A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  He cocked a brow at that. His suspicious nature made him wonder what the devil she was up to, summoning him here and then avoiding him. After all, she was his employer, he thought, pausing momentarily at the singular notion. He had never been employed in his life, let alone at the beck and call of a woman. Normally, he would have rejected the very idea, but there was something about the Governess that made it rather titillating.

  Christian shook his head at his own perversity. Next he'd be wanting her to rap his knuckles. And she looked inclined to oblige when she caught him eyeing her. Frowning, she moved to shut the door behind him, sending the dizzying scent of lilacs his way, and Christian leaned against the jamb, rather like a boy heady from his first flirtation. Perhaps it was his pirate blood, stirred to life by a female’s seeming disdain, but Christian felt positively invigorated.

  Drawing a deep breath, he straightened and pushed away from the jamb with new resolve. He might have to go out and swash some buckles… or at least rout a ghost.

  The euphoria that sent Christian charging back to the great hall with eagerness gradually dissipated in the absence of either the specter or his hostess, and he was soon kicking his heels, bored beyond reason by the colonel’s military tales. When the dinner hour arrived, he felt like a condemned man granted a reprieve, but the somber atmosphere, the bizarre company, and the poor provisions turned his mood once again.

  Christian wondered if he might find sustenance in a village nearby. Surely there was an inn or tavern of some sort that provided food. If so, he was determined to escape there on the morrow for luncheon—or perhaps for every single meal from now on. That he would still be staying at Sibel Hall was not in doubt at this point. His mission was clearly going to take a lot longer than he had anticipated.

  Not even the sight of his hostess did much to cheer Christian, for she greeted him with her usual lack of enthusiasm. Not close enough to smell her perfume or to receive a rap on the knuckles, he felt a kind of restless frustration at her aloofness. And the desultory conversation at the table did nothing to enliven the gloomy gathering.

  “Did you find the keys?” Christian finally asked, since the Governess had made no mention of them. Had she even looked for them? Were they in her pocket all along? Perhaps a search of her person was in order…

  “No, I did not,” she answered in clipped tones, as if the question annoyed her, and Christian decided the cousins were just as weary of him as he was of them. Miss Parkinson seemed displeased by the very sight of him, and even the colonel was less voluble than usual. Having set aside his vaunted studies long enough to eat, Emery had joined them, but he continued to glare at Christian with no little enmity.

  Christian smiled evilly in return. “Perhaps Emery can put his considerable intellect to the problem,” he suggested.

  “What?” the young man said, glancing about with some alarm.

  “We seem to be missing some keys!” the colonel announced in his booming voice.

  Emery sputtered, his face flushing. “Why should I know anything about any keys?”

  “Because you’ve been living here for some time,” Christian answered.

  “The colonel’s been here longer than I have!” Emery protested. “Besides, I don’t bother myself with the running of the house. I have my studies.”

  “Emery is quite the scholar, my lord,” Mercia declared, though Christian remained unconvinced. She looked up from her plate with curiosity. “What keys are missing?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about, just looking to open an old door or two in the hall,” the colonel said.

  Emery snorted. “Those keys probably were lost years ago. I believe the passages were blocked up. Old stone, rotting foundations. Too dangerous,” he said dismissively.

  The boy’s comments sounded plausible, Christian realized. He knew from his own experience, however, that many a building older than Sibel Hall remained solid, and from what he could see the place was dreary but firm. Perhaps Emery’s theories were based on misinformation or perhaps he had his own reasons for putting them forth. After all, blind passages and crumbling cellars made for a convenient home for the ghost or its minions.

  Emboldened by the silence that followed his pronouncement, Emery hastened to embellish it. “Indeed, the original portion of the house is in terrible condition, as anyone with any knowledge of architecture can attest,” he said with a superior air.

  Christian opened his mouth to argue the point. After all, he knew quite a bit about buildings himself. But the smirk on Emery’s face stopped him. No matter how galling, perhaps it would serve him better to keep his expertise to himself, at least for now.

  “Indeed, I would be careful wandering about the old part of the house, my lord. I’m sure such places are not your normal venue. You might be struck by falling stone,” Emery added.

  Christian lifted his brows. Was that a threat?

  Miss Parkinson made a low sound of dismay. “I had not realized the building was in such poor condition,” she said. Was she worried about his safety? Christian flashed her a smile, but she quickly became engrossed in her food.

  “I have never seen any loose stones,” the colonel observed, only to become flustered by Emery’s glare. “But architecture is not my forte,” he hastened to add.

  “Of course, the area itself is not the only danger,” Emery said, warming to his topic. “There is also the ghost to contend with.”

  “But I thought he wasn’t harmful,” Miss Parkinson said in her usual practical tone, a tone that Christian was beginning to relish beyond all good reason.

  Emery smirked again. “Who knows what the specter is capable of doing when provoked?” His words, ringing out in the dimly lit room, were punctuated by a great lash of rain against the windows. Very effective, Christian mused, though no one at the table seemed to notice. Perhaps they all thrived on the dismals.

  Emery was certainly thriving in his role as unchallenged expert. “Indeed, one wonders exactly how you intend to rout the spirit, my lord?” he asked, eyeing Christian directly.

  As much as Christian would have liked to wipe the sneer off the obnoxious pup’s face, he didn’t have an answer to that question. He had no idea how to rout or even rouse a real specter. All he could do was watch and listen for some kind of worldly connection, but so far he had caught no one knocking. And he had no intention of sharing that information with the so-called scholar.

  Emery practically drooled into the ensuing silence. “I mean, you cannot have put any study into the matter, eh, my lord? It’s not as though you are a man of science or a philosopher, is it?” he asked, looking quite triumphant.

  Christian was tempted to lunge over the table and give the scholar a good taste of his specialty, but he told himself the boy wasn’t worth his while. Besides, he was supposed to be on his best behavior as gentleman and rescuer of Miss Abigail Parkinson, which meant not giving in to his more uncivilized impulses. Or even his boxing expertise. He gave a casual shrug.

  “Indeed, my lord, I am hard-pressed to see what qualifies you to be here, beyond a chance encounter at Belles Corners,” Emery persisted.

  Obviously, the boy thought Christian to be just an idle nobleman out on a lark. Well, he was, really. Or rather, he was a nobleman (not necessarily idle) coerced by his elder into forsaking the comfort of clean, luxurious surroundings for this definitely non-larklike experience. Christian opened his mouth to point that out, but the Governess rushed to his defense.

  “Emery, please!” she said, and Christian bit back a smile of pleasure, absurdly heartened by her concern—until he heard her next words. “I believe I told you that none of the men of science I contacted would consider our case. Lord Moreland is our…” She paused, as though unwilling to continue.

  Christian sought to supply the missing word, in his own mind, at least. Savior? Champion? He grinned, but found his hostess unable to meet his eye. Was that a blush on her cheeks? Christian decided that she needed color and exposure to wind and sunshine instead of
this gloomy tomb of a place. For one giddy moment, he felt like leaping over the table and sweeping her off her feet, as his ancestors might have done. Except he didn’t have a ship. Hell, right now he didn’t even have a house of his own.

  Miss Parkinson cleared her throat and began again. “What I meant to say is that Lord Moreland has been kind enough to answer our summons. If you feel you have some expertise that he lacks, then you should aid him as best you can, Emery.”

  Emery sniffed, dismissing Christian’s skills as too limited for consideration. Annoyed, Christian opened his mouth to note that he had attended Oxford, after all. If he hadn’t quite finished, there was no need to mention that, was there? But Emery’s smirk stopped him once again. Why not let them believe what they would? His chances of discovering any nefarious goings-on could only be improved if the villain, whether ghostly or corporeal, underestimated him.

  So Christian just smiled, content in his own self-knowledge, yet aware that he probably looked like an idiot.

  * * * * *

  Perhaps he was an idiot. Christian could find no other explanation for his current behavior. After another evening spent kicking his heels alone in the great hall, he had retired to his room, hoping that the specter would decide he was off guard, at least for the night. And after waiting an appropriate interval, to make sure everyone else was asleep, he had sneaked out again to roam the dark rooms like some kind of housebreaker.

  He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to find. Sir Boundefort floating through the moonlit passages? The three cousins engaged in some sort of skulduggery? Or Miss Parkinson… Well, better not to think about his hostess lying abed. Still, he couldn’t help wondering where her room was. But then he shook his head. Really, she wasn’t his type at all. He leaned more toward sophisticated blond widows who knew how to please a man than to stem, darkhaired women who looked like menials, no matter how luscious their form. Setting his teeth, Christian tried to focus instead on a less corporeal figure.

  Slipping through the house with a stealth bred in the bones, he was disappointed to discover that all was still and silent within. Outside, the rain had whipped itself into a full-fledged storm, including thunder and lightning, but it appeared that even the perfect setting couldn’t lure Sir Boundefort out. Christian even checked in the shade’s favorite spot in the hall, but he could find no sign of the medieval spirit or any earthly accomplices either.

  Having kept the small, shuttered lantern he had been given earlier, Christian peered behind the fretwork, but all seemed unchanged. Of course the doors were still locked. A lengthy search of several of the main rooms after dinner hadn’t turned up anything except a lot of dust, and although Christian had asked Hobbins to poke around the servants’ quarters, his valet had given him a look that stated most equivocally that such duties were below his station. Now, as Christian studied the heavy oak, he wondered if perhaps Emery was right. The stout portal looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

  And that was when he heard it.

  Catching his breath, Christian paused to listen. There it was again. Far and above the lash of the wind and rain outside, this was a more rhythmic sound, as if someone were tapping. Or knocking. Silently, Christian walked the length of the passage behind the partition, then the hall itself, where the noise was definitely fainter. Still, he was fairly certain of the direction it was coming from: below.

  He was just wondering if there was some other entrance to the old cellars that presumably lay beneath the hall when he caught sight of a light. No flash of lightning illuminating the windows, this was a steady bob of brightness that came from within the house. Unless Sir Boundefort glowed as he floated along, someone else was approaching. Swiftly extinguishing his own lantern, Christian ducked to the side of the doorway, where he waited silently to see who felt the need to visit the great hall in the middle of the night.

  Whoever it was moved quietly but not with the noiselessness of an expert, and the light was a beacon that announced the advance. With a smug smile, Christian was inclined to guess the visitor was Emery, the not-so-intelligent scholar, and he nearly stuck out a booted foot in order to trip him. Accidentally, of course. But another sound stopped his movement, a gentle swish that he well recognized from his rather dissolute youth: the sway of a lady’s skirts.

  And so Christian stood still, watching, as a circle of light came into view, accompanied by a firm but soft tread and a glimpse of dark, utilitarian fabric. The Governess! Christian jerked in surprise as his employer walked into the cavernous room, her lantern’s glow practically swallowed by the vast shadows around her. With a frown, Christian leaned against the cold stone, crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke just loud enough for her to hear him.

  “Looking for someone?” he drawled into the darkness.

  To her credit, she did not flinch, but turned toward him, her lamp held high. Brave woman, Christian thought.

  “Yes, actually, my lord. I heard footsteps earlier, and I thought I would investigate,” she replied in a matter-of-fact fashion hardly in keeping with their surroundings.

  Brave or incredibly foolish, Christian amended. He pushed away from the wall. “Have you gone mad?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  “I hardly see how my mental state can be any concern of yours, but, no, I consider myself quite sane,” she answered.

  Christian found himself growing more than a little annoyed at her wit, as well as her self-possession. “Pardon me, but when you entreated me for help,” he said, enjoying her slight wince at his words, “you made yourself and everything here my concern, and I hardly think that wandering about here alone in the dark is a clever decision.”

  For some reason he was becoming angry, so he drew in a deep breath in an effort to shrug it off. He was normally the most easygoing of men, and he did not intend to let the Governess and her bizarre behavior alter his temperament.

  “You would have me confined to my room, unable to walk through my own house?” she asked in her sharpest tone. Her expression was accusatory, even though she was the one acting like a lunatic.

  Christian blew out a breath in exasperation. “During the night hours, yes! Didn’t you hear the claims at dinner that the great hall isn’t safe? What if you are struck by falling stone? What if this ghost of yours attacks you?” With every question he uttered, Christian stepped forward, while she held her ground, her head high.

  “I have noticed no debris in the hall,” she answered. “Nor do I think any phantom capable of seizing a person.”

  “And what if your specter is man-made? How will you fend off a human attack, with only your lantern and…” Christian trailed off. He was standing in front of her now, quite close, in fact, and realized that she was wearing a robe.

  “…in your nightclothes?” he croaked, his voice suddenly tight, his breeches more so.

  Christian swallowed, trying to gather his wits. It wasn’t as though she were lounging about in some diaphanous shift. Indeed, her robe appeared to be plain and serviceable and not the slightest bit enticing. So why, then, was he enticed? He let out his breath, trying not to focus on the folds of the material, where a bit of pristine white showed at her throat.

  “So you believe that one of my cousins might murder me?” she asked. Her tone was her usual firm one, and yet Christian noted a certain breathy quality in it that he had never heard before.

  “Perhaps. How well do you know them?” he asked, his gaze moving up her pale neck to her hair. Let it be loose, he thought. Let it be loose. “Or the footsteps you heard might belong to anyone—a housebreaker, a turned-off servant bent upon revenge, an old enemy of the family…”

  Again Christian’s voice trailed off as he saw that her hair fell neatly down her back in a plait, but was not pulled as tightly from her face as during the day. In that moment of delicious discovery, he decided that he had never seen anything quite as alluring as that long, heavy braid. He shifted his gaze to her face to find her usual severe expression gone. Her eyes, he rea
lized, were a gentle blue that reminded him of something. Lilacs. Christian loosed a low sigh of pleasure at the discovery, while she stared up at him with wonder… or was it alarm?

  Suddenly thunder boomed outside, a ferocious roar that made her hand dip and the lantern sway. But, to Christian’s great disappointment, she didn’t jump into his arms as a typical female might have. Instead, she seemed to recover her equanimity with distressing swiftness. Drawing a deep breath, she appeared ready to launch into one of her lectures, but Christian held up a hand.

  “Shhh! Did you hear that?” he whispered. The rhythmic sound was back, or perhaps it had never stopped, Christian having been too distracted by his hostess to notice.

  “Of course I heard it! One would be deaf not to,” she snapped, though she pitched her voice low.

  “Not the thunder, the tapping,” Christian replied.

  Frowning at him suspiciously, Miss Parkinson cocked her head, and he could tell the moment at which she discerned the sound. Instead of evincing the slightest bit of unease, she turned unerringly toward the fretwork. “Perhaps it is Sir Boundefort,” she whispered.

  Christian lifted his brows ever so slightly. “What’s he doing? Walking with a cane?”

  “How would I know? You’re the ghost expert.”

  Christian opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it again.

  “It sounds like knocking,” Miss Parkinson whispered.

  Oh, good. That was his area of expertise. Unfortunately, the knocking didn’t seem to be in answer to anything, nor was it emanating from a bed of any kind.

  “And it’s coming from underneath us,” his hostess said in a hushed voice, rife with excitement. Christian stared at her, momentarily nonplussed by the lack of governess-like expression upon her face. In fact, in the soft light, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she looked positively… beautiful. Christian sucked in a breath as she swung the lamp lower and bent over to examine the old tiles. “Perhaps there is some sort of trapdoor,” she said.