“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.
One look at Sibel Hall confirmed Christian’s earlier conjecture with a vengeance. With a groan of disgust, he glanced across the coach at his valet, Hobbins. “Obviously, Grandfather is having me on,” he noted unnecessarily.
“I wouldn’t know, my lord,” Hobbins answered with his usual decorum. Having been his father’s valet as well, Hobbins was getting on in years, but to Christian he was a steadying presence, as well as an excellent body servant. Although the man had a standing offer of a cozy retirement, he refused to abandon his employer to what he termed the “impertinent incompetents” of the younger generation and stayed on, quietly efficient and immune to all manner of disturbances, from bad roads to unaired bedding.
“The earl always manages to get his way, through a variety of means, but this time he has lied outright, though he will never admit as much,” Christian said. “If I tell the crafty old gentleman that Sibel Hall definitely isn’t a unique example of Greek Revival or, indeed, of the slightest architectural interest, he’ll get that pensive look, as if his memory is failing—even though we both know he is sharp as a pin and just as prickly when crossed!”
“If you say so, my lord,” was Hobbins’s noncommittal answer.
With a sigh of frustration, Christian again studied his destination, a rather nondescript building overgrown with trailing vines. If he hadn’t been so tired and hungry, he would have set his coachman to turning round. But the nearest inn was miles behind them, and should he abandon his quest, he would no doubt never hear the end of it from his grandfather, who would swear he had missed viewing some extraordinary piece of interior decoration. Unfortunately, Christian figured his chances of finding anything of interest at Sibel Hall were minimal.
He turned back to Hobbins and lifted his brows, struck by a sudden suspicion. “I don’t suppose the earl shared with you his reasons for promoting this little-jaunt?” Christian asked.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I am not privy to his lordship’s innermost thoughts,” Hobbins replied.
Christian tried not to snort at that statement. Hobbins knew more about what went on in both his and his grandfather’s households than anyone else, including himself. But if the loyal retainer was aware of the details of this venture, he certainly wasn’t talking, and nothing short of torture would get it out of him.
Heaving another sigh, Christian stepped out of the coach, ignoring the delightful aspect of a June afternoon to turn a jaundiced eye upon the north face of Sibel Hall. Although not especially ugly, it was one of those jumbles of ragstone, timber, and brick of various ages, with pitched roofs and crenellations, that didn’t have much to recommend it. It looked to be rather neglected as well, both the house and the grounds giving evidence through overgrown hedges, broken shutters, and the ever-present vines.
What was his grandfather thinking to send him on this wild-goose chase? Christian found it hard to believe the old man had been taken in by some female’s tale of ghostly activities. He shook his head, knowing that he might never understand the sometimes eccentric ways of his grandsire. Indeed, it seemed that the old man’s peculiarities had increased since the accident, and Christian wondered if the fall had affected something other than his bones. He felt a sudden pang of dismay, for the earl had always been as clever as a fox. He would hate to grow senile.
Christian dismissed the thought as he approached the entrance while Hobbins supervised the unloading of the coach. Whatever his grandfather’s reasoning, he was here and he would have to make the best of it, at least for the night. He just hoped that for his pains he would receive a decent meal and a comfortable bed—and that Miss Abigail Parkinson didn’t plan to ensconce herself in the latter.
When the door finally opened to admit him, Christian frowned to see a wide-eyed maid. The lack of a butler bespoke straitened circumstances at Sibel Hall, and his concern over Miss Parkinson’s motives grew with his discovery. The little maid led him through a rather dark interior that needed a good airing. He wondered cynically if the dimness was supposed to lend atmosphere to the ghost tales.
The furnishings were heavy and dark as well, and rather threadbare, confirming Christian’s initial opinion as he made his way through several rooms toward, he presumed, his hostess. He half expected Miss Parkinson to be draped over a couch bed in dishabille, prostrate from terror as she waited for rescue, whether from the haunting or from her straitened circumstances, Christian wasn’t sure. But to his surprise, when he was shown into what appeared to be a study, the only other occupant of the room was seated, straight-backed, behind a massive mahogany desk.
And instead of looking terrified, she looked rather terrifying, with a severe expression, hair pulled back from her face, and an ill-favored gown of unrelieved black. Reminded of one old governess who had run roughshod over the household in his youth, Christian shuddered. He turned to glance behind him, looking for someone else as well, but they were alone. Surely this female was not Miss Parkinson, but some employee or dependent relation? He arched a brow in question, even as he nodded slightly in greeting.
“My lord Moreland, how good of you to come so quickly. I trust your journey was not too taxing,” the somber woman said, rising to her feet, as a subordinate would. Although the windows were behind her, keeping her face in shadow, Christian could tell she was tall for a woman, though not as old as he would have guessed by her clothes and demeanor.
Squinting, and urged on by a sudden, sharp curiosity, Christian was tempted to tell her to move into the light. He caught the scent of lilacs, though the window was closed, and felt the resulting sensation of both comfort and excitement, along with the stirring of some long-dormant interest. Did he know this woman? “The trip was satisfactory. Miss…?” Christian trailed off, lifting his brows.
“Miss Parkinson,” she answered, her own, darker brows rising slightly.
Christian hid both his surprise and his disappointment. For a moment she had seemed oddly familiar, but he shook off that feeling, only to frown in puzzlement. Surely she could not be the woman who had written to him. He had expected someone younger, more appealing, and certainly more accommodating. Indeed, he had the strange sense that this Miss Parkinson did not approve of him in the slightest. Perhaps, then, she was only representing another.
“I do appreciate your prompt reply and timely arrival,” she said, though her tone belied the expressed gratitude. “I assume you are called upon often to perform these sort of… duties.”
Christian shrugged. “Well, I certainly don’t answer every summons that comes my way.” That was true enough, since he’d never answered any summons before. He glanced around. “Perhaps your employer could explain the problem more fully?”
Miss Parkinson stiffened, a black silhouette in the dim light. “I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension. I am not employed by anyone here. I am the owner of this house, and as I explained in my letter, I am having difficulties finding a buyer for it.”
This time Christian could not hide his surprise as easily, for why would a female of any means take on this one’s appearance? He supposed there were women in the world who knew so little about fashion and deportment that they resembled governesses without actually going into that line of work. Perhaps they were born that way, stiff and menacing in their cradles, in preparation for a career of wearing caps and dour expressions, Christian mused.
Again, he shook off his thoughts and tried to pay attention to Miss Parkinson’s speech, despite a certain, nagging inquisitiveness about her. “Specter,” she was saying, and Christian leaned forward in a pose of concentration. After all, the apparition was why he was here, wasn’t it?
“There seems to be little interest in such a phenomenon from the science commu
nity, so I was hoping that perhaps you, with your, uh, particular abilities, might be able to aid me,” she said.
Christian frowned. For someone who was asking for his help, Miss Parkinson wasn’t making up to him very well. Indeed, he kept catching the hint of disapproval in her voice. Did she want her ghost routed or not? He began to wonder whether she was a little too involved with the haunting, just like the fellows at Belles Corners.
“My dear Miss Parkinson, if you want me to take a look at this thing, I’ll give it a go. But if you’re hoping for some kind of notoriety or a lot of gullible visitors, then I’ll just turn around and save us both a waste of time.”
In an instant her expression changed from one of vague distaste to outrage. Well, the feeling is mutual, Christian thought. “I assure you that I wish to be rid of the creature, not to perpetrate some hoax upon the public!” she protested.
“Good,” Christian said. “And while we’re speaking plainly, Miss Parkinson, let us understand each other. I am here for no other purpose than to have a look at your so-called phantom.” Although he couldn’t imagine this sour female cozying up to him, Christian supposed that anything was possible, and he wanted to put an end to any such notions immediately.
However, she was already taking umbrage at his words.
“My lord, there most certainly is a phantom. Whether he is real or not is for you to determine,” she retorted, with the look of an overtaxed teacher about to deliver a stern set-down to a pupil.
Christian held up his hand to stop the lecture he anticipated as forthcoming. “What I mean is that I am not here to entertain you or your guests, nor to be matched with any eligible young ladies.”
Despite her resemblance to a tutor, Miss Parkinson didn’t appear to be too quick to comprehend his meaning. Indeed, she managed to stare at him in a way that conveyed both shock and befuddlement.
“I will not countenance any flirtations or compromising situations,” Christian explained. “I have a reputation as a matrimonial prize, though well exaggerated, to be sure. And I want your assurance that no one here”—he eyed her meaningfully—“has fixed her sights on my title—or anything else.”
Perhaps he should have phrased that with a little more tact, Christian thought belatedly. The Governess, as he thought of her, drew herself up to her rather impressive height with such fierce dignity that he took a step back, half expecting a rap on the knuckles for his impertinence. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, and her jaw rigid, she glared at him, and for some unknown reason Christian felt his pulse kick in response.
“I have no interest in marriage, and if I did, your sort would be the last I would consider,” she answered, with such scorn that Christian was momentarily ruffled.
“I assure you that handsome rogues of your ilk are not my dish of tea,” Miss Parkinson added.
Had he been insulted? Christian blinked in surprise. Most women either cozened him in a positively sickening manner or else treated him as boldly as a stallion at stud. Against his better judgment, he found the Governess rather refreshing. He wondered just what sort of man would fill the bristling Miss Parkinson’s… dish.
She continued to hold her ground with a fierce look, and Christian was seized by an impish mischief he hadn’t known in years. “Just as long as we understand each other,” he said, grinning.
Miss Parkinson made a noise low in her throat as though she didn’t trust-herself to speak, and when Christian lifted his brows innocently, she cleared her throat. “I’ll have Becky show you to your room. We keep country hours, so supper will be early for you, I’m sure.”
Christian ignored the little jab. He was too busy watching Miss Parkinson step toward the door, the movement giving him tantalizing glimpses of a lush figure hidden beneath the ill-fitting gown. And as she walked past him, the faint whiff of lilacs sent a rush of blood to his head. Nearly dizzy with it, he had to steady himself.
When his thoughts cleared, he realized the Governess was saying something about the ghost again, and he forced himself to follow, pretending attention. “Ah, yes, when can I view the, uh, specter?”
For the first time during their brief interview, Miss Parkinson seemed at a loss. Her hand upon the latch stilled tellingly before she swung the door open, and for once she did not meet his gaze with her direct one.
“That, my lord, remains to be seen.”
2
Christian followed the little maid up a surprisingly handsome staircase, past a wonderful stained-glass window and into a sour-smelling chamber. Although he rather expected to meet the infamous specter around each new corner, the only thing waiting for him in his room was his trunk. He told himself he ought to be glad that no conniving female lurked behind the moldy bed hangings, but the thought of the Governess lying there held a kind of perverse appeal.
Obviously, the stifling atmosphere was going to his head. Walking across the threadbare expanse of carpet, Christian dragged aside the heavy curtains and opened the window to take a deep breath of fresh air. Sibel Hall was oppressive enough to house a restless spirit, though he had bedded down in worse places. He glanced outside, where the sun was lowering above the bedraggled grounds. Undoubtedly supper would be served soon, which was just as well, for he was hungry after the long hours of travel. He had just enough time to rid himself of the dust of the road.
A distinctive knock on the door heralded the arrival of Hobbins with a pitcher of water, which he set upon a heavily veneered chest of drawers. One look at his valet’s face made Christian grin. Clearly, he was none too pleased with the accommodations either.
“How bad is it?” Christian asked.
“It appears that the upper floors have never been piped for water, my lord,” Hobbins said, with a definite air of distaste. “So those wishing to wash must either make do with a primitive tub or adjourn to a plunge bath located outside in the, uh, garden area. If you would care to repair there, I can bring you fresh clothes,” Hobbins suggested, politely declining to elaborate upon the lack of other amenities.
“I’m not sure I have the time,” Christian said, keeping in mind his hostess’s dictum about an early dinner. Although he was tempted to be late just to annoy her, his lack of luncheon was wearing on him, and he knew his grandfather expected him to be on his best behavior. Definitely a wrongheaded notion on the earl’s part, but Christian figured he ought not stir up the Governess any more than he already had. The thought made his lips curve in an odd sort of anticipation.
“I expect I’ll have to make do with the pitcher for now,” Christian said.
“Very good, my lord. Then I will return when you wish to dress,” Hobbins replied.
With a nod of agreement, Christian turned back to the window. Taking another long, deep breath, he paused, vaguely aware of a sense of disappointment when the air carried no hint of lilacs.
Fresh clothes improved Christian’s mood as he headed down to the main rooms once more, keeping an eye out for any signs of ghostly inhabitants. Miss Parkinson had proved oddly reticent about the whereabouts of the phantom, and against his better judgment he found his interest piqued. So it had been at Belles Corners, Christian reminded himself ruefully.
The dining room was just as gloomy as the rest of the place, with dark tapestries and curtains and only a few candelabra to provide light. Christian had a suspicion that the dimness was intended to aid the haunting, either by adding to the atmosphere or by hiding any human manipulations involved, and he was tempted to call for some oil lamps or more candles. But he realized that the sorry state of Sibel Hall’s finances might prohibit the luxuries to which he was accustomed, so he braced himself for an evening of squinting at Miss Parkinson. Surprisingly, his pulse kicked up again, and he frowned.
He had surely been too long without female companionship if he was excited about a meal with the Governess. Christian shuddered. Still, his eyes seemed to search the room of their own accord. For ghosts, he told himself. The only occupants of the room that he found were human, however, and
not the one he was looking for, either.
An older woman was seated in an armchair near the fireplace, a fleshy sort of fellow stood beside her, and a young man leaned against the mantelpiece. Disappointment stung Christian at the sight of the others, though he could hardly expect to stay alone and unchaperoned in Miss Parkinson’s home. And why should he want to? he asked himself. No answer was forthcoming except a rather vague notion of curiosity about the woman.
Catching a whiff of lilacs, Christian turned unerringly toward his hostess, drawn, he told himself, by that luscious scent and nothing else. Still, he couldn’t help smiling as Miss Parkinson approached him in greeting, for surely no woman had ever looked less welcoming. Christian had to stifle a surprised bark of laughter. She definitely was back in her governess guise and performing a repugnant duty as well.
“My lord, you honor us with your presence,” she said, and Christian really would have laughed at that charming falsehood had they been alone. And suddenly it annoyed him that they weren’t. Just so they could spar, of course. Take off the gloves, so to speak. Not necessarily anything else.
“May I introduce my cousins, Miss Mercia Penrod, Colonel Averill, and Mister Emery Osbert?” she asked, drawing his attention reluctantly back to the group.
If Miss Parkinson appeared less than cordial, Cousin Emery looked positively hostile, and Christian wondered just what had roused the young man’s enmity. Perhaps the scrawny fellow simply possessed an ill nature and disliked Christian on sight. Or maybe it was Christian’s mission here that disturbed him. Interesting.
“Miss Penrod, Colonel, Emery,” Christian said, deliberately using the boy’s first name. Although presumably an adult, Emery had a mulish expression that made him seem positively childish and fully deserving of the familiarity.
“My lord,” he acknowledged with a sullen nod.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 2