knowledge that the proud gentleman would not welcome his assistance. Having taken a fall from his horse last year, the earl was looking every one of his seventy years, and the thought made Christian’s heart catch. The old man was all the family he had left.

Silently he vowed to spend more time with the earl, who had been resting here since the injury. For many months Christian had let himself be kept away by petty business and travel. Well, not that petty. His own house had burned to the ground last year, and while making plans for a new structure, Christian had found himself developing a genuine interest in building. Since then he had been observing different country homes and meeting with architects, but now he berated himself for his absence. His grandfather wasn’t getting any younger.

As if echoing his thoughts, the older man spoke in a deceptively casual voice. “So, how long are you planning to grace us with your presence, dear boy?”

Taking his seat, Christian accepted the sting of guilt that came with his grandfather’s words, for he fully intended to change his
ways. “I think I’ll li
nger awhile this time,” he answered, just as casually.

The earl glanced up at him in some surprise. “But what of your plans for Bexley Court?”

Christian shrugged. “They can wait.”

The old man’s white brows drew together in thought, and Christian braced himself for argument. The earl, ever generous, would probably insist that Christian pursue his project without delay, but he was just as determined to resist and spend a little time with his grandsire. Whatever the earl was about to say, however, was interrupted by the butler, who entered with a small tray.

“Ah, the post,” the earl said, grinning. “One of the highlights of my day.” The words made Christian frown as he thought of the old man, once so vital and busy, reduced to cherishing the reading of correspondence over any real activity. But there was no doubt that the earl perused the arrivals with more than the usual interest.

“Here’s some new letters from your architect cronies,” he said, tossing a couple of missives toward Christian. “And a packet from your steward, sent on from London.” He paused to hold up another piece of mail. “But what’s this? A letter from Devon! And in a lady’s handwriting, I do believe. I used to know a young lady from Devon,” his grandfather said, waxing nostalgic.

Christian suspected the missive was from some builder who had heard of his plans. “Go ahead and open it,” he suggested with a smile. He felt a pang that the earl, eager for some vicarious enjoyment of a love affair, was bound to be disappointed. Certain in his suppositions, Christian could only be dismayed when he heard his grandfather’s next words.

“Why, it
is
from a lady,” the old man murmured. “A lady in distress!”

Christian rolled his eyes. Most of the females he knew were more capable of
causing
distress than being a victim of it. But before he could voice that disparaging remark, the earl was looking up at him, a grave cast to his features. “Good Lord, Christian, she’s being plagued by some sort of
phantom. And she is begging you to drive it from her home. Why, this is a most serious business. You must help her!”

Christian groaned. Not again! Most of these absurd appeals arrived at his town house or were directed to his own estate, but it seemed someone had the wherewithal to approach the family seat with the nonsensical reports. Although tempted to snatch the missive from his grandfather’s hands and toss it into the fire, Christian showed admirable restraint. He didn’t snatch it—he asked for it politely.

“Let me see,” he said, leaning forward to receive the foolscap. He paused in surprise at the expression of expectation on his grandfather’s face, then dismissed it, distracted by a faint whiff of pleasing scent. Lifting the letter to his nose, Christian drew a deep breath. Lilacs. He struggled against an unwelcome warmth. Something about the flowers always made him feel good.

Perhaps he equated them with home. Someone had brought the plants over from the Continent years ago, and there were several enormous old bushes clustered near the orchard. He had often played beneath them in his childhood, so it was no wonder that he liked the smell. And yet, why did the once-familiar odor rouse his interest so strongly as to border upon anticipation? Christian shook his head even as he shook out the letter.

My Lord Moreland,
it began, and Christian noted the beautiful hand,
it is with deep regret that I write to impose upon you.
Deep regret? He’d never heard that particular tone before.

However, I find myself in a difficult situation, which I feel could benefit from your expertise.
I’ll just bet, Christian thought cynically.

I have recently inherited Sibel Hall, a small manor that I am attempting to sell. Sadly, I have attained little success because of the sudden and unpropitious appearance of a specter.
Probably the specter of spinsterhood, Christian decided.

Although presumably of interest to men of science as an
unusual phenomenon, the phantom is disrupting my plans for the house, and I am rather anxious for its departure.
That particular phrasing made Christian laugh outright.

Having recently become aware of your experience in these matters through reports of your activities in Belles Co
rn
ers, I am convinced that you would be able to provide invaluable assistance in dealing with the disturbance here. Thus, I am writing to request that you visit Sibel Hall at the earliest opportunity and draw your own conclusions.
Unfortunately, Christian had already drawn them. And he found the correspondence most notable for its rather dry character—hardly the desperate plea of a damsel in distress that his grandfather had described.

I would not normally appeal to you, of course, but circumstances being what they are, I would appreciate your aid in routing the ghost. Hopefully, this can be accomplished swiftly and with minimal inconvenience.
It was signed by a Miss Parkinson, Sibel Hall, Devon, and since unmarried ladies did not, as a rule, write gentlemen, Christian was even less inclined to look favorably upon the missive.

With a low sound of annoyance, he turned to feed it to the fire, but the earl was still quick, despite his years, and managed to seize it.

“Christian!” he scolded, eyeing his grandson askance. “You cannot mean to ignore this! Why, this poor woman, this
Miss Parkinson,
is in most desperate straits.”

Aren’t they all? mused Christian sardonically. Women had always plagued him—for his title, his money, or his attentions. And he could just envision Miss Parkinson. Either she was the kind of henwit who was frightened by nightly noises, the type constantly being revived from faints with burning feathers, or she was just another in a long line of schemers out to snare herself an eligible nobleman.

Considering the tenor of her so-called plea, Christian was betting on the latter, and he had no intention of being forced into wedding such a creature. In fact, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind right now. Lately, he had made no
time for dallying with women at all, preferring to focus his attention on the planning of Bexley Court. “I’m afraid I can’t help the lady,” he said.

“But she says you are an expert,” the earl protested.

Christian grimac
ed. “That business at Belles Corn
ers was so obvious that anyone with a modicum of sense could have uncovered it. Personally, I think most of the people who paid to see the ghostly visitation simply wanted some entertainment. And the fellows w
ho were putting on the show cer
tainly provided it,” he added dryly.

“Now, Christian, you can hardly blame this poor young woman,” the earl said. “She appears to be a victim of circumstance, having inherited the phantom along with the house. And there’s no need to be so contemptuous. Why, she doesn’t sound the least bit foolish or naive.”

Christian lifted his tawny brows in a manner that bespoke his skepticism, but the earl appeared unmoved. “It’s your duty to come to this lady’s aid,” he insisted.

“My duty? Do you know how many of those entreaties I ha
ve received since the Belles Corn
ers affair?” Christian asked with a pained expression. “Right now, I just want to rebuild Bexley Court, and I certainly don’t have the time to trot about the country, exposing haunts that the gullible public seems happy to embrace.”

“Your plans for your house are admirable, and, as you know, I heartily approve of your initiative. However, as a gentleman of the realm, you are obligated to protect the weaker of the sexes,” his grandfather intoned in his most patriarchal voice.

Weaker?
Christian snorted. In his experience, that was a misnomer, for the women he knew were wilier than men, with a deep-rooted instinct for self-interest. He opened his mouth to point that out, but the earl had donned a pensive expression and began muttering to himself.

“Sibel Hall. I do believe I’ve been there. A striking bit of Greek Revival architecture with a mode
rn
interpretation,” he said, tapping the letter on his chin. “You really ought to
take a look. Go over there and kill two birds with one stone, sort of thing.”

Christian frowned, but the hint of an interesting edifice had hooked him like a fish to bait. “Just how striking?” he asked.

The earl grinned. “Ought to have thought of it before, really. But now you have the perfect opportunity to see for yourself. And you can report to me on how you like the style—and the ghost.” His grandfather waited expectantly, his eyes shining, as if with renewed interest in life itself, and Christian didn’t have the heart to turn him back into a bored old man whose daily highlight was the arrival of the post.

But if the earl was that enamored of the idea, perhaps he could be persuaded to go along. Not having been inundated with spectral tales, the old man obviously was curious about the haunting, and Christian would enjoy his company on the trip. Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind having a chaperone along to stand between hi
m and the potentially marriage-
minded Miss Parkinson.

“I’ve an idea. Why don’t we both go?” Christian suggested. But the earl twitched suddenly as if his hip pained him, and the light in the old eyes dimmed.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll bow out this time,” he said, putting a brave face on his failing physical condition. “Not quite feeling up to it.”

Christian’s brow furrowed instantly in concern. “Then I should stay here with you.”

“No!” His grandfather’s head jerked upward. “Now, Christian, you’ve a responsibility to live up to your noble forefathers and rescue this poor lady in distress.”

His forefathers were a pack of pirates, not knights-errant, but Christian politely refrained from pointing that out.

“Besides, I want a full report on your impressions of Sibel Hall. I’ve an interest in Bexley Court myself, you know.”

He looked so eager, so vital again, that Christian wavered, even though he had come home specifically to avoid
the supernatural and to enjoy a nice long, leisurely visit with his grandfather. But how could he refuse such urging? Finally, he nodded his assent and was rewarded with his grandfather’s hearty grin.

“That’s the spirit!” the earl said.

Christian wasn’t sure if the pun was intentional or not, and he was even less certain about his own feelings. For even as he basked in his grandfather’s approval, Christian had the vague suspicion he had just been manipulated by a master.