A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  Yes, she was a real help with her ghost sightings and weird lore, Christian thought cynically.

  “As I was saying,” the colonel began. Obviously, he was trying to get back to his point, but Christian wouldn’t let him.

  “And Abigail,” Christian cut in, only to pause to mull over the name. It struck some chord deep inside him, like a treasure long buried or a memory since forgotten. He drew a breath. “And Miss Parkinson was living here as well?”

  “Oh, no. She came after the funeral. I expect she didn’t even know about Bascomb’s death until the solicitor contacted her about the bequest.”

  “I see. So she was willed the house?” Christian recalled something like that from the letter, but he hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. Now it seemed more important.

  “Yes, ahem, and most gracious she has been about it,” the colonel said, obviously uncomfortable with the path of the conversation. “But, as I was saying, I’ve been doing some studying of my own.” He drew himself up, his mustaches bouncing. “Ghosts, you know.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Yes! Can’t say I knew much about them before. Not my line, so to speak,” he said, chuckling heartily. “But I’ve been looking through the large library here at Sibel Hall. Bascomb was quite the scholar, you know. Runs in the family,” he added, preening. “Though I must admit that heretofore I have not been one of those so inclined.”

  “And what have you discovered?” Christian asked, now desperate for the old man to get to the point. If there was one.

  “Well, it seems they’re a product of their times,” the colonel pronounced.

  “What?”

  “Ghosts, my lord! Back in the old days, you didn’t hear much about them because the early church fathers didn’t take to such things. But then, when the stories do start cropping up, they pretty much echo the teachings of the period— punishments and rewards after death, that sort of thing.” The colonel paused to stroke his mustaches thoughtfully. “In the late Middle Ages, sightings became much more prevalent, with most of the apparitions supposed to be from purgatory, a sort of waiting area between death and their final reward. They often required the living to do penance for them or buy indulgences from the clergy. But, of course, the Reformation did away with all that.

  “Now we get things more on the order of poltergeists, possessions by the devil, knockings, flutterings, and abominable cases like your Belles Corners business, of course, you probably know all this!” the colonel exclaimed. “After all, you are the expert here and should be lecturing me, eh?” Christian shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with his ignorance. He didn’t know which was worse, the implicit faith granted him by Mercia, the manly reasoning imputed him by the colonel, Emery’s scorn, or the vaguely disdainful expectations of Miss Abigail Parkinson herself. As Emery had noted, this was not Belles Corners, and that lark was rapidly losing whatever amusement it had once possessed, if any.

  Christian wondered whether he ought to brash up on his spectral knowledge, but the thought of closeting himself in a library was only slightly more palatable than reciting poetry. Muttering imprecations about a certain interfering earl under his breath, he wished the cursed phantom would make an appearance, so he could get out of here and back to the business of Bexley Court.

  Instead, he was being treated to a lecture on paranormal manifestations. “How about ghostly animals?” Christian asked suddenly, in an attempt to sound more knowledgeable than he felt. “Why do they always appear as black dogs with red eyes and slavering lips?” He had received plenty of correspondence on that subject.

  For a moment the colonel appeared taken aback, then he laughed in his deep, resonating way. “Just so! You do know your stuff. So, what is your opinion as to the cause of these aberrations? Cases of people wanting attention, or simply those open to suggestion? Is it some kind of mass hysteria or just singular attacks of mental illness?”

  Christian blinked, a bit overwhelmed by the colonel’s views. “Are you saying Mercia’s a bit queer in the upper story?” he asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “Eh, what? Oh, no! Certainly not. Obviously, there must be something behind whatever she saw,” he said, clearing his throat and ducking his head.

  “Or someone," Christian muttered under his breath as they entered the old hall.

  It was dim and quiet, the rain a distant rhythm against thick glass set high up in the walls. Christian roamed the perimeter, but to his disappointment, the place looked just as it had during his evening vigil, the overcast day cloaking the room in a pall that made him long for some proper lighting. He wondered idly if he would ever get a good look at the space. He prowled restlessly about while the colonel kept up a steady stream of commentary, pausing beneath a wall of what appeared to be ancient weapons, which he had barely noticed the night before.

  Christian studied a battered helmet, a broadsword, some rather nasty-looking daggers, a brace of old pistols, and a pair of foils and wondered if they might come in handy at some point. Unfortunately, anyone might put them to good use, and he made a mental note to watch his back even as he kept an eye out for the phantom. The thought made him glance toward Sir Boundefort’s favorite haunt, with the hope of seeing something—anything—but only darkness yawned behind the wooden screen.

  With a frown, Christian stepped behind the partition. Nothing awaited him there except shadows and the outlines of the two doors along the wall. He moved toward the first, then paused, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the floor. He had been here before, last night, and yet there was no sign of his footprints. Crouching low, he put a finger to the dank tiles, swiping them, but no telltale dust marked it. Considering the state of housekeeping in the rest of the house, he wondered just how this area seemed to be so clean. Reason told him that the unused parts of the house would be even more dirty than the rest of the place, but that was not the case here.

  Interesting.

  He came to his feet just as the colonel’s loud voice erupted nearby. “My lord?” Christian turned to see white mustaches bobbing around the fretwork.

  “Ah! There you are! Thought for a moment you’d disappeared into thin air!” the man said a bit nervously. Christian wondered if the old fellow perhaps wasn’t quite as sanguine about the spirit as he claimed to be. Or maybe he had other reasons for his odd behavior.

  “Do you know where these doors lead?” Christian asked. He tried the first one, but it was locked just as tightly as the night before.

  “To the old kitchens, I presume, long gone now, of course,” the colonel answered. “And to the cellars, perhaps. I’ve never had cause to go down there.”

  Christian turned toward the older man with a questioning look.

  “Well, not really my house, you see,” the colonel explained gruffly.

  Christian checked the other door, but it wouldn’t budge either. He swung round to the colonel again. “I’d like to have a look behind them. Do you know where the keys are?”

  “Well, I seem to recall a set hanging in the kitchen— housekeeper’s, I imagine, but she’s no longer with us. Complained that she kept hearing noises after Bascomb died. Thought he’d come back to haunt her. Handed over some pilfered silver and fled, without even asking for her references!”

  A search of the kitchens didn’t turn up any keys, nor did the young maids who were all that remained of the staff admit to any knowledge of them. The colonel frowned at such negligence, but a slow smile stole over Christian’s face as anticipation stirred his sluggish blood.

  “Miss Parkinson must have them,” he said.

  The Governess, he suspected, was totally organized. She probably had every key labeled and tucked away in careful order. And the thought of getting his hands on them was what made Christian grin, surely not the prospect of seeing his hostess again.

  Nonetheless, his pace quickened, taking him swiftly to the entrance to the drawing room, where, for one brief moment, he was able to watch his quarry without her knowledge. Now that he had hints o
f the form beneath her gown, he knew just where to look to search out each curve and dip, and he was just tracing the slim column of her throat when the colonel called out a greeting from behind him.

  Christian bit back a curse as Miss Parkinson, Abigail, immediately glanced toward them. Her mouth tightened, and she adopted a guarded expression that seemed to convey some sort of displeasure at the mere sight of him, which he found positively baffling. After all, he was here at her request, wasn’t he?

  “Back so soon?” she asked.

  Christian frowned in surprise at the rebuke implicit in her words. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she didn’t want him around. He did know better, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t she want him around?

  “Looking for some keys, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose you have a set?” the colonel asked in an apologetic tone.

  “I assume you have keys to all the rooms?” Christian said more pointedly.

  The Governess stood, and Christian tried not to admire her utter grace in doing so. How could a woman so seemingly severe move with that certain tantalizing sensuality? He tore his gaze from her hips and decided he was imagining things. He’d been cooped up too long in the ghost house, no doubt. Obviously it was affecting him. Adversely.

  “I was given a ring of keys by the solicitor,” Miss Parkinson acknowledged rather warily. “Why do you need it?”

  “There are a couple of doors in the hall that seem to be locked. Thought we’d take a look,” the colonel answered rather sheepishly.

  Christian said nothing, simply lifted his brows in silent query at his hostess. Would she thwart his simplest efforts to investigate? Why had she sent for him, if not for this purpose? Had he ever known a more frustrating female?

  “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. Unfortunately. “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 either 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

  Christian’s second view of the study was a bit more thorough than the 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 s
ome 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 room, insisting that she would complete 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.