Hobbins, stoic as ever, refrained from replying to that question. “Breakfast time has long passed, but I managed to retain some items on the sideboard for your repast,” he said, dismissing Christian and his ill mood with the ease of long service.
The dining room was deserted, much to Christian’s relief. Yet the very notion that he should be relieved to escape some woman’s censure annoyed him further. Though he was not about to hide himself away just to avoid her, he could not ignore the fact that his hostess had always looked at him with some semblance of disapproval. Now that she seemingly had a reason, he could just imagine the reception he would get. Christian scowled as he put the little remaining meat upon his plate, along with some stone-cold toast. He had never let anyone else’s judgment, true or false, affect him before, so why did he care what the Governess thought, especially when she seemed to prefer the negative view?
Perhaps he ought to give her something to be really angry about, Christian thought with a sudden grin. While he ate, he conjured up several delightful plans, ranging from simply tossing Miss Parkinson over his shoulder to finding the key to her room and using it. That would give her plenty to squawk about, he decided. Then, just as he was trying to imagine what he would do there, the object of his musings came into the room. He could tell because the temperature dropped several degrees. Well, that, and the whiff of lilacs.
Christian didn’t even turn around. “You need not fear any further lapses on my part,” he said, determined to get the business over with as quickly as possible. “You were perfectly right. I don’t know what came over me.” In truth, he was not lying. Why this composed, dowdy sort should be the one to stir his dormant passions, he still had no idea.
Perhaps it was her very unavailability. After all, his ancestors weren’t remembered for stealing off with tavern wenches. It was the forbidden ones who aroused their lust, the very women who had become his ancestresses, Christian thought.
These days, he was expected to tryst with the ladies of the demimonde or bored widows of the ton and to marry one of the young ladies of nobility who were foisted each year upon the marriage market. Gentlemen did not give their attentions to those under their protection, menials and employees, and most especially not to decent, penniless women of good background. Such females were not for marrying or dallying. So, naturally, his piratical nature made him want one of them.
“Well?” he asked into the silence. Had his hostess no comment? No lecture to give him? With a sigh, Christian turned around to face not just Miss Parkinson, who had flushed a lovely shade of rose, but her cousin Mercia as well.
“Oh, my lord, we are so excited that you have finally made contact!” the older woman trilled.
Christian blinked. Was she talking about what he was thinking about? No wonder the Governess was blushing.
“With the specter,” his hostess said hastily. “Cousin Mercia is glad to hear that Sir Boundefort is stirring.”
“We have set the colonel to watch, but so far he has heard nothing. Perhaps the storm roused our ancestor,” Mercia suggested. “Or perhaps our ancestor roused the storm. Emery claims it was a manifestation of his anger.”
“Whose, Emery’s or the phantom’s?” Christian asked.
For a moment, the older lady eyed him blankly, then she giggled. “Oh, my lord, you are too clever.”
“Isn’t he, though?” the Governess asked in a dry tone that put a decidedly different meaning to her words. Indeed, she was wearing her disapproving expression, and Christian was tempted to stick his tongue out at her… or in her… He rose abruptly.
“Are you going back to the great hall to coax him forth?” Mercia asked breathlessly.
“I’ll do my best,” Christian drawled. “But you go on ahead. I want to speak to my, uh, your cousin for a moment,” he added with a grim smile.
Nodding, the little woman left the room, leaving him alone with his hostess, who looked anything but pleased by the prospect. Christian could only stare in amazement at her unhappy visage. Why, of all the women in the world, did this one so affect him?
“I can’t think of a thing we have to discuss privately,” Miss Parkinson said, tilting her nose into the air as if he even smelled bad. Christian took a deep breath just to prove to himself that he didn’t.
“Can’t you?” he asked, stepping forward and grinning wickedly at his nemesis, er… hostess. She held her ground, brave, foolish creature that she was, but Christian could see the hesitation in her eyes. She wanted to flee. Good. At least he had some power over her.
“How about the little fact that you seem to have announced to the world at large our rendezvous…” Christian paused, enjoying the shocked look that crossed her face.
“…with Sir Boundefort?”
To her credit, the Governess recovered herself quickly, her expression changing from outrage to rather annoyed inquiry. “And why shouldn’t I speak of what happened last night? I thought that was the reason you were here, to banish the ghost?”
Ignoring her little dig, Christian leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “And just suppose this spectral fellow is really made out of flesh and blood?”
“Isn’t that for you to find out?” she asked, arching her dark brows just a little.
“Well, it would be a bit easier if we were more circumspect with our knowledge, using whatever information we come across to our own advantage,” Christian replied. He didn’t necessarily suspect any of the cousins of knocking about down below. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine the colonel or the scholar or the little old lady skulking in the cellars making odd noises, but just in case one of them, most likely Emery, was behind it, any element of surprise was gone.
Watching the play of expression upon her face, Christian knew the moment she understood him. “Are you accusing someone in this house—my own cousins—of perpetrating a fraud?”
Christian shrugged. “I’m not saying one of them did it, but now everyone in the whole house, in the whole countryside probably, will know what we discovered. And will have a chance to cover their tracks.”
The look she gave him next was priceless, a kind of reluctant admiration, as if she wanted to apologize for her blunder but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. That made two of them. Christian grinned in response, which of course ruined the effect at once.
Suddenly his hostess became brisk and businesslike. And accusatory. “Well, you should have warned me not to speak of it if you wanted to pursue that course.” Dismissing her own culpability with apparent ease, she eyed him with expectation. “Now what do you intend to do?”
Christian wanted to say, Kiss you again, but tamped down both the words and the urge. “I had hoped to look for some plans to the house, but now I suggest we find a way below the hall without delay, before our phantom can remove evidence of his activities.”
Miss Parkinson nodded stiffly, and Christian decided that one thing, at least, he had not imagined the night before. She really was lovely in a unique sort of way. But that hair! It was too tight by half. The Governess needed loosening up in the worst way. Christian imagined himself pulling out the pins, one by one. His breath caught for a moment before he dismissed the vision with a vengeance. If he touched that coiffure, he’d probably get a poke in the eye for his trouble.
With a frown, he turned his attention back to the ghost. “Let us call for some lanterns. We shall probably need them.” When she nodded again, he summoned the audacity to take her arm for a stroll toward the hall. “So, tell me, how did everyone react to the news?”
Pointedly stepping away from his touch, the Governess gave him a reproving look. Did she have any other kind?
“They reacted as anyone would,” she said.
“And how does anyone react when informed of strange knockings below their residence?” Christian asked, amused.
At that she had the grace to appear chagrined, but only, Christian suspected, for a moment. “Well, I certainly didn’t tell everyone, as you so rashly a
ssumed,” she said. “I saw no need to inform the servants, as it would only… confuse them.”
“Frighten more of them into fleeing, you mean?” he asked.
The Governess looked at him with annoyance, and he nearly laughed aloud. So much for her brief chagrin. “And as for your cousins?” he prodded. “No one turned red in the face or appeared to be disturbed by the news?”
She shook her head. “I’d like to know upon what you base your supposition that someone here is the cause of haunting.”
Christian shrugged. “If, as I presume, the ghost is man-made, then it stands to reason that anyone in the vicinity would be a suspect.”
She seemed affronted. “With that sort of reasoning, then even I could be responsible!”
Christian shrugged again, enjoying her outrage. She was so easily riled. “But I know you weren’t directly responsible because you were there.”
“Yes, I was there,” she echoed, and they both fell into silence, the sparring mood between them chased away by the memory of what else had befallen them the night before— when they were alone together.
Miss Parkinson cleared her throat as they neared the great hall. “As for the reactions of the others, the colonel was most surprised. He doesn’t seem to believe in spirits.”
“Though he doesn’t quite disbelieve, either,” Christian said.
Miss Parkinson nodded. “Cousin Mercia was most excited, being rather a proponent of Sir Boundefort’s.”
“And Emery?” Christian prodded.
She slanted him a glance. “Emery is a scholar, and as such he keeps an open mind.”
“Ah,” Christian noted. He couldn’t very well say anything more, as they had reached their destination, where he found all three cousins eyeing him expectantly, Mercia with obvious glee, the colonel more warily, and Emery with his usual ill will. Christian decided he just couldn’t wait to tell the earl how much he had enjoyed this little jaunt the old man had sent him on.
And then they all began talking at once.
Christian silenced them with an upheld hand. “Does anyone know where a copy of the plans for the house might be?” he asked. When they all shook their heads, he turned to Emery. “What about you? Surely, in all your research, you have come across some mention of the original building or additions?”
Emery glared at him. “No, my lord. I’m afraid such things hold no interest for me,” he answered with a sniff.
Christian narrowed his eyes for a moment, then decided against argument. “Well, I guess we will just have to open the doors and discover what we may.”
“B-but you can’t!” Emery protested.
“And why is that?” Christian asked, finding the young man’s reaction most interesting.
“Well, I thought the doors were locked!” the colonel blustered.
“It’s dangerous down there. Any fool can see that—else why close off the cellars?” Emery said with a snide superiority that was beginning to grate on Christian’s nerves.
“I didn’t think anyone knew exactly what lay behind the doors,” Christian commented with narrowed eyes.
“Perhaps Sir Boundefort wants us to go down below,” Mercia suggested.
“More likely he is warning us against it,” Emery said.
“I say, all this discussion is moot unless you plan to break down the doors,” the colonel said. He paused. “You don’t plan to, do you?”
“No, I don’t plan to break them down,” Christian said. “But I’m hoping to pick the locks.”
That little announcement silenced the entire hall, the arguing and the chatter dying away in a heartbeat as everyone stopped to stare at him, presumably dumbfounded that a viscount of the realm would even suggest such a thing. Christian grinned. His pirate heritage came in handy at times, though it was a friend of rather dubious talents who had taught him this trick years ago. Unfortunately, he was not in the habit of using the skill and so wasn’t too certain of his success.
But he was rarely plagued by doubt, and so he turned to his hostess. “One of your hairpins, please?” he asked, holding out his hand. He would like to remove all of them, but he didn’t see how he could justify that request.
For her part, Miss Parkinson simply stared at him in horror. Was she that attached to her hideous coiffure? She looked positively flummoxed for a long moment, and Christian wondered if she needed some sort of assistance. Of course, he would happily provide some, of a physical nature…
“Am I to understand you can enter through locked doors?” she finally asked.
Christian shrugged. “I’m going to do my best.”
Miss Parkinson opened her mouth as if to launch into one of her lectures, but shut it again as she looked around the room at the avid faces of her relatives. Perhaps she feared that he would pick her lock? Christian felt his body’s immediate interest in that idea and firmly quelled it.
Obviously the Governess did not approve of his skill, no matter how helpful it might turn out to be, but what choice did she have? The only other way to get through the locked doors was to take an ax to them, and Christian didn’t feel like expending that much energy. He waited, expectantly, until she finally lifted her hands to her hair and removed one pin of the far too many that he was certain were lodged there.
She dropped it, still warm from her touch, into his hand, and Christian drew in a sharp breath. Just to catch a whiff of lilacs, of course. He stared down at it for a moment, unaccountably affected, and realized there was something about the Governess that seemed to destroy his usual composure. Loosing the breath, he walked toward the fretwork. “Colonel, could you bring one of the lanterns?”
“Aha! Most certainly,” the old fellow said, following close behind. They all did, filling up the narrow passage, but Christian was rather glad of it. He liked having every one of them where he could keep an eye on them, just in case. Halting before the farthest door, he knelt, carefully bent the metal of the hairpin, and inserted it in the old lock. He made a few delicate maneuvers and with gratifying swiftness he heard a click.
Someone gasped, and the colonel slapped him a bit too heartily on the back. “Well done, my lord, well done!” he exclaimed. Christian slanted a glance at his hostess. Her expression remained what he would call dubious. He grinned, then pulled the handle.
The heavy wooden door swung inward easily, and Christian was not surprised to find the opening clear. No cobwebs hung in his face, no crumbled stones impeded his path, and no centuries of dust lay thick upon the floor. Someone had found a way in here, and recently, for the stone flags looked to be swept, just like the tiles in the hall itself.
Christian lifted his lantern with anticipation, only to find himself facing a stone wall. For a moment he wondered whether the whole area had been bricked up, but when he peered further inside, he saw that the passage continued to the left. A relatively even surface stretched in that direction, but he could see no sign of steps. Perhaps this way led to the old kitchens instead of to the cellars.
“Well? What’s there? What do you see?” Various voices assailed Christian as he was crowded forward, and now he wished that all the residents of Sibel Hall were not present and bearing down upon him. He would prefer just Miss Parkinson, he thought, his lips curving slightly. Turning, he glanced her way. Unlike the others, she was not straining to see, but standing calmly nearby, waiting. The image struck him forcefully. How long had she been waiting? And for what?
Christian shook his head at such whimsy. His hostess was just keeping her distance, as was her wont, but he had no doubt that she would charge ahead into the darkness at the first opportunity. Christian let his gaze rove over her figure, taking in the drab gown of some indeterminate shade. Any other woman would have insisted upon changing her gown or donning an apron before entering the passage. Of course, few other women would even have wanted to go. Against his will, Christian felt a sharp surge of admiration, as well as an odd dose of kinship.
“Well?” she asked him sharply, thereby breaking whatever s
pell was upon him.
Christian sighed. “I suppose you are determined to come along.”
“Of course,” she answered.
“Well, then, watch your skirts,” he said. He glanced around at the others. “Colonel, would you please stay here, in case we get into any trouble?”
“Certainly, my lord!” The man actually looked relieved not to have to venture into the blackness, and Christian bit back a smile. It faded when Emery stepped forward.
“I’ll have a look, if you don’t mind,” he said in a proprietary manner.
Actually, Christian did mind. “I thought you were concerned about the dangerous state of the building,” he said in a subtle taunt.
Emery flushed. “I still think it’s unsafe to go blindly rushing in there, but since I have the most expertise, I’d better go along.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the plans of the house,” Christian said.
“Nevertheless, Emery’s knowledge can only serve us well,” Miss Parkinson said, effectively ending the standoff, and Christian’s questioning as well. He frowned at her, but she was already moving past him, holding her lantern high.
“I’ll wait here,” Mercia trilled from behind him. “As much as I would like to explore, I suspect I would only impede your progress.”
“Perhaps we shall catch a glimpse of Sir Boundefort, as you roust him from his den!” the colonel called jovially from behind.
Stepping ahead of his hostess, Christian reached out a hand to keep her back and adopted one of her reproving looks. “Please stay behind me,” he said, including Emery in that bit of advice. Although Miss Parkinson appeared a bit surprised, apparently she decided not to argue, which was a good thing for her. Sibel Hall might be her house, but he was the ghost… router.
With his newly acquired architectural eye, Christian studied the walls of the passage, but the structure seemed sound enough. Indeed, he was hard-pressed to determine exactly why the whole area had been closed off, but his wondering came to an end when he reached another door, even larger and thicker than the earlier one.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 8