A Man Of Many Talents (13 page)

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 colo
nel didn’t see the di
rection.

“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 cours
e, 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 colone
l hadn’t visited the village rec
ently. And on the heels of that thought came another. When they arrived, Christian wondered just how welcome the old fellow would be.

M
illfield 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 greet
ings when he ordered a late lun
cheon 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 th
e one who exposed the Belles Corn
ers 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 shad
ows in the corn
er.

“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

F
ull 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?

True to form, his hostess bestowed upon him no shining smile at his return. The colonel received a rather reserved one, while Christian got a set of pursed lips and a brief nod before a rather accusatory report that nothing, as yet, had been found in the library and that dinner would be served presently.

“Oh, we already—”

Christian managed to elbow the colonel hard enough that
he gulped for air, then slapped the old fellow on the back for good measure. “I’m hungry as a horse, and the colonel is as well!” he said in his most disarming manner.

“Well,
I
…
oof!” the colonel grunted at another soundly placed nudge.

“And how was the village?” Mercia asked.

“Delightful!” Christian answered. “You should have joined us,” he added, flashing a grin at his hostess.

“Some of us have work to attend to,” the Governess replied rather stiffly.

“And was there much talk of our Sir Boundefort?” Mercia asked.

Christian assumed she meant the specter, for he didn’t care to contemplate the alternative. “Not really,” he said, hoping against hope that the colonel hadn’t been paying attention when he had interrogated the company at the inn— or, at least, that the old fellow would hold his tongue for once. But whether the colonel feared another poke or simply hadn’t caught his breath from the last one, he wisely kept his mouth shut. Christian was so pleased that he wondered why he hadn’t started elbowing the man days ago.

“No doubt they were too agog over our visiting nobility,” Emery put in, his tone caustic.

“Why, yes, of course!” Mercia exclaimed. “I suspect that Lord Moreland was the topic of conversation and all were speculating as to his visit.”

Not likely, with the colonel around to give away all the details, Christian thought.

Mercia turned to Miss Parkinson. “Perhaps they think he has come to call upon you, dear.”

To Christian’s surprise, his hostess blushed and turned her head away. “Foolishness,” she murmured.

“I don’t see why not,” Mercia said, ignoring Miss Parkinson’s obvious discomfort.

“Yes, why not?” Christian said, ignoring it just as easily.

Emery snorted. “Because no one would believe a titled
gentleman would search for a bride among the gentry, let alone here at Sibel Hall.”

His words, true though they might have been, struck Christian the wrong way, perhaps because of the speaker or, more likely, the disparaging tone in which they were uttered. “As far as I know, titled as well as untitled gentlemen can look for their brides wherever they wish,” he said.

Miss Parkinson swung round at that. “What utter nonsense!” she sputtered, apparently taking umbrage at his words, not Emery’s. “I am not the least bit interested in marrying,” she proclaimed, her color still high. Delightfully so. Luxuriantly so.

“Oh, really? And why is that?” Christian asked, genuinely curious. He had never encountered any woman, let alone one in the financial straits of his hostess, who rejected wedlock out of hand.

“If you must know, I see no advantage to a female in such an arrangement—beyond the monetary. And as soon as Sibel Hall is sold, I shall set up my own small household, which is all that I have ever wanted. I have no need of additional funds.”

Christian grinned. “Surely you can see
some
advantage beyond the monetary?” he asked, his brows lifted slightly. But if he had hoped to fluster the Governess, he should have known better. Indeed, his provocative question only seemed to harden her expression—and deepen her determination.

“And if I ever did entertain the notion of taking a husband, it would hardly be a man with a reputation as a
…
a rake, titled gentleman or not,” she announced baldly.

Christian winced at the barb, as well as Emery’s snort of derision. “And just what sort of ideal fellow would you consider?” Christian asked, studying her with interest.

She paused, hesitant, as though she had never even imagined a mate. What an odd creature she was! “Well, he would have to be an upright, serious sort of gentleman,” she said.

“Like your father,” Mercia put in.

“Yes,” Miss Parkinson agreed.

“Who was your father?” Christian asked, suddenly alert.

“He was a man of science,” Miss Parkinson proclaimed. “A scholar, as was his father before him. Indeed, as I understand it, the Parkinsons have always been thinkers, explorers of knowledge.”

Christian frowned. His family had been founded by an explorer of another kind, one Black Jack Reade, a genuine pirate who, after being caught in a tight spot, decided to share his spoils with the crown and in so doing won himself a tidy little estate and a barony. In the years since, the Reades, showing a shameless knack for self-aggrandizement and marrying well, had parlayed that small holding into a vast earldom, several lesser titles, and a hefty bit of land.

They had never lost the craftiness of their ancestors, and Christian had always been grateful for a bit of that tainted blood. But now he rather wished he’d been bo
rn
to a family a little
less cunning and a lot more…
studious. If only his dear grandfather had been an inventor or a dilettante or a connoisseur of anything but women. If only his father had spent his youth digging for ancient treasures in Greece and arraying his prizes at the family seat, instead of being a great wit and an even better gambler. Somehow Christian didn’t think either skill would be high on the Governess’s list.

“Indeed, I could not respect a gentleman who did not devote himself to some sort of study, not necessarily science but perhaps philosophy, literature, the arts,” she was saying. Having grown more confident with the recitation of each holy trait, she seemed to be eyeing Christian directly now. “So many men are idle creatures, devoted solely to gambling and drinking and the, uh, pursuit of feminine companionship.”

“How right you are, my dear!” the colonel said, with a harrumph of disapproval. At a sharp glance from Christian, he cleared his throat. “
I
beg your pardon, my lord. Not you, of course.”

“Of course,” Christian murmured sarcastically.

Warming to her topic, Miss Parkinson continued her depressing litany of virtues. “He need not be a researcher or experimenter per se, but a man of learning who continues to read and enrich himself.”

Did she know how much he hated books? Christian wondered.

“Such a man would have to be scrupulously honest, of course,” she said.

Christian winced again. Did that mean he should admit he knew nothing about ghost routing? It wasn’t as though he had
lied
about his experience, not exactly. No one would call him dishonest,
really.

“He would treat me with the utmost respect, a true gentleman in thought, word, and deed,” she said.

Christian nearly groaned at that one, for her ideal certainly wouldn’t co
rn
er her on dark stairs. Hell, the poor sod probably wouldn’t dare touch her, Christian thought sourly. An heir would surely be the result of immaculate conception.

“He wouldn’t have to be handsome, merely of a pleasant aspect,” Miss Parkinson continued.

Christian, who had variously been described as “incredibly handsome” and “gorgeous” by swooning females, clearly could not claim to possess a “pleasant aspect.” He scowled.

Apparently enjoying herself, Miss Parkinson paused, as if mulling over the coup de grace. Then she smiled faintly. “In fact, I would suspect he would wear spectacles, which I find indicative of a man of thoughtful character.”

Well, that did it. Christian certainly would never qualify as a scholar. He’d frittered away his time at Oxford, totally uninterested in the deadly dull lectures on ancient times. He despised poetry, didn’t care much for literature, and the extent of his reading was usually limited to his correspondence.

As Christian watched with an admittedly surly expression, Miss Parkinson smiled and calmly excused herself to see if dinner was ready to be served. There was something in the
curve of that mouth that annoyed him even more than the ridiculous recitation of virtues of her intended. Her
imaginary
intended, Christian reminded himself. Some fellow too perfect to exist.

Indeed, he suspected that the wily woman had purposely described characteristics she knew he did not possess, that no one could possess, just to irritate him. Obviously his hostess was totally unimpressed by Christian’s own many stellar qualities, namely his money, lineage, title, and good looks. It was almost as if she had taken pains to quote everything that he was not. Deliberately.

Christian frowned. At first, he’d thought
her
…
diffidence rather amusing, the justifiable wariness of a woman facing a stranger she had invited into her home. Over the course of his stay, however, he had come to see her manner differently. It wasn’t outright contempt but more of a subtle sneering, as if he were both ineffectual and a fool. Maybe he had spent a few rather aimless years in the typical
ton
pur
suits, which included gambling and a certain appreciation of the ladies, but a lot of the stories that were told about him were pure exaggeration and embellishment, the Belles Corners affair being a case in point. Hell, if he’d done half of what was reported, he would have become prematurely exhausted.

Perhaps Miss Parkinson believed all the gossip, but even if she assumed the worst of him, it would hardly explain her attitude. It wasn’t as though she treated him rudely, but there was that something, a distance, a look in her eye that told him he didn’t measure up. To what? Some sap from the Royal Society? He’d met some of those fellows, and they were queer cards indeed and not any smarter than he. So, if he joined them, would that make him suddenly more appealing? More deserving of her respect?

Christian was tempted yet again to quit Sibel Hall for good, leaving Miss Parkinson to her own devices, but instead he was seized with an unusual desire to prove himself, to show her that he wasn’t an empty-headed rogue, though
why the Governess’s opinion should matter one whit was a mystery to him. He only knew that it did.

As he glanced about the room and saw Emery’s smirk, the colonel’s downcast gaze, and Mercia’s vacant smile, Christian’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t normally vindictive, but his hostess had definitely roused some sleeping beast with her little performance. It wasn’t as though he was too vain or arrogant to accept a rebuff, but this had become something else entirely. Miss Parkinson not only had taken off the gloves, she had tossed one in his face. And Christian was never one to resist a challenge.

“If you will excuse me, I must change for dinner,” he said, abruptly rising from his seat.

But instead of heading upstairs, he searched out the servants’ quarters, where he found Alf cheerfully ensconced in a tiny but tidy room. If it’s a scholar she wants, it’s a scholar she’ll have, Christian decided.

“Hello, my lord. I’ve settled in quite nicely, thank you,” Alf said.

“Good,” Christian murmured. He swung toward the sharp-eyed fellow with a resolution that had nothing to do with the ghost.

“What shall I do now?” the young man asked. “Take a look around? Spy upon the company? Quiz the servants?” He pounded one fist into the other as though his brand of questioning would involve more force than persuasion.

“No,” Christian
said, shaking his head. “Your first assignment is to find me some spectacles!”

A
bigail fiddled with
the sewing in her lap. She knew she ought to be going through her great-uncle’s papers, but she had been reluctant to closet herself away from the others yet again, especially when that would leave Mercia alone in the drawing room. Dinner had been a singularly silent affair, with even the all-too-voluble Lord Moreland strangely quiet. As she picked at her food, Abigail had the odd feeling
that everyone was put out with her, though she had no idea why. Except for Lord Moreland, perhaps. But what had she said to him earlier beyond the truth?

She lifted her chin. If the viscount had not contributed his usual amount of flippant observations and witticisms to the table, the party had not suffered. Rather, dinner had been more peaceful, an atmosphere she preferred. And if the stillness that followed had become positively oppressive, it was only because Emery had gone to his room to study, while the colonel and Lord Moreland had left to continue their search of the library.

Perhaps she should join them, simply to aid in their efforts, Abigail thought, her heart racing in sudden anticipation. Frowning at her own reaction, she told herself that her obligations as a hostess demanded that she keep Mercia company here, even if she could not share the woman’s love of needlework.