A Man Of Many Talents (9 page)

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Emery said, stomping about and kicking up dust.

“Could you please stay in one place?” Christian asked.

“What seems to be the problem?” his hostess asked.

“Patience, my dear Miss Parkinson. These things take time. You can’t rush true talent. Ah! Patience is rewarded,” he said with a grin as the lock clicked.

Pocketing the hairpin once more, he rose to his feet, but when he grasped the latch and pushed, the old door barely budged. Perhaps the ghost or his minions had not passed this way? Christian didn’t know whether to be encouraged or disappointed by the thought as the creaking hinges protested and the heavy oak swung open at last.

Disappointed, he decided as the heavy smell of rain and damp fresh air struck him. Unless this was some sort of primitive conservatory, the passage led outside. Reaching up to push aside a bough of some sort, he saw that they were in a tiny courtyard, surrounded by the additions and outbuildings of Sibel Hall.

“I imagine this route led to the old kitchens, which presumably were detached and either burned down or were to
rn
apart years ago,” Christian said. He stepped aside, but not too far, in order to allow Miss Parkinson a view. Unfortunately she managed to keep her distance while peeking out.

“A waste of time, just as I told you,” Emery crowed, triumphant.

“I believe you claimed the place was dangerous,” Christian muttered. “Not dismantled.”

But Emery was already hurrying back the way they had come. Shrugging, Christian secured the exterior door and turned to follow.

“But the noises were coming from below the hall, not outside,” Miss Parkinson said from her place beside him.

“Yes. Perhaps we shall find a way down through the other locked door,” Christian said, slowly retracing his steps. He was in no particular hurry, since he was closeted rather closely with his hostess in a dark passage and found the possibilities intriguing. When he lifted his lantern high, however, he saw that Emery was positioned near the entrance, waiting for them.

Christian frowned. Too bad a crumbling stone couldn’t fall on the scholar’s head—but the passage appeared perfectly solid. Perhaps he ought to dislodge one, Christian thought wickedly. If he could come up with that idea, though, presumably so could Emery, which was not a comforting notion. Christian vowed to keep himself alert to any dangers, accidental or man-made, especially since the white-faced youth viewed him with his usual degree of rancor—and something else. Some sort of agitation?

Christian looked around the passage carefully before proceeding but could find no evidence of ghosts, real or manufactured, or anything that would stir up the so-called scholar. Emery continued his nervous behavior, however, gesturing for them to precede him in an attempt to rush them out the door. What was he up to?

“You go on,” Christian suggested, when Emery seemed determined to usher him through.

“No, no, you go ahead, my lord,” Emery argued, but his sudden attempt at civility was not convincing.

Christian remained where he was and moved his lantern to view the young man closely. Emery appeared a bit panicked by the bright light, but it wasn’t the boy’s expression that arrested Christian. Indeed, it was what lay behind him that was interesting. Above the youth’s blond head there was a faint yet unmistakable glow of light. And Christian was guessing it wasn’t a halo.

Inching forward, he felt a slight draft of cooler air that confirmed his suspicions. Whether Emery’s position was innocent or deliberate, he stood directly in front of another opening in the passage.

6

W
hen E
mery just
stared at him in a
belligerent
manner, Christian was tempted to knock him out of the way. But he restrained himself nobly. For his hostess’s sake.

“Would you please step aside?” he asked as politely as possible under the circumstances.

“Why?” Emery said, his eyes darting nervously between Christian and the Governess, who stood nearby.

“So that I can find out where this opening leads,” Christian explained. He paused to flash the young man a smile. “Unless there’s something in there you don’t want me to see?”

While Emery sputtered a denial, Christian moved past him into a large room, with Miss Parkinson not far behind. The pale light of a gray day entered through a tall window set high in the stone wall, casting the space into gloom that the lantern did little to dispel. But even in the dimness Christian could tell that the place was empty of anything except cobwebs and dust.

Despite Emery’s dire warnings, Christian noted, the floor was solid and the ceiling seemed intact, as well as the walls. He walked the perimeter, searching more closely, but no other passages or doors were visible. And there were no stairs to take them beneath the old tiles.

“This is probably the old buttery,” Christian said to his hostess, who was standing in the center of the room, gazing about curiously.

“But why close it off?” she asked.

Christian shrugged. “Perhaps because it was part of the old kitchen passage, but you could certainly open up the space and utilize it,” he added, though he had no idea what for, especially since the great hall itself appeared to get little use.

“I? I have no intention of making any changes in the house,” Miss Parkinson said. “But I will certainly mention the fact to anyone interested in buying the place.” She paused to give Christian a rather accusatory look, as though the public would be clamoring to purchase this wretched building if only he would complete his task and rout the ghost. Ignoring her implicit scold, Christian made a gracious bow and gestured for her to precede him.

Emery remained at the door, seemingly uninterested in viewing the old buttery. Perhaps because he had seen it before? But if so, why had he acted so anxious, as though he were concealing the place from view? Christian could only shake his head. Perhaps he was growing too suspicious.

“See, it’s nothing. Jus
t
an
empty old room,” Emery said wit
h an air of triumph.

“Spoken like a true scientist,” Christian noted dryly as he passed. He had not failed to notice the boy watching both Miss Parkinson and himself like a hawk. Either Emery was hiding something or he had some other reason for his strange behavior. Christian frowned as a thought struck him that was far more insidious than any specter. Did Emery covet Miss Parkinson for himself?

Christian swung around to glare at the young man with a
new
enmity. Normally he was an even-
tempered sort, and he certainly had never come to blows over a female. But right now he felt like one of his ancestors, ready to do murder over a woman who had caught his eye.

He wondered just how distant the cousins were. Of course, the boy was too young for Miss Parkinson. Not that she was old. She was probably younger than she looked, for those dowdy clothes and tightly wrapped hair surely added years. Christian turned an assessing glance upon her and guessed her to be a nice, ripe twenty-two. But Emery looked like a gangly sixteen. And as far as Christian could tell, the boy had no home, no money, and no prospects. Perhaps he intended to leech off his cousin permanently.

The notion roused some previously dormant protective instincts, and much to Christian’s surprise, he was seized by a determination to save Miss Parkinson from herself—or at least from Emery. But short of packing the boy off or pummeling him into submission, Christian was at a loss as to just how he could accomplish that task, especially when his hostess would no doubt fail to appreciate his aid. Nor would she heed any warning he might tender, being the most stubborn woman he had ever encountered.

Scowling at her back, Christian shut the door but left it unlocked. There was no point in tripping the mechanism again when the passage didn’t lead anywhere particularly interesting or dangerous. And just in case someone tried to hide there, Christian wanted to have easy access. The lack of dust had revealed that he wasn’t the first person to explore the area.

When he turned once again toward the group, Miss Parkinson was explaining their meager findings to Mercia and the colonel. Watching her speak, and contemplating her slender form dressed in the drab, ill-fitting gown, Christian knew a surge of possessiveness, followed by an equally absurd conjecture. What if Miss Parkinson looked with favor upon that fledgling?

Christian shook his head, unable to conceive of such a
thing as any female preferring Emery to himself. She certainly didn’t seem to show the upstart any regard, but then, would the Governess actually display any such emotions? And wasn’t she always mentioning Emery’s supposed scholarship, as if she positively revered his mind? A mind that left Christian singularly unimpressed.

Lost in his brooding, Christian needed a moment to realize that the hall had grown silent, and he discovered that the others were eyeing him expectantly.

“Don’t be discouraged, my lord,” Mercia advised him with a kindly pat on the arm. “I’m sure the next door will prove to be more rewarding. Perhaps you shall find Sir Boundefort in his earthly prison! Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Quite,” Christian muttered, stifling a shudder. Rather than see the specter, he would prefer to get his hands on it, especially if Emery were responsible. With that cheering thought, Christian knelt before the second door, pulled out the hairpin, and set to work.

The lock soon gave a satisfactory click, and he pocketed the hairpin once more, without bothering to return it to his hostess. After all, he might need it again, Christian thought. It was not as though he intended to hold on to the thing as a keepsake or any such sentimental nonsense.

Grasping the latch, Christian pushed on the door, and it swung open easily, suggesting that someone else had been this way as well. He lifted his lantern and glanced downward, seeing the telltale sweep of comparatively clean flags at his feet. This was no passage, but a room, though not quite as large as the old buttery. Perhaps it had once been a still-room or pantry. Holding the light high, Christian moved forward, letting his gaze rove over the old stone walls and the litter of cast-off furniture and items long forgotten.

Was it nothing more than a storage place? Christian felt a surge of disappointment, but continued searching. His eyes probed the darkness until
…
there.
At the rear on the right, a deeper blackness gave him hope. He stepped forward, even as he heard Emery braying warnings behind him, until
he stood before an arched opening, where at last he found stairs leading downward.

A wave of dank air and darkness met him, but no whiff of danger, and despite Emery’s cautions, Christian could see that the steps were wide, smooth stone. Now, if only the young pup didn
’t try to push him down them…
Christian moved toward the wall, keeping it nearly at his back as he descended. And finally he found himself at the bottom, looking upon the old vaulted cellars.

A quick lift of the lantern revealed that no dungeons or worse awaited him. The floor appeared even and free of debris, and the massive stone arches, a masterpiece of architecture, certainly were in no danger of collapsing. So much for the scholar’s opinion.

Christian turned his head to point that out, but the youth was not behind him. Instead, he found himself looking into Miss Parkinson’s face, deliciously near. Drawing a sharp breath, he swallowed his snide comment and swung back around to study the cellars, though he would have preferred to study his hostess.

Below the great hall the vast space was divided into two compartments, which was not unusual for buildings of this age. In more-fortified early structures, such an area might have been used for housing soldiers, and even here that purpose might have been served at one time long ago. More likely it had always been used for storage, as was the case now, for a jumble of old furniture, crates, and assorted items lined the walls, including what appeared to be a full suit of armor.

“That might be worth something to the antiquarians,” Christian observed, nodding toward the piece. But when Miss Parkinson followed his gaze, she started. Perhaps she was not quite as fearless as she pretended. Christian bit back a smile at the realization.

“Easy. Don’t fall,” he said, seizing the opportunity to reach out and steady her. He was so close he could feel the heat of her body, and his hands itched to close over her narrow waist. He half hoped that the ghost would make an appearance, if only to send her skittering into his arms. Nothing too frightening, of course. Christian didn’t want her incapacitated, just a little clingy. But he could not imagine the Governess ever clinging, no matter what the provocation.

As if to prove him correct, she slipped from his hold, moving past him to wander the stone floor. She seemed to be a bright spot in the darkness, and Christian wondered rather wildly whether she possessed some inner glow. When he saw that she held her own lantern, he felt a measure of relief, along with chagrin at his own foolishness. Clearly he was smitten beyond reason.

Holding her light high in a steady hand, Miss Parkinson seemed to have recovered herself, for she showed no signs of quailing before a shadowy figure of medieval prowess, whether it be the armor or Sir Boundefort himself. Once more she appeared to be a fearless warrior woman, protectress of scholars, benefactress to shiftless relatives, and nemesis to specters. Better get out of the way, ghosts, Christian thought, grinning.

“It looks to be all a jumble down here,” she observed. “What do you suppose caused the noises we heard?”

“Probably some old shutter, or the wind,” Emery said with a sniff. The sound of the young man’s voice, coming close behind him, made Christian jerk around in surprise. When had Emery joined them? Christian realized he had better quit mooning over his hostess and keep his wits about him—or he might find himself with a knife in the back, either figuratively or literally.

“As you can see, there’s nothing unusual down here except a mess that is liable to fall upon you,” Emery said.

“A mess that might bear looking into,” Christian replied as he stepped forward. Indeed, it appeared that some of the items had been hastily pushed to the side, and recently, from the looks of the marks upon the stone floor.
Interesting.
The sweeps of dust were so revealing, in fact, that Christian
wondered if he might actually find a footprint somewhere that could give him an idea who had been down here.

“Emery’s right,” Christian said then, his lips quirking at the lie. “These things might not be too stable. Better stay in the center, away from them all.”

His advice was met with a questioning look from Miss Parkinson. Obviously, she was wondering how an eight-foot-tall cupboard that looked like it was carved out of solid oak might suddenly come crashing down upon them. Too smart for her own good. Maybe even for mine, Christian thought. With a shrug, he worked his way forward, keeping an eye surreptitiously on the stone flags at his feet. But he was not so preoccupied that he failed to notice the figure darting ahead.

“Going somewhere, Emery?” Christian called, even as he hurried his own steps.

“I—I
…
No. I’m just looking around.”

“Well, let’s stay together, shall we?” Christian said, giving the boy a significant look. He walked to where Emery stood, at the opening to the second chamber, and lifted his lantern, only to nearly drop it to the floor in surprise.

“What’s this?” Christian said, hurrying into
one of the large bays. There
several old casks stood in a corn
er, covered with dust and cobwebs, as though undisturbed for centuries, but Christian barely glanced at them as he moved past, heading toward the gleam of old glass glinting in the lantern light. Setting the lamp down, he dusted off one dark bottle, hardly daring to hope, then lifted it. The nearly noiseless swish of liquid inside made him loose a long, low breath of satisfaction.

“What is it?” Miss Parkinson called from the other chamber.

“A wine cellar!” Christian said. “We shall drink well tonight!” Perhaps a finely aged Bordeaux would improve the taste of Sibel Hall’s dreadful fare.

The casks, of course, had long gone bad, if they even still
held their contents, but the bottles, properly corked, promised untold delights.

Although Christian was tempted to seize his hostess and swing her round in celebration, Miss Parkinson looked singularly unimpressed. Her dubious expression and a sound from across the room prevented him from indulging in at least a quick taste, if not a quick toss. Instead, he turned toward the noise just in time to see Emery moving suspiciously among some old crates.

Christian bit back a curse at his own inattention.
Again.
While he had allowed himself to be distracted by his find, Emery no doubt had trampled or erased any footsteps that had existed, whether by deliberate act or carelessness it was impossible to say.