Of course, Christian couldn’t heed just his own desires in this case. He could imagine the earl’s distress, whether real or feigned, all too clearly as the old gentleman accused him of abandoning a lady in distress. Christian rolled his eyes at that one. He could hardly explain that Miss Parkinson was no lady but some kind of governess, who appeared equal to anyone and anything, including a medieval specter, without any assistance from him.
But despite appearances, she had asked for his help, so if he left now, he would be abandoning her—at least in the earl’s eyes. “Oh, very well, I suppose I can give it a bit longer,” Christian muttered, half to himself and half to his manservant.
But kicking his heels with nothing except a bit of fine wine to keep him occupied wouldn’t do either. He let his valet help him into a fresh coat. “If only I knew why someone is chipping away at the cellar,” he mused aloud.
“I suspect they are looking for something,” Hobbins conjectured.
Christian nodded absently. “But there’s no sign of anything down there,” he murmured. His first thought had been a hidden room, but the cellars had been built before the need for such places arose. There was a chance that the medieval owner had built a hiding space, just large enough to store his wealth. Christian had spent some intimate time with the foundation walls, however, and he hadn’t found one single sign of anything beyond the recent tampering.
Again, Christian wished he had the plans or some sort of record of the building. “Tomorrow I suppose I’ll search the library and see what turns up.” He could think of other things he would rather search, primarily his hostess’s person.
That thought carried him through a swift exit from his room down to the dining room, where he found, to his dismay, that the rest of the company had failed to wait upon him. For an instant he was so outraged that he opened his mouth to protest, but the look on his hostess’s face made him decide not to risk it. And what had he missed, anyway? No doubt the fare was as bad as ever. Just colder. Wincing, Christian excused himself and hurried back to the cellars to fetch a lovely old bottle imported from France by some former resident of Sibel Hall. Since then the line had clearly gone downhill.
So did his evening.
By the time he returned, the wretched meal was stone cold and his hostess colder still. He couldn’t even enjoy the delightful Bordeaux because of the evil looks the Governess sent his way. Christian felt as though he was stealing her wine, especially since she refused even a taste. Only the colonel seemed happy to join him in a glass, slurping so enthusiastically that Christian felt compelled to limit the old fellow’s share.
The conversation was practically nonexistent, and what there was of it proved unpalatable. Christian decided it had reached the absolute nadir when Cousin Mercia asked him about his afternoon’s explorations. At the very question the Governess sniffed. Sniffed! Christian could not recall ever having been the object of such censure. It was all he could do to retain some semblance of politesse when he wanted to lunge across the table and wipe away her scowl. Of course, at this point, he was wondering if any man, even a fellow of his previously admired talents, could put a smile on her face.
As if that weren’t bad enough, Emery decried Christian’s every observation about the cellars, including the glaring truth that someone had been down there trying to find something. The boy actually sneered at the facts!
“Next you shall be claiming that Sir Boundefort himself was floating about, chipping at the walls,” Emery mocked, again testing Christian’s resolve not to dive over the dinner settings. But in Emery’s case, his objective would be to draw blood, not a smile.
And just when Christian thought he’d heard it all, Cousin Mercia seized upon Emery’s sarcastic conjecture as entirely probable, postulating that her knightly ancestor was trying to escape his earthly boundaries by hacking away at the foundations of his own house. She then launched into yet another recitation of her wretched couplets.
Christian stifled a groan.
When the beastly affair was over, he excused himself to seek an early retirement, eager for any escape from the dreadful company. But his room seemed small and stifling, so when all was quiet, he once again left it to prowl around the house during the night, listening for noises that never came. And a hostess who, unfortunately, never appeared in the darkness, clad only in her nightclothes and suffering a change of heart about her gallant rescuer.
Bored and restless and weary of being cooped up inside dreary Sibel Hall, Christian finally trudged back to his bed, which had never seemed emptier.
He was growing irritable. He admitted it. Although not quite as surly as Emery, he reminded himself of one of the earl’s gouty old cronies. And he didn’t particularly care for it. But who could blame him when he was now into his fourth day at Sibel Hall, with little enough to show for his stay except a bad night’s sleep and poor company?
And, in his misguided search for plans to the house, he had been trapped in the dusty old library seemingly forever, which in itself was enough to ruin anyone’s mood. Wasn’t it? Christian slanted a glance at the colonel, cheerfully humming away as he thumbed through moldy old volumes, then toward the governess, who seemed content enough until she caught him staring and glared at him.
Christian sighed. He was not a reader. He never had been, having scraped through his school days by doing as little of it as possible. He had always preferred the out-of-doors, escaping whenever he could, and his tastes had changed little over the years. An afternoon spent surrounded by books at Sibel. Hall was the stuff of nightmares as far as he was concerned. But what else was he to do? He was the one who had insisted on looking for some clue to the original construction, the so-called treasure, or Sir Boundefort himself.
And so far he had found books on every conceivable subject except those. Indeed, there seemed to be a notable dearth of any sort of family history, so notable as to make Christian suspicious. Had someone actually gone through the place and removed anything that might be pertinent? It seemed like a great deal of trouble—and to accomplish what?
Christian shook his head, which was too full of dust and stultifying writings to think clearly. Hell, he could hardly even breathe. He had sneezed twice, yawned innumerable times, and ogled the derriere of his hostess whenever he got a chance. But as much as he enjoyed sneaking those glimpses, Christian found himself growing impatient for some kind of activity that did not involve dry old tomes.
The possibility of a rousing haunting seemed extremely remote at this point, for Christian had come to the conclusion that if there ever had been a phantom, it wasn’t about to show its spectral face when he was around. And if actual corporeal beings were involved in the happenings here, then his discovery of tools in the cellar had effectively scared them off as well. But his family had never been known for their inaction, and Christian had reached the limit of his.
It was time to do something to flush out the fellow.
Replacing an unpromising volume on families of the north country on its shelf, Christian turned around and dusted off his hands purposefully. “I’m going into the village to post a letter. To my grandfather,” he added, to forestall any protest from his slave-driving hostess. She could hardly object to a familial missive, nor could she tell him to send one of the servants, considering the lack of help about the place.
Christian glanced toward her, expecting at least a mild protest, but whatever complaint she might have lodged was interrupted by the colonel’s booming voice. “I’ll come with you! Dash it all, I haven’t been to the village for some time.”
Christian conjured a smile with some effort. So much for his escape. He might manage to get away from Sibel Hall, but not from the cousins. As for the letter, he hadn’t even written it yet, and it certainly wasn’t to his grandfather. He would just have to make sure the colonel didn’t see the direction.
“All right. Why don’t you call for the carriage while I run up and fetch the letter?” Christian asked.
“Very good!
Very good!” the colonel said, his obvious delight in the journey robbing Christian of any ill will.
Christian turned to his hostess. “Perhaps you would care to join us as well?” he asked, trying not to look too hopeful. If he was going to take one cousin, why not another—more specifically, the best of the lot?
For a moment she appeared tempted, but then shook her head firmly in rejection. Christian decided she needed tempting more often. Luckily, he considered himself quite good at providing that sort of thing. “Are you certain? It looks as though the day will clear off,” he added.
Unfortunately the colonel spoiled the effect. “Yes, do join us, Abigail. We shall have a fine time, I’ll warrant.”
Miss Parkinson turned toward the colonel then, much to Christian’s disappointment. “I’m sorry, but I have more correspondence to go through, as well as continuing my search here.”
That last barb obviously was directed his way, but Christian ignored it, taking the high road instead. “Is there anything I can get for you while I’m out, or do for you, Miss Parkinson?” he asked. Like kidnap you? And carry you off?
As if reading his thoughts, his hostess drew herself up sharply. “No, thank you, my lord.” He thought she would follow up with a stem warning to return in a timely fashion, and indeed, she looked as though she might speak, but only tightened her mouth into a thin line and nodded toward him in a deferential fashion. Christian frowned. He would rather have a reprimand than that, unless, of course, she was deferring to him… in bed.
With a sigh for that impossibility, Christian hurried to his room, where he quickly penned a note, closed it with his own personal seal, and strolled downstairs and out the main doors. The air was still damp, but the rain had finally stopped, and Christian drew in a deep draught, a delight after the musty atmosphere of the hall.
No scent of lilacs flavored the breeze, but the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, and he was doing something at last besides kicking his heels, frustrated with both his hostess and her ghost. So, with one last glance at the building behind him, Christian headed down the steps to the drive, only to find his own coach waiting for him.
“Thought you’d be more comfortable with your own man and all,” the colonel said, after a hearty greeting. Christian nodded, even as he wondered just how ill equipped the stables at Sibel Hall had become. No wonder the colonel hadn’t visited the village recently. And on the heels of that thought came another. When they arrived, Christian wondered just how welcome the old fellow would be.
Millfield was a typical little town, with a pleasant green and a small church and various shops for bread, cheese, tea, and shoes, among other things, as well as a small inn. After posting his letter, Christian poked his head into the common room, for such places were well known as gathering spots for locals. Here his title served him well, for it made for effusive greetings when he ordered a late luncheon in hopes that the food was better than that of the Hall. The colonel received more wary treatment, and that’s when Christian saw the whispering begin.
He had planned to pose several general questions while they waited for their food, leading up to more particular ones concerning Sibel Hall and its environs, and finally, the rumor of the haunting. Unfortunately the colonel once again ruined his plans.
“The viscount’s here to roust the ghost, you know,” the older man exclaimed loudly, and Christian cringed. Didn’t the old fool know any better, or had he deliberately revealed Christian’s purpose here in order to foil it? “He’s the one who exposed the Belles Corners business.”
Christian stifled a groan. So much for his subtle probing into local opinion. Everyone in the vicinity, including any who might be hammering away in the cellar at Sibel Hall, would soon be fully aware of his mission. He managed a laugh and a shrug. “Just taking a look, you might say, and enjoying the Devon countryside as well.”
Despite Christian’s efforts to gloss it over, the colonel’s bald announcement quite naturally cast a pall over the gathering. Some of the fellows, even big, strapping workmen, ducked their heads, as if in fear, at the very mention of the ghost, while others laughed aloud.
“Don’t you be mocking the devil, Tom Green, or you’ll find yourself walking home without yer head some dark night,” said a heavyset woman, presumably the owner’s wife.
“And who shall take it from me? Will it be you, Bess?” the fellow hooted.
“You best not jabber about what don’t concern you, Tom,” the owner said, defending his spouse with a fierce swipe of his towel.
“Well, I’ve lived here all my life,” a sharp-faced young man put in, “and I’ve never heard a thing about any specter! It’s my thinking that the new owners have been drinking to their good fortune a bit too often, if you take my meaning.”
A series of hoots followed, and the colonel whirled around. “Now, see here, young Kendal,” he sputtered, launching into a lengthy outraged protest, to which Christian turned a deaf ear. Instead, he leaned close to the owner and pursued his line of inquiry as quietly as possible. He discovered only that no strangers had been lurking about, no reports of unusual doings (beyond the phantom) had been heard, and no one (in his right mind) had been up to Sibel Hall in some time.
For Christian, his efforts were not unlike his dissection of homes and their structure, only these were focused on the history of the house itself, its environs, and the people of the area. Usually the pasts of all were intertwined, but it seemed that the previous owner of Sibel Hall, Bascomb Averill, hadn’t been on good terms with the villagers for many years—something to do with an old quarrel over payment for services rendered to some workmen.
After the owner of the inn left to tend to some other customers, Christian listened as best as he could manage, when he could escape the colonel’s interference, to the gossip and the rumor and the various conjectures on spectral visitations, including the notion that Bascomb had been so mean he was probably up there tormenting anyone within his reach, or that he was so tightfisted he kept watch over his hoard even in death. Of course, no one knew what that hoard might be or where it had come from (these fellows not having been privy to Cousin Mercia’s theories), but Christian thought that might explain the housebreakers chipping away at the cellar walls.
Despite buying several rounds of tongue-loosening drinks for the loungers, he really didn’t come away with anything noteworthy except a fine, leisurely meal of rustic meat pies and potatoes, topped off by a sweetened currant pudding and attended by a decent ale. All in all, Christian could hardly call it a wasted trip. But he still had one more thing to do.
When the colonel proclaimed, loudly, of course, that he was going to see about the coach, Christian hung back and scanned the room until his gaze lighted upon the sharp-eyed young man with whom the colonel had argued. With an inclination of his head, he drew the fellow off into the shadows in the corner.
“You’re young Kendal?” Christian asked.
“I am,” the young man answered. His voice and his stance were cocky, but his expression was guarded. “Alf’s the name.”
“And you aren’t afraid of the phantom?” Christian asked.
“Me? Not a whit, my lord, especially since none have seen him except doddering old fools,” he declared, then paused uncomfortably. “Begging your pardon, milord, but you ain’t seen him, have you?”
Christian laughed. “No, but I’d like to. I’d like to catch him in the act, if you get my drift.”
“Ah, so you don’t believe in him any more than I do,” Alf said with a smirk.
Christian shrugged noncommittally. “There are those who firmly swear by him, and I wouldn’t want to disparage them,” he said, giving Alf a sharp look.
“No, milord,” the young man answered readily.
“However, I wouldn’t mind having a stouthearted fellow with another pair of eyes and ears to assist me in my investigation,” Christian said.
“Ah! Then I’m your man, milord!” Alf said without hesitation.
�
�You can be discreet?” Christian asked.
“Silent as a lamb, milord!” Alf assured him.
Christian paused, then said to the young man carefully, “And you have no fear of night noises or strange lights, fiery-eyed dogs, that sort of thing?”
Alf snorted. “Why, I’ll be happy to go out to the churchyard and sleep on old Bascomb’s grave if you want!”
“I don’t think that will quite be necessary. But you would have no qualms about staying at the hall?” Christian said.
Alf shook his head. “It’d be a nice change from the old place, and I expect my granddad can manage for himself for a few days.”
“Very well,” Christian said, obviously surprising the fellow. “Pack some things and come round when you are ready. Tell the girl who answers the bell that you are to settle in and wait for me.”
“Right, milord,” Alf said with a grin.
Christian nodded, then slipped out of the building, well satisfied himself. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, so he could use some assistance. And this fearless young fellow might prove quite an effective spy. Or an extra fist, should things come to that.
9
Full of good food and with a scheme afoot, Christian returned to Sibel Hall in far better spirits, determined not to let his hostess ruin his good mood. For one delightful moment, he imagined her greeting him with open arms in the manner of his last mistress, who had quite a fondness for his money, if not for himself. But he knew such a reception was not in the offing, and in a way he was glad. Miss Parkinson had already proved that, despite her straitened circumstances, she could not be bought. It would take more than coin to stir her interest. But what?
A Man Of Many Talents Page 13