A Man Of Many Talents (4 page)

She was intriguing, and Christian couldn’t remember the last time any woman had roused his curiosity. She had an innate dignity that wasn’t compromised by the most outlandish tales of the company, and he guessed she would be steady and sensible in all situations. Perhaps that was what he found appealing about her—besides the lilacs, of course. Obviously, it wasn’t her warmth or her looks.

“Well, who has an idea?” Mercia prompted.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by the colonel’s hearty laugh. “I’m afraid I’m not very handy with rhymes.”

Emery remained silent, though he appeared to sit up straighter in his seat, alert despite his preoccupation with his food, and Miss Parkinson simply shook her head. Nevertheless, Mercia persisted, and finally everyone except Emery threw out a few feeble suggestions. But after a good quarter
of an hour even Mercia settled into silence, while Christian stirred himself from his stupor, having nearly nodded off during that boring exercise. Now, thankfully, the issue appeared to have died away and he could turn his attention to the only real point of interest here: his hostess.

Christian found himself wondering how she had come to head up this household of eccentrics, for it was obvious that she was in charge. Had she been bo
rn
to lead them or had she simply fallen into the role? More important, what color were her eyes? Perhaps he could get close enough today to find out. And why did she smell so damn good?

“Well, that was quite a lively meal, I must say! But now I think I’ll pop into the old hall, just to see if your specter’s about,” the colonel said, clearing his throat loudly. “Care to join me, my lord?”

Startled, as always, by the colonel’s voice, Christian was taken unawares by the invitation. He glanced at Miss Parkinson, who gave him a look as if to ask why he was hesitating. After all, the ghost was the only reason he was here, wasn’t it? Resisting the temptation to scowl, Christian rose to his feet. “Certainly. If you’ll excuse me, ladies? Emery.”

Once they stepped out of the dining room, the colonel hurried Christian along, then motioned for him to come closer with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve been doing some research of my own, in a bit of effort to help our dear benefactress,” he confided in a low voice.

“Benefactress?” Christian echoed.

“Cousin Abigail,” the colonel said. “She’s generously allowed us all to stay on here, at least for the time being.” Christian felt the first stirrings of real distrust—not that he was by nature a suspicious person. Like hell, his grandfather would say. He had been bo
rn
with the instincts of his pirate ancestors, a useful trait that had enabled him to keep his pockets full amid Lond
on vices that destroyed the for
tunes of many another young man. It was those very instincts that had
told him something at Belles Corn
ers wasn’t
as it should be. And now he wondered just what was happening at Sibel Hall.

“Stay on?”

“Well, ahem, yes. You see, Emery and I were living here when Bascomb passed away. Or rather, Emery was here on an extended stay, after being at school. Wanted to study his heritage, and all that.”

“And Mercia?” Christian asked.

“Oh, she has her own household, but she has remained here to help Abigail,” the colonel said.

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 lik
e your Belles Corners business, o
f 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 ma
nly reasoning imputed him by th
e colonel, Emery’s scorn, or the vaguely disdainful expectations of Miss Abigail Parkinson herself. As Emery ha
d noted, this was not Belles Corn
ers, 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 cor
respondence 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. S
o, what is your opinion as to th
e 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—bu
t only darkness yawned behind th
e 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 of 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?