Alert at once, Christian stepped closer and cocked his head to the side, straining to hear the odd keening sound. It was sort of a whistle or a wail, although why a ghost would make such a curious din, he had no idea. Then again, he was no expert on the phenomenon. Glancing covertly at his companions, Christian saw that Miss Parkinson continued speaking, while trying her hardest to ignore the interruption, and Mr. Smythe, though politely paying attention to her, kept darting glances toward the fretwork.
Finally, Christian walked directly to the dark partition, hoping to better determine the source of the noise, but the large hall, with its vaulted ceiling, made that task difficult. This time he was fairly sure it wasn’t coming from below, which puzzled him. Where else would the ghost hide except in the cellar— or in the formerly locked rooms?
Christian hurried behind the fretwork, only to find that someone had closed the door he had left standing open. Reaching for it, he jerked hard to no avail. The damn thing was locked again! He patted his pocket, but the hairpin was long gone, presumably removed by his efficient valet. Muttering a curse under his breath, Christian turned to retrace his steps and beg his hostess for another when he heard Smythe’s gasp.
“What the devil is that?” the solicitor asked, his normally steady voice wavering ominously.
Hurrying now, Christian emerged from behind the partition to see both Smythe and Miss Parkinson still as stones and staring somewhere above his head. The solicitor looked rather white-faced, while his hostess gaped, as if amazed, her luscious lips parted delightfully. Swinging around, Christian glanced upward, unable to see much of anything except the heavily carved wood dissolving into the darkness. For one wild moment, he wondered if the ghost made himself visible only to certain people, himself not among them, then he stepped backward, working his way toward his transfixed companions.
And finally he saw it.
High up behind the fretwork there was a flash of white. Christian squinted, stepping back once more to obtain a better view, and there, seemingly floating in thin air, was something. It was pale and diaphanous and rather shapeless—not exactly Sir Boundefort come to life but definitely more interesting than a few knocks from under a bed. Of course, it was too dark to see well, but Christian had prepared for that possibility, having instructed Alf to secrete a couple of lanterns about.
Hurrying behind the fretwork, he conducted a cursory search that told him the lamp he was seeking wasn’t there. He rushed out again and went quickly to a side table, where he found the requested lantern tucked underneath. Lighting it, he stepped back to where his companions were standing stock-still and held it high, but the glow did little to illuminate the upper reaches of the shadowy end of the hall.
Irritated now by both the elusive phantasm and the keening noise, Christian stared up at the thing for a long moment before coming to a decision. The only way to get a closer look at the specter was to get closer to it. Gazing up at the intricately carved partition, Christian wondered if the steady footwork of his pirate ancestors would serve him if he tried to climb the fretwork. This was certainly no rigging, and he hoped fervently that the old wood had not rotted away as he grabbed hold and started up.
But he hadn’t counted upon Miss Parkinson, who took sudden, violent exception to his plan. Just as he managed a foothold, she gasped in horror. He could only assume that the Governess didn’t approve of her guests climbing the walls.
“My lord, what do you think you are doing?” she cried, rushing toward him. “Stop that at once!”
Christian might have ignored her, except for the fact that she managed to grasp his coat and tug on it in an attempt to keep him grounded.
“Miss Parkinson, let go of me!” he said, only a veneer of civility keeping him from throwing her off. Or over his shoulder.
“I will not!” she replied, in her usual stubborn, argumentative fashion. Why was the woman so damned difficult?
“Stand aside, I tell you, or you may be hurt,” Christian warned.
“I may be hurt?” she echoed, as if incredulous.
Christian turned his head to glare down at her, only to become aware that the keening had stopped, replaced by a rather loud noise that sounded like throat-clearing. He glanced behind him to find Smythe trying to get his attention.
“Uh, I believe the, uh, thing has vanished,” the solicitor said, pointing upward with a pudgy finger.
Christian looked up but could see only darkness. Cursing under his breath, he swung his gaze back to his hostess. “Now see what you’ve done!” he snapped. For a long moment, Miss Parkinson simply stared at him while clutching his coat, and for once, Christian was too angry to wish her touch elsewhere. Finally, as if coming to whatever senses she might possess, she released her hold, and he dropped lightly to his feet.
But his mood was not so light. Without pausing to consider his course, Christian took a menacing step forward, while his hostess stepped backward accordingly. He had only an instant to relish that satisfying response before she lashed out at him. “See what I’ve done?” she said, echoing his words. “What I’ve done is probably save your life, you, you idiot!”
Christian stared at her, dumbstruck. Her face flushed, her eyes flashing, her breasts heaving, his hostess looked far more attractive than her usual dowdy self, and he felt a most primitive reaction. His lust was tempered, however, by her words. Christian couldn’t remember anyone, even his grandfather, ever calling him an idiot.
“Now just a moment,” he said, reaching out to grasp her arms. He glared down into her face as she glared up at his, the two of them locked in angry silence. Then her mulish expression gradually gave way to something else entirely, and Christian felt a kick in his gut. Or was it his groin? He wasn’t certain what he felt or what he intended to do about it, but given the heat of the moment, his response probably would have centered on the luscious mouth that was parted slightly. Indeed, he was just about to give in to an urge that had nothing to do with the scholarly image he was trying to assume when he heard another loud clearing of a throat.
“Uh, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go out for a breath,” Mr. Smythe said.
Glancing over at the solicitor, Christian couldn’t tell, but he had the uneasy suspicion the man was laughing. At him, the idiot. And while he was gaping at Smythe, his hostess slipped from his fingers. Christian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he found himself grasping thin air.
For her part, Miss Parkinson looked decidedly flustered, presumably because she had actually raised her voice. With a sigh, Christian glanced away, suddenly unable to look at her. The pounding heat had passed, but its intensity left an indelible impression, at least upon him. He told himself that anger at her interference had driven him to such strong emotions, but there was much more involved, so much more that Christian couldn’t begin to understand.
He told himself he was lucky to avoid what surely would have earned him even more contempt, but his fingers tingled at the loss of her. He wanted her back in his arms, no matter what the consequences. Even as he tried to still the indecent clamoring of his heart, Christian was seized by the rather daunting notion that if he ever really did lay claim to this woman, he would loose an array of emotions far more fierce than his usual remote dallying, far more exciting than simple sex, far more sustaining than friendship.
That union loomed before him, as deep and changing and fascinating as the seas that had lured his ancestors, and Christian knew he could take a breath and plumb the depths.
Or he could simply skirt the issues and skim the surface, a temptation for a man who was accustomed to taking all that life offered with ease.
Over all the uproar inside himself, Christian heard Mr. Smythe clear his throat yet again, and he knew that now was not the time to make any sort of life-altering decision. His solicitor was waiting, a specter might be lingering, and the subject of his conundrum looked as confused as he felt.
“There is no need for you to leave, Mr. Smythe,” Christian sa
id over his shoulder. He lifted his hand once more to extend his palm to his hostess, who eyed him warily. As well she should. “I need…” Christian paused, a wealth of hidden meaning in those words. “Another hairpin,” he muttered.
“What? Why?” It took the flushed Governess a full minute to gather her composure, which pleased Christian no end. Finally, she lifted her delicate brows in disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me the door is locked again?”
Why else would he want her hairpin? Christian thought. If he was the type of man who desired a memento of their recent encounter, he would certainly take something far more substantial. Swearing under his breath, Christian deliberately turned his thoughts from that path once more and nodded curtly. “Yes, the door is locked again.”
Miss Parkinson’s eyes widened in surprise, and she lowered her voice. “You don’t suppose that Sir Boundefort did it, do you?”
Christian realized that he had abandoned all attempts to appear scholarly, but he couldn’t help it. He had no idea what those in the scientific community thought, and as for himself, he could neither prove nor disprove the existence of ghosts. But he would swear by anything that this specter, at least, was not otherworldly.
“No, I don’t, I assume that he could pass right through the oak without bothering with lock or key,” Christian answered. “This business is the work of some mischief maker.” As he had thought all along, someone here at the Hall was up to something. He would love to get his hands on the culprit.
For once his hostess did not argue with him, but lifted pale fingers to her hair. Before he embarrassed himself gaping like a hayseed, Christian turned his head away. This time he didn’t feel up to watching her remove the pin, not after… whatever… had just happened.
When she laid the piece of metal in his outstretched palm, Christian tried not to notice its warmth or anything else. Taking it up, he hurried behind the partition without a backward glance. But even as he knelt in front of one of the doors, he swore that this time would be his last. As soon as he got a chance, he was going to have Alf remove the damn things from their hinges.
When he heard the click of the lock, Christian grabbed up his lantern and rushed through the passage, only to find an empty room and the door to the outside firmly locked. Rather than waste time there, he turned and headed to the other door and the cellars, Miss Parkinson at his heels.
“Please stay at the top of the stairs,” he said. But of course she ignored him, following behind as he searched for any signs that someone had been this way. His lone lantern did little to dispel the darkness, and with a sharp surge of annoyance, he realized that he was too late. If he had managed to get down here right away or if the door hadn’t been locked perhaps he could have caught a glimpse of something.
Now he looked at the vast, shadowy space, cluttered with all manner of items, and knew there was little he could do. If anyone had passed this way, he or she had plenty of places to hide—behind heavy furniture or even in old cupboards— and it would take more than one searcher to find the culprit. Cursing under his breath, he turned back toward the stair.
“Aren’t you going to look around?” Miss Parkinson asked.
“Why bother? We’ll never find anything in this jumble. Meanwhile, no one is guarding the door,” Christian reminded her. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t care to be shut down here.”
If he expected her to cringe, as usual, at the prospect of his company, unchaperoned, she proved him wrong. “You could simply pick the lock again,” she said fearlessly. “I have plenty of hairpins.”
Was it his imagination or did her lips curve into some semblance of a smile before being lost in the darkness? A heat spread through Christian at the thought, and as he climbed the steps, he grinned. In another setting, he might have pursued the possibility of that smile further, perhaps with a stroll in the garden or a tryst in some private parlor, but here the way led to a dark stone passage and a drafty great hall, where Mr. Smythe stood waiting nervously.
For a moment, Christian paused to watch Miss Parkinson’s attempts to mollify the man she thought was a prospective buyer, but then he seized his opportunity to slip away. As much as he disliked parting with his hostess, he had someone else to meet. And a ghost to rout.
11
Christian found his quarry lurking not far from the great hall, but instead of watching the suspects as instructed, Alf Kendal seemed to have his eye on one of the maids—at least until he saw his employer.
“Milord! Now, don’t have at me!” the fellow said, holding up a hand to stave off Christian’s wrath.
“Well?” Christian prompted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Well, you see, it’s this way, milord. I tried to keep an eye on all of ’em. I truly did! But they were too slippery for me! That colonel, he took off right away, kind of following you, like. Hanging back, but close enough to hear what was said, for a while at least. I figured he would stay put, so I checked on the others. That puny young fellow was gone, and that old lady, she thought I was the solicitor. Me!” he said, shaking his head at that. “Then she demanded to know exactly who I was and what my business was at the Hall! Right fierce she was, too!”
Cousin Mercia fierce? Christian began to think he had misjudged his man. How could Alf be counted upon in a fight if he was intimidated by an eccentric elderly female?
“By then, I’d lost both the gentlemen. Looked down by the hall here, but saw no sign of either one of them,” Alf said. He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, milord, but if you want all three of them watched at once, then we’re going to have to have some help.”
Christian sighed. The young man had a point. But even the oafish Emery presumably would notice the sudden appearance of a legion of spies. And they would need a veritable army to watch all the doors, inside, outside, and below in the cellars, let alone any hiding places he had yet to discover. Christian scowled. This ghost-routing business was turning out to be far more difficult than he had expected.
Conceding the problem, he nodded to Alf. No man could be three places at once. But now he knew no more about the movements of the three cousins than before the specter’s appearance. Had one of them managed to sneak ahead to reach the great hall before he and Mr. Smythe and Miss Parkinson arrived? But how could anyone manage to dangle… whatever it was… from the vaulted ceiling?
“I take it old Boundefort showed himself?” Alf asked, canny lad that he was.
“He did indeed,” Christian said. “Or rather, something did. It was hard to see up there in the shadows.”
“Up there?” Alf asked.
Christian nodded absently. “Yes, he was sort of floating around the rafters.”
“He was floating?” Alf asked, even his hardened voice rising a bit.
“Something was floating,” Christian amended.
“Well, how the devil did it get up there?” Alf asked.
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Christian declared. Alf gave him a sidelong look as if to say that he didn’t envy that task. Christian was none too keen on it himself. Either the specter had disappeared into thin air by virtue of his other worldly abilities—a possibility that Christian found unlikely—or someone more substantial had put on quite a show, then made a clean escape, probably to the outside.
Or perhaps there was some other hidey-hole that Christian had yet to find. These old houses were often riddled with priest’s holes, secret passages, and the like, and such places might not be described anywhere. Not that he had found any accounts of the house at all, Christian thought sourly. That observation reminded him of the book he had found, the only record, however feeble, of anything to do with the damned structure. Now where had he put it?
“Well, I can’t say whether any of those three you set me to watch was up to something or not. But I can tag after one of ’em now, milord,” Alf offered, eager to assist once more. “Personally, I’d have a go at that military fellow. Never knew one that was trustworthy,” he added, nodding sagely.<
br />
Christian was more inclined to suspect Emery, but he wasn’t sure how much of that suspicion sprang from his gut dislike of the so-called scholar. He caught himself scowling and turned his attention back to Alf. “And just how do you intend to shadow anyone about the hall undetected, especially after being caught out this afternoon?”
Alf turned red-faced, obviously embarrassed at having been trapped in the act, and by an old lady no less. He cleared his throat. “I’m thinking you can say I’m your valet or some such.”
Christian eyed the young man askance. “I already have a valet,” he said, not bothering to add that Alf did not resemble one in the slightest. The village youth looked more like a groom or a driver, but what possible reason could someone from the stables have for wandering about the house?
“You shall just have to say you are a manservant,” Christian said. “But right now I’d like you to take a look in the cellars. See if you find any signs that someone has been poking around down there. And, for God’s sake, do something about the door locks, so that no one can keep us out again.”
“Yes, milord! I know just the thing,” Alf said with a wink. He hurried off, presumably to fetch whatever he needed for the job, while Christian headed back to the great hall—and Sir Boundefort.
Much to Christian’s disappointment, the vast space was deserted, but he told himself it was just as well. He had difficulty concentrating on the task at hand when Miss Parkinson was around. Perhaps something about that lilac scent affected his brain, and other parts of him, as well.
Crossing the old tiles with a swift stride, Christian stopped before the partition to stare up into the darkness. No telltale signs of the spirit lingered, at least from what he could see, but he remembered very well where it had been. The placement had been a nice touch, making the thing difficult to catch while amazing the onlookers. Of course, Christian didn’t believe anyone or anything was capable of hovering in midair like Montgolfier’s balloon. Indeed, he thought it no coincidence that the specter only showed itself conveniently close to the fretwork.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 16