A Man Of Many Talents (5 page)

“I’ll fetch them,” she said with a brisk nod, and Christian stepped back to allow her to move past him. As she slipped by, he caught a whiff of lilacs, and he nearly reached out to draw her back. Gad, sometime he was going to plant himself next to her and just
breathe.
Or plant himself
inside her.
It was a startling thought that he immediately dismissed. Miss Parkinson definitely was not his sort of female, and besides, he had no intention of bedding a seemingly virtuous governess-type. Despite his pirate ancestry, he still had some honor.

But a man could dream.

Christian sighed, then tore his eyes away from those gently swaying hips long enough to turn toward the colonel. “I’ll be right back,” he said. Ignoring the older man’s sputtering questions, he followed his hostess, albeit at a discreet distance. When she disappeared up the main stairway, he waited, hoping to catch her alone at the bottom when she returned. Strictly for business purposes, of course.

She was efficient, naturally, and was back in good time, only to pause when she became aware of Christian standing at the bottom. He smiled cordially and held out his hand, ostensibly for the keys. She ignored it, managing to sort of sidle past his arm and stop a few steps away, so that she was positioned just a little bit higher than he. Christian’s pirate instincts urged him to toss her over his shoulder, but unfortunately the veneer of civilization precluded such antics in this day and age. In England, anyway. Perhaps a visit to the East Indies was called for
…

“Yes, my lord?” Miss Parkinson said, looking down her lovely nose at him.

Christian savored the words, imagining them in a different context entirely. He held out his hand again. “I’ve come for the keys.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure which is which, you see,” she said, prevaricating. Obviously, she didn’t want to accompany Christian to the dim great hall. Alone.

“I’ll just take the whole ring. I shall need the keys to all the rooms, anyway,” he said, flashing a smooth smile.

“I think not!” his hostess protested.

Christian admired the delicate rose color that bloomed in her cheeks. Was she thinking what he was thinking? Probably not. Unfo
rtunately. “How else am I to…
expose the specter?”

“I assure you that the ghost has never been seen in my rooms!” she answered tartly.

“Still, you want me to explore all avenues, don’t you?” Christian asked innocently. “What if he should appear there?”

“Then I shall deal with him!” she replied in her best Governess voice, and for some reason Christian delighted in the frown she gave him. Really, he must have been fawned over far too much in his lifetime, if he found her behavior stimulating. Yet somehow he did.

He sighed his disappointment as she brushed by him, but if he was not to have the keys, at least he would have her,
since she would not part with them. “Unless I am mistaken, the hall is this way,” he said, turning in question.

But his hostess ignored him. “Colonel!” she called in a rather panicked fashion as she headed back toward the drawing room. Christian watched with a smile. Now, why was his stalwart Governess running like a scared rabbit? Did the thought of being alone with him so unnerve her?

Christian shook his head as he followed, tagging along as she rather breathlessly brandished the keys at the colonel, while still hanging on to them for dear life. Then they all trudged back to the great hall, where Christian stood as close as politeness allowed while Miss Parkinson tried one key after another, in one door and the next.

None of them worked.

“May I?” Christian asked.

His hostess was not pleased, giving him a frown that told him so in no uncertain terms, but she finally pushed the keys toward him. Biting back a smile, Christian went through the same motions, just to assure himself that none truly did fit. He used more strength perhaps than Miss Parkinson, but he couldn’t manage to unlock ei
ther door. Ignoring her I-told-
you-so expression, he tendered the ring to her with a gallant bow.

“It appears that the necessary keys are missing. Are you certain that you received no others when you took possession of the property?”

“Quite sure,” she answered firmly.

Christian turned to the colonel. “Do you have any idea where another set or any loose keys might be?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. Can’t say that I’ve ever known anything to be locked up around here. Perhaps you might find them among Bascomb’s personal effects?” He sent a glance toward Miss Parkinson, who shook her head.

“Perhaps a set has been tucked away in the study,” the colonel suggested. When the Governess gave him a tentative nod of assent, he set out in that direction, followed by Christian and his hostess.

Miss Parkinson appeared to take great pains to avoid her companion, hurrying forward to catch up with the colonel, and Christian wondered yet again just what made her so intriguing to him. All good reason told him to decry everything about her, so why did all his other senses stir to life at the very sight of her? Hell, at the very
whiff
of her?

“I say, this is turning out to be quite a mystery, isn’t it?” the colonel called out over his shoulder.

And Christian, though he remained silent, could only agree wholeheartedly.

4

C
hristian’s second view
of the study was a bit more thorough than th
e first, although his attention
still wandered to his hostess. When she moved toward the desk, he couldn’t help watching as she bent over a drawer, his reward a delightful view of a gently curved posterior. Unfortunately, the object of his interest chose that moment to turn and glare at him, making him wonder if she had the same preternatural senses possessed by many a governess.

Flashing her an innocent smile, Christian quickly returned to his task, looking for any place where keys might be absently tossed or hidden away. Much to his irritation, the disorder made the task difficult, for mounds of papers littered the surfaces of a Baroque side table, a Tudor chair, and an ugly bureau. This Bascomb obviously had no taste and was messy besides.

Approaching the table cautiously, Christian lifted an old account book, dislodging a pile of what appeared to be personal correspondence and old receipts. Hell, anything could
be hidden under all this rubble. “Was it always so cluttered in here?” he wondered, sifting through some letters in case the keys had been tossed among them.

“I say, it is a bit of a muddle, isn’t it?” the colonel said as he stepped behind the desk to survey the area. “I wasn’t in here very often, it being Bascomb’s private study, but I don’t recall it looking so haphazard. Usually, he was quite organized. Everything and everyone in its place, so to speak.” Christian found that hard to believe.

“Well, it was worse than this when I arrived,” Miss Parkinson commented a bit defensively, though certainly no one had accused her of creating the confusion. “The ordering of it all has kept me very busy.”

No wonder she looked so annoyed all the time. Christian nearly suggested that she toss the entire load into the nearest fireplace and move on to some more rewarding activity. He was sure he could think of something that would qualify, but he didn’t expect his hostess to agree. With a sigh he went back to his search, mindful that were he anywhere else, he could hire someone to do the chore for him. No doubt the earl, whom Christian held responsible for all his discomforts here, would be highly amused.

Although he cast frequent glances at his hostess and tried to inch close enough to catch another whiff of lilacs, Christian found the work tedious and didn’t complain when, with a sound of exasperation, the Governess began shooing the two men from the roo
m, insisting that she would com
plete the task herself.

The colonel seemed as relieved as Christian and shrugged away any concern about the aborted mission. “Can’t think that anything’s behind those doors anyway,” he said, with a chuckle that might have been hearty or nervous. Christian couldn’t decide which.

But Christian wasn’t about to dismiss the closed-off areas as easily. After all, that was why he was here, wasn’t it, to investigate? He wondered whether he ought to pick the locks or even break down the doors, if things came to that
.

It seemed like a lot of effort for what should have been a lark, but nothing about Sibel Hall was turning out to be easy. With another glance in his hostess’s direction, Christian considered lingering behind and consulting privately with her on the matter, but she appeared to be in a hurry to be rid of him.

He cocked a brow at that. His suspicious nature made him wonder what the devil she was up to, summoning him here and then avoiding him. After all, she was his employer, he thought, pausing momentarily at the singular notion. He had never been employed in his life, let alone at the beck and call of a woman. Normally, he would have rejected the very idea, but there was something about the Governess that made it rather titillating.

Christian shook his head at his own perversity. Next he'd be wanting her to rap his knuckles. And she looked inclined to oblige when she caught him eyeing her. Frowning, she moved to shut the door behind him, sending the dizzying scent of lilacs his way, and Christian leaned against the jamb, rather like a boy heady from his first flirtation. Perhaps it was his pirate blood, stirred to life by a female’s seeming disdain, but Christian felt positively invigorated.

Drawing a deep breath, he straightened and pushed away from the jamb with new resolve. He might have to go out and swash some buckles
…
or at least rout a ghost.

T
he euphoria that
sent Christian charging back to the great hall with eagerness gradually dissipated in the absence of either the specter or his hostess, and he was soon kicking his heels, bored beyond reason by the colonel’s military tales. When the dinner hour arrived, he felt like a condemned man granted a reprieve, but the somber atmosphere, the bizarre company, and the poor provisions turned his mood once again.

Christian wondered if he might find sustenance in a village nearby. Surely there was an inn or tavern of some sort
that provided food. If so, he was determined to escape there on the morrow for luncheon—or perhaps for every single meal from now on. That he would still be staying at Sibel Hall was not in doubt at this point. His mission was clearly going to take a lot longer than he had anticipated.

Not even the sight of his hostess did much to cheer Christian, for she greeted him with her usual lack of enthusiasm. Not close enough to smell her perfume or to receive a rap on the knuckles, he felt a kind of restless frustration at her aloofness. And the desultory conversation at the table did nothing to enliven the gloomy gathering.

“Did you find the keys?” Christian finally asked, since the Governess had made no mention of them. Had she even looked for them? Were they in her pocket all along? Perhaps a searc
h of her person was in order…

“No, I did not,” she answered in clipped tones, as if the question annoyed her, and Christian decided the cousins were just as weary of him as he was of them. Miss Parkinson seemed displeased by the very sight of him, and even the colonel was less voluble than usual. Having set aside his vaunted studies long enough to eat, Emery had joined them, but he continued to glare at Christian with no little enmity.

Christian smiled evilly in return. “Perhaps Emery can put his considerable intellect to the problem,” he suggested.

“What?” the young man said, glancing about with some alarm.

“We seem to be missing some keys!” the colonel announced in his booming voice.

Emery sputtered, his face flushing. “Why should I know anything about any keys?”

“Because you’ve been living here for some time,” Christian answered.

“The colonel’s been here longer than I have!” Emery protested. “Besides, I don’t bother myself with the running of the house. I have my studies.”

“Emery is quite the scholar, my lord,” Mercia declared,
though Christian remain
ed unconvinced. She looked up
from her plate with curios
ity. “What keys are missing?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about, just looking to open an old door or two in the hall,” the colonel said.

Emery snorted. “Those keys probably were lost years ago. I believe the passages were blocked up. Old stone, rotting foundations. Too dangerous,” he said dismissively.

The boy’s comments sounded plausible, Christian realized. He knew from his own experience, however, that many a building older than Sibel Hall remained solid, and from what he could see the place was dreary but firm. Perhaps Emery’s theories were based on misinformation or perhaps he had his own reasons for putting them forth. After all, blind passages and crumbling cellars made for a convenient home for the ghost or its minions.

Emboldened by the silence that followed his pronouncement, Emery hastened to embellish it. “Indeed, the original
portion of the house is in terrible condition, as anyone with any knowledge of architecture can attest,” he said with a su
perior air.

Christian opened his mouth to argue the point. After all, he knew quite a bit about buildings himself. But the smi
rk
on Emery’s face stopped him. No matter how galling, perhaps it would serve him better to keep his expertise to himself, at least for now.

“Indeed, I would be careful wandering about the old part of the house, my lord. I’m sure
such places are not your nor
mal venue. You might be struck by falling stone,” Emery
added.

Christian lifted his brows. Was that a threat?

Miss Parkinson made a low sound of dismay. “I had not realized the building was in such poor condition,” she said. Was she worried about his safety? Christian flashed her a smile, but she quickly became engrossed in her food.

“I have never seen any loose stones,” the colonel observed, only to become flustered by Emery’s glare. “But architecture is not my forte,” he hastened to add.

“Of course, the area itself is not the only danger,” Emery said, warming to his topic. “There is also the ghost to contend with.”

“But I thought he wasn’t harmful,” Miss Parkinson said in her usual practical tone, a tone that Christian was beginning to relish beyond all good reason.

Emery smirked again. “Who knows what the specter is capable of doing when provoked?” His words, ringing out in the dimly lit room, were punctuated by a great lash of rain against the windows. Very effective, Christian mused, though no one at the table seemed to notice. Perhaps they all thrived on the dismals.

Emery was certainly thriving in his role as unchallenged expert. “Indeed, one wonders exactly how you intend to rout the spirit, my lord?” he asked, eyeing Christian directly.

As much as Christian would have liked to wipe the sneer off the obnoxious pup’s face, he didn’t have an answer to that question. He had no idea how to rout or even rouse a real specter. All he could do was watch and listen for some kind of worldly connection, but so far he had caught no one knocking. And he had no intention of sharing that information with the so-called scholar.

Emery practically drooled into the ensuing silence. “I mean, you cannot have put any study into the matter, eh, my lord? It’s not as though you are a man of science or a philosopher, is it?” he asked, looking quite triumphant.

Christian was tempted to lunge over the table and give the scholar a good taste of his specialty, but he told himself the boy wasn’t worth his while. Besides, he was supposed to be on his best behavior as gentleman and rescuer of Miss Abigail Parkinson, which meant not giving in to his more uncivilized impulses. Or even his boxing expertise. He gave a casual shrug.

“Indeed, my lord, I am hard-pressed to see what qualifies you to be here, beyond a chance encounter at Belles Corners,” Emery persisted.

Obviously, the boy thought Christian to be just an idle
nobleman out on a lark. Well, he was, really. Or rather, he was a nobleman (not necessarily idle) coerced by his elder into forsaking the comfort of clean, luxurious surroundings for this definitely non-larklike experience. Christian opened his mouth to point that out, but the Governess rushed to his defense.

“Emery, please!” she said, and Christian bit back a smile of pleasure, absurdly heartened by her concern—until he heard her next words. “I believe I told you that none of the men of science I contacted would consider our case. Lord Moreland is
our
…”
She
paused, as though unwilling to continue.

Christian sought to supply the missing word, in his own mind, at least.
Savior? Champion?
He grinned, but found his hostess unable to meet his eye. Was that a blush on her cheeks? Christian decided that she needed color and exposure to wind and sunshine instead of this gloomy tomb of a place. For one giddy moment, he felt like leaping over the table and sweeping her off her feet, as his ancestors might have done. Except he didn’t have a ship. Hell, right now he didn’t even have a house of his own.

Miss Parkinson cleared her throat and began again. “What I meant to say is that Lord Moreland has been kind enough to answer our summons. If you feel you have some expertise that he lacks, then you should aid him as best you can, Emery.”

Emery sniffed, dismissing Christian’s skills as too limited for consideration. Annoyed, Christian opened his mouth to note that he had attended Oxford, after all. If he hadn’t quite finished, there was no need to mention that, was there? But Emery’s smirk stopped him once again. Why not let them believe what they would? His chances of discovering any nefarious goings-on could only be improved if the villain, whether ghostly or corporeal, underestimated him.

So Christian just smiled, content in his own self-knowledge, yet aware that he probably looked like an idiot.