A Man Of Many Talents Page 4

  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 bushes under his new windows. That would be a lot easier than indulging his curiosity about his hostess.

  But somehow less satisfying.

  3

  After 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 little 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 valet 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 disappointment, 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 musings were interrupted by Mercia.

  “Well, my lord, have you made contact with Sir Boundefort?” 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 behind his book, while Mercia expressed 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 disapproving expression, Christian relaxed—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 o
ught 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 responses 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 hidden 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 spurning

  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.

  She was intriguing, and Christian couldn’t remember the last time any woman had roused his curiosity. She had an innate dignity that wasn’t compromised by the most outlandish tales of the company, and he guessed she would be steady and sensible in all situations. Perhaps that was what he found appealing about her—besides the lilacs, of course. Obviously, it wasn’t her warmth or her looks.

  “Well, who has an idea?” Mercia prompted.

  An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by the colonel’s hearty laugh. “I’m afraid I’m not very handy with rhymes.”

  Emery remained silent, though he appeared to sit up straighter in his seat, alert despite his preoccupation with his food, and Miss Parkinson simply shook her head. Nevertheless, Mercia persisted, and finally everyone except Emery threw out a few feeble suggestions. But after a good quarter of an hour even Mercia settled into silence, while Christian stirred himself from his stupor, having nearly nodded off during that boring exercise. Now, thankfully, the issue appeared to have died away and he could turn his attention to the only real point of interest here: his hostess.

  Christian found himself wondering how she had come to head up this household of eccentrics, for it was obvious that she was in charge. Had she b
een born to lead them or had she simply fallen into the role? More important, what color were her eyes? Perhaps he could get close enough today to find out. And why did she smell so damn good?

  “Well, that was quite a lively meal, I must say! But now I think I’ll pop into the old hall, just to see if your specter’s about,” the colonel said, clearing his throat loudly. “Care to join me, my lord?”

  Startled, as always, by the colonel’s voice, Christian was taken unawares by the invitation. He glanced at Miss Parkinson, who gave him a look as if to ask why he was hesitating. After all, the ghost was the only reason he was here, wasn’t it? Resisting the temptation to scowl, Christian rose to his feet. “Certainly. If you’ll excuse me, ladies? Emery.”

  Once they stepped out of the dining room, the colonel hurried Christian along, then motioned for him to come closer with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve been doing some research of my own, in a bit of effort to help our dear benefactress,” he confided in a low voice.

  “Benefactress?” Christian echoed.

  “Cousin Abigail,” the colonel said. “She’s generously allowed us all to stay on here, at least for the time being.” Christian felt the first stirrings of real distrust—not that he was by nature a suspicious person. Like hell, his grandfather would say. He had been born with the instincts of his pirate ancestors, a useful trait that had enabled him to keep his pockets full amid London vices that destroyed the fortunes of many another young man. It was those very instincts that had told him something at Belles Corners wasn’t as it should be. And now he wondered just what was happening at Sibel Hall.

  “Stay on?”

  “Well, ahem, yes. You see, Emery and I were living here when Bascomb passed away. Or rather, Emery was here on an extended stay, after being at school. Wanted to study his heritage, and all that.”

  “And Mercia?” Christian asked.

  “Oh, she has her own household, but she has remained here to help Abigail,” the colonel said.