A Man Of Many Talents (3 page)

“I must admit that he seems to be rather selective as to when he shows himself and to whom,” Miss Parkinson noted, looking none too pleased at the observation. Perhaps, as hostess, she was feeling left out.

“And just where does he appear when he deigns to do so?” Christian asked.

“Oh, he’s choosy in that regard as well,” Miss Penrod said, with the enthusiasm she seemed to display in all matters ghostly. She dropped her voice dramatically. “I cannot say for certain, but I suspect that he is confined to his earthly domain.”

“And where might that be?” Christian asked. Despite his better judgment, he was becoming fascinated.

“Why, in the great hall, of course,” Miss Penrod answered. “These rooms you see around you were all added later on to the original structure, which Sir Boundefort built himself.”

Christian tried to express the appropriate awe at that announcement without revealing any of his contempt for the structure itself. Turning toward his hostess, he asked, “Might I have a look?”

“Certainly,” she said, pushing back her chair with her
usual authority. Unfortunately, everyone else rose, too, even the colonel, who was still chewing. Snatching up a last date from a nearby bowl, he hurried to keep up with the rest of them, while Christian swallowed his disappointment.

Compared to the great houses of the nobility, Sibel Hall wasn’t large, but it was a decent size, and as Miss Parkinson led him through a series of rooms, Christian realized that the original core was much older than he had suspected. He reached out to touch a painted wall, faded and dusty, but in truth he was far more interested in the pair of hips ahead of him, swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm. Almost. Luckily, he was a very perceptive sort.

Now, if only he weren’t surrounded by the cousins, a thundering herd certain to ruin a mood, as well as scare off any respectable ghost. Behind him Mercia was chattering away happily about her own encounters with the specter, while the colonel was loudly expressing his reservations, and Emery was shuffling along wearing a mutinous expression. Suddenly Christian was seized by a devilish urge to turn around and yell bloody murder. Just for his own amusement, of course, certainly not to get rid of them so he might be alone with the Governess.

The great hall was not that vast, but it was big enough to be cold and drafty and dark—the perfect spot for a haunting. “I’m told
this is where he appeared to th
e first interested buyer and the solicitor, who refuses now to return. The second man was being shown about by Cousin Mercia,” Miss Parkinson said.

“Oh, yes, this is his place,” Mercia said, in hushed tones, just as though she were communing with the spirit as she spoke. Christian glanced about. Although the hall itself might be original, over the years someone had made improvements. The old hearth had been abandoned and a large fireplace installed along the exterior wall. A heavy wooden screen at one end probably concealed the old kitchens, which must have been turned to new use or abandoned.

As if following his gaze, Miss Parkinson said, “That’s the
spot.” Christian felt unaccountably delighted that she was watching him, but tried to assume a serious pose as he perused the area. He thought the “spot” rather conveniently located near the edge of the screen and wondered if that was deliberate, so that the ghost might hide behind it when not making an appearance.

Christian stepped closer, but he saw nothing except gaping blackness behind the open-worked wood. He felt no chills beyond the drafts inherent in old stone spaces and heard nothing above the booming voice of the colonel, who was commenting volubly and loudly enoug
h to frighten anyone, human or
not.

“Yes, this old place probably housed a few knights in its day!” the former military man was saying. “Our ancestors may have fought with different weapons, but some of their tactics are still used today, I’ll warrant. Can’t say that I see any of the departed fellows here, though.”

“Perhaps Sir Boundefort doesn’t care for a crowd,” Christian remarked dryly.

“Nonsense!” the colonel blustered. “A specter that’s afraid of people? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!” He paused, his mustaches swaying, then swung his gaze toward Christian as if struck by doubts. “Have you?”

Christian shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit that he knew nothing whatsoever about hauntings, outside of the counterfeit one at Belles Co
rn
ers.

“Still, perhaps we should leave Lord Moreland here to do, uh, whatever he has planned,” Miss Parkinson suggested.

Christian was amenable to that notion, as long as she stayed behind as well. Solely as a witness,
of course. As for his plans…

Emery sniffed, apparently disgusted by the very idea that any proper ancestral shade could prefer a stranger’s company to that of one of its heirs. “I’m going to study in my room,” he announced, turning on his heel.

You do that, Christian thought. He half expected the so-called scholar to return draped in bed linen and couldn’t decide if the pleasure he would get from trouncing the boy would compensate for the abrupt end of his little adventure if he did so. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he was ready to unveil the ghost just yet and thus cut short his visit with the intriguing Miss Parkinson.

“Well, you just shout if you need any help, my lord,” the colonel said. He looked about the room rather apprehensively for someone who didn’t countenance ghosts.

“Oh, I don’t believe Sir Boundefort would actually harm anyone, do you?” Cousin Mercia asked. “
I
think he’s just protecting his home.”

“Or warning against interlopers,” Emery muttered over his shoulder.

A rather startled silence followed the young man’s remark, broken only by his retreating footsteps, until the colonel coughed out a nervous-sounding laugh. Christian wasn’t certain whether the ghost or Emery himself was making the old gentleman wary, but he was inclined to dismiss both.

“Well, I daresay Lord Moreland shall get to the bottom of it all, eh?” the colonel said, now obviously eager to be gone. Cousin Mercia nodded pleasantly in agreement. The Governess, Christian noted,
gave no response. She was self-
contained, that one. Perhaps that was what drove his curiosity. It certainly wasn’t her scintillating conversation.

“Let us go so that he can get to work, then,” the colonel said. Waving jauntily, he took Cousin Mercia with him, leaving Christian, much to his delight, alone with his hostess—and any phantoms, of course.

Christian’s pleasure was short-lived, however, as Miss Parkinson soon turned to depart as well. “I shall leave you to your task, my lord, with my thanks,” she added, a bit grudgingly, in Christian’s opinion.

His lips quirked as he thought of several witty replies. Instead he found himself saying only, “Stay,” softly, and with more feeling than he intended.

His hostess, already moving away from him, stopped to stare back at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Christian regrouped quickly. “I thought you would want to remain here and see things for yourself,” he said, stepping toward her.

Miss Parkinson’s startled expression vanished, replaced by one of dismissal. Why did he get the impression that she disapproved of everything he said?

“Well, you could at least keep me company,” Christian complained. He wondered, with no little amazement, whether he was actually whining. And for what? The society of a governess? His brain must be addled. He took a deep breath but only felt dizzier as he inhaled the scent of lilacs. Lush and heavy and full of promise.

“I hardly see how that will aid your
…
efforts,” Miss Parkinson said, sounding as if she didn’t believe he was going to do anything at all. Well, he wasn’t, Christian admitted. But only to himself.

“You could assist me,” he suggested.

“How?” Miss Parkinson asked, lifting delicate brows that did not look at all governess-like.

That was a good question. Christian glanced about, but there was still no sign of the ghost. His gaze was drawn to the blackness beyond the heavy wooden screen. “I’d like to look around, but I’ll need a lamp or lantern.”

“I’ll have one sent back to you,” Miss Parkinson said. Glossing over the whole assistance business, she appeared as eager to leave as the old colonel was, but for entirely different reasons. Didn’t she want his company? How exceptional, Christian marveled.

It was time to take off the gloves. Fixing her with a direct gaze, Christian asked, “Are you afraid of the ghost, Miss Parkinson?”

She drew herself up stiffly. “Certainly not!” she snapped. “However, you’ll forgive me if I decline to remain here with you, unchaperoned, when you made it quite clear that you
did not want to be put into any compromising situations. Good night, my lord!”

With that she turned on her heel, leaving Christian to rub his chin ruefully. It seemed that Miss Parkinson already knew how to take off the gloves. With amused respect, he watched her go, ignoring the slight pang that struck him as the scent of lilacs faded from the air.

And then he was alone. Christian almost called her back, before coming to his senses. What the devil was the matter with him, beyond some bizarre obsession with spring flowers? He shook his head. It certainly wasn’t the hall that disturbed him, for he harbored no fear of the dark or the unknown. Indeed, when his hostess’s footsteps had ceased echoing upon the old tiles, Christian turned toward the site of the haunting and stared, more perplexed than anything else. He was rather at a loss.

At Belles Co
rn
ers, the ghostly happenings had been linked to a bed, where knockings and banging had erupted with great force and frequency, disturbing the tenants of the house, reportedly because of some past grudge. Christian had simply examined the furniture more thoroughly than any of the other enthralled witnesses had and pried open a side of it to reveal a boy in midknock. The young member of the household claimed he had been urged on by his elders, who, unable to afford their lodgings any longer, had come across the unique idea of charging admittance to the haunted room.

And that, as his grandfather liked to say, was that. Christian’s entire experience with the supernatural boiled down to less than an hour with a hoax. Now he had the distinct suspicion he would be adding greatly to that span of time. Very greatly, considering the fact that so far he hadn’t seen a thing. With a sigh, he began a slow study down the length of the hall, pausing to admire the old curved timber construction of the roof, then peering into co
rn
ers and behind moldering tapestries.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called out
whimsically at one point, echoing the childhood game. But Sir Boundefort remained stubbornly unavailable even as the hall settled into darkness. The wide-eyed maid finally arrived with a lantern in each hand, visibly trembling as she delivered her burden, then rem
oved herself from the place as
quickly as humanly possible, leaving Christian alone once more in the silence.

Outside, the wind picked up, causing old shutters to rattle somewhere and setting one of the tapestries to fluttering in a stray draft. A veritable feast for those craving a gloomy atmosphere, Christian thought. But apparently Sir Boundefort was not sufficiently impressed. With an eye on the spot where the screen ended, Christian lifted the lantern high and stepped behind the fretwork.

He had hoped to find, if not a boy with a knocker, at least a sign that someone had been there, but the tiles beneath his feet were clean. Moving forward in the narrow passage, he discovered a door that looked to be a later addition. He rattled the latch hopefully, but it was stoutly locked. Further along, he came across another door, this one probably original to the structure. Presumably it had led to a buttery or to the old kitchens, but the heavy oak wouldn’t give way now, and he made a mental note to demand all of the keys tomorrow.

Abruptly, a vision of palming the instrument of entry to Miss Parkinson’s room danced before him, but Christian dismissed that odd fancy. Really, he was becoming far too interested in the Governess. He ought to finish this ghost business as soon as possible and be on his way, focusing his attention back on his true passion, the rebuilding of Bexley Court. Unfortunately,
passion
was not the best word to distract him.

With a sigh, Christian emerged from behind the screen and wandered over to the dais, where the lord of the manor had once presided at his high table. Sinking down, his lantern beside him, he prepared to wait for
something
to happen. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long and firmly ignored the sense of displeasure that struck at the promise of an early departure. After all, he
could always plant some lilac b
ushes under his new windows. That would be a lot easier than indulging his curiosity about his hostess.

But somehow less satisfying.

3

A
fter a long
and fruitless vigil through much of the night, Christian finally took himself off to bed, only to awaken all too soon to the ceaseless drip of rain. He wandered down to the dining hall to find the sideboard bare. Apparently he was too late for breakfast. Considering the fare to be had at Sibel Hall, he decided that was probably just as well. He would have to bide his time until luncheon and hope for the best.

The overcast skies made the interior of the building even darker and more conducive to a haunting, at least in Christian’s opinion. Unfortunately Sir Boundefort didn’t seem to share that view, and Christian began to lose patience with the specter as he stalked the silent rooms, hoping for a glimpse of the fellow—or at least his hostess. But he saw no one except the occasional maid until a loud shout heralded the arrival of the colonel.

“Ho! There you are, my lord! I’ve been keeping an eye out for you! When you didn’t appear at breakfast, I asked
your valet if you’d made it to bed. Didn’t want to think the specter had made off with you!” he said with a wink.

How comforting to know that the colonel was keeping such close watch on his habits, Christian thought with no litt
l
e sarcasm. Not that he didn’t plan to be in his own bed every night, but polite country house behavior, of which the colonel seemed to be ignorant, precluded an interest in such things as who was sleeping where. And with whom.

Completely oblivious to Christian’s lack of enthusiasm, the colonel gave him a hearty smack on the back, which made him wonder if he ought not to brush up on his boxing moves in Gentleman Jackson’s rooms. He needed to react more quickly if he was going to dodge the old fellow’s clouts, no matter how well intentioned they might be.

“Yes, glad to see you up and about,” the colonel said. “But I say, that v
alet of yours is rather a tight-
lipped fellow, isn’t he?”

Christian stifled the bark of laughter that threatened. The colonel was no match for Hobbins. Christian only hoped the military man hadn’t tried to slap
him
on the back. With as sober a visage as he could manage, Christian replied, “He takes his duties quite seriously.”

“Ah, yes, well, you look none the worse for a night with our own Sir Boundefort or, uh, whomever,” the colonel said.

Christian’s lips quirked as he tried not to explore the possibilities in that statement. The colonel, it appeared, had a gift for double entendre.

“You
are,
uh, none the worse?” the old fellow persisted.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Christian said, surprising himself. Despite his hunger, weariness, and longing for better accommodations, he did feel exceptionally good. He was fairly certain, however, that his mood had nothing to do with the ghost. “I’m afraid I didn’t see or hear a thing,” he admitted.

“Good! Good! Ha! Just as I thought! Not a thing to worry about,” the colonel said, his behavior serving to focus Christian’s attention. Why was the old fellow so relieved that
Christian hadn’t seen anything? Was he wary of a real ghost, or was it something else?

Christian had no time to probe the matter, for they had reached the withdrawing room, where the other residents were gathered. If he felt a spark of anticipation upon entering, it was strictly because he was curious as to what guise his hostess might be wearing today. Or at least, that’s what Christian told himself. He soon discovered that Miss Parkinson was not in attendance. He
tried to stifle a surge of dis
appointment, but who could blame him for remarking her absence? She was the only member of the household who was the slightest bit interesting.

Cousin Mercia tendered an absent greeting before returning to her sewing, while Emery sat immersed in a book, pausing only to eye him with a sullen expression. Suddenly, the thought of being trapped here with the cousins was a dismal prospect indeed.

“Where is Miss Parkinson?” Christian asked, hoping the desperation didn’t show in his voice.

“She is closeted in the study again with correspondence,” Mercia replied.

Correspondence? More likely the Governess was hiding, but from him or the cousins? Christian wondered wickedly. Only momentarily deterred, he tried to think of a reason to beard her in her den. A report of his uneventful night? He grinned at what might be made
of that. But his pleasant mus
ings were interrupted by Mercia.

“Well, my lord, have yo
u made contact with Sir Bounde
fort?” she asked, without even glancing up from her needlework.

Before Christian could answer, the colonel declaimed loudly—and cheerfully, “His lordship didn’t see a thing!” Apparently he thought Christian’s experience an affirmation of his own theories on the matter. Although Christian didn’t see how his dull evening proved anything one way or another, the others were also swift to judge. Emery grunted in
self-satisfaction from b
ehind his book, while Mercia ex
pressed her skepticism.

“Perhaps you nodded off, my lord,” she said.

“I did not nod off,” Christian answered as evenly as possible over the chortling of the colonel, who appeared to think that suggestion the height of humor.

Thankfully, Miss Parkinson chose that moment to make her appearance, and though not on the level of a phantom sighting, Christian greeted it far more enthusiastically. Perhaps that was her intention. If she locked him up in a roomful of these characters long enough, she would seem a paragon, if not marriage material. But since she approached him with her usual disapp
roving expression, Christian re
laxed—his hopes, or rather his suspicions, swiftly routed.

“I see his lordship has decided to grace us with his presence at last. Just in time for luncheon,” she observed. Although couched in a smile, her words made Christian arch a brow. She might be the Governess, but she was not
his
governess. He hadn’t reported to anyone since he was a toddler, and he was not about to start now.

“He was up late, keeping watch in the hall,” the colonel explained.

Christian remained silent. It was bad enough that the colonel felt free to check up on his whereabouts, but now the old fellow was making excuses for him. Christian didn’t know whether to laugh or complain. He wasn’t about to explain his hours to his hostess. Nor was he going to rise with the roosters just because she kept bizarre country hours. Governess hours. Christian wondered just what time she went to bed, before deciding he really ought not pursue that line of thought.

“And I assume our infamous phantom is making himself scarce?” his hostess asked as the group rose and moved toward the dining room. Although she barely glanced at Christian, her tone held some sort of subtle accusation, as if the ghost’s absence were somehow his fault.

“I believe you wanted me to get rid of him, not draw him
out,” Christian noted. “Perhaps I’ve succeeded already.” He smiled at her and was pleased when she answered with a frown. Getting any reaction at all from the Governess was an accomplishment, though
he could think of some other re
sponses he would prefer. Yet somehow he couldn’t quite imagine Miss Parkinson in the throes of passion.

He tried to. He really did. He pictured her letting that hair down. What would it look like? Feel like? And as for the voluptuous form hidde
n beneath her shapeless gown…
Christian attempted to conjure a vision, but all he could see was dull black crepe, while his pulse thundered as if he had just gone a couple of rounds with Gentleman Jackson.

Cousin Mercia, oblivious to the undercurrents, said as she took her seat, “Perhaps Sir Boundefort doesn’t feel that Lord Moreland is a threat to him.”

Or perhaps he does, Christian thought, tearing his attention away from Miss Parkinson’s bodice. And that is exactly why he is hiding.

“After all, Lord Moreland is not interested in buying the manor,” Mercia said, causing him nearly to swallow his tongue instead of the watery soup that was served. He couldn’t think of anything less inviting than the purchase of this hideously mundane structure, dim, dark, and depressing as it was. Except for the Governess, of course.

“And being a man of means himself, he would hardly be interested in the treasure,” Mercia added.

“
Treasure?” Christian said, turning with mild curiosity toward his hostess. It was as good an excuse as any to eye her.

“Apparently it’s an old family tale, though I’ve never heard of it,” Miss Parkinson answered, with the vaguely disapproving skepticism that Christian was beginning to think came naturally to her. So why did he feel like making her believe, if not in old family tales, then in other, more tangible delights?

“According to Cousin Mercia, there is quite a legend associated with our resident haunting,” she said.

“Legend? Why, of course there’s a legend! Can’t have a good haunting without a story behind it, now, can we?” the colonel said.

“I hardly think Lord Moreland would be interested in old rumor and gossip,” Emery commented, looking up from his plate to glare at them all.

“Nonsense! Ripping good story, if nothing else,” the colonel said.

“Hardly! A bit of meaningless mumbo jumbo,” Emery argued. He immediately applied himself to pushing his food around again, as if to dismiss the subject entirely.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I like to believe there might be a clue to the treasure hidden in the words,” Mercia said, her eyes bright with the enthusiasm she normally reserved for the ghost.

Christian was beginning to think the woman kind and harmless, but hopelessly dotty. He turned to his hostess once more and waited for clarification.

“There is an old rumor that our ancestor returned from foreign climes with a fortune, which has lain in wait for the right descendant to discover it,” Miss Parkinson explained.

From the line of her mouth, Christian could tell that she didn’t lend credence to the story, though she refrained from spoiling Mercia’s fun by denying the possibility outright. Obviously she wasn’t all bad, for she behaved well enough toward the cousins. So why was she singling him out for the misbehaving-pupil treatment?

“And we’ve even got a clue!” the colonel boomed, startling Christian from his musings on his hostess. “How does it go, Mercia? Tell his lordship about the poem that’s supposed to lead to the prize.”

“I cannot believe you’re perpetrating this nonsense,” Emery said with a tone of derision that bordered on desperation.

“I thought you were interested in the legend, Emery,” Miss Parkinson said, giving him a questioning look.

There. Better mind the Governess, Christian thought, glad to see someone else being reproved. He nearly grinned.

Emery’s ears pinkened as he sputtered, “It’s silly. I thought it was amusing, that’s all, but I can find no basis in record. As a scholar, I am interested in facts, not fancies. There is no reason to believe that old rhyme has anything to do with anything!”

Emery’s sudden and fierce dismissal of the so-called legend piqued Christian’s attention. “I would think a scholar would find such things of interest, whether they be myth or actual history, especially when applied to one’s own antecedents,” he said.

Emery colored further and mumbled something intelligible, but Christian’s instincts had been roused, and he studied the young man more closely.

“How’s it go, now, Mercia?” the colonel called out loudly, and Christian nearly jumped again. He was going to have to muzzle that man.

Mercia smiled eagerly, and began to recite.

My grief is such I cannot bear,

So must my worldly goods despair.

All my treasure sacred keep

In stone abode and darkness deep.

There shall they rest in blessed care
.

’Neath the angels singing fair,

Untouched by all but she who wear

Mine own love token in her care.

Thy ring when set against its mate,

Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate

For only her, all others spurn
ing

Until my lady's love returning.

Christian listened with half an ear while watching Emery, who kept his attention firmly focused on his plate. To hide what? Interest or indifference?

“What do you make of it, my lord?” Mercia asked when she had finished, and Christian turned to find her studying him with bright eyes.

“Sounds like some kind of love verse,” he said, with a shrug. He had never been much for poetry. Byron gave him hives.

“I fear whatever meaning the phrases might once have had has been lost over the years,” Miss Parkinson said.

“Perhaps if we all put our minds to it, we might come up with an answer, and a clue to our ghost’s behavior as well,” Mercia suggested.

Christian stifled a groan. If there was anything he hated worse than poetry readings, it was playacting and guessing games. He had hoped that the adjournment to luncheon meant he would have some decent conversation, preferably with Miss Parkinson. She was more intelligent than the average female, Christian knew with utter certainty, though how he wasn’t sure. Whether it was her likeness to a tutor or just the fact that she held herself slightly apart from the rest of the rabble here at Sibel Hall that convinced him, he didn’t know.